by Janay Harden
“Joya Ranks?” A nurse called.
Joya jumped at her name being called and grabbed my hand. “Can my friend come back too?”
The nurse’s face softened, and she gave Joya empathetic eyes. “Sure, Miss. Ranks. She can come with you to change but not into the operating room. She will be waiting for you in the recovery room.”
“Okay,” Joya said, her eyes glassy.
My stomach was in so many knots. We passed a water cooler in the long hallway and I grabbed a triangle cup, pressed the button, and cold water came out. I gulped it down as fast as I could and took a deep breath, following Joya and the nurse.
A few minutes later, I held Joya’s hand once more in the recovery room. She was groggy from being sedated and her voice cracked barely above a whisper. She squeezed my hand so tight that I grit my teeth and dug into my toes in my shoes.
“Is it over? Is it over?” She breathed.
“Shhh, yes, it is.” I held her hand and helped her to her feet.
“I want to go home and see my mom,” Joya said with tears in her eyes.
I bit my lip, knowing the feeling well.
“Let’s get you dressed, and we can go.”
Joya ripped both the wristband and hospital gown off her as she struggled to get her jacket on. Nurses milled about the large room refilling saline bags and checking on other patients.
All of the girls were crying.
I drove Joya home in her car, and she was quiet the entire time. She reclined her seat and lay back, looking out of the window, her hoodie up around her head now too, and her arms were crossed. Her brown face was lined with streaks from where she had been crying. The ride home seemed much longer with both of us quiet.
When I finally got home, I had made a decision. Dad was coming home from work at eight o’clock tonight. At dinner, we would talk about whatever was going on in my head. Soon we wouldn’t have insurance, but surely, there had to be programs or something—right? I think it was time to talk to someone; I sighed. I reached for my phone and googled “hearing voices.” Different mental health agencies popped up, and I scrolled until I found a place on the expensive side of Tunica Rivers.
I dialed the number, and my heart beat out of my chest. I climbed into my bed under the covers and into the fetal position.
“HeartSprings Counseling, how can I help you?” the chipper receptionist answered.
“H-hi,” I said. “Uh, is this the palace where you go to uh, talk to someone?”
“Yes, it is. How may we help you?”
“I uh—would like to talk to someone.”
“Okay yes, what kind of insurance do you have?”
“Uh, I’m covered right now, but in a few days I won’t be. My dad is applying for state aid though,” I said too quickly.
“Oh,” the receptionist’s voice changed. “Well, we do see patients without insurance, but you would just have to pay the out-of-network fee.”
“And how much is that?”
“One hundred twenty-five dollars per session.”
I gripped my phone and my knuckles turned white.
$125?
I’m sure I heard her wrong.
“You said $125?”
“Yes, ma’am I did.”
This wasn’t going to work. Why did I even get my hopes up like this? “Thank you, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, well you give us a call back anytime. We ‘re always here for you at HeartSprings Counseling.”
Sure. For $125.00, I sulked.
I slammed my phone onto my nightstand. The house was quiet as Sidney was with her dad this weekend and Dad was at work. I didn’t even have to lie to Dad about going to the party—he was at work all night anyway. My thoughts shifted to last night. Malachi and I are officially broken up, and while that bothered me, what hurt more was the thought of him scrounging his life away, not wanting to go to college. What else would he do? They stacked the odds against kids like us, and we had to be extra special or athletic to do anything different. Malachi looked good and he played football, but there was nothing special about him that screamed “I got this.”
And Will… even if there was something between us, we ruined it last night. He thought I was crazy, I scoffed. He may be right, even so; he called my crazy out. Funny thing is, Mom didn’t have a thing to say about that one. She let him live. Literally. The past few months when I looked at Will, I saw something different. I noticed the lines in his face when he laughed. The way he walked down the hallway when he was running late for class. I especially remembered his face when he picked me up in front of the school and I cried in his car. But how could this be? He still dated Mila. Yes, for only a few months, but despite that, they were my best friends. And Will said, “We’re worried about you,” meaning the three of them. So, they had been talking about me amongst themselves and decided I needed help.
