Later that same afternoon, Sandy choked through the phone line with Senior over the story of Clyde McNeal. “They showed his foot and everything!” she complained. “I just can’t imagine that being us again.” Doubting her parenting skills, Sandy called herself every name in the book from a bad mother to being inadequate for sending Junior off to New York and failing to protect Lawrence. She whined into the receiver as Senior listened. The stress of her colleagues’ insults and letting Junior go had finally broken her.
“It’s a good move. Fuck what they think,” he told her. “That girl loves that boy, Sandy. What person you know would help pay the boy’s tuition up there? You can hardly get a sumbitch to pay back what they owe.”
Laughing in agreement, Sandy hung up the phone. Right after, she walked from her office down to the lavatory to freshen up from a thudding headache. In the bathroom mirror, she splashed her face with ice-cold water and adjusted her hair before noticing that her mouth appeared slightly crooked. The top of Sandy’s head pounded harder as if someone had struck her with a baseball bat. Her left foot and hand suddenly curled inward. Knowing something was wrong, she attempted to run and fell over onto her face. As her headache worsened and the limbs on her left side tightened harder, she began screaming for help. Soon, her voice changed to a muffled cry as the vocal cords in her neck felt weaker. The lavatory became dark and cold as images of Junior and Lawrence burned through her mind. Her wedding day. The purchase of her first car. Graduation from high school and every other major life event took shape. Near unconsciousness, she felt her world becoming darker and quieter. Thankfully, a co-worker who had lost her keys went looking for them in the bathroom and found Sandy lying face down on the floor of the restroom. The last Sandy remembered, she was on her way to the hospital and overheard a paramedic claiming she’d suffered a stroke. Junior learned about his mother through Brother Gay, who had received a call from Senior via Casey’s phone. Strangely, when the hospital entered Sandy’s last name into their system to look for an emergency contact, they had two numbers listed. One of those numbers belonged to Casey, who had placed her name as a contact for Junior after he was assaulted on his way home from Medgar. Both Senior and Casey rushed to the hospital to be at Sandy’s side.
When Junior got down to the hospital, doctors confirmed that Sandy had suffered an ischemic stroke to her brainstem. Senior was there sitting beside his wife in the ICU next to Casey. Courtney arrived a short time later. Senior asked doctors about a thousand questions while Junior sat holding his mother’s still hand. Unfortunately for Sandy, she had several hereditary risk factors for her stroke, but doctors highlighted the cause was due to stress. Being a black mother in Brooke’s Rowe was a major risk for stroke. When Senior told doctors about the incident from last summer, doctors nodded at one another.
“We lost a son recently,” he explained. “And we’re getting ready to lose another one real soon. He’s headed up to New York.” Senior wrapped his arm around Junior as his voice began to change. “He’s gonna do a great job up there, right son?”
In the parking lot garage, Junior wailed onto Casey, blaming himself for Sandy’s illness, Lawrence, and for wanting to leave Brooke’s Rowe.
“This is my fault! I knew she was under so much stress already, but I kept on beggin’. If I would’ve never went to New York, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“No, it isn’t, J.,” said Casey. “It’s nobody’s fault. It just happened. It’s not your fault!”
“Yes, it is! I should’ve never gone to New York. I shouldn’t have said a fuckin’ word!”
In the hospital’s chapel next to Casey and Courtney, Junior’s daddy prayed for Sandy to wake in one piece. It was one of the few times Senior asked God for anything. He favored his own religion, but not on that night. He relied on the Holy Spirit to revive his wife.
Throughout the night, Junior sat beside his mother in a chair while Senior stood outside talking with doctors along with Casey and her sister. The left side of Sandy’s face was slanted and the fingers on her hand were stiff. Within that time, relatives had dropped in to visit Sandy, some losing it out in the hallway, while others began their investigation into what had happened to her. As increasing anxiety built over the circumstances leading to Sandy’s stroke, Junior decided that evening that New York was a foregone conclusion. He was destined to Brooke’s Rowe and would remain there to care for his mother in her time of need.
