Love Me (12 page)

‘Well that is your aunt, Eden,' he smiles. ‘I suggest you take it up with her.'

I wind my way through the smiling people of all ages and take a seat next to her, which looks to have been left empty for me. I sit for a moment, unable to frame a greeting. She doesn't look round.

‘You made it.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Good,' she says and flashes me a swift grin. I laugh, relieved, a child in the wake of her massive, raw charisma. ‘I'm glad.'

‘Me too,' I say, helplessly soprano. ‘Can't believe I'm here. Everything at home has just been so crap and . . .'

‘Wait,' she says, raising a long slender hand, completely serious again. ‘Listen.' The singer's voice is sailing effortlessly at what has to be the top of her range, with no hint of strain or breathlessness. No weight. Not even the hackneyed lyrics of the ballad she's singing can disguise her purity. ‘That's what hope sounds like, Cherry Pepper. It takes divine strength to be soft when the world is hard. It's just like when, every year, the green shoots push through earth and ice to get to the light. That's the big magic.'

‘Magic,' I repeat, liking the sound of the word when she says it. A thing that happens, a thing that
is.
‘I know what you mean . . .'

‘Ssshhhh!' says an uptight-looking woman behind me. I throw a slit-eyed look at her and tug at my aunt's arm.

‘Speaking of magic though, Aunty, what the hell happened?' I whisper. ‘Where's the rest of you? You're skinny!'

‘You ever seen a fat crackhead?'

‘Aunt K . . .!'

‘It's part of me, Eden. It's not who I am now, but there's something liberating about the bottom. Everything is burned away but the very core of you. That's when you know what's real.' Aunt K shakes her head, subtly indicating the singer. She speaks at almost a whisper but still I'm able to hear every spice-scented word. ‘Violet's been through it all and I've never met a stronger person.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘At three years old she was abandoned by her mother to the foster care system, flung rootless from home to home for a decade. She landed somehow with all her wits at an uncle's house when she was thirteen but instead of protecting
her,' she lowers her voice further, low and hard, ‘he
violated
her. At sixteen years old she decided that even the streets were preferable to the life she had and that's where she ended up, living in alleys and shelters and on dirty floors. In pursuit of the love she'd been missing for so long, she got pregnant at seventeen with her first child and deserted by its father. No place to live, no family, no education, no income.'

The singer deftly scales the bridge of the song, visibly swelling with emotion. Her voice is powerful and sure. A girl sitting in a nearby chair wipes her eyes.

‘And she's right there, Eden. She's
singing
,' says Aunt K. ‘Nineteen and she's already been through all the seasons of the soul.'

‘Nineteen? Bloody hell!' I stare hard; the woman looks about thirty. ‘Are you serious?'

‘Always.'

‘What about now? Where does she live now?'

Aunt K smiles a fierce smile and smoothes her locs down over one shoulder. ‘Now she lives in
my
house, Eden. Just like you do.'

The song comes to a soft end, tailed immediately by frantic applause.

‘Thank you, Violet!' says the compère, a small man in glasses. The applause continues on and on, punctuated by whistles and shouted compliments. ‘She is wonderful, isn't she? Wonderful!' he claps his hands excitedly. ‘We're coming to the end of the evening now, ladies and gentlemen, and soon it will be time to go home. Before we do though, I'd like to call up a lady that you saw earlier playing the trumpet. Ms Katherine Montrose, or Umi as we all call her, is the person behind the manhood and womanhood workshops that have given so many of our young people a foundation. Umi, please come up here and make a speech!'

Cheers follow my aunt as she rises from her seat and
walks up the centre aisle to the stage. She kisses the man on both cheeks. ‘Good evening, people,' she says. And I just can't square it in my head, the way she was and the way she is. She used to be fat from her gloriously overripe head to her overflowing shoes, with at least two chins and boobs bigger than my head. A proper
matron
. And now look at her, this lean and wiry sorceress with purple in her hair.

