Day 33

by Aisha Graham

  “Carl!” It was Michelle.

  “What the fuck do you want?” The Reverend scratched his tonsils yelling so loudly.

  “You! I want you! This is your ba—”, he hung up. He didn’t need to hear it again; The Reverend knew this was his baby. The church would, for sure, outcast him and he’d lose the only form of income he ever knew. The church members loved Vivian from a genuine place and would be quick to take her side over The Reverend’s if adultery was a proven fact, and an illegitimate newborn would make that very clear. Evita would definitely be taken care of by the members, if so.

  The Reverend couldn’t allow Michelle and her dirty little secret to see the light of day. Vivian already made it clear she’d spill the beans. What was he going to do? He gave up for now and proceeded to head to the church to fake busy and occupy his time. He hadn’t showered or shaved and everyone noticed.

  The Reverend tried to quickly dip into his office for hiding for the day. Georgia came in to assist him. “Is everything okay, sir?” The Reverend just shook his head from side to side while breathing heavily, sitting behind his fancy desk. “Sir?”

  “I’m okay!” The Reverend yelled and the passer-byers in the hallway came to a halt. He noticed and proceeded to peak out into the hall and assured everyone that everything was okay. He shut the office door and whispered to Georgia to sit down.

  “Don’t tell anybody that you’re keeping Evita. If I hear anyone asking me or talking about it, you’ll have to deal with me, okay?” Georgia frantically nodded her head up and down. Not once did this man look Georgia in her face as he paced through the front of the office. “If anyone asks about Vivian, she’s in the hospital for exhaustion. There will be no Sunday dinner this weekend. Screen all of the phone calls. Any calls from a Michelle, ignore them, or lie and tell her the number has been changed.”

  Georgia continued nodding long after The Reverend finished talking, as her mind raced with all the possibilities of what could happen in the next few days. The Reverend shooed Georgia from the office and closed the door behind her. When Georgia picked Evita up from school, Evita immediately asked where Vivian was. Georgia realized The Reverend had omitted some pertinent information. She hadn’t been the brightest star in the galaxy, but when Evita asked her mother’s whereabouts, she knew for sure that something was wrong. The two of them were like peanut butter and jelly, never separated, so why wouldn’t Evita know where her primary caretaker had been?

  Georgia instinctively told Evita she was unsure and quickly realized the mistake she had made. That night, Evita sat on Georgia’s worn couch, wondering how it was possible for Georgia not to know where Vivian was. It made no sense to be watching Evita for her mother’s sake and not know. The poor pre-teen sat in the dimly lit living room area and stared at old shows on “Nick at Nite”, while Georgia lie in the adjacent room, snoring loudly enough for neighbors to hear.

  Evita continued driving in silence allowing all the memories to come back to her one by one. She vaguely remembered dreaming that night in Georgia’s apartment the same way she had been lately. It took Evita hours to follow asleep, as she lay, wishfully thinking her mom might show up and rescue her. When her eyes finally closed, her pupils filled with images of her mother. They laughed and ran through the strawberry field with a picnic all set up and ready to go.

  As the two of them sat on the picnic blanket, blood oozed from underneath and startled Evita onto her feet. She screamed and asked that her mother move, but Vivian stayed seated, smiling, asking Evita what was wrong. “Blood! Blood!” she shouted and realized her mother couldn’t see the blood. She felt around, patted herself down to ensure she did indeed feel moisture. The blood was gone. Vivian was still smiling.

  Evita woke up gasping for air the same way she would 13 years later. She scooted herself from the couch and untangled her limbs from the fitted sheet she was given. Georgia slept like a rock and wouldn’t wake for anything. Evita wanted to see her mother immediately, but the smile that was engrained in her brain was oddly soothing. It was like Evita knew something was wrong, but that she’d be okay. She went back to sleep on the couch and had no more dreams. Her sleep was uncomfortable, however, and she woke up with bloodshot eyes covered in bags.

  “Are you okay?” Georgia questioned as she stirred instant oatmeal for Evita. Georgia’s instincts were strongly kicking in.

