Sean is skinnier than his dad. He looks like he’s in high school. He looks right into the camera and waves and I think he is waving at me.
I get up and go outside. Usually, the street is quiet after 9:00 p.m. But I can tell some of the neighbors are loading up cars with suitcases. Others are unloading wood, two-by-fours. Then, I remember from civics class that storm winds will break glass. Window shutters, if you can afford them, are easiest and best. But planks of wood across windows can be just as good. Even if you leave your house, I remember reading, it’s best to board it up.
Mama Ya-Ya is sitting on the porch step. I plop down beside her.
“Mama Ya-Ya, are you okay?”
“I’ve been looking for butterflies.”
I look around. “Butterflies don’t fly at night,” I say, feeling sure. “Do they?”
Mama Ya-Ya doesn’t answer. She’s so beautiful, I think. But I can see she’s tired. Dark shadows are beneath her eyes.
I’m lucky to have her raising me. After all this time, I sometimes forget she’s not my blood relative.
In Ninth Ward, some folks claim grandchildren when their parents are dead. Or if their parents are missing, like in jail, rehab. The government can give grandparents money for food and health. But Mama Ya-Ya’s not a relative. And Mama Ya-Ya never went to court to be my foster mom or legal guardian. She feared a judge would say she’s too old; or worse, send me to live with relatives who didn’t want me.
Even though we sometimes have to “stretch a dollar,” I’ve never been hungry. Never been cold. Or without a bed. For special occasions, I get math workbooks with stickers from the drugstore. Sometimes, a book from the library’s used book sale or new pencils with fresh erasers. Or a red pocket dictionary. Or a set of sparkly birthday pens.
“Love is as love does,” Mama Ya-Ya says. And she has loved me.
“Mama Ya-Ya,” I say, “I’m going to go to Mr. Ng’s store. I think I should get more water. Canned foods. Is that okay? We can put it on account?”
Mama Ya-Ya looks at me. Her eyes are so kind. “Sure, baby. Sure.”
“I’ll hurry back.” Up to now, Mama Ya-Ya has always insisted I stay inside the house after 8:00 p.m., finishing my homework, getting ready for bed.
I jump from the steps and the smack sound of my tennis shoes makes me think of Ginia. I hope she’s okay. I hope we get to hang out together soon.
I run down the street. It’s so busy for so late at night. But no one says hi. All the grown-ups seem busy like bees.
I get to Ng Grocery and there is no sign of Mr. Ng. There is a CLOSED sign in the window, even though a sign on the door says, OPEN 6 A.M. TO 11 P.M. It can’t be later than 10:00 p.m.
I peer into the store. The lights are still on, but the shelves are bare. No cornflakes, no rice, no water, or milk. Nothing. Not a single can of food. Have Mr. Ng and his family left New Orleans?
I start home but I don’t run. I walk. Everything is topsy-turvy like in Alice in Wonderland. Except it’s a white cloud’s fault, not a rabbit hole’s.
A white cloud spinning across the TV has turned my neighborhood upside down, inside out.
Saturday
In the morning, when I wake, Mama Ya-Ya’s standing over my bed. She scares me because I think she’s one of my ghosts. But Spot doesn’t bark, so I calm down and see it is Mama Ya-Ya with her Coke-bottle glasses on the top of her head.
I don’t know how long she’s been standing there, watching me sleep.
“Are you okay, Mama Ya-Ya?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “You know how much I love you?”
“Yes. I do.” Though, most often, Mama Ya-Ya never says the word love. She just shows me. Each and every day. When she buys me a scented soap from Walgreens. Or fixes me grits with butter and sugar. When she asks, “Did you finish your homework?” Or “Play cards with me?”
“I was glad,” Mama Ya-Ya says, her voice scratchy, “when your momma wanted me to help birth you. I buried your caul in the backyard, but not before I said prayers, laid down roots with it. And not before I took a drop of its blood and made a tea for your momma to get strong.”
Mama Ya-Ya has never told me this before. I want to ask: Where’d you bury the caul? Is it beneath the magnolia tree? Beneath my bedroom window? In the flower bed?
Instead, I keep quiet and listen hard.
