We’re halfway down the front steps when Dad calls out, “You really gon’ leave?” Like me, he’s stunned that Mama’s threats are finally coming true. “You going to yo’ mama’s,” he snorts, stumbling again. He grabs hold of the railing, straightening himself. “You goin’ there, knowing how she is. She’s gon’ put you down, then what?”
Mama opens the car door, not daring a single glance at him. Dad’s usually as tall as a tree, but now he looks small. Yet nothing’s small about his voice, especially as he shouts how Mama’s breaking her vows, how her daddy would be ashamed, and that soon we’ll be back. And now all these white folks are opening their doors, peeking out.
We ride in silence. The radio is on, but I can’t recall which songs have been playing. Dad’s right. Grandma berates Mama—always. How does she stand it? Shoot, if I had some money, I’d have Mama drive us to a fancy hotel just to get away from everything. I really wish this, especially when we park in front of Grandma’s house and Mama breaks down. I mean, really breaks down. The car’s not even turned off before she’s banging on the steering wheel, fists pounding so hard I’m afraid it’ll snap off. She lets out a sob so deep that it sounds like it’s been trapped inside her forever.
That’s when it occurs to me. Mama’s stuck. Between Dad’s issue of keeping us on the move, and Grandma scaring her with marriage vow scriptures, and Mama needing to prove to Grandma that she didn’t make a mistake in marrying Daddy—and me. She can’t do anything. Or go anywhere. Dang-ee.
My mama’s tough. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen her cry. And all those times combined don’t come close to this. I suspect that I’m not supposed to see this. It feels way too private. Mamas probably don’t want their kids to see them lose it. But I’m not about to leave her alone, either. So I rub her back lightly.
Dad. If he only knew. But no, he’s probably searching the cabinets for his stupid bottles of liquor right now, finding them missing. Good. At least I ain’t there to hear about it. And I hope he’s too drunk to remember.
“I’m okay,” Mama says at last, wiping her face with her jacket sleeve, looking at me with red, watery eyes.
We both know Mama is not okay. And she should know that she doesn’t need to make me feel better, not for being real. Not for finally putting her foot down.
After we ring Grandma’s bell, she unlocks all the locks, cracks open the door, and starts right on in—just like last time. “Lord ah mercy, Sharon, y’all evicted already? For heaven’s sake.” Grandma keeps right on with her scolding, not knowing how long it took for Mama to get the courage to come in the first place. She keeps right on going, not even noticing how puffy Mama’s eyes are.
I want to go straight to Mama’s old room and rock myself to sleep. But Mama looks so beaten down, and Grandma’s badgering doesn’t stop.
“Lord knows we raised you better . . .” On and on she drills, not caring what we’ve been through or understanding that we just can’t do this. Not now.
And I don’t mean to be rude or insolent when I interrupt, “Grandma?”
She turns to me, as if finally noticing I’m in the room. “What is it?” she says, annoyed.
“She’s tired.” I add, “We’re tired.”
It’s only then that she looks at both of us, really takes us in and says, “I see. Why don’t you both go on to bed.”
We do, but neither of us sleeps. We wrestle with our own thoughts. Most likely, Mama’s replaying every moment, maybe even questioning her leaving. Me? I’m questioning if I’ll be able to go back to Farmington Oaks tomorrow and what Dad’s face will look like after finding no vodka. I’m hoping Grandma doesn’t rehash last week’s conversation. I even wonder if Sophia and her family eat stuff like asparagus for dinner . . . what was it that Yvette wanted to ask me . . . Troy, he’s such a good tutor . . . and dang . . . Mama got the car keys . . . and we were ghost . . . she pulled out the keys . . . and we . . . we . . .
Light streams through the curtains. Shoot, I don’t even remember falling asleep. I roll over, expecting to feel Mama’s back, but she’s not there. I lie still, listening for her voice. Nothing. I get up and mosey to the kitchen, and Grandma’s at the table with the phone in her hand.
“Where’s my mom?” I ask, forcing back my agitation. It feels weird to be around Grandma after everything she told me last time I was here. “She didn’t wake me up!” I glance at the clock; it’s almost nine. “I don’t have to go to school?”
“I don’t suppose you can go walking in there this late without a parent, can you? And your mother, she must’ve left at the crack of dawn because I’ve been up since six.” Grandma dials a number. “She’s not answering her phone, either. What exactly happened last night?”
