Skye Falling

by Mia Mckenzie

  “You can’t smoke in here,” I tell him, rolling my bags out onto the porch.

  “I’m not in there,” he says, and takes another drag.

  “Oh, here comes Viva!” I say, looking down the block.

  “Shit!” He drops his cigarette and looks like he’s legit about to jump over the railing and sprint down the street. Then he sees the lie in my face and looks angry and embarrassed. “Why you gotta be such a jerk?”

  Across the street, I can see Miss Newsome—an old lady who sits on her porch all day, smoking and listening to the gospel station on a boom box, while watching everyone come and go—leaning over her own porch railing, peering at us. She probably saw Slade throwing jelly beans at the windows and is trying to decide if he’s a gentleman caller or a quirky drug dealer.

  “What do you want, Slade?” I’m not usually this direct with him, but I don’t have time for his bullshit right now.

  “You coming to visit your disabled mother or not?”

  Well, shit, I guess we’re all being direct today.

  “I kind of have a lot going on.”

  He frowns. “Like what?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m flying to Miami in like an hour and a half.”

  “So, you’re just leaving? Without even coming by?” he asks, sounding sort of sad, which isn’t what I’d expect from him. “When will you be back?”

  “End of June.”

  “That’s three months from now.” He sighs and shakes his head.

  I don’t know why he cares so much all of a sudden. For the last six years, I’ve been coming back to Philly for two-week breaks, every three months. During those breaks, I rarely visit our mother, or see my brother, who still lives with her. Slade never went to any trouble to get me to see either of them, even after our mother fell and hit her head on the sidewalk a year and a half ago. But for the last few weeks he’s been all the way up my ass about it. I guess I could ask him why. But I’m not sure I actually want to know.

  “Did you hear Cynthia died?” I ask instead.

  He stares at me, confused. “Cynthia who?”

  “From camp.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Actually, yeah, I did hear that. Marcus told me.”

  Marcus is one of Slade’s friends who started going with Cynthia the summer we were eleven and he was fifteen. Which, at the time, seemed dangerous in a cool way and now seems dangerous in a dangerous way.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Slade.

  His face hardens. “When was I supposed to do that? You don’t even answer my calls.”

  “How’d she die?” I ask. “Did Marcus tell you?”

  “She had some kind of cancer, I think. It was pretty tragic, actually.”

  “Why? I mean, besides the usual reasons?”

  “Because she didn’t have any family or friends around,” he says. “She didn’t even really have but one or two visitors, even near the end. Except for her kid.”

  “That’s awful.” I feel a kind of twisting in my gut.

  “What does this have to do with Mom?” my brother asks me.

  “Nothing.”

  He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying not to lose his shit. Then, after a moment, he says, “I read somewhere that girls come back to take care of their parents when they get old. I guess you tryna be different, like always, right?”

  I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say. The truth is, I didn’t like our mother before her accident and I haven’t been able to muster much energy to pretend to like her now. Maybe that makes me a bad daughter but, in my defense, she doesn’t give a shit about me, either. She never has.

  “She keeps asking about you,” Slade says.

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  He frowns. “Why would I say that if it wasn’t true?”

  “I called her the last time I was in town,” I remind him.

  “That was what? Three or four months ago? And you know that’s not the same as showing up in person anyway!”

  “I have to get to the airport. My cab is coming in a minute. So, like…can you go?”

  He gets up off the railing. “Fine. Forget it. I don’t even know why I’m trying with you.”

  I shrug.

  He walks off up the block and around the corner without looking back at me.

  I peer up and down the street for my cab, but it’s nowhere in sight. I sit on the front steps and try to think about São Paulo. I try to feel excited like I usually do when I’m gearing up for a trip. But now I’m all emotionally discombobulated, overwhelmed by a number of sensations I can’t exactly identify. I take a series of long, deep breaths to center myself. When that doesn’t work, I get up and start pacing the porch. Miss Newsome is watching, as usual, and I almost yell at her to mind her old-ass business. I’m still pacing when Viva comes up the steps.

  She eyes my suitcase. “Are you leaving?”

  I nod. “Heading out to Miami tonight.”

