Cold Flash

by Carrie H. Johnson

  CHAPTER 4

  The ringing grew louder and louder. I rolled over, refusing the nudge to wake up. The ringing stopped. A blissful sigh turned into a moan when it rang again. Dulcey at 5:30 a.m. As soon as I answered, she started crying, only the second time I ever heard tell. The first time was when Travis said she cried the night before.

  “Muriel, the man has lost his ever-loving mind.” Dulcey sniffed so hard her nose honked. “I swear I woulda killed him last night if Travis had not a been here. The boy musta tole you all what went on here. I’m sorry he had to be a part of all that.”

  “Dulce, Travis is good with all that, I mean being able to help, but you can’t be worrying about Hamp’s mess now. You got enough to do.”

  “How can I not worry about the man when he’s up in my face, actin’ the fool?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s gone. Where else but at the boat most likely, where he always runs to. And I’m up here sniveling like some schoolgirl. I need to go to the shop and focus on hair, get my mind off that fool.”

  Hamp and Dulcey owned a twenty-eight-foot cabin cruiser, the Dulcey Maria, which they moored at Penn’s Landing. Dulcey owned Dulcey’s Beauty Spa, a hair, nail, and skin salon at Fairmont and Fifth Avenue.

  “You can run but you can’t hide,” I halfheartedly joked.

  “I know that’s right. I’ll see you later. I’ll be by about two.”

  I fell back to sleep until the twins came bounding into my room and turned the television to cartoons. They slipped under the covers, one on either side of me, and got comfortable. I dozed a few more times before the alarm went off at eight thirty.

  By ten, we were on our way to Penn Center, the long-term care facility on Chestnut Street, to see Nareece.

  When we arrived at her room, Nareece was sitting in a wheelchair pushed up to a table, eating breakfast—or brunch, given the late-morning hour. Rather, she was being fed by Nurse Diana.

  Not that she can’t feed herself; more like she chooses not to. Physically there is nothing wrong with her. Emotionally, she’s racked with guilt, shame, horror, and God knows what else because of Jesse Boone. And so she’s vegging, mostly unresponsive. Doctors call it conversion disorder and say she could recover and be back to her old self at any time—that is, when she decides.

  The small, private room had a large window at the far end that brightened the room and made cheery the otherwise drab décor that included putrid-green walls and old-fashioned flowery curtains from great-grandma’s house. The good news: Her room faced west, so sunshine filled the space most of the day.

  The twins bounded into the room, disrupting the feeding process, though not because Nareece made any moves toward them. She remained still, like a statue, while food dripped from her bottom lip to her lap. Rose picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. Usually, I fed her while the twins jabbered on about events that had taken place since their last visit. Today we were late. I got up to her face, nose to nose. Somehow her blank look held a glint of recognition, distant yet there. I swear I saw a flash of anger—because of our tardiness, maybe.

  “Hey, sis. Sorry we’re late.”

  “She’s been a little resistant this morning,” Nurse Diana said, trading places with me so I could take over the feeding. “She’s only had a few mouthfuls.”

  I filled the spoon with some oatmeal and put it to her mouth. Nareece clamped her lips shut and tightened her fists, a sign her awareness had improved, even if it was to blow me off.

  “I guess you’ve had enough, huh?” I pulled her wheelchair away from the table. “We’ll get you cleaned up and go for a walk outside, get some fresh air. Can’t stay long. The girls are going to spend the day with Mr. Kim, from my old neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, Mom. We’re going to go sightseeing with Mr. Kim and Hana. Mr. Kim is going to take us to the aquarium,” Helen said. Rose continued to dab at her mother’s mouth and wipe her chin. She cleaned off her nightgown too, where some oatmeal had spilled.

  “C’mon, baby.” I tapped her forehead. “You’re in there, listening to me and the kids. It’s time to come out of there. It’s time to move on.”

  Silence.

  I left the girls to talk to her and went into the bathroom to draw a bubble bath. When I came out, Nareece held Rose in her lap and Helen stood behind her chair, brushing her hair. I turned the television on and changed the channel to cartoons.

