She looks at me for a only a second before she looks out the window again.
The view outside captivates her. We've passed children playing in the street. Men sitting on stoops smoking. Women carrying groceries. Merchants selling perfumes. We've passed everything that made up her world as a child.
I hold her hand gently, our fingers intertwined. She squeezes her fingers together, making our grip stronger, as she takes slow breaths.
"This brings back so many memories, Bee," she says, still staring outside. "Too many memories."
I don't say a word. I respond by touch, letting my thumb caress her finger softly. I turn to Josh, her teenage son, whose sitting next to me in the taxi cab. This is his first time outside of the United States. His first time seeing where his mother came from.
She hasn't taught him Portuguese, though he knows a few phrases. He doesn't even carry the same accent she has. Her identity as a woman who has lived all over South America has been largely erased, washed away like soap and water against dirt.
Coming back to Brazil isn't just therapeutic for Rihanna, it's a history lesson for Josh. He needs to meet this side of his blood just like Rihanna needs to confront it. Sometimes moving forward means going back. Retracing steps.
I hold Josh's hand and smile at him. He returns the gesture, and then looks at his mom. Rihanna is usually so talkative. Opinionated and loud. But now she's docile. Reflective. Quiet. Not herself. I think this is the first time Josh has seen his mother like this. He doesn't know her like he think he does. I know it frightens him.
After passing ghettos, we arrive to a neighborhood that doesn't seem so bad. There are lawns. There are cars that look to be in working condition. We pull up to a beige and brown house, with large windows and bicycles belonging to children laying on the lawn. The cab driver says this is the place. It looks like Rihanna wishes it wasn't as she pays the fare.
We take our luggage and arrive at the front door without any words. Rihanna knocks loudly. I look at her once more. Through our eyes we communicate. I let her know that everything will be fine. I'm there for her.
The door swings open. A young woman that looks like Rihanna answers. The same nose and cheeks and skin tone. Her body doesn't look all of the way developed. She has an innocence to her face. Maybe 17 or 18. Her smile is contagious as she speaks, in an accent that sounds eerily similar to my best friends.
"Hey! So glad you made it, sis," she said. "Mom! Rihanna is here."
She invited us inside of the cozy home, and helped us with our luggage. There were several people sitting around, watching us. Older people, maybe aunts or uncles, and children, probably nieces and nephews. Various shades of brown. All with looks of curiosity painted across their smirking faces.
Rihanna waved and smiled. Josh and I did the same, though most of the attention was focused on her. This was her homecoming.
I'd seen pictures of Rihanna's mother before, so I recognized her when she came from out of the kitchen. Her skin just wasn't what it was in the pictures. It wasn't smooth and pretty. It was aged, loose, and oily, as if a mix of dirt, makeup, and sweat had been building up.
Her mother came right up to us, smiling, before hugging her estranged daughter and laying eyes upon her grandson for the first time. She remarked that Josh was so big, and that I was so pretty after Rih introduced me as her best friend.
I didn't say much. Neither did Rihanna, as we were shown around the house full of family members. Cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles. We met them one by one. Introduced as family members yet I knew deep down that couldn't be possible. Likely just people she'd met along the way that became as close as family.
