“You okay, honey?” the nurse asks when she comes in and writes down the numbers from the machine above Aunt Loretta’s bed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just have to give her all the love you have. That’s what’ll get her better. Her temperature’s coming down. See that number there,” and she points to the machine with three lines, “that’s a good sign.”
We are looking for signs because Aunt Loretta can’t talk and medicine can’t help her. It is the medicine that made her sick.
The nurse goes away carrying a tube of something that looks like blood from the table by Aunt Loretta’s bed. Where Aunt Loretta’s skin is coming off are giant white patches where she used to be brown. I make the whiteness beautiful. Not hot and raw. Like it looks now. Like giant burns. Now she will be the color of the porcelain figures in Grandma’s cupboard, special. She will have the perfect color for jewels and long gloves and worship.
There is a way that people die. They get sick or they go away. It’s not like shutting a door, or opening one, like Aunt Loretta did that last Sunday morning I saw her with her light on.
Laronne
As Laronne opened the apartment door, stale heat escaped and dried out her eyes. The apartment’s only light came from the two living room windows. The electricity had been shut off.
It would be easy to box up what was left in the apartment. Most of their clothes were in opened suitcases, which lined the far wall along with dozens of cardboard moving boxes.
Laronne stripped the sheets from the couch. It was where Nella must have slept, like a guest in her own home.
Laronne packed up the bedding from the bassinet, the towels, the silverware, the handful of pots above the stove, and the dishes that didn’t have chips.
In the bathroom medicine cabinet, she found on the top shelf shaving cream and beneath it a rusty ring, a drugstore aftershave, and Mitchum cologne. She threw the boyfriend’s things away. She cleared the other shelves with a swipe of her hand, not registering who belonged to a certain toothbrush or which one’s brush this might be. Laronne scrubbed the bathtub, the toilet, and the mirror with silver flakes on the edges. She wiped the cabinets, the rusty ring from the top shelf. She cleaned the floor. She cleaned each room this way. She cleaned as if it were her religion. When she was done, she was a white clean scent.
It was in the front closet where Laronne found a tote bag stuffed with papers and two hardbound journals, both filled with Nella’s handwriting. Nella had scribbled addresses, grocery lists, math problems and proofs, doodles and to-do lists diagonally and haphazardly and without any logic Laronne could discern. Laronne wondered whether it was all written in English, some of the handwriting was so difficult to read.
In an entry dated two weeks before the accident, Laronne read: “He was drinking with his friend when he knows alcohol’s not allowed in the house. He didn’t know I had come home.”
A whole section of doodling followed that, and there was a coffee ring on the left-hand side of the page. Maybe Nella had walked away from the journal. Fed the baby. Gone to bed. Not all the pages were dated. Some entries looked as if Nella had gone back to fill in new thoughts on her first impressions like she was grading herself. In blue or red ink in the margins, she had written: “wrong,” “lied,” “stupid,” or “naive.”
And though Laronne wasn’t sure that it was the last entry Nella had made, on the last page of one journal she read: “They’re mine. If people can’t see it, how can I keep them safe?”
The spines of the two journals were marked 31 and 32. She searched through the boxes to see whether she could find more. She found numbers 10 through 15 in one box, 21 and 22 in another. She found, in all, twenty-nine journals scattered throughout a dozen boxes. Laronne stacked the journals in order. Then she read from the first page of the oldest journal dated two years ago: “This is Day 1. My first day with no drink. I hope I can keep counting to forever.”
AS LARONNE LEFT Nella’s apartment, she heard music. It sounded like a child practicing either in the apartment above or below. She closed the apartment door and saw a boy, the boy who had held vigil at the shrine. He was seated on the stairs one flight up. In his hands he held a harmonica.
“What’s that you got there?” she asked.
The boy held the harmonica in the air to show her.
“That’s pretty neat.”
He shrugged.
“What are you playing?”
“Nothing,” he said.
