Numb

by Arissa Alexston

  I hiked my bag up on my shoulder and marched up the brick steps on the front porch and rang the bell. I waited a few heartbeats and leaned to the side to peep through the obscure sidelight window. I caught movement and stepped back to give my aunt the warm welcome she'd come to expect. The front door opened wide, and Aunt Celeste gazed at me with intense brown eyes. I could already tell by the pitiful look she gave me that Vashton must've called her ahead of time. I was fresh out of rehab and coming to chill at her place until I jumped back to my life again. But he'd spoiled the surprise probably to keep her on guard in case I relapsed. I hated when they spoke behind my back. Neither one of them were good at acting astonished at my actions when the other knew what they were. Sometimes it made me sick how close everyone was; I felt like an outsider to my own family.

  Seeming to shake herself, she smiled up at me and opened her arms wide enough to encompass me into a hug. I squeezed her plush body tight, and like before, I wondered why she couldn't have been my mother originally. I remember wishing it was so in my childhood. Maybe I would've had a normal life where I would've continued playing football, maybe earned a scholarship. The football dream had been so far out of my reach with my personal shit swamping me. The only tangible thing I could get my hands on had been the never-ending supply of drugs cycling through my school.

  Aunt Celeste patted me a few good times on my back. "It's so good to have you home, Gable. Oh, and that beard is so handsome!" She squeezed me a little tighter. I'd had the scruffy beard for over a year now, and her remarking on it showed I'd been away too long.

  She smelled of brown sugar and gardenias, and it equated to her being in the kitchen and tilling her small garden in the backyard. Her short silver hair was cut in a bob like always, and she still wore those floral print shirts that sparkled like her personality. The woman had been my rock in a wavering world. Even as a problematic teen, I strived for her approval on everything. She had been there every Friday night cheering in the stands for each touchdown I made.

  I couldn't run from my past, no matter how I tried to cover my life with shiny gems of possibilities. I don't remember the first time trying something other than weed, and I had fallen hard and fast into using. I had quit football, my grades suffered, my life flipped with every substance I shoved in my body. It wasn't long before I had succumbed too far and woke up in the hospital. The sorrow on Aunt Celeste's face when she'd come to the hospital continued to haunt me. My first overdose was the first time she learned I had been on hard drugs. No one but Amy knew of my second one, and now, after rehab, I planned to never risk having a third.

  "Well, let's get inside, we're letting flies in." I followed her in, and sure enough the house smelled of apple pie which she knew was my favorite.

  I sat the bag down by the front door, but picked it back up, remembering she didn't like clutter. I followed her into the kitchen decorated in the classic red apple country theme and painted a warm khaki color. Instantly, I felt the wave of calm seep over me as familiarity brought a welcomed sense of nostalgia. The last time I visited, I didn't appreciate it due to being high as hell, but this was my favorite room in the house. So many serious and wise discussions happened at her round table. Celeste may not have had her own kids, but she helped steer three disorderly boys with her uncanny wisdom. Rysten and Vashton were nearly legal and went back to Atlanta's streets when they were old enough. They were already set in their ways and already had lives back in Atlanta. I had some years to go before I didn't need a guardian, but I wasn't in a hurry to go back to the slums. I cherished every insightful word of motherly advice Celeste gave.

  I inhaled, taking in the cinnamon, the nutmeg, and I could almost taste the sweet apples. Her pies were award-winning in Bibb County. "Knew I was coming, huh?"

  "You know Vashton. I swear he gossips as much as Edna Johnson." She chuckled and gazed at me for a moment as she stood beside me. She gave me a light squeeze on my arm, and I tried for a smile. I eyed the pie on the cooling rack. No pie before dinner, Aunt Celeste's house rule that she still stuck to. I was a grown ass man and could eat the pie, a full course meal, and anything edible in the pantry in one sitting. I was putting weight back on and my appetite had come back, ravenous now that the toxins weren't in my system. I looked at the steaming pie again, wishing I could cut a slice without Aunt Celeste going after me with a wooden spoon. Soon, I will devour all of you…

  "How you doin', sweetie?" She moved toward the fridge to remove some ingredients.

