Unbeweaveable (26 page)

What I'm Good At

After dinner, everyone piled up to watch a few family movies,
to
catch
me
up
to
speed,
Misty said.

“I'm going to check on Mama first,” Renee said.

“Good idea. Why don't you both go check on her?” Gloria said.

I opened my mouth in protest, then quickly closed it when I caught Gloria's look. I followed Renee into the guest bedroom where Beverly was propped up with pillows, her hand laying on another bunch of pillows.

“How you doing, Mama?” Renee asked, sitting down on the bed next to Beverly.

“Better,” she said, looking down at her hand.

“Does it still hurt?”

She nodded. “A little bit.”

I stood like a statue, refusing to look at them.

“Renee, will you do me a favor and look in my bag on the floor? I have something I need to give to Mariah.”

“If you think that you can win me over with gifts, think again,” I said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Renee hand Beverly what looked like a present.

“Will you give us some privacy?”

“Sure,” Renee said, placing a kiss on Beverly's cheek. “I'll come check on you later.”

“Thanks.”

Renee walked past me, but not without rolling her eyes first. I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Come here,” Beverly said, patting a spot next to her on the bed with her good hand.

I sighed heavily to let her know I was irritated and sat on the bed, still refusing to look at her.

“I know you still don't want to talk to me. But I need you to look at me.”

I turned to face her.

“I made a really bad mistake. Horrible. Unforgivable.” A tear slid down her face and she wiped it away. “There's nothing I can do to take it back, nothing I can do to change what I did. But I was hoping…” She shook her head and pointed to what looked like a shoe box. “Open it.”

“I can't believe you thought you could just buy me off. You can't undo what you did.”

She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillows. “Just open it, Mariah.”

I picked up the box and opened the lid.

“Oh,” I said, picking up a pink, leather journal. “This is my journal from junior high.” I ruffled through the box. “These are
all
my old journals. I thought I lost them…”

“Remember how you used to write all the time? Stories, essays, anything that tickled your fancy?”

I nodded, memories flooding back. “I remember.”

“And you were good, too. Better than good. I loved your stories.”

I flipped through the pages and saw my prim cursive writing, trying to make every letter perfect.

“I was thinking, with all this time off and everything, that's what you should do.”

“Do what? Write? For a living?” I shook my head.

“Yes.”

“That's ridiculous. I'm not a writer.”

“Says who? You've been writing for years, you just didn't know it yet. That's why you surrounded yourself with books, worked at a magazine reviewing books. It's what you do. It's what you're good at. Pick up the last one, the book at the bottom.”

I reached in and pulled out a small blue photo album.

“That one's mine.”

I opened it and saw all my old articles from college, my first book review from
Spirit
Magazine
—all my writing achievements in one little book.

“You kept these?” I whispered.

“Of course I kept them. Even when you went off to school and didn't write or call enough, I found out what you were doing and would get the school to mail me a copy of whatever it was. I've read just about everything you've written.”

“I didn't know…”

“I know I treated you girls different. But I'd like to think I brought out the best in both of you. I love you, Mariah. I do.”

I nodded. “Thank you for this. It means a lot.”

She smiled.

“I was hoping it would.”

Sunday Rollers

I left Beverly only to bump into Renee in the hallway.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing,” she said, walking away.

“You are such a bad liar. You were listening, weren't you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes. But I didn't get to hear the end part. What did she give you?”

I showed her the box. “It's a bunch of my old journals. She kept them.”

“That was nice.”

“She thinks I should start writing.”

“You're always writing—”

“Professionally. She thinks I should write a book.”

“And be like a real writer? Like for a living?”

I nodded.

“Are you going to do it?”

“I don't know…” But the more I thought about it, the more my hands itched to try. “I might.”

“You can stay with us. Until you finish your book.”

“Thanks. It wouldn't be forever or anything—”

“I know. But if you want to take this on you're going to need some support. At least financially. Writers don't make a lot of money.”