  “You’re supposed to be here another week.”

  “Change of plans,” I tell her. “Things here are getting a little bit…much.”

  She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, but she keeps standing there, watching me pace back and forth. It’s mad uncomfortable. After like a minute, she asks, “Are you waiting for a ride?”

  “Yes.” I check the time on my phone. “And it’s late.”

  She watches me make another lap across the porch and back. “Chica, you look stressed. Even more than earlier. ¿Qué pasó?”

  “Slade came by.”

  She purses her lips, frowns, and I think she might ask what the hell Slade was doing on her property, but she doesn’t. Instead she holds up a large, greasy brown bag she’s carrying. “I have shrimp. Come conmigo. Then I’ll drive you to the airport.”

  I look at her. “You will?”

  “Of course.”

  Now I feel a little bit guilty for walking away from her at the school. “Okay. But let’s eat quick.”

  * * *

  —

  Even though I hardly ever go in there, the kitchen is my favorite room at the bed-and-breakfast, because it always smells like oregano and basil and cilantro. There are glass double doors at the back and they open out onto a yard that, in spring and summer, is bright and flower-filled, bursting in yellows and pinks like a kid’s coloring book. Now, in early April, it’s mostly bare out there, plant-wise, but the wooden benches look freshly sanded and stained and the brick walkway is swept of dead leaves, so the space still looks inviting in the late-day sun, which floods the kitchen in soft orangey light.

  Viva takes the shrimp out of the bag, along with French fries and coleslaw, and arranges it all on the counter like a feast. She goes into the pantry off the kitchen and comes out with a bottle of wine. She pours two glasses and holds one out to me.

  “No, thanks.”

  She looks super surprised, as if I’ve never turned down alcohol before, which I totally have probably. She puts the wineglasses down on the table and sits. She’s quiet for a moment, and then she takes a breath and says, “Do you remember when we were fifteen and we trusted each other with everything?”

  “Not everything,” I say. “You didn’t tell me you were a girl.”

  She nods. “Okay, well, almost everything, then.”

  I nod. “Yeah, kind of.” But I don’t “kind of” remember; I totally remember. Viva was Tasha’s boyfriend during our sophomore year of high school. For a while, the three of us were inseparable. Tasha and Viva were the first people I came out to, at fifteen. They both followed suit in a matter of months, though Viva came out as gay then, not trans. The next summer, I fell in love for the first time and subsequently got my heart ripped from my chest by Rashida Jordan. Tasha was in Wilmington with her grandparents for a month, so it was up to Viva to listen to me cry f
or an hour at a stretch, and make sure I ate, and generally keep me from hurling myself in front of a bus. Which she did without a single complaint. Now she’s looking at me patiently. So, I start talking.

  “My brother just told me Cynthia died of cancer.”

  “Vicky’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s very sad,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

  “That could be me, Viva.”

  “What do you mean? Is there even any cancer in your family?”

  “I mean, I could end up like her. I don’t talk to my family much. I don’t have a partner.”

  “Do you want a partner?”

  “No. But who’s going to take care of me if I get sick?”

  “You have friends,” Viva says. “I’m sure plenty of people would show up for you—”

  “Would you? Would you drop everything to take care of me if I got sick?”

  “Of course.”

  But I know she wouldn’t. Not because she isn’t a good person, but because no one does that. People take care of their parents, partners, and kids, and that’s it.

  “Dying without anybody around who gives a shit is the worst thing that can happen to a person, isn’t it?”

  Viva sighs. “Didn’t you once tell me you expect to die drunk and alone in a hotel room somewhere far away?”

  “Probably. But I was what, nineteen? Maybe I thought it sounded cool. It’s possible I’ve just never checked in with myself to ascertain whether or not it still sounds cool two decades later. Like, ‘Hey thirty-eight-and-three-quarters self, are you still planning on dying alone or is that actually a horrible idea?’ ”

  “Okay,” Viva says. “Fine. So, what then? I’m not saying I think you’re right, or even that I fully understand this conversation, but for the sake of argument. Let’s say you’re on the road to dying alone and that’s not something you feel okay about anymore. What are you going to do about it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘do about it’?”

