Golden slivers of sunlight broke through the black curtains, unveiling the window, and landed on my face. Another day dawned, indifferent to my feelings, a quiet statement. Peering into the light, I watched small dust particles dance in the warmth that barely reached me. Annoyed, I examined the same worn nightstand, the same useless textbooks, and the same faded pink walls. Stars, barely glowing in the dark, baptized the popcorn ceiling; the mouse clock's two hands showed it was eight in the morning. As I curled inward to sit up, the mattress creaked beneath me. Lifting my gaze, I envisioned him sitting at the edge of the bed, silhouetted in that golden glow, shadows obscuring his face. With a smile and hands on his hips, he urged me to rise and greet the day. I longed for his presence. Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes as I remembered the way he'd ruffled my hair when I was being too serious, or the way he'd call me his "little detective" when I got too invested in a movie plot. Defeated, I threw myself back and stared at the ceiling. Summoned by my thoughts, my last memory of him rose to the surface.
***
"Tara, be careful!"
Hearing his voice in the distance, I giggled. Though I had slowed down, my rapid heartbeat felt like it might explode. I ran toward the water, glancing back to see if my parents were following, but they lagged far behind. Tilting my head toward the sunny sky, I breathed in the fresh saltwater air. Palm trees billowed, as if trying to touch the sea. The sun beamed down, warming my mocha skin, and I relished the day.
Frustrated by their pace, I screamed, "Hurry up! We're supposed to be playing!"
Oblivious to my words, they continued their conversation. Agitated, I turned and kicked the sand.
"Hmph, I guess I'll play by myself," I said, skipping through the white foam left by the waves.
With a sudden rush of wind and the sharp cries of seagulls, a flock flew so low they whipped past me, their wings a blur of white and gray. As I ducked to avoid getting pooped on, I stepped on the sharp end of a seashell. Grabbing my foot in pain threw off my balance, and my cheek met the sand with a painful thud, legs splaying out awkwardly. My chest burned from the sudden loss of air.
Glancing back, I hoped they'd noticed me, but they were still immersed in conversation, closer to the water.
Disappointed, my desire to play dwindled, and I just wanted to go home. Until a perfectly formed, sparkly seashell, cool to the touch, caught my eye in the sand.
"Papa, Mama, come and see what I have to show you! It's so pretty."
Brushing off my face and clothes, I picked up the sparkly seashell and ran toward them, holding it up proudly.
"Hey! Look what I found!"
Their voices droned on, oblivious to my calls; I guessed they couldn't hear me. The closer I got, the more animated their conversation became.
"You know, ever since you became a father, you're more cautious than you used to be," I heard Mama say.
"What are you talking about?" Papa bumped her shoulder playfully. "I'm still an adventurer. I'm just concerned she's growing up too fast."
"HEY! HEY! Look!" I patted Papa's leg, trying to thrust the seashell in his face, standing on my tiptoes.
After a few more moments of increasingly aggressive patting, they finally looked down and smiled.
"Tara, where did you find that?" Mama asked.
"Well, I was playing with the white stuff and then fell on my face."
They looked surprised.
"How did you fall? Are you okay?"
Nodding, I wiped my face and kept talking.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Aw, Tara. I'm so sorry." Mama bent down to pick me up and hold me.
"It's okay, 'cause I found a pretty seashell." I pushed it in her face. "Look." I giggled.
Mama paused, studying the seashell for a moment before speaking.
"That's nice."
Happy she liked it, I turned to Papa and demanded, "Look."
Papa mimicked Mama. "It's pretty, just like you, Tara."
I was so happy, my smile spread uncontrollably across my face. Mama carried me in her arms as she and Papa walked and talked along the shore.
"I want to go home," I complained.
She turned to Papa and told him to turn around. I was ready to go. Placing my head on Mama's shoulder, I closed my eyes and listened to their conversation.
"The island's shore is still as beautiful as when we first visited," she mused.
"Hmm," Michael huffed. "I don't remember that day being so beautiful. Weren't we escaping under duress?"
Papa's figure loomed closer until I could feel his breath on the side of my face. I opened my eyes when I heard kissing noises.
"Ewe." I tried to push Papa away from Mama, but he was too big.
