by Tracy Brown
“You have … sixty seconds remaining on this phone call.” The voice recording let Dominique and her incarcerated boyfriend Jamel know that time was winding down on their collect conversation.
Dominique had spent the past half hour telling Jamel all the events of the past twenty-four hours. Toya had accompanied Camille to Misa’s court appearance and Dominique had stayed behind in order to wait for word from her daughter. Hearing from Jamel had been a welcome distraction from the nonstop worrying she’d been doing since Octavia’s disappearance. She felt so alone. Octavia’s father was not an active part of her life, never had been. Stationed overseas as an army sergeant, he supported his only child with monthly checks, but never visited or sent for Octavia. Dominique sent him a school picture of their daughter each year as a courtesy, but she suspected that he couldn’t care less about them. She hadn’t even bothered to contact him to inform him that Octavia had been missing for the past few days. He wouldn’t be of any help to her. The person she wanted to cling to the most—her father Bill Storms—had died only a couple of months ago. Bill would have known what to do, where to look for Octavia. Without him, she felt so alone even with her friends’ support.
“Baby, I’m gonna hang up and call right back so we can talk about this,” Jamel said, his tone at once calming and reassuring.
Dominique didn’t feel reassured, though. Still she managed to say, “Okay.”
She hung up and hated that this was the closest she could get to being comforted at a time like this. So many thoughts had gone through her head all night. Octavia was only fourteen years old. What if she had trusted some stranger and was in peril? Dominique hadn’t slept a wink all night and now she wanted nothing more than to fall into some strong arms and be held. She wanted to be hugged and kissed and told that everything was going to be all right. But with Jamel still in prison, she had to settle for the ringing phone and his words of comfort through the receiver.
“I have a collect call from … Jamel … an inmate at…”
Instinctively, she pressed 3 to skip the monotonous recording.
“Baby?”
“Yeah.” Dominique lay across Octavia’s bed, feeling drained and anxious at the same time. She ran her fingers across the soft brown fur of Octavia’s favorite teddy bear and sighed, tears pouring forth involuntarily. She imagined poor little Octavia being raped, beaten, and left for dead somewhere and a sob escaped her lips.
Jamel leaned against the wall as he spoke into the receiver, picturing Dominique’s pretty face in his mind. He could imagine how she must look right now, so scared and worried about her only child. He wished, more than ever, that he could somehow escape the confines of the prison walls that held him.
“I can’t imagine how you must feel right now,” he said honestly. “But I bet you’re probably thinking the worst.”
She was. Dominique squeezed her eyes shut to block out the horrible thoughts going through her mind.
“You can’t think like that,” Jamel said. “Octavia’s a smart girl. She’s probably staying with a friend of hers until she can get up the nerve to call you. She’s gonna come back home soon, ma. You gotta believe that.”
Looking around Octavia’s room, Dominique did believe that. She’d called the police that morning after Camille and Toya had left, and filed a missing persons report. The officers who had come out to her home and taken her statement had collected pictures of Octavia and searched her room for clues as to what may have caused her to run away. They’d indicated it was likely that a child who had grown up as sheltered and as privileged as Octavia would come back to the luxuries she’d miss on the streets. That is, one officer suggested, unless she was on drugs. Either way, they’d said, she hadn’t packed much of her clothes and shoes. She would be more likely to come back for those things (if nothing else) in the coming days.
Dominique had never had any indication that her daughter might be using drugs. She hadn’t noticed any drop in her grades or any overly rebellious behavior. There was no drug paraphernalia in her room and Dominique hated to think that was the case. But the truth was, she hadn’t been spending much time with her daughter. And she had really no idea what might be troubling her so much that she would run away.
“Jamel, I haven’t been a good mother to Octavia,” Dominique said, as she smoothed Octavia’s pillows.
“Now you’re playing yourself,” Jamel said. He hated how women always had to try and find a reason to blame themselves for everything. “You’re a great mother, and you know it.”
