by L. Divine
“Jayd, what brings you across the train tracks?” KJ asks, putting his hands around Misty’s waist. Misty smiles victoriously as if KJ claiming her wide ass is all the proof she needs that she’s right and I’m wrong. As if that’ll ever happen.
“None of your business,” I say. It’s my turn in line, and I couldn’t be more ready to get out of here.
“Damn, what’s up with you?” KJ asks.
I roll my eyes at him, hand the cashier two dollar bills, and take my water without saying bye to my schoolmates. It’s bad enough I have to see them during the year, but around the neighborhood is pure torture.
Following me out of the large drugstore, Misty and KJ can’t help but make a spectacle of themselves by making out when they reach his car. Yuck. The two of them deserve each other and whatever communicable diseases they exchange. KJ already gave Misty gonorrhea, which Mickey made sure the entire school knew about after Misty spilled the beans about Mickey’s pregnancy prematurely. Even after KJ publicly blamed Misty for his obvious infraction—even though she was a virgin before they got together—she still didn’t learn her lesson.
“Bye, Jayd. And tell Mickey I said hi,” Misty says as I drive off. Why would she say something like that? Mickey and Misty tolerate each other at best. But Mickey has been on Misty’s jock for changing up her physical appearance. I don’t know what that’s all about, nor do I care. My only concern is Nickey and quenching my thirst.
When I arrive at Mickey’s house around the corner from the store, I walk through the small home to my friend’s bedroom, which is a complete mess. The small room has been inundated with baby gear. Mickey’s eight-year-old sister has had to make room for the new arrival, poor child. It must be no fun sharing a room with a selfish sister and a new baby. Nigel’s trying to find somewhere for them to live together, but it’s not easy to find someone to rent an apartment to two teenaged parents: They don’t exactly scream responsibility.
“Hey, Mickey,” I say, stepping over the clothes and shoes covering the floor.
“What up, Jayd?” Mickey says, not taking her eyes off her own reflection in the mirror.
We’re going to look at day cares and she’s dressing like we’re going out for the night. Nickey looks like she needs some attention, because I can tell her mama’s paying her no mind.
I pick up my goddaughter, who’s whining from discomfort, from the equally junky bed. Her diaper’s heavy and reeks of pee that hasn’t been changed in hours.
“Mickey, did you know Nickey’s wet?” I ask, putting the baby back in her crib and taking a diaper from the near-empty bag on the bed.
“Then change her,” Mickey says, now applying makeup. “I’ve been busy all day, and she’s almost out of diapers. She’ll be fine until Nigel gets here with her stash.”
I remove the soaked diaper and let her air out. I look more closely at Nickey’s bottom and cringe at the sight. How could her mother let it get this bad? After a few minutes, the baby calms down but I’m just getting started.
“Mickey, she’s got a severe diaper rash,” I say, looking at the millions of tiny red bumps covering Nickey’s cocoa skin. I gently wipe her clean, causing her to scream in pain. Poor baby. Mickey’s really slipping on her motherly duties. Someone needs to check her before she goes too far. If Mama were here, she’d slap my girl straight.
“Shut up all that crying, Nickey. Damn,” Mickey says without even looking at her daughter.
What happens when I’m not here?
“Don’t talk to her like that. It’s not her fault she’s in pain,” I say, slathering a thick layer of the baby bottom cream I made for Nickey all over her before fastening her diaper shut and picking her up. I soothe my upset godchild and kiss her gently on her head, noticing her cradle cap isn’t getting any better, either. If Mickey would’ve used the products Mama and I made before she left, all of this could have been prevented. But Mickey’s top priority is herself, and that’s not a good thing. I look on the dresser for the head cream and notice a small bottle of pills. The label looks very familiar, but I can’t place it.
“What are these for?” I ask, seizing the dark blue bottle with a simple label of a bird on the front. Where have I seen that symbol before?
“They’re vitamins to help new mamas shed the baby fat,” Mickey says, snatching the bottle from my hand and placing them on a shelf where I notice two more just like it.