"Tara, it's perfectly normal for two people who are in love to kiss each other," Mama mumbled, trying to remove my hand from her lips.
"It's so gross." With a disapproving shake of my head, I snuggled tighter against Mama. I could hear them laughing, but I was serious.
"I love you," she sang.
"I love you, too," he whispered.
Mama was giggling again.
"I remember that day so vividly. You stood at the helm of the boat with your ripped shirt and disheveled hair. A burning intensity filled your eyes, like a predator poised to strike, radiating seething fury. But then, your gentle look, a sunbeam warming my soul, made my heart soar."
Next thing I knew, I was spinning around, and Mama was laughing in my ear louder than before.
"It was so alluring. You remember, don't you?"
Papa stuttered, "V-vaguely."
"Vaguely?" She stopped walking and placed her hands on her hips.
"What do you mean, vaguely?"
"A lot was going on that day."
"You mean, you don't remember?"
"Of course, I remember, you looked beautiful that day. With so many memories to choose from, I'm left wondering why you singled out that moment and asked me to recall it. Why don't you ever mention when you confessed your feelings to me?"
Now she was stuttering.
"W-we-well, because it's not pr-proper for a woman… Don't look so smug." Smack!
"Ow! Why'd you strike me?"
"Sorry."
There was a brief silence, and then they both started laughing.
"Can you take her, Michael? She's getting heavy, and my arms are tired."
"Yeah, hand her to me."
Papa's chest always felt different from Mama's. His chest was hard, and he had enormous arms. Mama was softer, and her arms were thinner. On the way home, I heard their laughter and the sounds of their kisses as I drifted into a peaceful slumber, listening to their funny stories. A loud jangling of keys filled my ears. Then, almost immediately, I heard the unmistakable sound of the door swinging open. My head bounced on Papa's hard shoulder as he carried me up the stairs to get me ready for bed.
He bathed me while Mama made some cheesy pasta and fed it to me before bedtime. After I ate, she read me a bedtime story. Then Papa carried me upstairs again and tucked me in.
"Goodnight, precious Tara," Papa whispered, kissing my forehead. He tucked me tightly into bed while I snuggled under the covers as deeply as I could.
"Papa, thanks for hanging out with me." I smiled, and then I fell asleep.
***
Exiting the time capsule, I sauntered into the hallway, the same wooden door frame, the same floral-patterned wallpaper, and the same family picture hanging on the wall before the stairs.
I spared a glance at Mama's room at the end of the hall and figured she was already downstairs. I didn't want to pass his room today, but it was inevitable; it was the first one at the top of the stairs. Like clockwork, I stopped to peer inside, half-expecting him to be there, leaning over a stack of papers. It had been twelve years since my ninth birthday, and we still don't know how he died. Mom paid for every test imaginable. At least, that's what she said. Toxicology screens, blood tests, cardiac workups, X-rays, and CT scans. They checked his kidneys, his liver, and his lungs, and they all came back inconclusive.
A small gust of wind brushed past my neck.
"Tara," she murmured.
It was like he simply stopped.
"Tara."
It's maddening. There must be something they missed, a small clue hiding in plain sight. Intrusive thoughts fed my curiosity. I was so useless. All I could do was research pain treatments, the endless hours spent reading a stark reminder of my inability to help him directly. The sterile pages offered little comfort. Consuming obscure ancient herbal practices and offering them as solutions was all I was good at.
A smile crept across my face.
"His little detective."
I rested my head on the door frame, the ache of that mystery filling my chest once more. I couldn't let it go.
"Tara!" she shouted.
Her voice didn't register until she placed a hand on my shoulder and began gliding it gently down my back, over and over.
I looked at her, smiling sadly.
"Yeah."
"I know you loved your Papa more than anything," she cooed. "But you do the same thing every year. Let's honor him in some other way today, okay?"
I faltered, sensing her usual disapproval.
"You never felt like something was stolen from you?" I paused. "He made promises to me. We were supposed to go cave exploring, skydiving, and have these grand adventures. I'll never get to experience those things. Didn't he make promises to you? Don't you feel robbed?" I spoke matter-of-factly.
She sighed, the weariness palpable on her face.
"Tara, we've been through this. Life isn't always made up of fairy tales. Dwelling on it and looking for reasons that aren't there only makes you seem crazy."
