Dream Girl Awakened

by Stacy Campbell

  “Look in my top drawer and get my travel bag. I have my toothpaste, toothbrush, and deodorant in it. The pink one.”

  S’n’c’r’ty bounced off the bed and retrieved the bag. She gingerly placed it in Aunjanue’s suitcase and hugged her from behind. She peered over into the suitcase, and exclaimed, “I’m telling Momma you’ve got a grown-lady gown.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  S’n’c’r’ty lifted the pink Candies baby doll nightgown and matching panties and twirled like a ballerina.

  “That’s one of the sets Auntie Sheer bought me. Actually, Auntie Sheer and her boss, Miss Aruba, bought me some clothes and lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. They said a growing girl needs feminine underwear. They really bought me some nice things.”

  “I hope someone buys me some nice things like that when I get bigger.”

  “I’ll buy you nice things when you get bigger. I plan on finding a part-time job in three years. I can’t work until I’m sixteen.”

  Aunjanue recognized S’n’c’r’ty’s ploy. Whenever she had somewhere to go, S’n’c’r’ty made idle chitchat, hoping to keep her home. As much as she enjoyed her sister’s company, she was ready to breathe, laugh, giggle with the girls, catch up on gossip, and for a brief time, settle in to normalcy with a real family.

  “Zip up my suitcase for me, lil’ bit.”

  S’n’c’r’ty obliged. They gathered Aunjanue’s suitcase, setting it by the front door. The television blared gospel programming, but it was obvious Tawatha was in another galaxy. She stared past the TV, her dejected expression not lost on the girls.

  “Let’s check on Sims and Grant.”

  Aunjanue peeked in on the boys, both in a serious Xbox battle. “Don’t forget to—”

  “Take out the trash and clean the tub,” Grant called over his shoulders.

  “And I’m supposed to do waffles and bacon in the morning. I remember,” said Sims.

  “Stay out of Momma’s way, okay, Grant and Sims.” She waited for a response from them. “I can’t get a hug before I leave?” she asked.

  They threw down their joysticks, gave her a quick hug, and mumbled, “I love you,” before getting back to their game. S’n’c’r’ty trailed her back to the living room.

  “Momma, I’m leaving now.”

  Aunjanue sat next to Tawatha, hoping to get her attention.

  “Don’t go down to the Mosleys acting crazy. Do what they tell you to do and mind your business, okay.”

  Her words were distant. She stared at the charismatic preacher on the screen, speaking more to him than Aunjanue. Aunjanue kissed Tawatha’s cheek, hugged S’n’c’r’ty, then dragged her roll-away suitcase out the door. She couldn’t wait to spend time with the girls.

  [40]

  Let’s Help Her Together

  Sims had almost forgotten the soccer application. Coach Ford reminded him twice to make sure his mother filled out the paperwork and supplied the registration fee. Now was a good time to approach her for the money. He’d rehearsed his speech several times, remembering to impart the importance of sports as a means of socialization. That’s what Coach Ford swore by when he encouraged the boys to participate in soccer. Sims thought of Aunjanue’s words, to leave Tawatha alone because she was in one of her moods. He needed the money, needed his classmates to know he was just as worthy as they were to participate in fun and games. He’d approach Tawatha boldly with the application because soccer was the first thing that stirred his passion. Not only was it fulfilling, but Coach Ford beamed when he made a goal or gave it his all. As he stepped from his bedroom, Sims thought he heard someone call his name. He shook off the notion, attributed it to playing Xbox too long.

  “Sims, come here!” demanded the whisper.

  Sims looked around the corner and saw S’n’c’r’ty peeking through her bedroom door. She beckoned him in a come-here-or-else motion.

  “What is it?” he asked, matching his sister’s low tone.

  “It’s Momma,” S’n’c’r’ty said as she pulled Sims into her bedroom. “She’s acting funny and she’s scaring me. She’s in her room talking to herself and cutting up stuff. What are we going to do?”

  Sims wished Aunjanue hadn’t gone to the Mosleys. They needed her. They couldn’t handle Tawatha like Aunjanue could. “Let’s call down to the Mosleys. Onnie can tell us what to do.”

  “You know she said not to disturb her. I don’t want her mad at me, Sims.”

