Second House from the Corner (24 page)

“Young Sister.” He says my pet name with such care, I curl catlike into his arms. I feel beautiful and strong. Goddess-like. His fingers move lower and start making circles on the small of my back.

“I need a favor.”

I breathe heavily.

“My youngest child, Antwan, is sick.” His voice trips. “Really sick. He needs a kidney transplant.”

I turn to face him. Annoyed that he has reminded me of his life outside of me when I would prefer to stay in our little bubble.

“I'm so sorry to hear that. How old is he?”

“Thirteen, and he has been dealing with this for a while.”

I slide my hips away from him. “What do you need?” I'm sure as hell not about to give up a kidney.

Martin runs his fingers through his wavy hair. “I need to find our child. I need to see if their kidneys match.”

I sit up in bed. So this is the something important he wanted to discuss with me.

“We've tried everything. He's been put on the national list, but his kidney is different than most. It's a genetic thing called PKD. We've been through everyone in the family. Our child is the only hope left.”

He tries to punctuate his news by looking deep into my eyes, but he can't because I'm gazing over his head at the tiny bedroom window that faces the alleyway. I'm remembering my gas range at home. When I turn the knob to ignite the flame, I'd hear that
tick
,
tick
,
tick
,
tick
sound until the fire caught. Then in a split second, the ember would spark bright orange and yellow with a tint of white at the tip, ready to lick anything that comes into its wake.

Martin dropped that feel-sorry-for-me bullshit into my lap, and now I am the stove. I ticked, ticked, ticked. Swirled and sweltered until my skin felt balmy. The bedcovers absorbed my heat until they felt like they were cooking my sweat.

“So that's what all of this is about?” My words entered the room softly. “All of this fucking, and ‘Faye, you mean so damn much to me'?”

“No, you do.” He starts to plead, but I kick the covers to the floor and detach myself from the bed. The combustion surged through my body, and my brain added more wood to the fire.

“You want to talk about our child? Where were you? Huh, Martin? I was fifteen and pregnant and you let me go off and have the baby by my damn self. You never checked for me.”

“I didn't know where you were.”

“Bullshit. I saw you.”

He looks at me.

“I came to your house. To tell you I was pregnant. To ask for your help. You walked right by me, pretended not to see me. Like I was disposable. Like I didn't matter. You left me to deal with it by myself.”

I see a quick blink in his eyes that lets me know he remembers. He opens his mouth. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

“Faye, please calm down.”

“After I had the baby I went to the same high school that you used to pick me up from when you wanted some ass, but you never came.”

“They would have thrown me in jail.”

“Well, you should have thought about that before you stole my virginity in the back of a damn car.”

He moves to stand, but my internal thermometer has reached three alarms. My look is like a dragon shooting flames, and it makes Martin stumble. All of the sudden he seems embarrassed to be naked and reaches for his pants. He lights a cigarette.

“Where's the child, Faye?” Back to smooth. He has recaptured his composure.

“Fuck you.”

I move around the bed and he cuts me off at the doorway. His fingers are on my shoulders.

“Where is the child, Faye?” His eyes are desperate. “Answer me.”

“Our baby died.” The syntax comes from a place so deep I don't recognize my voice. A piece that had been anchoring me just flew from my throat, and now I'm off balance.

I stagger out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen for my clothes, snatching articles off the floor. And this time, when I can't find my panties I dress without them. I'm at the front door when he recovers from his shock and calls my name.

“Faye, I'm sorry. How? How did it happen?”

“Like you care.”

“Don't leave like this. Come.” He holds out his hand to me but this time I don't go toward him. I run like hell.

*   *   *

When I crash open the glass door of the apartment building, I am a disheveled sight. I skid out of the parking space and drive to the corner of Forty-Eighth and Market Street. At the red light, the heavy tears stream. I can't see the car in front of me so I turn the corner, pull into the Wawa parking lot and kill the ignition. My body convulses, and the sorrow secretes from the countless Band-Aids I've stitched on. It's the first time I have even thought of that baby as being my child. Like Rory, like Twyla, like my little sweet Liv.

