The Exorsistah

by Claudia Mair Burney

  I walked through The Gardens, shocked. My mama said the housing project had once been a model for low-income housing around the nation. Now it was a boarded-up ghost town. Didn’t look like hardly anybody lived here now, and I hoped that Jamilla and her folks finally caught a break and moved out.

  I crossed Pine Street and found the three-bedroom unit they had lived in. It looked like they were still there. Jamilla’s mama loved her little piece of yard. I could tell it was their place by the black-eyed Susans, hostas, and impatiens out front.

  I knocked on the door, and Jamilla’s mama, Mama Jacobs, looked startled when she saw me. She paused and placed her hand over her heart, before a huge smile spread across her face.

  I took in the sight of this woman I loved. Her deep ebony skin just like mine. She always made me feel beautiful. Her Claire Huxtable television mama sassiness, with a little more down southern charm, and a touch of ghetto fabulousness.

  “Lord, have mercy. Is that my other chile? Is that you, Emme?”

  I wanted to cry, but instead I smiled. “It’s me, Mama Jacobs.”

  She pushed open the screen. And pulled me into a Mama Bear—hug. She rocked me in her soft mama arms, almost suffocating me in her bosoms. “Umph, umph, umph,” she said. “Lord, I thought we’d never see you again. You an answer to my prayers.”

  I just held on. Wasn’t nobody like Mama Jacobs and the feeling she always inspired in me, that no matter how far away from home you found yourself, somebody back there loved you. I’d forgotten that. That there were people in this world who loved me.

  When we finally let each other go, Mama Jacobs wiped away tears. She looked at me with great tenderness. “How yo’ mama doing, baby?”

  “She ain’t doing too good. About the same.” I hadn’t heard a word about my mama for two years. But somehow I knew it was true. Mama Jacobs didn’t press me for details, thank goodness.

  Silence spread between us. I sighed and plunged into it. “Ma, where is Jamilla?”

  She wagged her head. “Your girl is in trouble, Em.”

  Man. She called me Em, like Mama use to.

  “I heard.”

  I saw the shock on her face and wanted to reassure her. “I know Fran—um, Frankie. The guy on the team that’s gonna help her. He wanted me to help out, too. He knows about … what I can do.”

  Her face brightened like tinsel on a Christmas tree. “I knew the Lord sent you. I knew you’d be able to help her with your gift.”

  I didn’t even get into it.

  “I only know what Frankie told me, Mama Jacobs, and it ain’t much. Tell me what you think happened.”

  “Come in here. Let’s have a seat, honey.”

  I followed her into their home—and it really was a home, full of warmth and love and comfort, right there in the heart of the ghetto. They’d gotten some rent-to-own furniture. I could tell it was rent-to-own, because all that rental furniture looked about the same. I sat on the cheap, hideous brown floral couch and sank into the once-familiar feeling of my extended family. The living room set was different, but the place still smelled like Mama Jacobs’s cooking. She still wore Love’s Baby Soft perfume, which she said she’d worn when she was a teenager. Jamilla wore it, too. She still had dollar-store knickknacks all over the place. And plants. And that picture that used to be in her own mama’s living room—a black woman with a big ol’ Afro, lying with a tiger. Some things never changed.

  But she had. She looked way older than the last time I saw her—older than she should. And way too thin.

  She sat across from me in the love seat, checkin’ me out the way mamas do. “You done lost weight, Em. Ain’t they taking care of you in that foster home?”

  “I’m all right, Ma.”

  “It’a kill yo’ mama if she saw how skinny you was.”

  I didn’t need to be talkin’ about my mama.

  “Please, Mama Jacobs. Tell me about Jamilla.”

  She shook her head. “Baby, I don’t know. She was always a good girl. You know that. She started going away a lot. Said there was this bookstore she liked. And she was always bringing home books, so we thought, she’s just reading a lot. All kindsa things about Africa. It was like she was searching for something she didn’t think she had.

