by Deidre Berry
“That’s life, baby. Sometimes all you can do is learn how to roll with the punches.”
“What hurts the most is that she didn’t even recognize me,” I said. “Mama Nita helped raise me, and now she has no idea who I am.”
“It makes you realize that life is so much shorter than you think it is, and one day we’re all going to have more yesterdays than we have tomorrows.”
I looked at Gwen wondering when she had grown up, and why she hadn’t had all of this motherly wisdom when I needed it the most. If the sweet, levelheaded woman sitting across from me had been consistently present when I was kid, we would have a completely different relationship.
I guess the saying is true: Better late than never.
That afternoon, I braved the cold and the snow and joined the masses of last-minute Christmas shoppers at Woodfield Mall. There was a mall Santa who was popular with the kids, and the place was decorated with millions of Christmas lights and other festive decorations, but the mall was also a madhouse, times ten.
People were shoving each other and practically snatching merchandise out of each other’s hands. I’m talking about no Christmas spirit being shown whatsoever.
After about half an hour, I determined that a $200 Visa gift card for the adults and $75 for each of the kids was fair given my circumstances, and called it a day.
Just as I was about to leave the mall and head to Bank of America, I felt my pay-as-you-go cell phone vibrating in my purse.
I was surprised about two things: 1) that I was able to get reception, and 2) that it was Vance. What could he possibly want?
I plugged my index finger in my ear and answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Eva, how’ya doing? It’s Vance.”
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good,” he said. “I was just calling to make sure you made it to Chicago safe and sound.”
“Oh, how sweet! Yeah, I made it okay. . . .”
“That’s great! I also wanted to say Merry Christmas, and to tell you that I have some meetings in Los Angeles coming up, and I thought I would make a stop in Chicago on my way,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” I said. “When are you coming in?”
“In a couple of weeks, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” said Vance. “I’ll be staying at the Ritz Carlton downtown, and I’ll give you another call just as soon as I get in.”
“Well, cool! I look forward to seeing you.”
“Same here,” Vance said. “And, Merry Christmas, Eva.” He said it with a degree of tenderness that is usually reserved for lovers.
I didn’t know why Vance was making a pit stop to see me on his way to the West Coast, but I was certainly intrigued. It had only been a day since I had last seen him, but at that moment, I realized that I kinda missed him.
Being in the midst of my family for the first holiday season since I had left home years before felt wonderful.
It wasn’t exactly a Waltons’ family Christmas, but it did feel like old times, and at least there was no bloodshed like the year second cousins Bridget and Marcia got into a death match over an unpaid loan.
Pam and I cooked dinner while the kids played in the living room, and my grandma sat on the couch staring blankly at the television, which was tuned to TBS and A Christmas Story marathon. She hadn’t uttered a word all day, which was much more terrifying to me than the violent outburst she’d had on my first night home.
In the kitchen, I prepared my specialties of homemade cranberry sauce, yams topped with marshmallows, and banana pudding. Pam was now the best cook in the family because Mama Nita was no longer able, so she took care of the turkey, ham, cornbread dressing, and all the other fixings.
Uncle Booney was off somewhere spending the day with one of his many lady friends, and Gwen had left earlier that morning for the annual Christmas Day Blues breakfast where she was performing. It was a BYOB event put on by the radio station WHPK FM and is a big deal among local blues lovers. They get a chance to dress up and go dance, eat, and get drunk from eight in the morning until one in the afternoon.
It was just as well that she wasn’t there, because nobody wanted or expected her to cook anything, anyway. Gwen liked to drink wine while she cooked, which we have all learned the hard way is a big no-no for her. More often than not, all she does is end up ruining everything she touches.
For example, one year when I was about fourteen, Gwen happened to be home for the holiday and was supposed to be helping Mama Nita in the kitchen. She had been sipping on Carlo Rossi sangria for most of the day, and accidentally put two cups of salt in the sweet potato pie instead of two cups of sugar. Our aunt Anita got so sick after taking a big bite of that nasty pie that she had to be rushed to the emergency room because of her high blood pressure.
“So what’s up with all that missing money, girl?” Pam asked in a whisper, as if the house were bugged.
In the middle of slicing bananas for the banana pudding, I threw my head back and sighed. “Not you, too! Look, you know me,” I said. “If I had an inkling where that money was, please believe that we would all be living on our own secluded island somewhere with pink sand and turquoise water, and I would be paying my own personal team of scientists to come up with a cure for Alzheimer’s.”
“Now, that’s true. . . .” Pam said. “But listen, I have something in the works that has the potential to make us all rich. I’m talking about dream house, and hand-over-fist money.”
Pam was just as bad as Gwen was when it came to pie-in-the-sky ideas, and was always on the lookout for a big come-up. She was thirty, three years older than I was, but she had started her illustrious career as a hustler at the tender age of seven, with the usual lemonade stand and paper route. Around age thirteen, Pam got wind of a hair product called Rio Hair, which claimed to straighten even the toughest grade of hair without lye or other harsh chemicals.