  “No”, Evita was growing impatient with the games the adults were playing. “Where is my mother?” Georgia paused her stirring. “I don’t kn—”

  “Yes, you do! Where is she!?” Evita slammed her fists on the table.

  “Stop it! Stop it before I tell your father. Your mother is fine. Let’s go.” Georgia filled a container with the oatmeal for Evita to enjoy in her classroom. She grabbed Evita’s bag and hung her head low in shame. Georgia knew Vivian was not okay.

  Evita was still driving and reminiscing, driving and reminiscing. She was surprised again, at how she was able to suppress so much. Tears flew down the sides of her cheeks and she let out a weak yelp. Evita pulled over on the side of the road. She had about an hour left to go. There was still a bit of daylight, so she exited to vehicle to catch some sunrays and breeze.

  The country roads of Virginia were lined with miles and miles of grass and cattle. Evita took a deep breath and stared at her surroundings with wide eyes. The grass stood tall like the field she and Vivian would run through together. Flashbacks returned along with more tears and Evita slouched down into a squat, leaning on the passenger side of her car.

  Vehicles whizzed past bringing gusts of winds behind them. It was refreshing. Evita, in all her loneliness still knew she was okay. She felt that maybe once all the crying was finished and her ducts dried, she could progress and live freely, continuing on her life’s path, like those fast driving cars.

  Someone lightly tapped Evita’s right shoulder. She put her hand over her eyes for shade against the blazing sun. As Evita looked up, there stood her mother. Vivian was just as beautiful as Evita remembered. She stood very statuesque, wearing a spaghetti-strap dress that she made from a pastel pink silk fabric. Her hair lightly flapped in the breeze, loose curls dangling alongside her chocolate, sun-kissed arms covered in raw Shea butter. She tilted her head to the side, smiled, and caressed Evita’s cheeks and chin, wiping away her stressful tears.

  “Mom?” Evita squinted. As Evita stood from her squatting position, she bowed her head toward the ground to help maintain her balance. When Evita lifted her head again, Vivian was gone. Cars continued to zoom by. She shouted “Mom? Mom!” repeatedly, looking for Vivian, pacing back and forth. She broke down and screamed.

  Evita woke up and quickly sat upright in the driver’s seat of her car parked on the side of the road. Now, it was night fall and all Evita could hear was the wind and what seemed to be a massive number of crickets. She took a few minutes to gain her bearings and proceeded to ask the GPS for directions to the nearest lodging.

  Evita knew that in order to make it to her father’s house, let alone address him about abusing her mother, she’d have to get some rest. She reluctantly checked into a hotel, which was about a mile away from the pit-stop. An older black man with white hair and a beer gut waited behind the desk, reading a jacketless hardcover book over the top of his glasses. The lobby was dimly lit by a flickering bulb and smelled of moth balls. The carpet was a deep red, which Evita assumed had been a bright red pigment at one point in time.

  The chandeliers were home to cobwebs and dead flies. This wasn’t the best environment for someone in Evita’s condition, but she had no choice. The old man’s nametag read “John”, so Evita, in her ever-so-polite tone asked “Mr. John may I please have a room?”

  He gazed over in her direction, taking an unwanted pause from his book to make eye contact. Without a word, he signaled to Evita to hand him her credit card. He slammed his book down and rolled his desk chair over to the other end of the counter to the old dusty computer to begin typing in numbers. He
tossed the card and a set of keys on the counter and scooted back over to his book. The keys were labeled with number “33”, so Evita assumed she’d be on the third floor.

  She headed down the dark hallway with her rolling suitcase and patiently waited for the rickety elevator to make its way back down. Surprisingly the room was decent. There weren’t any cobwebs, dead flies, or dingy carpets. Everything looked brand new; the sheets were so fresh they still smelled like the plastic packaging they came in. The pillows were so fluffy, Evita doubted a head had ever touched them. The windows and mirrors were so clean, they sparkled as Evita walked past them.