“My tea didn’t work because your momma didn’t want it to work. Spells, charms, roots can only do so much. All the root workers…all us folks who believe in faiths born in Africa know that.
“I sometimes think your momma chose to leave you with me. She knew I’d love you. Like my own. She knew my loving you would keep me strong.”
But, I think, Mama Ya-Ya no longer seems so strong.
She points her finger at me. “Just remember, Lanesha. Don’t feed the storm. The storm takes, the storm gives.” Then, she is gone. Shuffling, leaning on her cane.
For some reason I want to cry.
I go to the window, poke my head out into the hot, damp air. It seems an ordinary August day.
Don’t feed the storm.
But the creature is already feeding on warm Gulf water. Feeding on moist air, sucking it in. Becoming a monster. I get angry. How dare the storm worry Mama Ya-Ya!
I don’t know what to do.
I grab the pre-algebra teacher’s edition. A pad and a pencil and eraser. In bed, under the covers, I solve the hardest problems.
In the afternoon, the TV announces an emergency message. I sit on the couch beside Mama Ya-Ya. The reporters in the TV studio and those on location in City Hall are chattering, saying the same thing over and over. “Emergency.” “The mayor will speak.”
Then, everybody quiets when the mayor comes out. He looks straight into the camera and says everybody should get out. “Now. Leave New Orleans.” Flat, just like that. “Leave New Orleans. This is a mandatory evacuation. Mandatory.”
Mama Ya-Ya bites her lip, shakes her head, muttering, “How can it be mandatory if I don’t have a way to go?”
I feel like screaming. I want to leave. I’m super-scared. But if I tell Mama Ya-Ya, I may upset her more.
I can’t sit on the sofa anymore.
I get up and go outside. My street is not the same. It’s busier, crazier, with more activity than last night.
In front of Mrs. Watson’s house, there are three cars with boxes and suitcases on the roofs. Mrs. Watson’s son, Ernie, is yelling, “Ma! Hurry up.”
“I don’t know what to take,” Mrs. Watson wails.
“Don’t matter,” says Ernie. “We’ll be back. Come on, now.”
Mrs. Watson, when she sees me, rushes down the steps. “Lanesha, we’re going to Baton Rouge. You and Mama Ya-Ya come, too.”
“Momma, there ain’t no room,” shouts Ernie.
Ernie’s wife is holding a baby on her hip. Mrs. Watson’s other children are with them, too. Four Watson kids and each of the four kids has two kids; one has three.
It’ll be one uncomfortable ride in the three cars. Good thing Mr. Watson is a ghost, I think. I see him. Shaking his head, standing behind Mrs. Watson. He’s trying to comfort her, but she’s too busy worrying about me to feel him.
Most people would feel ghosts if they let themselves. But most folks are ignorant on purpose or else too busy, too scared. Real folks ignore any kind of magic.
I say, “Go on, Mrs. Watson. My people are coming for me and Mama Ya-Ya.”
“Truly?” Mrs. Watson says, relieved. Ernie wipes his sweaty brow. “I knew your family would one day come to their senses.”
“Truly,” I say. I start walking. Raise my hand high as a wave. But I don’t look back.
No one is coming for Mama Ya-Ya and me. I feel shame. Even if my Uptown relatives don’t want me, at least they could rescue Mama Ya-Ya. They owe her for taking care of me all these years, I think.
For the first time, I realize that Mama Ya-Ya is kind of an orphan like me. She and I don’t have any other people, except each oth
er.
I wipe tears from my face.
Me and Mama Ya-Ya, we don’t need anyone, I think. We’re fine.
I pass Rudy and Rodriguez’s house. “Mojitos,” Rudy shouts, lifting his glass to me.
Rodriguez hits him. “She’s too young.”
“Y’all leaving?”
“No,” says Rudy. “Mojitos are fine for riding out storms. Tropical drink for tropical weather.”
I smile, feeling good that they are staying. Comforted that we won’t be alone.
Neither Mama Ya-Ya nor I can drive. We don’t own a car. If we got to anywhere, we wouldn’t have any money. Mama Ya-Ya’s Social Security check doesn’t come until September 1.