She shrugged. “We have a nice home, she wears nice clothes and goes to a good school. But I don’t spend any time with my kid, Jamel. I’m always traveling, and always working late. When I’m not working late, I’m going upstate to see you!”
Dominique hadn’t meant for it to sound that way, hadn’t wanted to make Jamel feel as if she was blaming him. Nevertheless, that was exactly how he took it.
His face fell. Here he was trying to soothe her in her time of need, and she was shifting the blame for all this to him. “Okay,” he said. “So I’m sorry if coming to see me makes you a bad mother.”
Dominique wanted to toss the fucking phone across the room. She was in no mood for Jamel’s pity party. “I’m not even saying that! What I’m saying is that the police came over here today and asked me if I’ve noticed any change in my daughter’s weight, in her sleep patterns, her moods … and I struggled to think of the last time I even noticed, Jamel! Octavia is so independent and I’ve been so used to this nonstop pace that my life moves at that I’ve been … I’ve been neglecting my daughter.” She shook her head as she said it. “And that’s the bottom line.”
Jamel was about to respond when a CO rudely interrupted them. “Hang up the phone,” the officer barked. “It’s count time!”
Jamel seethed, but had no choice but to comply. The count was a mandatory lineup during which prison officials tallied the inmates to ensure that everyone was accounted for. “I gotta go, ma,” Jamel said, hating to have to leave their conversation at a time like this. “I’ll try to call back in a little while.”
Dominique shook her head, frustrated and sick of the way her life was playing out. She hung up the phone without even saying good-bye. She got on her knees and prayed that the next time the phone rang, it wouldn’t be Jamel calling, but Octavia instead.
* * *
Frankie seemed too big for his mother’s house, looming large on her tiny sofa. Gillian looked around Mary’s humble home and tried to imagine Frankie as a child, the way he looked in the countless pictures of him dotting his mother’s living room. Framed photos of him riding his bike, playing basketball, dressed up in his Easter suit—in all of them, he was staring back at the camera with the same serious and stoic expression on his face, never smiling. Steven was present in some of the pictures, too. Always peering from behind his older brother or from behind a tree, always half hidden or shielded by his own hands as if he never wanted to be immortalized in a photograph. It was kind of eerie to Gillian seeing the two brothers playing the same roles in childhood as they did in their adult lives. Frankie out in front, all serious and no-nonsense; Steven playing in Frankie’s shadow, seemingly more comfortable there than anywhere else.
Frankie watched his mother rushing around her kitchen nervously, trying to find her best glass to pour something for Gillian to drink. Frankie knew she was making the task harder than it had to be and when he saw her reach way in the back of her cabinet, he grimaced. She was still so scarred from years of abuse by her husband, so accustomed to being alone and without company that she was going out of her way to do everything right.
“Ma,” he called out to her. He noticed that the sound of his deep voice caused her to jump a little. “You don’t have to go through all of that. Gillian will drink from any glass you got.”
Gillian felt bad now for taking Mary up on her offer of something to drink. All she wanted was a glass of water, and Frankie’s mother was acting like she had to go to the well to get it.
Finally, Mary came back into the living room and set a glass of water with a perfect slice of lemon inside of it on a coaster on the table in front of Gillian. Gillian smiled and thanked her for it, noticing that Frankie’s mother seldom made eye contact with anyone.
She had been wondering why Frankie was so hesitant to break the news of Steven’s death to his mother. He had been so wound up that he hadn’t slept at all. That morning, he had locked himself in the bathroom for what seemed to Gillian like a never-ending shower. Then he had emerged, only to busy himself with calls to his lawyer and accountants. And when she suggested breaking the news to his mother before Misa’s hearing, Frankie had ignored her. Gillian had pressed him, emphasizing how devastating it would be for Mary to hear about her son’s death on TV or to see it splashed across the front page of the newspaper. Still, Frankie hadn’t budged. Seeing the docile and nervous woman now, Gillian understood his reluctance a little bit more.
