“She not dying, Gemmia,” Rhonda assured her. “She’s sick and she’s getting better.”
“Well, I don’t even know who she is anymore! And she doesn’t know who I am most of the time. It’s just like she’s dead.”
Rhonda felt the same way, but she wouldn’t admit it to the children or to herself. It was true that, as the voice of Nett’s mother, Ivy, had promised, Nett wasn’t suffering anymore, but she certainly was not the same person Rhonda had known most of her life.
Visiting nurses were in and out every day. Medical supplies were being delivered every other day. The electricity bill was outrageous. Nett’s hallucinations were traumatic for everyone who witnessed them. The children needed some peace at home. Gemmia, in particular, was a nervous wreck. Rhonda needed to get back to law school. She was doing all she could do to care for the only mother she had ever known. But she was quickly approaching the point where she would have to let go.
Three months after Nett moved in, Rhonda decided to move her back to her own home. Rhonda had continued to pay the rent on Nett’s apartment in the projects, hoping that one day Nett would be well. She never thought she’d be sending her back there under these circumstances. She talked to the children about it, and they agreed that Nana would be fine at home. They offered to visit and help out when Rhonda returned to law school. She called the Department of Social Services, and they approved the hiring of a full-time home attendant to care for Nett.
Rhonda had to get up the courage to tell Nett. When she did, Nett cried. Rhonda was heartbroken; she felt as though she had failed to do for Nett what Nett had done for her most of her life. The spiritualist had told Rhonda that she was not a failure, that in fact, she was doing a courageous thing. Rhonda chose not to believe her. Then Nett, sounding like her old self, told Rhonda: “I know you have things to do. You go on. I’ll be just fine.” A few days later, Rhonda called an ambulance to take Nett home. Before she left, Nett asked, “Will you bring me pizza?” Even with no teeth, Nett loved to eat pizza, and Rhonda promised that she and the kids would bring her pizza as often as she liked.
It was getting dark outside; the trees had become shadows against the evening sky. I sat in my prayer room, remembering and crying. Whenever I think about Nett, I cry. She was Rhonda’s best friend, the light of her world. Nett was the only person to ever love Rhonda unconditionally. I had to admit that Nett could sometimes be mean and abrasive, but only when she was frustrated. I understood why she was frustrated with her life, herself, and at times, with Rhonda.
Nett was a phenomenal “sight” artist. She could draw anything she could see. She had had dreams of being an artist and had won a scholarship to the city’s art school. Her parents were poor immigrant workers who could not afford the ten cents a day she needed for carfare, but Nett was willing to walk the mile to school, regardless of the weather. Nett was responsible for her younger brother, George. Each morning she would get up and fix George’s breakfast and get him ready for school. And each morning, George would freak out when Nett tried to leave for school. He would follow her out of the house and into the street. It would take her three or four attempts to get him calmed down. By the time she did, she was late for school. After three weeks of this routine, she was informed that if she could not get to classes on time, she would lose her scholarship. Eventually, Nett had to drop out of school and go to work.
Much of Nett’s adult life revolved around Rhonda’s father. She had spent years and years trying to build their relationship and maintain their marriage. When that didn’t work out, Nett seemed to lose all hope for herself and for her life.
Thinking about Nett and her failed dreams made me sad. Nett knew what it was like to watch your dreams go up in smoke. She also knew what it felt like to have a special talent and be unable to use it. If it had not been for Nett, Rhonda never would have known that she was smart or that she could move beyond the experiences she had lived through. Sometimes Nett would become frustrated with Rhonda and tell her, “You’re not trying; you’ve got to keep on trying until you can’t try anymore.” Boy, did I miss her. I was sure Rhonda missed her, too. I’m sorry that Nett never got to see me make it. I know she would have been excited.
Daddy never got excited about anything. I remembered the day Rhonda told her father that she was going to be initiated into the priesthood of the Yoruba culture.
