It couldn’t be put off any longer. Gran had gone to Saturday afternoon service with Sister Marie and didn’t say what time she would be back. So that she wouldn’t worry, I leave her a note on the dining room table.
I’m dressed in the cute skirt and top I bought to wear for my good-bye with Martin. The clothing still had the tags on them. I brush a little blush onto my cheeks and slide a pink-stained gloss over my lips. When I open the front door, the sky is overcast with clouds, and a dim gray hovers. I consider going back for an umbrella but I don’t want to turn away from my destination for fear I may lose my nerve. I pad down the front steps.
“What the hell did you do to your hair?!” It’s Crystal, yelling from the corner. I stop and stare.
“You know hoes goin’ be callin’ you a ball-headed bitch now.”
I flick my hand in the air at her and start moving toward my car.
“Just kidding, Faye. Listen, I need a ride.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? You going to see Martin? It’s on the way.”
“No, I’m not.” I suck my teeth. “You need to mind your business sometimes and learn how to stay in your damn lane.” I do some serious eye rolling as I turn away from her.
“Come on, Faye, seriously. It’s important. It’s just a few blocks away.”
When I unlock the car, she gets into the passenger seat.
“Thanks. Make a right onto Fifteenth Street.” She starts fiddling with the radio station. I push her hand.
“I’m not listening to your crap.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
We drive in silence.
“Turn onto Cecil B. Moore. Right there, I’m going to Lamar’s.”
“You’re going to a bar in the middle of the day?”
“Yeah, I heard Ronnie was in there with this trick from down Twenty-Ninth Street. Come with me. I need backup.” She starts climbing from the front seat, and a switchblade falls out of her back pocket.
“Crystal, I know you aren’t carrying a damn knife. Aren’t you too old for this?”
She tucks the blade in her back pocket and starts moving toward the door. I contemplate pulling off. Fighting in a damn bar over some two-bit boy was not on my agenda today. Still, for Gran’s sake, I unbuckle my seat belt, feeling obligated to make sure Crystal doesn’t do anything stupid. I follow her into the cavernous beer garden. It is dark and bluesy on the inside, with a long bar and a few tables scattered. An early hit by Nas and Lauryn Hill plays.
In the back, I see the same guy who felt Crystal’s booty when I dropped her off last week. He has on sunglasses and is posing with some girl against the jukebox.
“What the fuck is this?” Crystal is up on them both, weave swinging.
“Nothin’, baby.” He reaches for Crystal and holds her in his arms before she can reach into her back pocket. “She ain’t nothing, Boo.”
“What you mean, I ain’t nothing.” The girl snakes her neck at him, her bra straps peeking from beneath her purple top.
“Yo, chill.” He grabs Crystal’s hand and they move toward me and the other end. I guard the front door like I am the police. Crystal bumps the girl with her shoulder. The girl looks like she wants to say something, but it’s easy to be intimidated by Crystal. Everything on her is meaty.
“This my niece, Felicia.”
“Hi.” He looks me up and down, eyes lingering a bit too long. I look away. I’ve been down that road with Crystal, her man trying to get at me. I didn’t need that drama today.
“Niece?”
“Yeah, don’t ask.” She links arms with him.
“I’ma go.”
“All right.”
“I can’t buy you a drink?” asks Ronnie.
I crinkle my nose and shake my head no.
Outside, I am happy for the fresh air. How could Crystal still be stuck here, doing this? Where were her children? She was never going to change, and it made me want to scream.
* * *
Back in the Nissan, I plug in the address on my phone’s navigation system and start heading toward the Schuylkill Expressway. I used to have to catch the C bus to Center City, and then the 125 bus. It took forever to get out to Valley Forge that way. Driving is much more convenient, and the hum of the highway relaxes me after that ordeal with Crystal. India Arie’s latest hit croons softly from my radio, the windows are down, and the breeze swishes away the nagging dread of what may come.
Valley Forge Homes has always been an intimidating brick building for me. When I was younger, I was scared to death to walk through the sliding glass doors. It tore me up to see my once beautiful mother as nothing more than a space-staring shell. The other patients scared me, too, nodding, scratching, and talking to themselves. It made my stomach hurt, like I could throw up the salt and vinegar potato chips and butterscotch Krimpets that I devoured on my way. Each time I returned to Gran’s heavy with grief, I vowed never to go back. I didn’t want to see my mother like that, unable to communicate, walk, go to the bathroom unassisted, or feed herself. But Gran insisted that I go, every second and fourth Saturday of the month, and that’s what I did.
The Nissan eases into the parking lot, and I take a hefty breath as I remove my key. Surrounding the perimeter of the buildings are well-manicured shrubs and bushes sprinkled with coconut petunias, vibrant dahlias, and bursting marigolds. My mother lives on the third floor. A young woman with a braided bun stands at the front reception desk. She greets me with a smile, clear braces.
“May I help you?”
“Manette Hayes.”
“Sign her name and your name here.” She points to a sheet for visitors. “Give me one second.” She moves to a file cabinet.
