I'm still starving. That much I do know. I'm just about to dial Room Service when the phone rings, scaring the hell out of me. Who in the world would be calling me here? It can only be one of three people, and it's 3 a. M. back there. "Hello," I say, cautiously, hoping it's a wrong number or someone with a British accent.
"Is that you, Paris?"
Whoever it is, is not British. "Yes, who's this?" I ask. It sounds like I've heard this voice before, but I can't quite place it right now.
"It's your mom's friend Loretta, dear."
My heart drops.
"Miss Loretta? What's wrong, did something happen to Mama? Please don't tell me something's happened to her?"
"She's at the hospital, dear. She's all right. I was here with Shanice when the paramedics took her about a half-hour ago, but we couldn't find a number anywhere for Cecil, and then Shanice told me where your number was, and the next thing I know I hear her starting up Viola's car, and when I look out the window she's following behind the ambulance. I didn't know what to do, so I called you first, and I'm going to go on down to the hospital to get her and then call her mother."
I think I'm hearing things, but I know I'm listening to Miss Loretta's voice right here at the Dorchester Hotel in London, England, where it is raining outside. Just to be on the safe side, I ask: "What did you just say?"
"It's all right, dear. I'm sorry to call you at this hour. What rime is it there?"
"I don't know. What hospital is Mama in, Miss Loretta?"
"Sunrise," she says, and then gives me the number.
"I'll call you back. Thanks, Miss Loretta."
I don't wait for her to say goodbye, because my heart is beating so fast I can hear it. 1 dial the hospital but it doesn't go through. 1 try again. No good. Why is it taking so fucking long to get an outside line? I finally get one and as soon as someone answers, 1 just say: "Emergency Room, please."
They transfer me, and then a nurse comes on. "I'm calling about my mother, Viola Price. Is she all right?"
"Hold on a minute, ma'am, and I'll put the doctor on."
I bite my bottom lip while I wait for what seems like an eternity, and then I hear a man's voice. "This is Dr. Glover."
"Yes, this is Paris Price. I'm Viola Price's daughter. Is my mama there?"
"Yes she is."
"Is she going to be okay?"
"Yes, your mother's going to be okay. But, unfortunately, she's not going to be okay in this world."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, she's passed on."
What did he just say? I know he didn't just say what I thought he said. Did he just say "she's passed on"? Did he? No. Yes he did. He just said that my mama has passed on. Passed on to where? To what? Why? Wait a fucking minute, here. I take a deep breath, but it feels like helium has somehow gotten into my head and it's spinning a million miles a second, so I blow air balls out in spurts and try to control myself, because I know I'm hearing things, I know that this man pretending to be a doctor on the phone did not say what I thought he just said. "What did you just say?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Price. But in my fourteen years as a doctor, I've never had to do this over the phone. I'm so very sorry."
"So you're telling me that my mama has died?"
"Yes, she has."
I sit here for what feels like forever, and then what the doctor has said registers in my brain, but then I want to know something else. "Did she suffer long?"
"No, she didn't. It happened very quickly. I can assure you of that."
How long is very quickly? And how does he know she didn't suffer? My stomach starts heaving in and out and won't stop. It feels the same way it did when I was sixteen and I'd pitched a fast ball to Esther Washington and she hit it anyway, a line drive right to my navel at about forty miles an hour, and knocked the wind out of me. Just like now. I press both hands against my belly to stop it from jerking, but it doesn't help, because now I'm crying so hard I can hardly breathe. What happened to the air in here? And my shoulders hurt. Now they're burning. And my chest feels like somebody just stuck me with an ice pick. Stop this! She can't be dead. My mama's not dead. She can't be. I just bought her a new hat and a new pair of shoes and she has to wear them. She has to. She asked for the hat, but the shoes are a surprise. I want to surprise her. I love surprising her. My mama cannot possibly be dead. She's only fifty-five fucking years old! She has asthma. She's had lots of asthma attacks and survived them all. Other people's mothers die when they're old. My mother is not old, so this has got to be some kind of mistake.