“Mickey, you can’t be serious,” I say, patting Nickey on the back. “Your daughter’s health and well-being are more important than your waistline.” I’ve noticed her weight dropping in the last week and thought it was natural, but now I know that’s not the case.
“Speak for yourself. I’m over it,” she says, smoothing her skin-tight jeans over her behind. “You didn’t just push a big-ass baby out of your body. I’ve got to get back in shape before the end of summer, girl. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Mickey’s back to being her normal, conceited self, and it seems to have gotten worse.
“I’m positive there are better ways to lose weight than popping pills, Mickey.” I take out one of Nickey’s cute outfits from her diaper bag—courtesy of godmother Nellie—and change her clothes for our outing. She’s a cute baby, and we should garner plenty of attention on our mission.
“What up, chicas?” Nigel says, stopping at the bedroom door and tossing a bag of diapers on the bottom bunk. There’s no more room in here for another person. Mickey’s sister’s playing outside with her youngest brother, probably more out of necessity than desire. Who wants to be cooped up in here with Mickey’s narcissistic ass? “Are we ready to roll?” Nigel’s taking his parental roll more seriously than Mickey, and he really doesn’t have to. Lucky for Nickey one of her parents has some sense.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Mickey says. “How do I look, baby?”
Nigel looks at his girl without responding. He’s over her selfish ways, too, I see.
“Mickey, we’re going to look at day cares, not going out for dinner,” Nigel says, reaching for the baby.
I step over the messy floor and hand her off, anxious to reload her diaper bag. I have to keep a close eye on her rash to make sure it heals quickly. At first, Nickey’s excited to see her daddy, but when I walk back over the pile of clothes, she starts to fuss.
“There she goes again,” Mickey says, grabbing her purse off the top bunk and passing by her man and child in the hallway. “Mikey, we’re leaving,” she yells outside. Her little brother’s anything but a sitter, but with both of her parents constantly working, they don’t have much of a choice.
“Why don’t I take Nickey and y’all can check out the centers,” I say, reclaiming my godbaby from Nigel. Nickey quiets down in my arms and sucks her fingers, an indication that she needs to rest.
“Fine,” Mickey says without protest. Nigel looks like he wants to intervene but doesn’t. “We’ll holla when we’re through. Come on, Nigel.”
“Thanks, Jayd,” Nigel says, kissing Nickey on the forehead and giving me a quick hug. Mickey looks at the three of us, and I can feel her jealousy. If she were a better mother, my presence wouldn’t be needed. She only has herself to blame if she doesn’t like what she sees.
“Nigel, come on. They’ll be fine,” Mickey says, leading the way out.
“I forgot the diaper bag,” I say, going back into her room. I take the bag from the bed and the open bottle of pills Mickey’s so protective of, and I remember where I’ve seen the label before: Esmeralda. Which means they probably came by way of Misty. No wonder she told me to tell Mickey hi. If she misses the diabolical pills, their absence can be blamed on this disheveled room. The carpet can get lost in here. Since we have the evening free, I say we pay a visit to Dr. Whitmore and let the good doc investigate these so-called vitamins. My mom’s been after me to go see him anyway. I can also show off my goddaughter on my side of Compton.
The five-minute drive from Mickey’s hood to mine was enough to calm Nickey down, although she didn�
�t fall asleep. She’s too fascinated by the artifacts and bright colors in Dr. Whitmore’s Chinese-inspired office to nap even if she needs to. After we leave here, I might take her to the South Bay Plaza and walk around. The stroll should make her fall asleep. Hopefully Mickey and Nigel will be done in a couple of hours.
Dr. Whitmore’s been inspecting the tablets for the past fifteen minutes and looks distressed by his findings. Thank God he hasn’t questioned me about how I’m feeling. The last thing I want is another one of his horse-pill prescriptions. I had a hard enough time taking them the last time I needed them for sleepwalking.
“They’re labeled as simple postnatal vitamins, but they’re a lot more than that,” Dr. Whitmore says, inspecting the small pink pills under the microscope. His office is a cornucopia of traditional medical research. Some call him a witch doctor because of his association with Mama, but that’s tantamount to calling a priestess a witch, and he doesn’t like the term any more than we do. “These will drive someone crazy if they take them for too long. Where did you find them?”
