The Dawn of Nia

by Lauren Cherelle

A reply sits at the tip of my tongue so I let him have it. “You didn’t teach me who or what to look for.”

  “You saying I didn’t set a good example?”

  “Neither one of you did.”

  Daddy leans forward and Mama peers in the house. It suddenly feels like summer.

  “You can’t hold down a relationship because of us?” he asks.

  “I guess it’s in my genes.”

  Daddy’s a smart man. He knows exactly what I’m saying. I’ve witnessed and experienced too many negatives— including infidelity and distrust— to have faith in romantic relationships.

  He places his beer on the patio table, shifting his long frame toward mine. “You’re insecure.”

  I tip my can up to swallow an ill reaction. “I’m insecure?”

  “That’s what I said. You can blame us for creating your feelings. I’ll give you that one. But you can’t blame us for keeping ’em. At the end of the day, your love life is not my responsibility or my fault. Me and your Mama ain’t got shit to do with that.”

  I drink again, finishing the beer and holding my tongue. This is an area he needs to tread lightly. My doubt is abundant; like a thick forest where sunlight never brushes its floor. Daddy and I have amicably talked about my relationships before. But he has too many transgressions under his belt to turn a critical eye on my so-called insecurity.

  “I don’t blame you,” I lie, attempting to convey some control and maturity over my experiences and feelings. I push us away from love and relationships by tossing my brother into the conversation. We stay outside reminiscing about fond times with him, pre-incarceration, until the cricket choir begins.

  ~ * ~

  I remove a pair of plates from the cabinet and pop the lid off the cake. “This all you got to eat?” Jacoby asks. “I know your Mama made more than this.”

  He recently left work and came over to raid my refrigerator, but I refuse to make him dinner. “Take it or leave it,” I say.

  He extends his hand for dinner. “You called in sick today?”

  There’s too much cake in my mouth to answer, so I confirm by nodding my head.

  “Damn, you got it good,” he says. “My boss would never let me call in last minute.”

  I give him a rundown of my work-free day and mention there’s one last thing on my list: call Kayla.

  “For what?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why you don’t listen to me.”

  “Eat the cake,” I say and dial her digits.

  Kayla promptly answers and shouts my name. “Why the hell does it take you forever to get back with me?”

  “And hello to you, too, goddamnit. What do you want?”

  “We’re meeting a lawyer on Monday at three to see what we can do about Pat’s Will.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s the only option.”

  Only? Why can’t Pat have her last say? And why is Kayla calling me about this? I don’t have anything to do with whatever feud they’ve had or continue to have with Deidra. I am not a soldier in their battle.

  “So, are you coming?” she asks.

  When I decline, Jacoby waves his hands midair for me to reconsider. Kayla attempts to change my mind as well. “You should be there. You have just as much say as we do.”

  “If I had clout you wouldn’t be meeting a lawyer.”

  I press the end-call icon and turn my attention to Jacoby. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. “Somebody gotta defend Pat.”

  14

  THREE DAYS OF REFLECTION help me realize that Jacoby is right. I stalled because I didn’t want to insert myself in anything that involved Kayla. The friction around this Will is not my problem, but my love for Pat won’t allow me to detach from this issue.

  I leave work as early as I can and send Kayla a text message requesting the meeting location. She responds with a smiley face and address on the east side of town. The meeting is twenty-five minutes away. There’s no way I’ll get there by 3:00.

  The accident-free expressway and my eighty-five miles per hour driving shave three minutes off my arrival. I pull onto a manicured street with commercial office buildings and spot my destination. The closest parking spaces are two office buildings away. With no time to spare, I choose a handicap spot at the entrance. Then I reach into the glove compartment and pull out Mama’s old handicap decal.

  Once inside, I inform the receptionist I’m with the Carter party. She directs me to a second-floor conference room. The lawyer pauses to acknowledge my entry. I quickly greet Mama C and Pat’s sisters. Caroline has managed to pull her husband into this battle, too. I speak to him and choose the chair furthest from Kayla. “Sorry I’m late y’all.”