When I was in it, I was so filled with guilt and shame that the baby dying was a relief. I moved on like it never happened because it released me of the agony of making such a costly mistake. A baby would have chained me to Philadelphia, and I would have ended up like Crystal—baby daddies, dead-end jobs, manipulating the system, living off of Gran. Or like Shayla, chasing that street hustle, fast money, always having to stay one step ahead of the game before the rules changed. The baby's death was my ticket out, my second chance. I took it and didn't look back.

 

THIRTY-TWO

The Low and Lonely

I am a lump in the bed, tightly curled into the fetal position with my back against the wall. A woman who abandons her own child is crud. Rory, Twyla, and Liv deserve better; that's why Preston took them away from me. I am not worthy of being called a mother.

Ghetto trash. Always have been, even when you were pretending to be more.

The voice is right. She has always been right.

Damn skippy, I'm right.

Gran pulls back the covers.

“Gal, get up. Ain't you gon' eat something?”

I hear but I don't answer her. My voice no longer lives in my throat. It left me for someone more suitable. I pull the sheets back over my head.

“What's wrong with you?”

She waits for me to respond, and when I don't, I feel drops of wet on me through the covers, probably holy water. Then she wobbles away. Rain has been falling, and the bedroom is gray. I don't even need pills to sleep; sadness makes me sleep, and I welcome the black cocoon. It feels delicious. It feels like death. It feels like I have sailed over the brink and capsized.

*   *   *

The hours puddle into days, and the days spill into each other. I'm not sure if it's Tuesday or Friday when the vivid dreams start happening. I see slaughtered cows in bathroom stalls. I'm peeing on a lion cub in the toilet. Panic starts building and I realize that the cub is growing underneath me in the toilet bowl, rising out of the commode. I run from the stall but I can't move as fast as I would like because I haven't pulled up my pants. When I reach for the bathroom door handle, the cub is now a fully grown lion and it is on my heels. I make it out of the bathroom and then push the door closed behind me and hold it with all of my might in place. The beast is contained. It doesn't catch me.

Gran is back. “Here, sit up and drink this, girl. You need some strength.”

I shake my head no.

Please let me suffer, Gran. Just let me die like this.

“You want me to call an ambulance?”

I nod no.

She shuffles off and I can hear her praying all the way down the stairs and into the dining room. Then I hear a cat meow in the alley and another respond. Sirens whine as they race through the streets, but I can't remember if it's police, ambulance, or fire engine sirens. I went to St. Martin de Porres School until eighth grade. Whenever the nuns heard the sirens of an ambulance, and they could always tell the difference, we had to stop what we were doing and pray that the passenger arrived safely and stayed alive. Maybe I should pray.

Dear God, please strike me down.
Pretty please, God, strike me down.

*   *   *

More dreams happen. I'm running in every dream, always running, always exhausted, always trying to break away before I am caught. Then I hear a faint sound. Tiny little pitter-patters on the steps and then in the hallway or maybe it's outside. The bedroom doesn't have a door—Crystal knocked it off the hinges a long time ago. Everything blends. But the tip-tap continues and gets closer. It's on my shoulder, my head, stealing my covers. The little sweet presses continue, and I wonder if it's a dream or if I've gone stone crazy, like my father.

Then I hear the loveliest word in the English vocabulary.

“Mommy.”

My eyes flutter open.

“Mama.”

They are here. My children, my babies have come to me. They jump on me, climb into bed, cover me, grab for whatever piece of me they can muster.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.” Two makes a song as she snuggles under my chin. Her hair is in messy braids. Rory is under my arm and Gran hobbles in, handing Liv to me.

“This one sure is heavy. Could barely get up the steps with her.”

My breasts swell at Liv's touch. My voice is still gone, so I smile at them through clear tears.

“Mommy, you're not happy to see us?” Two stares up at me.