Mary was wondering why Gillian was with her son today instead of his wife. The last time she’d had the pleasure of a visit from Frankie, Camille had been by his side and Mary had fallen in love with her daughter-in-law. Camille was lovely, sweet, and so attentive to Frankie. Mary had never met Gillian before, but judging by the chemistry between them it was apparent that she was now the woman in Frankie’s life.
Mary sat across from her son on the rocking chair she’d had since she was a little girl. Her father had given it to her for Christmas when she was six years old and it was one of her most treasured possessions. That chair was one of the few pieces of her life prior to marrying Frankie’s father, John, that he hadn’t destroyed in one of his many tirades over the years.
“I’m so surprised to see you, Frankie.” Mary’s voice was soft and sweet.
Gillian was heartbroken, knowing that they had come to deliver terrible news to the fragile woman who sat before her.
Frankie offered a weak smile and stared at his mother for a few moments. He took in her facial features, her body language. She was thinner than he’d ever seen her before, but still just as pretty as he remembered. It had been two long years since the last time he had come by to visit her. He called her every now and then, sent money to her each month. But he had found it difficult to be around her, to see her still so meek and so powerless even though her oppressor was dead.
Her long thick hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her beautiful brown skin seemingly aglow. Her long dark eyelashes fluttered each time she dared to look up at him and her long dainty fingers toyed with the napkin she held in her hand.
Finally, Frankie spoke as his mother looked at him expectantly. He felt a surge of guilt as she smiled at him, unaware that he had nothing positive to say.
“Ma,” he said. “I came by here today to talk to you about Steven.”
Mary’s facial expression changed then. She always felt a mixture of emotions at the thought of her youngest child. Steven was so much like her. He was weaker than his brother, less outgoing, not as resilient. He wasn’t a fighter the way that Frankie was and Mary had noticed this early on. For that reason, she had always worried about Steven far more than she worried over Frankie. Ever since they were kids it had been that way. She felt a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach hearing Frankie mention his brother now. Something wasn’t right. She could sense it.
Her hands were shaking involuntarily and both Frankie and Gillian noticed. They exchanged glances and Gillian nodded at him, encouraging him to keep going. There was no way around it. Mary had to know what happened.
“How is he?” she asked, softly, her eyes focused on the napkin in her hands instead of looking at Frankie.
He took a deep breath.
“You know he’s been staying with me out on Staten Island.”
Mary nodded, looked at him expectantly.
“He’s been staying in the guesthouse and I look out for him. He keeps to himself most of the time, but sometimes he comes over to the house and watches TV. Camille’s nephew has been staying with us a lot lately…” Frankie’s voice trailed off and he looked at Gillian for help. There was no easy way to tell his mother this story. The look on Gillian’s face was reassuring and he continued.
“Anyway, me and Camille have been having problems lately. We’re gonna be getting a divorce soon. Well, for the past few weeks, both of us have been away from home a lot and so Steven babysat for Camille’s nephew a few times. Misa—that’s Camille’s sister—was never around so someone had to look out for her kid.”
Mary was frowning a little and twisting the napkin in her hand absentmindedly. “Steven was babysitting for her?”
Frankie nodded, gulped as he went on to the hard part. “She picked him up a few days ago and took him home. And then she came back last night and…” Frankie saw that his mother was staring right at him, waiting for him to finish. But he had a hard time continuing.
Gillian watched him struggling and her heart went out to him. She sipped her water, since her mouth was suddenly dry, and watched Mary’s reaction as Frankie spoke.
“Misa came back and accused Steven of touching her son. And she shot him.”
Mary gasped and dropped the napkin on the floor. Her hands covering her mouth, her eyes began to fill with tears. “Steven?”
Frankie nodded, while Gillian moved closer to where Mary sat in case she needed comforting. Right now, the woman sat frozen in shock, her hands cupped over her mouth. She began rocking back and forth in her seat. Tears streamed down her face and her voice cracked as she responded.
