If Sidney didn’t fight her, she would do okay financially. She would go back to work, though she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Her lawyer was talking, saying she would draw up the divorce papers and send Kenya a copy in the next few days for review before sending them to Sidney. The words tumbled around in the air before falling, splat, on the glossy brown desk.
Kenya left the office, her body swaying slightly with the rush of activity on the street in downtown Bethesda, the afternoon’s heat soaking into the buildings around her. Using a tissue from her purse, she dabbed at the moisture on her temple. On any other day, she might wander through the shops, get a mani-pedi, stop somewhere for a light lunch, check the latest releases at the bookstore. Enjoy some time for herself. Now, though, she felt unsteady and ill-prepared for her life without Sidney. For being by herself. Being a single mother to two black children, one possibly gay, in a world that seemed against people of color. The man with the tattoos who bumped her car popped into her mind; there she was thinking he might hurt her, while he was wondering if she was okay. The memory made her feel silly. She made herself a promise: that she would no longer be afraid.
Kenya smoothed her skirt and strode across the street to her car. She would be better, a better woman than she’d ever been. She wouldn’t judge others based on how they looked. She’d love her children more, encourage and accept them no matter what. Knowing Junior liked boys would be tough to accept, but she’d try. She’d be a better daughter, too. As if to prove this to herself, she drove straight to her mother’s house. She knew she wouldn’t get the comfort she wanted, but she should make sure her mother was okay while her father was out of town. That’s what a good daughter would do.
When she arrived, the front door was unlocked and the hairs on her arms and neck prickled. From the foyer, she called for her mother but only Kitty came running from the sitting room, several plaintive meows filling the silence. Nothing seemed out of order. No doubt her mother was upstairs sleeping. Kenya put food out for the cat then headed upstairs. It was time for her mother to start living her life again. She had to stop sleeping her days away. With a firm knock on the bedroom door, she pushed it open. “Mama? It’s me, Kennie.”
Her mother was sound asleep, laying on her stomach only half covered by a sheet. Her arm dangled over the side, and Kenya couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “For God’s sake, Mama, get it together.” As she approached, a sour smell pinched her nose. Kenya saw vomit on the pillow and released a shriek. She wanted to move her mother, shift her onto her side but wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. She pressed two fingers to her mother’s neck but there was no pulse, then slid her hand under her chest and felt a weak heartbeat. Without a second thought, she grabbed the phone on the bedside table and dialed 9-1-1. Only a few minutes passed before the ambulance arrived, but the time seemed like forever. An empty bottle of pills lay on the table, and Kenya noticed what looked like a used condom on the floor. She bent low and peered at it, feeling a wave of shock—her father was still in Florida—then wondered if someone had plied her with the pills. She called Ghana who answered at the same time two EMTs arrived at the front door. They rushed in and Kenya directed them upstairs where they checked her mother’s vitals, asking Kenya a barrage of questions, most she couldn’t answer. But she gave them the empty pill bottle. Benzodiazepine, they said. The pair got her mother on a stretcher and into the ambulance. Quickly, Kenya locked up the house and followed the wailing siren and flashing lights to the hospital. In the car, she called her father but he didn’t answer. She called again from the hospital, this time leaving a message to call her immediately. Sitting in the waiting room, she took slow, long breaths until Ghana arrived, and recounted what she found, leaving out the detail about the condom. Ghana’s pale pallor startled Kenya and she hugged her sister tightly as if squeezing would return a flush of color back to her sister’s cheeks.
They waited. Silent. Tense. Stunned. Finally, a doctor appeared and told them their mother would be fine. They’d pumped her stomach and would keep her overnight for observation, but physically she was fine.
Seeing her mother with tubes attached to her arms and nose caused Kenya’s knees to buckle, and she slumped into the nearest bedside chair. Leaning forward, she gently grasped her mother’s hand. “Daddy should be here,” she said. Seated on the other side of the bed, Ghana agreed and urged Kenya to call him again.
