The Dawn of Nia
The Dawn of Nia
by Lauren Cherelle
Resolute Publishing
Louisville, KY
The Dawn of Nia Copyright © 2016 Lauren Cherelle.
Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the publisher—except for a reviewer who may quote a brief passage in a review. For more information, contact Resolute Publishing.
ISBNs: Print 978-0-9973211-0-4 | Ebook 978-0-9973211-1-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933525
First Printing
Publisher’s Note: This work of fiction is not meant to depict, portray, or represent any particular real persons. All characters, dialogue, or similarities in names, entities, incidents, or places are coincidental and the product of the author’s imagination. Any references or similarities to actual events, entities, real people, living or dead, or to organizations are also products of the author’s imagination, fictionalized, or entirely coincidental.
Cover Copyright © 2016 L. Curry
Editors: Andrea Hayes; Nik Nicholson, final content editor
Acknowledgments: V.N. Jones, L. Hankins, C. Oglesby, and A. Brown
Resolute Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 1833
Louisville, KY 40201-1833
www.respublishing.com
[email protected]
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About the Author
1
I DON’T KNOW how much more of this funeral I can stomach. The minister is eight minutes into the eulogy and still begging for a thunderous hallelujah or soulful amen. “Ain’t no party like a Holy Ghost party,” he screams. Obviously, he doesn’t know a damn thing about Pat.
She would look him squarely in the eyes and say, “I didn’t ask for this party, fool.”
Aside from an occasional cough, the congregation is as lifeless as Pat’s body while the minister is in the pulpit hovering over her closed casket, pleading to souls to rejoice in her death. The organist tries her best to follow his highs and lows, adding crescendo whenever he falls flat. His efforts, however, are subpar to the energy Pat radiated on any given day.
I admired Pat, especially in her last days. Although I was with her almost daily as she fought cancer, nothing prepared me for the night she lost her battle. As a nurse, I witness the debilitating stages of dying. But no amount of experience or preparation could have made her passing easier. My mornings have been absent and the evenings long. I’m already missing her understanding and infectious laughter.
I tune the minister out with memories of Pat, holding back tears as I recall our last conversation. “Don’t cry for me,” she said, her arm resting on mine. “We’ve had too many good times for you to cry. I should make you smile.”
Jacoby takes my hand as mascara blemishes my cheeks. I almost laugh out loud at the idea of the eulogy boring me to tears. The humor fades when I notice Pat’s sisters peering over their shoulders to the rear of the sanctuary. I look back, with dozens of eyes, curious to see who just walked into this homegoing service almost an hour late. A woman stands before the closed sanctuary doors, clutching her purse and scanning all eyes that meet hers.
“Can I get a amen?” the minister pleads for our attention.
Friends of the Carter family turn their heads back to him, apparently unfamiliar with the woman. The eldest women of the Carter family keep glaring with disapproval under their wide brimmed church hats.
Are their hostile stares due to the woman’s tardiness or white dress? The lightweight material trails her like smoke as she makes her way up the center aisle and checks the cramped pews for a place to sit. She passes my row unconcerned with probing eyes, her dress sweeping the carpet.
“Who is that?” Jacoby whispers.
I shake my head. I don’t know. But she looks like a family member. Her high cheekbones and blush lips resemble Pat and her sisters’ faces.
She stops four rows ahead and waits as a mourner creates barely enough space for her to squeeze onto the pew. Then she sits down and disappears from my view. I’ll definitely ask about her later.
With the temporary distraction over, I look at the memorial program in my lap and read her name again: Patricia Ann “Pat” Carter. I turn the page to the obituary and focus on the sentence that soothes my grief. Pat cherished her students and will be forever loved and missed by Nia Ellis. At first, this sentence surprised me because I’m the only non-relative identified by name in the obituary. I’m grateful that the Carters acknowledged my friendship with Pat.
At the minister’s closing remarks, two funeral directors push the service along. They move the lavender standing sprays away from the casket and proceed down the aisle. The pallbearers follow in their footsteps, marching to the pulse of the piano, swaying to the hum of the choir. I drop my head as they approach with the glossy black casket atop their shoulders. It’s a procession suitable for royalty. I find comfort in Pat’s spirit and the adoration that so many attendees share for her. I lift my head as the bereaved family approaches. Pat’s mother and three sisters walk proudly and greet me with smiles. As proprietors of a long-established funeral home, they spared no expense on Pat’s homegoing service.
Row by row, the pews empty, and the woman in white walks by as expressionless as before. Jacoby and I join the slow-moving line through the vestibule to the parking lot. I lose sight of the woman due to the crowds and commotion of cars.
I step from the pavement into a patch of lush grass that’s shaded by a tree while waiting for Jacoby to return with his overpriced gas guzzler. I feel lighter in the shade, like I can finally breathe without cries tugging at my throat. The short breeze and alone time are calming until Pat’s aunt assaults me with a hug.
