The Sunday Only Christian (12 page)

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Authors: E. N. Joy

BOOK: The Sunday Only Christian
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Chapter Twenty-two
“So who was the fella?” Deborah's mother asked her. Mrs. Lewis couldn't wait for Deborah to walk through that door so she could hit her with Twenty Questions.
“A guy I've known for a few years now. We lost touch for a minute there, but then I guess you could say we ran into each other a couple of weeks or so ago,” Deborah replied nonchalantly. She didn't want to let on to her mother just how big a role Lynox played in her life. That was because, honestly, she didn't know if he would just be making a cameo appearance or going out for the part of the leading man. Although they'd spent a lot of time talking and connecting, there were still so many things unsaid that needed to be said.
“He seemed like a decent fellow. And I see he's been around Ganny Ban Banny's baby. He knew who he was.”
Deborah just nodded while she began gathering her son's belongings.
“How does our little guy here act around him?” Deborah's mother inquired.
Deborah was becoming agitated. She didn't like her mother's line of questioning; not that it was out of line or anything. It's just that she knew if she replied, ultimately lies would have to come out of her mouth. She was tired of lying. It was too draining. Too hard to keep up with them. She was already buried in enough of them. Why was her mother bound and determined to pull out a shovel and pile on more?
“Okay,” was all Deborah said as she sped up the process of getting out of her mother's house. The sooner she got out of there, the sooner she could be free of her mother's questions.
“Does he have kids of his own? You know it ain't just you two who have to get along, but the kids will have to form a relationship and get along as well.”
“Ma, he doesn't have any kids,” Deborah slightly snapped. She just wanted for her mother to be quiet. She needed her to be quiet.
“Well, that makes it easier. Now all you have to worry about is him and the baby bonding. That's very important you know, especially with you having a man child. I know single mothers do it every day, but a boy needs a good male role model. A nice, steady role model; not a bunch of men in and out of his life. And that I commend you for, Deb. You've been good about not bringing a bunch of men around our guy.” She smiled a lit-up smile, then walked over to Deborah and rubbed elbows with her. “That must mean this Lynox guy is some kind of special for you to have him around your son.” She winked, still elbowing Deborah. “Come on, you can tell me. Just how serious are you and this Lynox guy?”
“Mommy, please.” Deborah frowned, then ran her hand down her face. “We'll talk later. I have to get him home, get him settled and situated, and then work on editing this manuscript I have to have done by this weekend.”
“Well, okay. I'll call you later on so you can give me all the details,” Mrs. Lewis relented as she assisted Deborah in getting the baby's things packed up, then walked them to the door. “Give Ganny Ban Banny some suga',” she said to her grandson before he and Deborah exited.
Deborah's son closed his eyes and puckered up big for his granny. When his lips touched his granny's he let out a big “Muah!”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Lewis smiled at her grandson as Deborah went to step out of the door. “Oh, wait a minute; Mr. Blankie. It's upstairs.”
Deborah sighed. “Oh, Ma, I'll get it tomorrow or something. I need to go. I got a lot to do.”
“Now you know just as well as I do you ain't gon' get a thing done if that boy don't have his blankie. He ain't gonna do nothing but whine and worry you to death like he did me last evening. I'll grab it right quick.”
Deborah let out a huge grunt as her mother hurried off, returning a minute later with the blankie in hand.
“Misser Blankie,” her son said with excitement, and then reached out for the blanket upon seeing it in his grandmother's arms. He nearly jumped out of Deborah's arms. His sudden movement caused Deborah to drop his diaper bag, which was more like an open sack instead of the ones with a zipper. Several things spilled over out of the bag. Evidently the lid to his sippy cup hadn't been on tight, because juice spilled out as well.
“Dang on it, boy!” Deborah snapped, then sharply placed him on the ground. “See what you made me do acting all crazy over a stupid blanket. I don't even know why I let you have a blanket. Black kids don't have blankies.” Deborah ranted and raved as she cleaned up the mess.
“Deborah, all that ain't even necessary,” Mrs. Lewis said as she scooped her grandson up in her arms. “He was all happy and carrying on, now look at him.”
Deborah shot a sharp glance up at her son, then focused on him. His little, round face had a huge question mark on it that asked, “Did I make Mommy mad?”
A part of her felt bad. The other part felt justified in having an attitude as she went back to cleaning up the mess. “So what. He's messing my day up. I'm trying to get out of here and he's worried about a blankie. Just stupid.”