  “I understood it,” she said. “In the eighties we was wearin’ those leather medallions and listening to Public Enemy. We wanted to be down with the struggle, too. Most black folks have a lil’ taste of that in they life. So we ain’t try to stop her. We figured it was just a phase.”

  “That doesn’t sound like anything that’d put her in harm’s way.”

  “We are baffled, honey. She started having dreams and hearing voices. We took her to the doctor. We tried everything.”

  “Do you still have the books she was reading? Did any of them look occultic?”

  “She must have took ’em back to where she got ’em, but I didn’t see nothing that looked bad. Not a one of them seemed like something we wouldn’t want her to fool with. None she brought home.”

  She sighed, her head cast down. “I told her we was a proud family and all she needed to know about the Jacobses and the Thomases were right here in America. But she got sicker and sicker, and when she couldn’t stand to go to church no more, we got worried. Pretty soon anything to do with Jesus would make her fly into a rage. Or make that thing in her go crazy. That wasn’t my Milla.”

  “Did you make sure it wasn’t …” I hated to say it. Reminded me of Mama. “Schizophrenia?”

  “Of course we did. I’ma tell you the truth, Emme. I saw too many things that reminded me of yo’ mama.”

  I must have winced.

  “I’m sorry, baby, but it’s true. We took her to our pastor for deliverance, and he couldn’t help her. He tried, but she only got worse. He started lookin’ into things and found out about All Souls. They had a doctor and a psychologist examine her, and …” She looked hesitant. “I wished many a day you’d show up and could … you know … see what’s in her.”

  “Ma. I can’t … I mean … I couldn’t even figure out what’s wrong with Mama.”

  “Jamilla believes in you. I do, too. She told me many a night that if I could find you she’d be all right.”

  I looked stunned. “But, Ma—”

  Footsteps shuffling down the stairs stole my sentence. A few moments later, I was looking at Jamilla. A different Jamilla than the one I knew. She had always been fair-skinned. Her father is biracial, so she’s got that redbone thing goin’ on. Long, sandy-brown hair. Light brown eyes. We use to tease her ’cause her facial features look totally black. Wide nose and thick, beautifully full mouth. Now dark circles put shadows under her eyes. Her fair skin looked ashen, with a sickly gray pallor. A foul smell emanated from her, and I knew it didn’t have its source in her personal hygiene. Mama Jacobs didn’t play that.

  Jamilla managed a weak smile. She croaked out, “Emme.” She was so weak, she had to grab the wall to steady herself.

  This time, I did cry.

  I didn’t have much time with Jamilla. Her mother went into the kitchen to let us talk in private. I didn’t know how long Jamilla would be herself. If she was anything like my mama, she was unpredictable—be it sick, crazy, or possessed. But for now, she was Jamilla. A very scary version, but my friend was still there and fighting.

  She sat across from me on the love seat.

  “What happened, girl?” I asked her, trying to take her all in.

  “I don’t know, Emme.”

  I stared at her. I had no idea how to approach this. “So you tryna go back to Africa on a sistah?”

  Her gaze went to her lap. That wasn’t like Milla.

  “W’sup, girl?”

  “Nothin’ wrong with tryna know thyself, Emme.”

  “Know thyself. Sounds almost like Scripture—but isn’t.”

  “That don’t mean it’s wrong.”

  This wasn’t an interrogation. I didn’t wanna press her and make her shut down on me. “Your m
ama said you were going to a bookstore. Gettin’ books about Africa.”

  “Right.”

  “How you pay for all that, Milla?”

  “What?”

  “I know how much books cost. They ain’t cheap. How did you pay for all those books?”

  A soft laugh came from her throat. “My parents ain’t even ask me that.”

  “They don’t buy books.”

  “You right.”

  I shook my head. “Who is he? And don’t even try to front.”

  She lowered her voice. “His name is Asa. Girl, he works at this bookstore I visited. I only planned to check it out one time. I was just curious. So, I went in there, and I liked him because he was good-lookin’, girl.”

