by Cachet
Chapter 3
Shanair
The bottom of my dress blows with each step I take down the long hallway. As I continue my stride, I look down at the strappy sandals that I’m wearing and groan. They are cute as hell. Any other time I would swear I was the shit, pregnant and all. I just wish I would have known that my damn feet and ankles were going to swell up twice their size before I left the house. No matter how cute I look right now, my damn feet are killing me. After rolling my eyes, I make a mental note to go out and buy a pair of comfy shoes to put in my truck just for instances like this. That way I won’t have to walk around hurting.
With a limp in each of my steps, I turn down another hallway. As soon as my mother’s room comes into view, I stop in my tracks. I need to compose myself before I walk inside. It’s been a few days since I last saw her, and the last visit was extremely stressful. It started with her not having a clue as to who I was. That then turned into her believing that somehow I was my father’s baby’s mother. I remember one second sitting on the edge of her bed trying to tell her that I was not who she thought I was, to rushing to the other side of the room when she lunged at me. I had never seen my mother so angry in all my life, and that scared the shit out of me.
There I was pregnant and being attacked by my mother, who as of lately has been slipping deeper and deeper into her illness. I watched helplessly as a few of the staff swiftly came into the room to restrain her, all while she yelled and called me every name in the book. It hurt me to see them handle her that way, but with the way she was acting, there was really nothing I could do. That night back at my house I cried myself to sleep because I wished that there was something I could do to aid my mother into being the woman she used to be. This illness that she has is slowly turning her into someone that has me cautious every time I come to see her. I know it isn’t her fault, but I’m truly afraid of what could transpire during this visit. Because of this I’m going to remain cautious and alert.
Once my courage is built up as much as it could be, I take a few steps in the direction of her room until I’m standing directly outside the door. Slowly I peek my head in. My mother is standing at the window with her back to me. The long grey French braids that I had done the week prior hang loosely down her back and look like they are overdue for a touch-up. Redoing them was my plan the other day, but when she flipped out, I decided that I would save that for a later time. Taking baby steps, I walk into the room and clear my throat.
“Oh, hey baby. I didn’t know that you were coming today.” My mother says as she turns around to face me.
“Hey, how are you?” I ask nervously.
I watch her as she walks towards me slowly. When she goes to reach out for me, I tense up. My body relaxes when I see that she’s only giving me a hug. Awkwardly, I wrap my arms around her, still wondering if she knows who I am or not.
“I’m fine, but what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I pause, allowing her to break our hug. “Momma, do you—do you know who I—do you know who I am?” I stammer looking at her perplexed.
She tilts her head to the side and just stares at me for a moment before replying. “Shanair, of course, I know who you are. Are you sure that everything’s okay?” When I hear my name, I release a sigh of relief and give her a bright smile.
“Yeah, I’m okay momma. I just missed you that’s all.” She has a confused look on her face when I pull her into another hug and squeeze her tight. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Missed me?” My mother asks before chuckling, “It’s okay baby, momma’s right here.”
Once our hug is broken for the second time, we retreat over to the sitting area of her room and start to talk about Kendrick. From my bag, I pull out the grease, comb and rubber bands. Then I start to take down and re-braid my mother’s hair. I tell her all about how big Kendrick is getting, and how he’s growing into such an amazing and respectful little boy. Afterward, we laugh and talk about all the funny things that he used to do when he was a baby. Our visit is going pretty good if I say so myself; which is something that hasn’t happened in a while. When my mother asks when she could see Kendrick, I pause and swallow the lump in my throat because I really don’t know what to say. I think back to our last visit and how she tried to attack me, and the fear of her doing something similar with Kendrick around makes me think that it’s a very bad idea.
Since I don’t know what I’ll walk into on a day to day basis, I’ve been keeping him away because I don’t want her to scare him off. I know that seeing his grandmother in the “odd” state that she’s usually in could confuse him, and I don’t want that. I continue to go back and forth with myself in my mind for a few moments still not saying a thing. My mother turns to look at me over her shoulder. When I see that her eyes are watery, and she’s on the verge of crying I feel bad. Even though she doesn’t know what day is, or even who I am sometimes, I know that there’s no doubt that she loves me and her grandson. Before I give my answer, I grin and bend down to kiss her once on the cheek. As I come back up, I promise her that I’ll bring him with me for the next visit. The way her face brightens up melts my heart, and I’m glad that I could make her happy. I haven’t seen my mother really smile in years, and if bringing Kendrick to see her makes her feel good, then that’s what I’m going to do.
I continue to sit with my mother until the sun goes down, and it’s almost time for visiting hours to be over. My plan is to stay with her until she falls asleep before heading home. It’s been such a nice visit, that I don’t want it to end because I don’t know the next time it will go so well. She may not know it, but I cherish these times because they are few and far between. As she lies in her bed dozing off, she looks over at me and shakes her head.