“Now that's enough!” her mother interjected. “All that yelling and fussing is what's stupid.”
“Oh, now yelling and fussing is stupid,” Deborah said sarcastically. “It wasn't ‘enough' when you fussed and yelled at me when I was younger,” Deborah snapped back.
“That's because I didn't know any better. That's how all the black people I knew raised their kids. We fussed, yelled, cussed, made 'em go pick a switch. We did what we thought it took to keep them out of trouble and out of jail. That's how my momma raised me and my brothers and sisters. So that's all I knew when it came to raising you.”
“Then I guess I got it honest, because that's all I know in raising mine.”
“But now, as your mother, I'm standing here telling you it's not the right way. What I've come to realize is that all that yelling and carrying on, it changes the atmosphere for the negative. It can break people's spirits.” Mrs. Lewis looked down at her grandson, who still had a broken look on his face.
“Well, whatever.” Deborah wasn't trying to hear it. After wiping up the spilled juice with a couple of wipes and putting everything back in the bag, she snatched her son out of her mother's arm. “Come on. Let's go.”
Mrs. Lewis watched as Deborah stomped off. Her grandson, whose head rested on Deborah's shoulders, was staring at her. Mrs. Lewis waved at her grandbaby and smiled. He usually mimicked everything she did. This time, he mimicked the wave, but not the smile. That meant he wasn't all the way broken, but Mrs. Lewis's heart was. And in her heart she knew something had to be done in order to keep her grandson from being completely broken. There was nothing worse than a broken black boy growing into an angry black man. Mrs. Lewis couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't. She had to do something about it. She didn't have a clue about what to do, but she did know it would more than likely include a faceoff with her daughter. But who would be the last woman standing?
Chapter Twenty-three
“Ma, what are you doing here?” Deborah said, opening her front door, surprised to see her mother standing there.
“Can't a mother stop in and check on her daughter?” Mrs. Lewis asked, stepping into the house.
“You mean can't a grandmother stop in and check on her grandbaby?” Deborah rolled her eyes and walked away.
“See, you've got it all wrong. I actually did come here to see you today.” Mrs. Lewis looked around. “But since you mentioned it, where is that little man of mine?”
“Napping, thank God.” Deborah sighed. “He's been working a nerve. He's just so dang-on busy.”
Mrs. Lewis knew her grandson's schedule like the back of her hand. The fact that he was napping wasn't a surprise. It was perfect timing for her to do what she needed to do, or rather say.
“I could barely get any work done,” Deborah complained and then began mocking her son. “‘I gotta pee-pee potty. Can I have a fruit snack? Apple juice, Mommy. I wanna watch
Ant Bully.
' He was working my nerves every five minutes.” She rolled her eyes into the air.
“Well, that's what babies do. You were the same way.” Mrs. Lewis walked over to the couch and sat down.
Deborah, standing there holding the door, just watched her mother and shook her head before mumbling under her breath, “Oh sure, Mother, I don't have anything to do today. Come in, sit down, stay awhile.” Deborah threw her hand in the air and let it flop to the side as she closed the front door. “So, what really brings you out this way?”
“Didn't I tell you already? I came to see you.”
“Oh, yeah.” Deborah made a face that said, “Okay, that might be true, but the chances are slim to none.”
“Yeah.” Mrs. Lewis patted the empty spot next to her on the couch. “Now come sit down. As a matter of fact, how about we go into the kitchen and I'll make some tea or something?”
A peculiar look ran across Deborah's face. “Ummmm, okay. But I'll make the tea. I don't mind. It is my kitchen.” As Deborah led the way into the kitchen, for the life of her she couldn't figure out why her mother was being so extra nice to her. It wasn't like her mother had been mean to her—not in her adulthood anyway. The verdict was still out on whether how she treated Deborah in her younger years was mean or just “how black parents raised their kids.” But she was being just too sugary right about now, it seemed.
“What kind of tea do you have?” Mrs. Lewis asked, sitting down in the nook.
“Oh, just regular tea. You know I'm more of a coffee drinker.” Deborah retrieved a pan from the cupboard and went through the motions of boiling water.
Mrs. Lewis watched her daughter move about the kitchen as she contemplated how to proceed with her words. “I'm sure our little guy was glad to have his blankie yesterday.”
“Yeah, well.” Deborah shrugged. “You know how he is with that thing.”
