Illumination Book Chapter
The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 5
They had to be my parents, but why would the Coroner lie about their age?
Chapter 5
I arrived home sooner than I wanted. Inside my apartment, I flung myself on the bed and just cried. My Dad, who had protected me from the everyday tumult of childhood. The school bully; the dentist; when I got my shots, and so much more. When Mom insisted that I was old enough to sleep with the lights out, he bought me my first night light.
When Mom wanted me to be tough, he’d hug me and reassure me that I had the rest of my life to be resilient. He always showered me with kindness and care and was more understanding than Mom, especially when dating.
She was the stricter parent but the best mother a child could want. I propped myself up, rubbing my eyes, reversing back into my childhood years. I never had babysitters; she was always there for me. I cried on my first day in kindergarten because I didn’t want her to leave. She stayed the entire day and for the first two weeks until I settled down. At Elementary school, she took me to school every day.
She never missed a PTA meeting and participated in all Fundraisers my school had. We went through puberty and periods together. They had to be my parents, but why would the Coroner lie about their age? He didn’t have a reason to.
I got up sat down in front of my dresser’s mirror, scrutinizing myself. I had my father’s brown hair and slender build. I was full-breasted like my Mom, who was shorter. My small pointed nose, which spread across my face when I smiled, and tiny eyes that seemed to close whenever I laughed too much, were paternal. They were the same light brown as my Mom’s.
His DNA shared his dimples that caused a dent in my cheeks whenever I got mad, angry, or smiled. I vividly remember Dad’s broad forehead crowning his oval face. Which, in turn, anchored a relatively small chin that enjoyed the growth of a goatee below his thin lips whenever he felt like changing his Amish appearance. My high cheekbones were maternal. His pale white complexion that would darken in the summertime, I got.
Sergeant Willoby must be lying. My Dad couldn’t be a Nazi. My cell phone vibrated. I turned it off. I pulled out one of Dr. Sofia Stapleton’s motivational DVDs, which was always a source of great consolation and inspiration for me in times of turmoil. I lay on my bed, tossing to find my most comfortable position.
A brilliant political strategist and a role model for women, she is. She was instrumental in opening the political doors for women and is one of the most powerful women in Washington. So impactful was her life on mine that I’d collected all 19 of her motivational DVDs. I also attended all her seminars and lectures if I could. I admired her approach to the empowerment of women and gender issues. She always seemed to cushion me with comfort and reassurance.
Four DVDs later, I was still feeling horrible. The ringing of my house phone dragged me back to reality. I grabbed the cordless and disconnected it. I propped myself up, rubbing my eyes, reversing deeper into my childhood. My parents never had any friends or family. No one called, wrote, or visited. They were never interested in going to the homes of my friends, even with an invitation. There were always some obstacles.
Their inability to socialize had affected my life more than I realized. Because of that, I didn’t have many friends. My parent’s union seemed bereft of any spark of romance. They were more like friends — than lovers. I never saw them kiss on the mouth, and they had separate bedrooms. Oh God, what am I thinking? They loved me. They were always there for me. They afforded me the best private schools in New York, and I attended New York University for college. They paid for everything. The sergeant was right about one thing. How could they afford me?
My buzzer beeped. I ignored it. It beeped ten more times. Annoyed, I pressed the speaker and shouted, “Go away!” Minutes later, my doorbell rang, “Open the door, Miss Shade,” Sergeant Willoby called loudly, almost pitifully outside my door. He must have slipped in when someone went out.
“What do you want now?” I yelled at the closed door. “You aren’t answering any of your phones.” “That means leave me alone,” I yelled “Let me in; I want to talk to you.” “Sorry, but unless you are here to tell me that my parents’ death was accidental, and the Justice Department gave you the wrong information. Go to hell!” I snapped. “The New York City Fire Department hasn’t completed their investigation. Don’t you want to know about Mr. Solomon?”