Mila—her words rang in my mind. “He loves you!” she yelled. I stayed silent, but I knew the truth.
I recalled the last time I was happy, really happy. Sidney and I went to the pottery studio with Mom. Mom was throwing a large round pot, and her hands were covered in clay up to her elbows. Her hair was tied up in a tribal headband and brown ringlet curls fell over her forehead. The music was loud throughout the studio as she danced to Sheila E.
“You hear that bass, SidRock,” she shimmied. Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me to her where we danced and laughed. “Come on Sidrock, you too!” she yelled, motioning for Sidney to come to us.
A smile spread across Sidney’s face and she jumped off the counter where she sat and darted to us. We danced and two-stepped. Mom was showing Sidney how to do the Butterfly when her hip hit the pottery wheel and the pot collapsed.
Sidney and I stopped dancing and eyed Mom waiting for her to be angry, but she threw her head back and let out a roar of laughter. Mom looked so beautiful and carefree that day. Sidney and I looked at each other and began laughing too. Senior year was supposed to be fun, but I was ending mine boyfriend-less and friend-less. Just less. I grabbed my phone again and texted Mila. She responded immediately.
Me: Wyd?
Mila: Laying down. Girl, my head is spinning.
Me: Mine too. Did you hook up with Jaxon last night?
I pulled the blankets up around me tighter and waited for Mila’s response. I closed my eyes and yawned, the events of the night before and today finally catching up with me. I closed my eyes and on this seventh day, she rested.
CHAPTER 17
Mila never texted me back, and once I woke, I knew exactly where I wanted to go. Ms. Montague’s studio was small, and it sat in a strip mall in downtown Tunica Rivers. On the left was a fried chicken joint, and on the right was a massage parlor. Mom used to say, “Happy endings all around us.”
I called Ms. Montague before I arrived to make sure she was there—I needed to clear my mind.
“Lawd, you look just like yo’ Momma, girl, “Ms. Montague opened the door for me. “Her little twin.”
My heart fluttered. The only other person I heard say I resembled Mom, was Dad, but when he said it, it was with sad eyes.
Ms. Montague’s eyes roamed me up and down. “It’s only been a few months since I last saw you. Let me get a good look at you.” She stood back and looked me up and down.
I paced nervously.
“And your braids are so long and beautiful. What’s going on here?” she peered closer. “Were you trying to take your hair out?”
I looked down at my braids in confusion. A handful of them were cut and Ms. Montague noticed. I didn’t see it when I hopped out of bed or while with Joya today. Now in the late afternoon, it looked like someone chopped off a bunch of waist length braids and they were unraveling.
“Uh, yeah. I was taking them out,” I lied. I flipped my head over and put my hair in a bun on top of my head with the scrunc
hie I kept around my wrist. The shorter cut braids poked out of the bottom of my bun and I didn’t have a bobby pin to secure it in place. What the fuck? What happened to my hair? And who cut off my braids?
I checked my phone. Mila still hadn’t responded to my last text about Jaxon..
“I thought you might like to throw a piece today,” Ms. Montague’s eyes gleamed.
“And you guessed correctly,” I smiled.
“You can head down to your favorite spot, and I’ll get everything ready.” Ms. Montague wore an oversized business suit at all times. She prided herself on her large scarf collection and today she wore a leopard print cloth tied around her neck. She was the epitome of a cat lady, and her office was filled with pictures of her many felines.
I sat down at Mom’s favorite potting station. Behind every station was a corkboard with pictures from various studio events. Mom was in one of those pictures, her bright smile shining through the newspaper clipping. She stood with her hand on her hip and another hand holding a large vase.
She looked happy.
I wondered when was the last time she felt that same happiness or if happiness was an inside job these days. Ms. Montague shuffled back, and I met her halfway to carry the large piece of clay.
