Page 29 of Ms. V's Hot Girl Summer

THIRTEEN

Orlando

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” Trinidad said after a long stretch. We made our way into Little Ofele, and I drove slowly, enjoying the views.

The quiet beauty of the town impressed me once more. The pristine cobblestoned streets, lush greenery, and bright, colorful flowers. The small shops, houses, and buildings, all in the French Colonial style, reminded me a little of my one Mardi Gras in New Orleans. The bright colors of the infrastructure transported me to St. Mary and my few visits with my grandparents in Jamaica.

Time had stopped here in this place, protecting its townspeople and keeping the community tight and friendly. Here every face looked like mine and Trinidad’s. Shit was real. Not even Flatbush could re-create this feeling of belonging, and that felt like some damn traitor’s thoughts.

“If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry…my feelings are bubbling out with you for some reason.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t like sharing a lot about my family…it’s…it’s been hard, and at the same time, life is hard. I don’t like complaining.” I shrugged, turning into a strip mall where we could ask around for Maria. My excitement to find her in a day was slowly morphing into the realization that this would be harder than I thought. My pride didn’t allow me to ask for help from Mrs. B, clearly a tactical error.

“I get it, I…sometimes I feel like that about my divorce. But then I have Miranda and my parents. Who do you talk to?”

“Psh. Nobody. Maria back in the day, but then she started feeling a way about my ma, and I didn’t like that.”

“What…what’s your mom’s illness?” Trinidad brushed her locs, away from her face, her expression so attentive the words starting coming out.

“Honestly…the diagnosis is bipolar disorder. But Ma…she has all the help she needs medically, and still, it’s like…stabilization can be lengthy, especially if the person does not believe they’re ill. Ma don’t believe she’s ill; she thinks she’s depressed because my dad passed away. Her depressive episodes are long, her manic ones are short and chaotic, and in between when she is somewhat regulated, she stops taking her medications, so it’s like starting all over again. I finally persuaded her to stick to her psychotherapy consistently a year and a half ago.” I gripped the steering wheel, remembering the hard conversations before convincing Ma. A quick glance to Trinidad was all I could manage to keep my emotions in check.

“Besides my brothers and my grandparents in Jamaica, no one knew this. Ma’s parents had passed away before my father, so we had no help from that side, and she was an only child. My grandparents in Jamaica felt Ma needed to ‘tek spoil ’n’ make style’—get out of bed and keep going when she had that first depressive episode after my dad died in a truck accident while at work. It took until I was in my teenage years to realize something else was happening with my mom.” Deep breaths and a brief pause to keep my shit together. Trinidad hums of understanding were hitting under my armor. It was so easy opening up to her, and at the same time, hard as fuck.

“I had to beg her when I was sixteen. By that point, I had understood that the mood swings were not just Ma being a Caribbean mom, ya’ know? I made sure to shield my brothers as much as I could…”

We found a parking spot that provided top-tier people-watching. Opening old wounds never served me well. Keeping positive was my brand of therapy. A warmth settled on top of my hand as Trinidad’s smaller hand cradled mine.

Comfort. A welcome but unknown companion.

“So…let me get this straight…you were how old when your pops passed?” Trinidad’s soft voice whispered in opposition to the blowing air-conditioning keeping us cool.

“I was nine; my brothers were three and five,” I said, staring out the windshield, unable to make eye contact with her.

“So, a child raising children, from what it sounds like? I’m sure your mom did what she could, but…wow. You’re a brave man, and you were also a brave child.”

I thought she was going to say, “I’m sorry.” That is what people around me usually said, even not knowing all the gritty details. But she instead focused on the positive… Fuck! This woman kept making me fall into…hope.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice, and now, as a man, I understand my mother is ill, and a lot of the behaviors are not intentional, which is why it’s pointless to dwell on the negative.”

“I see…well, do you get some family therapy, you and your brothers?”

“Nah, before me getting my job, medicaid barely to cover Ma’s medications and her choices of meds sucked under her plan, she responded better to brand names instead of generics. I love my job, and they have okay health insurance, but to afford the out-of-pocket costs I need a better-paying job. So, law school.”

Shit, I didn’t mean to sound like a fucking victim. This conversation was becoming too much. Now it was my turn to grow quiet. A group of Black girls around my age, clearly tourists, walked by the car with their costumes. One of the carnival bands had their costume pickup in one of the shops.

Purple, gold, and green feathers and crystals shined as they ambled down the sidewalk, excitement so palpable that I focused on them instead of the conversation inside of my rental. Trinidad’s hand stayed on mine, and she held it tighter.

Recognition. Another welcomed but unusual feeling.

“The twins say you’re really good at what you do, and your animations are, and I quote, sick.”

“I doubt they said exactly that word.”

“Listen, young man, enough of this bullying. I’m thirty-five, not fifty.”

“You sure, old hot stuff?” I flipped my hand and captured hers in mine. We stared at each other, the air-conditioning suddenly not doing enough to keep the wet heat out of the car, or maybe it was the two of us.

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