Supposedly, all you had to do was comb the product through your hair, rinse, and enjoy. My sister saw Rio Hair as her ticket to riches, and saved up her allowance money she got from her dad and bought several jars. Me being an impressionable ten-year-old, I was all too eager to have long, illustrious hair like the woman on the jar, so I agreed to let Pam use the product on me.
You see where this is going, right?
Let’s just say that it is very damaging to the self-esteem of a ten-year-old girl to be “ball-headed,” as Jamal Junior would say.
In the years following the Rio Hair debacle, Pam’s list of get-rich-quick schemes would grow to include Quixtar, phone cards, Kirby vacuum cleaners, vitamins that promised to cure all ailments, including diabetes and cancer. And the list goes on and on.
Now, I understand that you are a single mother, and have to do all that is necessary to make it and provide a good life for your kids, but if it sounds too good to be true, then it usually is.
“What do you have going on now, Pam?” I asked, trying to sound enthused, but failing.
“Sis, let me tell you!” she said, launching into a long-winded presentation about a proposed business that would operate like a personal assistant to single mothers in the Chicago area. From running errands to picking the kids up from football practice, whatever was needed Pam’s proposed business would take care of it for you, for a reasonably priced annual fee.
“Members can donate their gently used children’s clothes, and in exchange, buy things for their own kids at very affordable prices,” Pam said, her eyes shining with excitement. “And they’ll also get discounted rates from local businesses, like day care, dry cleaning, housekeeping services, you know . . . stuff like that.”
“Do you have a business plan?” I asked, cautiously.
“Oh, yeah. The Small Business Administration has been helping me work on my business plan for the last month or so, and I’m almost done,” said Pam. “Then the next step after that is to try to secure funding.”
I thought it over for a minute or so, then put my knife
down, wiped my hands on a dishtowel, and gave Pam a big hug.
I was impressed. Rather than coming up with yet another go-nowhere, boarding on illegal scam, my habitually conniving sister had come up with a very unique and practical idea that could actually net profits.
“Me likey!” I said, giving Pam a high five. “If I were a single mother, I would definitely be interested in a service like that.”
“See, and you thought it was gonna be about some bullcrap, didn’t you?”
“Well, it’s not like that hasn’t been your M.O. all these years, but I’m happy for you, sis,” I said. “What are you going to name the business?”
“That is yet to be determined, but right now, I’m leaning toward Mother’s Helper.”
“Perfect!” I said. “Say no more, done and done!”
“Aww, thanks, Eva,” Pam said, initiating another hug. “It’s so good to have you home, I missed my little sis. Even though little sis is all grown up and getting into trouble on a much bigger scale.”
“Girl, tell me about it! And it’s not even like its some shit that I actively participated in. Contrary to what it may look like, it’s all completely circumstantial.”
“I know, but those are some hellified circumstances,” Pam said. “The media has you looking like Queen Bee of the Ponzi scheme, and like you and Donovan sat at the kitchen table and planned all that shit out from day one.”
“And that’s the part I hate the most,” I said. “Lord knows there’s nothing I hate worse than being accused of something I didn’t do.”
Pam laughed. “Shoot, don’t I know it!” she said. “Remember that time you wanted to fight me every day for a week because I told Grandma you broke her big, crystal candy dish, when I was really the one who had done it?”
“Oh, yeah, I remember!” I said. “I got the butt whooping of life, and was put on punishment for a month behind that lie, so I had to get you back some kinda way.”
“Mama Nita did not play when it came to tearing stuff up around her house! I felt so bad, but my thinking at the time was ‘better Eva than me!’ ”
I laughed at the memory, which was another reminder of how vibrant my grandmother used to be. She was very much alive, but in a way, it felt like she had already passed on.
“What do you think she would say about this whole situation with Donovan?” I asked.
“Whoo! Girl, so many things,” Pam said light-heartedly, “but I think the main thing she would say to you right now is hold on tightly to your faith, and somehow, some way, this too shall pass.”
I nodded. “That sounds about right.”
And if I were completely honest with myself, I would have to admit that Mama Nita would also be disappointed that she had sent me off to New York with hopes of being a shining star and leader in my field, but I had inadvertently become a woman of leisure and was now embroiled in a scandal that could possibly land me in prison.
Just when everything was all done, and it was time to eat dinner, Gwen walked in the kitchen with all the grandeur of a Dream Girl. Big bouffant wig, full makeup, and a gold, sequined beaded dress that looked like it weighed about a hundred pounds. “Hey, my babies! I see ya’ll have everything under control in here.”
“Yes, we do,” I said. “Which is more than I can say for you. Seriously, when you’re drunk at two in the afternoon, where do you go from there?”
Gwen cupped my chin and sang, “You got’ta take it higher!” she said, putting her own spin on the old James Brown hit.
Pam shook her head and moaned, “Oh, Lord . . .”
Gwen whirled around in Pam’s direction, and asked, “What are you over there ‘Oh Lording’ about? ’Tis the season to be jolly, right? I had two glasses of champagne, and y’all are up in here acting like I’m sloppy, falling-down drunk. And if I was, so what! I’m the mama around here!”
Pam and I raised our eyebrows and looked at each other as if to say, “Yeah, right!”
