“Oh, shit,” Alfred says.
“It was either this or a lodge and barbershop combo closer to the trailhead. But that one had a review that said it had bedbugs and sometimes roaches.”
Hmm. Bedbug bites and roaches or...whatever the hell lies beyond this red, white and blue striped door. “I’m sure it’s fine,” I say. “The Voice says we got nothing to worry about.”
That seems to relieve everyone’s tensions.
Violet’s situated in her chair and lowered on the lift. I rush outside to meet her.
“This is remote,” Dad says as everyone else disembarks and takes in the splendor of the middle of nowhere. “I wonder if you get Wi-Fi out this far.”
Nam approaches Mom. “Grandmother, can I help with your bag?”
Mom frowns. “Huh?”
“Your bag looks heavy and I’d like to assist you,” Nam repeats.
“And I’ll take your purse.” Brandon steps up beside Nam, gripping his backpack with one hand, his other hand extended.
Mom rears back, eyes the boys suspiciously. I’m sure she’s imagining them taking her bag and purse and setting them both on fire. “No. I got my purse and my bag, thank you very much.”
“If you change your mind, Grandmother...” Brandon looks over at me for approval. I hold up my camera with one hand and smile. He swallows. “Please let us know.”
I push Violet’s wheelchair across the concrete pavers to the front door of the large colonial. As if the owners are peeking through the peephole watching and waiting, the front door swings open upon our approach. A cheery, white-haired husband and wife step onto the porch.
“We were beginning to think you guys weren’t coming,” the man says with a friendly chortle.
I’d say they are about Mom and Dad’s age, give or take a few years. The two seem warm, kind and normal. That is, until they step into the light and get a nice good look at all of us. Their eyes bulge. They stop cold, panicked expressions creeping onto their faces.
Alfred and I exchange looks. We know this scene. It’s played out before many times. That moment when a white person is surprised to see the people they’ve been communicating with over the phone or internet...are black. It’s obvious that this sweet little country couple was not expecting a motley crew of African Americans to step off a bus covered with eyeballs.
Mom knows the look too, because she steps forward and presents her best newscaster voice. This is a thing in our family. When white people look at us crazy or get that judgmental oh no, it’s black people look in their eyes, we overenunciate and overarticulate like we’re in speech class.
“Good evening.” Mom sounds like a new hire on Dateline. “We apologize for the delay. Utterly thrilled we made it safely. Utterly.”
The wife exhales. Mom’s Dateline act seems to have relaxed her a bit. “Oh, yes. We’re happy, too. I’m Sandi. And this is my husband, Bob.”
“Sandi and Bob, it’s a pleasure to meet ya.” Dad’s playing the game as well. Using his ultrawhite, Bryant Gumbel voice.
Alfred and I roll our eyes. I should ruin it all and declare, What’s crack a lackin’? How y’all be doing up in Hodell!!
“Well, come on in,” Bob finally says, as if he’s got no other choice.
They usher us into the home.
Inside, it’s much more disturbing than a few hundred American flags on the lawn. First off, the walls are all painted red. I’m sure it’s in homage to the United States, but it mostly feels like we’ve stepped into the hell waiting room. Like, Y’all have a seat, please. Satan will be riiiiight with you.
Second. There are paintings hanging on the walls. So many that it looks more like a museum than a home anyone would want to live in. My eyes study those hanging in the foyer:
A Native American holds a human scalp in one hand, a tomahawk in the other.
A slave ship with hundreds of slaves lined up and chained.
A public hanging?
“Welcome to our home. You’ll have full use of the place,” Sandi explains. “When we have renters, Bob and I stay in the apartment above the garage so you all can have privacy.”
“Now we would like to remind you,” Bob starts, “we don’t allow any sort of drug use or drug paraphernalia.”
Mom’s jaw tightens. “I am sorry? No one in our family participates in recreational drug use, if that is what you are insinuating.” Uh-oh. Mom’s stopped contracting verbs. This can’t be good. She only does that when the black-girl-with-an-attitude is struggling to be tamed. Plus, I can see her left hand twitching. I know she wants to place that hand on her hip and add, Say it again! Say you don’t allow drug use again, Bob!
“Oh, no, no. Not insinuating at all,” Sandi exclaims as if Mom thinking that is absurd. “It’s what we say to all the renters.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Dad’s got just the tiniest hint of sarcasm in his voice, but Bryant Gumbel seems to still have control of his vocal cords.
