“Audre, what you see and feel is true; who you are is divine. All of this is God. The mango, the bake, each bush in the yard. Sacred, each chicken crying at dawn. Each lesson that hurts you, and each hair on your head that reach for the stars is God.” She told me to eat my food and headed out to the yard to pick some fruit for the beach. I picked up a piece of bake and put a piece of saltfish in it. It was oily, hot, and chewy, and I ate it real slow.
* * *
• • •
On the night before school started and I was to go back to my mama, I snuggled against Queenie. I didn’t want to leave. We were in her backyard and had just finished drinking tea and toast with honey she get from the rasta man down the road, who take care of the bees and collect their sweetness. He is one of Queenie’s old boyfriends, Dawitt. She helps him with the bees, and in return we never pay for honey. We were looking over the hills of the island, the houses tucked into the land, handmade brick squares of dwelling, and the streetlights slowly glimmer awake into the night. I leaned on her lap and she rubbed my back and I started to cry, because I didn’t want to leave she home to be with my mom, who was too tired all of the time to be with me and can’t cook like Queenie.
Queenie told me that she will always be here, so don’t worry. She also gave me my sky-blue pouch and taught me how to use my oracle stones. She let me know that I would begin to feel Spirit and not to fear it when I do. That was seven years ago that I began to understand how to read the medicine in existence.
AUDRE
“GOOD MORNING, QUEENIE. I need your help,” I say, as soon as she gets the app open on her phone. I am sitting in my room wrapped in a blanket and snuggled up in a chair by the window, listening to distant morning birds sing as a slight sun warms my room.
“Good morning to you too, dahlin’. You is up early, so I figure yuh must want sumthin’. Is this about Neri again this week, gyal? I tell you, you would be the first one to know if I hear a ting.” I hear her bracelet clanking the teakettle and running water in her sink in the background.
“Queenie, this ain’t about Neri this time. I need help to heal my friend who dying.”
“Which friend dying? Your friend who sick?”
“Yes, Queenie, yes.” I feeling urgency and I waiting for she to feel it too.
“Oh, I ain’t realize it was that serious. What is it, dahlin’?”
“It some kind of leukemia or cancer or something they ain’t really ever see.” It still feel vague and scary in my chest as I say it.
“What? I is shock, this is so strange.”
“I need your help, okay?” I fiddle with the fringe of the blanket.
“Audre, let me think about what can be done, okay, dahlin’.” I hear something like unsureness in she tone of voice.
“Queenie, please help me. I ain’t trust them hospitals a-tall.”
“Audre, dahlin’, calm down. The hospitals have they work that they do to help people. Remember, I used to work in one.” I can tell she is trying to ease me down, but I need she help.
“Yes, and you say it run by a whole bunch of fools and all the true healers got paid half as much and had to go around fixing they mistakes.” My mind is racing. “What if one of them stchupid doctors is assign to Mabel, and there ain’t no Queenie here in Minneapolis to heal she and something happens to her?”
“Oh, gahm, I just don’t know, if I ain’t there, and I ain’t never encounter whatever this thing is.” I hear she breathe deep and exhale deeper. “I have a next question . . . you consult your stones yet, my love?” she ask.
“No.” Of course she is asking me about my stones. But I had hoped when she hear the extreme nature of the situation, she would see why I need she to take the lead.
“Why not?” I envision her sitting at her breakfast nook, sipping tea, and watching out she window at the sea.
“Queenie. I don’t know, it just so big. I is afraid I will hear something I can’t handle or understand . . . So that is why I is asking you.”
“Well, Audre, I understand it scary and hard, but just start off with reading your stones. You must trust yourself. You have nothing to be afraid of, okay?”
I ain’t say nothing back.
“Okay?”
“Yes, Queenie.” I huddle into a ball, pulling tighter into myself, feeling a little frustrated and dismissed by Queenie.
“I will try and help, but I also wan’ you to believe in your own powers, dahlin’.” She’s trying to be motivating, but it still feel like I is being deserted to figure out such a big thing, alone.