  "Ah, you know, trying to make it day by day. Business is good. The bar earned an award in the state magazine a month ago." All because of Carlos. She beamed and clasped her hands together, waiting for more, but I had nothing else to say. I hiked the heavy bag up, feeling its weight dig into my shoulder. "I'm gonna go put this in the spare bedroom."

  She nodded and then shook her head and held a hand up. "Oh, wait! I forgot. You'll have to stay in the basement. I am renting the spare room out." I froze and looked at her like she'd grown a third head. Since when did Aunt Celeste open her home to strangers? She was a good Christian woman with a strong "help others always" moral, but she had always been a private person. Also, she was a sixty-three-year-old woman who could be taken advantage of, and easy prey for anyone looking to scam. My mind went to all sorts of ruffians staying in Aunt Celeste's home: some con artist looking to swindle her out of thousands and her prized possessions.

  "Oh, get that look off your face, Gable. Do you remember Mae Jackson from church when you were younger?" I shook my head, barely recalling last week. "Any way, years ago, she moved to Texas. Her granddaughter, Nadia, is going to college here and needed an affordable place to stay. I thought, well, I have the room. Why not?"

  "I mean, if you think it's a good idea." Cause, I sure as hell don't.

  She waved me off. "She's been here nearly a year, no problems. The poor girl is so busy though with a part time job and school. I almost want to tell her to not worry about paying me and focus on school, but she's so independent I think I would offend her. She is the sweetest girl, she—"

  "Okay, well, I'm gonna go settle in." I didn't care about the personal life of some strange woman.

  Aunt Celeste crossed her arms and showcased a deep frown from my interruption. After five months of random stories and getting to know each fucking person in group therapy, I grew tired of listless conversation. Playing jolly to someone's life I cared nothing about had burned me weeks ago. I was never going to be a part of this chick's life, so I didn't need to hear anything concerning her. I had my own life to find, I couldn't absorb anything else about anyone I didn't know. Plus, now the house seemed annoyingly crowded when I expected to be the only weary soul bunking at Aunt Celeste's.

  She turned from me and bent down to grab a pot from under the sink. "I'll call you up when dinner is ready." The sharp dismissal wasn't lost on me, and made me feel a little bad for my snappy words earlier. Oh well, if strained silence would be how I reset my brain and came down from the forced expulsion of my buried memories over the past five months, I'll take it.

  ****

  After lengthy shower, I checked in with Carlos about the bar, shot unanswered texts to Amy, and scrolled on social media to spy on my brother Rysten's lavish new house he'd posted pictures of. Even my ex-convict brother seemed well on his way in life with a lawyer chick he knew from back in the day. And I struggle with keeping my nose clean. I bundled tighter in the blanket on my bed and cursed as a shiver ran through me. Aunt Celeste kept the temperature near freezing in the house even in the night chill of early spring. The basement felt like a refrigerator during the cooler months, and I wondered how I would stay in the converted room without catching hypothermia. I forgot I used to wear thick clothes in order to regulate my body temperature when I came down here as a kid.

  After almost an hour of running down my phone battery searching the Internet and social media, my boredom brought me out of the basement. I wanted to make an effort to start anew, and I felt I'd be dis
respecting Aunt Celeste if I stayed a recluse in her home, even if solitude had been what I desired. I wasn't sure isolation was what I needed though. For me, prolonged seclusion could be just as dangerous as working the bar. They both brought on the darkness I attempting to battle. Being the shameful druggy of the family at times made me feel like an outcast with the people I grew up around. The only people I had anything in common with had been my deadbeat mother who was holed up somewhere in the slums of Atlanta and my father who lay six feet under, but I aimed to change that. I'd start by engaging more with the people who are family and have been important fixtures in my life. My therapist said to try to open myself up more to emotion, giving and receiving it from others.

  I wandered up the steep stairs and the awesome smells of fried chicken, sweet potatoes, and fried okra hit my nose when I stepped into the kitchen. God, it had been too long since I had a home-cooked meal. My stomach gurgled and churned when I saw the spread of plates with fried food piled high as Aunt Celeste worked with her expert pace in the kitchen.