“Thank you,” she huffed.
“Do you need help with anything?”
No, I’m fine, thank you,” I shook my head.
“Okay, holler if you need anything else.” Ms. Montague walked away, and I stood at the workstation kneading the clay. After washing my hands, I grabbed my headphones and popped them into my ears as I worked. Nicki Minaj’s voice boomed, and I kneaded the clay harder. I grabbed a mallet and banged at it, slapping and tossing it until it was warmed up and flattened. I searched through the basket underneath the table and retrieved shapes I wanted to carve onto the piece. Once the clay was soft, I sat down and loaded it onto the wheel.
“That’s right, my girl,” Mom said. “Open your legs a little more, feel the weight of the wheel. Don’t be intimidated. You control it. It doesn’t control you.” The clay felt slippery between my fingers and it dried quickly. I had to keep my hands wet and moving in a circular motion or it would harden and crumple on my fingers. My hands wrapped around the clay mass, and it spun in slow circles. My fingers moved with it, gently. The machine hummed a shallow song, and it suspended my eyes with the clay. I used my fingertips to spread it out and make it larger in some sections. I pinched my thumb and forefinger together to make divots in other parts. Yeah, it looked like something Mom would make. Ms. Montague walked up, leaned on the wall and crossed her arms. She mouthed something but I couldn’t hear her with my earbuds in. I pulled them away and wiped my hands.
“You know you have your mom’s talents,” she repeated.
I grinned at her.
“Oh, Ms. Montague, Mom keeps saying to check out the person who bought her vase. I didn’t get a chance to ask you at the last art show. I’m not sure what that means?”
“Ha, she’s a hoot. An old industry trick we used back in the day. We had to vet the people who bought our pieces. It was about mixing energy. The energy it took to create her piece, would be mixed with the energy of the person receiving it. We liked to make sure our creations would be somewhere they were loved,” she explained. “We don’t do it as much these days, everyone is just happy to make a sale regardless where it goes.”
“Got it. More crazy shit,” I thought.
“She mentioned it a few times in her letters, and I wanted to make sure I checked it out.” I now stood up and leaned over the tubular shaped piece. It rose to my waist, and I bent over it, thinning it out even more.
“Listen, Indigo, while you’re here. I want to give you something.”
I turned off the wheel, and it slugged to an end. Removing the piece from the wheel, I gently placed it on the workstation and washed my hands.
“I’ll go get it,” Ms. Montague walked away. She was back in a few minutes with an envelope. “Here, open it,” she pushed.
I tore into the envelope and pulled out three different letters. The first one said “Firstborn Children of Incarcerated Parents Scholarship.”
“I found this at an event I attended a few weeks ago in Birmingham. I thought of you. They give out a grand prize of $15,000. It’s not much, but it could help.”
Not much she said. It was damn near millions to me. I grabbed Ms. Montague and threw my arms around her neck. Tears sprang to my eyes again, just as they did this morning. “Thank you, thank you so much,” I cried.
Ms. Montague huffed and fixed her business suit. “It’s the least I could do, your Mom was one of the most gifted women I knew, and it’s a shame how things ended,” she shook her head.
I now see why Mom loves Ms. Montague. Things hadn’t ended with Mom because they were continuing with me and Sidney. This is what they would never understand. I didn’t have time to play around; I had to move forward—for Mom and for Sidney.
“Oh, and I checked the records. About who bought your mom’s piece? The last name said Green. A Jennifer Green.
“I know her. Did she know it was my mom’s piece?”
“No, she didn’t. I remember she had on the most god-awful perfume and I had to close the deal for Casey because Casey went into a sneezing fit around her.”
My fingers turned cold as I cleaned up my area.
Green.
CHAPTER 18
Later that night, Dad danced in the kitchen and sang to Luther Vandross. Sidney and I giggled as he glided across the floor, occasionally stirring the pot of food on the stove. I shook my head and crossed his path to the stove where I took over the cooking so he could showcase his best moves. I stirred the hot soup and blew on it as I taste tested. Almost done.