I quickly opened the door, the safety latch still engaged. I peeked out. His navy-blue blazer matched the blue cargo jeans he wore. Carrying a bouquet in his left hand, he flashed an apologetic smile as my face appeared through the latched door.
“Here,” he enticed, extending the flowers out to me. It was a lame attempt to get me to open the door fully. I stood there staring at him through the slightly opened door.
“If you want to know about Mr. Solomon, let me in,” he coaxed. “Why you? Don’t they have other police officers at the precinct that I could talk to about this case?” “Sorry, but this is my case,” he said firmly, still smiling. “I was a little harsh earlier. Insensitivity got the better of me.” “Ok, but only for a minute,” I bought the lure, disengaging the safety latch. I opened the door taking the flowers, examining them suspiciously.
This variety of flowers was unknown to me. Dad often joked that Mom was born with flowers in her hands because she loved flowers so much. She’d even converted one of the bedrooms into an atrium. I’d had fair exposure to different varieties of flowers, but I had never encountered this type. They were bright yellow trumpet-shaped, with five petals.
A yellow stem sat in the middle of a maroon center. Tiny red seeds rested at the top of the stem, looking down at yellow seeds below. The leaves were deep dark green, with thin stems. They released a wonderful fragrance that imitated the odor of roses and lilacs.
“What about Mr. Solomon?” I asked on my way toward the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase of water, then brought them into the living room. I positioned the vase in the center of my coffee table. Willoby still had his idiotic smile on his face, despite the sadness etched on mine. He lounged on the Futon. I sat opposite him.
“Even though the FBI and the NYPD have successfully kept the information of your parents’ death out of the papers and from the media, you might still be in danger.” “Me. In danger, from whom?” “That’s why I am here, and I thought you might need some support . . .. since you are . . ..” “I am what?” I asked. “I could be your grief counselor,” he rebounded. “I would rather talk to a hungry saber-tooth tiger! And you are wrong! I’m in no danger, now what about Mr. Solomon!” I repeated. “I see you are still angry with me. Look, I was only doing my job.” “And an excellent job you do!” I remarked. “I know I was arrogant at first, but . . .” “Say what!” I stood up with unsure footing too quickly, suddenly feeling faint.
He rushed over to me. On hearing my abdominal rumbling, I remembered that I hadn’t eaten all day. I stubbornly tried to resist his gestures of kindness but with not much success. I was too weak. He gently ushered me to my room and helped me onto my bed. Moments later, he returned with a tray, placed it on the empty side of my bed, and marched out. It was chamomile tea. I savored a few sips and lay across my bed. I must have fallen asleep because I was aroused by the aroma of pineapple chicken, which lured me into the kitchen. As I entered, Willoby was holding a tray with food.
“Finally,” he said, smiling, resting the tray on the kitchen table. “Don’t you think it’s too late to be eating?” I asked, side glancing at the rose-shaped clock mother bought me for my birthday, one of eight. I collected antique clocks. It was 10:31 PM. “For you, no,” he shared, shedding the fruit printed apron mother gave me two years before. I strolled over to pineapple chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, generous shakes of parsley flakes, and baked beans.
I stood and stared at him in smug admiration. Who was this paradox of a man? Surreptitiously, I began to X-ray him visually. He wore a collarless clergy-styled cream-colored shirt. The first two buttons were undone, exposing a gold crucifix hanging from a thin, delicate chain. Strands of curled brown hair sprouting on his chiseled pecs. He had removed his blazer, which was now hanging on a coat rack by the door.
His cargo jeans hugged him well above his legs, from which I sensed his comfort zone was more outdoors than indoors. His above ankle boots endorsed that assessment. He seemed a shade over six feet, with thinning dark brown hair, with which he might be parting company within a decade or so.
Even though his voice was raspy and his words curt, his eyes now beamed with compassion yet characterized the strength of a well-made man. Briskness guided his gait, moving with the vigor of an athlete in his prime. The strength in the bulging deltoids of his shoulders seemed to have been ensured by more than his share of life’s burden. Yet vigor and hope abounded from his face, the lightly furrowed forehead which chronicled life’s unkind sides.