  “I mean: What actions are you going to take to stop it from happening?”

  I think about it for a moment, then shake my head. “I have no idea.”

  Viva frowns, and I think she feels sorry for me. I feel pretty damn sorry for myself.

  Then I remember what Slade said, about how girls come back to take care of their parents when they get old, and I say to Viva, “Well, maybe I do have an idea.”

  * * *

  —

  Half an hour later, I roll my suitcase back to my room. I call Toni and tell her that I need to stay in Philly for a little while; that I’d like her to lead the Brazil and Cuba trips, plus the Argentina trip in May, and the Nicaragua and Costa Rica trips in June; that I’ll call her again tomorrow to discuss further. In a few clicks, I cancel my flights to Miami and São Paulo.

  This night, I lie awake for hours. I think about Cynthia. About youth. About death. Around one in the morning, I finally drift off. I dream about the giant anteaters of Brazil, laying chicken eggs.

  5

  Next afternoon, I take a Lyft from the B and B to West Philadephia Montessori. “Picking up your kid?” the driver, a middle-aged Dominican, asks me when we’re almost there.

  “Not exactly,” I tell him. “I mean…something like that. Kind of. But not really. No.”

  He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “You sure?”

  “I’m not really sure of anything, sir.”

  He nods, like he understands exactly what I mean.

  It’s chilly out, typical of early April. The air is more than crisp today; it’s borderline crunchy. The sort of air that has its own smell and, if you stick your tongue out in it, its own taste. From the back of the car, I watch Philadelphians trudging along in puffy jackets, my own down vest buttoned to my chin, and I try not to think too hard about the weather in São Paulo.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I almost don’t even look at it. But then I do and it’s Slade and I wish I hadn’t. He’s been texting all morning and I’ve managed to not read a single one. This time, I see the beginning of the text in the banner (Call me right away) and don’t even open it to see the rest. I’m en route to Brazil as far as my brother and mother are concerned. I put the phone back in my pocket.

  When we pull up to the curb outside the school, the bell has already rung and kids are everywhere. I see Vicky walk right by the Lyft and I scramble to get out of my seatbelt while opening the door at the same time. I’m not coordinated enough to do these two things at once, though, so I stumble out of the car, trip on the curb, and almost fall down on the sidewalk, which earns me a snicker from a bespectacled middle-schooler. I walk faster to catch up to Vicky, grabbing her shoulder from behind. When she turns and sees it’s me, she looks annoyed.

  “Leave me alone,” she says. “I’m over it.” And she keeps walking.

  My instinct is to do what she says: to leave her alone. If she’s over it, then she’s over it. I don’t need to chase the kid. But then I don’t leave her alone. I follow her. “You’re still mad about the window situation, right?”

  She shrugs, doesn’t stop walking or even turn around.

  “It was a dick move,” I say. “But I don’t usually act like that. I swear. It was just a weird day. I was really hungover.”

  The kid stops, turns, and looks at me. “You were?”

  “Um…yes.”

  “From what?”

  “From drinking the night before.”

  “I know what hungover means,” she says. “I’m not a fourth-grader. I mean, what did you drink?”

  “Bourbon.”

  She nods. Then, after a few seconds, “My mom liked whiskey. That’s the same as bourbon?”

  “Bourbon is a kind of whiskey.”

  “She let me have a sip once. It tasted gross.”

  “Well, not every girl is a brown liquor girl,” I say. “Also, you’re what? Twelve?”

  “Aunt Faye doesn’t let me.”

  “Drink?” I ask. “That’s probably wise.”

  “Taste,” she says. “Just a sip. Like, for fun. French kids drink wine. Did you know that?”

  “Maybe…? Wait, why are we talking about booze?”

  She shrugs, then turns and walks away again.

  “Let me make it up to you, okay?” I say, following her and thinking about what I’d want if someone let me down, what would make me feel the most better. “I can give you money.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. “I have thirty dollars,” I tell her, holding it out. I really have sixty, but that seems like a lot.

  She stops and looks at the money. Her eyebrows are drawn close together and it occurs to me that this is a horrible misstep because kids don’t want money, they want love. But then she shrugs and pockets the cash. “So, what now?” she asks.