“Thanks. I think,” I said, trying to figure out if she was helping me or trying to diss me. “And for the record, I didn't hurt on her purpose. It was an accident.”

She smiled. “I know.”

* * *

“Everything all right?” Paul asked when we entered the living room.

“Just fine.” I sat next to him on the couch. “Thanks for letting Beverly stay here.”

His jaw tightened. “It's no problem. Misty, go ahead and play the movie.”

“I wanna watch
Spongebob
,” Tyrese whined, thumb in mouth.

“Later,” Misty said as she pushed play on the remote. She pulled him on her lap and after a few minutes he was asleep.

I sat back and watched the images come on the screen, a montage of photos set to song.

“When did you guys do this?” I asked.

“Couple of years back,” Misty said. “I thought I was going to be a wedding videographer.”

“Was that before or after the idea to be a florist?”

“I think it was after she wanted to be a designer. Too much
Project
Runway
, in my book,” Gloria added.

“Forget y'all. Don't listen to them, Mariah. A person has a right to change their mind if they want to.”

“We don't mind you changing your mind, just stick with something, for goodness sake.”

“Whatever.” She kissed Tyrese on the cheek and announced that she was putting him to bed.

“I'll do it,” Paul said, kneeling down to pick him up. “My little man is all tired out.” He placed him over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

Misty tapped my arm. “Anyway, now I'm a hairstylist. I would offer to do your hair, but these hands,” she said, holding her hands up, “only touch natural hair.”

“You should have seen me a couple of months ago,” I said. “I wore a head full of weave.”

Misty shrieked in horror.

“Here we go,” Gloria said.

“Do you know where all that hair comes from?”

“No, but I'm sure you're going to enlighten me.”

“Dead people,” Misty whispered.

“Misty, stop lying,” Gloria said.

“I'm not lying. It's true. They shave the hair off dead people and then sell it to hair dealers. It's true!” she added, when she caught a bunch of shocked stares.

“Technically, hair is dead as soon as it grows from the hair follicle. So cutting it off a dead person or someone who's living is the same. If you're dead or alive, the hair is already dead.”

“But, still, wearing
dead
people's hair is gross. How could you do that?”

I shrugged. “Easy. Went to the salon and paid for it.”

Gloria laughed, and then stopped when she saw Misty's face. “Really, Misty, you need to take a chill pill. Ain't nothing wrong with wearing weave.” She patted the pink sponge roller in her head. “Been thinking of getting some myself.”

“You better not, your hair is fine.” She turned to look at me. “What is it with black women and weaves? It's such an obvious form of self-hatred.”

“How?”

“Putting all that fake hair in, tossing it around like you're some kind of white girl. It means you're not comfortable in your skin.”

“I never looked at it like that. It was just an accessory, like a pair of earrings.”
A pair of earrings I couldn't live without…

“Why don't you wear it now?”

I smoothed my hair at my nape. “I like my hair short. But who knows? I might get it again, to change things up. But I don't
need
to wear it.” I shrugged. “It's just hair.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's what I say—it's just hair. People talk about hair like they talking about world peace or something. Especially black folk. If you get a relaxer you hate yourself, and if you go natural you some kind of hippie freak. It's a bunch of nonsense. People ought to wear their hair how they want.”

“Speaking of hair, why do you wear that roller all the time?” I asked.

“What, this?” she asked, pointing to the pink-sponged atrocity sitting on her head. “This here is my Sunday roller.”

“Your Sunday roller?”

“I only take it out on Sundays.”

“Why?”

“Sabbath, girl. God said to rest, and that includes your hair.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Misty said, holding her face in her hands.

Renee and I laughed.

Smells Like Home

“Gloria, what can I do to help?” I asked, coming into the kitchen.

After a night of watching old home videos, I woke up to the smell of Gloria cooking. Thankfully, it wasn't breakfast, so Renee and I fixed a bowl of cereal. Paul had cut the grass this morning, getting the yard and house ready for the party, and after smelling the good smells coming from the kitchen, I wanted to help.