“That’s nice. What is it?” he asked. Rhonda explained that it was like becoming a minister. In this case, instead of going to seminary, you had to undergo a seven-day initiation process, followed by a year of study and apprenticeship.
“Why in the world would you want to do something like that?” Daddy asked without looking up from the potato he was peeling.
“It feels good to me. For the first time in my life, I think I understand God in a way that makes me feel good. Yoruba helped me do that. All of my life, I wanted to know God in a way that didn’t scare me out of my wits.”
“That’s good,” Daddy said. “That’s very good. But how come you can do this Yoruba stuff, but you can’t come to the temple with me?”
Around the time that Rhonda had separated from John, Daddy had become a disciple of Paramahansa Yogananda. He had changed his name and diet, and went to temple three times a week. Daddy had taken his grandchildren with him on several occasions, but Rhonda always refused to go. Maybe it was the strange noises Daddy made when he did his breathing and meditation exercises. Maybe it was because he stood on his head a lot now. Whatever the reason, Rhonda knew that yoga and Eastern philosophy did not ring in her soul. It was the African energy that excited her. She loved the music and the mystery that Yoruba offered, and she told Daddy so.
That was the first time Rhonda and her father ever had an actual conversation. They talked about the differences between Eastern, Western, and African philosophy. They talked about God, karma, and reincarnation. They argued, debated, and yelled. He conceded some points to her. She conceded some to him. He agreed that African culture had been widely misrepresented throughout the world, and that African people had the oldest recorded spiritual history. But he was less than thrilled that his daughter was involved in something he couldn’t spell, let alone pronounce.
“Do they cremate?” Daddy asked.
“I sure hope not,” she answered. “Who wants to be burned? Not me. I am not that fond of fire.”
Daddy became reflective. “I want to be cremated.”
Rhonda was stunned. “Are you serious? Why are you talking about that?”
“Make sure that Edna and Ma have me cremated.”
Rhonda stood up to leave. She was ready to walk out.
“Ronnie, sit down; shut up and listen.” Rhonda had never heard that gentle, yet stern, tone in her father’s voice before.
“I know I have never told you this before, but I think it’s time. God and only God knows why you are here. God has something for you to do, and God knows, I don’t know what that is. What I do know is that you can do anything you want if you put God first in your life. It doesn’t matter what you call God, or if you know God the African way. Just put Him first.”
“How do you know God is a He?” Rhonda asked. Daddy thought about it a moment.
“I don’t know, and neither does anyone else.”
Rhonda was in a state of shock and disbelief. Daddy had become a philosopher. Not only that, but thirty years into her life, he was sharing his philosophy with her. This was new. This was different. It made her very uncomfortable. Daddy said he wished he’d known earlier that God had something for him to do. He sounded remorseful, yet deeply reflective. He was making Rhonda very nervous.
“So, are you coming to my ceremony? This is a very big step in my life.” Rhonda wanted Daddy to be there and was disappointed, but not surprised, at his response.
“I don’t think so. I mean, when is it? I can’t. I have to go to temple.”
One of the many spiritualists whom Rhonda had sought out told her that it was her destiny to be a minister
. She never dreamed it would be in the African tradition. The only ministers she had ever known were the ones she’d seen at Grandma’s church. She had stopped going to church as a young woman, because she was still a “sinner.” According to the Holiness church, everything was a sin. Rhonda got tired of ministers telling her that she was going to burn in hell for smoking, for wearing nail polish, and most of all for having and enjoying sex. She figured if she left Jesus alone, Jesus would leave her alone.
To be a Yoruba meant that you did not go to church. All of your spiritual work was done in your home or the homes of other priests. It meant that your Bible was the Oracle of Ifa, the sacred scriptures of the Yoruba people, which predated the Christian Bible by two thousand years. It also meant that you had to study about herbs, planets, numbers, and all sorts of things that Grandma’s church frowned upon. Rhonda didn’t care; she would risk going to hell if it meant getting her soul in order. To be a Yoruba priest, Rhonda was told, meant learning how to be whole, mind, body, and spirit, and how to minister to the whole person. You must know how life and the universe of life function. You must understand that life is more than what we can see; life is tangible and intangible, with visible and invisible spheres of energy. It is the priest’s job to help people maintain their balance on all the levels of life.