‘We can be beacons,' she says. ‘We can be earth. We can renew the faith of young people when others have failed them over and over.' She takes a breath, and the room takes one with her. ‘We can be the light, and help them as we've helped Violet. I'd like to thank you all for coming to this event and helping to raise money for the after-school programme. It's important that our children have an outlet for their creative energy in a society that can be so destructive of their self-esteem and vitality. Already this year, thanks to you all, we've managed to buy computers and recording equipment for the centre, go on several trips, and continue our life-skills, manhood, and womanhood programmes. It takes a village, people. We are that proverbial village. Please speak to Alex,' she indicates the man in glasses standing at the corner of the stage, ‘if you're interested in getting involved. He's the head outreach worker here at Bright Prospect Community Centre. I wish you all a safe journey home. Thank you.'

Again there's applause, but I'm so tired my hands barely come together. People approach my aunt with respectful greetings. Business cards, handshakes and hugs are exchanged. Eventually, as the venue begins to empty, she makes it back to my chair and lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come, niece, it's time to go. You look exhausted.'

‘Sorry.' I laugh nervously at her almost unfamiliar face. ‘It's just been a long day.'

‘Indeed,' she says, and her face is shut so tight that, for a nanosecond, I'm certain that loneliness will kill me.

‘Really good event though,' I tell her. ‘You're like Oprah Winfrey or Maya Angelou or somebody.'

‘Not quite,' she says. ‘I've got a few errands, so Baba's going to drop you home.' A flash of that sudden, unexpected grin. ‘I'll see you tonight. Violet's cooking.'

Minutes later I'm drowsing in the back seat of a hot car, struck by how different the light is here, brighter and harder, even this close to sunset. I watch the world pass until Baba sends me to sleep with a selection of easy listening favourites on the radio and his profoundly companionable silence.

I awake to increasingly familiar streets. The liquor store and the Caribbean restaurant on the corner. The bodega where Zed and I would buy Lays potato chips and root beers. I'm damp in every fold, fluttery, wide awake. My throat begins to close as I approach the house.

‘We're here,' Baba says simply. Outside the window looms the old three-storey family townhouse, looking quietly martyred. Proud of its brick self. I remain motionless and belted to my seat, watching as Baba takes my suitcase out of the boot and rests it by the door. In a few moments he comes back and taps on the window. ‘Go inside, someone will let you in,' he says, smiling. I get the impression he smiles a lot. ‘I have to go and buy some oil and potatoes for Violet.'

‘OK,' I say. And sit there.

‘Eden,' he says, with a look of quiet compassion. Just my name. He must know it all.

I drag my heavy body out of the car, trying to remain mindless, and walk through the gate up to the blue front door and knock with a fist that shakes. Can't believe I'm here. ‘Hello?' I say. ‘Hello?'

I really need to sit down.

‘Coming! Wait up!'

And less than a minute later my mother—

I ALMOST LOSE
control of my bladder. ‘Mum!' I say, before I can stop myself.

She looks all concerned and says, ‘No . . . honey . . .'

And of course she isn't. Of course. I'm dazed by her quick form darting outside. In no time she's dragged me and my bags into the house. I mumble at her to hang on while I run for the downstairs toilet, which I still remember is along the hall and just before the kitchen.

The sink with a crack, the tiny shower cubicle, the chipped, cloudy mirror, my face like someone else's. The room smells of bleach and disuse; old but spotlessly clean. I pee for what seems like ages. Wash my hands. Dry them on my T-shirt.

When I return, the stranger makes me jump. She's waiting with a slightly nervous smile in the dim hallway. Pats me on the shoulder, leads me into the living room and fusses me into an armchair.

‘Are you OK, sweetheart?' she says in a thick, nasal, Brooklyn accent. ‘You look kind of flustered.'

‘You . . .' The living room is much brighter than the hall and I see that the woman's resemblance to my mother isn't imagined. Custard cream skin, black curls, light eyes. Although this woman's eyes are grey, not green. ‘I'm sorry, you just look like someone I know,' I tell her. She's taller but she's got the same small-boned, narrow body. The same cheekbones. The room does a waltz around me. I wish a room would stay still once in a while. I didn't even really drink much on the plane.

‘Right.' She gives me a sharp look. ‘You want some water?'

I nod.