“Girl, I swear you look just like your daddy.”
“Huh,” I ask because I know that I must have heard her wrong. I look nothing like my father, and I do mean nothing like him.
“Yep, you and yo’ daddy coulda passed for twins. Boy did he love him some Shanair,” she snickers. “That’s all he used to talk about, Shanair this and Shanair that.” She laughs again. There’s a glazed look in her eyes, as she speaks of my father.
“Momma, what are you talking about? Daddy and I don’t look anything alike,” I tell her, believing that she’s once again slipped back into a state of confusion.
“I remember the first time he saw you, we were in the grocery store.” She pauses, totally ignoring my question. “He walked right up to me and as soon as he laid eyes on you, he knew…he knew you were his.” My mother continues with a shake of her head. “Of course, I tried to lie and cover it up, but even a blind man could see that you were his.”
I stare at her wondering who she’s referring too because she can’t possibly be speaking about me and my dad seeing me for the first time in the grocery store? Knowing I was his? Who in the world could my mother be talking about? I’ve seen photos from the hospital, and quite a few of them show my dad holding me right after I was born, so it’s impossible for the story she’s telling to be about us. I start to interrupt her and ask again who’s she referring to, but I let her continue to talk because she’s in a daze and appears to be happy reminiscing even though her tale appears to be about someone else’s life.
“Your father was the most loving man that I’d ever met in my life.” A weary smile covers my mother’s face. “I wish I would have been with him the entire time, instead of chasing after Joseph, who I knew was no good for me. Yep, Brian was my soulmate.” She sighs. “I should have let him know the truth from the beginning about you, instead of trying to hide it. That was my mistake, and something that I have to live with for the rest of my life.”
What the hell?
Just hearing the names she mentioned has me really wondering what it is my mother is talking about. This isn’t someone else’s life she’s speaking of this is our life. You see Joseph is my father, but by the story my mom is telling, Brian—who is actually my step-dad—is bei
ng portrayed as my real dad. I look up to ask my mother a few of the questions that are bouncing around in my head and see that she’s out like a light. She would go to sleep right now, I think to myself before getting up and walking over towards her. With the bed remote in my hand, I lay her flat on her back and adjust her pillow behind her head. Once I’m done, I pull the covers up over her body, place a kiss on her forehead and turn to gather my things. After putting all of the hair care products away, I turn to leave. As I walk through the door, I let my mother know that I love her, even though I know she can’t hear me.
Once inside my truck, I head home still thinking about the things that my mom was saying. I wonder if any of it could be true I think before laughing at my own silliness. I know my father, his name is Joseph Bishop, and he is nothing like anything my mother had said. Yeah, I believe he loved me, but he wasn’t “The most loving man that I’d ever seen,” in my mother’s words. He took care of us and made sure that we had everything we needed, but he also had a cold side. I could tell he loved my mother, but every once in a while I would see the way he looked at her, and wonder if she had done something to him. When it came to me, I was just there. He never hugged me, kissed me, or spent almost any time with me at all. I had started to think that it was just because he didn’t like kids. That is until he brought my half-sister, Paris, home; a sister that I didn’t know anything about until that day.
Paris came to live with us when I was nine years old. At the time, she was ten. She had been sent to our dad because her mother had recently lost her battle with leukemia. When the very pretty, light-skinned girl walked into our living room with her suitcase, I wondered who she was. After my parents explained to me that she was my dad’s child from a previous relationship, I was confused because I was always told that my parents had been together since high school. I never expressed my concerns out loud, though. Instead just nodded and smiled when they explained that she would be living with us.
I was extremely happy at first because it was boring being the only child, and I was glad to finally have someone to play with. That joy was soon replaced with jealousy when I saw just how good my father was to her. He treated Paris as if she was a fragile doll because she very rarely had to lift a finger. The way he would look at her like he was proud to be her father. It was nothing like the way he looked at me. Anything Paris wanted my father broke his neck to get. At first, I thought he treated her differently because her mother had just died, but it went on to last for months, even years.
It wasn’t just me because my mom saw it too. She would try to compensate for the things that he lacked in, by taking me out and doing things just like my dad did with Paris, but that only divided our house even more. Although her gestures were nice, they really didn’t make me feel any better because all I wanted was my daddy’s love. Whenever my mother would bring up the fact that he was playing favoritism, my father would just brush it off by saying he loved me just as much as he loved Paris. No matter how much he said it, I never believed him. All I knew was he loved the lighter, prettier girl more than he loved the darker one, and that is what started my issue with being dark skinned.