  “That’s okay,” Mama C says, smiling. Her pleasant face makes me feel a little guilty. She has no idea I didn’t come to lend support.

  I sit patiently by the youngest sister, listening to the probate lawyer, waiting for an opportunity to throw a wrench in the possibility of legal proceedings.

  The lawyer explains grounds for contesting the validity of a Last Will and Testament. There are two stacks of paper on the table before him. Due to my tardiness, I’m unsure whether the Carters have already stated their case, or whether he believes something in those documents gives them standing. We listen as he translates legalese into layperson’s terms. Once finished, he reclines in his leather chair and says, “Based off what I’ve said, why is this Will invalid?”

  “Well,” Caroline starts, “two years ago when Pat got sick we went through this whole process. Cookie and I were the witnesses who signed the Will. That document,” she points, “doesn’t have our signatures.”

  “You believe it wasn’t signed in accordance with the law?”

  “Right. That document is dated June of this year, three weeks before my sister passed. If Pat decided to draft another Will, she would have told me… us. She for sure wouldn’t have appointed somebody else as personal representative and beneficiary of her estate. And nobody in this room knows the witnesses. Courtney Simmons and… What’s the man’s name?”

  “Keith,” the middle sister says. “Same last name. Maybe they’re married.”

  “Does anyone know the executrix, Deidra Jamison?” the lawyer asks.

  Caroline hesitates, waiting for someone else to respond, except they hold their tongues like they could perjure one another. There are five women in this room who can answer better than me, so I keep my lips sealed.

  “She’s… family,” Cookie admits. “She’s Pat’s only child.”

  “Has anyone spoken to Deidra about the matter?”

  Caroline takes the reins again. “I’ve contacted her, but she won’t respond. And she had some nerve showing up at the funeral knowing good and damn well she was scheming behind our backs. She came to the funeral to throw it in our faces and we didn’t even know it. I’m sure by now the bank accounts are empty. The house and land are next. Ain’t no telling what my sister was thinking and doing with all the damn poison those doctors kept shooting up her veins!”

  “Lord Jesus, Caroline,” Mama C says, “calm down.”

  Caroline drops her head. The lawyer offers a moment of silence before proceeding. “Is there reason to believe there was undue influence?”

  The sisters exchange glances. “Maybe,” Cookie answers. “During Pat’s treatments, some days were better than others. One day she was herself, the next day she was fatigued and would look at you like a stranger.”

  The room falls quiet as we reflect on those days that proved Pat was dying.

  “Listen,” Caroline says. “Something happened. We just don’t know what happened. That’s why we’re here.”

  “If you want to proceed, I will. But I’ll be frank. It’ll get expensive. Will contests are challenging.”

  “Do what you have to do,” she orders.

  I can’t leave without presenting a second opinion and attempting to steer this ship off course. I interrupt the lawyer as he explains the next step in the process. For th
e past fifteen minutes, I haven’t said a word. They expect me to place an additional cause for contest on the table. But, I have one question for this family: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Of course!” Caroline says. “Why would we let someone steal everything Pat worked for?”

  “What else do you want?” This family doesn’t long for anything. Their forefathers left the cotton fields and crossed into the land of the talented tenth three generations ago. Today, they hold advanced degrees, live in gated communities, operate a profitable business, and make hefty contributions to local charities.

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing,” the husband states.

  Caroline scoffs at the challenge. “Look, I care about you, Nia— and don’t even start with me, Melvin— but you don’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But what happens if you can’t move forward, if the judge doesn’t change anything? Then what?”

  “Street justice,” Kayla suggests.

  I don’t waste energy looking across the table in her direction. “If this doesn’t work out,” I continue, “she’ll still have the say-so.” I’m careful with my words. This isn’t the time or place to casually say Deidra. “It may be best to trust in Pat and put some things to rest.”