I was glad he was in a good mood so I could talk to him about the voices. I’d been replaying in my mind what I would say since I got back from Ms. Montague’s and I thought I had a decent script. I would bring up Mom and I could say nonchalantly, “Hey, Dad, I think Mom and I have some similarities.” Hopefully, he would raise an eyebrow and say, “what similarities, Indy?” I would pause to take a breath, and then I would just say it. “Dad, I think I hear voices.” He would understand. He would help figure this out. He would take over and make decisions like Dads do. That’s what I needed him to do.
The doorbell rang and Sidney ran to get it. I heard a woman’s voice, and Dad took off his apron and smoothed his jeans. That’s when I noticed he was wearing jeans. I had only seen him in his uniform and work boots the past few months. Sidney and a tall, heavyset woman entered the kitchen. Sidney’s eyes were wide, and she peered up at the woman and then at Dad.
Dad turned down the music.
“My girls,” he said. “I would like you to meet Arletha. We met at work, and we’ve been seeing each other. I thought it was time for my woman to meet my girls,” Dad gave a pensive smile.
Sidney and I looked at each other.
“Hi girls,” the woman gave a wave. “I’ve heard so much about you. I made a cake.”
Sighing, I waited for Mom’s voice—I knew she was coming after this one.
“Indigo, right?” Arletha’s eyes were wide and confident. She stared at me. “Your dad says you like pound cake,” and she pushed one in my direction.
I froze.
“She does like cake,” Sidney palmed the cake from Arletha’s arms.
I was thankful for Sidney. The night went by in a blur, and I truly didn’t know what to say. I looked around the house while Ms. Arletha was there, and things seemed odd. First of all, it was too clean. Our house was never dirty, but it definitely had that lived-in look. But now that Ms. Arletha was here, it was spotless, not a speck of dust anywhere. And Dad’s jeans? He wore his work uniform so often I felt like I was gazing at someone else. He took the time to iron them and there was a thick crease running down the center of
his pants. He ironed his clothes for her. The house smelled good too, and Dad rushed around fumbling, lighting candles.
“I’ll do that, honey,‘’ Ms. Arletha took the candles and lighter from him and delicately lit them—only like a woman would. A woman’s touch. That’s what it was, that déjà vu feeling I had looking around—Ms. Arletha brought a woman’s touch.
“So, Sidney, I hear you like field hockey?”
Sidney glanced at me before answering, and I nodded at her.
“Yes, I play field hockey.”
“Want to hear a secret? I played too when I was your age.”
“You did?” Sidney’s eyes were large.
“I did,” Ms. Arletha beamed. “I got a scholarship to go to college actually.”
This now piqued my interest. “And what happened?”
“My mom was sick, and I had to stay home and care for her. When she passed, it was too late for me to get another scholarship, and I couldn’t afford it. So, I stayed here, in Tunica Rivers where I got myself a good job and met your Dad.” She looked over at Dad and patted his hand.
Wow, I thought. Ms. Arletha said a mouthful. She stayed to take care of her mom. She articulated exactly what I didn’t want for my life. I didn’t want to stay in Tunica Rivers and care for anyone. I wanted to leave and see the world. Let the world see me. I had to get out—I just had to.
“Are you still any good?” Sidney asked.
Ms. Arletha shook her head. “Oh heavens no, I’m done with all that stuff. But I can help you with some of your moves,” she said with a smile.
Ms. Arletha and Sidney happily chatted throughout the night, building something that with the help of cake and talk of field hockey—would last. Dad said nothing, but he stole glances at me. I didn’t have any issues with Ms. Arletha, but I was definitely surprised. Dad worked all day long, but even with him working I forgot he was a man. A man whose common law wife, the only woman he possibly ever loved, was locked away for the foreseeable future. Dad still had needs too.