“You also have to sign here.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a record of all the guests visiting a particular patient.”
I write my name on the ledger. My eyes scan over the names before mine. I recognize Aunt Stella, my mother’s girlhood friend, and Uncle Jessie, her favorite cousin, but there was one name that I don’t. Kita Reeves.
“Thank you.” The woman takes the ledger from me. “You can go right up.”
Who is Kita Reeves?
On the elevator I stare up at the ceiling as the car creeps to the third floor. I haven’t been here since Twyla was born. When the doors open I pass the nurses’ station but don’t recognize any of the staff. The corridors cling to the same smell. Cooked cabbage mixed with disinfectant.
I check the common room first, and find Mommy sitting in front of the big bay window. Her back is slumped and her neck is lulled to the side, as if it is too heavy for her head. Her ponytail is long, but her hair lacks luster and shine. It is mostly gray. She seems thinner than when I saw her last. Weaker. I watch her from the entryway for a while, unable to move toward her. Then she turns her head and looks right at me. My heart takes off. She recognizes me.
“Mommy.” I take the few steps toward her. She looks at me, eyes on my eyes.
“Mommy. It’s me, Faye.”
Then she looks away, and her eyes glaze over like she wasn’t seeing me at all. I pull up a chair next to her and stare out the big window with her, trying to push away that unflattering feeling of desertion.
An afternoon soap opera is on the big television hanging from the wall. Three women sit at the table, playing cards. Most of the others are covered in knit blankets, nodding from their medication. Mommy and I sit side by side for a while, neither of us moving. I touch her hand, move in closer, and before I know it, I’m chatty. I share each of my children with her, describing them down to their birthmarks and quirks. I tell her about the dream I had last night about her combing my hair. The whole while, I’m stroking her veiny hand. Her skin is cold, and I adjust the throw over her lap. There were older pictures of the kids in my wallet, and I hold them up to her face. She looks and then looks away.
“Mommy, I know you are in there. I know you came to me in my dreams last night.”
Her fingers are limp and lifeless. My nose dribbles, and I wipe it with the back of my hand, trying not to feel sorry for us.
“Time for chair yoga and meditation.” A woman with coiled black hair and dressed all in white is standing in the doorway.
“You can come, too.” She directs her voice at me with a smile. Her skin is creamy, her eyes emerald green and inviting. I can imagine lying down and resting in those eyes.
Mommy’s head bobbles as I wheel her to a conference room on the right where the woman has led us. People in wheelchairs sit in a circle and two attendants stand in the corner. Candles are lit and I can smell something burning.
“What’s that smell?”
“White sage. It cleanses the energy in the room.”
The place did feel good. Cozy, even. The nursing home with all of its odors and smells evaporated. We had been transported someplace else.
“Welcome to chair yoga and meditation. I am Shira.”
I detect an accent but can’t place it. I like her immediately.
“Today we are going to focus on grounding our energy. So place your feet as flat on the floor as you can and then push your bellies forward.” She demonstrates.
A lady wearing a black wig and a T-shirt that says “World’s Greatest Nana” rolls her neck and shoulders with agility to Shira’s command. I wish she were my mother or that my mother were her. I adjust the blanket on Mommy’s lap, feeling an overwhelming need to protect her. I move a hair from her face and kiss her cheek. I’ve missed her.
At least half of the patients keep up. The man sitting next to Shira moves to her rhythm with a grin that makes him look like he thinks he is her teacher’s assistant.
“Wonderful, Sam,” Shira praises him. His face lights bright.
Shira rests her hands on her heart and starts humming the sound Om. We join our voices with hers. Then she pulls a bowl and a wooden stick from under her chair and starts playing this amazing tune. It hums and vibrates deep down in my soul.
“Close your eyes, dear ones, as I lead you into meditation. If there is anything that you are still holding on to, let it go. This is a place of healing.”
I inhale, allowing my lungs to expand.
“Let’s try breathing with our eyes closed and going deep within our bodies for five minutes. Enjoy.”
My mind rests. Before I know it, Shira is standing in front of me.
“How was it?”
“It was great. I needed that.”
She extends a card to me. “I teach class to able bodies tomorrow night. You should come.” She gives me a hug. She feels like the Holy Spirit.
I roll Mommy back to her room. There is a brush on her table, and I brush her hair until it shines. She has a knot at the back of her head, and I make a mental note to ask the nurse about it. A bottle of Poison is on her dresser, and I spray a dab onto her wrist. Her arm twitches and then her mouth curves. I wonder if the scent brings any memories to her mind. I make a mental note that when I return to bring her a fresh bottle. Maybe I’ll even bring Preston and the kids with me.
There is a jar of cold cream on her nightstand, and I warm the lotion between my palms and then massage her face, fingers, and feet. I hum “Amazing Grace.” She says nothing, looks at me sometimes, but most often just stares at the wall. I work at peace, not expecting anything from her. Instead I bask in her presence. I hum children’s lullabies as I work because I can’t stop hearing my children’s voices, Mommy, Mom, Mama, Mommeeeee.