  “Duly noted,” Caroline says, rolling her eyes.

  They’re determined in the matter. I can’t alter their groupthink on my own. With nothing more to offer, I tell Mama C goodbye and accept a business card from the lawyer before leaving the meeting. They have such a strong offensive line that I’m left with only one option. For defense, I’ll have to turn to Deidra.

  15

  I PARK along the sidewalk in front of the one-story house, unsure whether Deidra is home. I keep my foot on the brake with the gear in drive as I go back and forth over whether I should leave the safety of my car. Every time I call Deidra, she forwards me to an automated voicemail greeting. And she’s ignoring my text messages. A week has passed since the Carters encouraged the lawyer to move swiftly with their case. I can’t wait any longer.

  I tap the steering wheel to buy more time, wishing someone inside the house would alert Deidra of the stranger lurking in the front yard. Hopefully, she’ll peek out the window, recognize my car and come outside, saving me from knocking on the door.

  After two more minutes, I turn off the ignition. I approach the carport door since it’s open, stepping over a crushed beer can and jump rope. Seconds after I knock a woman answers. She unlocks the dusty storm door and says, “Come in. What you gettin’ done?”

  Confused, I ask, “Is Deidra here?”

  “Is she here? I guess you just gone stop by without an appointment.”

  “Appointment? I just need to talk to her.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  Deidra favors the Carters but bears a stronger resemblance to the woman I’m following through the house. Their round noses and heart-shaped lips are identical. I guess it’s safe to say this is her sister, Juanita. She leads me through a messy kitchen to a cluttered den. She stops at the couch and throws a pillow and blanket to the side. I unbutton my pea coat and take a seat as she disappears into a dark hallway.

  There’s crap everywhere. Toys. Boxes. Laundry. A pair of shoes by my feet. I’m possibly sitting on someone’s bed. Sounds from the television clash with voices from other areas of the house. The same little girl from Chuck E. Cheese’s runs through the room like she doesn’t see me. Then the woman reappears and says, “She comin’.”

  I nod. “You’re Juanita, right?”

  She leans against the doorframe and stares at me as I scan the holes and bleach stains in her tee shirt. “Why?” She tilts her head. Her lazy eyes and delay mirror intoxication.

  “I’m just asking. Deidra told me she has a sister.”

  “Humph, no she don’t. I ain’t claimin’ that bitch today. I ain’t…”

  I can’t decipher the remainder of her slurred words. I have a feeling it would be a bad idea to ask her to repeat herself so I smile and say, “Okay.”

  Juanita continues to talk and I pretend to listen until Deidra steps into the room. “Can you please go lie in the bed?” she says to her sister.

  Juanita stomps and stays in place until Deidra steps closer with a threatening expression. She waits until her sister is out of sight before addressing me. “Are you slow? Did the dead end calls and texts not register with you? Get the hell out.”

  Harsh words from a woman so pretty. The shimmering bronze tones on her eyelids and lips bring out the gold accents in her dress. Hair swoops across her forehead, flowing into a low-braided bun. Apparently, she has plans for the evening.

  I stand. “I just wanna talk. I don’t feel right leaving things on bad terms between us.”

  “I—don’t—care.”

  “Then why are you mad?”

  She looks out the window and relaxes her shoulders. “What do you want?”

  “Just five minutes.”

  Deidra takes a moment to decide whether she’ll honor my request. “Two minutes, outside.” Once we are standing under the carport, she turns to me. “What is it?”

  “Caroline reached out to you. You know why she’s contacting you?”

  “Yes. And you’re their do-girl, here to finish your assignment.”

  Assignment? I’m taken aback by the accusation. She thinks my time with her was due to ulterior motives. “I wasn’t spending time with you to get in your good graces. This is not a ploy.”

  “I meet you, sleep with you, and then find out you were lying to me around the same time Caroline starts contacting me about Pat’s Will.”