  I honestly have no idea.

  “Vicky!”

  I turn around and there’s a woman standing on the curb, looking concerned. Her face is mad familiar, but I can’t immediately place her.

  “What are you doing?” she asks the kid. “Who is this?”

  I look at Vicky, whose eyes are all shifty, like she’s trying to think up a quick lie.

  “Hold on,” the woman, who I’m guessing is the aforementioned Aunt Faye, says. “You’re that woman from Gus Brown’s.”

  It clicks. I nod slowly, remembering the Etta James record, Pee Paw, and the whole rejection thing that happened. For some reason, I laugh really loud then, causing them both to look startled. “Ha! Yeah, that was me. Wow. How weird is that?”

  She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she gets between me and the kid. “Vicky, get in the car.”

  “But—”

  “Are you some kind of stalker?”

  Wait, what?

  “Have you been following us?”

&n
bsp; “What? No. I’m not stalk—”

  “Did I just see you give my child money?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “But not in a creepy way.”

  “Vicky, get in the car,” she says again. “I’m pretty sure this crazy woman is trying to kidnap you.”

  Fuuuuuck me.

  “No, she’s not!” Vicky says.

  “Trust me. I had a conversation with her that no sane person would have thought was normal.”

  Wow, okay.

  “Aunt Faye—”

  “Vicky Valentine! I told you to get in the car! Get. In. The. Car. Now!”

  An angry look crosses the kid’s face and for a second I think she’s going to yell right back at her aunt. But then she doesn’t. Instead, she gets into an SUV that’s double-parked nearby and rolls down the window, as her aunt rummages around in her purse, probably looking for her phone.

  What the hell? I mouth at the kid.

  Sorry, she mouths back.

  Sorry. Great. That’s mad helpful.

  Don’t tell, she mouths.

  Don’t tell? Seriously? Don’t tell and just let myself be arrested for kidnapping? What kind of messed-up request?

  Pleeeeease. The anger is gone from her face and she looks on the verge of tears.

  Now I have like half a second to decide whether to keep the kid’s secret that I didn’t even know was a secret, and let her aunt call the cops on me, or rat this little motherfucker out and remain unarrested. At first, it doesn’t seem like a hard choice. I mean, it’s not my job to keep secrets for tweens, especially ones that are going to land me in handcuffs. But the kid looks so damn desperate. Desperate like only a kid that age can look, like the whole world is falling down around her and there’s nothing she can do about it because she’s twelve. I remember that feeling. I can’t dwell on it, though, because Aunt Faye has located her phone and is now dialing what I can only assume is 911.

  I frown at the kid one last time, then take off running down the street.

  Make no mistake: I have found myself in some pretty horrible and humiliating situations over the course of my adulthood. I once licked shit off a baby because I thought it was cake batter. A peacock once chased me around in circles at the zoo while a hundred kids laughed hysterically. And they were Black kids. Black kids don’t just laugh at you. They let their bodies go limp and fall on one another and on the ground because what is happening to you is so uproarious it atrophies their muscles on the spot. But let’s be clear: Running down the sidewalk to escape a woman who thinks I just tried to abduct her kid may be the most horrible and humiliating thing I have ever experienced, due in no small part to the fact that I. Suck. At. Running. I was born with janky knees. I had to wear braces on my legs when I first started to walk and it helped some, but I’m still an extremely busted runner. When I run, I look like a giant toddler who you just know is about to fall face-first into the coffee table and fracture its skull. I’m also pretty sure I’m not running very fast. Sure enough, when I look behind me, Vicky’s aunt is right there. She’s only jogging but is easily keeping up with me. When she reaches out to grab my shoulder, I somehow find the leg strength to run harder, putting several yards between us. I round a corner and toddle-run another half-block and when I look back again, she’s not there. I keep running. I’m on a street lined with pizza shops and burger places, and some of the people coming out of them watch curiously as I pass. Some smart-ass yells, “Run, Forrest, run!” I keep going until I’m sure the kid’s aunt is no longer chasing me and it’s only when I stop that I realize my lungs are on fire. I double over, sucking in air as hard as I can, trying not to die.