  "Smellin' good." I picked a piece of fried okra off a nearby plate and Aunt Celeste swatted at me with the metal clasps in her hand. The crispy burst of rich, greasy flavor was almost too hot, but heavenly at the same time. I couldn't hide the moan of approval at the spices she used in the crust.

  "Get out of my kitchen! It will be ready soon." She chuckled and narrowed her gaze at me in warning when I considered taking another nugget and dashing out of reach.

  I laughed, pulled the hood up on my hoodie and moseyed into the living room and sat on the soft couch. I don't think Celeste would ever get rid of her favorite floral sofa. She'd had the thing reupholstered and steam cleaned so much that it barely looked as old as she claimed. Still, the ass-hugging foam inside felt the same, which was all I cared about. I reached for the remote on the coffee table right about the time I heard a car door shut outside. It had to be the mystery woman. Good, I needed to get a good read on the type of person she was before I felt comfortable with my aunt sharing her home. I didn't want to know her, but I owned a bar and had hung out with various levels of people in my life. So I considered myself a pretty good judge of character. I could usually tell if they were a shitty person just by spending a few minutes in the same space with them.

  I leaned over and peeked through the plantation blinds. The evening sun cast a soft bronze glow over everything outside, and the once clear sky held thick clouds with the promise of rain. A black female juggling various items in her arms strolled up the sidewalk. Her old blue Honda coupe sat parked on the street, dull and desperately in need of a wax. She stared in confusion at my silver BMW parked in the driveway as she came toward the door. What on Earth is she wearing? Did she teleport from the fucking sixties? Who fucking wore bright orange blouses like that nowadays? And where those vintage corduroy pants? I left the blinds and turned the TV on when she reached the porch and jiggled her keys in the lock.

  The door opened and closed hastily. "Miss Celeste! Mmm, are you frying chicken? What's the special occasion?" The woman named Nadia breezed past the living room archway and walked into the kitchen without noticing me sitting there. Goddamn, she looked like some sort of living rainbow with all the vibrant colors she wore, but the slim-fitting corduroy pants were tight enough for me to appreciate her round ass in them. Not your fucking type, Gabe. Get a grip and put your fucking thinking head on straight.

  "My nephew, Gable, is here," my aunt replied. "He'll be staying for a few weeks. He's in the front room."

  Nadia stepped back in the hallway and looked in the living room. Our eyes met briefly before I scanned over the rest of her. I noticed she wore old-fashioned glasses that complimented her pretty face. Her hair was styled plain, but it was noticeably thick and a brushed her shoulders. Even more intriguing was the small piercing through her nose and the style of clothing clearly from another day and age. An eclectic soul…interesting. She wore a shade of pink lipstick that was bright as fuck to the eyes but worked on her darker complexion and unusual attire.

  "Hi," she finally, said but I ignored her and continued watching TV. I didn't need to make friends with her. We could occupy the same space without me trying to play nice. All I wanted to do was get my life back on track and not add new shit on my already full plate. Her being here might cause me to have to tiptoe around dealing with triggers in my recovery. Aunt Celeste had been used to my relapses and didn't judge. A stranger, yeah, I wasn't looking forward to her finding me fighting the urge to fall face-first in a pile of coke.

  At my lack of response she frowned and turned away and went back into the kitchen. I heard whispered voices and annoyance had me rising to my feet. For years, I'd been the man on the outskirts of conversations circling about me. Everyone acted like I wasn't strong enough to handle what came out of their mouths. I was ready to put a stop to that bullshit. I guess therapy did help me in a sense. I stood and walked toward the kitchen, leaned against the door frame, and then watched the two women huddled over the plate of golden-brown chicken.

  "He has a lot going on, honey. It's nothing personal."

  Before Nadia could answer, I cleared my throat and my aunt's face turned as red as the apple decor cluttered the walls. She whirled to me. "Oh, Gable, everything is ready! Nadia, get the plates, dear."