The boy walked down five stairs to the landing where Laronne stood. He was eye level to her middle.
“You live here?”
He nodded.
“Did you know …” She tilted her head toward the door, 6D.
The boy fidgeted and then answered, “We weren’t friends.” He turned and ran down the stairs. Laronne followed him and caught his eye again before he closed his apartment door.
“Hey,” she said.
The boy hesitated long enough for Laronne’s hand to reach the knob.
He opened the door wider.
“Hey,” she said again. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Jam—,” he started. “Brick.”
“Rick?”
“Brick Thomas.”
“Hi, Brick Thomas. Your mom home?”
He shook his head yes, then no.
“Your mama coming back soon?”
“Yeah.”
“Was that you? In the newspaper?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“Ma’am?”
“They say there might have been a man. Up there. Did you see him too?”
He stared at her blankly.
“On the roof that day while you were playing? Outside?”
Brick shrugged.
“What did he look like? Baby, if you know something. You should tell,” Laronne said. “You know, stuff we keep inside — that’s what makes it …”
She started over. “Here,” she said, “I’m Laronne. Here’s my number and my address. I live not too far away. I make some fried chicken like nobody’s business. Your mama let you come over for some fried chicken?”
“Uh-huh.”
Laronne handed Brick the piece of paper she’d scribbled on. “Okay, now you be sure to call. Laronne will make you some good home cooking.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he closed the door.
THAT EVENING, WHEN Laronne claimed the title Auntie at the hospital, the nurses directed her to Rachel’s room.
It had been more than a week since the accident, and the girl was beginning to heal. The deep purple bruise that was her left side was a bluish red. The nurse had washed Rachel’s hair, and the soft fuzzy brown curls made a halo around her face.
Rachel was sleeping, and had been sleeping, because of the medicines she’d been given. The monitors and ventilator hummed. The doctors said it would take time, but she would probably make a full recovery — how lucky she was that her fall had been cushioned.
Laronne brought presents: a balloon, a teddy bear, a puzzle of a stallion running across an open plain. And she’d brought a book of fairy tales, stories with happy endings, as well as two boxes of Rachel’s belongings that she had packed up from her room.
Laronne watched the sleeping girl sleep.
Rachel’s grandmother was coming soon, a nurse told her. As soon as she was strong enough, they would fly the girl to a hospital in the grandmother’s northwestern town.
“Her daddy left. The men, they can’t handle nothing,” the nurse said.
“Her father? He was here?”
“The drunk fool. He scared the mess out of Angela the other day when he started yelling. She told him to get out. Ain’t come back since,” the nurse continued. “You should stop by, when the grandmother gets here. You’re the only one who really knows anything. To tell her.”
When the nurse walked away Laronne thought: But I don’t know anything to tell her — at all.
Laronne sat again next to Rachel’s bed and watched the machine breathe for her.
Laronne had questions, not answers. The answers might be in Nella’s journals, but Laronne couldn’t be sure. We lie to ourselves in many ways; we write down only what we want to understand and what we want to see. Laronne had many questions from just the few entries she’d read. Who was Charles? What was it that broke Nella? Had it been a thought and then a plan? These were questions that might answer why. But if Rachel was to live with a question about what happened, wouldn’t it be easier to live with the question who? So without a second thought, Laronne stuffed into the box of Rachel’s belongings the newspaper article. It was something Laronne owed Nella — she could give a mother back to her girl.
