by Gemma Weekes
‘You said you take pictures, right?’ she asks me.
‘Yeah . . . um . . . I do.’
‘Well, I know some of the vainest bitches in the Western hemisphere, so I think I can get you some photography work if you want. Help finance this little fashion injection of yours. What you think, mami?’
I strike a muscle man pose, Jay snaps his fingers again, Brandy giggles and for the first time in ages I feel some distance from all the things that make me sad.
‘I think that’d be just fine, actually,’ I say.
‘And Eden . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘Look, I ain’t trying to be all up in your business,’ she says, lowering her voice, ‘but I know a thing or two about getting hurt, how it feels to be in pain.’ She takes my shoulder and smiles, shiny-eyed. ‘But don’t flaunt your scars, girlfriend. OK? You are not your scars.’
real family.
‘HEY, VIOLET.’ ON my way back from the bodega for snacks, I spot her outside the house with the baby buggy and shopping. ‘You need some help?’
‘Oh! Yeah. Thanks, girl!’ she says. Her skin is the colour of a rich gravy and equally wholesome. She wears a simple baseball cap and beneath it, her eyes and smile are serene. I feel young, lanky and bruised in comparison. ‘How you doing?’
‘I’m good,’ I tell her, wiping sweat off my face. ‘What should I grab?’
‘If you take the bags,’ she says, ‘I’ll take baby. I can come back for the stroller.’
‘No, it’s cool, I can manage.’
She unstraps her boy and lifts him out of the buggy. His little sleeping body, clothed in a bright outfit and tiny sandals, moulds itself around her neck.
‘Wow. He’s cute to the point of physical pain! You do good work!’ I say and she laughs. ‘What’s his name, again?’
‘Eko,’ she strokes his head. His face is sweet, round and perfectly formed.
‘It suits him.’
Once we’ve finally made it up to her living room, she lays her son down in his play pen and offers me iced tea and banana cake.
‘Yes, please. Thanks.’
She goes down the hall to her kitchen and I brace myself against history. Try to be right now. It’s just a room, after all. Houses don’t have minds, so neither can they have memories. Everything is different from how it was before, back in the days when this room was a library and her bedroom was mine. That summer. The space is now decorated in shades of cream and gold, with shining wooden floors. A toy chest is stored neatly in the corner next to the play pen. There’s a bowl of fruit and a stack of magazines on the coffee table. A downy-looking blanket is folded on the arm of the sofa. Doesn’t seem like anything bad could happen here.
Outside the door is the staircase that goes right the way to the top. Aunt K is either sick or mad to live there. I don’t know which.
‘Here.’ She places a generous slice of cake and my drink on the coffee table. ‘Hope you like it! Just tried a new recipe.’
We sit for a moment enjoying her latest creation. It deserves, and gets, a moment of silence.
‘This is really bloody good,’ I say as enthusiastically as I can manage. ‘Don’t want to be cheeky, but I think you’re gonna have to give me some for later.’
She mutters something about my ‘cute’ accent and laughs. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says. Then she gives me a look that somehow manages to be both shy and accusatory. ‘I like your hair.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is it all yours?’
‘Yeah, ’course!’ I exclaim, and pat my Afro, softened by mysterious oils and manoeuvred into a cascade of shining twists. ‘Brandy took me to this salon in Harlem. I think I’m her little project at the moment.’
Violet’s eyes flicker down at the wooden floor and up. ‘I know the place. Hair and Now, right? You guys go down the street to the soul food restaurant after?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, feeling a bit cheap. ‘Yeah we did. She must do this with all the girls.’ I laugh. ‘Maybe one day we should all hang out or something.’
‘Yeah. Yeah we should,’ she says. Pause. ‘You look really pretty. I wish some oils could do that to my hair.’
I cough. This is an alien feeling. ‘Nah, trust me! My hair is a pain in the ass. I can barely get a comb through it! It was magic what they did.’
‘That’s what chicks with good hair always say.’
‘Good hair? What are you talking about?’
