Page 31 of Royal Pain
Chapter 11
Zan
Looking around these four high walls and the hand painted ceiling reminds me of many memorable days and nights spent in this room. This was my home for twelve years before I moved into my own house on the property. Birthdays, graduations, New Year’s Eves, and too many to count parties were held here. When I joined the family at eleven some new holidays were added. All in the name of compassion. Theirs for me.
I remember the day the queen pulled me aside and told me. In my birth mother’s honor, and to help me assimilate, the queen decided we’d celebrate the holidays that were part of my former life with an American mother. Fourth of July, Halloween, and Thanksgiving became private celebrations for just the five of us.
The fact our seasons in Africa are opposite what the Americans enjoy made it funny. Fireworks in winter, and trick or treating in late spring. They became some of our favorites.
“Your father told me Belinda is coming for a visit,” my mother says.
“She’s going to be here on the seventeenth,” I say.
“You’re going to have her stay on the grounds with you?”
“With your blessings, Mother.”
“Of course. I’m not about to ban the only woman you’ve deemed worthy to introduce your parents to! I was beginning to think it would never happen.”
“Why would I bring someone I’m not serious about into our circus? It would scare a lesser woman away. Belinda is strong-willed.”
“We’ll see. All you know is what you’ve learned in a month. How do you know how strong she is? And don’t forget one thing. She’s a journalist.”
Whenever my mother points a finger she means business. I’ve got one aimed at me now.
“Are you trying to talk me out of this? I’m telling you now, you won’t succeed.”
By the expression on her face, I see she’s enjoying herself.
“I’d never put you or our family in jeopardy. I won’t forget.”
“Good. I’m glad because I want to get to know her. I have no idea what kind of a woman she is or if she’s good enough for the king’s son.”
“You’ll see. She’s better than good enough.”
Watching my mother with her beadwork has always fascinated me. Hands moving so quickly I can barely follow or make out what exactly she’s creating. But the finished results are always worth the efforts.
“What are you making?”
Warm hazel eyes look up at me and soften. “I’m making the funeral bands, son.”
My stomach turns with her words, and my expression hardens.
“What? Is that necessary? Can’t you have someone else do that for you, Mother?”
“No. Absolutely not. It’s my privilege to make your father’s burial clothes. You know someone in the family is required to do it. Who better than me? I have no daughters you know.”
One fat tear courses over her cheekbone down to her chin. It drops on the beads.
“Mother, I’m sorry I asked. Please don’t cry.”
She looks at me through tears. “If not now when, my boy?”
Wrapping my arms around her I kiss the top of her head. “You’re right. It just stung for a minute. It’s hard to believe this is where we’re at.”
The sound of footsteps approaching breaks our embrace. My mother likes to wear her stoic face. Rarely does she show her fears, and what she just showed me was unusual. That’s how painful this is for her.
“What’s for lunch?” Kwai says, entering the room. Tarik is a few steps behind.
