The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  “Why can’t you make them lunch?”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? But I’m going to say this since you’re obviously oblivious. I have not seen our sons since last Christmas, and right now, only one of them is here. I miss them. I miss washing their dirty, stinky clothes. I miss hearing their raggedy cars pull into the driveway. But most of all, I miss cooking for them. So on Saturday, that’s what I’m going to do. If you can’t understand this, Leon, then you can just go to hell.”

  I hang up. I drive with fury for at least the next twenty or thirty miles. Which is when I realize I might have to rethink this no-swearing promise because sometimes no other words seem to do. I mean, come on, a funeral for a fucking dog?

  The garage door is up but Lovey’s car isn’t in it. In fact it’s full of all kinds of foreign objects that don’t belong in here. For starters: whose treadmill is that? And what about that red mountain bike? The big-screen TV? Is that somebody’s brand-new living room furniture? I think that looks like a car motor, but I hope I’m wrong. I can’t wait to hear this one.

  I knock on the door a few times. When no one answers I use my new key. As soon as I walk in, I smell something burning. It’s hair. “Lovey?”

  “I’m back here,” she yells from the kitchen.

  I speed back there where Mrs. Saundra Norman, one of her oldest customers, is slouched forward in a kitchen chair. She is sound asleep. Lovey is standing behind her waving a hot straightening comb through the air. Continuous circles of white smoke billow up and disappear into the ceiling paint. She spits on the straightening comb to test it but it’s so hot the saliva evaporates before it hits the iron.

  “Lovey, what are you doing?”

  She starts slicing the air with the iron comb again. I can already see where she originally tested it, because a patch of Mrs. Norman’s silver hair has been singed off about three inches. “I’m fixing her hair. What does it look like? And why did you just come barging in my house like you own it? You don’t live here.”

  “Lovey, that straightening comb is way too hot. Please put it down.”

  She looks at it for the longest time and then, thank God, apparently agrees. She sets it on an unlit eye on the back of the stove even though the heat-controlled apparatus she’s supposed to be using is plugged in and sitting right next to the stove, with a pair of bumper curlers inside it.

  Mrs. Norman’s head lifts to an upright position as she opens her eyes, looking around the room as if she doesn’t know where she is. Her skin is olive black and smooth. Hardly a wrinkle and I know she’s pushing seventy. “How are you, Mrs. Norman?” I say.

  “I’m fine and you, sugar?”

  “Good. I didn’t see your car out front. Did you drive over here?”

  “No, my son brought me. I don’t drive no more.”

  “Why not?”

  “I forget why. I just can’t.”

  “Are you sure you want Lovey doing your hair today?”

  “Lovey ain’t done my hair in years, why would I want her to do it today?”

  Oh my Lord.

  “You called me, missy,” Lovey says, leaning down over her shoulder. “And I wasn’t even charging you! I was trying to be nice and doing it as a favor.”

  Mrs. Norman turns to see who’s talking. “Lovey?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know who I am, Saundra Lee.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. I thought I was dreaming. How much more you have left to straighten before you can put some curls in?”

  “If you could stay awake and keep your head up, I coulda been finished ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Well, could you at least open a window, it’s hot in here.”

  I go over and crack open the back door because I know the windows were accidentally painted stuck.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Aren’t you one of Lovey’s daughters?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m Marilyn.”

  “My my my. You getting old and fat just like the rest of us, ain’t you, chile?”

  “I suppose so,” I say, wishing I could curl up in a knot.

  “If you ask me, she look better now than when she was in her twenties, so shut up and mind your own business, Saundra. When my baby was in college, she was so skinny I wouldn’t even waste the film in my camera on her, but after she had that first baby, she started filling out, and that’s when she started looking like a woman. And she don’t look old. We look old. How old are you, Marilyn?”

  “Forty-four,” I say.

  “See there. She don’t look a day over forty-three.”

  “Lovey?” Mrs. Norman asks.

  “What is it now?”

  “Don’t make the curls too tight.” She closes her eyes again, and as I stand there watching the two of them very closely, Lovey clicks those bumper curlers the way she always did and Mrs. Norman snores the way she always has.

  “Lovey, where’s Joy?”

  “I think she’s at work.”

  “She got a job?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you know whose stuff that is in the garage?”

  “What stuff?”

  “There’s all kinds of things in there I’ve never seen before and it looks like they belong to somebody else.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “There’s a treadmill, a bike, and some furniture, to name a few of them.”

  “Beats me,” she says, and pops Mrs. Norman on the head with a hairbrush to signal she’s finished. Mrs. Norman jumps up so quickly she almost loses her balance.

  “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  “Ten dollars,” Lovey says.

  Mrs. Norman digs inside her big brown purse until she finds what appears to be a handful of crinkled-up bills. “Here,” she says, pressing them into Lovey’s outstretched palm.

  “I don’t want all of that,” Lovey says, searching through them until she finds a ten. I watch because I don’t know what she can and can’t do anymore. This is a relief.

  “Do you know if Joy drove your car, Lovey?”