From what doctors could tell, the stroke had occurred on the right side of Sandy’s brainstem which affected her left side. Her left hand was curled into a tight fist as if she was holding a handful of quarters, her foot pulled inward and she had limited vision in her left eye. But the next morning, Junior and his daddy were given some good news. Sandy had survived – and would have a long recovery ahead of her. Doctors said her survival was a miracle and that her road to recovery would be filled with years of therapy. It was a short but delicate win for Junior’s family – as well as for Casey, who had been adopted into the family tree. With Sandy now fully dependent, Junior thanked Casey and her sister for supporting him before kindly turning down the opportunity to attend Langston. Brooke’s Rowe was his ultimate fate.
“Y’all have been so good to me – to us,” he said. “But with mom the way she is now, there’s no way I can leave her behind.”
Junior attempted to hand Casey back his key to their townhouse in Fort Foote.
“No! You keep that!” she told him. “You’re my brother, J. You’ll always have a home in New York. No matter what. Take care of your mom.”
As they exchanged hugs, Casey and her sister left, and Junior returned to his mother’s side.
I need a loyalty like the sun in the sky,
shining over me
Brightening my little dark world each day.
LEONARD G. ROBINSON JR.
Recovery
In the following week, Sandy made small but considerable gains. As her mind succumbed to the reality of what had happened, she lashed out at staff, cussing at doctors and nurses alike. From her crooked mouth, she talked recklessly, worried to hell about her current state. To ease his parents’ anxieties, Junior told Senior and Sandy of his plans to remain in Brooke’s Rowe.
Rehab was hell for Sandy. Her day began first with breakfast at 7 a.m. followed by occupational, speech, and physical therapy. At 11 a.m., doctors wheeled Sandy back to her room for lunch where Senior would be there waiting for her. Afterward, Sandy headed back to the rehab gym for more training and occupational therapy until 4 p.m. Junior didn’t miss a day. He divided his time between school and catching the bus to see Sandy at the hospital. Some days, he was fortunate enough to bum a ride from his teacher, Brother Gay, while taking turns with Senior to stay overnight. Junior spent his nights reading poetry or entertaining his mother by mimicking Senior.
“That sumbitch owe me forty goddamn dollars!” he imitated. “Where’s my hammer?!”
With a crooked smile, Sandy would laugh, patting onto her good leg.
Like all patients, Sandy had her good days and bad days. One day, while Junior was there visiting during OT, a young, blonde-haired intern from Boston named Madelyn wheeled Sandy in front of a mirror to re-teach her how to comb her hair. To demonstrate, Madelyn combed her hair with a comb from her pants pocket. Sandy watched as the fine-toothed comb drove through the intern’s straight blonde hair without restriction.
“That won’t work on my head,” said Sandy. “Our hair is different.”
Believing she had given up, Madelyn demonstrated again and again on her head then nodded for Sandy to try. Sandy placed the comb in her affected hand and painfully tried to raise her arm high enough to comb. It lodged into her hair.
“Oh, darn!” said Madelyn. “I’ll show you again, Mrs. Robinson. Here, watch me.”
Junior didn’t care for the young, freckled-faced intern and nor did Sandy. She was snobby at times and exuded the aura of a stuck-up brat. On their first day together, Madelyn reported to her su
pervisor that she believed Sandy was not trying hard enough. Once, when Sandy told the intern that she had to use the bathroom, Madelyn barely helped her. Now, she was trying to tell Junior and his mother that combing white hair was no different than black hair.
“You’re doing it wrong again,” said Madelyn. “Would you like some help?”
Sandy didn’t respond a word to Madelyn. Instead, she went about combing her hair as best as she could. Rather than let up, the intern continued beleaguering Sandy. Irritated, Sandy threw her comb down onto the floor and kicked it with her good foot.
“That’s enough,” she grumbled. “We’ll try again later.”
“How do you expect to get better if you give up, Mrs. Robinson?” said Madelyn, reaching down to pick up the comb. “Would you like me to show you again? We’ll go much slower this time. Would that help?”
