I look down at my hand. I hadn’t even noticed the small cut on my palm.
“Let me see,” he says. He pulls me over to the sink and puts my hand under running water, then inspects my cut palm. After a moment, he curls my hands around his and kisses my knuckles.
“Not so bad. Nothing a little peroxide and a Band-Aid won’t fix.”
I shake my head. “Dr. Malachi Johnson, here to save the day.” He applied to Morehouse early decision weeks ago and should be hearing back any day now.
“Not yet. But that’s the plan.” Malachi and I have talked about his dream to start a practice back in his hood. He insists they need more people from home trying to help home, and I think about the way he cradled my hand and inspected my cut; how he makes me smile when I’m upset. I think about how sure he is when he walks into a room and how he participates in every class he takes, and I know Malachi is going to be an amazing doctor one day. Sometimes, when he talks about returning to Newark, he reminds me of my father; a love for home so deep you go out into the world with the sole purpose of bringing the world back to your hood. And the similarities make me smile and hurt at the same time. Malachi has his future planned out. He knows exactly what he wants and how he’s going to get it. And me? I’ve barely finished my college essay, much less submitted it anywhere.
Malachi awkwardly shuffles his feet. I take my hand out of his. I want to hold my own hand when I ask the question.
“Malachi, what is this? What are we doing?”
He takes a step back. “I don’t know. I don’t think that’s a question I need to answer by myself, is it? You seemed to want to take it slow so we’ve been taking it slow.”
I remember what Angelica said the last time she was here. About designing my own kind of reality. And I think part of that is owning when I don’t know what I want that reality to look like.
“Thank you for taking it slow. To be honest, I’m not sure what I want. Not with you, not with college, not with anything. Babygirl is the only thing in my life I’m clear on.” It costs me to say the words; I feel like I’m giving him a picture of all the different questions I have, of how much of a mess I am. But instead of stepping back and saying I’m right, Malachi takes my uncut hand in his. And even though I didn’t think I wanted him to hold it a second ago, I’m glad we are touching again. He doesn’t say a word. And somehow the silence lets me push more words out.
“I think I like you.” Each word is a small piece of myself I hand over. “And I want to keep doing this. Being friends. Who like each other. Not that you’ve said you like me.”
Malachi gives my fingers a squeeze and smiles. Not his full dimple smile, but a smile that seems like it’s just for me. “You need to hear me say it, huh? I like you.”
I gulp. “I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t know . . .” What I don’t know is what to say next. My hand is still in his and this moment feels too awkward. I’m not used to asking for anything. “I don’t know what I want from you. Or if I want anything more than this. I don’t know if or when I’ll be ready for more than this.” There. I said it.
But maybe I didn’t say it, because Malachi seems confused. “Emoni, are we talking about sex?”
I try to tug my hand out of his but he holds mine fast. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for that. Or to be your girlfriend. Or anything more than this.” I can’t stop repeating myself but it’s like the words have dried up and all I have left in the bottom of my cup are the same phrases I’ve been saying.
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“We’ll figure it out, right? And if one of us needs something different, we’ll say that. Right?”
He leans down and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he just rests his forehead against mine. This can’t be real life.
“I think I’m going to head home. It sounds like Babygirl might be waking up upstairs.” And I realize he’s right. Babygirl is babbling from her crib.
“Are you going to call a car again?” I ask.
“Nah, I’ll walk to the train,” he says, zipping up his coat and pulling his hat down tight over his ears.
“That’s, like, a twenty-minute walk. In the cold.”
And then the dimples are back. “I know. I think it’ll do me some good.”
I walk him to the door. And just as he leaves he turns back one more time. “Did you hear the last song that played in the car on our way here?”
Of course I did. I was even singing along; the Roots are legends and that song is a classic. I nod.
“Don’t worry, Emoni. You got me.”
When It Rains
With only three days left of school before winter break, things have been busy. Angelica has been spending her lunch periods working on a final project for her Graphic Design class. Malachi has been using all his free time applying for scholarships. And me? I’ve been holed up in the school library studying for these last exams before the quarter finishes.
