Allegedly

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Well, I—”

  “You have to tell the truth, Momma.”

  “The truth?”

  Momma straightens, bravely remembering who the parent and the child is. Or who she thinks the parent and the child is, because she was always too oblivious to be the parent.

  “Don’t you tell me what to do! I didn’t touch that child but to save her after what you did. I don’t have to do nothing!” she says.

  God, she is always trying to save somebody! She can’t just let people and things be? Nobody asked her to save nobody. She grumbles something about me being crazy and starts toward the door. I let her pass and smile before shouting after her:

  “I have the cross, Momma.”

  Her entire body jumps, a lightning bolt striking through her. She turns so fast I think her head might never stop spinning.

  “You what?”

  “The cross you stuffed down Alyssa’s throat, trying to get the pills out. The one you tried to ‘save’ her with. I kept the cross, Momma. It’s what they couldn’t find.”

  She stares at me for a long minute, thinking it through.

  “And I never touched it,” I say.

  Momma is frozen, eyes blank and far away. It’s the face she wears when she has absolutely no idea what to do. I know the look well.

  I’ve got to hand it to myself. Not many nine-year-olds would be smart enough to grab the cross with their nightgown so they wouldn’t get fingerprints on it. Not many nine-year-olds would be smart enough to dig three ditches, one by the house, one in the neighbor’s backyard, and a third one—one no one could find. Or maybe I should be thanking Momma. For all the nights she left me home alone with Law & Order and mystery novels.

  Momma swallows, trying to relax her face.

  “Give it to me,” she says plainly, putting out her hand. “It was my momma’s.”

  I look at her hand and chuckle.

  “No.”

  “No? Young lady, give me that damn cross! You got no business with it!”

  “Tell them you did it, and I’ll give it to you.”

  She throws up her hands and stomps her foot.

  “Jesus, Mary! What do you think you’re doing, huh? What do you want? I took care of you, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

  What’s crazy is, she really thinks she did. She really thinks she took care of me.

  “No. You didn’t. Not like Mrs. Richardson did.”

  The mention of her name hits a nerve. Momma takes a deep breath, eyes narrowing.

  “Well, it made no sense for me to take the blame for killing that bitch’s perfect fucking baby,” she says in a husky voice, her neck rolling. “You the one who threw her.”

  “I didn’t mean to throw her! You wouldn’t let go!”

  “Don’t make no difference.”

  She really believes this. I guess that explains why I used to too.

  “But you wanted to, didn’t you? You never liked Alyssa. You were glad she got hurt.”

  Her lips pinch together in a tight line. She crosses her arms and the sharp, sticky scent of envy pours out of her skin. I know her and I know she thought about hurting Alyssa before I ever did.

  “Well . . . it don’t matter what I wanted. I didn’t kill that baby, but I know you sure did.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill Ray but I know your pills sure did. You want to talk about that?”

  Her whole face drops, eyes big as golf balls. She wasn’t expecting that. But how could she not have thought it would go there, when I was the one standing next to her as she put the pills in his soup? I was the one sitting next to him while he ate it. I was the one who watched Momma serve him seconds and thirds.

  “How you . . . but . . . I did that for you.”

  “You did that for yourself, Momma. Just like everything else.”

  Her eyes get real cold.

  “I should have left you where I found you. You ain’t been nothing but trouble from the very start! You stupid, crazy little bit—”

  Something clicks—the gas, the rage—and I charge like a bull ready to railroad her over. I stop close to her face, close enough to see her pupils widen, her mouth drop with a dead tongue. It’s the same look she used to have when Ray was about to hit her. But I’m not gonna hit her. That’s too easy. I want to win the war, not the battle. And that’s when I realize the great power I’ve always had over her.

  “Fine, Momma. You win.”

  Frozen stiff, she exhales and relaxes her shoulders, relief coating her face. But I’m not done. I know what I want. What I’ve always wanted. I want to hurt her. The way she hurt me. And there is only one way of doing that.

  “You will never see this baby and you will never see me again. This is your last visit. There won’t be another.”