Drew drifts to the photograph of the American Indian holding the tomahawk and human scalp. “This painting.” He shakes his head. “This is terribly offensive.”
“But a nice companion to the slave ship.” Alfred’s still leaned up against the door like he’s about to run out of the house and search for a Holiday Inn.
“Oh, the artwork on our walls is of course for sale, and also in tribute to American history. A local painter does them for us,” Sandi explains nonchalantly.
“American history wasn’t always pretty.” Bob wraps an arm around Sandi.
“We’re very patriotic,” Sandi declares with a head nod.
“You don’t say?” Michelle responds coolly.
Pastor Jedidiah clears his throat. I’ll admit, it’s nice to see him standing up straight. “It’s a beautiful home. The paintings do a nice job of reminding us that our country has quite a story to tell.”
“Thank you,” the wife says warmly to Pastor. You can tell she’s happy we have at least one white person with us.
“Is there somewhere nearby we can grab dinner?” Michelle asks. “My boys are hungry. We haven’t eaten.” Michelle isn’t pretending for these people. Her head is cocked to the side with an expression on her face like... I really want you people to try me. I double dog dare you.
“The nearest convenience store is about a twenty-minute drive up the 99 North,” Bob says cheerily.
“And if you go twenty minutes south, there’s a Cracker Barrel.”
“A Cracker Barrel?” Alfred repeats.
“They close at ten, honey,” Bob says.
“Oh, you’re right.” Sandi snaps her fingers. “What about stew? We have some stew left over from dinner. You people are welcome to it.”
“You people?” Mom repeats.
“Let it go,” Dad whispers.
“I like stew.” Alfred finally takes a step away from the door. “What kind of stew is it?”
“Rabbit,” Sandi declares proudly. “With chestnut dumplings. Rabbits run wild, so we’re lucky to be able to eat them fresh. We set traps. Then we boil them.”
“You guys boil rabbits?” Brandon asks, his voice shaking.
Drew grabs his keys. “What’s east and west? There’s gotta be somewhere we can eat.”
“Nothing east,” Bob replies. “But west... Let me think here.” He rubs his chin. “Can’t seem to think of anything west either.”
“Now, we do have a freezer full of food,” Sandi offers. “A few frozen pizzas left.”
My mouth waters at the thought of a fresh slice of pizza.
“Is it rabbit pizza?” Alfred asks.
“Sausage, pepperoni and cheese, I believe.” Sandi smiles.
Alfred raises his hand. “We’ll take it. We’ll take the whole lot.”
“Help yourself.” Sandi yawns. “Now we’ll let you people hold down the fort so we can get
some shut-eye.”
“There is that you people again.” Mom’s Dateline exterior is beginning to crack.
“Hold down the fort?” Drew repeats. “Is that a dig because I’m Native?”
Bob’s jaw drops. “You’re Native American? Let me guess—Cherokee?”
Drew shakes his head. “No.”
“Chickasaw? Choctaw? Ahh...” Bob grins. “I bet you’re Navajo!”
“Oh, we love the Navajo!” Sandi exclaims. “Bob’s grandfather was four percent Navajo on his Ancestry DNA test.”
“I’m not Navajo,” Drew replies.
Bob shrugs. “Well, whatever kind of Indian you are, we think it’s fantastic. Our country honors our Natives.” Bob and Sandi give Drew a synchronized salute.
Brandon reaches up to touch one of the paintings.
“Don’t touch that, Brandon,” Michelle scolds him.
“It’s one of my absolute favorites.” Sandi moves to Brandon and kneels in front of him. “That’s Christopher Columbus.” She talks like she’s hosting an episode of Sesame Street. “Do you know who he is and why he’s important to our nation’s history, little one?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brandon nods. “My dad says Christopher Columbus was a murdering, lying piece of shit, who is probably burning in hell as we speak.” Brandon looks over at me with eyes of panic. “I mean, piece of garbage.”
Drew doesn’t even bother scolding Brandon. In fact, he smiles.
For a brief moment, Sandi’s speechless. Then she stands. “Oh, my.” And slowly backs away to Bob.
“If you people need us, just give us a holler.” Bob holds two thumbs up and he and Sandi rush toward the front door.
We watch them exit.
“You see that, Isaiah?” Mom snaps. “You people?”