Violet smiles sadly, tugging at the peak of her baseball cap. ‘Don’t worry about it, girl. Just say thank you. It’s a compliment.’
‘Have you been there? I’m telling you they can take any hair texture and . . .’
‘They said I should cut it all off.’
For a moment we say nothing.
‘Why?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s too damaged. I mean . . . I wanted to grow out my relaxer gradually but they said the best thing I could do was to just shave it off.’
‘Maybe you should. You’ve definitely got the face for it.’
‘That’s what Brandy said. But hell. I need my hair! I just want to look pretty, you know? Like a girl,’ she says, and I’m undone by her simplicity. She’s not afraid to want what she wants. ‘But anyway,’ she lets loose a smile, and I really want to tell her how she doesn’t even need hair with a smile like that, but the moment has passed. ‘You want some more cake? I’ll still pack you some up for later too.’
‘Yes, please. Thanks.’
I’m too full for the cake she brings me but I eat it anyway, for something to do. ‘How do you know my aunt?’
‘Well, I met her a couple years ago at Bright Prospects, back when I was pregnant with Eko,’ Violet says, seeming relieved at the change of subject. ‘She taught a workshop in life skills and really helped me out, you know? Helped me see things different. Like I had a future.’ She pours me out some more iced tea. ‘I started doing singing workshops with the kids and stuff. I was living in a hostel at the time, and they were gonna house me. But when Umi saw the apartment, she said she couldn’t let me live somewhere like that so she gave me a roof. She’s a true blessing to me, the closest thing I’ve ever really had to a real family.’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘I’m gonna miss her while she’s away!’
‘Away?’ I pause mid-bite. Put the cake back down on my plate. ‘Where?’
‘She’s going to Saint Lucia tomorrow!’
I’m not sure I heard right.
‘Excuse me?’
Violet looks at me. ‘Damn, she hasn’t told you yet? That’s so like her! Always just doing her own thing, you know?’
‘But I just got here! I thought I was coming here to spend time with her. It felt like,’ I can barely get the words out, ‘she needed me!’
‘Honey, there’s one thing you need to know about Umi. She don’t need no one! We need her! If she’s decided to leave you here for a while, then that’s ’cause she thinks you’ll do better without her.’
‘I can’t bloody believe it.’
‘Don’t worry, you got us! You need anything, you just let me know. Or Brandy, or Baba if he’s around . . .’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
I take my cake and go, purposely not seeking out Aunt K for more information. Who does she think she is, anyway? With all these people stacked around her like weird disciples in the Church of Katherine! I remember the first night going up to dinner with Violet. I faltered at the base of the steps, steps I’d thought I could never climb again. We weren’t going all the way to the top but still, we were close enough. She gave me this hard, unforgiving look, and she said, ‘Eden. We are not the weak! We persevere, we survive. Get up those steps and stop making a fool of yourself!’
I was stunned, humiliated standing there. She had no right to judge me for being damaged. I’d earned it. I almost told her as much, but she was gone before I could open my mouth to say a word, leaving me to climb the stairs on my own.
And I’ll make it through this summer on my own
as well. I’m bloody used to it.
traffic on film.
IT’S VERY DARK. My dream is slippery. Gone. Sweaty sheets are tangled around my legs and something woke me up but I don’t know what it was. It’s a week now since Aunt K left for Saint Lucia, giving me a big, nonchalant hug as if inviting someone to stay and then going off without them is something she does as a matter of course. The house feels different without her in it, more dangerous by far. Before she left, I was living with Aunt K. Now I just live in Flatbush with a house full of near-strangers.
I’ll lie here, very still and quiet. It will come back to me. There are snatches of conversation from passers-by on the street outside. Police sirens. Next door a radio playing tinny hip-hop. Cats are fighting. But none of those noises are what woke me up. I think there’s someone upstairs, on the ground floor. And Brandy’s gone for the weekend. I saw her pack up and leave for a pageant she’s doing in Washington DC. That sound again.
Footsteps.
