In mid-September 1981, I went to the House to say goodbye to my father before I left for boarding school. When I arrived, the back door was locked, so I rang the bell. I could hear the sound of the radio coming from my father’s open bedroom window above me.
When no one came to the door, I rang again. I was beginning to think nobody was home. Finally, my grandmother, wearing an apron, opened the door. She stood in the doorway instead of letting me in.
I told her I’d come to say goodbye.
She told me my father wasn’t home. I hesitated. It’s not that I thought she was lying—I didn’t. By then I’d been disappointed by my father enough to think the worst, to believe that he was perfectly capable of forgetting I was coming to see him even though I was leaving the next day and wouldn’t be home for months. But I could tell there was something wrong. If Dad wasn’t there, I could have waited for him or left him a note, but something about the way Gam blocked the door with her entire body made it clear that she didn’t want me to come inside.
After an awkward hug, I got on my bike and rode the long way home. As I sped through the familiar side streets, my unease dissipated. Jamaica looked beautiful in the fading afternoon light. I couldn’t wait to leave.