I clear my throat. The sob frees my vocals. It comes out hoarse. “Yes, of course I am.” The backs of my hands sop the wetness from my face.

“So why are you crying?”

“Because I'm so happy to see you.”

Rory offers me his shirt. “Here, Mommy, wipe your face.” My sweet boy. I do as he says.

Leaning my back against the cool wall, I position myself so they can all fit into my lap. And then the chatter begins as they catch me up on all I've missed in the two weeks we've been apart.

“Guess what?” Two grabs my face. “I took my bathing suit to school and we got in the sprinklers.”

“Really.”

“Can I have a bikini?”

“No.”

“Morgan has one. Please?” She pleads.

“I don't want to go to karate anymore.” Rory pulls my arm tighter around him.

“Why?”

“Because.”

I ruffle his hair.

“I want you to take me. Juju doesn't know how to make quesadillas. She forgets the sour cream.”

The conversation continues like this, in a random sequence, with the children cutting each other off.

“Shut up, Rory.” Two swipes at him, but I stop her.

And it's almost like being at home.

 

THIRTY-THREE

The Children Feel Like Christmas

From the rickety wooden stairs, I can smell batter, butter, and bacon. My heart is doing flip-flops, anticipating Preston's long arm draped over my grandmother's sofa, the other hand at work on his cell phone. The kids crowd me as I walk, but I let them. At the bottom of the stairs I look into the living room. No Preston.

Gran has made her famous bacon bit pancakes. I've never given my kids pork, but I get them settled at the table. My ears strain for Preston's voice in the kitchen or even the basement. The kids lap up the bacon pancakes like it's the best thing they've tasted in the world.

“Where's Daddy?” I serve myself a helping. Gran stands in the kitchen doorway with a bowl of grits.

“He said he'll be back tomorrow to get us,” Two reports. “He said we can have a sleepover.”

“I'm just glad he came when I called.” Gran moves toward the table.

“You called him?”

“I had no other choice.”

“Gran.”

“Are you coming home with us tomorrow?”

I give her my best smile and say, “Two, sugar, let's just enjoy the moment.”

“Who wants grits?” Gran has the dish over the table.

“Not me.” Two crinkles that cute nose.

“Only Liv eats grits, Gran.”

“Mommy, Gran's pancakes taste better than Daddy's.” Rory talks with the food falling out of his mouth.

“Rory, you know better,” I scold. But I can hardly talk because I'm not doing much better than him, shoving forkfuls of pancakes in my mouth while holding Liv in my lap.

*   *   *

“Preston left the big car for you and took the little one.” Gran hands me the keys. “Said you needed the car seats.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing else. You need to go shower.” Gran wags her hand in front of her nose and smiles at me. She has her teeth in, must have put them in for the kids.

I head upstairs with Rory and Two on my ankles. In my bedroom I give them some old dolls to play with and then text Preston.

Thank you.

A few minutes later he responds.
I'll pick them up tomorrow at three.

Why didn't you wait for me?

I check for his response in between taking my shower and combing my hair but there is nothing. From the looks of it, Two's hair hasn't been washed in what smells like a month, so I put her under the bathtub faucet before combing her hair into three lovely ponytails.

“Mommy, where are we going?” Rory asks as I dig through the bag that Preston sent for snacks and diapers. He's packed twenty Pampers for overnight but no baby snacks. I knew he couldn't do this right without me.

I check my phone again; he still hasn't responded, and I decide to forget him and focus all of my attention on my babies.

“It's a surprise,” I say, making my eyes bright.

“Chuck E. Cheese?” he asks.

“Absolutely not.” We say so long to Gran and head out the front door. I tell them both to settle in to their car seats and enjoy the ride. We pull up to the Please Touch Museum, which is no longer the rinky-dink museum that my mother chaperoned my third-grade field trip to. The museum has recently relocated to historic Memorial Hall in Fairmount Park, and the building is stately and massive. I glance at the kids in my rearview mirror, and I can tell by their faces that they are not sure if they should be excited or pout.