When she comes back she sits on a nearby footstool, hands me a glass and watches me take a sip. ‘You feel any better?'

Again I move my head, yes.

‘Now, I ain't judging you or nothing. But I gotta ask you this. Are you high? 'Cause, girl—'

‘What?' This is all too strange. ‘Of course not! No!'

‘OK. Thank God for that. Probably just the heat then,' she says with a theatrical roll of the eyes. ‘It's enough to drive anyone crazy. Anyway, I'm Brandy.' She gives me a dainty handshake. ‘It's so good to meet you! Your aunt talks about you all the time. I've never met any of her family but she's been wonderful to me and anyone who is her family is
my
family, you know? That woman is a
saint.
'

‘She is,' I say weakly. I feel like if I let go of my knapsack I might just float up to the ceiling like a helium balloon. ‘It's really cool what she's been – um – doing at that community centre. I went to the fundraiser straight from the airport.'

‘Oh God, I'm so mad I missed it! I had a philosophy class over at Brooklyn College!' she says. ‘Doing my degree part-time, you know. Getting that
education
, girl! How was it?!'

‘It was . . .' I smile, suddenly thinking of Juliet. She'd have loved it. ‘Inspirational.'

‘Violet sang?'

‘Yeah. She smacked it up.'

Brandy laughs. ‘Yep, that's Violet. She gave me some tips for my little show that I do most nights, and now the responses I get are
stupendous.
'

Even her laugh reminds me, the straight white teeth. I grip the side of the chair. ‘God, it's so weird . . .'

‘What?' She watches my expression and slowly it dawns
on her that, ‘Actually, your aunt . . . she always said I remind her of her sister! Which is, like, your mama, right? Maybe that's one of the reasons she took a special interest in me.'

‘Yeah . . . you do . . . you do look like her.'

‘It's really funny though!' she laughs. ‘I'm a boy who looks like somebody's
mama
!'

‘Sorry?'

She laughs again, running a hand through her long, dark curls. ‘Honey, I'm a
man
! Don't let the pretty fool you. When I met your aunt I was getting beat up on a daily basis and using socks for titties.'

‘You're a
man
? Are you taking the piss?'

‘Dick, balls an' all, honey dip,' she laughs. ‘God, your accent is just adorable!'

‘Damn!' The thought slaps me awake. Even knowing the truth, I can barely see it in his . . . her features. ‘You're beautiful though!'

‘Thank you.' She smiles and tosses her hair. ‘Gotta work what you got, right?'

‘Damn.'

‘When I'm not a chick you can call me Brandon.'

‘OK.'

‘Right now I'm a “she”, and in boxers I'm a “he”. You'll pick it up.'

‘OK.'

‘So,' she says, brushing imaginary dirt off her hands, ‘we've gotta get you settled in the basement. I am
so
envious. Your aunt just converted it and it is
creamy
, chica!'

‘Cool.' I'm still examining his/her bone structure. He's prettier than me. She. When she's ‘Brandy', she's a she. Gosh. My brain.

‘Come on,' she says, smiling in encouragement.

We lift the bags and go through a door next to the kitchen, opposite Granny's old bedroom. I glance at the closed door
as we go by, trying simultaneously to remember and forget the sound of her pottering around inside, her low radio turned to the news. Somehow it's stranger for someone to be gone when they'd never really made an impact on your life. I don't know how to feel about her being gone, I suppose she always has been. We walk down some steps and emerge somewhere completely removed from the rest of the house. The basement appears to run almost the entire length and breadth of the ground floor, painted in earth tones and furnished with a bed, sofa and mini fridge. The furniture only takes up a small portion of the available space; besides that there's a washer and drier, numerous boxes and bookshelves. Fresh paint scents the air, a smell that calms me for some reason. It's a new world down here, a space where I've never been before. This used to be the most forbidding part of the house and now I think it's the only part where I can bear to spend my time.

‘You see how bright it is down here? There's some natural light coming down through this special, um, refractive tube.'

‘Wow.'

‘Yeah, that's what your aunt said when she heard how much it was gonna cost.' She laughs. ‘You got a TV too . . . it's ancient but it works. Plus we got WiFi.'