“And you must also listen for the spirits and ancestors of your friend Mabel.”
I just still and listening.
“I ain’t sure what she destiny is but if you are to try and help her, you must listen for the love and power that is around her. You must understand some things before you go into any space of healing, Audre,” she say.
“Like what, Queenie?” All this is feeling too big.
“If you even afraid to cast your stones for wisdom, you might need to work with your own spirit first and make sure you strong and clear.”
“I strong, Queenie, you know I am.”
“Yes, you are, but when you heal, you must know your heart in a real way, so you can feel how Spirit wants to work with you as a healer, yuh understan’?” As she speaks, I touch at the pouch on my chest and breathe deep. “Healing is like falling in love, but deeper. You unite with someone so that you can work alchemy with they soul. So that they might elevate and revive them and heal not only them but their ancestors. And like love, if you don’t know how to protect yourself, it could consume you.” As she say this, I know it is true. “So,” she continues, “I need you to consult your stones and then let we talk and see what you should do.”
This is not the answer I want to hear. We hang up from each other after saying our goodbyes.
Next, I call Epi.
“Wha’ the scene, Epi?” I ask as soon as he pick up.
“I dey, I dey. Making some breakfast for Sarya. It good to hear your voice, Aud. One sec . . . It’s Audre. Oh, Sarya says hello and she miss you.”
“Tell she I miss she too.”
I ask Epi about the most healing foods he know, trying to inspire his most top-notch magic. I’m up and pacing around my room and I hoping so much that Epi is down to help me in this mission.
“Aud,” Epi says and I can almost see him pause mid-chopping of his onion. “That is a BIG thing you talking. Healing from death is what you talking!”
“Remember you make me that syrup for when I had the horrible cold? And also that time you gave me all dem juices and teas when I was cramping bad and I got better in less than a day, remember?”
“What you is talking is two different things, Audre. Even if you was feeling you was going to die, them was cramps and bloating, not a serious illness, dahlin’—”
“Epi, man, you going to help me or not? Just tell me anything to do, I’ll make it happen.”
“Wha’ Queenie say? You know she know every bush and thing for anything happening wit’cha.”
“Epi, please, I is asking you, okay?” The desperation in my voice is hard to suppress. I hear a big breath of contemplation from Epi’s side of the phone.
“Okay, you got something to write with? I ain’t saying this will heal she of death, but it will certainly give she body some life.” I grab my notebook and start writing down everything he say, detail by detail. As he is talking, I touch my chest at where I keep my pouch under my shirt and ask the ancestors for strength to not feel too afraid to heal my friend.
MABEL
IT’S FIVE A.M. and my room is hot and my face is sweaty and stuck to a page of the book. The book I been reading all night. At some point I musta fell out. I look at my phone and see that I have a missed call and text messages from Audre.
Hi Mabel.
:)
You doing fine?
You want to do homework? Together?
How you feeling?
Audre keeps texting me and I don’t know what to say, so I ain’t been saying nothing. Ursa had texted a lot initially, and now it’s here and there, as has Terrell, and Jazzy hits me up too, but after I’ve been ignoring them, their messages are slowing down. Except Audre. I feel like if I respond, she will want to stop by and I’m not ready to see anyone yet. My mom has asked me if I want folks over, and I have told her no, not yet. I like my friends but I don’t want to talk about nothing about school or life, and I don’t want them looking at me like they sorry for me. I already feel icky and weak from all of the stupid medicine and treatments I have to take.
I also feel like I’m losing my mind with this diagnosis. All I want to do is read or listen to Whitney or watch cartoons in bed with Sahir and André 3000. My dad and mom take turns taking care of me and checking in about how I feel. I really haven’t been able to talk to them about the diagnosis either. My mother has been more pushy than my dad. She wants me to go to a therapist to process how I’m feeling. I told her I ain’t ready yet. My dad still seems numb. Distant, like the news is still reaching him.