I think I may have let out a long howl, I don't know. I do know that now my stomach is shivering and my hands have no feeling whatsoever, which is why I suppose the phone falls to the floor and stays there until I'm able to stop screaming and crying. When I do, I look around this room. What an ugly room it is. Too many flowers. Everything's so fucking bright. And why did I spend so much money on all this bullshit I don't need? That nobody needs. I mean, who really gives a shit what color my sandals are or how many hats I wear? Who gives a fuck if I wear a Vivienne Westwood scarf or a dress from Voyage or a slick silver coat from Harvey Nichols, or that I bought black caviar and quail from Harrods? Who really gives a flying fuck?
I look down at the phone and pick it up in what feels like slow motion. I'm surprised the doctor's still on the line. I grab my prescription botde and pop two pills and swallow them dry before I press the phone against my ear. I can't tell if it's cool or warm.
"Your mother's friend Loretta Susskind is on her way here to pick up your niece to take her home with her. I understand you have other siblings?"
"Siblings?" I reach for the glass of water I had last night and swallow some. It's warm. This much I do know.
"Yes. I'm positive Mrs. Susskind's calling the litde girl's mother, but will you be able to call the others?"
"Me? Did I tell you I'm in London?"
"No. My gosh. Look, I can call them if you're not up to it."
Before 1 can even think about how I'm going to do it, I simply say, "I'll call them."
"Okay, then. And, Miss Price, you might want to start making arrangements."
"Arrangements? Arrangements for what?"
"Funeral services. If that was your mother's wish."
Arrangements? Funeral services? Wish? Funeral services for who? Who died? I mean, nobody's dead here. Is this the Make a Wish Foundation call? Is that what this is about? Because, if not, this has got to be some kind of huge, I mean huniongous mistake. I know it is, because somebody has just called here and played a dirty rotten trick on me and told me that my mama has died.
The next thing I know, I hear myself say, "Goodbye," and I hang up. Did I say thank you? I don't know. And what exactly would I thank him for? I bite my tongue to see if I can feel it, and it hurts. I look down at the phone again. Didn't I just have it up to my ear? And didn't Miss Loretta call and tell me to call the hospital? Did I actually do that? Did I really talk to a Dr. Glover and he said that my mother has passed on? That my mother is dead?
I think he did. Didn't he? I sit on the edge of the bed and lick my lips until the salty taste of blood and tears are gone. I look over at the clock. It's ten after eleven. I look down at my feet. Why am I wearing my mama's shoes? I take them off and begin to put them back in the box. She's going to love these babies. I just know it. I know what she likes. I know her taste in things. But as soon as I lift the lid to the box, I look at my hands and realize that I'm still holding the phone. I blink five or six times to make sure I'm still in this hotel room, and then I pinch my arm to make sure I'm still alive. I am. And I'm surprised.
I take the phone with me over to the window and look out at that park. The grass is glistening green. The leaves on the trees are, too. I'm so cold I'm trembling. But all I can do is stand here and watch drops of clear water roll down this window until I'm blind. Unril I'm frozen. When I do move, I collapse against the wall, grab the drape, and wrap it around me until I begin to feel warm. I h
old it like this until it feels like I'm in my mama's arms again. I squeeze so hard that, when the drape comes off the rod and drops to the floor, I do, too. Once I get here, I look around this room again. I stare until all the flowers on these walls, these chairs, and the sofa begin to wilt and die and I cry dry tears because I feel vacant inside, like a thief has stolen something from me that no one can ever replace, like the best part of me has just evaporated.
Chapter 27
Sorry
"Ma, what's all this stuff about?" Tiffany's sitting at the kitchen table, where I got all the information I sent away for from the International Correspondence Schools spread out.
"It's career information."
"What kinda career? Look like a whole lotta different ones here. They look like stamps!" And she starts laughing. But ain't nothing funny about it to me.
"Just don't mess it up. Where's Trevor? I wanna know where he put my lottery ticket. The drawing'll be on in fifteen minutes."
"Which one of these do you like, Ma? You gotta have some idea."