I offer Grandma a light version minus Dad’s four day gambling binge, drinking, and teasing, no need to give her all the details.
“Hmph, that doesn’t make sense. But at least she’s making some decisions. I just wish she’d call me back.”
Like always, Grandma assigns me chores: dusting and polishing. When I get to the picture frames of her old dead relatives, I barely touch her father and grandfather. The only one I dust well is her sister, Elizabeth. The rest of the day goes as if Mama didn’t walk out on Dad for the first time: TV for Grandma, homework for me, and three calls from Dad intercepted by Grandma. I ain’t trying to talk to him, I’m still too mad to hear his voice and too scared he’ll ask about his liquor.
Mama comes back about six o’clock, and Grandma doesn’t even hesitate before playing detective.
Grandma: Where have you been? I’ve been calling you every hour.
Mama: I needed to sort things out.
Grandma: You couldn’t’ve done that here? You could’ve at least told me.
Mama: Sorry.
Grandma: Why’d you leave in the first place? The story Genesis told me doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Mama:
Grandma: Tomorrow we’re going to church, and I’m going to have the pastor pray over you. It’ll do you some good.
Mama:
Was Grandma like this the whole time Mama was growing up? Geesh. She harasses Mama so much that Mama gets the keys and leaves the house again. Grandma calls out to ask where she’s going this time, and Mama answers, “To breathe.”
Friday morning Mama’s gone again, so Grandma takes her nagging out on me. To get away from her grumblings, I go over my homework. Afterward, when she starts back complaining, I voluntarily busy myself with cleaning. Now I’m hiding out in the basement, pulling towels from the dryer. Mama must’ve finally come back, because as I’m hauling the laundry basket up the stairs, I hear Grandma saying, “Well, I’m not going to tell you I told you so because you already know that.”
Should I run up the steps and stop Grandma’s madness before Mama walks out for a third time—leaving me here?
Before I even decide, Grandma goes on. “No, I didn’t mean that.” She clears her throat and begins again. “What I’m trying to say is . . . when I see you hurt . . . I hurt.”
“Ma,” Mama says, trying to interrupt.
“Hear me out, Sharon.” Grandma continues, “It’s clear as to why you’ve been avoiding me.” Then—whoa!—Grandma goes all the way to Jerusalem and back to admit that she’s made some mistakes, and that maybe she shouldn’t speak every thought on her mind because if her parents were so down on her, then she’d think twice about visiting too.
“What I’m trying to say is—you’ve got to do what’s best for you and Genesis. I’ll understand if you need to, you know, go back . . .” Grandma’s voice breaks.
I’m sneaking up the steps, straining to hear the rest of Grandma’s speech, but with this darn laundry basket in my hands, I trip and drop it.
“Genesis?” Grandma calls out. “You fall down them stairs again?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, then louder: “I’m all right.” I crouch there, waiting to see if Mama’ll come check on me. Instead, I hear her softly say, “Thanks, Ma.”
Something’s wrong with me. I should feel good about this, but I don’t. It’s not like I don’t want to go back home, to our beautiful home. But what about the five years of trying to help Dad get better? Or the “Go to Alcoholics Anonymous or otherwise”? Dad hasn’t done anything to deserve us coming back. Heck, he should have to do more than beg and make promises. He should—he should act like he wants us home. Is that even possible?
When I finish picking up the spilled laundry and step into the kitchen, Grandma’s face is shiny and Mama’s eyes aren’t as tired looking. I try not to stare. But I’m sorta amazed. After all this time—the preaching and family traditions—Grandma has had a change of heart. Well, shoot, anything’s possible, then. So maybe, just maybe, after these last few days, Dad’s changed too.
Boy, was I wrong.
When we get home Sunday evening, the first thing Dad says when Mama goes to put her bag back in their bedroom is not about his missing liquor, but, “Well, that didn’t last long.” And the second thing he says is, “Been practicing for your show, Chubby Cheeks?”
Wishing my eyes could shoot lasers, I glare at him, then storm to my bedroom. My shirt—my stupid, ugly shirt—is still on the floor. It’s exactly where I left it, covered in streaks of makeup. It’s there, taking me right back to Wednesday night. I snatch it up in both hands and pull, but it won’t tear. I yank again and again, but nothing. I dig out my scissors. And slash. I slash it in two, and I slash it again, and then rip it apart with my hands. Slash and rip. Slash and rip till there’s nothing left but shreds. For years I’ve had this shirt, and now I gather the scraps and dump them in the bathroom trash can. No more pretending. No more swinging my hair and flicking my wrists. And no more imagining me singing alongside Dad.