  The twins stopped what they were doing and got comfortable on the bed, while I helped Nareece up and guided her to the bathroom.

  “Pretty soon you’ll be home with us. You’ll see, everything will be right again,” I whispered to Nareece.

  I slipped her granny nightgown off over her head and eased her skinny frame down into the warm bath water. The twins weighed more than she did. Scars spanned her chest and down the center of her body to her groin. My eyes watered. Not because of the look of them, but because of the memories they evoked. She took the soap and facecloth from me and began washing herself. I went to grab the facecloth back, then realized what was happening. After she wiped her face, she dropped the facecloth in the water and stilled her movements again. I helped her out of the tub, dried her, and rubbed lotion over her body.

  After I dressed her, we all went for a walk around the hospital grounds. Nareece walked part of the way with a twin on either side of her holding her hand, while I pushed the wheelchair. Halfway around the hospital grounds she dropped anchor and took to the wheelchair. That was the thing—she moved around when she wanted to, but she wouldn’t look at you, or speak, or even look like anything anyone said was getting through. The good news was, she was becoming more active with each visit.

  The twins pushed her in the wheelchair, talking to her as though she’d respond. And then she smiled. We all saw it. We exchanged gazes but did not say anything. By the time we got back to the room, her blank expression had returned.

  We arrived at Mr. Kim’s at one thirty. Mr. Kim, my neighbor for fifteen years, also held the distinction of being my self-defense instructor, the neighborhood security, and my friend. I owned the vacant twin house a grassy yard away from Mr. Kim’s house. We moved out a week ago. The decision to sell or rent waged war in my brain. I’m not sure why I hesitated selling since housing prices were up more than they had been in a decade. Still, I needed more time.

  Our houses looked the same on the outside. Inside, Mr. Kim’s took you on a journey, which beckoned at the opening of the front door.

  Hana, a tinier version of Mr. Kim, answered the door and bowed to welcome us. She grabbed a hand of each twin and pulled them in. Stepping across the threshold, shoeless, was stepping into a sanctuary of calm. The open space of shiny blond hardwood floors and sleek modern and antique pieces of Korean-style furniture created an elegantly sparse chamber. My favorite was an antique two-piece stacking chest made of elm wood with persimmon-wood panels. Mr. Kim had promised it to me when I reached black belt status.

  I had been doing Tae Kwon Do with Kim for five years, the last year as a black belt apprentice, harboring much anxiety over the looming black belt test, despite Mr. Kim’s assurance of my readiness.

  Mr. Kim stood center room. The twins, at nine years old, were bigger than Mr. Kim, but Bruce Lee could not match the man’s might and skill as the ultimate grand master of martial arts.

  “Welcome.”

  “Hi, Mr. Kim,” the twins said in unison, bowing simultaneously.

  The twins kissed me goodbye and followed Hana upstairs, giggling all the way. Not running and howling in their home way, but walking and covering their mouths to muffle the sounds of their giggles.

  I turned to Mr. Kim. It was weird how he knew things.

  “Come, sit,” he said, ushering me into the dining area.

  The cherrywood table was long and thin with wide, short legs. It was flanked by four low, cushioned chairs. When I sat, or rather fell, into the chair, I was Mr. Kim’s height. Mr. Kim approached from behind and pressed his fingers into the
sides of my head and temples. The relief was immediate. I closed my eyes and let the glimmer of peacefulness take me away, for a moment, before Mr. Kim’s voice registered.

  “Miss Muriel, I have a favor to ask of you. I am ashamed . . .”

  “Mr. Kim, we’ve been friends too long to talk about shame.” I modulated my voice so as not to disrespect. “You got my back, I got yours.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated while moving his miracle fingers to my shoulders. A deep sorrow hugged the silence. I reached up and stopped his hands. I shifted around in my seat to face him.

