The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  “Good. You can also tell him that his real wife’s sister has been in a fatal accident so I will not be home when he gets back.”

  “I’m so very sorry, ma’am. I think I should interrupt him because this certainly qualifies as an emergency.”

  “No, please don’t.”

  “It’s perfectly all right. He’s on the last day of ‘Accepting Life’s Transitions: Letting Go, Moving On’ and I doubt that he’ll miss anything at this late hour.”

  “Wait. Is his buddy Frank there with his wife, too?”

  “Yes. They all came together.”

  “Lovely! Then do pass this one last thing on to Mr. Grimes for me, too, would you?”

  “I surely will.”

  “Tell him that the real Mrs. Grimes is so fucking happy he was able to find his missing soul that she’s going to see if she can locate hers, too. And you, Miss Thang. You should really consider getting into a different line of work—one that doesn’t require you to think.” I press END and toss the little phone over to the passenger seat.

  Chapter 27

  I pass the exit that takes me to Lovey’s and get off at the one that takes me straight to the county morgue. My heart is beating so fast I wish I didn’t have one. Once inside, a leathery Hispanic woman with a skunklike white streak in her black hair leans on the information counter as if she’s been waiting for me. Either these light green tiles have recently been waxed or there has been little foot traffic. As soon as I hear myself say, “I’m here to identify my sister, who’s been killed by two drunk paramedic drivers,” it feels more like I’ve really just come here to pick up something: a hot pizza or dry cleaning or could she check to see if maybe you have a shoe in my size. All I know is that I should not leave here empty-handed.

  The woman, whose badge reads CARMEN, slams her palms down on the counter. “Aye yae yae. I’m so sorry. She makes five drunk deaths this week! Through those doors,” she says, pointing at a blue metal door. I open it slowly, afraid of what I’ll find on the other side. It’s a waiting area with yet another counter. Behind this one a blond kid who doesn’t look old enough to buy alcohol asks me my name and who I’m here to identify. I tell him. There are three people sitting in chairs. I sit, too. Wishing we were all here to pick up pizzas or shoes. But I’m here to point out my sister. Not in a lineup. But lying down. I don’t know why I’m not crying. I don’t even know why I don’t feel all that sad. In fact, I’m more pissed than anything that two fucking drunks can change so many lives by making one wrong move. The next moment I’m ashamed because I realize I’m actually relieved for Joy.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m very sorry about your loss. Someone will be out in a few minutes to greet you. Can I get you anything? A Coke, coffee, water, or anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I’ll take a Pepsi,” a Hispanic woman says. She’s wearing a royal blue floral dress that’s too tight. She looks to be in her early forties but I bet she’s in her late thirties. Regardless, she’s been crying.

  “I’ll see if we have one in back. Be right back.”

  She looks at me like she needs to confess but I’m not sure I want to hear it. “I’m here to pick up my son’s personal effects, as they call it. Everything he had in his pockets. They took his wallet.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She nods. I feel like I’m supposed to ask her something I really don’t want to know, so I do. “How old was he?”

  “Eighteen. Gang doings. I want to go back to Guadalajara so bad. Every week more and more kids just dying for silly reasons or no reason at all. I hear you say your sister is back there from drunk drivers hitting her?” She uses her head to point to another blue door. “How old was she?”

  Was is past tense. “She’s twenty-six.”

  “Did he have insurance?”

  “Who?”

  “The drunk who hit her.”

  “It was two of them. Paramedics.”

  “You mean those ambulance drivers?” The woman covers her mouth and her shoulders go up to her ears. “How could they did this to her?”

  “Well apparently they needed a few drinks in order to do their job.”

  “Did your sister have any kids?”

  “She has two.”

  “Terrible for them to lose their mother. So my son he has a six-month-old. Guess who gets to raise it now after eight of my own? We grandmothers get to do it.”

  It’s precisely at this moment when I realize that Tiecey and LL don’t have a grandmother on either side that can raise them. I don’t know where their father is. I don’t think Joy ever met his parents. They were from Kansas City or one of those flat middle states. But what these kids do have is an aunt. And that would be me. It has to be me. Doesn’t it?

  “But truthfully,” the woman is saying, “I don’t mind. My son will live on through his son.”

  “Marilyn Grimes,” a man in a blue surgical-looking uniform says. I raise my hand and stand up.

  “Well, one good thing,” the woman says. “The lawyers will make sure their college tuition is paid. Small price for a life, hey?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. You take care, and I’m sorry for all of our losses.”

  She waves as the young man brings her a can of Diet Pepsi.

  “Hello, Ms. Grimes. I’m Paul Jackson, the medical examiner, and I’m here to give you the option of looking at a photo of your sister, or to escort you in to see her. It’s your choice.”

  “Is she back there?” I say pointing at the door.

  “Yes, she is. But if you’re not up to it, we can—”

  “I want to see her,” I say.

  “Okay, but you don’t have to go in alone.”