"Okay, but what if there was a reason? What if someone…" I swallowed, suddenly feeling foolish.
"What if there was something they missed, something important? It wasn't a normal death, Mom. People don't die without a cause."
She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking at me with that familiar mix of pity and exasperation.
"First of all, your father didn't have any enemies. You've let this idea fester for too long. People die, Tara. It's part of life. Your father's gone, and all this obsession won't bring him back."
The short hallway felt smaller the more I lingered on the idea.
"But I'm not obsessing," I whispered, feeling a rush of heat in my cheeks.
"It's just… how do I explain it? Nothing fits. I just can't shake the feeling that there's something we're missing."
She shook her head and let out a sigh.
"And here we are again. The same theories, the same questions. Please stop chasing shadows."
Her gaze hardened as she leaned closer.
"It's unhealthy. Your Papa wouldn't want this for you. He'd want you to let go, to live. You're twenty-one, Tara. You have no friends, and you've cocooned yourself in this house. We live on an island, for God's sake, beaches, waterfalls, surfing, shirtless hotties."
She gestured wildly.
"Tara, you're missing out. You're supposed to be over this by now," she blurted.
Wishing she would understand felt futile.
"Mom, please."
"Enough," she cut in.
"I'm done entertaining this. I know you're hurting, but you've got to move forward."
As tears fell, I reached for the comfort of her embrace. And like clockwork, Mama wrapped her arms around me tightly, like she never wanted to let me go. We stood like that for a few minutes before she pushed back my hair and kissed my forehead. Then, with softened eyes, she reached out and brushed my afro away from her face.
"I know it's hard, but maybe there's a way to ease your mind. Why don't we make good on one of his promises? I know a cave exploration location. What do you think?" She started rubbing my back again.
Wiping away silent tears, I stuttered,
"But you hate that kind of stuff. You'd do that for me?"
A small smile graced her face.
"Of course. I love you."
She gave me a brisk pat on the back.
"It's settled. I'll make a big breakfast, and we'll leave once we've finished."
Mama started bouncing down the stairs, singing. As she walked away, I swallowed back the words on my tongue. No one understood. Not even my mother. Taking one last look into his room, I whispered,
"I miss you, Papa."
I let my foot thud down the carpeted stairs and used the handrail to swing my body toward the kitchen. I giggled when a memory of Papa slipping on the wooden floors popped into my mind. The kitchen was my favorite part of the house. It had the island's best beach view. After pulling a stool up to the island, I rested my elbow on the counter and waited for breakfast.
"Instead of staring, why don't you make some hot tea for both of us? We can sit outside in the sun room," she said, opening the pantry door.
"Why can't I help make the pancakes?" I asked, pretending to be hurt.
She gave me a half-glance.
"Girl. The last time you made pancakes, you burned my favorite pan. I'm not fooling with you."
Laughing, I blurted out,
"It was an accident."
She didn't dignify me with a response. Still chuckling, I walked over to the wooden cabinet by the pantry and pulled out a brown bag.
"Which tea do you fancy?"
"Why don't you make the one with the blue leaves? You used to drink it all the time as a kid," she said, mixing the white batter and prepping the non-stick pan.
I smiled to myself as I reached into the tea bag, my fingers brushing over the dried leaves that hadn't made it into the tea ball—the floral, faintly sweet aroma wrapped around my nose, helping me relax. We fell into a comfortable silence, focused on our respective tasks.
The gentle clink of porcelain and the rhythmic sizzle of batter meeting the pan filled the space between us. As the tea steeped, its scent curled into the air, mingling with the breeze drifting through the open kitchen window. Honey, lemon, and jasmine were added to the warm liquid I poured into our cups.
"I'm done with the tea."
"I'm finishing up the pancakes. You want to eat in the sun room?"
"Sure."
I carried the tea tray toward the sun room, the wooden floors creaking beneath my feet as I moved from the dim, cool interior of the house. We adorned our walls with old tapestries and faded photographs, leaving the corners of the house in shadow. But as I entered the sun room, the world brightened. Golden rays of sunlight streamed through the glass panels, bathing the space and settling on the tiled floor. The wicker chairs and wooden table held the rays hostage; their surfaces kissed with streaks of amber and honey.