Mama of the house, indeed. As if she were the one who cooked our breakfast every morning before school and took us down to Miss Lenora’s Beauty Box on Saturday mornings, if she were too tired from the previous workweek to press ’n curl our hair herself.
The true “mama of the house” was out in the living room with her mind in the grips of a vicious disease that had rendered her a shell of her former self.
While Gwen was off traipsing around the globe as if she didn’t have kids, or a care in the world, my grandmother was the one making all the sacrifices and working hard to put food on the table for not only me and Pam, but for anyone who showed up on our doorstep with a long face and a sad story.
And they came often. There is at least one house in every neighborhood that people flock to the most. Ours was it.
Even though Pam, Uncle Booney, Mama Nita, and I were the primary residents, the three-bedroom garden apartment in Cabrini-Green was always crowded with neighbors, friends, and extended relatives.
People sat in the kitchen having political discussions about “the man” and the sorry state of the country. They sat in the living room and watched the Cosby Show and Dynasty on the bulky floor model TV that also doubled as a plant stand. And at all times, there were at least two people sitting on the front or back porch smoking a cigarette and/or reefer and watching the world go by.
“Looking good, looking good . . .” Gwen said, as Pam brought the eighteen-pound turkey out of the oven and set it on the stove. “What do y’all need for me to do?”
“Set the table, and rally the troops,” I said, while removing the homemade cranberry sauce from the fridge, which I was pleased to see had set perfectly. Gwen went out into the living room and came back a couple of minutes later looking scared and on the verge of hysteria. “Where’s Mama?” she asked.
“In the living room with Olivia and Kelly,” I said.
“No, she not,” Gwen said. “The kids are out there taking a nap, and I just checked the whole house, and she is nowhere to be found!”
“Well, you stay here with the girls,” I said, taking off my apron. “Call all the neighbors, and go throughout the house and check all the closets.”
Pam turned off all the burners on the stove, and the two of us ran into the living room where we scrambled to put on our boots and coats.
It was a very dangerous thing for a victim of Alzheimer’s to wander away from home unattended, but it was even more so in extreme temperatures.
Awaiting us when we walked outside was a bone-chilling eighteen degrees that, combined with the high winds coming off Lake Michigan, forced the wind chill well below zero. To make matters worse, it was still snowing just as it had been all day, adding to the several inches that had already fallen.
There were other houses to the east and west of us, leaving north and south as the only logical directions to take off in.
“I’m going this way,” Pam said, and took off running south up Kessler Avenue without taking the time to discuss a solid plan of action.
As I began to head north, I put my detective hat on and noticed that there were tracks in the snow that led straight away from Mama Nita’s house and into the Hensons’ yard, directly across the street. The Hensons’ yard went straight through to Parker Avenue, where there are businesses and a lot more traffic.
I followed those tracks in the snow for fifteen minutes until I saw a lone figure standing at a bus stop. It was Mama Nita. We were a half block away from each other, but I recognized the gray slacks and black turtleneck sweater that I had helped her get dressed in that morning.
I don’t know where she thought she was going, but she had somehow managed to remember where the nearest bus stop was, which had been her preferred mode of transportation for the more than forty years since the accident that killed LeAnn. She couldn’t stand to be in a car even as a passenger, let alone behind the wheel.
As I ran to her, that infamous Chicago hawk ripped right through my bomber jacket, and frigid air stung my lungs every time I inhaled.
I wa
s glad to see Mama Nita, but at the same time, she was a heartbreaking sight to behold.
Not only wasn’t she wearing a coat, but my heart nearly stopped when I looked down and realized that she didn’t have any shoes on either. Without hesitation, I pulled my UGG boots off, and luckily, she didn’t fight me as I slipped them onto her feet.
I then took off my bomber jacket and put that on her as well. “Come on, Mama Nita,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
I put my arm around her waist and headed back in the direction of home, but it was slow going. Even through her sweater, I could feel that her skin was extremely cold to the touch.
My bare feet were so cold, they burned, and felt like blocks of ice, and Mama Nita was having a hard time because there was no telling how long she had been out there.
On a good day it would have been a fairly short walk back to the house, but in those conditions, there was no way we were going to make it.
We needed help.
I stopped at a house on the corner of Twenty-fifth and Parker Avenue. The woman who opened the door said a cheery “Merry Christmas!” then screamed in horror when she fully realized the condition Mama Nita and I were in: an old woman possibly near death from the freezing cold, and a younger one with no shoes or coat, both of us so numb from the cold, we could hardly walk.
“Willie Lee and Johnny, y’all come over here and help me!” the woman yelled out, and then she and her family practically dragged my grandmother and me into the warmth of their home.
Thank God for the kindness of strangers.
Family Decisions
Hypothermia and severe frostbite kept Mama Nita hospitalized for several days.
I wasn’t exposed to the harsh elements for long so I had already made a full recovery, but every day during that period of time, the entire Cantrell clan convened in my grandmother’s hospital room at Jackson Park Hospital.
As a family, we were all worried, and everything was put on hold until Doctor Butler, her personal physician, announced that amputation of some of her toes would not be necessary, as they had initially thought.