She didn’t want to let go of her mother’s hand, but Kenya made the call. This time he answered. He sounded groggy and called her Malawi, causing her to falter. “Daddy, it’s Kenya. Are you okay?”
“Oh, Kennie. Of course. Sweetheart. I’m good. I’m good. And you?”
“Were you sleeping?” It was only four in the afternoon.
“No. No, I wasn’t asleep. Just . . . How are you?”
“Daddy, Mama is in the hospital. You need to come home.”
“Your mother?” He cleared his throat. “What happened to your mother?”
His words were slurring and she decided not to give him details. “She’s sick, Daddy. Can you come home? Please?”
“Okay, Sweetheart. I’ll get a flight as soon as I can.”
The thought that her father was drunk on an early Monday evening gave her an odd queasy feeling in her stomach, like she’d fallen down a rabbit hole—only this wasn’t Wonderland.
44
Consciousness slipped in so gradually that when Bet opened her eyes she wasn’t sure she was awake. The ceiling seemed miles away, and as it came into focus, she saw gray tiles, not the white ceiling of her bedroom. She jerked her head up and found herself constrained by tubes and wires all around her. Then Ghana’s face filled the space before Bet’s eyes, talking, asking questions. “How you feeling?”
Like the steady flow of liquid through an IV, Bet’s memories ran cold through her veins. The pills. The dizziness. The wish for everything to end. She closed her eyes as a rush of embarrassment made her head feel hot. Her throat was dry and sore when she spoke and the words were husky as they tumbled out. “You must have better things to do than be here with me.” Ghana scowled and Bet instantly regretted her words. She tried to think of something more positive, but couldn’t.
After a moment of silence, Ghana explained that Kenya had been here, too, but had left to get the kids. “She’s bringing back coffee and breakfast.” Bet offered a slight nod. Encouraged to keep talking, Ghana leaned forward, her hand lightly touching Bet’s arm. “She called Dad. He’s coming home. He’s getting a flight today to come home.” Her warm hand pressed into Bet’s skin, yet another flush of cold rushed through her. Nausea bubbled in the bottom of her stomach as she remembered the young man—a boy really—with the sleeping pills, who touched and kissed her. She’d vowed she wouldn’t see him again, but . . . Embarrassment brought heat from her neck to her cheeks. She wanted desperately to erase everything from the last week. Two weeks? Three weeks? Bet wasn’t sure. Ghana asked if she was okay. No, not really, but she nodded. Her throat hurt like hell and she pressed her fingers to her windpipe.
“They pumped your stomach. Put a tube down your throat,” Ghana said, giving Bet’s arm another squeeze. “It must hurt.”
Bet frowned and closed her eyes.
A nurse arrived, a young woman with shiny black skin wearing pink scrubs. “Good morning,” she said, flashing a bright smile. “How are you feeling?”
Stupid, Bet thought, but shrugged her shoulders and gave a halfhearted smile in return. The nurse checked a monitor and made a note on a clipboard. “Dr. Freeman will be in later to chat with you.” The doctor will ask if she’d taken the pills on purpose, if she’d wanted to die. Yes, and yes. Now, though, Bet was glad she wasn’t dead. She was glad Ghana was here. Glad Kenya was on her way. And even more so, glad Malcolm was coming home.
She knew she’d pushed him away, and maybe she’d done it on purpose, pushing all that was good in her life as far away as possible, because why should she deserve to have a good life when Malawi’s
was cut so short. She was responsible. The voice, small inside her head, had been on replay for weeks. She was responsible. This voice, small as it was, she thought, told the truth.
“When can I go home?”
“Let’s not rush things,” said the nurse. “We’ll see what the doctor says, but we may have you stay another night for observation.”
They wanted to make sure she didn’t try again to end her life.
As the nurse exited, Kenya and the children came in. Kenya carried a cup holder with two coffee cups and two paper bags of food, talking in a rush like hard rain: “You’re awake. How are you feeling? What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call me?” Bet didn’t want to look at her daughter’s judging eyes. As Kenya leaned over the bed, passing one cup and one bag to Ghana, Bet offered a smile and beckoned to her grandchildren, but it was Kenya who bent forward first to kiss Bet’s cheek. “You look terrible,” Kenya said. Charlene followed with an awkward embrace.