I pick up The Stars and the Blackness Between Them. I look at the front cover, then the back cover, and then I flip through the pages to the last page of the book.
If you would like to know more about Afua Mahmoud’s case or are interested in expressing your support or connecting to Mr. Mahmoud, please send all correspondence to:
Friends of Afua Mahmoud
P.O. Box 70981
Amherst, MA 01059
I look at the address and I get an urge to write him. And tell him what? I don’t even know if he is alive, and if he is alive, he probably don’t got time to read my letter. Or probably don’t want to. The book was written in the nineties, which was so far back in the day, if he is alive the address probably don’t work no more. I push the idea out my head and start to fall back out.
MABEL
I’M WAKING UP AGAIN and hear a light knocking on the door to my room.
“Mabel? Mabel, it’s me, Audre.”
It takes me a second to recognize what’s happening. I see my periwinkle walls, my Lynx WNBA championship and my Warriors movie poster, my dream catcher hanging above my head, my nightstand with tea and water. And Audre’s voice in the midst of my four-walled world.
“Come in.” She enters my room and I feel my cheeks and mouth do something weird. They smile, from some place. To my surprise, I’m instantly so happy to see her, and I forget everything messed up that’s going on, for a moment. Her hair is in little twisted knots that make her look from the nineties or Africa. She looks pretty, and even though she’s standing in front of me, I miss her so bad. I thought of her a lot since my diagnosis, but I had never felt like it made sense to reach out. To her or anybody. I know she had texted and called, but I never felt like talking. What would I say? But now she is here and I really want her to stay. Bad.
“Hey, Audre . . . how you doing?”
“Your mudda said I should just pass through and bring dis ting I make for yuh,” she says, motioning to a bag in her hand. She looks around my room a little bit nervously. “I hope you ain’t mind I just come by. If you want me to leave, I will . . . I had miss you.” She smiles. “I miss you, gyal.”
I feel it. Her eyes look sad and I wish I hadn’t been so distant, but to be real, I couldn’t do anything else. I didn’t even know who I was these last couple of weeks. My words come out in a stupid rush. “My bad, I didn’t hit you up. I thought about it, I missed you too. Come in, Audre. I was gonna holler. But . . . I . . . couldn’t figure out a good time . . .” I pause and can’t figure out what to say next. I don’t know how to talk about what is happening to me and my body. She walks in and sits on my bed. I start leaning up in bed, and I feel my stomach tighten and then comes pain, but I try to look smooth, like I’m just chilling.
“But . . . I’m glad you came through . . . It’s really good to see you . . . How is school?” My mouth feels coated in powder, and I remember this is the first time I’ve spoken today. I have no idea what time it actually is. I look at my cell and it says 9:17 a.m. She had come by early to see me.
“It’s good. I glad you get me to switch to Ms. Sharkey class. Jazzy in there too. I like everything we studying and Ms. Sharkey letting me do research on all the Caribbean women who helped lead resistance throughout the islands. Ms. Sharkey is so beautiful, natural and nice too. So anyway, I like she, she real, real dope,” she says, and I smile. Hearing her accent all pretty and melodic and then hearing her say “dope” all cute made it hard not to feel some good feelings.
She goes on to tell me that she likes Mr. Trinh a lot—his jokes and his writing and that he asks about me, which makes me happy and sad. I miss his class and getting to write and read good poetry and obscure hip-hop. She tells me that she been making her own lunches now, and Uncle Sunny’s cooking is not as horrible as it was at first.
“I see Ursa too; she been looking out for me,” she continues, and this makes me feel some type of way, which is weird, but true. It just feels unfair that I introduced them and they get to bond or something when I ain’t there. I mean, they can do whatever they want to do. Whatever.
“Me, she, and Jazzy usually split the three-cookie deal at lunch and walk to fourth hour together. Ursa say she really wan’ visit you, Jazzy and Terrell too. They say they ain’t been able to reach yuh, either.”