  Sims held S’n’c’r’ty’s hand. They crept downstairs to Tawatha’s main-floor bedroom. Her door was cracked. A wedding gown, silk flowers, and wedding invitations were sliced and shredded by a large pair of scissors Tawatha wielded. She sat on the floor, hair disheveled, her left breast spilling from the Victoria’s Secret teddy she’d purchased for the honeymoon. Tears streamed down her face.

  “What will it take for me to find a good man? What do I keep doing wrong? Even a crackhead like Sheer can find a good man,” Tawatha said to the ruin around her. “I’m sick of this shit! Sick of it!”

  “Sims, do something! Momma’s gonna cut herself.” S’n’c’r’ty held Sims’s leg. She stifled the urge to pee, knowing if she did, Aunjanue would make her clean the spot up herself and shampoo the carpet.

  “Go upstairs and get Grant. We can talk to Momma together.”

  S’n’c’r’ty trudged up the stairs, feeling abandoned by her big sister. Aunjanue felt more like her mother than Tawatha. They couldn’t call Grandma Bert because Mr. J.B. had taken her on an Alaskan cruise. They were always doing things together. Maybe the man her mother wished for would be good to her like Mr. J.B. was to Grandma Bert. Or good to her like Auntie Sheer’s new boyfriend, Mr. Lake. S’n’c’r’ty snuck in her room to call Aunjanue. Maybe Grandma Bert would buy her a cell phone when she turned thirteen just like the one she’d bought Aunjanue. She dialed Aunjanue and was disappointed that her phone went straight to voicemail. When prompted to leave a message, S’n’c’r’ty said, “Onnie, Momma’s not doing too good. She has scissors and I think she’s gonna hurt somebody. Call us when you get a minute. I can’t wait ’til you come back home. I love you.”

  Sims and S’n’c’r’ty approached Grant. “Grant, we need you. Come downstairs with us,” S’n’c’r’ty said, prying Grant from his game. They went downstairs and stood outside their mother’s door.

  “On the count of three we’ll go in together and try to help,” said Sims. He tried imitating Aunjanue’s bossiness, but he knew he fell short as Grant and S’n’c’r’ty froze. S’n’c’r’ty’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “You gotta be a big girl, lil’ bit. Isn’t that what Onnie tells you?”

  “Yes,” she said as she nodded and wiped her face.

  They counted in unison. “One, two, three.” Sims opened the door, startling Tawatha.

  “What the hell do you want?” Tawatha hissed. She was in no mood to be bothered. Aunjanue had cooked dinner before leaving, so she wasn’t sure why they felt the need to approach her.

  Sims took the lead. “You were crying and we were worried about you. You’re gonna cut yourself, Momma. Let me take these scissors back to the kitchen and put them with the knives in the cutlery set.”

  “Get the hell away from me! All of you are nothing but a bunch of selfish bastards and I can’t stand the sight of you!”

  S’n’c’r’ty burst into tears. She hated to hear anyone curse, but profanity hurled at her felt like shards of glass ripping through her insides.

  Tawatha stood. “What the fuck are you crying about? First of all you come in here unannounced; now you’re trying to force me to tell you what’s wrong.” She snatched S’n’c’r’ty’s arm. “Why you bawling like a damn newborn? You’re five years old. All of you go to the basement and don’t come out ’til I tell you.” She released S’n’c’r’ty, then slammed her door.

  Without protest, they filed out the bedroom and went to the basement.

  “Momma’s gonna calm down and apologize later,” Sims assured them.
He held S’n’c’r’ty’s hand, guiding her down the steps.

  Sims instructed S’n’c’r’ty to pick out a movie as he plopped a bag of popcorn in the microwave. They’d wait it out like they always did. They’d wait until the monster inside their mother fled.

  Tawatha stood, surveyed the sliced invitations, wedding gown, and gifts she’d purchased for James. This was the last time she’d allow herself to be taken. How many times had she believed the words of some sexy man telling her how fine she was, how much he wanted to be with her. All that talk with no action had gotten the best of her. She looked in the mirror at her tear-streaked face, the smeared makeup that gave her a clown-like appearance. She swiped Kleenex from a box on her dresser and wiped her face.

  “No more. This will never happen to me again.”

  Tawatha threw on a pair of sweats, trekked to the kitchen for the huge garbage can, then returned to her room.