Blood is beating loud in my head and I don’t know if I should get up because if it’s a burglar he might hear me. But I would have known if something big woke me up, like shattering glass or a door being bashed in, wouldn’t I? A door opens. Closes. Something is wheeled across the floor. I should go up there. If it’s Brandy, if she’s back early, or if it’s Violet suffering from insomnia, or Baba on some inexplicable night-time mission, then I want to know right now so I can stop being scared.
In the dark my feet land silently. I leave the light off, sneak up the basement stairs without creaking, and push out into the hall. The light is on in the kitchen and there’s a rustling sound. It has to be Brandy having a go at the tortilla chips. I could use a chat right now anyway, about ordinary things. About haircuts and celebrities and the weather. Anything.
‘Brandy? I’m so happy you—’
Then everything sticks in my throat because it’s not her. It’s not a her all. It’s a him – a really big him, and I rear back and I’m listening to this loud, shrill sound that I realise is me screaming and who is this guy and how did he get in and why is he here?
Then the man jumps and spins around in shock and my body is shot through with fear, like sped-up traffic on film when you can only see the coloured lights streaking through the black and even if the sound is off the images are noisy and . . .
‘Zed?’
I keep trying to flick this hallucination out of my eyes because that’s what this has to be.
‘What the . . .?’ he stares at me. ‘Eden? Jesus Christ, girl! Stop screaming.’
‘No way!’ I shout, still hopped up on adrenaline. Shock claws blackly at the edges of my vision. ‘Zed? Oh my God.’
He closes his eyes and takes measured breaths for a moment, lashes thick against his cheeks. ‘So Juliet wasn’t yanking my chain. What, are you stalking me now?’
‘I’m not stalking you. How could I be stalking you when I was here first? Damn, Zed. Damn. What are you doing here?’ I say, but it’s taking me a while to get all of this out because I’m starting to hyperventilate. Aunt K must have done this! What is she bloody playing at? ‘Shit . . . I thought you were . . .’ breathe, ‘a burglar! I thought . . . What are you doing here? You said you were going home!’
‘What?’
‘Atlanta!’
‘I never said anything about Atlanta, Eden. You know I’ve about had enough of living with my mother. It was going to be New York after London.’
I gasp for air.
‘Sit down. You are such a drama queen!’ His forehead glistens. He drags first the front and then the back of his hand across it. ‘Sit!’
I sink down into a chair and he – none too gently – empties some junk food on the kitchen table and then stuffs the paper bag over my face. He’s wearing a black T-shirt over a white one and there’s sweat in the hollow of his neck. He’s always what I’ve just been thinking about, even if I was thinking about something else. And now he’s here. In the corner is a massive black holdall with the airport tags still stuck on it. That must be what I heard being dragged across the floor.
‘Zed, I’m sorry . . .’
‘Where’s Aunt K?’
I avoid the question, keep my head down, breathe in, out, in, out. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’
‘She sent me a key.’
He begins walking off in the direction of the living room. I get up and follow.
‘Zed!’
He stops to turn around and I crash into him.
‘I honestly didn’t know you were coming here. How could I?’ I tell him, pushing into the front room. He sits down, I don’t. ‘Seems like you must be the one doing the stalking! And why did you get in touch with Juliet anyway? Were you thinking of hooking up with her too?’
‘Please!’ he says, sending an evil look my way. ‘Be serious! After what happened, I didn’t know what you were capable of. You better be glad I managed to track her down because your dad was about to report you missing to the cops. How could you leave without telling him? Are you out of your mind?’
‘Shit! The police?’ The adrenaline starts up again. ‘So now he cares what happens to me, right?’
‘Grow up, Eden. He’s your dad.’ He sighs. ‘I really just don’t understand you.’ He leans back in his armchair. ‘Why are you here?’
I stare at him. The question grows fat between us. I don’t really know. ‘Aunt K started writing me letters at the beginning of the year,’ I tell him eventually. ‘It just felt right to come here. I was worried about her. Everybody was saying she’d gone bonkers.’
‘Has she?’
‘Maybe. I arrived here and about two days later she went to Saint Lucia.’