Of the seven-day initiation process, the actual ceremony took only three. The other four days were spent listening, learning, and resting. During this time, Rhonda was occupied with ritual bathing and praying. If someone wasn’t washing her, they were praying over her. If they weren’t praying, they were giving her something to eat, drink, or wear on her neck, wrists, or ankles. She was a yawo, a baby. It was a time when the elder priests were glad for her and with her and waited on her hand and foot. Rhonda had never seen so many people willing to serve her and happy that she was alive. When the seven days were over, she went home dressed in white from head to toe. She would wear white every day for the next year. It was after she got home that the dreams and the voices resumed.
Rhonda’s dreams became clearer and more exciting each night. She remembered most of them, but some of her dreams moved so fast she couldn’t remember anything when she woke up exhausted. Three months after the initiation, Rhonda had a series of dreams that were of great significance.
In the first dream, the doorbell rang, and Rhonda went downstairs to answer the door. Standing outside was the image of death. It was a tall figure, dressed in a hooded black cape. It had no face. When Rhonda slammed the door on the image and turned to walk back up the stairs to her apartment, the figure was standing at the top of the stairs. It walked into her apartment and closed the door. Rhonda sat straight up in bed; she was wide-awake. She jumped out of bed and ran through the house, looking for the image. She was standing in the kitchen when she realized she’d been dreaming. Her heart was beating wildly, her mouth was dry, and she was shaking like a leaf.
The next night she had a similar dream. This time, the figure was standing at her apartment door when she opened it. Startled, she stepped back. The figure moved through her body, down the hall, and into the children’s room. Again, Rhonda awoke in a panic. She ran to check on the children. The children were fine. She left the light on in their room, and instead of going back to bed, she prayed. Rhonda prayed in every language and faith she knew. She asked Daddy’s Yogananda to help her. She asked Grandma’s Jesus to help her. She prayed at her altar and asked the ancestors to help her. Someone, she knew, was getting ready to die. It couldn’t be Nett, who was now eating on her own and walking and talking. It’s Damon, she thought. Something is going to happen to Damon. Rhonda promised God that she would pray and fast for three days in order to receive a message. She needed to know what to do to save her son. She never went back to bed, and she refused to let Damon out of the house all day.
The next night, Rhonda had the most frightening dream of all. This time when the doorbell rang, the image of death was standing over her bed, staring at her. She was paralyzed with fear. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Rhonda was screaming and crying in her sleep; tears were streaming down her face. The ringing bedside phone woke her up. “Hello!” she screamed into the receiver.
“Ronnie?” It was Edna, Daddy’s wife.
“Sorry for yelling,” Rhonda said weakly. “I was having a bad dream.” She tried to calm herself down, but the image was still vivid.
“I’ve got some bad news. Your daddy is dead.”
Without waking her children, Rhonda dressed herself in her white clothes, jumped in her green car with the one brown door, and made it to Daddy’s house in record time.
He looked like he was asleep. Daddy was lying on the bed, his arms folded across his chest. Edna said she had gone to temple, and when she returned, she had found him just as he was. She tried to wake him, and when she couldn’t, she went in the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. When she returned to the bedroom, she found the note:
Dear Ed,
Please tell Ma I’m sorry. I am sorry.
Harry
That’s when she realized he was dead.
Edna was pretty calm, and so was Rhonda. But Daddy’s five children were anything but calm. As soon as Rhonda would get one quieted down, another one would start up. When the children were finally all calm at the same time, Rhonda and Edna sat them down and served them tea and juice. After the medics arrived, pronounced Daddy dead, and covered his face, all the children fell apart again. Rhonda stared into the bedroom, trying to comprehend what was going on within her. My father is dead. I am sitting here looking at my dead father, and I am as cool as a cucumber. What does this mean?