“It’ll be okay,” the over-dressed woman says, squeezing my hand too tightly.
What the hell is okay about never seeing Pat again? This is why I didn’t ride to the funeral with the Carters; why I didn’t sit in the front pews with them; why I’m not riding to the burial with them. Condolences irritate me. When I don’t respond, she drops my hand and compliments my dress and heels.
As Jacoby pulls up, I step aside and watch the Carters load into three family cars, just as dark and immaculate as the casket. I open Jacoby’s heavy SUV door, almost free from the discomfort of my aching feet until someone calls my name. “Are you riding with us?” Pat’
s youngest sister, Cookie, asks.
I politely decline and climb inside the SUV.
“Are you sure?” Jacoby says.
“They’ll smother me. And Kayla may be in there.”
He pulls into the procession without further question.
I latch the seatbelt and tug at my A-line dress. Though the hem stops right at my knees, I feel sparsely dressed. I replace my heels with flats and smile. Pat begged me to “gussy up” sometimes. “You’re too cute and young to look so drab all the damn time,” she’d complain.
Today, I’m honoring Pat’s wishes.
~ * ~
The cemetery tent is too small to shelter everyone from the harsh July sun. I stand with Jacoby in intense heat, shifting from one leg to the other. We’re in the middle of nowhere, suffering through day three of a suffocating Tennessee heat wave. The air is so thick and stiff that sweat is creeping down my thighs. The surrounding dead bodies bother me, a harsh reminder of the permanency of Pat’s passing. I’m not the only one on edge, though. Children are whining. Men are fidgeting. Women are dabbing their sweat-smeared makeup.
The only person who seems content is the woman in the white dress. My curiosity about her helps distract me from the heat and folks’ constant sniffles. I’ve watched her closely. I wonder why she isn’t as antsy as the rest of us. She stands alone, arms crossed, on the opposite side of the crowd, a few feet from the tent. She’s standing around like this is a pleasant day and occasion. Only two family members have spoken to her. Their interaction was quick and cautious. Even the family members with longstanding grudges briefly smiled and hugged one another at some point. But no one has touched her. Every few minutes the immediate family members swap whispers before cutting glances her way— like she’s a mistress that overstepped her bounds. I’ve watched all of this long enough to know she’s related to the Carters in some way.
“Stop staring at her,” Jacoby says. “She’ll think I’m staring at her too.”
I use the handkerchief I stole from Daddy this morning to wipe sweat from my chest. Then I bow my head for a painfully long prayer. After a wave of amens, I open my eyes to watch her again, until Pat’s niece approaches and blocks my view.
I want to step away from Kayla. But where would I go? We’re in a cemetery. There’s nowhere to disappear. I roll my eyes and say, “I was hoping we would keep our distance.”
“Given we’re at a funeral, I figured we could be cordial,” Kayla says.
Me? Cordial to my ex? Cordial to a woman who lied and manipulated my reality for the majority of our three-year relationship? During my rocky break-up with Kayla seven months ago, Pat served as peacekeeper. With Pat gone, I don’t have to remain civil. I’m ready to place as much space between us as humanly possible. But Kayla will not let go of our relationship. She won’t accept that she’s gone from lover to public enemy.
I need to set the record straight with her: we are not friends and there will be no more contact. But damn, I can’t. This isn’t the time or place.
“I’m so over this heat,” Kayla says. “It’s making me sick.”
She’s determined to make me talk. I don’t want to engage Kayla, but she’s the opportune Carter to probe for specifics about the mystery woman. I have to be flexible for a minute. “Well, she was smart.”
Kayla follows my gaze to the woman, still standing alone.
“Guess we should’ve worn a light color, too,” I add.
“Ugh, she’s so wrong. We did not agree on white.”
“She didn’t get the family memo?” Jacoby asks.
Kayla rolls her neck in his direction. “Boy, please! I’m surprised her tacky ass is here.”
Tacky? This woman is far from tacky. The sleeveless white dress complements her camel-colored skin and nicely accentuates the contours of her frame. She is captivating. Feminine. Poised. She caught my eye at first glance. Only the blind or envious would deny her appeal.
I’m not going to share these thoughts. Besides, with Kayla riled up, I can pop the burning question. “Who is she?”
“Ladies,” an elder says to hush us.
Kayla hesitates out of respect for her great aunt, but she never retreats from blathering about someone else’s affairs. She’s a pampered princess whose only talents are gossiping, shopping, and gossiping while shopping.
After a moment she proceeds as expected. “Girl…” She leans forward. “She’s the best-kept secret in this family. That’s Pat’s daughter.”
The three of us exchange glances.