“No, it won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because black hair ain’t like white hair, bitch! That’s why!”
Later, in the hospital cafeteria, Junior watched as his mother attempted to feed herself with her fork using her affected hand. As mashed potatoes and celery spilled onto her lap, Sandy became angry and used her hand to dig into her plate of food like a Neanderthal. As spectators watched, she became furious, cursing at them as Junior attempted to roll his mother away to keep from embarrassing herself.
With just days left on Casey’s lease agreement before she officially moved to New York, Junior got the nod from Senior to visit with Casey. In her car, out in the hospital lot, she gifted him with a key to her heart, assuring Junior’s decision to remain in Philly was the right one.
“I’m not a big religious person, but God is truly gonna bless you, J.,” she told him. “You’ve got a heart of gold, yo. After I get settled in New York, I’ll be back down to visit.”
Then, after a warm embrace, Junior watched as Casey’s car vanished off into the distance. Afterward, Junior took the long walk back inside.
A month passed by with more of the same, Junior watching as Sandy fought to regain her independence and restore what normalcy she had had before her stroke. Her improvement was small but steady. When asked during therapy about her long-term goals, Sandy told her therapist she hoped to be around to see Junior graduate from high school.
“He’s so sweet, my precious Junior.” She teared up as he sat next to her. “He reads me little poems every night before bed. He’s gonna be the first man in our family to graduate high school. I hope I’m around to see it.”
Once a week, every Friday for one hour, Junior sat with his mother during therapy.
“Perhaps you ought to stick around,” Sandy’s therapist whispered to Junior. “You give her a reason to smile, and our sessions go a lot smoother.” With each session, Junior noticed an improvement in his mother’s behavior. For Junior, it was nullifying to see Sandy able to decompress all her forty-one years of living into one room. Although it ended in mourning, it was encouraging for her to go on. On the subject of her childhood, Sandy would kindly ask Junior to step out. Senior attended the meetings also, but briefly. Between work and caring for both his wife and their crumbling home, he was burdened with twice the load as Junior. He’d show up at the hospital on his night with Sandy and crash beside her in the chair until the next morning.
One Friday after school, Junior was disappointed to learn that Sandy had canceled her therapy appointment. With her affected hand still cupped into a tight fist, she motioned to Junior with her good hand. “Watch this, Junior!” On her own, she then stood up and counted to ten before falling back into her chair, exhausted. It was the first time Junior had seen his mother stand up in nearly a month.
“Yo, that’s good!” Junior celebrated. “When’d you start doing that?!”
“Just today.” She cheesed. “Anything is possible. I always taught you boys that.”
“You taught us a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” Sandy sighed. “You know…if I could, I’d throw you ‘cross my lap and wheel you up there to New York so you could go to that school. I hate having you stuck here with me like this. It’s not good for you – or me, Junior.”
“You’re my mother. I could never leave you. However this goes, I’ll be by your side.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Sandy touched his hand. “Except for this time…”
Stunned by Sandy’s sudden epiphany, Junior launched onto his feet as Sandy attempted to speak life into him.
“You’ve done us proud and given me the world, my first-born son,” she explained. “Now, I think it’s time for you to begin your mark on our family tree. I want you to go to that school in New York. I want you to do well, and I wanna come to see you graduate.”
Junior couldn’t believe his mother’s strength – that she was willing to overlook her own devastation for her son astounded him. Junior had no words for Sandy that Friday afternoon in her room.
“You got to go on with your life, Junior,” said Sandy. “You can’t put your life on hold – not even for me. You did it for Lawrence. That’s more than enough. I talked to your daddy about it the other day while you were at school. He’s onboard.”
“How in the world can I go to New York with you down here like this?” he asked.
“I won’t force you,” she told him. “But I’d at least like you to think it over.”
The air became heavy for Junior as he attempted to digest Sandy’s wish for him to leave Brooke’s Rowe. For fourteen years, Sandy had been his shelter amidst the storm of rejection. In the wake of losing Lawrence, he and Sandy had bonded closer together. Now, she was asking him to build his own shelter. It was a tall order for a teenager who had yet to get his driver’s license. Holding Sandy by the hand, Junior asked for the day to think over New York. Sandy gave him the weekend. Unsure of what to make of his mother’s wishes, Junior confided in the one person who would help him make such a decision: Brother Gay.