It’s probably because I’m so distracted that I break the one rule every student at Schomburg Charter knows better than to break: I get caught on my phone in between classes. I was trying to call ’Buela after lunch to remind her I was going grocery shopping today, and the next thing I know, a guard has plucked it out of my hand and is already writing me up. I try to explain but he won’t budge.
The guard is new, and I know he doesn’t know me or my circumstances because all he can do is remind me of the same tired rules. “If you want your phone back, you’ll need a signed release form from your parent or guardian.”
And I almost laugh in his face when he utters those words. I can sign permission slips for my own daughter but can’t sign one for myself.
“Sir, I really think you should speak to my advisor. I have a kid. I need my phone.”
But either he doesn’t believe me or he doesn’t care because he just shrugs and leaves with my phone in his hand. I could go to the front office and try and get someone there on my side, but I know from past experience the office staff usually sides with the security officers. I’ll have to wait until the morning to get my phone back. By the time the end of my day arrives I’m ready to be home.
I bump the door open with my hip and readjust the two grocery bags I got after school. “’Buela? Babygirl?” I call upstairs as I go into the kitchen and set the bags onto the counter. I sure hope ’Buela didn’t have another doctor’s appointment today, but she would have brought Babygirl home first. I plan to sit her down tonight and ask what’s happening. I’ve been watching her closely, and even changed up what I’ve been cooking for her to include more vegetables and less butter, but I know that all these doctor’s appointments must mean something is wrong, and I’m going to have to face it sooner or later regardless of how much she wants to protect me. Maybe they are upstairs taking a nap.
I try to distract myself from thoughts of illness by putting away the groceries. I might have gone a little overboard today buying some new spices—I swear I can spend all day at the supermarket. I especially love the one in our neighborhood that brings in ingredients straight from the island. I get to walk the aisles and pick up herbs and peppers from all over the world, thinking of all the ways to remix my favorite dishes.
“’Buela?” I call out again, but nobody answers. It’s almost four thirty and it’s strange for the house to be so quiet at this time. I walk through the living room, picking up toys and bibs. I call out again and it only takes my going halfway up the stairs to realize no one is home. The upstairs is dark and silent. ’Buela must have taken Babygirl to the park, although it’s too cold for that. Maybe she got caught up talking to one of our neighbors. I hope she didn’t forget she asked me to do the grocery shopping—the last thing we need is for her to walk in here with more gallons of milk or extra boxes of cereal. I organize the magazines in the living room, wipe down the coffee table, and put away all of Babygirl’s toys and books that somehow always wind up between the couch cushions like a sharp gift fo
r my backside when I sit down. I glance at the wall clock, almost five. The sky outside has already lost the sun. ’Buela doesn’t have that many friends in the neighborhood. She’s mostly friendly with the neighborhood church ladies and the families on either side of our house, but not enough to drop by their houses.
Something is wrong. And as if it guessed my thoughts, the house phone rings. I dive for it.
“Hello?” I bite back on the panic I feel.
A throat clears. “Emoni? This is Mrs. Palmer. Tyrone’s mother.”
Close to three years and she still thinks I don’t know her relationship to my family. “Hello, Mrs. Palmer. Is everything okay?”
The phone rattles some before she speaks again. “Well, no. Everything is not okay. Emma came down with a fever. The daycare has been trying to call you all day, but no one has answered. They tried your grandmother’s cell phone but it seems to be off and no one was answering the house phone.”
Damn, damn, damn. “Is Emma okay? Where is she? My phone . . . is still at school. Do you have her?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Palmer says, as if she doubts my explanation and believes I would intentionally not answer my phone. “Well, it’s a good thing they had both parents on file. They eventually called Tyrone, who called me. I left work early to pick the baby up. Doesn’t your grandmother usually do this? Where is she? I’d like to speak to her.”