“How good are you with a knife?”

“Average, I guess.”

“Well, it will have to do. Here,” she said, handing me an onion. “Start chopping. Cutting board is behind the toaster.”

I grabbed the knife and onion, and reached behind the white toaster to get the wood chopping board. After a few rough starts I finally got the hang of it. “What are you making?”

“Gumbo.”

“Smells delicious.”

“Just wait until you taste it. Here,” she said, handing me a spoon full of broth. I swallowed, then coughed.

“You all right?” she said, patting my back.

I nodded. She stopped patting.

“Spicy,” I said, my voice strangled.

“Oh, yeah, I should have warned you. We like our food spicy. Since you're a Stevens, you should be able to handle it, but I don't think Beverly cooked spicy food for y'all, did she?”

I shook my head.

“Figures.”

“Who's all coming?”

“Not that many people. Let's see, Heather, my two brothers, Chauncey and David, and their wives and children, and a few friends. Of course Misty—this time she bringing her husband.”

“Oh.”

“Now, don't be nervous. I called them and told them all about you. They can't wait to meet you.”

“What did they think about my story?”

“They were shocked, of course. But most were just glad that things had worked out and that you're here. They're thrilled to meet you at last.”

“What do you think about my story?”

She sighed. “You mean what Beverly did?”

“Yes.”

“I think she was wrong, no doubt about it. But she was young, confused, scared. And her father didn't help.”

“It feels so strange to hear you say that about him. He's always been so loving to me. It was Bev—I mean, Mama, that was cold. To hear that he was mean,” I shook my head. “I don't get it.”

“Not everything looks the way it seems. It never is.” She paused. “Have you ever talked to your mama?”

“Recently? We talked a little last night.”

“And?”

“She thinks I should be a writer.”

“What do you think?”

“I think she's right.”

“Hard to imagine your mama being right about something, huh?”

I nodded.

She blew out a long breath. “It's hard to be a mother. It's the hardest job ever. And you don't know if you've screwed up ‘til it's almost over. Your mama messed up, yes. But how long should she have to pay for it?”

“I don't know.”

“I think twenty-nine years is long enough, don't you?”

“I guess.”

“You don't guess, you know. It's time to let it go.”

I wiped a tear from my eye on my sleeve. “The onion…”

“Oh, baby…” She scooped me in her arms, and I cried in her chest, feeling her warmth. She smelled like home.

I stopped when I heard raised voices coming from the bedroom.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah. Go check what's going on. I'll finish up here.”

I hugged her again and left. I went down the hall and started to knock on the door when I heard my name.

“Mariah is fine. Yes, I made a mistake, but I'm trying to make it right,” Beverly said.

“I'm not talking about Mariah, I'm talking about ME,” Paul yelled. “How could you just up and leave like that? What happened to ‘
til
death
do
us
part'?
What happened to that?”

“I was scared. I didn't know how to be a wife to you, let alone a mother to her. How could I stay here? How could I raise our daughter like this?”

“You could try! I drove to your house to see you, screaming your name in the street like some kind of fool, and you never came out. You never said one word to me. I didn't care if you screamed or yelled at me or anything. I just wanted you to talk to me.”

“I didn't know! My father never told me that. I would never have let you suffer like that if I'd known. Imagine how hurt I felt when you weren't there to hold Mariah for the first time. I thought you never loved me, but…”

“I did love you. I never stopped loving you.”

I pressed my ear onto the door. I couldn't hear anything. I turned the knob and entered the room, and caught them.

They broke free from each other's arms as soon as I entered, but any dummy could see that they had been kissing.

“I, um, I was just—”

A loud crash came from the kitchen that interrupted anything else I could say. Paul rushed past me and we followed him. A small scream escaped my lips as I saw Gloria sprawled on the floor, covered in cut-up onion.

“Call 911,” Paul yelled as he knelt by her and turned her over. He listened for a pulse and started CPR.

“Mama, don't you do this, you hear me? Don't you die on me.”