But just then, I catch my reflection in the mirror. And the voice—Dad’s voice—has been waiting.
Naw, she ain’t nothin’ like me. . . .
“Shut up.”
You were supposed to come out looking like her.
“Shut up, please.”
Who you think’s gonna love you with the way you look . . .
He’s right. He’s right. He’s right!
And I hate him for it.
And I hate that I’ve tried everything—and nothing works. What. Does. It. Take?!
There, in the corner, is the bleach.
The label warns dangerous. But the label also promises to whiten. Brighter than bright. Disinfects ugly, black mold, too. Turns everything sparkling white. I fill the tub with water so hot that steam rises. I uncap the bleach. The smell is strong, but I pour a tiny bit in the tub. Then a little bit more. And then I undress with a prayer: Lord, let this water lighten me.
Wait—what if it burns? I slowly, carefully stick my hand in and wave it through the water. I count to ten, and then twenty. No burn.
I step one foot into the hot water. And then the other.
Reason #75: Because she’s tired of trying to be friends with the pretty light-skinned girls.
I hold the sides of the tub, and ease myself in.
Reason #63: Because she doesn’t have straight hair.
I ease back and let the bleach soak into my pores.
Reason #84: Because she can’t stop adding to this list.
I slink farther down to drown everything out, but not too deep—can’t get my hair wet. And I try not to care, but I do. I try not to hurt, but I am. I try not to feel, but I can. And so I say, “Forget it,” and squeeze my eyes tighter than tight before dunking my head under the water. When my lungs are about to explode, I burst out of the water. It had to be, what, seven, eight minutes of being in the tub. And I’m still black. The stupid bleach doesn’t burn; it doesn’t even offer a tingle of change. Not even where my scabs are. And now my hair needs restraightening!
There’s a knock on the door. Then quietly, “Gen?” I don’t answer. “Genesis?” Mom says in her answer-me voice.
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Mama says.
I wrap myself in a towel, and wrap another around my head. It’s as if Mama gives me time to dress because as soon as I get my pajamas on she’s cracking open my door. “Hey.” She comes and sits on the edge of my bed, looks up at Billie Holiday.
“You added a picture? To your wall?” Mama asks. “It looks nice up there.” She pauses, as if she isn’t sure what to say. “I still have to check for that movie. Keep forgetting . . .” is what comes next. Almost a minute goes by before she comes out and asks, “Do you want to talk?”
I glance toward the door. “Where is he?”
“Your dad? He’s . . . he’s in our bedroom. You don’t have to worry about him.” Mama rubs my back and asks once more, “Anything else you wanna talk about . . . like the night we left?”
Eventually I’ll have to explain why my face was covered in her makeup. “No,” I say, but then quickly change my mind. “Yeah. Why we come back this soon?”
“Because—” Mama pauses, and I wonder if she even knows why. Then she says, “Honestly, I’m just not there yet, to completely walk away.” Huh. Seems to me Mama was mighty close to her breaking point last Wednesday when she was beating up the steering wheel.
Even so, her answer is one that I can accept. Because truthfully, I’m not ready for us to move away from Dad either. Not that I’m not done with his drama, because I am. But we can’t go because—and it’s killing me to admit this—but if we leave for good, then I’ll never truly be his baby girl . . . he’ll always see me as . . . nothin’ but Chubby Cheeks from the basement! And I ain’t no Chubby Cheeks, get what I’m sayin’?
“You think those meetings really gon’ help?” They haven’t done a thing yet. Then I catch myself because heck, even Grandma’s coming around.
Mama twirls her hair, thinking. “Your father, his pain is deep rooted from when he was a kid. I’m not saying this to—” Mama gazes off now, her eyes troubled. “I just don’t understand why he gets so mean toward you.”
That’s easy. “Because he hates me.”
Mom looks shocked. “He doesn’t hate you!”
“Yes he does, and you know it. You were right there in that basement when he said I was nothin’ like him. You hear him talk, all the time about how I don’t look like you. Even Grandma notices. Shoot, I don’t blame him.”