“We were worried about you, Grandma. You okay now?”
Bet cradled the girl’s face and kissed her hair, breathing in the fruity fragrance. “I’ll be fine, Honey. I feel better knowing you’re here with me.”
Junior nudged Charlene and squeezed in for a kiss. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispered. Bet blinked away tears and looked up to see Caroline in the doorway. Instinctively, her skin prickled.
“I heard the news and had to come see for myself,” the woman said.
“Be nice, Mama,” Kenya said into her ear. Charlene cheered, “Grandmama,” and moved away from the bedside to give her great-grandmother a hug. Bet wasn’t ready for her mother-in-law but she swallowed a scratchy dry lump and promised herself not to get upset. She focused on her grandson, asking him how he was enjoying the summer break. “It’s okay.” He rested his head on her arm.
Caroline walked around to the other side of the bed where Ghana sat and said, “I have flowers being delivered. They should come today.” Ghana gave her grandmother a kiss and offered her chair, but Caroline remained standing. She was doing that thing, Bet noticed, chewing on her mouth as if eating invisible candies. The prick of irritation plunged deeper into Bet. No one spoke. Only the sound of the machines, beeps and flashing lights until Kenya suggested she and the kids take a walk to the cafeteria for more creamer. “I’ll come too,” said Ghana, and the crowded room emptied suddenly, except for Caroline.
“Is this what you meant?” Bet asked, looking at the floral pattern on the woman’s skirt. She didn’t want to acknowledge that Caroline may have been right. After a moment, she made eye contact with her mother-in-law. “You said I’d lose more than my daughter. Is this what you meant?”
Caroline glanced around the room then looked back at Bet, placing both her hands on Bet’s forearm. “Kenya says Malcolm is coming home.” With one hand she patted Bet softly. “You can push through this. I know you, Elizabeth. You will be just fine as long as you don’t take anything for granted.”
Bet covered one of Caroline’s hands with her own and gave a wan smile. “You are right. I’m so very lucky. To have all of you.”
The room was dark, but low lighting filtered through from the hallway. Caroline, Kenya and the kids were gone. Ghana slept in the chair next to the bed, her hair a mass of twine resting over her shoulders and chair. Bet made a silent promise to do better by her middle child.
A familiar shadow filled the doorway. Not the doctor. He came closer, looming over her. She inhaled, feeling tears forming. Malcolm had come back. He’d been such a blessing to her, and she’d been awful. Just awful.
“I hear you’re feeling better,” he said, his voice soft and tentative.
“Yes. I don’t know why they’re keeping me here,” she said. “I just want to go home.”
“In time.”
Ghana stirred and exclaimed a shriek of joy at seeing her father. They exchanged a firm embrace, then she leaned into Bet, kissing her cheek and asking if she needed anything. “Gonna get something to drink.”
Malcolm’s arms hung motionless by his sides and he watched Bet for a while before taking the seat where Ghana had been. He looked tired. Hungover.
“You just got back?” she asked.
“Yes. Came straight here from the airport.”
She wanted to say so much, but felt awkward. Foolish.
“I talked to the doctor.” He snorted. “What were you thinking?”
His disappointment smacked her, and she covered her mouth afraid she would dissolve into a sobbing mess.
“I feel responsible,” she said. “Like it was all my fault.”
“What? What was all your fault?”
“Malawi.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bet.” He leaned forward and took her hand, fingering the lines in her palm. “That had nothing to do with you.”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
He narrowed his eyes at her and she looked away. She didn’t want to tell him but she had to. “When I got pregnant.” She withdrew her hand. “When I first got pregnant with Malawi, I wasn’t going to tell you.”