  The bathroom was freshly remodeled with marble counter tops and pearly white tiles covering the walls. The curtains were a royal blue with gold tassels hanging along the edges and the walls were trimmed in cream colored molding, covered in deep rouge wall paper. Evita stood in the center of the room holding her duffle bag, looking at the ceiling, admiring the decorations and paintings on the walls. She expected holes and dirt, some roaches or something, but the room was actually nice and made her feel very comfortable.

  Evita plopped on the soft mattress and began watching the smart television, another nice surprise. She couldn’t believe they provided HBO for free. She twiddled her thumbs and twisted her hair around her finger wondering if she should’ve just continued driving. However, Evita knew it was nice to sit still for a brief second, especially since after tonight, everything in her world was bound to go crazy. She knew she needed a break.

  Evita finally decided she’d rest. She took a shower, with the bathroom door open and all the lights on. Evita covered herself in Shea butter and lie naked, daydreaming of a day all of this drama would be dissolved. Her dreams would be no more, and she could visit her grandmother and get to know her more before it was too late. Maybe they could bake cakes and meditate together. Then, the dark cloud of her father’s face peered over top of the pleasantries Evita imagined and she realized just how far she was from reaching her fantasies. It angered her a bit, how The Reverend had the power to always return to the forefront of her imagination.

  This was like a metaphorical clap in front of Evita’s daydreaming eyes; internal discomfort reminding her of the tangible comfort by which she was currently surrounded. Evita promised herself she’d cherish this night; a small break in the continuous flow of suppressed memories and emotions. Evita tumbled between the satin sheets, as they rubbed against her freshly shaven legs.

  The comforter was fluffy, filled with fresh feathers, and smelled like an entire bottle of laundry detergent. The ceiling fan’s air was refreshing against Evita’s face. She lounged, she rested, and she felt calm. HBO hummed in the background while Evita dozed off. There was no dream this night, as real-life peace masked Evita’s tumultuous subconscious.

  DAY 28

  EVITA woke up shocked at the fact that there was no nightmare. She felt around the bed and up and down her own body to make sure she was still in the same place she had fallen asleep. The TV played a kid’s animated movie at a very low volume. Sun shined through the cracks of the brand-new curtains, directly onto Evita’s face and neck. She covered her eyes with her hand and slowly sat up, resting her back against the headboard.

  The digital clock read 9:33 AM. Evita had an hour to check out, so she took another shower and quickly rummaged through her suitcase for a warm comfortable sweater. Evita took her time in the mirror this morning, fixing her hair into two afro puffs on either side with two braids framing the front of her face. She applied eyeshadow, eyeliner, and dug lip gloss out of the bottom of her purse. Evita felt like she was living again, and not just existing.

  For the past few weeks, Evita’s hair had either been styled in a rushed pony tail or a short wash-n-go. This morning, Evita took the time to detangle every strand and actually use a blow drier for once. She opened the blinds for the sun to shine completely on this newfound glow, which she was hoping was something she could hold onto. The entire time she fixed her face, Evita brainstormed on her next plan of action. She was relaxed, but Evita hadn’t lost sight of what was important, which was avenging her mother’s wrongful death.

  Young Evita was spending her last night with Georgia. The Reverend had been back and forth about what to do with Vivian and had come up short with options. The church was beginning to notice that something strange was occurring. Vivian never made many appearances at the church, but now, The Reverend was skittish when members would ask about her welfare. He’d wipe imaginary sweat from his brow as a reflex, cough, look away and avoid all eye contact. Georgia was worse at hiding the issue than Reverend Thomas was, especially when the observant teenager in her custody began asking questions as well.

  Three days had passed, and Vivian was still tied up in the basement of her home. The trash started to over flow and smell. Dishes hadn’t been washed. The upstairs toilet was clogged and there was no clean laundry for Evita’s return. Vivian lost ten pounds and was dying of thirst more than anything. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness and yelling at her warden of a husband every chance she got.

  At this point, it was obvious The Reverend was only checking to make sure she was still alive. He felt he was too far gone. If he let Vivian go, she’d tell someone and The Reverend would lose everything, including Evita who, even if he wasn’t the best nurturer toward her, she was his property. So, what other choice did he have?