  “It’s Karin. She left two nights ago to go out and has not returned. I am concerned.” Like me, he had begun a new phase when his daughter, Karin, and granddaughter, Hana, moved in with him. They had arrived from California six months earlier.

  Even Mr. Kim’s strength was no match to the challenge of Karin, who had come home way harder and more haggard than the bright-eyed, spunky, ready-to-take-on-the-world twenty-year-old who left five years ago. This was the third time Karin had disappeared.

  I knew that my best advice to call the police and report her missing was not acceptable. It was not the Mr. Kim way.

  “The child has been very upset about her mother. I am sure that the twins being here today will help her. However, without her mother here . . .”

  I struggled to stand until Mr. Kim reached out a hand and touched my fingers. I rose from my seat without a hitch.

  “She needs to go into rehab, Mr. Kim. You can’t help her unless she decides that’s what she wants to do.” He turned his back to me. “It’s the only way she’ll even begin to recover.” I walked around to face him.

  Mr. Kim’s stoic expression did not waiver.

  “I’ll check around for Karin. Where was she going when she left?”

  “She was going to a nightclub downtown, but I am not aware of which one.”

  “Who’d she leave with?”

  “I believe a gentleman picked her up. But he did not come in. I have called all hospitals. The possible outcome of my request may be difficult to hear. It will be more comfort than not knowing.”

  “I’m sure—”

  “Let us not speculate about those things that we do not know but can only hope.”

  When I returned home, Travis and his friends, Elijah and Sam, were in the living room preparing to leave. Sam walked up on me and kissed my cheek. Sam had been coming around since first grade.

  “Good to see you, Miss M. My mom says hello.”

  “It’s been awhile, Sam. Everything good?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elijah bolted up from the couch and stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Hey, Miss Mabley. Nice to meet you again.” He bowed as though honoring a queen.

  “Elijah.”

  “You look lovely as usual,” he said with what I categorized as a devious smirk.

  “Thank you.” I moved toward him. He moved aside.

  “Where are you guys headed?” I said to Travis.

  “We’re going to play a little basketball and hang out for a while,” Travis said, planting a kiss on my cheek.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon,” Elijah said, backing out the front door.

  Ah, the simple joy of being home alone. I giggled my way to the kitchen and snagged the container of watermelon sherbet from the freezer, a bowl, and spoon. My plan included being couch comfortable and bingeing on movies until Dulcey arrived.

  Bingeing on movies lasted a minute before I clocked out. I woke to Dulcey pounding on the door and yelling my name. I felt groggy, in a dreamlike state. I checked the time on my phone: 2:38. I slid off the couch, stubbed my toe on the leg of the coffee table, and hopped the rest of the way to the door before Dulcey broke through it.

  “I was about to break the damn door down,” Dulcey huffed, blowing by me. “I’m late, as usual, but my baby called and we talked for a few hours,” she said. She unpacked a bottle of Sauvion Vouvray and uncorked it, then poured me a glass, while I set the teapot on the stove. Tea had become her drug of choice since the onslaught of chemotherapy treatments. I watched her twitch around in silence, the sound of her flip-flops snapping against the floor and her heel, checking out the boxes in the kitchen that needed unpacking. She finally took a seat at the island.

  “I can’t believe you’re not unpacked yet. Looks like you’re getting ready to move out.” She cackled for a second before she got serious. “You need some Dulcey help around here so you can put your head on straight. Besides, I might have to take up residence with you if that Negro of mine keeps up his nonsense.” She stopped moving around and looked at me with her hands hugging her hips. “You are a mess, girl. You look like something left over from the night before.”

  That was her usual statement to me if I had not seen her in a week’s time—that is, allowed her to do my hair in that time period. I had a standing home appointment—one, because I could never find the time to get to her shop, and two, because it was our time.

  It was Dulcey who was going through chemotherapy and radiation and the sickness of breast cancer treatment, and here she was making sure I was all good. There was no arguing with her though. Following directions is the best therapy you can offer her.

  I took a seat at the counter across from her.