Malcolm said nothing and continued to watch her; she couldn’t read his expression. “I didn’t want you to know.” Her heart was thudding, a captured bird trying to escape. “I was going to get rid of her without you knowing.” She saw a slight frown shadow his face but then it was gone. Maybe he didn’t understand. “I was going to have an abortion, Mal. I made an appointment and everything, but the car wouldn’t start. Remember that old Tercel? It didn’t start, and I missed the appointment. I rescheduled, but by then you’d guessed I was pregnant. And you were so excited that I couldn’t go through with it. You were just so excited.”
His gaze drifted away from her and he reclined, silent, contemplating her confession.
“I was going to kill her, Malcolm, and now she’s dead, and it’s my fault.”
Dread rattled inside her for a long time, rolling around like a loose marble while he said nothing. Finally, he focused on her and asked, “Do you wish you had gone through with it?”
His question surprised her. “No, of course not. I was unhappy at first. I wanted to go back to art school and get my master’s. But I loved her.” She felt lightheaded. “Sometimes, I was frustrated. I admit that. All the girls. They were a lot. Sometimes I just couldn’t cope, but you always helped me. And they were good girls. Really, they were. They were good girls, all three of them.”
She studied his face, willing him to speak. To say something. The silence went on too long and Bet began to speak just as he did. “It’s not your fault, Elizabeth.” He inched forward in the chair. “You didn’t go through with it. You didn’t do anything wrong. We had three beautiful girls. They’re still beautiful. Malawi will always be beautiful. And we have two still here with us. We can’t forget them.” He paused for several moments. “We have a beautiful family, Bet. We always did.”
She reached for him and he tightened his grip around her fingers. “We going to be okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We’ll be okay.”
45
Kenya placed the fruit platter on the back seat on the driver’s side and the paper grocery bag with cookies and bottled water on the floor. The mid-August evening was still humid, and she flicked on the A/C to high. Already in the trunk was a flask filled with hot water, tea bags, a coffee pot and coffee with creamer and sugar. She should make it to the downtown library around six, barring any issues with traffic. The first meeting of Malawi’s Sisters was scheduled to start at seven. Kenya had booked a room in the library’s basement, and Ghana recruited her friend Cass, who worked for a marketing company, to get the word out about the event. Cass said to expect fifteen to twenty people.
Kenya had been skeptical about Malawi’s Sisters and her role in it, but Ghana had put her in touch with a woman whose gay son, a student at Howard, had been beaten to death in an alley a few blocks from Howard’s campus. She’d met the woman—Destiny—at a coffee shop near the university. Destiny had
fake burgundy braids, dark lipstick and wore a low-cut pink blouse that exposed a generous cleavage. She gave Kenya a bright smile and a firm embrace that almost consumed Kenya. There had been a time Kenya would have dismissed this woman, thinking her ignorant and a waste of time, but as she listened to Destiny talk about her son, about her experience, she appreciated the woman’s life and wise perspective.
“He was flamboyant and people didn’t like it,” said Destiny. “There’s no information on who did it.” As the woman talked, Kenya felt the fear for her own son expanding inside her stomach; she had wanted nothing to do with Ghana’s support group and started preparing a speech to convince Junior to keep his feelings for boys to himself. Just don’t be gay, she wanted to scream at him. But then Destiny said something that stopped the roll of thoughts in Kenya’s head and made her listen.
“My son was simply who he was,” she said, her voice soft and plain. “Whether made by God or some gay gene or whatever, he was a person who loved clothes and music and dancing. He was studying art, and no one had the right to take his life away from him. Nobody.” She fell silent, then after a moment, “We need to support each other. And we need to speak out against this kind of violence to save all the young ones coming up now so they can walk in their own light without fear.”
Destiny had offered a tissue and wrapped her arm across Kenya’s shoulder. They had sat in the corner of the coffee shop quietly sobbing together. Kenya thought of Junior and her desire that he be able to walk in his own light without fear no matter his race or sexual orientation. So, she signed on with the notion that Malawi’s Sisters could grow into a platform for much more than simply supporting women and their grief.
At seven-thirty only two women had wandered in; both Kenya and Ghana practically pounced on them, offering tea or coffee, cookies or fruit.
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