By the time I was thirteen, my mother had grown tired of the way our house was divided and decided to end their marriage. When their divorce was final, my dad and Paris kept the house, and my mother and I moved into something a bit smaller. During that time, I didn’t really get a chance to see my dad or Paris because whenever it came time for him to get me, something always came up. Because of the way he treated me, I hated Paris and didn’t mind not seeing her. She would call and ask me when I was coming over, and claim that she missed me, but I would always ignore her. I didn’t care what my mom said. She was no sister of mine. I now know that it wasn’t her fault that my father treated me that way, but as a child you aren’t that rational. This happened for the next year or so until my mother ran into an old high school friend named Brian. They started dating and eventually got married.
Soon after they tied the knot, Brian moved us into his house. It was a nice three bedroom, two and a half bath home in a very nice neighborhood. Now Brian treated me like my father never did. He made sure that I got whatever I wanted, and if one didn’t know any better, they would think that he was actually my father. It’s crazy because people actually said that we looked just alike. We had the same dark skinned tone, and many of the same facial features, such as our big brown eyes. Looking back, Brian was pretty cool too. At first, I really didn’t warm up to him because I was too busy trying to get on my father’s radar, but as the years passed, I stopped trying so hard. By the time I was sixteen, I had made up my mind that if my father didn’t want to deal with me, I wouldn’t worry about it. It was then that I finally opened up to Brian and allowed him to show me all the love that my real father never did. I finally had a real father.
Everything was going great for us until right after my eighteenth birthday. I was out shopping when my mom called me crying hysterically. I rushed home only to find out that Brian had a heart attack while working and died before he even made it to the hospital. I was overcome with grief because the man who had loved me more than my own father did was gone and never coming back. It made me regret all the years that my stubborn behind wasted by holding back. With my mom being so distraught, I helped her with the funeral arrangements, and we were able to put him away really nice. All of his coworkers showed up to pay their respects to the hardworking man that everyone loved, and I was finally able to meet a few of his family members who weren’t able to make it to the wedding.
After his burial, my mother and I found out that even in death Brian made sure we were taken care of. He had left us both a substantial amount of life insurance money, as well as a beachfront condo that he owned down in Florida. To say that we were grateful would be an understatement. Those things alone surprised me, but the shocker was the fact that Brian had left the house to me. When I heard that, I was so emotional because even though I knew that he loved me and looked at me as his daughter, I had no clue that his love went that deep. Once I got pregnant with Kendrick, I moved out of the house and got my own apartment because even though I owned the house I wanted my own independence. My mother lived there up until she was admitted into the nursing home, and soon after that I packed up, and Kendrick, Terry, and I moved in.
Just thinking about Brian brings tears to my eyes. It’s been over ten years, and his death still affects me. On the other hand, I realize that it’s been just as long since I’ve spoken to my father. That hurts a little, but I guess over the years I’ve gotten used to it and expect nothing more. Looking back, I think I would have loved it if Brian was actually my father. I wonder if there’s some truth to what my mother was saying. Nah, because I know that she wouldn’t hide something like that from me for all these years, I rationalize.
Pulling up to my house, I kill the engine and sit in my truck for a few minutes, before climbing out. As the warm breeze of the wind softly brushes past my face, I look up at the sky and smile, silently thanking Brian for all that he’s done for me. He’s the reason why I’m able to take off of work for so long. With the house being paid for and the large insurance policy—that I still have—I don’t have to work for a few years if I don’t want to. That is something that I will forever be grateful for. After blowing a kiss toward the sky, I walk into my front door happy to finally be home.
Chapter 4
Terry
I watch as Terrance Jr., and Kendrick jump and bounce around as they attempt to do all of the tasks that the characters on the Kinect Sports game do. The serious looks on both of their faces crack me up, as they battle to see who the winner is. This is their third game and with each of them winning once, this win will have the final say as to who is really the victorious one. With the boxing competition over, it’s now on to track and field which is the last event. Once the gun is shot, both boys crouch down and take off running in place, as they head to the finish line.
“I see y’all don’t be
playing about that game,” Shanair laughs as soon as she walks through the door. Neither of the two responds they just keep running.
“Hey baby,” I greet standing up and walking over to her. When I’m close enough, I lean in and kiss her softly on the lips. “How was your day?”
“Pretty good,” she replies walking over to the couch. She continues once she’s sitting down. “I went to see my momma, and the visit was good all the way up until the end.”
I take a seat beside her before asking, “What happened at the end?”
“Well, she started talking about my daddy not actually being my daddy,” Shanair reveals leaning over to remove her shoes. I stop her, and instead bring both her feet up and place them on my lap. She leans back as I unhook the straps and slide them off her swollen feet. “Oh my God, that feels so good. Thank you, baby,” she moans when I start to massage them.
“You know I got you.” I wink. “So what were you saying about your mother?”
“Oh yeah, at the end of the visit she started talking about my father being someone else. I was so confused. When I went to ask her what she was talking about, she was already sleeping.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth, or do you think it was just one of her episodes?” I ask while applying more pressure to the sole of the left foot.