I walk to the end of the block. Aunt Ernestine—she’s called that by everyone—is shelling pole beans on her porch. Two kids—Donelle and Faith—are playing jacks behind her. She’s got a calico cat that sometimes lives with them—it comes and goes.
Aunt Ernestine is raising her sister’s kids—all five of them. Every Sunday, she dresses the children for church. Cleans their faces, and wipes Vaseline on them to keep them from being “ashy.” They all walk in a line—nine years old down to five. The baby is carried by Ernestine. I wonder if tomorrow they’ll go to church.
I wave.
Aunt Ernestine waves back, smiling. “Trust in the Lord.”
I think Aunt Ernestine can’t afford to leave either. Or else she’s not afraid like Rudy and Rodriguez.
“Yes ma’am,” I say; then, I turn and head back down my street.
“TaShon!”
He runs up to me, his face serious. “You’ll take care of Spot?”
TaShon’s dad is sitting on a sad-looking motorbike, and he’s yelling at TaShon to get on.
TaShon grabs my hands. My fingers feel his stumps, where his sixth fingers were trying to grow. “You’ll take care of Spot? Promise. Promise. He’s my good dog.”
“Your only dog,” I say.
Then, TaShon hugs me and I’m startled. “You’re my best friend.”
I hug TaShon back.
His father rolls his eyes, curses.
I whisper: “Where you going?”
“Superdome. The mayor says it’ll be open tomorrow morning. My dad wants to get in line.”
I can’t imagine waiting in line all night for a chance to sleep in the Superdome, where the Saints play football and the cheerleaders jump and scream.
TaShon squeezes me so tight I can barely breathe. We are kin. Both lonely.
I hug some more. With all my might.
He looks at me, clear and hard. Looking at me up close, rather than looking at who knows what far away.
“I’ll take care of Spot.”
“Swear?”
“TaShon,” his father shouts. “We’ve got to go. Your momma’s waiting on us.”
“Swear,” I say, thinking me and TaShon aren’t complete kin. He has a mom and pop looking out for him.
“Lanesha,” TaShon says. “Ginia was by earlier looking for you.”
“She was?”
“Yeah. She knocked at your door, but no one answered.”
My heart is racing.
“She told me to tell you, ‘See you soon.’”
“She did?” I’m acting stupid, asking to hear again what TaShon just told me.
“TaShon!”
“Got to go.” He races off and gets on the motorbike, wrapping his hands around his father’s waist. “TaShon,” I shout. “Is Ginia at the Superdome?”
TaShon twists his head, his hand cups his mouth. “Said she was going,” he yells over the motorbike roar.
I wave and wave. I think: I will protect Spot with my life. Ginia and I will be friends after the storm.
I watch TaShon and his pop motor down the street.
I think: Look back, TaShon. Look back. I stare and stare at his bobbing head. The motorbike billows smoke. Look back, TaShon. I’m surprised by my feelings.
Two days ago, I just knew TaShon as the short, weird, quiet kid in my neighborhood and class, and now I feel like I’ve known him forever. Which I have. But it’s all different. I know TaShon protects dogs, and he trusts me enough to share Spot, and he, somehow, knew that it mattered to me that Ginia came looking for me.
I see the signs. I couldn’t before.
There. TaShon turned his head. Smiling, he’s looking back at me. I jump, excited. Then, he and his pop disappear, motoring far, far away.
I stand in the middle of the street. On either side of me, folks are packing cars to leave, hammering wood over windows, or else standing, sitting on the porch, playing music, drinking liquor like it’s Mardi Gras.
No one is paying attention to me.
I turn towards home.
I’m feeling happier. A little less scared. TaShon has looked out for me. I will look out for him.
And Spot.
When I see Ginia again, I’ll give her a drawing of a bridge. I have a feeling she’ll like it.
Still Saturday
It’s almost evening and the living room is filled with my bridges. I have been drawing them all afternoon. They make me feel safe, like this is an ordinary weekend day. The setting sun through the window makes them glow, and I imagine walking across the bridges, one by one.
“I don’t understand it.” Mama Ya-Ya is tapping her cane on the floor. “I’ve smelled the air, felt the dirt, searched the sky, and listened. All my signs tell me the hurricane is a big one but it should be fine. But I don’t feel fine. Whenever I lay down, I dream. A big, black shroud. Lanesha, I don’t know what it means. I need you to ask your ghosts.”