Nella
Day 744. There cannot be enough time to pack out all the boxes. Rachel and Robbie are mad they cannot play outside. They know pas på they tell me. But it is not safe for them playing outside in this new place when I work. They have TV. And in four weeks school begins. We can go to the park on the weekend. And I made a promise for a trip to the amusement park before school. Rachel did smile. That does not happen so much in being here. She does not talk when Doug is here. Robbie grew almost four centimeters and Rachel two centimeters. They hope they are high enough for any big rides this year. The job I have is good. The people are nice. My boss too. She has a handsome son. He looks like what maybe Robbie will look like. And in all that I forgot Charles birthday. It was two days ago. I miss him as much as ever. These three I will keep safe. I promise. I know it is hard to come here and they have no friends. I kiss Rachel in bed at night and I see her frown like I did anything wrong. She misses her dad. I kiss Robbie’s forehead god nat, I tell him no bad dreams. It does not help. Like he has Charles memories. Like his, his twin. When school begins, it will be better. Ariel is fine and growing. She is sleeping mostly. Doug is not home. I hope he is home soon. I think it sometimes that to come here was a mistake. I did not think it would be so hard. All the time I was pregnant Doug gave to me teddy bears and the toys. I thought he gave the baby. No. He said. It was time for me to play. He made me laugh just like Roger did before. But no drinking. I think now Doug is drinking again. He doesn’t say anything, but I think I know. Don’t let the kids hear me cry. One day at a time. Time for bed. Tomorrow is early and a long day at work.
Rachel
Drew is coming by for Sunday dinner. He used to come every day to check up on us, then it was every other week. Now he comes just sometimes. Grandma calls him the “sometimey lizard.” She still likes it when he comes, because it’s good to have a man in the house — even if he just comes to get a home-cooked meal and to get his feet rubbed. Grandma says this every time Drew visits. And we all laugh. No one really rubs Drew’s feet.
Grandma is wearing a good dress with an apron. She wipes her hands on the inside of the apron pockets as she cooks. She has made her spicy beans and a roast with gravy and real potatoes, not the ones that are flakes in a white box that says mashed potatoes. For dessert there’s peach cobbler cooling on the stovetop. This is the first day in a long time Grandma’s seemed anything like happy. She wants me right up under her, watching how she does the cooking so I can feed my future husband a healthy meal. She shows me how to cut the onions, the carrots, and stir the gravy brown. When she lets me taste the cobbler, she feeds it to me from her hand that still has a salty onion taste.
“Careful now, that’s hot.”
“I know, Grandma.”
I know only a few more things about Grandma than I did when I first came to live with her, because some of things I did know I had to subtract after Aunt Loretta died. Grandma doesn’t garden anymore. She doesn’t have soft hands. When she comes home from work, the smell of her favorite perfume — still strong — mixed with the day’s sweat makes me think of gasoline, like she’s a fire ready to burn.
Grandma doesn’t watch me close anymore or put the cornstarch-looking powder in my underwear drawer. She talks about getting over or through, like there’s nothing much else to do but see whether or not a next day comes. So when Drew comes up the porch today and he gives Grandma flowers that she sets in the middle of the table, there is nothing better. Because Grandma looks something like happy and maybe she’ll really rub Drew’s feet today — just to have some fun.
Drew seems taller than before. Maybe it’s that I’m looking at him now more up and down, when before I would look at him with Aunt Loretta more side to side, making them a picture in my mind. And maybe he looks so big because his hand looks large on the shoulder of his teenaged daughter he’s brought with him. Her name is one of the La names that never sound as fancy or flowing as they should. Lakeisha is Drew’s fifteen-year-old daughter who lives in North Carolina with her mother and is visiting for the holiday.
“Nice to meet y’all,” Lakeisha says grinning and holding in her hand a piece of gum that no one notices but me.
“Go and get Lakeisha one of your sweaters. She gonna get the death of cold in her,” Grandma says, tut-tutting as she puts her arms around Lakeisha, who came up to the house without her coat.
“I’m alright, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Next time, tell your mama you need to have a coat with you. This ain’t no place to be without a winter coat,” Grandma says.
Drew introduces me and says he thinks Lakeisha and I will be good friends. “Maybe you could play together.”
“I’m too old to play,” Lakeisha says like she is throwing something away. She has North Carolina in all the vowels, and still her voice sounds related to Drew’s. It’s funny how people can sound related.