“I’ll holler at them,” I say, feeling unsure of how I feel about Audre, Jazzy, and Ursa sharing the cookie deal at school. I feel left out or something. Maybe I’m being petty for no reason. Why should I care? Ursa is my homie, and Audre is a cool girl who need good peoples. We are looking at each other quietly. I don’t really have much to say. The only thing that has been on my mind is the diagnosis, and it’s the one thing I don’t want to talk about.
“When you ain’t respond to my text, I call up your mom every day, to see if you feel for company. Today she just told me to come over. I think she tired of hearing me all miserable and missing you.” She grabs my right hand with both of hers.
“Audre, I, um . . .” My throat feels thick and tight, my eyes start to get wet. “I have some stuff going on, but Imma need to wait to tell you and everybody more. I just need some time, okay?” She nods and starts rubbing my hand. Her touch feels so good, I can’t help but feel something feel good inside of me.
“I understand, Mabel. It’s okay. Your mother share a little with me.”
I look at her and see that she looks like she may cry too.
“I bring you green juice I make for you.” She pulls a jar out of her bag.
“What’s in it?” I stare a moment at the swampy neon-green concoction she done brought me, and when I look up at her, she is smiling with her pretty space in her teeth. I’m glad she don’t got braces. We can have non-braces teeth together.
“Listen. You see how all the Rasta women and men them get real old and never age? They look young and vibrant and strong? ’Cause they drinkin’ things like this.” She puts the mason jar in my hand as if it was a sacred elixir. Even though the substance looks intense, the fact that she made me something makes me feel kinda special.
“You can’t tell me what’s in it, though?” I lay my head back in the pillow, trying to make my face act right, instead of looking scared of the greenness of it all.
“Drink the damn ting already, nuh?” She’s laughing but insisting. Any unsureness I have disappears because instantly I just want to make her happy. I open the jar and take a sip.
The first sip hit my mouth and was like all the dang feels. Pineapple-y, sour, spicy, citrusy, gingery, and even tasted like it was, literally, damn green. I can’t help myself: “Cyyyyaaaackkk!!!”
“Whatever, gyal . . . I know
it good, steupse,” she says, sucking her cheeks around her back teeth in a long hiss, like she’s annoyed but she’s laughing at me too.
“Hmm. Actually, you right, it ain’t that bad,” I say, as I take another sip. I feel and taste the greenness again, and this time it almost tastes good. Damn, she done got me to like this stuff. My mom has been juicing things for me here and there, but I barely can sip it. She is smiling at me and looks satisfied with her gift.
“See, good, ain’t it? It got kale, apple, lemon . . . oh, and I put pineapple, spinach, celery. . . .”
“It’s actually really good,” I say, enjoying the next sip even more.
“Parsley, ginger, lime, sea moss—”
“What?!” I say, almost spitting out a green sip.
“He-he-he-he, dat is good island healing, trust me, okay?” Her cheeks spring up again, reveal the gap that I had been missing since I been sick and ain’t even know I did. Her smile gives me life. It gets me so emotional, like Whitney said. I just stare at her and then catch myself. She snuggles closer to me on my bed. We are both awkward and I keep sipping my juice—juice she made for me—grateful that she rolled up on me, even though I realized I must look really rough, since I got my du-rag on and ain’t brushed my teeth yet.
“What book is this? It looks interesting.” She looks at the book tucked under my pillow.
“One of my mama’s books, by this dude named Afua Mahmoud. It’s good, actually, I fell asleep reading it.” I don’t mention I’ve fallen asleep reading it seven nights in a row now. “I think it’s my new favorite book.”
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“It’s about this guy and his growing up, life in prison, about the universe, the stars, and Africa and Black folks and what we been through.” I worry I’m not breaking it down the best. “I guess it’s spiritual, but not Christian or with any religion or anything like that. But hearing his story helps me feel less . . .” And it takes me a while to pinpoint what it is I was feeling. “I feel less . . . wack or hopeless or somethin’. Like I’m a part of the universe, when I’m reading this book.” I know I don’t make sense, but whatever, I just feel a connection to his story.
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