The Lost Daughter: A Memoir (24 page)

“Mommy, who is this?” she asked.

“A friend from work,” Donna replied before ordering the girl from the room.

Tasha said the moment that young girl called Donna “Mommy” really stung. For the first time, she realized why Donna had left them. She wanted to forget about her old life and kids. She wanted to start over and she did. Tasha had never felt any anger toward her mother. She’d been angry but the anger was generalized. But after hearing the girl call her mama “Mommy” and hearing her mama deny her to her face yet again, she felt her anger build.

Donna offered her a seat and they made small talk. Donna told her she had two girls and was doing well. She asked Tasha if she had any children. Tasha told her she had four.

“Damn! Four? Why you have so many kids?” Donna asked in disgust.

“I have the same number as you. I just kept all mine,” Tasha calmly responded.

The look on Donna’s face went from disgust to shock to anger. Tasha took it as her cue to leave. Despite this last encounter, Tasha still hoped to reconcile with her mother. Her children have never met their grandmother. She had her mother’s phone number and called from time to time. Donna blocked the number, so Tasha used her friends’ phones. Her half-sisters have been told to hang up on her if she calls. They still didn’t know that she was their sister. I offered to call from my phone and tell Donna who I am. Tasha looked hopeful then dismissed the thought.

“I’m OK with things as they are. At least I know where she is.”

I was amazed at how much Tasha and I had in common. We were both abandoned (she literally, me emotionally), both taken in by another family and cared for, but we have handled our abandonment totally differently. I hated my mother. The further the distance between us the better. When my anger got too great, I stuffed it down, tucked it away. Like Donna, I wiped the slate clean and started over with a new family. When I felt the void, I traveled. I could blame that disconnect on being in a foreign land, foreign situations with foreign people. That’s why I’m lonely, angry, scared. Not because my mama checked out. She was history. Irrelevant. Water under the bridge.

Tasha on the other hand never stopped loving her mother. To fill the void she created family. Her children. To erase the trauma of her past, she became the mother she always wanted. We sat on the back porch talking until just before dawn and we both had so much to say. Unable to keep sleep at bay, we turned in. In the moments before I drifted off to sleep, I admitted to myself that I didn’t expect my visit to see Tasha to be pleasant. Women who have been dealt the cards she has rarely turn out to be pillars of the community. But I was happy to see that my niece was well and that she was raising intelligent, kind and interesting children. She was a wonderful example of how one need not look to the rich and famous for inspiration. I found it in refugees from Africa and now from a single mother of seven living in the projects. As sleep took me, my last thought was that it has been a long time since I’d had a more pleasant and enlightening evening in conversation with anyone as awesome as my niece, Ms. Latasha Williams.

•   •   •

As promised, Sista arrived the following afternoon to pick us up. Latasha and I had spent the morning and early afternoon trying to get the kids ready for an overnight stay while also getting the house in order for our departure. Sista’s mama arrived a few minutes after Sista in a truck. We needed two vehicles to transport all of Tasha’s children.

Mama was well-dressed in a light summer pants suit. Her hair was long with streaks of gray. Her skin was light brown and unwrinkled. Like her daughter, her face was lovely in its symmetry. She greeted me warmly and then immediately began herding the children into the two vehicles, along with their overnight bags. Though Tasha and I had been attempting to get the kids ready to leave since early afternoon with little success, Mama, like a veteran drill sergeant, was able to get the crew ready and strapped in the vehicles in no time.

The reunion was held in the backyard of a little farmhouse an hour outside of Houston. When we pulled into a dirt parking lot behind the little shotgun farmhouse, I saw three large smokers the size of short schoolbuses spewing smoke and permeating the air with the mouth-watering scent of roasting goat, pork and beef. A man in overalls was overseeing a large fryer filled with boiling grease in which he was dropping pieces of fish. There were tables with canopies and picnic tables enough to sit a small army. There was music blaring, a mix of pop, rap, R&B and old-time blues. Beer was flowing freely. There were at least three hundred people milling about, most wearing the family colors, red and black, represented by red T-shirts with black lettering.

The smaller kids were let loose to join the others in chasing after a large litter of puppies that were seeking refuge under the porch. The older kids propped themselves self-consciously on the benches and people-watched as the neighbor’s cows in the pasture next door took in the scene with befuddled expressions.