  “The man is talking all kinds of nonsense, telling me he’s fine and just working out a few problems that I don’t need to concern myself about. Says he ain’t coming home until he has made things right. Problem is, he ain’t tellin’ me what those things are.”

  I stayed silent. When Dulcey needs to talk, you gotta just let her belt it all out.

  “I wanted to end his life last night. ’Course, I couldn’t live without him. Live and die for that man, no matter. He just gets so crazy sometimes and makes my hair, when I had hair”—she hesitated before continuing—“stand on end, looking like some kind of orangutan.” She snorted through tears.

  I helped her into the den to sit on the couch. Then I went back into the kitchen and got a paper towel for her. “Hamp is not going to do anything that will hurt you. And he’s definitely not leaving you. The man is crazier than crazy about you.”

  “I can’t believe I’m sniveling like this.” Dulcey blew her nose, sounding like there was no possible way it would ever need blowing again.

  “I can’t believe it either,” I said. “All these years, I have never seen or heard about you crying until now. Let it go, girl. Let them eyes puff up, those cheeks berry up, and your nose fill up with snot. Go ahead, don’t be shy. I’ve seen everything else you ever put out.”

  Dulcey slapped at the air in my direction and we laughed.

  She almost choked from her cackling, then she got serious and said, “He said he’s going to call you.”

  “I’ll help him with whatever I can when he does.”

  “So now tell me how that man of yours is and how your training for that tree-ath-a-lon is going.”

  I talked about my training progress, and how my first time swimming in the Schuylkill, or any other body of water besides a pool, was happening in two weeks. I decided it best not to tell her about the incident at the pool, since it would only promote worry and give her reason to mother me.

  “Between the training and the girls, my butt be worn out,” I said.

  “Those young ladies need their momma. How’s she doing?”

  “The same. We were there this morning. I swear, Dulcey, she looked different in her eyes, like she was hearing me. By the time I got her washed and dressed and we went for a walk, she smiled once, but then she was back looking like she was a million miles away.”

  “She’ll come back. No way she’s gonna stay away from her babies for too long. I pray for that girl day and night and I know God is going to help her find her way back. Ain’t no Jesse Boone gonna have the last word in this story.”

  My phone buzzed. It was Calvin.

  “Hello, baby,” I said in my sweet-lady voice—the kind that says I’m horny and happy
to hear from you. Dulcey wrinkled her face and mimed the way I said hello to Calvin, pursing her lips and rocking her arms back and forth. I slapped the air in her direction.

  After I confirmed our date and I hung up, Dulcey said, “Sounds like you two got it going on pretty good.”

  “Sometimes he doesn’t hit me quite right. I can’t put my finger on it, but . . . maybe it’s the secrecy, you know, he’s into more than he lets on and won’t share with me. ‘If I tell you I’ll have to kill you’ has gotten old. Some mystery about a man might be good for some, but not me. I want to know it all.”

  “Oh, hush your fuss, girl. You looking for perfection and that ain’t happenin’ ever. It ain’t possible. Except maybe Laughton McNair. Yes, Lord, that man there was as close to perfect as they come.”

  “Don’t start, Dulcey.”

  “You’re right. Men—don’t want to live with them and don’t want to live without them,” Dulcey said and cracked up. I shook my head at her. “So what’s he done that’s got you tight? Girl, all you talked about a minute ago was how the man made you scream.” Dulcey was on her feet, swaying her hips and arms. “What more could a woman ask for?” She plopped down on the couch again. “Hmm. Maybe Hamp is a good deal.”

  “Ha! Hamp knows that if he doesn’t get his act together he won’t be around much longer to live up to being anybody’s good deal.”

  “Time for more vino,” Dulcey said, getting up. “C’mon, I’ll do something with that mop on your head while we sip.” She gave me a sideways glance. “While you sip. I bet you been wearing that ponytail all week. You can’t go out with that fine thang, looking like who done it.”

  “I don’t have to go out tonight. I can stay here.”

  “For what? I’ma go home and get in my bed and watch my programs after I fix you up.”