  “That car is gone.”

  “What do you mean by gone?”

  “Somebody stole it or bought it or something, but it’s not coming back. That much I do know.”

  “That simple bitch,” I say under my breath.

  “Takes one to know one,” Mrs. Norman says, and heads out the front door where she stands until her son arrives fifteen minutes later.

  I say good-bye to her but Lovey doesn’t. She lies down on the couch and closes her eyes so fast, I’m not sure if she’s already asleep. I’m sitting in the chair across from her. “Lovey?”

  “What is it now, girl?” She doesn’t even open her eyes.

  “Do you remember that we go to the doctor tomorrow?”

  “Is it tomorrow already?”

  “No, but it will be after you wake up. Now you can’t eat anything after eight o’clock because the doctor wants you to have blood tests done and he wants to see how your cholesterol levels are. You’re going to have a physical so we can find out what might be making you forget things.”

  “That’s just fine and dandy,” she says. “Wake me up when it’s time to go.”

  I sit here and watch her sink into those old cushions that seem to adjust to accept her big body. I wonder if she’s scared at all. She doesn’t act like it. But neither do I and I know I’m afraid of what this all might mean.

  A few minutes later the kids come charging through the front door. They’re clean but the clothes they’re wearing could’ve stood a little steam from an iron.

  “You back again?” Tiecey says.

  “Yeah, what you want?” LL says.

  “Come here,” I say, motioning with my finger to both of them. They saunter over and stand in front of me. They are too cute to sound so ugly. “Do you think this is the way you should greet someone when you walk into this house?”

  “I just said you back again?”

  “And I just said…”
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  “LL, I know what you just said. How about: ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello, Aunt Marilyn’?”

  “Hi or hello, Aunt Marilyn,” she says.

  “Hi or hello, Aunt Marilyn,” LL says.

  I give. “Are you guys hungry?”

  “Yeah,” Tiecey says. “LL always hungry.”

  “You guys want to go to the grocery store with me?”

  “Yeah. Can we pick out something we like?” she asks.

  “Only if you can say ‘yes’ instead of ‘yeah.’ Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” LL repeats.

  “How long has Grandma Lovey been taking her nap?” Tiecey asks.

  “She just fell asleep a few minutes ago.”

  “Good,” LL says.

  “What’s so good about it?”

  “Because she always asks us to do stuff we don’t wanna do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Clean up.”

  “What’s wrong with helping out?”

  “Don’t nobody help us,” Tiecey says.

  “You can’t tell me your mother doesn’t do anything around this house?”

  “Her don’t,” she says.

  “She doesn’t,” I say.

  “She doesn’t,” Tiecey says. “Can we go right now?”

  “Do you two have homework?”

  “Yes. Spelling. But I already know how to spell all the words and even the ones for extra credit. I did my math on the bus.”

  “I got to practice my letters,” LL says.

  “Okay, but does Lovey stay here by herself a lot?”

  “All day,” Tiecey says.

  “Do you guys know whose stuff that is in the garage?”

  They both shake their head no.

  “Did your mama get a job?”

  They both shake their head no.

  “Do you know where she might be?”

  “Yeah. She in jail,” Tiecey says matter-of-factly.

  “She’s in what?”

  “JAIL,” LL says loudly to make sure I hear it this time.

  “When did she go to jail? And for what?”

  “I think yesterday. I answered the phone when she called collect and she told me she might be home today or tomorrow.”

  “Did she say why she was in jail?”

  “Nope. But probably the same reason she was in there for last time.”

  “What last time?”

  “That last time last time,” Tiecey says. “For them drugs.”

  “Let’s go,” I say to the kids. “So we can hurry back before Lovey wakes up.”

  We get back in less than an hour to find Joy sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. Her right eye is black. Her left hand bandaged. “I was worried about my kids,” she says.

  “Is Lovey still asleep?” I ask.

  “Yep. I thought she was dead when I first went in there, but she’s still warm.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Joy. I really don’t.”

  “You could ask me how I’m doing.”

  “It’s obvious that you’re not doing so hot. What were you in jail for?”

  “Something stupid that ain’t even worth bringing up.”

  “Please, do bring it up.”

  “I got into a little rumble.”

  “I can see that. About what?”

  “A little confusion about some cash.”

  “So it got you thrown in jail and beaten?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Whose stuff is that in the garage and where is Lovey’s car?”

  “I’m having a garage sale tomorrow. That stuff belongs to me. Somebody owed me. And Lovey’s car is still in the shop.”

  “No, it ain’t,” Tiecey says.

  “Why don’t you just be quiet,” Joy says. “Did anybody ask you Miss Grown-Ass?”

  “She sold it to somebody for some money to buy them drugs.”

  Joy jumps up and runs toward Tiecey but I mistakenly grab her by her injured hand and she screams and stops dead in her tracks.

  “Sit your butt down,” I say, pushing her back toward the porch. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on around here, but these kids need to be supervised and it looks like Lovey does, too. If you aren’t responsible enough to do it, then somebody else is going to have to.”