  Lying? That’s a strong word. “Deidra, I didn’t know anything about the Will until two weeks ago.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes! This is all new to me. I don’t know what happened between you and Pat, but they’re alleging fraud. They’re going to paint you as some immoral bitch who took advantage of someone with terminal cancer.”

  She crosses her arms. “Again, what do you want?”

  “I want you to fight back.”

  She raises her eyebrows, surprised by my response.

  “Pat gave you power over her estate,” I say. “Hold your ground. That’s what she wanted.”

  “You’re concerned about Pat’s wishes… not me. Just as I thought,” she says and steps toward the door.

  “Wait,” I plead, reaching out for her hand.

  She jerks her arm away and points in my face. “Don’t you ever put your fucking hands on me.”

  When I consider all the places my hands have been on her, it seems strange that I can’t touch her again. The intensity in her eyes shames me. I’m flooded with regret and ashamed of pushing her out my house. I retaliated violently. I hate that she could even believe that I’m capable of doing that again. “Deidra, I’m so—”

  “Stop!” she demands and walks away.

  I want so badly to make her accept my apology and to keep her from escaping into the house. My wants, however, don’t mean anything. I head to my car hopeless about my efforts. I came here wishing for the best, but now, I’m leaving with nothing.

  16

  ONE HOUR into the horror flick, I feel my phone buzz three quick times. I open my purse and glance at my phone, careful not to cause too much distraction since I’m sitting in a theater between Tasha and Shonda, along with my college friend Ebony.

  Deidra is the last person I expected to text me. Her message doesn’t contain words, just a video thumbnail. I turn the screen off and inch my way down the aisle to exit the theater. I’m eager to see the video she sent six days after dismissing me.

  I stand in the empty hallway and press play. During the first eight seconds, the video wobbles and displays blurred colors. At second nine, the frame steadies and I can’t believe my eyes. Pat is sitting in a chemo chair, her beloved crochet blanket pulled up to her waist. At fifteen seconds, the frame widens and reveals Deidra on a rolling stool to Pat’s
right. An older man in a gray suit stands to her left. The video shakes and floats to the right— a sign of handheld camera phone footage. Pat moves an IV line past the arm of the chair. Then the stocky man hands her an open portfolio. She places it in her lap and reads:

  “I, Patricia Ann Carter, an adult residing at forty-eleven Landester Road in Memphis, Tennessee, being of sound mind, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament. I revoke all Wills and codicils previously made by me. I appoint Deidra Jamison as my personal representative to administer this Will, and ask that she be permitted to serve without court supervision and without posting bond. If Deidra Jamison is unwilling…” She inhales, wincing at her pain.

  Deidra stands, placing her hand on Pat’s arm. “Do you need a break?”

  Pat rubs her chest. “No, I’m okay.” At forty-four seconds, she exhales and continues:

  “If Deidra Jamison is unwilling or unable to serve, I appoint Courtney Simmons to serve as my personal representative, and ask that she be permitted to serve without court supervision and without posting bond. “This video…”

  Pat closes her eyes and drops the portfolio in her lap. Then she looks at the camera and says, “This video, recorded on June eighteenth, is for my family…” She clears her throat. “While I hope you will never see it, chances are that won’t be the case. Deidra has agreed to serve as my personal representative, and she is the sole beneficiary of my estate. Don’t fight this.”

  “Damn,” I say as tears gather in my eyes. Pat’s foresight is chilling.

  At one minute and five seconds she says, “Cut that thing off.” She hands the portfolio back to the man and the video cuts to black.

  This footage confirms three things for me. The Carters are dead wrong about Pat’s Will. Deidra and Pat were in contact before she passed. And last, I’m confused about the nature of their relationship. Why would Deidra agree to be her representative and then curse her mother to hell?

  I watch the video again before contacting Deidra, hoping she takes my call. “That was fast,” she answers.

  “Why now?”