"I'm thinking about catering or learning how to be a gourmet chef. I don't know."
"You mean like what Auntie Paris do in California?"
"No! I would do my business different. I definitely wouldn't do it like her. Monique! Please close that door while you practicing that flute tonight, 'cause I got a headache and can't even hear myself think."
"Why not? She make a lotta money."
I hear the upstairs door slam. "Because I got ideas of my own."
"Like what?"
"Why don't you stop bugging me, Tiffany?"
"Ma, I just asked you a simple question. Dag."
She's right. But, hell, I ain't got no answers right now. Kids is so nosy. Ask too many questions at the wrong rime. But. What I ain't told none of 'em is, I bought a book on mail-order businesses and read it cover to cover and I'm having a consultation with this lady tomorrow who'll listen to my ideas and sign a piece of paper to make sure she don't steal none of 'em and she'l l t ell me if she think any of 'em can work. But one of my ideas is in her book, so how could I go wrong? "Okay, let me ask you a question, Miss Grown-Ass?"
"Ma, please don't call me that."
"Okay. You right. Sorry. What do you think you wanna be when you grow up?"
"I don't know."
"Think about it for one whole minute."
"Dag, Ma. How'm I supposed to know? I'm only thirteen."
"So what? You write that poetry all the time."
"Yeah, but it ain't that good."
"It is good."
"Yeah, but you can't get no job being no poet, Ma."
"Maya Angelou seem to be doing all right."
"That's true."
"Then look into it. Read some books about poetry or something. That's the only way you gon' find out."
"Okay, Ma!"
She still flipping through the career stamps, but now I can tell she ain't really looking at 'em. She got exacdy ten seconds to get her behind over there in that kitchen. One. Two. Thr-
"Ma, we miss Daddy and want him to come home."
Shit. "I know y'all do, but sometimes married people have problems that kids don't understand."
"We do understand, and we think it's stupid that you put Daddy out and wanna divorce him for something he did centuries ago. It's kinda like crying over spilt milk."
"Who the hell is we?"
"Me, Trevor, and Monique."
"Is that so?"
"Yep. Ma, you don't know how many kids at school's parents is divorced. And I been so happy all these years that I could say my parents ain't even thinking about getting no divorce, and that I got a very cool dad. I mean, come on, Ma, Daddy does everything around here, and he takes us places, and not every father will wash and braid his daughters' hair."
"Girl, that was so long ago."
"Me and Monique ain't forgot it. And even Aunt Suzie Mae think you way off base."
"Is that so?" I say, even though what I really feel like saying is, "FUCK ALL Y'ALL," at the top of my lungs, but I know that would be wrong. I bought this book a couple of weeks ago about feeling good, and one part of it was about controlling your anger, and it said people need to learn how not to say the first thing that comes into their mind, 'cause sometimes it can be more hurtful than you think. This is some hard shit to do. The book even said you can control your thinking, which is news to me, but according to this stupid test I took, a lot of my thoughts is negative, which means sometimes I may not be seeing things the way they really are. I don't quite buy that. But some of it do make sense. And some of it don't. Do I always think I'm right? Yeah, 'cause most of the time I am. I don't say nothing if I can't back it up. I had to stop reading that book, 'cause it was getting on my nerves, just like Tiffany is now. But it did get me to thinking that maybe I might need more than a book. Maybe I might need a real person to talk to.
"Hi, Ma," Trevor says, coming into the family room and handing me my ticket. "Here you go. And as we always say: Lotto Love!"
"Would you get me a drink, please?"
"Certainly. What might I make for you this evening?"
"I don't care. Just as long as it bite."
"Okay, Ma, what was it you was saying about Daddy?"
"Nothing. Y'all just gon' have to wait and see what happen. Just like me."
"Wait and see?" Trevor says.
"That's what I said."
"Where's Daddy staying anyway?"