When we sit down to dinner, Lakeisha asks if she should say the blessing before we eat. She doesn’t eat too much of the monkey bread, which Grandma made special for Drew. Lakeisha says sir and ma’am and just like that Grandma wants to know all about her. She asks her questions and fusses over her. She tells Drew that he’s got a good girl.
I can tell Lakeisha is none of the things that I think are important. She’s not a good student, and she’s too loud.
Dinner’s done and Drew says he wants to give me something, a present.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Something special.”
I like it when people give me clues to how I should respond.
“I don’t have a present for you,” I say.
“He don’t need presents. Open it,” Lakeisha says.
I open the package without ripping the wrap. Inside are two books. The smaller one is titled Black Skin, White Masks by Frantz Fanon. “That’s from me. It may be tough reading now, but hold onto it for a while. Read it when you’re ready,” he says. “I don’t think I got to it until after college, but I wish I had found it sooner. Loretta was reading it — she started reading it …” His voice trails off.
The second book is a collection of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales.
Drew puts his hand on my shoulder. “This was also with Loretta’s things. I’m sure she’d want you to have it.”
The red cloth cover has frayed on the bottom right corner. I rub my hands over the spine with its faded gold lettering. On the bottom of the inside cover I see my father’s name, Roger Morse, written in crinkly cursive, his handwriting.
I want to cry but don’t. I want to fan through the pages of the book. Maybe Pop has left something else here. Maybe there is something here that’s more than just his handwriting or his name.
“Grandma, may I be excused?”
“Did I hear a thank you?”
“Thank you, Drew. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re happy with it.”
“Grandma, may I be excused?”
“You ain’t gonna get out of cleaning dishes.”
“No, ma’am. I just want to put this away.”
“Miss Doris, let the girls go. I’ll get these dishes tidied up.” Drew stands up as he says this and picks up his plate.
“Ooo-mmm. I never had no mens ta
ke care of me.” Grandma makes her lizard-eating smile and laughs.
“Grandma? Can I?”
“You can go show Lakeisha your room.”
Lakeisha follows me to my room. Before I have closed the door, she’s run her hand across everything on my dresser top.
“Ooo, you nasty. Your Grandma let you wear this?” she asks, holding a red lipstick I took from Aunt Loretta’s drawer before Grandma boxed up everything else to store or throw away.
Lakeisha talks fast and doesn’t let me answer. She has picked up the framed picture of me and Drew and Aunt Loretta in front of the frozen falls.
“Your mom was pretty.”
“Aunt Loretta is not my mom.”
“Oh?”
“She’s my aunt.”
“What your mom look like?”
I wish I could say: Just like me, but taller. Like a grown-up me. If I describe what Mor really looks like it will make her seem plain: long blond hair, white skin; she had an accent (and that’s important even though it’s not something you could tell by looking at her). If I describe her to Lakeisha, it will make Mor seem like any other white person you’d see.
“My mom was light-skinned.”
“Light-skinned-ed? For real? That’s why you so light?”
“Yeah.”
“My mama’s not light-skinned-ed but she’s pretty. Prettier than her too.” She points at the picture of Aunt Loretta.
“How come you don’t have a picture of your mama? She done past?”
I nod, holding the book Drew gave me close to my middle like a shield. I wish Lakeisha would go.
“You ever kissed a boy?” she asks.
I shrug my shoulders. “My brother has a friend I like.”
“Oh.”
“He’s not my real brother. He’s cute. But his friend Damon is cuter.”
“I have a brother.”
“Where he at? He cute?”
“He’s not here … today.”
“He with his daddy, huh?” Lakeisha says with gum in her mouth again. She makes it pop as she chews. “I’ma braid your hair.” She grabs the brush from my dresser and starts brushing my hair. “You got good hair. Bet you could grow it real long.”
The Girl Who Fell from the Sky Page 8