Mama’s lower lip is trembling. I don’t want her tears, ’cause she already knows the truth. But then she surprises me. She collects herself and says, “When you were born, you were this tiny, light-brown ball of joy. And your dad . . . he was so proud . . . except when my mama said things like, ‘See how dark her ear tips are and those cuticles, that’s how dark she’s going to be.’ ” Mama half smiles, remembering. “That made me happy because I didn’t mind having a chocolate baby. I didn’t want you to be picked on for being light like I was.”
“Wait, you got teased?”
“All the time. People called me ‘stuck-up’ and ‘Lite-Brite,’ and a whole bunch of other names. I’ve never told your grandmother, but I was in a couple of fights. ’Course, she loved when people told her I looked white. I hated it ’cause at school it was, ‘Oh, you think you’re cute,’ and ‘You think you’re better than everybody, I’mma beat you up.’ I got all that.”
Dang, that’s what I—oh no!—thought about Nia.
“And my hair was even longer than it is now. My mother never let me cut it—she was proud of it. But it wasn’t her head being yanked all the time. I got so many threats from other girls. One time I got so tired of the threats that I chopped it off. To my ears! I got a good beating for that.” Mama dabs at her eyes, but now I can’t tell if it’s because she’s laughing or crying. “Every day she reminded me that I was better than most Blacks. Not because I was smart or kindhearted, but because I was light-skinned. Light-skinned. Can you believe it? She’d say, ‘Sharon, you could marry—’ ”
“Mama, that’s it. Don’t you get it?” I say, it’s all clicking together now. “I’m not light like you—that’s why he hates me.”
“What? No,” Mama says, fast.
“Yeah, it is. And it’s all because of Grandma and that stupid brown bag.”
“Brown bag?”
“Grandma . . . she told me about the brown bag and how she pulled it out with Dad,” I say, fiddling with my fingers.
“Did she.” Mama waves her hand as if waving the bad thoughts away. “It’s not the bag, baby. Your daddy, he loves you. It just seems the older you got, the angrier he grew. When you were about eight or nine, it’s like a light dimmed in him. He used to tell me how his own mother treated him, calling him ‘no good’ and ‘trifling’ and ‘black this and that.’ So I thought he’d be the opposite, knowing the hurt that meanness causes. . . .” She trails off, thinking.
Maybe that’s why Dad doesn’t talk about his mama. No good. Triflin’. Black this and that. His own mama didn’t even think he was one of the good ones? “So why did his mom dog him out?”
“Don’t know for sure. But my guess is that because his father abandoned them, all the anger and bitterness she held for him, well, she took it out on your father. And I know it seems like I’m always making excuses for him, but . . . he’s had a bad childhood. And maybe I feel guilty, especially for allowing stuff like the brown bag to happen. I didn’t even realize I was stuck in the habit of defending him, or rather defending the man I chose to marry. I felt like, if I didn’t defend him, then my mother would be convinced she was right in the first place, see?” Mama stands up and stretches. “And still, still I keep waiting for him to come back around to being your proud daddy.”
“Yeah,” I say, “me too.” Then I can’t help but ask, “Do you believe it? The family tradition?” I want to ask if she regrets marrying Dad, but hold back.
“The brown bag is . . . such an old way of thinking. A wrong way of thinking. I know it’s history, and I really am ashamed it’s our history, but you can’t believe in that. You just can’t.”
Yet, and yet, Mama’s always complaining about doing my hair, calling it “that head” or “tangly mess.” She believes it at least a little. It peeks out when she describes someone dark complexioned and adds: “But he or she’s still good looking.” Mama may not mean it; in fact, I know she doesn’t, but it’s there, under the surface. That’s why tonight, now, I let her make me pretty the best way she knows how, by washing my hair. She doesn’t even ask why my hair’s wet in the first place. She blow-dries it even though that’s my job, and we don’t have a meltdown. Mama presses my tangled hair without a word about how thick it is. Even though she’s drained, she still straightens it. And me? I’m too grateful to care that a thousand-degree hot comb is millimeters away from my scalp.
That night, when my head falls on the pillow—smelling of BB SuperGro—I have a fitful dream of Dad in a clown’s mask, cutting off my long, straight hair. But then there’s something else. A familiar smell. A favorite smell. The smell of Dad’s famous shrimp. A real smell. It wakes me up. Yet I don’t move. It beckons me to come, but I don’t budge. Dad is tempting me with a plateful of apologies. I know this for sure because I hold my breath, lie very still, and I can just hear it . . . the groan of the hardwood under his feet. He stands outside my door.
I roll over and pretend to be asleep.