“What?”
“I know you see them.”
“But you see them, too.”
“I know I do. But I have to work hard to see them. With you, it’s a gift. They’ll respond to you. You’re partly their kind. Feet bridging two worlds. Just try it, baby. I’m worried. Something’s coming. Not just a hurricane.”
Mama Ya-Ya has never asked for my help with these things before. Her eyes blink big behind her glasses.
Mama Ya-Ya always said I should ignore the ghosts. “They are just like trees, pieces of furniture. Just there. Don’t pay them no mind.”
She said once I start talking to them, I may never stop. “It’s not bad talking to ghosts. Just bad if you want a ‘more normal life’ in this here world.”
I’ve never understood what that means. Normal. If I were normal, I wouldn’t be living with Mama Ya-Ya. I’d be living in a house with a mother and father and with my own dog.
I don’t answer Mama Ya-Ya right away. I’m thinking. Even when she pulls me close to her on the couch, her arm wrapped about my shoulders, I’m thinking hard. We watch the TV in silence, our knees touching, and the humidity rising, sucking the air out of the room. The white swirls are nearly eating up the weatherman’s map now—and every few minutes, there’s some new thing about the storm on its way.
The TV flashes pictures. “The highways are bumper-to-bumper,” says a male reporter. “When gas runs out, they just get out and walk. See, that family there. Hitchhiking. Thousands of folks are trying to leave New Orleans.” Another picture. “Even though it’s a mandatory evacuation, the mayor is allowing those who don’t have the money to leave to spend the night in the Superdome.” I lean forward, trying to see if I can see TaShon or Ginia in the sea of people on the screen.
Another picture. An old man with gap teeth is on his front lawn, shouting into the microphone: “Where would I go? This my home. If go to the Superdome, who’s going to protect my house?” Behind him is a crowd of men—mostly young—jumping up and down, trying to get on TV.
I see chaos. Another good word. I see Mama Ya-Ya’s truly scared. She hasn’t combed her hair again, and it’s standing on end, every which way. I’m nervous.
I look around to calm myself. Me and Mama Ya-Ya have prepared some. Food. Check. Water. Check. Flashlight. Check. We’ve even put all the porch furniture in the shed. And like always, in case of emergency, i
n case me and Mama Ya-Ya get separated, I know I’m to go to Missionary Baptist Church. But I still feel on edge.
“You want me to get your blood pressure medicine?” I ask barely above a whisper.
“I’m fine.” She gets up and sits in her rocker, staring at the TV screen. “No, I’m not fine.” Reaches into her housedress pocket and opens her bottle of pills. “Hand me that water, baby.”
I give her the glass and watch as she swallows the pill and water. Mama Ya-Ya looks older than I’ve ever seen her.
“My dreams say the city should be fine. Then, the dreams say, ‘Not fine.’ Doesn’t make sense. Either the hurricane is fine or it ain’t. Either the city survives or it don’t.”
I know she wants to say, “Ask your ghosts, Lanesha. Ask them.” But she doesn’t.
I look around the living room. The good sofa is covered in plastic. On the side table are little black angels. Some are chipped. Some are faded. Mama Ya-Ya has had them since she was a girl. On the wall and on the coffee table are photos of Mama Ya-Ya when she was young, beautiful. In one picture, she is holding hands with Private Charles. He’s skinny with a wide smile and black, velvet eyes. He died in World War II. They never married or had children. Afterwards, the girl in the photo stopped being Delores and became Mama Ya-Ya. Midwife. Healer.
“I don’t see any ghosts right now,” I say. “Maybe they went to the Superdome, too.”
“Humph,” says Mama Ya-Ya. “What about your momma?”
I blink. Mama Ya-Ya is truly scared. Else she’d never ask me to talk to my mother. She always said starting a conversation with her might bring me a mess of sorrow for what couldn’t be, for what was lost.
“Go on, child. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious. I’m old and thought I’d seen everything. Understood all that needed understanding. I don’t understand this. Dreams that say Orleans still stands after the hurricane. But the streets still flood with sadness.
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