“Mickey’s house, my friend who just had the baby,” I say, looking at Nickey’s stroller next to me. Dr. Whitmore didn’t even ask whose baby she is. As long as it’s not mine, I guess he doesn’t care. “I found them in her room and recognized the bottle from Esmeralda’s collection.”
Unfortunately, I have been in Esmeralda’s house on more than one unpleasant occasion. She has her own containers and labels for her line of products. Esmeralda’s never cultivated her skills like Mama and Netta but still does her own thing. Money rules Esmeralda’s business, unlike Mama and Netta who are led by the spirit to heal. If the client is willing to pay, Esmeralda’s willing to concoct her potions no matter how dangerous they may ultimately be.
“Esmeralda,” Dr. Whitmore grunts. I don’t know the entire history between him, Esmeralda, and my grandmother, but Esmeralda’s name gets a rise out of him every time. “When will that woman ever learn her evil tricks are no good?”
“Never.” I take a seat on the futon up against the wall and let him continue his scientific experiment. Mickey thinks I’m driving her crazy and that Nickey’s also to blame. Wait until she finds out it’s the magic diet pills Misty gave her that’s irritating her. I’d hate to be my nemesis when Mickey learns the truth.
“Here,” the doctor says, handing me a clear plastic bag full of pills very similar to the ones in the bottle. “Replace Esmer-alda’s pills with these and make sure your friend takes them daily, just like the others. She should start to feel normal again very soon. And please tell her to stay away from Esmer-alda and her disciples at all cost. That woman’s no good.”
“Thank you, Dr. Whitmore,” I say, claiming the medicine. I need to get some food in my growling stomach. Chinese from the food court at the mall sounds good. Nickey’s probably hungry. I’ll feed her when we get to Redondo Beach.
“And how are you faring without your grandmother, Jayd?” Dr. Whitmore asks, shining his tiny light in my eyes. He’s looking for more than my emotions with the shiny tool. I don’t need a mini flashlight to see that Dr. Whitmore misses Mama. They have lunch at least once a week and see each other regularly for spiritual business, working on remedies and ridding negative energy from their individual clients.
“I miss her and Netta, but I’m glad she’s enjoying her trip. She deserves it,” I say, looking at the wall where a picture of Mama in all white hangs with the other photos. He and Mama go way back. My instincts tell me that they were more than friends back in the day.
“How’s your sleep?” he asks, tilting my chin up and taking a closer look.
No sense in lying about it when he might be able to help. “Not so good lately,” I say. He directs me to stick out my tongue. Nickey looks at us more curious than ever. She doesn’t have to talk to communicate with me. As caul babies, we have our own unique language.
“Did you finish the last round of herbs I prescribed for your sleepwalking incident back in February?”
Dr. Whitmore knows as well as anyone I hate taking the meds he prescribes for my issues. I didn’t finish the round because I’ve been feeling better, but I know I should always follow his directions to the letter.
“No, sir,” I say. He looks at me, disappointed. Without further inspection, he packs up a bag of goodies for me to take.
“Call me if you need anything else. And, Jayd, please be mindful of your sleep. You know as well as I do there are real enemies just waiting for the opportune moment to take over your dreams again,” he says, bending down and softly pinching Nickey’s right cheek. They look at each other as if they’ve met before: knowing both of them, they probably have. “It would be a shame if you lost your gift of sight before you had time to master it. Think of all the people you could help with your blessing.”
Dr. Whitmore’s warning scares me into submission. “I will finish this round, Doctor. I promise.”
Dr. Whitmore smiles as he opens the door for us. “Don’t promise me a damn thing, Jayd,” he says, standing up as I gather the baby’s things and my own. With the diaper bag, stroller, and car seat, carrying Nickey around must be heavier than toting three adults. “Promise yourself that you’ll put your health first. You’ll do none of us any good if you suffer another breakdown.” Feeling crazy is worse than menstrual cramps, and they make me feel like I want to die. No matter what’s in this paper bag, I’m going to tolerate it. The alternative is a line I don’t want to ever cross again.