‘Are you serious? She said she wanted to hang out and hear my new music. Play some trumpet on it.’
I shake my head. ‘Well, she’s gone to spread my grandmother’s ashes. She was keeping them in a rum bottle, if you can believe it.’
‘Damn. Maybe the old lady did lose her mind!’ The irreverence of it surprises me with a giggle. People around here don’t ever talk about her like she’s a regular person. ‘Ms Katherine . . .’ He shakes his head and laughs. ‘That woman always does her own thing, man. For two years after your grandmother died, she wouldn’t let me come round here. I could barely get in touch with her at all. And then I get this letter saying “Where have you been? Come on over whenever you want!” Then I come and find you here.’
He peels off his damp-looking T-shirts to reveal a white tank underneath, the tufts of black hair in his armpits. I swallow.
‘It’s good,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘It’s good to see you though, Zed. How long are you staying?’
‘Thanks,’ he says without reciprocating. ‘I don’t know. Not long. I need to find an apartment.’ He digs a packet of Zig-Zags and a dime bag out of his pocket and starts rolling a spliff on the coffee table, filling the air with that earthy, pungent smell. He is so sure in all of his movements, so complete. ‘Max says hello.’
‘Right. Yeah. OK,’ I say, my face heating up. ‘Do you think you should be smoking in here, Zed? It’s kind of disrespectful,’ I tell him. In this dull room, his skin boasts a rude shine. The scent of his aftershave, sweat and drugs cuts through the dust. I imagine that if furniture could feel emotion, the old-fashioned chair he’s sitting on would shiver with indignation. This is still an old woman’s haunt, from the days when my grandmother lived here. Dark wood, knick-knacks and doilies. Sepia photographs. He’s too big for this room. ‘Where did you get that from? Don’t tell me you smuggled it on the plane.’
‘Uh . . . yeah, Eden. That’s exactly what I did. ’Cause they don’t sell weed in New York.’ He makes a fed-up noise. ‘Let’s just stop talking now, alright? I’m tired.’
‘Why is it always you who decides when we stop talking?’
‘Somebody has to.’
There he goes, smoking like he wants not a single wisp of marijuana lost to the air. He only looks at his two careful fingers and the spli
ff clutched snug between them. I draw my knees up to my chest, feeling locked in a room outside a room.
‘When Aunt K comes back, her house is gonna stink.’
He blows smoke out of his nose.
‘Zed?’
Nothing. Just his deep inhale, his small exhale. I’ve been dismissed.
I go back to the basement.
sudden red.
WHEN I MET Zed for the first time, I was fighting down the massive realisation that just because my mum had invited me to New York, didn’t mean she wanted to spend time with me. She’d pretty much abandoned me to the care of chubby, quiet Aunt K, only dropping in for the occasional condescending visit. I hadn’t expected Zed. I came back from a listless walk to the corner store and found Uncle Paul in the hallway talking to my aunt. I greeted them both but they were pretty irrelevant to me at that point because they were, after all, old.
And then in the next moment, walking into the living room, my heart had reset itself, rebooted.
I didn’t curse much back then, aged fifteen, but—
Who the fudge was this work of art, this shiny-sexy boy perched nonchalantly in my spot on the couch? He looked just like a condensation-beaded glass of lemonade on a steaming hot day. And it was a steaming hot day. He was sitting there, all finished . . . like there’d be no space for anyone else, not even on the chair that was empty. I stood all hot and squirmy in the hallway. I stared. Ba-doomp, ba-doomp. My heart was louder than the TV.
He was skinnier then, less distinct, but he was still more of a man than any of the other boys I’d met who were his age. Neat, intricate cornrows hugged his scalp, while his clothes were so oversized that we could probably both fit inside them, no problem. And I wouldn’t have minded that at all.
‘Hi,’ I said eventually.
‘Whassup?’ he replied, and his accent did things to me. The afternoon sun was coming in warm from the street and I had a vision of the summer holidays coloured deep with romance and tragedy.
I had no idea.
‘What?’
‘What,’ he enunciated, ‘is going on?’