  Momma leans away, the words slapping her like a belt. We stand there, inches apart, in silence. I want to make sure she knows that I really mean it. She lets out an uneasy chuckle.

  “But, baby, I—”

  “You will never see me again. This is your last visit. There won’t be another.”

  “Listen here, young lady, I said—”

  “There won’t be another!”

  She shuts her mouth and swallows back whatever she is thinking. It must taste disgusting, because the bitterness turns up every wrinkle in her brown face. Her bottom lip starts to quiver and she tries to hide it with a fake smile. But I know Momma. I know the thought of losing me, really losing me, scares her more than a dead baby. More than Ray. More than anything. I’m her world. Without me, she has nothing. Not even God. I am doing the only thing that can hurt her—taking me away.

  “But, baby . . . I’m your momma,” she says, reeking of desperation.

  Her trembling hands reach for me, ashy and dry. She is right. She is my momma. My protector. My best friend. But I’m somebody’s momma too.

  “Good-bye, Momma.”

  I don’t look at her as I make my way out the door, not stopping until I get to my room. Not even when I hear her crying.

  Notes from Dr. Jin-Yee Deng,

  Psychiatrist at Bellevue Hospital, NY

  Is she capable of murder? On paper, the easy answer is no. There are no indicators of mental illness. Her records are impeccable. So one must look at Mary, the child, versus Mary, the child she wants you to believe she is. But I believe her relationship with her mother, her sole provider, is key to that discovery. This is where our assessments fail, as we may never know the dynamics of their relationship past what is reported and analyzed.

  We may never know the real Mary.

  “Today, I want to talk to you guys about letting go and grief,” the perky little Staten Island trash says. The circle is smaller without our resident crazy girls, but she pretends not to notice. Ms. Veronica is the worst therapist ever. How come she didn’t see that New Girl and Kelly were crazy? They didn’t even try to hide it. Not like me. I’m good at hiding things. But you’d think I’d recognize it or something because real recognize real. Maybe that’s why New Girl wanted to be my friend.

  “The most powerful emotion we have in this world is forgiveness,” she says with a grin. “Forgiveness is the ability to let go of the pain, bitterness, and resentment of others, and most importantly ourselves. We sometimes can be our biggest enemy. But when we forgive, starting with ourselves, a whole new world opens for us. Our conditions, our world, begins to change. We may even start getting everything we’ve ever wanted.”

  I almost fall out of my seat. That is the most profound thing she has ever said, ever. I look at China, mouth hung open and speechless. Ms. Veronica giggles.

  “I was watching Oprah last night.”

  Well, that explains it.

  “Now, who wants to share? You’ll learn that once you let go, you’ll feel free. And it’s an amazing feeling.”

  I’ve never felt free. I raise my hand.

  “Mary! Great!”

  I think it’s called stage fright, because once all eyes are on me, I forget how to talk.


  “Go on, Mary. Let it out. It will feel good once you do.”

  I take a deep breath and stare at the floor. Alyssa’s face comes to mind.

  “Her . . . her name was Alyssa. Alyssa Morgan Richardson. She . . .”

  My throat closes a little and I cough to clear it. Alyssa-ing.

  “She was . . . beautiful. The most beautiful baby in the world. People say that about every baby, but Alyssa was different. She really was beautiful. She wasn’t my sister, but I wanted her to be. So bad. So we could always be together. I loved Alyssa. She was everything to me. That’s what hurts the most, that all these people think I hated her. Write all these things about me that aren’t true.”

  The room is staring. Kisha’s eyes water.

  “They wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. I wanted to see her one last time, but everyone was so mad at me. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Things went too far . . . and saying sorry . . . sorry just didn’t seem to help.”

  I didn’t mean to throw her. I didn’t mean to throw her.