The following Monday, Junior waited until after the bell to consult with his new teacher. He had spent much of the day gazing out into the world, weighing his fate about whether to leave or stay. During his lunch period, Junior spent the afternoon hiding out in room 328, his old secret hideout, unsure of what to make of leaving Philly behind. Contemplating what road to take, his mind veered and wandered. As soon as classes ended, Junior was the first to the front of the room to ask Brother Gay to stay behind.
“I’m here until 7 p.m. every night and no kid has ever asked for me to stay after!” he laughed. “So, what is it? Mathematics? History? English? Which one?”
“Geography,” said Junior.
It didn’t dawn on Brother Gay instantly: geography. Before long, however, he sat on the corner of his desk to indulge his pupil that afternoon. Junior gave his teacher the backstory of his rugged life in Philly. As Junior told his story, Brother Gay stroked his bearded chin. Rewinding his life from the past year, Junior told the story of Lawrence and how his family’s world had been devastated since the loss.
“I keep this picture of him in my wallet.” He showed his teacher. “Mom said she had a dream for us to graduate from high school. No other Robinson on my tree has done that. The only thing we’ve ever graduated from is probation.”
Looking over Lawrence’s cute smile, he handed Junior back his photo and went back to stroking his beard, gently pulling on it and releasing it. His poker face remained intact.
“If I stay,” Junior explained, “I do what’s right and that’s taking care of mom. If I go, I leave behind what little family I got left. New York will always be there. I’ve got time.”
“You don’t got time, Junior,” Brother Gay told him. “Time got you. Remember that. Time has got you. Time doesn’t wait for us. You don’t know what’s on time’s mind.”
Enlightened, Junior leaned in closer to listen. The room was quiet except for the wall fan spinning next to the clock above the room door. Brother Gay’s timeless philosophy slowed Junior’s thoughts enough for him to
absorb the analogy.
“Some of these kids here are fifteen going on fifty,” said Brother Gay. “The lives they’ve had to live is disheartening. They’re lost, some of them. They’ve got criminal records before seventeen. They’re out in the streets at night because their parents are strung out on crack. Most of them won’t live to see twenty-five. That’s a shame.”
Junior got straight to the point. “So, what should I do?” he asked. “I’m lost. Help me.”
Brother Gay popped onto his feet and walked behind his desk.
“It’s an opportunity, Junior,” he said to him. “Few folks in the ghetto get a break – that’s what I believe your mom is trying to instill in you. Going to Langston would give your mother something to strive for, to see her son graduate. That makes it worth it in my book.”
As Junior exhaled in wonder, digesting Brother Gay’s advice, his teacher threw on his coat.
“So, how about a ride over to the hospital?” he offered. “It’s on the way.”
Blossom my child.
Don’t cover up too long.
Don’t stay hidden for so long
beneath the fabric of doubt.
Open up! Release your vibrancy!
LONNIE “SANDY” ROBINSON
Gratitude
When Junior walked into the hospital Monday after school, he entered his mother’s room to find her asleep in bed with the remote still in her hand. Careful not to disturb her, Junior removed his jacket and laid it across the chair. Standing beside her bed, Junior rehearsed inside his head what to say about New York. Despite Brother Gay’s advice, he was still unsure if leaving Brooke’s Rowe was the right move. He looked down at Sandy’s cupped fist. Although her slanted face had restored some, she was a world away from making a full recovery.
As Junior opened his mouth to speak, his words evaporated into thin air. Losing Lawrence back in ’94 crossed Junior’s mind; by going to New York, would he just be running from his troubles? A second attempt to wake his mother failed miserably. The thought of telling Sandy that he was leaving her behind for New York was overwhelming. Junior wondered what was going on inside his mother’s head in regards to Langston. Would attending Langston aid Sandy’s recovery by motivating her to see him graduate?
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