I’ve heard Kayla say some awful things to initiate and spread rumors. Still, I can’t believe she would make up something like this at Pat’s funeral, and then call it a secret. Jacoby has been my friend for seven years; he knows my history with Kayla. She isn’t credible enough for her words to stand unchallenged. So I look to him for assurance that Kayla is bullshitting, again. But he’s shocked speechless. He loosens his striped tie and stares at the grass. I study Kayla for a hint of dishonesty, except she’s still and silent— a sign of sincerity. Damn. Daddy always said funerals are a family’s worst enemy, an occasion where secrets are slain by death. I guess he’s right.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the minister says.
After Pat is lowered into the ground, I head to the car to avoid more hugs and chats. “Take me home!” I order at Jacoby.
“What about the repast?”
I turn around to address him so quickly that he accidentally bumps into me— one hundred eighty pounds almost knocking me off my feet. He grabs my arm to break my fall. Then he notices the effect of Kayla’s words across my face and takes a step away from me. Loud and clear, I’m mad. I need some space. And I’m on the verge of crying. I’m not in the mood for food, conversation, or more condolences. I’m sweaty and conflicted, and I need a shower. I prefer to sort my emotions at home.
Pat was a second mother— the cool, younger matriarch I turned to when my natural mother was too set in her middle-aged, Baptist ways to provide unconditional support. I can’t fathom why Pat would omit someone as important as her own daughter from every heart-to-heart conversation we shared during our six years of bonding. How could she hide her for so long? And I don’t understand how a family that accepted me with open arms could cast out one of their own. Why is this woman in white their black sheep?
2
I STARE at the butcher knife in Caroline’s hand and hold up my copy of Pat’s house key like a peace offering. I’ve used this key so many times, especially after Pat started her second cycle of chemotherapy eleven months ago. I didn’t think about ringing the doorbell or knocking before letting myself inside.
“Why didn’t you say something before walking in this kitchen?” Caroline asks. “You scared the crap out of us.” Her face relaxes as she places the knife in the drawer. She steps forward to hug me, her floral fragrance reaching me before her arms. Once free of her person and perfume, her mother— whom I’ve nicknamed Mama C — beckons me with an outstretched hand. I cuddle her wrinkled fingers and take the seat at the kitchen table between Mama C and Pat’s middle sister. Mama C pours me a glass of tea and says, “Why didn’t you come to the repast?”
I’ve been rehearsing a response for four days. “I had to go home.” I shake my head for effect. “It was too much, and the heat made me sick.” A half-truth stolen from Kayla is better than a whole lie.
Mama C touches my hand again, her aged but taut face content with my explanation.
“You and me both. I thought I was gone pass out,” the middle sister says, slouching in her seat. She whips the fan in her hand with so much force that hair brushes my forehead. I move back to dodge the breeze. Yes, the weather was brutal that day, but what did she have to complain about? She sat pretty in the center of the shaded tent the entire burial with the same Carter Funeral Home hand fan she’s using now.
“We should’ve had the repast first,” she goes on, “and waited till after seven when it cooled down a bit before we stepped foot in the
cemetery.”
“I ain’t surprised that’s your idea of a better funeral ’cause you’re sixty-pounds too heavy,” Caroline spits in her speedy-mouthed manner.
“Look, don’t start with me,” her sister warns, pulling the box fan closer.
“Somebody needs to! Keep eating all that salt, fat, and sugar and you’re next. Sad part is, Pat ate like a rabbit. But you suck up food like a pig.”
“Caroline,” Cookie intervenes with her soft voice. “None of us want to lose another sister, but that’s uncalled-for.”
“Says who? Let’s be clear, you’re just a Twinkie away, too.”
At this point, “Loca Tres”— as Pat affectionately called her sisters— are an unstoppable force. Usually, their escalated interaction irritates the hell out of me. Now, I’m enjoying their mingled voices, the pungency of oak cabinets and fresh potpourri, and Mama C’s sweet tea. It all creates a harmonious mix of quasi-normalcy. This feels like my second home again.
In these moments, Pat would intervene. She would chide Caroline for being the eldest and pettiest. Then she would scold all three of her sisters with profanity and demand that they apologize to Madear for her disrespectful language and their spat. After this, she’d sit back in her chair with crossed arms and dominate the conversation.
I look left, longing to see Pat at the head of her table, only to see a bare seat. No one dares sit there. Instead, we all sit in our usual places pretending she’s present.
Mama C slams her hand on the table, taking all of us by surprise. “Let’s do what we came here to do,” she orders, slapping us across the face with reality.
Pat asked us to sort and donate her belongings. With the exception of jewelry and photographs, we have to deliver all material possessions to a pre-designated halfway house for women.
Silently, the sisters stand and walk into the living room. Mama C and I follow and wait for direction. Bossy Caroline takes the reins, assigning her sisters to separate rooms. “I’ll stay in here with Madear,” she says. Then she pulls the seniority card and assigns me the master bedroom. “You good with that?”
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