Mrs. Palmer always does this. Acts as if I’m too young and stupid to discuss my own daughter. But the thing is, I don’t know where ’Buela is, but I don’t want Mrs. Palmer to think that both ’Buela and I are irresponsible. “She had a doctor’s appointment and she’s not home yet. It must have run late. She’s always good about picking her up. Are you home? I’ll come get Babygirl.” I’m frantic to get my baby in my arms but I bite out some politeness. “I’m sorry they bothered you, Mrs. Palmer.”
“Yes, well. Now that I know you’re home, I’ll drop her off myself. There’s a reason we got that baby seat installed, after all.”
I hang up the phone. My bottom lip hurts and I realize I’ve been chewing on it the whole conversation. I throw a scarf on and head outside to wait for Mrs. Palmer.
It Pours
Mrs. Palmer’s brown suede coat sways over her heavyset frame as she undoes all the buckles that hold Babygirl safe in the car. I try not to anxiously peer past the car door or push her and undo Babygirl myself. I tug the scarf around my neck to keep Mrs. Palmer from seeing my hands are trembling.
Mrs. Palmer plucks Babygirl from her car seat and backs out of the car. She’d be a pretty woman if she didn’t always have her face looking like she smelled something ripe. She didn’t like me from jump, since before I was pregnant, but Tyrone said she’s like that with everyone. She hands Babygirl over carefully and the gentle way she does it makes me almost like her.
I rub my head against the top of Babygirl’s soft hair. She whimpers up at me, and even through the crown of hair I can feel how warm she is. I murmur to her a bit before tucking her to me. I’m small, but never too small to carry my kid like she’s the most precious thing I have. From the trunk of the car Mrs. Palmer pulls out Babygirl’s stroller and diaper bag.
“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. I appreciate it. Again, I’m sorry about this.”
She clears her throat and gives a brisk nod. “Well, I certainly won’t be dropping work every time you and your grandmother are too negligent to take care of Emma. I know you and Tyrone have an informal arrangement, and I would be remiss if I didn’t say that so far it seems to be working for you two, but you best believe that if he ever chooses to challenge that arrangement in court, I will ensure this incident is put on the record.”
The polite smile slides off my face. Did Mrs. Palmer just hint at Tyrone wanting custody of Babygirl? Did she just imply she would be supportive of that, even though she’s never actually wanted Babygirl? I place my trembling hand on my child’s hot cheek to keep it from doing harm to Mrs. Palmer.
“Hey, Babygirl—”
“I really wish you would start calling her by her name. All this ‘Babygirl’ mess is likely to confuse her.”
I ignore the shit out of Mrs. Palmer because if I said anything right now it would probably burn a permanent hole right through her higher-than-mighty attitude. And I have to remember this is my daughter’s grandmother. “Babygirl, I’ve got you now. Gonna get some medicine in you and make you feel better,” I say firmly, kissing the top of her head. I put a hand on her cheek. Besides her whimpers, she’s unbelievably quiet. “Goodbye, Mrs. Palmer.” I tug the baby bag over my shoulder and drag the stroller with me toward the house steps.
“Wait a second. I picked this up figuring you might not have any—and a little more never hurts if you do.”
She hands over a brown paper bag. I peek inside. Children’s Tylenol. I grab it with the same hand holding Babygirl.
“For the fever. And really, you should be more responsible about your cell phone. You have a child, Emoni. People need to contact you about her.” She hesitates a second, then runs two fingers down Babygirl’s cheek. She wiggles those fingers through the air as a goodbye and walks back to her car. She’s off before I can wave back. Before I can say thank you. Before I can say I always have plenty of Children’s Tylenol. Before I can ask her why Tyrone wasn’t the one to pick up Babygirl, or why I’m accused of being the irresponsible one but he’s so often excused from having to be as much of a father as I am a mother.
Blood Boil
“Crazy-ass woman. Thinks just because she’s an insurance officer at some hospital she can treat me like I’m an idiot.” Mrs. Palmer always makes my blood hot. It’s like she’s a wooly mammoth whose most comfortable seat is my last nerve. Even after all this time, I feel inadequate anytime I speak to her.