Rhonda had been at Daddy’s house for twelve hours before the medical examiner’s office came to remove the body. Before they arrived, neighbors and friends came and went. Each one voiced their shock as they crept into the bedroom to look at Daddy; and each one expressed some version of “He doesn’t even look like he’s dead. He looks like he’s asleep.” The landlord came, the mailman and the garbage man came, and neighbors from every floor in the building came by for a peek.
When Grandma arrived, Rhonda braced herself. She wasn’t sure how Grandma would react, and she wasn’t sure what she would do if Grandma broke down. Like everyone else, Grandma crept into the room and stood silently at the foot of the bed where her only son lay dead. She shook her head from side to side, then put her hands over her mouth. Her voice was muffled, but Rhonda could clearly hear her say, “He looks like he’s asleep.” Slowly, Grandma walked out of the room and into the kitchen, where she spent the rest of the day greeting people and ushering them through the apartment.
Ray never went beyond the kitchen. When they took the body bag out of the bedroom and out of the apartment, Ray stayed in the bathroom. Nett, of course, did not come by.
Rhonda sat on the sofa the entire day, refusing Edna’s insistent request to go get her children “so they could see Grandpa” before they took him away. Rhonda was trying to find some sense of grief or loss somewhere in her body or in her mind. She sat there, trying to cry for her father. When Edna announced that there would be no autopsy, Rhonda agreed. Still, she did not feel a sense of loss at the thought of strangers dissecting her father’s lifeless body. He was, after all, a yogi, a disciple of sorts, and it really didn’t matter why he was dead, he was dead. According to his faith, an autopsy was unnecessary. Besides that, they all knew how and why he died. They knew, but no one said a word.
The next day when she got the call that she would have to go to the morgue to identify the body, she was angry, not sad.
“Why do I have to go?”
“Because you are the next of kin,” Edna said, her voice displaying her attitude.
“Well, you’re his wife.” Edna was silent because she knew Rhonda knew the truth.
“What time do we have to go?”
“Sometime before noon.”
“I’ll pick y
ou up at 10:30. Did you tell them about the autopsy?”
“That’s why we have to get there before twelve so that you can sign for the body before they start cutting on him. I found the cup with the stuff in it.”
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know what it is. Whatever herbs he mixed together. He went out to the park the other day and brought back all this stuff he said he wanted to bathe in.” Edna’s voice was starting to waver. “I should have known what he was doing. It was too much stuff to bathe in. He knew all along that …” Feeling her chest begin to tighten, Rhonda cut Edna off.
“There is no way you could have known what he was doing. He was always mixing herbs and stuff. I’ll pick you up at 10:30.” Without saying good-bye, Rhonda hung up, and still she didn’t cry.
The waiting room at the morgue was freezing. Perhaps, Rhonda thought, that is why the attendant looked like he too should be lying in one of the boxes. She told him her name and the reason for her visit.
“I’ve come to identify the body of my father, Horace Harris.”
“I don’t think he’s back yet.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think … Wait. Black male, sixty-four or so.”
“Horace Harris.” Without responding, the attendant stood up and walked from behind his desk. Several minutes later they heard rumbling. It stopped. The black curtain on the floor-to-ceiling glass door in the room was ripped open to reveal a gurney. On the gurney was a body, covered by a white sheet.
“Over here. Come over here,” the attendant called out to them. Edna didn’t move. Rhonda walked up to the glass.
“Are you ready? Let me know when you are done,” the attendant said as he pulled the sheet back and walked away in one move.
Now he looked dead. Rhonda could see the dried blood on the side of his head. She could see the stitches behind his ear and on his chest. Turning to Edna, who still hadn’t moved, Rhonda asked, “Did you tell them no autopsy?”
“They’re not supposed to do it until you identify the body.”
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