After introducing myself to a few people, I took a seat in the shade next to Sista and Tasha. Tasha pointed out Pop to me, one of the men tending the large smokers. Tasha told me that despite all the alcohol that would be drunk that afternoon, there was never bickering or fighting at their family reunions. I spent most of the afternoon playing with the children, chatting with guests and watching Tasha revel in being a part of her big, welcoming family. I reveled in the fact that I had my girl back.

JANE CAME
to the Bay Area in June 2012 to meet Mama in person for the first time. Jane had spoken to Mama on the phone months earlier and offered to take her out to lunch the next time she was in the Bay Area. Mama told her she’d go if Jane didn’t mind that she didn’t have any teeth. Jane assured her this would not be a problem for her.

After their conversation, Jane called me to tell me my earlier assessment of Mama as cute and funny was spot on. When Mama called me to tell me of the invitation from Jane, she told me she was a bit self-conscious about her wardrobe. I told her not to worry and offered to take her shopping. She insisted on going to Wal-Mart. When we got there, she was suddenly shy about picking out the clothes.

“Pick out what you like,” I encouraged her.

“I don’t know. What do you like?”

“You’re the one who’s going to wear it, not me.”

“I know but . . .” she trailed off, looking overwhelmed.

On and on we went as we made our way through the store. This interaction reminded me of the first time Jane took me clothes shopping. I knew I needed the clothes but I struggled with my pride. I didn’t want to feel like a charity case. I think Mama was feeling the same way.

I decided to handle the situation the same way Jane did with me. As we walked through the store, I paid attention to the items my mother’s hands or eyes lingered on and suggested she try those things on. This strategy worked, and eventually we were able to select several outfits, several pairs of shoes, scarves, a muumuu and a purse.

The afternoon before the meeting, Jane and I met in Berkeley to see a play called
Emotional Creature
, written by her friend, the playwright and activist Eve Ensler. The title aptly describes how I’ve been feeling the past few months. Since coming to the Bay Area to see my family, I’ve been an extremely emotional creature. I’ve cried nearly every night for the past few months and wanted to cry nearly every waking moment. When I see Jane waving happily at me from across the theater, I want to burst into tears at the sight of her. I’ve been rough on her the past few years. She has borne the brunt of my Terrible Forties like a saint and I want to thank her for keeping her promise to love me even if I’m not perfect. Even if at times I’m not lovable.

After hugs and kisses we settle into our seats clasping hands. For the next few hours we hear the stories of girls from around the world. Girls who have been silenced, raped, abandoned, excluded, forgotten and, by the end, awakened, made whole, validated and imbued with the power to shake the world. Jane cries through most of it but as she’ll tell you herself, “A Fonda will cry at a good steak.” I see myself, Tasha, Mama and even Jane in these stories. It’s too much right now and I shut down so as not to blow a fuse in my emotional motherboard.

After the play we catch up on the family. My sister Vanessa had sent her kids to Chicago to visit with Troy and his wife, Simone, and Jane had joined them. I smile to see Jane so happy as she tells me how proud she is of her grandchildren. She asks how I’m doing and I tell her about being emotionally overwhelmed and conflicted. One moment I love my birth mother, the next I’m full of rage. We talk of the meeting tomorrow and I can see Jane is nervous. All I can do is pray for the best.

The night before the meeting, I call Mama to make sure she will be ready for the chauffeured car that will pick her up at 10:30
A
.
M
. I also remind her that we will be taking photos, so she should wear a nice outfit. She assures me she will be ready. She asks me what she should wear and we discuss several of the outfits I bought for her. I tell her she should wear the fuchsia top with the black slacks and her ballerina flats. She dismisses that suggestion and asks if she should wear a print blouse instead. Exasperated, I tell her to wear whatever makes her comfortable. She is quiet for a while then says, “Lawanna, I don’t know nothing about fashion. I think you should come over and help me pick an outfit.” It’s ten o’clock at night and I’m not about to get out of bed for this and I tell her so. By the end of the conversation, I’ve convinced her she will look beautiful no matter what she wears and she allows me to finally hang up.