“I know how he is about the blanket, but it's how you are about the blanket that gives me pause.”
Reaching for the tea bags in the cupboard over the kitchen sink, Deborah paused, turned, and looked at her mother. “What's that supposed to mean?” The slamming cabinet let Mrs. Lewis know the showdown was about to begin.
“Well, how you were saying how stupid it was, yelling and carrying on and stuff.”
“Are you really on that again? Mom, did you forget that when I was coming up, you rarely ever talked to me with a civil tongue?” Deborah went to retrieve two cups from the cabinet, slamming those as well. “Instead of, ‘Deborah, sweetheart, can you come clean your room up?' it was ‘Deborah Janelle Lucas Lewis . . .'” At birth, Deborah had been given both her father's last name and her mother's maiden name because the two had not been married yet. Sometimes she represented herself, especially to clients, as Deborah Lucas, but she mostly went by the name of Deborah Lewis. “‘If you don't get your lazy, black self up here and do something with this nasty room with your ol' trifling self, I'ma beat your you-know-what. '” Deborah laughed. Mrs. Lewis didn't. “I mean, really, Ma, you were the boss. No matter how you asked, because you were my mother and the authority over me, I would have done it. But would it have hurt to just make the request a little differently?”
“No, it wouldn't have hurt. And you're right; there was no need to talk to you the way I did when you were coming up. You were a good kid. I know you would have done anything I asked without disobedience.”
“You dang right. I was too scared to be disobedient.”
“Scared?” Mrs. Lewis twisted up her lips in disbelief. “Now you're going too far.”
Deborah stopped midair as she reached for the tea bags. “Ma, are you serious? You were a terror. I never knew when you were going to snap. I'd get home from school before you got home from work. I'd always try to make sure everything was decent and in order, but you always found something to yell about.” Deborah began mocking her mom's old childrearing techniques again. “‘Who used the last of the toilet paper and didn't replace the roll?' You would scream . . . and scream . . . and scream . . . and scream. The empty toilet paper roll would lead to something else. You'd go on and on for hours. You'd still be yelling by the time Daddy got home.” Deborah shook her head. “I don't know how he did it. I didn't have a choice, but him . . .”
“You're just over exaggerating now.” Mrs. Lewis stood with a look of denial on her face. She walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “You got any milk? I take milk in my tea.”
Deborah could tell she'd hit a nerve with her mother. And for some reason, it gave her some type of adrenaline rush. Her mother had started this conversation, and now Deborah was hell bent on finishing—and winning—it. “Exaggerating. I wish.” Deborah walked over to the fridge. After watching her mother look for the milk, which was actually right in front of her face, she decided to help her out. She handed her mother the jug of milk. “Your milk.” Deborah smiled almost wickedly. She loved winning a fight, especially if someone had picked it with her. “But like I was saying . . .” It was time for Deborah to go in for the kill. “As bad as I wanted to have company and sleepovers like some of the other girls I knew, I was scared to death to do so. I never knew when you were going to snap off, go on one of your screaming rages and embarrass me.”
“Deborah Janelle Lucas Lewis!” her mother spat. Now she was the one doing the slamming. The refrigerator shook she'd slammed it so hard. “You cut it out right now.”
“Cut what out? Telling you how it was? Oh, yeah, that's right, from the way this conversation was heading, I think you were supposed to be the one telling me about myself instead of me telling you about yourself.”
Mrs. Lewis was found out, and guilt plagued her face. That had most definitely been her intention for coming to her daughter's house.
“Umm, hmmm. Thought so.” Deborah snapped her fingers, realizing she'd forgotten to get some saucers out.
“You're really getting off on this, aren't you?”
“On what?” Deborah feigned ignorance.
“On reminding me what a bad mother I was.”
“Remind you? Tuh. How can I remind you of something you obviously don't seem to think ever took place? You're sitting here like you deserved some Mother of the Year award.”
Mrs. Lewis was silent for a moment. She took in her daughter's words and came to the conclusion that although Deborah could have been a little more diplomatic in her delivery, it was how she felt. It was her truth. It was how she had seen things. And the longer Mrs. Lewis thought about it, she knew it was her very own truth as well.
In all honesty, it hadn't taken her daughter telling her that she used to be a hell raiser in order for her to realize it. Hearing Deborah say it though was like nails down a chalkboard. Over the years she'd looked back on her life and often cringed at some of the things she'd done and said, at the way she used to act. But over the years, in her older years, all that hell raising had taken its toll.