  “Muthafucka never had any intention of leaving his wife,” she said, tossing the gown and wedding remnants in the trash. Still, his hold on her was so strong. I can’t live without that man. “I’m gonna be with James Dixon if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Her intent was to return the can to the garage, to take a walk, clear her head. The kids’ laughter rose from the basement, irritating her all the more. “Shut up! I don’t wanna hear that noise tonight!”

  Day in, day out, they were always asking for something. Needing something. Lately, she’d wondered what life would have been like if she’d never had them. Doctors’ visits. Homework. Field trips. “Momma, help me do this.” “Momma, do that.” She rued the day she made the first child and hated that she didn’t have sense enough to stop having babies. The kids laughed again. Tawatha went to the garage, found the mower gasoline can, snatched the keys from the key holder, and rifled through them until she found the basement door key. She locked the door, positive this was the only way to start anew. She poured gasoline throughout the living room, kitchen, and garage.

  “A man will find me attractive without the burden of these fucking kids,” she reasoned, pouring more gasoline just outside the area near the basement door. “Shouldn’t have laid down that many times anyway.”

  Tawatha gathered a few personal items, matches, and the grade-school photo of her nestled between Jamilah and Lasheera. She held her breath, overpowered by the gasoline fumes. She walked out the front door, removed the matches from her pocket, and tossed a match into the living room, quickly shutting the front door. She wandered into the neighborhood, talking to herself, thinking how proud James would be that she’d gotten rid of the hindrance keeping them apart.

  “You smell that?” Sims asked.

  “Something’s burning!” Grant shouted.

  S’n’c’r’ty walked up the stairs, pulled on the door, and jerked her hand back from the heat. She retreated back down the stairs with her brothers. Sims picked up the phone, tried calling out, but couldn’t get a dial tone. Aunjanue would know what to do. If he could just get her on the phone.

  “Let’s break out the window,” said Sims.

  “We can’t. The burglar bars’ll block us,” said Grant.

  Smoke filled the basement, overpowering them. S’n’c’r’ty remembered the game she played with Aunjanue when they hid from the boogeyman. She still heard Sims’s and Grant’s voices. “Let’s crawl in the corner. Somebody’s gonna get us. Aunjanue always promised someone would get us from the boogeyman.” S’n’c’r’ty coughed the words out, praying Aunjanue would get the message she’d left earlier.

  [41]

  Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

  Johnny did his best to console Roberta, to tell her that it wasn’t her fault the house burned down. “It’s just a house, love,” he said, guiding her into the limousine that waited outside her home. “I’m here for you and I’m not leaving you or Onnie.”

  All week long she’d been apologizing, replaying the past month in her mind, wondering what she could have done differently to help Tawatha. Aunjanue squeezed in next to her grandmother, Lasheera, and Jamilah. She wanted to protect her grandmother, to shield her from the nasty things that had been said the past week about Tawatha, about her, about their circumstances.

  “Grandma Bert, we’ll be okay.”

  Johnny slid in the car as well. Behind them, cars lined up and followed suit to New Beginnings Fellowship Church. The what-ifs rattled around in each one’s head, neither drawing any conclusions.

  What if I’d been a better friend and taken the keys? What if I’d just cancelled my date with Lake, pulled Tawatha aside for good old-fashioned girl talk, then took her home and sobered her up? What if I’d insisted she break things off with James when we were walking at the mall?

  What if I’d told J.B. the Alaskan cruise could wait?

  What if I’d answered S’n’c’r’ty’s call instead of polishing my nails and toes and giggling about some random boys?

  What if I’d visited Indy more instead of staying in Bloomington?

  Roberta broke the strings of what-ifs with, “Is there enough room in the church for all these people?” She’d turned to see the funeral procession behind her and wondered how many people were genuinely concerned, or mere spectators, trying to get the goods on the event.

  Roberta and Aunjanue were overwhelmed by the love showered on them by the City of Indianapolis. They’d both experienced a whirlwind week since the fire. Calls, visits, food, and prayers became the backdrop of their mourning. They planned the funeral together, picking out key elements that would make the homegoing one the children would be proud of. At Aunjanue’s request, the remains of Sims, Grant, and S’n’c’r’ty were cremated and placed in a single urn. It was only fair that they’d rest in peace as they’d all lived and grown—together.