“Come on, accept this as a peace offering,” he cooed, self-assured. “Food is your best pitch?” I asked. “For now, yes. No one on the block knows who Mr. Solomon is, and neither do I.” I sighed, preparing to ravage the plate before me, then said, “I could have told you that.” It smelled delicious, and I was famished. “Would you like me to taste it?” he asked. “Why, is this a part of your investigation?” He nodded, “No, but it’s a rough time for you now, and it’s harder when you have no family or friends to support you.” “What? Are you sorry for me?” “Didn’t you say you wanted compassion and understanding?” “Yeah, but this is the wrong place. The nearest church is across town,” I said, mockingly returning his insensitive comment of earlier in the day. His lips traced a smile, then he conceded, “Touché, that was very unkind of me.” “So, you are kind now?” I teased, refusing to release the advantage. He lowered his head for a moment, then suddenly looked up at me with raised brows, “You have no idea how much danger you could be in right now.” “You really believe I am in danger?” I asked, seriously thinking about it now. “Why do you think I am here? Had I reached your parents a day earlier, maybe I could’ve saved them from such a horrific death. I’m hoping with Lady Luck on our side; maybe I can save you.” Lost to the reason why anyone would want to hurt me, I stood, staring at him.
There was a long, drawn-out silence before I asked, “You cooked all this stuff?” “Yeah. From scratch! Which isn’t what I can say for you by the looks of your refrigerator content? There is more frozen food in your refrigerator than the supermarket down the street.” “I’m ashamed of myself about that, but Mom always had me over for dinner three or four times per week, so I barely needed to cook.” “You are a true woman of the millennium,” he commented with a smile. “Well?” I asked, sitting down. He tasted the mashed potatoes and chicken, smiled, then joshed, “I am still alive.”
“Some poisons take longer to work,” I quipped, entranced by the delicious aroma of his pineapple chicken, which has taken over my entire apartment, dominating the scent of my Febreze air freshener. “Come on; I am not trying to kill you. I know you haven’t been eating well, since . . . since….” “You’re right,” I squeezed in. “You have to take better care of yourself,” he advised, looking quite concerned. “Ok,” I agreed, now seated and eating slowly. Since my parents’ death, dining, and my life, was on hold.
We spent the rest of the night conversing about the positive aspects of my parents’ life. Before I knew it, morning had dawned. I walked over to the window and opened it. The morning was very cool for late April. “Wow! Look, the sun’s coming up. What on earth did we talk about all night?” “Wow,” was also Willoby’s comment. “I think I’d better get going. When I’m not here, don’t open the door to anyone you don’t know, and immediately let me know if you get any strange calls. I should send someone over to ….” “That’s not necessary. I told you, I am in no danger!” I insisted, quickly cutting him off. “The Justice Department gave you the wrong information. What about breakfast?” I quickly asked.
He grabbed a looked at his watch. According to one of my clocks, it was 7:58 AM. My clocks all gave different times. My Mom said each of them was minding their own business. I made a Spanish omelet and served it with toasted homemade bread bran muffins on the side. “Instant coffee?” I handed him a cup when he returned from the bathroom. “It’s coffee!” he said, taking a sip. “Mother hated instant coffee. She’d bought me an espresso machine, which I only used when she visited. But wherever I hid that instant coffee, she would always find it and feed it to the sink. That’s why I own stocks in two major coffee companies in New York City. Guess it’s time to sell”.
“This bread looks and tastes delicious,” he interrupts my thoughts, probably to move me off the subject of my parents. “Would you like more?” I offered. It was a coffee cheese prune bread my Mom baked. Last Christmas, I bought her a bread machine, and I never had to repurchase bread. “No thanks,” he refused, making a sandwich with the two slices I had given him, ignoring the muffin.
As I lifted the brown paper bag, my Mom gave me to put the muffins away on my last visit. A small key fell to the floor from a hole at the bottom.
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