  “Too fine, huh?”

  “Three, four, five fine, Emme.” Her half smile quickly faded. “He’s smart. And always dressed in something African. He ain’t the kinda brotha you meet around here. He started talking to me about our African roots. He thought one of my parents is white, and I had to school the brotha that we come in all colors.”

  Oh yeah. Together Milla and me were chocolate and vanilla, salt n’ pepper … we got it all during school. This was an old story for us.

  “So you set him straight. Then what?”

  “He taught me stuff. About how we African-American descendants of slaves come from West Africa and how we’re connected to the Motherland.”

  “You knew that.”

  “But he made me see it all with fresh eyes. You know?”

  “But Milla, your family always gave you a strong sense of who you are. Girl, I always envied that about your family. Y’all are tight. Back generations.”

  “I know, but he was different. In a good way. I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to know him and hear more of what he had to say. Girl, how many times could girls like us meet somebody who can teach us anything? These jokers out here don’t want nothin’ but to get they swerve on.”

  “Well, you don’t get—you know—sick from talking about Africa. What else?”

  “He was real into traditional spirituality. The Orishas. Voodun.”

  “You mean Voodoo?”

  She looked sheepish. “Yeah.”

  I stage-whispered, “You been practicing voodoo and stuff?”

  She answered with her own whisper, eyes darting toward the kitchen, probably to see if her mama was standing there. “Naw! I ain’t practiced no Voodoo. I only talked to him. I told him I was a Christian. I was tryna witness to him.”

  I thought about Francis. “Girl! You can’t fool with no fine bro’s when they all off into voodoo and stuff. What did we always say about missionary dating?’”

  “It didn’t start off as dating. I never thought it would get that far. And then, you know … we got deeper.”

  “Deeper?”

  She looked around. “I can’t talk to you with my mama around.”

  “She can’t hear us.”

  “I can’t, Emme.”

  “Fine. Will you talk to me somewhere else?”

  “She ain’t gon’ let me go nowhere. I don’t even go to school now.”

  “I’ll work on it. Okay?”

  She sat back into the petals of a huge flower printed on the love seat.

  I considered her. “Did you do anything with Asa that could make you sick?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t talk about this right now.”

  “Milla.”

  “Not here. Okay?”

  “Do they know about him? At all?”

  She got quiet for a minute. I didn’t press her, but I was losing patience. I wanted to shake that girl. I wasn’t gettin’ nothin’ from her. Finally she breached the silence.

  “Remember Antoine?”

  I felt my heart drop. I didn’t know what she was about to say. Was he dead? Crazy? Was he possessed? In jail? Did he miss me? Was she gonna tell me he still loved me?

  “What about him?”

  “I kept your secret, Emme. I never told nobody.”

  Okay, she didn’t tell me anything about Antoine per se but saying his name told me all I needed to know about how to deal with this. I stood up. “I gotta go, Milla. I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I ain’t gon’ leave you, girl.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I’m back, Milla. I’m not going nowhere.”

  “I can’t tell them.”

  “Right.” I understood.

  She sat staring at her hands folded on her lap, and I couldn’t help but trip on how everything changes. But girlfriends are girlfriends. And she never told on me.

  “Emme,” she said.

  “W’sup?”

  “I went to church with him one time. It was kinda like a Catholic church, but kinda different, too. It was like a Pentecostal Catholic church with a lot of black and Latino people. I ain’t think it would be a problem.”

  “What kind of Catholic church?”

  “I don’t know. It was unique. I didn’t think it mattered, and I only went one time.”

  “What was the name of the church, Jamilla?”

  “I don’t know. It had some long name.” She drew her feet up on the love seat. “The dreams started right after that.”

  “Did you do anything unusual there?”

  “I was just there. Watching. How could me going to church cause this? I never messed with his Voodoo or Orishas or nothing. I wouldn’t do that.”