"With one of his buddies." I turn the TV to Channel 9.1 been doing this every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for I don't know how many years. One day I'ma win. I just know it. And when I do, me and Mama been had a deal going for so long that whoever hit first split it. I'd be so happy to have a little bit of money to share with her. It wouldn't even matter if we ain't speaking. A deal is a deal. Plus, it would be one thing I could give her on my own.
"Which buddy?" he asks.
"Why y'all so worried about your daddy? I'm the one that got the raw end of the deal here."
"No you didn't," Trevor says. "From what I gather, you're charging him for a crime he committed a long time ago. Haven't you heard of the statute of limitations?"
"The what?"
"Even I know that," Tiffany says. "It means after so much time passes you can't be found guilty of the crime. And this was way over ten years ago, wasn't it?"
"Look, after me and your daddy talk next time, I'll let everybody know what the verdict is, but until then could we skip the subject, please?" My jawbone is jumping, I'm getting so mad. I hate being put on the spot like this. I don't know why they taking his side, especially when they don't know the whole story.
"Okay, then, Ma?" Tiffany says, finally running some dishwater. "How come you ain't said nothing about my report card?"
"Where is it?"
"Right next to you, by that Ebony."
I pick it up and lift up the top part. I can't believe my eyes. Is them B's I'm seeing? And an A? "Tiff! Baby! When did you get so smart? I mean, I'm so proud of you! How'd you do this?"
"I listened harder," she says, smiling. "My tutor said that whenever I didn't understand something, instead of pretending like I did, to raise my hand and ask the teacher to explain it till I did. And guess what, Ma?"
"What?"
"A whole lotta kids in my classes was glad I asked, 'cause they didn't get a lot of that stuff either."
I give my daughter the thumbs-up. "Right on, Tiffany. I told you not to be scared to speak up, didn't I? I'm going down to Kinko's first thing in the morning and make a copy of this and mail it to your granny." She nods her head up and down like she hearing music all of a sudden. I know she smart. She just been acting stupid. I hope this is the beginning of a trend. If it is, this make two down and one to go. Monique tries harder than anybody I know, and maybe one day it'll pay off for her, too, especially when she grow up and don't need no medicine to think. But, come to think of it, seem like her grades was better before they put her on this mess. She slowed down li
ke them doctors said she would, but, shit, maybe too much. She don't like taking it, that's for damn sure. And maybe I might take her off this stuff and see how she do. White folks got us believing everything they tell us just because it might be true about them, but it ain't necessarily true about us.
"Okay, Ma, I thought you was fixing to ask me a question a while back."
"I already did. About college. And do me a favor? Work on your English, would you? You sound downright uncouth half the rime. If you can write the shit right, try speaking it right."
"Okay. I thought we was, were, talking about food or something."
"Oh, yeah, what do I cook best?"
"Pies," Trevor says, handing me a glass of something light yellow. Probably Squirt and Tanqueray.
"Yeah, all your pies are the bomb, Ma, but you make good cakes, too. And some of them cookies be jamming. Why, you think you might wanna cook this kinda stuff?"
"I don't know. Maybe. We'll see."
"But what would people eat to go with it?"
"You can specialize," I say.
"I know that," Trevor says. "That's what Felix and I plan to do."
"Felix is a fag," Monique says, standing in the doorway in her pajamas. She's laughing, and then Tiffany starts in, too.
"So what, so am I," Trevor says, and I almost choke on my drink.
"We been knew that," Tiffany says. "Everybody know it, so what's the big deal?"
I don't say a word. As a matter of fact, I pretend like I didn't even hear him say it. 1 just stare at the TV and drink my drink until it's gone.
"No comment from you, Ma?" he says, looking up at me.
I swallow hard. I'm trying to figure out the right thing to say, but I don't know what that is. My daughters don't seem to be having no problems with this news, which apparently ain't news to them. Shit, he's their only brother and he act like a damn girl.
"It's okay. Ma," he says.
"No, wait a minute. All I can say right now is this. First of all, I thought the correct word was 'homosexual.' "
He looks shocked. So do Tiffany and Monique. I almost feel a grin coming across my face, but I don't wanna push it.
A Day Late and a Dollar Short Page 32