  The retro woman with goddess-like hips moved about like she owned the place, and I snatched the offered plate from her hands. A little rougher than I needed to, just to drive in my irritation about her not even knowing me but talking shit behind my back. I scoffed at her muttering words under her breath. Still talking shit. Yeah, I wasn't sure I would ever like this woman because she rubbed me the wrong way. The best course would be not to give our strained introduction any thought. I'd move around her as if she wasn't there, in the kitchen as well as the home. How hard could it be? Right now, it took no effort to focus on the food.

  I made a heaping plate of Aunt Celeste's extra-crispy fried chicken and sat at the table. Nadia poured iced tea for herself diagonally across from me, her plate nearly as full as mine. Christ, was she going to eat all that? Most girls I knew were birds and picked at their food, were bone thin from drug use and barely could keep a meal down. Even in rehab, appetites were scarce for men and women due to the anti-depressants and stress rolling through the place. To say I was impressed had been an understatement.

  Aunt Celeste was slow on her plate fixing, so Nadia and I were left to glare at each other over the Spring-themed centerpiece. She sipped her teas silently, refusing to break eye contact first. As I sat there and studied everything I tried to dismiss about her earlier, I couldn't quite figure out what caused me to have an issue with her, other than her invading my home space. Nadia's sensual lips were full and looked kissable now that her bright lipstick had been scrubbed off. Her dark hazel eyes were cat-shaped and alluring, drawing a man in to wonder about her mysteries. Her stunning, electric gaze sent a euphoric zing through my body, causing my flesh to prickle and my dick to twitch. Damn, that had been the closest feeling I've had to a bump of dope in months. She is threatening as fuck.

  I don't know why the warning went off in my head, but she equaled danger and not the crazy bitch with a knife kind. Nadia was a world-shattering woman, the kind I always heard about but never experienced. She'd make you open up, dissect your heart, and give her all the loose pieces. A woman with too much control over your emotions should be kept at a distance. Plus, my attraction to her was higher than I cared for it to be, and I didn't need that shit either.

  I snatched up my plate and stood, "Is it all right if I eat in the basement?" Disappointment cross my Aunt's face, and Nadia had been at it again with her judging glare. If she only knew I wanted to run from her because of something I had yet to understand. She wouldn't be gazing at me as if I was some heartless dick needing manners.

  "Sure, Gable, but don't forget to bring your plate up."

  I excused myself and marched down the stairs, softly kicking the door shut behind me. They can chi
tchat about "poor, fucked up Gable" all they wanted now, and I could swallow down these unknown emotions with my fried chicken. I thought about leaving. Celeste and Nadia obviously had a home here now, and I felt like the third wheel. I could go back to Tybee, pack up the condo, and take care of things needing to be dealt with. I couldn't imagine living in the same space where my darkest days took place.

  Still undecided about the damn bar and what I wanted to do with it, I thought about the hard work I put into it. I gave it my last name, helped building it one nail at a time, invested my time and adoration in making it better. I thought about how one stroke on a dotted line could change that and make it someone else's. A part of me held onto something I knew I should let go of for my own sanity. But I wasn't ready to face Tybee and the troubles I'd have to face and come to terms with. One day soon, I'd have to. I'd have to make choices for my life that would change it for better or worse. Like a damn marriage to Fate, an unstable marriage with an unpredictable future. For the first time, I become receptive to what might come my way and hopeful that I could embrace the moment, especially if it was good.

  I needed some good in my life. How much bad do I have to endure before melancholy gives way to joy? As I finished the last crumbs on my plate, I became pensive about the new cogs of change turning in my life. Being in Macon would be monumental somehow, transforming me into a better man. I could feel the years of therapy slowly shifting into place like colors on a Rubik's Cube as I thought through them, sliding them around to create stability. Slow and steady, all my issues fluctuating forward and backward until they aligned and produced a unified surface I could see clearly. Soul food must have a way of enlightening lost souls because I felt like my life would never be the same after Macon. I wished I could glimpse into the future and see what the source of the conversion would be.

  Chapter Three