  “I’m going to rehab,” she blurts out.

  “What’s rehab?” Tiecey asks.

  “A place I can go to get off drugs. Does that answer your question, Miss Smarty?”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope to find out.”

  “And just when are you supposed to do this?” I ask.

  “I’ll know in three weeks, on my court date.”

  “And what are the kids and Lovey supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “I’ll be around to handle my business,” she says. “Don’t worry about them. Who you think been doing it all these years?”

  I don’t respond. Tiecey and LL insist on bringing all the bags in by themselves. I make a simple dinner: roasted chicken, baked potato, salad, and steamed broccoli—which the kids are afraid to eat at first. We eat together at the kitchen table like a family, something that seems foreign to them. Lovey seems to be herself. Even Joy is cooperative and cleans the kitchen. Later, I put lots of bubbles in the kids’ bathwater and remind them how to say their prayers. I give them each a big hug and kiss before turning out the light. They seem to like this. Once downstairs, I iron something for them to wear to school. Joy notices.

  “I was planning on doing some ironing before I went to bed,” she says.

  “I don’t mind,” I say.

  “It may be hard for you to see, Marilyn, but I am trying.”

  “I wish you would try a little harder, Joy.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a problem.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed. So have your kids. I’m just praying you go through with this rehab thing and I hope they can help you get off whatever it is you’re on.”

  “It’s crank.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It don’t really matter. The point is, I know it’s gotten out of control ’cause I’ve been messing up and now that Lovey’s got that disease, I can’t keep leaving her or the kids in here all day by themselves.”

  “Who said she’s got a disease?”

  “Anybody in their right mind can see she’s got it, Marilyn. Just wait. That doctor ain’t gon’ do nothing but tell you what I already know.”

  “Since when did you get to be so knowledgeable about any disease?”

  “First of all, I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I can read, Marilyn, and sometimes I do.”

  I can’t believe it. She’s crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Joy cry. I feel bad for making her feel bad because she undoubtedly already feels bad. I walk over to put my arms around her, to offer her some comfort but she jerks away.

  “And second of all, I know about diseases ’cause I’ve got quite a few myself. Wanna hear ’em? Herpes. Hepatitis C. Pancreatitis. And looka here: Alopecia,” she says, snatching off what is apparently a curly wig that I’ve thought all this time was a bad weave. Most of her scalp is smooth with small islands of black hair here and there. “But wait! I ain’t quite finished! The nurse in the emergency room who fixed my hand told me that not being able to stop using drugs even when I try is a disease, too. It’s called addiction. So, you see, sista-girl, I know a little somethin’ somethin’ about diseases. Any more questions?”

  I cannot open my mouth. My heart is throbbing like a bad toothache in my chest. I wish it would stop. I wish I were blind. I wish I were deaf. I wish I could do something to show her how sorry I am for never allowing myself to get close to her. For not ever trying. For never taking time to care or wonder about what or how she was doing because I’ve always been completely consumed by my own life. I wipe the tears away from my eyes because I’m not blind. I heard everything she just said, because I’m not deaf. And I
realize that I have two diseases I hope there’s a cure for—selfishness and apathy—because this stranger standing in front of me happens to be the only sister I have.

  Chapter 17

  I want Joy to be wrong. I want to be wrong. I’ve read just about everything I could find about Alzheimer’s on the Internet. There are plenty of other reasons why Lovey could be forgetting things. She could just be depressed. She could’ve had a ministroke or a series of them that just haven’t been diagnosed. Maybe it’s her thyroid. Or kidneys. Or liver. She could have a vitamin B-12 deficiency. I’m crossing my fingers and praying that whatever it is, the doctor can give her a pill to help restore her back to her old self.

  We get her blood drawn at the lab right downstairs from Dr. Merijohn’s office. Right after her physical, he tells Lovey she can get dressed, and he’ll be back with me in a few minutes. The doctor tells me that physically she appears to be fine but her blood pressure is still somewhat elevated beyond the comfort zone. That he’s also worried her cholesterol might be too high but he’ll know for sure when he gets the results from the lab in a day or so. I hope Lovey didn’t sneak and eat anything like I told her not to do. He tells me that when we go back into the examining room, he’s going to ask Lovey a series of questions that are his own version of the kind of test a neurologist would give. But because he’s known Lovey for a while, he feels strongly that he’ll be able to determine whether she’ll also need to be seen by a neurologist for more extensive testing.

  When he opens the door, Lovey crosses her legs in a somewhat coquettish fashion. The young doctor doesn’t seem to notice. I can’t believe it when she winks at me. We sit at opposite ends of a small metal table. The doctor sits on a low stool near the wall. It swivels.

  “Do you remember me telling you when I came back with your daughter that I was going to ask you a few simple questions?” the doctor asks.

  “I do,” she says, grinning at him. This time he does notice. He is a handsome man—even Lovey can see behind those horn-rimmed glasses—and he can’t be more than forty. His hair is silky black, his skin olive. He smiles back, to humor her, I suppose, because she blushes. Then he gets serious. “May I begin?”