  “I had a brother that died too. Just died, no one . . . did nothing to him. He used to wake up in the middle of the night crying and I’d give him his bottle, ’cause we shared a room. One night, he didn’t cry, and that just wasn’t like him. I waited and waited, felt like I was waiting forever. I thought maybe he overslept or something. So I went to wake him up . . . he was cold, stiff, and his lips were all purple. Momma was out, somewhere. I was alone with Junior for hours. It was like sitting next to a coffin in the dark. I was five years old.”

  My face is wet but I don’t try to dry it.

  “Momma was . . . I guess there’s no word for it. She blamed herself, but it . . . it just happened. It was nobody’s fault. It was an accident. These things just happen . . . that’s what they said, the doctors. But she was different after that. She was no longer my momma, just this shell of a woman I had to take care of. I had to feed her, wash her, make her eat on some days. And when she was having ‘a day,’ I’d be the one to make her take her pills. I’d put her to bed. ’Cause she didn’t have anyone to take care of her. Just me. It’s not her fault.”

  Even now, it’s not her fault. She just didn’t know any better. Not that it makes it right.

  Everyone is leaning forward, faces pale and they can’t get enough, even though it turns their stomachs to hear. Well, everyone except Marisol. She just crosses her arms and leans back in her chair.

  “So you’re trying to send your mami to prison now? Why?”

  What the hell kind of question is that?

  “Why?” I cough out the words. “’Cause they trying to take my baby.”

  She glares at me through her thick lashes, skeptical.

  “So what?”

  I stiffen, her attitude confusing . . . and out of nowhere. Where is this coming from?

  “So what?” China says. “Man, do you hear how you talking right now?”

  Marisol glances at her then back at me like she never said a thing.

  “What you gonna do with a baby when you a baby yourself?” Marisol says. “You can’t take care of no baby.”

  The words swirl around my head. I’m hot and the buzzing in my ear won’t go away. I wish Herbert would go away.

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  She looks right through me, like I was made of glass, and calls my bluff.

  “So?”

  The chill of her stare goes straight to my bones, freezing the air inside. Feels like we’re the only two people in the room.

  “So?” Kisha scoffs. “Bitch, she’s been in jail all this time ’cause of what her momma did!”

  “Yeah, who sends their kid to do a bid for them? And let them take all that heat?” China says. “She was in all them newspapers and TV! That was some fucked up shit!”

  Marisol never takes her eyes off me. I can’t seem to look away either. She knows. I don’t know how, but I can feel it. The fire in her eyes is scorching my bones black.

  “So you did a bid for your mami. Big deal! How much has she done for you? She give you life, raise you, feed you, washed your ass, kept you clean and safe. And she visits you. None of these other puta’s mamis come visit them!”

  The room goes cold, everyone sharing the same shame. She’s right; Momma was the only one that came to visit me here. Everyone else is unwanted.

  “Don’t you love your mami?”

  I just stare. She smacks on her gum, throwing back her hair.

  “I’d do a bid for my mami, Dios la bendiga. No matter what she do, I would do anything for my mami. Coño puta, you gonna send your mami to jail! She too old to go to prison! You kill her if she go there. That what you want?”

  No. I never wanted to kill Momma. I’m not New Girl.

  “You already fucked up like the rest of us. It’s too late for you,” she says. “Your life is already over. Why go fuck up your mami’s life now?”

  I look around the room. A group of girls, a rainbow of colors, all in for different crimes, but somehow we all look the same. We have something in common: we’re all too broken to be fixed. The girls avoid each other’s eye contact, hating Marisol for saying all the things we already think about ourselves. Now would be the time for Ms. Veronica to step in and say no, that we have a chance at a happy life, that we can change. But she doesn’t. She knows our future is grim. She knows that when at least three of these girls turn eighteen this year, they’ll be out on the streets, probably doing something stupid and getting sent back to jail. Or they’ll become the female versions of Ted, sleeping with men just to keep a roof over their heads.

  “You hate your mami?”

  The guilt burns through me. I want to hate Momma. I want to, but I can’t. No matter what she has done to me, I can’t hate her, even when I try to.

  “No. I don’t.”

  chapter eighteen

  “You want to do WHAT?”

  Ms. Cora stands up so fast the chair falls behind her.