While watching her husband on his deathbed she had thought about how kind, compromising, and compassionate he had always been. He had been so peaceful, so it only seemed natural he'd have a peaceful death as he lay there, free of pain, just ready for the good Lord to call him home. He had left the universe with what he'd put into the universe. But her, on the other hand . . . She imagined some violent, raging death because that's all she'd ever given the universe. So what else did she expect in return? It was then that Mrs. Lewis had apologized to her husband and thanked him for loving her unconditionally over the years. And it was at this very moment that she realized she'd yet to offer the same to her daughter.
“I'm sorry.” Mrs. Lewis allowed the words to fall purposely and sincerely from her lips.
Deborah spun around from the stove where she was turning down the boiling water. She was at a loss for words. She'd never—ever—heard her mother apologize. Not for how she'd acted in the past years, anyway. Yes, she'd heard her say she was sorry if she accidentally bumped into her, or if she showed up late for a lunch date or something. But this was different. This was big. But did her mother mean it? Or was she just saying it out of guilt because maybe she felt this was what Deborah needed to hear?
“I'm so sorry for the hell I raised in our home,” Mrs. Lewis continued. “I'm sorry if you felt like you had to walk on eggshells or if you were on pins and needles, not knowing what my mood was going to be like from one day to the next.”
Deborah could tell her mother was sincere as she stared off. Looking into her mother's eyes, Deborah could see that her mother was looking into the past. She was replaying some of her actions. And she was regretful. Regret covered her face while tears filled her eyes.
“I'm sorry that you couldn't have sleepovers and friends over for dinner. I'm sorry that I yelled, screamed, hollered, and cursed instead of just talking to you like you were a human being.” A tear fell from Mrs. Lewis's eyes.
Deborah wasn't moved. She was receiving of her mother's apology, just not moved by it. The reason she wasn't moved by it was because she felt it was too late. She was grown now. Her childhood was done and over with. No do-overs. Her mother couldn't give her what she really wanted, which was a peaceful, tension-free childhood. That's all most kids want, is to be kids without someone telling them it's not okay to be a kid.
“All you think about is playing.”
Deborah recalled her mother always yelling that to her. All the while Deborah wanted to scream back, “But I am a kid. That's what kids do—they play.”
“Life ain't always about fun and games,”
her mother would tell her. But for a kid, Deborah felt that life should have been about being young and having fun. No, that didn't mean that they shouldn't be taught responsibility as they grew up, but why did the adults always seem to want the kids to act adult like when they were still just a kid? Then they'd yell,
“You ain't grown.”
What a contradiction. This confused Deborah to no end as a child. How was an eight-year-old supposed to know when to be a kid and when to act like they weren't in order to please the big people?
The more Deborah thought about it—her mother's old ways—the less weight the apology she'd just received held. The more her mother's voice from the past replayed in Deborah's head, the more it brought back those old feelings Deborah felt as a child. The feelings of having no voice of her own, unable to tell her mother how she felt. But she wasn't that kid anymore. Now she was a grown woman. Now she had a voice, and dang on it, she was going to use it. She was going to speak for all those times that, as a kid, she knew she'd have gotten her head knocked off if she dare spoke back to her mother.
“I hear your apology, Ma,” Deborah said. “It's just hard to accept it because I just don't understand why. Why did you have to make our home so dark? I mean, it could be broad daylight, the sun shining and birds singing outside, but when I walked into our house . . . just dark. The mood, the atmosphere. Just dark. And it was because of your spirit that you'd spewed.”
“I know, baby. I know.” Mrs. Lewis sniffed, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“I could see if you were some angry drunk. But all you drank was tea. So that means that you were just mean and nasty for no reason. And I had to suffer for it.”
“I know. And that's why I'm here. Because I don't want your son to suffer.”
Deborah was taken aback. “What do you mean you don't want my son to suffer? How is he going to suffer from the way you acted? You don't act like that anymore. As a matter of fact, I'm glad your grandson will never know that side of you.” Deborah poured the boiling water into the cups where the tea bags had sat waiting. She then turned the burner off.
Mrs. Lewis stood. “But he's already starting to see that side of me . . . through you.” Mrs. Lewis braced herself. She knew she'd just landed a low blow as far as Deborah would be concerned. And if she knew her daughter, Deborah would answer it with a power punch.

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