Coffee and Bread

On Friday, during history class, the teacher told us that the Cherokee people believe the soul continues after death. The person's soul stays close to the living to guide them. Tyler shouted, “That’s creepy,” and everyone laughed. But the teacher didn’t think it was funny, and neither did I. 

At dinner, Mama, my sister, and I sat in silence as we ate bouillon for the third day in a row. We ate in silence because my sister doesn’t talk yet and we don’t want her to feel left out. Mama said she will talk when she’s good and ready. I pushed pieces of beef and a donbrey around my bowl and told Mama what I had learned about the Cherokee people. She said, “I sent you to school to learn math and reading, not to talk about the dead. Once people die, that’s it. We let them be.” I think she’s wrong, but I couldn’t tell her. I think she’s wrong because how could we let them be if they kept coming back? When my sister eats, sometimes she looks past me at the seat in the living room by the big windows. I think it’s because she sees him too. I whispered to her, “What do you see?” She looked at me, then back at the window, but didn’t reply. 

On Sunday, the Pastor told us to be wary of the dead. God never intended for us to communicate with them, and if we saw one, especially in our dreams, something evil was lurking nearby. I asked Mama, “What if the dead person is someone good?” She warned me not to talk while the Pastor was preaching. Then, in hushed tones, she said, “Nothing is good once it is dead.” After service, I asked the Pastor the same. He told me to pray. 

And I do. Especially late at night when Grandpa comes to sit at the foot of my bed. I shut my eyes really tight and pray. I ask God, “Please. Tell me if the dead are good or bad.” But when I open my eyes, he is still there. I start to cry, so Mama comes to hug me, and Grandpa goes away. 

On Tuesday, I asked Mama about Grandpa as she cut up the chicken she had brought home from the farmer’s market. 

“What do you want to know?” she said. 

“Was he a good man or a bad one?” I asked.

She stopped cutting the meat, washed her hands, and sat me on the counter. “He was a man of few words, kind of like your sister, but a strict man.” She wiped her hands and grabbed an onion from the basket. “He showed love with his actions.” She began peeling the onion. “When you were five, he used to wake up early in the morning, roast coffee beans, and bring fresh coffee and bread up to the house.” 

“Did I drink it?”

“Of course not!” she chuckled, lost in thought. “You were five. But that didn’t stop him from coming by every morning. He’d say, ‘It will make her strong,’ so I took them from him and drank and ate instead.” 

“What happened to him?” 

She began chopping the onion. “He died a little after we left Haiti, and I couldn’t afford to go back to see him before he did.” Her eyes watered. 

On Wednesday, at two in the morning, I woke to find Grandpa sitting at the foot of my bed. He did not speak. He was holding bread and coffee. 

I did not move. I prayed for strength. 

Mama came into the room a little bit after. She said she heard me praying and so came to pray too. I told her Grandpa was in my room. She looked around the room a bit, then said it wasn’t him. Said something evil lurked by. So, we prayed for light, safety, and guidance through the dark. 

On Thursday, Rosa brought a special necklace to school. It was silver, with a shiny diamond hanging on it. She said she wore it everywhere and that the diamond wasn’t real. It was made from the ashes of her dead dog, and I could not understand why she would need her dog hanging from her neck at all times. I told her, “Once something is dead, it’s not good. We let them be.” She cried and said she did not want to be my friend anymore. 

On the following Friday, we went to a special prayer service at church. The Pastor asked me to kneel so that everyone in the room could pray for me. He told me the dead could not come back once we bury them. He explained to us how we should cast out demons, as Jesus did when he healed two men by casting their demons into a nearby herd of pigs. 

I prayed to be healed. 

On Saturday, I played with my sister and her Barbie dreamhouse. She placed a Ken doll by the window and swatted my hand every time I tried to move it. I think it’s because she saw Grandpa sitting by the window watching us play too. I told her she needs to pray and that dead things aren't good. She shushed me, pointed to the window where Grandpa sat, and walked away. 

I asked him what he wanted. He did not respond. 

Mama asked who I was talking to, and when I told her it was Grandpa sitting by the window, she covered her mouth with her hands and took two steps toward the window but then began to pray. She grabbed olive oil from the kitchen, dabbed it on her fingertips, and touched each wall of the house as she prayed. 

That night, Grandpa stood at the foot of my bed. When I sat up, he moved closer and reached for my hand. I told him, “No. You are not real. We buried you. We have to let dead things be.”

His face twisted. Was it anger? He opened his mouth as if to speak, but as he did, it seemed as though his teeth grew longer. I covered my ears and shut my eyes real tight and shouted: “I cast you out in the name of Jesus” over and over again until Mama came to my room. She held me and rocked me and prayed for me that this would end. 

On Sunday, the Pastor sang songs of praise and shouted for joy, because we would always be victorious in the name of Jesus. I clapped, danced, and shouted “Amen!” My sister stood and clapped but kept her gaze fixed at the back of the room. I smelled roasted coffee beans.  

I did not turn around.

Victorious indeed.