The next morning the photographer and I meet Jane in her suite an hour before Mama is to arrive. She isn’t quite ready, so we leave him to set up in the living room. Jane is busy getting dressed and packing; she will fly out after our lunch with Mama. I woke up late and neglected to eat breakfast. Somehow Jane senses this and encourages me to eat what’s left of her breakfast: a bowl of fresh blackberries. There is also a bowl of fruit in the living room she won’t be able to eat and she tells me to put it in a paper bag for Mama to take with her. She goes to the bathroom to put on her makeup and emerges with a pair of antique earrings. “I never wear these. Take them,” she says, and folds them into my hand. Her nerves are showing and it makes me nervous too. Especially since I dreamed Mama wouldn’t show.

Right on time the concierge calls to say that Mama has been dropped off and is waiting in the hotel lobby. The photographer wants to get a few shots of Jane and me alone and suggests I get Mama after we shoot. Jane insists I go down and bring her up immediately. I do as she says. When I get off the elevator, I see Mama calmly reading the morning paper. I greet her with a kiss and notice she has decided to wear the print top after all. I ask her how the ride was. She tells me she told all her friends that a chauffeured car was coming for her, and they were all outside waiting when it pulled up to get her. She chuckles at the thought. I wheel her onto the elevator while she tells me that she asked Teresa to come over to help her pick just the right outfit.

When we get to the suite, Jane greets her with a kiss on the cheek and beams down at her for a few seconds before bursting into tears. I knew she’d cry. She tells Mama what a great kid I am and how proud she should be of me. Mama asks her why she’s crying and Jane says, “I thought you’d be mad at me for taking her away!” “Oh, no!” Mama says, “I think it was a good thing that you did.” “Really?” Jane asks. “Yeah!” Mama says. They hug. With that out of the way, they move right along and quickly find something to talk about that they are both familiar with: ailments. Jane talks about a recent back surgery and Mama tries to trump her with her COPD, asthma and high blood pressure. Jane asks if she has diabetes and is relieved when Mama tells her she doesn’t. Then they are discussing pain medication. Mama suggests Jane take Motrin, which she uses to dull the pain of arthritis. When Jane, who possesses a freakishly high tolerance for pain, tells her she tries to avoid using pain medications, Mama looks at her duly impressed.

When the photographer announces he is ready to take the photos, Jane quickly reaches for her makeup bag and returns to powder Mama’s nose. “There! That ought to do it!” We are ready for our close-up.

After the photo shoot, we have lunch downstairs in the restaurant. Jane fusses over Mama, making sure the waiter finds a space nearby to park Mama’s scooter, pulling out her chair for her, folding a napkin in her lap and suggesting menu items.

“Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“Oh, no! I eat everything. Even without my teeth I eat it all!”

They chuckle and reminisce about the Party days. Mama is bashing former Party leaders Huey Newton and Elaine Brown. Regaling Jane with gossip about their corrupt activities and lifestyles. Jane listens attentively, offering commiserative “Umphs!” and “Tsk, tsks!” I can see Mama is getting righteously angry reliving those difficult years. Her voice is rising and I can see she’s beginning to flail her arms a bit. I jump into the conversation before she starts dropping F bombs in this quaint little eatery in Berkeley.

“Doesn’t Mama’s hair look nice? She let me give her a haircut last week.”

“Yes, she looks beautiful. I see where you get it from.”

Then Jane reaches over and takes Mama’s hand and says, “You should be so proud of Lulu. You are a big part of why she is such a wonderful woman.”

“
We
did a good job,” she retorts with a shy smile.

After lunch we climb into the chauffeured car to take Mama home before dropping Jane at the airport. When the car pulls up in front of Mama’s house, I notice there is a little crowd of neighbors out across the street watching us. Jane asks Mama if she can come in for a short visit. “Of course!” We all get out and a man from across the street yells, “Hey, Jane!” Jane waves and proceeds to follow me as I push Mama up the ramp and onto her porch. We go inside and Mama invites Jane to take a peek at the family photos on the wall. Jane asks about Marsellus Wallace and Mama tells her to go to the back of the house and pull back the drapes on the sliding glass doors. Jane does so and is greeted with a quizzical bark from the Rottweiler. We chat for a while, and then Jane and I hug Mama good-bye. On our way back to the car, the little crowd is still there. They snap more pictures as we get into the car. As we drive away, I think Mama will have a lot to talk about next time she hangs out with her friends.