Where is ’Buela? She always knows how to smile at Mrs. Palmer, and nod, and pleasantly still get her way. For a moment I’m mad at ’Buela. If she had picked Babygirl up like she was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened. But then I have to remember ’Buela isn’t Babygirl’s mom.
I sit Babygirl in her booster seat and pour some fresh juice into her sippy cup to help her with the taste of the medicine. She must have picked up a bug at the ice show this past weekend. All of those people in one space, sneezing and stuff. And it was chilly when we left. Her coat is pretty thick and I had her bundled up, but maybe she was just out too long. I need to put towels around the window or call the landlord to turn the heat up higher.
The door snaps open and ’Buela bustles in with her cheeks pink from the cold and mouth red as if she’d been rubbing it. She stops at the door of the kitchen. She has grocery bags in each hand. She must have done rollers late last night because her hair falls in soft waves around her face. She looks pretty, her eyes twinkling.
And the moment I see her I start to cry.
Not even angry, silent tears, but straight-up chest-heaving, face-uglying, snot-immediately-dribbling-into-mouth crying. I put Babygirl’s sippy cup on the counter with a trembling hand and wipe my face.
Her bags fall to the floor but I don’t see them land because I’m covering my eyes trying to push the tears back in.
“Emoni! ¿Qué te pasa?” ’Buela pulls me to her. “What’s wrong?” She holds on to my wrists and tries to peer into my face until I drop my hands and let them hang limp at my side.
“Where . . . were . . . you?” I finally get out through my sobs.
“I had a doctor’s appointment, m’ija, and they needed to reschedule it a bit later.” She lets me go and walks to the fridge. “I left you a note.” She holds up a bit of paper that she’d attached to the fridge with an alphabet magnet.
“’Buela, you asked me to pick up groceries.” She looks at me blankly, the smile falling from her face. “I didn’t get home until four thirty. Babygirl has a fever and they were calling from the daycare. They said your phone was turned off. Why would you leave a note on the fridge but not text me?”
She glares at me. “I did text you.”
’Buela rushes past me and runs upstairs. When she comes back down she holds two little pink socks she slides on Babygirl’s feet. She then picks her up and cuddles her close, tight under her chin. “We need to force her to break the fever. Did you give her medicine?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Palmer bought some Children’s Tylenol. And she was nasty to me as usual and she said I was irresponsible and talked about custody and I didn’t know where you were.”
’Buela’s mouth becomes a hard, white line. “You called Mrs. Palmer? And she said what about custody?”
I sniffle back the tears. “No, the daycare called Tyrone. Tyrone called his mother. They didn’t know who else to contact. And I think she was just being mean, not serious, but she did mention something about my being unfit.”
We stand there unmoving. Unblinking. Babygirl breaks the silence with a sniffle, her little face scrunched up into a red and silent cry. ’Buela reaches for her, but I get there first and pull Babygirl out of her grasp. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. Mommy’s here.”
I begin to carry her out of the room but turn around before walking through the doorway. “’Buela, why have you been going to the doctor so much?” I raise myself to my full height. I can take whatever she throws at me.
’Buela fiddles with her wedding band before looking at me. “I’m not sick, Emoni. I’ve lied to you. I haven’t had all those doctor’s appointments. I just needed a private afternoon with my thoughts where I’m not in this house. Where I’m Gloria again, and not only ’Buela. I don’t know how to explain it. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
I bury my face into Babygirl’s neck so neither one of them can see the tears in my eyes, the relief laced with hurt.
Holidays
’Buela always treated Christmas like she would if she was still on the island, which means that Christmas Eve was a huge deal. A big-ass pernil dinner and coquito, and I got to stay up late and open my gifts at midnight. Then, on Christmas Day I would go to Angelica’s house and have Christmas dinner with them and watch holiday specials on TV. It was the best of both worlds. And with Babygirl I try to bring in both traditions, feed her both days, let her open gifts both days. Thankfully she’s over her cold and able to enjoy the holiday. And although I’m too old to ask for gifts or expect much, I never know how to react when people get me a gift.
With the Fire on High Page 15