  I got up and sat next to her, ignoring the rotten smell coming from her. “Did you tell them about the dreams? And the voices?”

  “I told them that stuff. Just not about Asa.” She asked me one more question. A hard one. “Can you see something inside of me? Something bad?”

  I couldn’t look at her when I answered. I shrugged and shook my head. “No. All I see is my friend. And like your mama said, you’re in trouble.”

  “Will you pray for me?”

  “Yeah. I’ma pray. That’s how we roll, girl.”

  I had to get up out of there. I didn’t think I could endure another moment looking at her drawn out and hollow enough to host a demon. I said good-bye to her and her mama and took that walk back to All Souls and Francis’s house.

  I trudged through the projects, down Annapolis, and headed back to the church. I didn’t think about somebody seeing me this time. I thought about the things I could see. About the curse that people kept telling me was a gift and about how useless I was, for real.

  By the time I made it to the parish house, it was dark. I looked over at All Souls Church and strangely, the door was open. I shot a move and changed direction before I knocked on the door to the house and headed to the church.

  I stepped into the quiet building and took the liberty of wandering back to the door of the sanctuary. I’da called out to see if anybody was around, but the quiet soothed my jangled soul, and I knew the sound of my own loud voice would irritate me.

  I hadn’t been to a Catholic church before. I found it both familiar and strange. It had a pulpit, but it was over to the side and much smaller than the ones I was used to seeing in Pentecostal churches. There was that birdbath-like thing when you first come in, filled with water—but of course, it wasn’t a birdbath. And that wasn’t regular water in it. It was holy water. I knew that much—if only from the movies—but I never knew what the thing was called.

  Fourteen pictures, intricately and beautifully wrought and framed in ornate wood, spread around the walls spanning the length of the sanctuary. They depicted different scenes of Jesus going to the cross and being crucified.

  I’d heard of the Stations of the Cross, but never saw them in a church. Why didn’t Protestants have that? My mama told me art in the church was a poor man’s Bible. Here it was true. All you needed to know about Christ was on those four walls.

  I felt a little nervous. Jamilla said she went to a Catholic church, and the next thing she knew she was having dreams and evil voices talkin’ to her. I didn’t know much of nothin’ abou
t the Catholic church, and here I was all up in it. And for what? I couldn’t even be sure. A home? Francis? My mama? Jamilla?

  God, help me.

  I walked the parameters of the sanctuary, stopping to gaze at each of the stations. That didn’t seem bad. Thinking about Jesus’ death. I pushed past my misgivings and meditated on every one of those pictures—checking my heart and spirit to see if I felt okay about it.

  Jesus condemned to death. Receiving His cross. The Lord falling the first time from the burden of carrying it. The black man helping Him hold the cross up. All the way to His death and laying Him in the tomb.

  Yeah. Not only did I feel okay. I felt at peace. And I didn’t feel peace much.

  If Jesus could suffer all that agony, maybe I could fight my battles, and a few other people’s, too.

  What if I can’t help at all?

  What if I can?

  Maybe Francis was right. How could I lose? Maybe he could train me to do something for her. If I worked with them, I could get some skills a sistah could use even after I went on my own. And if nothing else, maybe a proactive approach could keep me from the madness—literally.

  Oh, Lord.

  It was too much to think about, but what other options did I have?

  I tried to return my focus to my prayers in this beautiful sanctuary.

  All Souls seemed prettier than the churches I grew up in. I was used to any ol’ storefront joint. One place I went to actually used to be a bar! It still smelled like beer.

  I’d been to a few nondenominational churches in Ann Arbor. Kiki preferred those, even though physically she couldn’t make it out of her house anymore. Nothing about the architecture interested or inspired me. They could have been community centers with a cross tacked on the wall behind the altar for good measure. This place made a sistah feel reverent.

  I headed to the front row. Sat down on the wooden pew and faced the altar, watching the flickering flames of the votive candles and the soft glow they cast inside the red glass jars.