  Roberta didn’t know the monster featured in the headlines and news captions: Scorned Woman Kills Three Children; Affair Ends Tragically for Indianapolis Mother; Students Perish at Mother’s Hands. Roberta was always leery of the media; the stories about Tawatha confirmed her dislike for the news. Roberta asked that no cameras enter the sanctuary, but if they wanted, they could film the procession. Stations near and far had contacted Roberta for an interview regarding the fire. She released a statement to CNN when asked if she felt she’d failed Tawatha as a mother:

  “We, the Gipson Family, ask for your thoughts, prayers, and privacy during this very difficult time. I have lost a daughter to the correctional system, but my granddaughter is motherless and will never be able to see her siblings again. Please reach out to those dear to you, to those you love or haven’t seen in a long time. Express your feelings. Bless them with kindness. Give them a hug. You will honor us by doing so.”

  “There’s plenty of room for everyone. I took care of catering for two hundred fifty people at the community center, and the sanctuary will hold the people,” said Johnny. He rubbed her hands again in the reassuring manner that soothed her.

  “Johnny, I wouldn’t have made it through the—”

  “Shhhh, sweets. Just relax, baby,” said Johnny, placing a finger over Roberta’s lips. “There’s nothing to make up. We’ll have this discussion later.”

  “Onnie, how you holding up?” asked Lasheera.

  “I don’t know. I cry sometimes, then I laugh. I keep thinking of S’n’c’r’ty begging me to stay home with her. I feel like it’s my fault.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Your mom’s emotions were out of control. It’s not your fault. There was nothing any of us could have done to stop her.” Lasheera embraced Aunjanue, encouraged her to put her head on her shoulders.

  The silence bothered Roberta. She took Ernest Pugh’s Live: Rain on Us CD from her purse and passed it to the limo driver. “Track four, please.”

  With the choir as the backdrop, Roberta reflected on her grandchildren. How Sims’s soccer obsession pleased her because he was growing tall and strong and needed physical activity. She thought of Grant’s penchant for Oreos. S’n’c’r’ty as Aunjanue’s s
hadow. She also thought of Tawatha. She knew she’d fall apart at the service if asked to speak, but she’d be strong for Aunjanue. When she tried practicing the tribute she’d written for the children, fresh tears fell at the realization she’d never see them again.

  “Who are they?” asked Jamilah. She leaned forward and eyed the long row of people lining German Church Road. Dressed in white T-shirts with block CFC royal blue letters and jeans, they held up signs that said, Our Prayers Are with You and We Love You, Aunjanue.

  “What is CFC?” asked Roberta.

  Lasheera snapped her finger as she thought of last night’s broadcast. “Citizens for Children. They’re supporting the family at the funeral and trying to raise awareness about child abuse. The story has made national news, so lots of advocacy groups are speaking out.”

  “Anything else from Watha?” Jamilah asked Roberta.

  “Well, I knew they wouldn’t let her out, but she kept calling me about attending the funeral. The State of Indiana doesn’t play with offenders. You have to practically be on work release, close to parole, or a model inmate to attend a funeral. Then you have to pay a fee. I feel for her, but what can I do?”

  “I heard she’s been beaten up twice and had to be put in isolation. I didn’t know prisoners had limits to what they found offensive,” said Lasheera.

  “Yes, children are off-limits. I guess because they’re so precious,” said Roberta.

  As they pulled into the church parking lot, the sickness within Roberta welled up again. The parking lot was packed from end to end, save the spaces reserved for the family.

  “I can’t do this,” said Roberta.

  “I’m here. I’ll get you through this,” said Johnny.

  “Grandma Bert, I thought you said Momma couldn’t come,” said Aunjanue. She pointed to Tawatha standing near the front door.

  “Honey, she can’t—” Roberta paused.

  She did a double-take at the four people standing at the entryway of the church. Shirley Gipson stood ramrod straight in a black three-piece suit, his hair slicked back and curly like she remembered it. He was as handsome as the day she’d met him thirty-one years ago, but his butterscotch skin was weathered, his countenance low. Next to him were the triplets—Connie, Candace, and Carson. She remembered them from the photos Carol showed her at the apartment. Candace was the spitting image of Tawatha. Same build, same beauty. The only difference was Candace’s natural hairdo. Connie looked as if she’d stepped off a runway with a purple wrap dress, gold jewelry ensemble, and a head of bouncy curls. Carson was Shirley thirty-one years ago. She figured they were thirty-four now. Nothing like a funeral to bring out strangers.