  Vivian’s face was losing color, her eyes were baggy and her jawline was limp. Her hair smelled as if she rubbed it against the basement floor and she stress-sweated through the light-colored dress she wore, adding a tinge of brown under her arms. The front door opened and Vivian could hear her husband’s footsteps on the floor above.

  “Carl! Carl”, Vivian yelled at the top of her lungs. Her voice was so loud it scratched her throat. She kicked and banged against the radiator, unsure of where the energy to do all of this even came from. Vivian began coughing and stomping her feet, slamming her wrists against the bars. Upstairs, The Reverend’s rage grew larger, enduring each of Vivian’s screams and every thump she made with her limbs.

  He couldn’t take it. He balled up his fists and slammed the front door behind him. He threw his coat down onto the floor and stood in the center of the foyer of this dirty, smelly, decaying home, heavily panting.

  “Carl!” Vivian began crying loudly. He could hear her grunts and it caused his anger to grow even more. Then, the phone rang. The Reverend knew it was Michelle again. She had been calling the church non-stop. His threats went unheard and she was still roaming the streets of North Carolina, pregnant and homeless. Michelle was losing it, and The Reverend was too.

  The Reverend picked the phone up by the receiver, dragging the bottom by the coiled cord. He slammed the receiver repeatedly against the kitchen wall and dropped to his knees, sobbing seemingly in unison with his wife, who was weeping a floor below. The Reverend quickly stood up and proceeded into the basement, cursing himself out the entire way down the stairwell.

  “Let me go!” Vivian cried, barely able to move her tied limbs. “Why are you doing this?” Nobody understood The Reverend’s recent actions; not himself, Michelle, Vivian, not even The Reverend’s noble steed, Georgia. Everything was finally coming to the surface and The Reverend was taking it out on all the people who knew to be the weakest; the women in his life. Vivian’s dwindling level of care was snatching his control away, and this was a last-ditch effort for The Reverend to save whatever control was left.

  “Nobody can know, nobody can know”, he paced back and forth, shaking his head, hanging it in shame. “Nobody can know!” He yelled startling Vivian into silence. This was it, his breaking point, and she could feel it too. A part of Vivian wanted The Reverend to just end her misery. She had been living her life for him for years, thirteen to be exact, and she had nothing more left within her to continue doing so.

  Something in the pit of Vivian’s stomach churned with a mix of hatred, resentment, and sadness about the
amount of time lost to this ungrateful man, along with the yearning for her only true inspiration, her daughter. Vivian didn’t want to leave Evita behind, but hoped that in her absence, Evita would find the motivation to escape too. Vivian knew The Reverend would never put his hands-on Evita. He could see parts of himself in Evita, no matter which traits of hers resembled Vivian. On the other hand, it was as if Evita represented a more innocent version of Vivian in The Reverend’s eyes, one that would listen his every word and heed his every warning, instead of the mature and strong Vivian he had been stuck with.

  This version of Vivian was a burden to an insecure man with little foundation to stand on. In addition, Michelle also became unruly in her own right, and was just as uncontrollable. Evita, however, was still timid and fearful; old enough to stand up for herself, but young enough to be frightened out of doing so. The Reverend knew he wouldn’t have any issue hiding any of this from his daughter by manipulating the story in ways she would never expect. Why not kill Vivian? It would temporarily bury the Michelle secret, and bury his insecurities as a husband and father along with her body and casket. The Reverend continued to pace back and forth and contemplate his next plan of action.

  As Evita headed to her car to start the day, she realized going straight to the source might not be so smart. She needed evidence, she needed hard proof to get the justice her mother deserved. Evita went to Georgia’s apartment. It was around high noon and the sun shone bright enough to burn a hole through the concrete; if it wasn’t December, that is.

  After about an hour of driving, Evita parked in a guest spot across the lot from Georgia’s apartment in case Georgia recognized her car from Evita’s visit a few weeks back. Evita took deep breaths and visualized potential conversations in her head, none of which seemed to turn out well. She finally got the courage to climb out of her car. Evita proceeded up the small concrete stairwell leading to the main entrance of the apartment building, through the lobby, and into the elevator.