  “Just drop it, Ms. Cora. Drop the whole thing.”

  “Why? And this better be a damn good reason.”

  Her hands jump on her hips, almost knocking the laptop off her desk. I shrug.

  “Nothing good will come of it.”

  “Nothing good? Are you . . . I just . . . are you crazy?”

  She closes her eyes as soon as she says it.

  “Jesus, Mary, I’m so sorry. That’s not what I meant!”

  I don’t say nothing, because that is exactly what she meant. I don’t take offense to it though. I am crazy. I let a baby die and lied about it.

  Poor Ms. Cora, she worked so hard. She believed I was innocent from the very start, before I even knew her. Feel kind of bad for putting her through all of this. She is a good person. Not like Momma and me. Look at all the plaques on her walls, her degrees, and pictures of her family. She doesn’t deserve this. But neither does Momma. She is already stuck in her own prison, for life.

  “It’s just not worth it. They’re still going to take my baby away. They’re gonna look up Junior and blame me for it like Alyssa. And Momma—”

  “No, Mary! They can’t blame you for Junior. The coroner’s report proved it was sudden infant death syndrome. You had nothing to do with it. And your momma shouldn’t have left you home alone with him. What kind of mother does that? Leave a child to care for a baby. It speaks to her character.”

  There is an ache inside when I think of Momma. The crushing look she gave me when I said she will never see me again. But just because I get to hurt Momma, doesn’t mean I want anyone else to. Even if every decision she ever made was self-serving, she is the woman who raised me. All that I am is what she has molded. All that she has become is what I allowed, letting a lie grow from a mustard seed to a giant tree, casting a shadow around the world. Guess me always feeling sorry for Momma will never go away.

  “She’s my momma, Ms. Cora. No matter what, she’s still my momma.”

  Ms. Cora’s face softens at m
y plea, her arms unfolding.

  “But, Mary, I just don’t think . . .”

  My stomach twists up. A cramp, starting from the tip of my spine down and around my downstairs in a circle. It’s been coming and going all week. I breathe through it until it goes away.

  “Mary? Are you okay?”

  She sprints around her desk, bending near me.

  “Just make it go away, Ms. Cora,” I manage to moan. “Can you do that?”

  Ms. Cora is super upset now. She can barely get her words together.

  “Mary, I just can’t drop the appeal. I can’t make all your testimony go away! Even if I don’t pursue it further, the state will probably pick up where I left off and investigate your mother. The allegations and the evidence are enough.”

  “But they don’t have the smoking gun, right?”

  Ms. Cora straightens. And there is that doubt again, painted on her face like makeup. This time it’s mixed with realization.

  “Do you?”

  Her tone is a bit accusatory, but it doesn’t bother me. I take another sip of water and hold back a smirk.

  Mr. Charles Middlebury still lives in the same house on East 18th Street. His car is still the same, his hair is still the same, even his clothes are still the same. He has the same job at the insurance company and leaves for work at the same time every day. So as soon as I was out of baby jail, it was easy to go to his house after he left for work, walk in his backyard, and find the hole I dug by his hydrangea bush, where Momma’s cross was in the same place that I had left it.

  “No. I don’t.”

  Notes from Dr. Lydia Cross,

  Children’s Clinical Psychologist

  Many of the previous reports focused solely on Mary’s mental state during the night of the murder rather than on the full scope of the environment and circumstances surrounding her life beforehand. There were several key events in Mary’s life that could have led to a psychotic break, but none so significant as the loss of her infant brother. At the time of his passing, there was an acute role reversal between her and her mother, triggered by survival.

  Her love and loyalty to the mother she once knew transformed her into an unconscious guardian. Hiding the evidence of abuse and molestation was sympathetic in nature. Her coping mechanism manifested into blackouts, periods of intense rage, and memory suppression. Thus, her reaction to the murder from then to present day is that of preservation. She went into crisis management mode, much like the adult she has been forced to be for most of her life, continuing to hide and protect her mother, because in Mary’s mind she is the mother, and her mother is the child.