  Mr. Jackson leads me through the blue doors and then into a small room no bigger than a laundry room. There’s no place to sit and nothing to even lean on. A big picture window takes up most of one wall. Drawn drapes prevent us from seeing what’s behind them. Of course I know my sister’s back there. I wonder if she knows I’m out here. I wonder exactly who it is I’m going to see. Which Joy? The one I was beginning to know or the one I never knew? And what is it going to feel like? Looking at her and she can’t look back. I don’t think I can do this. I take a deep breath, and as soon as Mr. Jackson takes two short steps and taps on the glass, I yell, “Wait!”

  But it’s too late. I watch those drapes open like King Tut is behind them. But lying on a gurney, wrapped in white flannel blankets like a baby in winter is the sister my mother gave me. Her brown face is facing me. She looks like she’s sleeping. I find myself moving so close my breath fogs the glass. A tall Middle Eastern man in gray steps out from behind the drapes and around the end of the gurney where Joy’s legs should be. I keep my eyes on her face. I’m so sorry this had to happen to you. You deserved a chance to live a full life. You were on your way, Joy. And I was rooting for you. I know that Lovey’s love wasn’t enough to make up for what you carried in your heart. That somebody didn’t love you enough to keep you. Or care for you. I can’t imagine what you do with that kind of pain. But we tried to show you we cared; even when we were mad, that was the reason. You are the only sister I’ve had and I just wish we could’ve gotten closer sooner. I wish I had been more comforting to you. But don’t you worry. I can promise you one thing: your kids won’t be abandoned. And they will be loved.

  Mr. Jackson makes a facial expression that says he is sorry. Mine responds with gratitude.

  “Is this your sister, Mrs. Grimes?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “My sincere condolences. This kind of loss is a tragedy for all of us. We know it’s tough, believe me. If you’d like to stay a bit longer, I’ll be happy to step outside if you prefer to be alone.”

  “No, don’t leave, please,” I say. “I’m ready.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I say. I hate this. It feels like a bad dream. But I know it’s not.

  I see Mr. Jackson look over my shoulder. He is apparently
giving the other examiner the eye-to-eye signal to close the drapes, which I hear swoosh close behind me. I head toward the door. “Can you tell me where the closest restroom is?”

  “Sure,” he says when we come out into the hallway. “It’s right down there on your left. I’ll just go on down to the front desk and get the paperwork together for you.”

  Paperwork?

  When I arrive at the house a police officer has taken the liberty of ordering a pizza for the kids and hot wings and garlic chips for Lovey. I reimburse him, then thank him, and he leaves. All three members of my family are eating at the kitchen table. I stand in the doorway. The kids look sad but not as distraught as I thought they’d be.

  “Aunt Marilyn, did you remember to bring our Easter eggs and jelly beans and stuff?” Tiecey asks.

  “Yes, I did. It’s all in the car.”

  “Can we go get it?” LL asks.

  “I don’t care,” I say and sit down.

  They toss the crusts of two slices into the empty box.

  Lovey finishes sucking the meat from a wing and then slides it out of her mouth and tosses it onto the pile of crusts. “I say good riddance,” she says out of nowhere. “She was getting on my nerves anyway. Now I ain’t got to be bothered. I gave that chile too much when she didn’t even have none of my blood. And when she come back next time, maybe she’ll be more grateful and know what to do. Maybe she’ll be nicer. Maybe she’ll finish high school. Go to college. Time will tell. Can we go now?”

  “Go where, Lovey?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “Did you find your papers?”

  “What papers?”

  “Your medical papers. You said you put them in a safe place.”

  “You can’t believe everything I tell you.”

  “I know where she put it,” Tiecey says standing there with a handful of jelly beans.

  “How do you know what I’m even talking about?”

  “’Cause Grandma Lovey showed me a long time ago where she keep her important stuff. I’m the one who always having to keep moving it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  “Moving it, why?”

  “That girl talks too much, sometimes,” Lovey says as she gets up and heads for the living room.

  “’Cause Grandma Lovey said people is too slick. She told me to move it to a new place every time it’s a holiday.”

  “I did not say no such thing!”

  “Yes she did,” she whispers. “Grandma can’t remember a lot of stuff, but you know that already, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. And have you done what she asked you to?”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t keep thinking up new places. This house ain’t all that big. So I went back to where I think I hid it the first time.”

  I follow her to Lovey’s bedroom. It smells bad in here. Funky and sour. Like a window has never been opened. Like Lovey hasn’t been bathing the way she used to. Tiecey lifts the mattress up about six or seven inches away from the box spring and pulls out a thick envelope. She opens it and takes out some papers that have been folded like a letter. She hands it to me. But before I open it, I ask her: “When did Lovey start sleeping on a twin-size bed? It had to have been recently because I was just here a few weeks ago and there was a queen-size bed in this room. What happened to it?”

  “Mama traded her ’cause Grandma Lovey said the bed was getting too big and she didn’t like it no more. That’s why she always be sleeping on the couch. I betcha she on it now. Wanna bet?”

  “No, I don’t feel like betting right now. Did your mama ever see these papers?”

  “Yeah. Grandma Lovey gave her one just like it but she told me not to never let my mama get a holt of this one.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Read it and see.”