Pinks, blues, and reds perched on the table, cast by the stained glass stuck to the window. Sheer curtains billowed gently under the breath of the AC. I set the tray down just as Mama entered. Golden pancakes mirrored the room's light in her hands. She exhaled, tilting her head back slightly, eyes half-closed as the sun painted her nutmeg skin.
"This is the best place to eat," she murmured to herself.
I smiled, sinking into my chair.
Beyond the glass, the ocean stretched endlessly, its surface glinting like scattered diamonds under the rising sun. And for a moment, I forgot what day it was. She sat down with a satisfied sigh.
"Eat before they get cold," she said, sipping her tea.
I picked up my fork and stabbed the fluffy stack, letting the scent of butter and blueberries fill my belly.
Mama took a slow sip before exhaling.
"This reminds me of when we first moved here," she said, tilting her head slightly.
"Your father used to insist on making breakfast, even though he was terrible at it."
She chuckled.
I blinked, surprised by the casual mention of him. She spoke so naturally, as if she didn't realize how long it had been since she brought him up.
"Oh?" I asked, keeping my voice even.
She chuckled again, stirring her tea absently.
"He believed he could make pancakes by measuring nothing. Just threw things into a bowl like it was some divine instinct." She shook her head.
"I let him cook once. Those pancakes were so dense, they could've been used as doorstops."
A laugh slipped from me before I could stop it.
"I can't imagine him being that bad at anything."
Raising an eyebrow, she side-eyed me.
"Oh, he was terrible. But he was so proud of them. Sat there and ate the whole plate with that ridiculous look on his face, pretending they weren't the worst thing he'd ever tasted."
She smiled, gazing toward the sky.
"He was so stubborn. Always trying to pull some crazy stunt."
I scrunched my face together.
"Like what?"
"Well, the first day we met, Rhonda had taken me shopping at the local market. I was so excited because she never let me leave the grounds. When we got there, I wanted her to buy me a new dress, but she couldn't hear what I was saying because there was shouting coming from the opposite direction."
"What was happening?" I brought the cup to my face, inhaled deeply, and took a sip.
Copying me, Mama took a sip and hummed.
"There was a large group of children racing through the market, and your father was one of them." She paused and giggled.
"I guess a bunch of young girls in town were chasing him." Her giggle turned into full laughter.
"I don't know what he did or why they wanted to catch him," she snorted.
"It was so funny. The girls were shouting and tearing through the crowd to get to him. Poor Michael looked terrified. And right where we stood, there was a narrow alley he was heading toward, and just as he was turning, we made eye contact."
I tilted my head, amused.
"Why are you laughing so hard?"
She clasped her hands to her cheeks.
"Because it was so sudden. Nothing like that had ever happened to me."
Composing herself, she continued,
"After we made eye contact, he changed directions and darted toward me. He was so fast that Rhonda couldn't stop him from kissing my cheek."
I gasped, covering my mouth as I squealed. "No way." Laughing, she said,
"Yes, way. It was like the world stopped in that moment. I never imagined that it would be my first kiss. Then, while running away, he shouted, 'This is my wife!" So, stop following me. She mimicked his motions dramatically.
My smile dropped. I shook my head.
"You're lying. Nobody does that. Papa couldn't be that cheesy."
"How are you going to tell me what happened? You weren't there," she said smugly, gesturing with a raised brow.
I raised my hands in surrender.
"My apologies. Please, continue." I smiled.
"Anyway, Miss Rude," she huffed.
"A few of the girls kept chasing him." She snorted.
"I was so confused. All I could do was hold my cheek and stare. Rhonda was not happy. On the way home, she fussed about unruly street kids and how the town needed stronger leadership."
"He was a street kid?"
"No, but we didn't know that at the time."
She fell quiet, lost in thought. Then she sighed and nudged the syrup toward me.
"Anyway, eat. I won't have you blaming me if you get hungry later."
We sat in comfortable silence, eating, drinking, and basking in the sunlight. While eating, I realized how little I knew about Mama. She rarely talked about her upbringing; I guess she preferred to keep those memories private. After finishing our meal and cleaning our plates, we cleared the table, changed clothes, and retrieved the equipment from the downstairs office.