“Where is he? Can I see him?”
Frankie wanted to disappear. He wanted to be anywhere else but here delivering this blow to his mother.
He shook his head. “He died, Ma.” He sat forward in his seat as if he expected her to fall and would need to catch her. “He’s gone.”
Tears poured from Mary’s eyes and down her cheeks as she sobbed. Gillian rushed to her side with tissues in hand and stroked the older woman’s back lovingly as she cried.
Frankie watched his mother cry and his own heart broke all over again—not just for Steven, but for Mary, as well. She had endured years of abuse at the hands of her husband, had been the one to discover his lifeless body when he killed himself. And now she was going to have to bury her youngest child. She didn’t speak another word that afternoon. Instead, her cries were the only sounds she made as Frankie and Gillian tried in vain to comfort her.
Lost and Turned Out
Lying on her cot, Misa stared directly into the bright light above her, hoping to make herself go blind. The light remained on twenty-four hours a day in her solitary confinement cell on New York’s notorious Rikers Island where she’d been held for the past two days. She was on suicide watch, requiring that her tiny private quarters be lit around the clock and that guards monitor her every movement to ensure that she didn’t take the easy way out. During the psychological evaluation portion of her intake interview, Misa had expressed how badly she wanted to die. She told the psychologist she had seriously considered killing herself before going to confront Steven on the night she killed him. She also told them she was still contemplating it. Death might bring her some relief from the guilt she was now drowning in. They had her on surveillance cameras as well as under the watchful eye of guards on foot patrol pacing outside the iron door. Staring into the severe light, she figured blindness would be a decent start in her determination to punish herself for what had happened to Shane. Blindness was the least of what she deserved.
Her mind drifted to Baron, wondering how he was, what he’d been told about her. An almost sinister laugh escaped her then. At that moment, Baron was probably not even thinking about Misa, and here she was wasting time thinking about him. She pushed him to the back of her mind then, tried to focus on her own issues, focus on Shane. And then it dawned on her.
That was her problem. She always had to push some nigga to the back of her mind in order to concentrate on her child. It was as if the men in her life—first
Louis, then some nigga named Cyrus, and now Baron—were all at the top of her list of priorities, ahead of Shane and even ahead of herself. Misa sat up and closed her eyes, which stung from the glare of the light. She pictured Shane’s face in her mind and smiled to herself when she recalled his laughter. He was such a beautiful little boy and she loved to see him smile. For so many years she had searched for a man who would complete their lives. And it had only now dawned on her how perfectly complete their lives could have been without any man.
Her heart had been in the right place. She had always wanted Shane to have the father that Louis had failed to be. She wanted to have a man to snuggle up to at night, someone to toss a ball around with her son and protect them both. And she had tried to force it, again and again with man after man. After a few sexual encounters, Misa would begin to envision the fairy-tale ending with the man she’d set her sights on and the rest played out the same way over and over. Inevitably, Misa and Shane wound up right back where they started out—just the two of them.
She wished she could end it all. After court, she’d been told that her case was being elevated to the State Supreme Court and she’d be facing a whole new judge the next time she went to court. Since Camille hadn’t gotten her out, Misa assumed that her sister was fucked up financially. Everyone knew that the money was Frankie’s, after all. Misa knew she could be sitting in this hell for months while she awaited trial. More than ever she wanted to take one last breath and let go of all the anguish in her heart over what had been done to Shane. She wanted to die and escape the prying eyes of the media and the questions from her family. Over and over she recalled the look of utter disgust Louis had given her as she walked into the courtroom. She hadn’t missed the sneer on that bitch Nahla’s face, either. Still, Misa had absolutely no regrets about what she had done. Steven had deserved to die.
But she did long for Shane. She did regret having abandoned him while she searched for a fairy tale that never existed to begin with. She remembered him yelling that he hated her, thought about what he must have endured, how scared he must have been. And she was consumed with guilt.