The thick aftertaste of the bitter herbs I swallowed three hours ago creeps up my throat, causing me to belch loudly. I turn my head into my elbow and narrowly avoid spreading my gaseous air over my client’s hair. That would ruin the mango-scented finishing cream I just smoothed all over Miller’s braids. He’s a new client, who doesn’t say much and pays in singles. I don’t know what he does, but Shawntrese recommended him, so I know he’s okay.
“Excuse me,” I say, undraping the brown towel from around his shoulders.
He looks in the large hand mirror, pleased with the results. “You’re excused.”
Miller hands me exactly forty one-dollar bills. My guess is he’s a busboy and lives off his under-the-table earnings, which is why he can’t afford to tip me. But I’m not tripping. I understand being that tight on cash. I haven’t been grocery shopping at all this week and can’t wait for the block party that’s already going on. I told my crew about it, and they’re probably already enjoying the festivities. A sistah like me can’t afford to pass up cash. Surprisingly, the holiday hasn’t stopped me from having a very busy morning.
“Enjoy your day,” I say, opening the front door for my last client of the day.
“I will. My mom and I are going to watch the fireworks at the Queen Mary,” he says, slowly walking down the stairs.
That explains his quiet demeanor: Miller has mama’s boy written all over his thin frame.
“Have fun,” I say after him. I close the door and head to the bathroom to shower and get dressed as quickly as I can. I’m hungry and I know the food’s ready. I can practically smell it from Compton I’m so excited. I just hope my uncles keep themselves in check. Every year, one of them seems to go too far, but we’re not the only family on the block with embarrassing relatives. It’s always a crapshoot to see who’ll go off the deep end every holiday. Hopefully, this year we won’t win that title.
The closer I get to Mama’s block, the louder my stomach growls. Granted, I don’t eat all of the dishes that’ll be served at each house, but there are still a few neighbors who make the best potato salad, baked beans, and chicken hot links I’ve ever tasted. I used to be the girl cleaning chitlins—the most disturbing kitchen job I’ve ever been forced into. I’m so glad Mama gave up pork when I was ten years old. However, it is the smell of the boiled and fried pig intestines that welcomes me home.
“There goes my baby,” my ringtone sings, indicating a call from my man. I park around the corner from my grandparents’ block and answer his call.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,” I say, turning the engine off and opening the door. It’s too hot to sit in the car without air.
“I was a little thrown off by our last conversation, Lady J, but I missed my baby,” Jeremy says, melting my heart. He can be so sweet. “Have you seen her lately?”
“No, I haven’t. But when you see her, please tell her to holla at me,” I say, making us both laugh. It’s been too long since we’ve shared a light moment. Our conversations are too strained and quick to establish a comfortable flow and this time’s no different.
“You’re a little crazy, but it’s kind of sexy, so all is forgiven,” Jeremy says.
I know he’s only partially joking. I admit I’m a lot to handle, but I’m worth it. His life’s not so easy, either.
“I love you, too.” I imagine Jeremy bending his tall frame down to meet my lips, taking me in his strong, toned arms, forcing me on my tiptoes. Voluntarily, I surrender to his embrace. What I wouldn’t give to see his deep blue eyes, to run my fingers though his sun-kissed curls that complement his olive complexion. Damn, I miss my man.
“I’m sorry I can’t talk for long, but I’ll be home soon, Jayd. We have a lot of time to make up for.”
He’s got that right. The summer will practically be over by the time he gets back from Europe.
“I hope so, baby. Bye and be good,” I say.
“Tell everyone I said hi,” Jeremy says before disconnecting the call.
I guess it’s time to party whether I’m feeling festive or not.
I lock the car door and head down Caldwell Street. As I turn the corner, I notice Rah, Nigel, and Mickey kicking it with my uncle Bryan and cousin Jay. I should be able to slip these pills into Mickey’s purse when she’s not looking without having to travel to her side of town to do it. I’m tired and need to catch up on sleep after I throw down on some bar-beque. Dr. Whitmore’s herbs may taste like death, but they get the job done.