Krystal A. Sital - Secrets We Kept

To all the women like my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother, and to the women before them, your sacrifices have not been in vain. Without your strength and conviction, I shudder to think where we would be today.

To my mentors at New Jersey City UniversityEdvige Guinta, Ethan Bumas, Joshua Faustythis book started there. Because of you, I had the courage to continue. You helped me create and foster the space in which to start. This was the most important lesson of all: foundation.

My deepest thanks to the ReCollective, our beautiful writing community that started at NJCU and grew after. And a few special words to my dear friend Kathy Potter, the glue of our group, who is no longer with us. I finished, my friend. I did it for us all. May we be rigorous in our collection of memories.

My friends who were generous enough to donate their time to reading this book in its many stages: without you, Angel Lemuel Eduardo, Amy Kandathil, and Renee Clemente, there could be no shape. Together, we sculpted. But especially you, Angel. Without your steadfast friendship, sharp mind, constant questioning, I would be unmoored. I find respite and harmony in our long, meandering conversations. May that never change.

My short time at Hunter College blessed me with a writing partnership that propelled me in the years after. We did good, Cecilia Donohue and Jessie Male. Our teachers there made sure we were armed and ready. Thank you, Kathryn Harrison, Louise DeSalvo, Alexandra Styron, and Roxana Robinson.

To my oldest friends in this countryRobert Queenan, Joseph and John Ganciayou unflinchingly showed up to things you didnt even understand. Im honored to have you as my friends. You first knew me as a girl and supported me through it all as weve always done for one another. May our international food nights stretch well into our old age as our self-proclaimed family grows.

My sister: my first ears, my first editor, my first everything. There are not enough words in this world to describe how much you mean to me. You are the audience everyone hopes for, the editor everyone dreams of, and the person I grudgingly share with your husband. We are connected in ways no one will ever understand.

Sylvie Greenberg, you are the special agent who entered my life swiftly and with purpose. It was exactly what I needed at the time, and you seemed to understand that better than anyone. May we look to the future together.

From my heart to yours, Alane Mason, you are one of the most brilliant people Ive had the pleasure of working with. Wading through this book again and again was never as painful as when I did it by myself; in fact, it was exciting. From being tangled in titles to chiseling out the perfect word, your patience and care with what has been a book-in-progress for ten years has shown me just how lucky I am to have worked with you. To touch other books in the ways youve done this one is only a sliver of who you are as a human being.

Whether it was over the flicker of candlelight in a windy backyard, a yawning reading hall, or special Tudor house in New Jersey, weve gathered to tell our stories, and as one who was invited to share, I want to warm the hearts of Edvige Giunta, Annie Lanzilotto, and Rosette Caportorto for drawing me in, along with the others who have been blessed to be a part of this clan.

My beautiful partner, my husband, Pawel Grzech, I love you. Thank you for creating a beautiful family with me.

And to all women, may your stories always be told.

With the exception of the authors name, all of the names of people who
appear in Secrets We Kept have been changed. Certain biographical details
and other identifying characteristics also have been altered.

Copyright 2018 by Krystal A. Sital

All rights reserved
First Edition

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,
write to Permissions, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.,
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Book design by Fearn Cutler de Vicq
Production manager: Beth Steidle
JACKET DESIGN BY JENNIFER CARROW
JACKET PHOTOGRAPH BY KRYSTAL A. SITAL

ISBN: 978-0-393-60926-4

ISBN: 978-0-393-60927-1 (e-book)

W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10110
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This book is for you, Mom and Gramma.
May the words weve breathed life into live on forever,
no longer an oral tale carried to the depths of the ocean.

To my partner, Pawel Grzech,
who believed in me always and supported me when
I didnt have the energy to do it myself. Your dedication and kindness
have shown me over and over again what love truly is.

And to the three stars in our lives
Amelia, Emelina, and Grayson
I hope this book reminds you of how you came to be.

May you grow to be brilliant, kind, and patient, my three warriors.

MY FIRST TIME BACK in Trinidad since leaving twelve years before, I find myself alongside Uncle Avinash, planting my toes in the soil while we sit in the shade of a coconut tree. My family and his lie in the sand just where the water pools at your back, then recedes, the calmest point of intersection between sea and land.

Only a few seconds before Id been playing with my teenaged cousinsAvinashs son and daughterand talking of our shared interest in music. They were quite involved with American pop culture, while I was more interested in the rhythms of the island, each of us yearning for the other side of the divide.

And then I saw Avinash sitting off to the side, everyone occupied with someone except him, at ease by himself, loneliness his company, much like his father, my grandfather. How complicated it must have been for them all with Avinashs entrance into their lives. Young Arya was unable to understand the depth of her fathers betrayal. Avinashs existence posed a threat to the life Rebecca had fought so hard to preserve, the life she was providing for her children. Rebecca must have felt that giving her children permission to physically harm another child was an act of self-preservation. And yet this child who grew into a man, who became more of an uncle to me than some of my full uncles, is kind and generous, but I do not know if this stems from the favor my grandfather showed me as well.

And so we sit and watch the ocean before us, one of the most glorious beaches in the CaribbeanMaracas. It is a natural bay etched on unblemished terrain, waters pristine and picturesque, that aquamarine blue that tapers off and meanders around mossy green mounds and emerald waters, where stray dogs trudge along the sand picking at bits of fried bake and shark, dried roti chunks, congealed pieces of breadfruit, and pigtail people have left behind. We cook on these beaches over open fires, taking the days catch and dousing it in lime and pepper sauce, drying fish and shells on pieces of galvanized metal before roasting them over the fire. The waves are tempestuous, exactly the reason weve traveled through the mountainous region for an hour to arrive at this gem of ocean nestled deep down in the valleys. For us, comfort lies in the least calm waters.

Today the notorious Maracas waves pulverize the shoreline; the coconut trees dance as nuts shake loose from their bunches, and a pain sprouts in my heart as I look into Avinashs face. What I want from him, I realize right there in that moment, is for him to be my grandfather because he looks so much like him. His eyebrows threaded together across his handsome face, the gleaming darkness of his skin, his free locks blowing in the breeze. He looks the way I once remembered Shivatall, fierce, and dark. I yearn for the moments of gruffness my grandfather had toward others and how I was capable of turning his mood around with the suggestion of a checkers game or a story. Avinash is my grandfather incarnate. The child he never meant to have is the man who will carry forth his legacy.