  She is too grown. I unfold what apparently is a legitimate California power of attorney for health-care form that Lovey has filled in all the blanks, giving me the authority to make any and all of her health-care decisions if she becomes unable to do so on her own. There was space for an alternate appointee, but she left it blank. I flip to the last page. It’s been signed by her, witnessed by two people I’ve never heard of, and notarized. This was a little less than two years ago: August 2002.

  “I wonder why I never got a copy of this,” I hear myself say.

  “Well, Grandma Lovey put one in a envelope with your name on it. I saw her write it ’cause she asked me if I knew how to spell your street and I couldn’t. And she asked my mama to put a stamp on it and mail it.”

  I stop reading.

  I get it now. What did you think I’d do, Joy: wait until something terrible but not as tragic as this happened and I’d run down here and kidnap Lovey and drag her back to Oakland and just leave you and the kids here to fend for yourselves? I mean, did you really think I was that shallow or callous? That I wouldn’t care what happened to you and the kids? I wished you’d have given me more credit.

  “Mama got one, too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “’Cause…”

  “It’s because, not ’cause, okay?”

  “Because. First of all, I was with Grandma Lovey when she asked two people she didn’t even know to be a Jehovah’s Witness and sign they names on the paper and they was nice and did it even though that lady behind the desk at the bank said they didn’t need to but Grandma Lovey said it was space for them to witness so it couldn’t hurt and then that lady put this silver thing on a black spongy thing and pressed down real hard with it on three of ’em bam bam bam and then she blew on ’em I guess to make sure they was dry and then she made Grandma Lovey put her thumb on something and then she wrote her name three times on each one. I know ’cause I liked the way that ink smelled. After that we went to Target ’cause Grandma Lovey was buying me something nice for school and she bought me a cherry Slurpee and I spilled it on the front seat of her car but she didn’t get mad. When we got home she gave one of them papers to Mama and told her to mail it to you and she made me hide this one.”

  “And what about your mama’s?”

  “I gotta make sure she didn’t move it, but can’t I do it tomorrow, please?”

  “Yes, Tiecey. But do you understand what has happened tonight?”

  “Yeah. My mama done got kilt and she ain’t never coming back. I might see her one day in heaven. If she made it.”

  “She made it, believe me.”

  “How you know?”

  “Because God spoke to me, that’s how I know. He told me she was welcome up there. In fact, He said she was going to be happier up there because she wouldn’t be needing any drugs, her hair would grow as long as she wanted it to, all of her problems would go away, and she could watch what good kids you and LL were going to grow up to be.”

  “Did God really say all that?”

  “Unless I heard Him wrong, and there’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

  “Well, God supposed to know everything, so He must know what He talking about then.”

  “Tiecey. You know, I know your mother made you and LL mad sometimes, and I know she disappointed you from time to time, but you also said that she only got on your nerves when she took drugs, didn’t you?”

  She’s nodding her head in agreement.

  “But can’t you think of something she did that made you happy? Anything?”

  She’s thinking.

  “Just one thing.”

  “Oh, yeah! When she took me and LL to Disneyland that time and we got to go on all them rides and eat cotton candy. That was so much fun.”

  I sit here listening to her think out loud.

  “And I forgot all about that time she showed me and LL how to do cartwheels.”

  “Joy didn’t know how to do a cartwheel.”

  “Yes her did! She could do backflips, too. LL can do it, too. But I can’t.”

  “Now see there. I bet if you thought about it a little longer you could probably remember more things your mama did that showe
d you how much she loved you. You understand what I’m saying here, Tiecey?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to miss her even though we didn’t spend all that much time together and we never really got to know each other. Lately it was starting to feel like we were. She was the only sister I had.”

  “And she was the only mama I had.”

  “Well, there’s probably going to be some things around here that’s going to change.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I have to figure a lot of that out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like which bedroom I should give you and which one I should give LL.”

  “I don’t want to sleep in my mama’s room.”

  “In my house,” I say.

  “You mean we get to come live with you and Uncle Leon?”

  “Well, Uncle Leon might not be living with us.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “You mean he didn’t tell you where he was moving?”

  “He hasn’t moved yet.”

  “Y’all getting a divorce, ain’t you?”

  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen right now, Tiecey.”

  “Well then, maybe he might could stay until we get there and then if you be nice and we be nice and don’t get on his nerves he can pretend like he our daddy.”

  “You know, you have quite a lot going inside that little nappy head that needs to be washed, don’t you?”

  “Can I get it braided like yours, Aunt Marilyn?”

  “No. This is too much hair for a little girl.”

  “I told you I’m almost eight.”

  “And if I have anything to do with it, you’re going to act like it, too.”

  “Do we really get to come to your house and live?”

  “It might be the way it’s going to have to be.”

  “Don’t you like me and LL?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why you always be making us say things over and over, like we get on your nerves?”

  “You don’t get on my nerves. It’s just that sometimes, I get upset when it seems like you guys haven’t learned your manners or if you’re speaking like you’ve never learned how to speak proper English.”