“Hold down the fort?” Drew repeats. “And these paintings should be criminal.” I’ve never seen Drew look so upset.
“Sorry, everyone,” Violet cries. “I didn’t know. I feel terrible.”
“Oh, honey.” Mom’s demeanor switches. “It’s fine.”
“Yeah, Violet,” Drew says. “It’s extremely offensive, but cozy.”
Everyone chimes in to make Violet feel better about the American history horror shit show we just walked into.
“I kinda like it,” Dad adds, dragging luggage down the hall. “The red walls make it warm.”
“Yeah.” Alfred flips his cap back. “Like hellfire.”
Dad gently slaps Alfred on the shoulder. “Son. You’re not helping.”
“Where is the freezer and where are the pizzas?” Alfred replies. “I’ll help by loading them up into the oven.”
“I know that’s right.” Mom and Alfred move into the kitchen with the boys close behind. “Careful with the freezer, though. I am not in the mood to see a bunch of frozen bunnies.”
“Think I’ll hit the shower and the bed.” Jedidiah pushes his palms together and bows. “It’s been quite a long day. Namaste, Indigo, Violet. The two most beautiful colors of the rainbow.”
“Namaste, namastah.” I bow back. “Pastor, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Indigo.”
“What does namaste mean?”
“Wonderful question indeed. It means the light in me recognizes and honors the light in you. In other words, no one is greater than the other. There is no true leader. We are one.”
For some reason his words make me look over at Michelle. She looks away. “I like that, Pastor,” I reply. “Namaste.”
“Pastor.” Michelle steps in front of me. “Take a downstairs room so I can be close to you and Violet.” Michelle squeezes Violet’s shoulder. “I know you’re with Indigo, but I’ll be in to give you your medication and check your O2 sat. Then I promise to leave you alone.”
Michelle and Pastor move deeper into the house.
“Indigo?” Violet says.
“Yeah?”
“Can you push me into the bathroom? I’m about to throw up.”
I push her as fast as I can and we move into a large bathroom at the end of the hall. When I shut the door, I jump back and gasp. Hanging on the wall: a five-foot crucifix with a bleeding Jesus surrounded by a string of blinking Christmas lights.
“Are you okay, Indi?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.”
“Could you turn on the water?” she asks. “I don’t like for anybody to hear.”
I twist on the water in the sink and claw-foot bathtub, trying my hardest not to focus on the crucifix soaked in fake blood.
“And can you help me?”
I rush to assist her. Guiding her out of her chair so she can kneel beside the toilet. Once she’s situated, she lets loose, heaving into the bowl. She throws up for so long she’s finally just dry heaving. I flush the toilet, stand, grab a few paper towels, wet them with cool water from the sink and hand them off to Violet.
She accepts gratefully and wipes her mouth and face. “In the bag, hanging on my chair, is a toothbrush and toothpaste.”
“On it.” I search inside the neatly organized bag, grab her toothbrush and paste and stand beside her while she brushes her teeth. “Want me to take you to one of the rooms? So you can lay down?”
She places her toothbrush on the counter. “In the pictures online, they had a beautiful backyard. Let’s go to the backyard. That okay?”
“Of course, Vee. Anything for you.”
* * *
The back porch highlights a massive expanse of land. The night sky is blanketed with thousands of twinkling stars as far as the eye can see. Out here, there is no light pollution, so it’s as if you’re staring straight into space. Like you can reach out and gently glide your hand along the line of stars, the way you’d slide your hand across ivory piano keys. I imagine the stars would hum a tune just the same. The air is crisp and clear. The night comfortably still. The mountains in the distance are like giant armed guards protecting our well-earned moment together. Though I know the moment won’t last for long. Someone is always checking on Violet. Tending to her needs. Not to mention, I can smell the scent of baking pizzas filtering outside. I’m sure it’ll be only a moment before we’re called to eat.
My camera is still slung around my neck, so I flip it on and point it toward the sky.
“I’ve never taken shots of stars before,” Violet says. “How do you do it?”
“You start with as wide an f-stop as the lens will allow. I like a shutter speed of about twenty seconds. Manual mode—”
“But wouldn’t they be blurry like that?”
I smile. “The secret—turn the white balance off and set the optical resolution to the highest setting. Bada bing. Bada boom.”
Click-click-click.
“Here. Take a look.” I pull my camera strap from around my neck and hand it to Violet.
She scrolls through the photos. “So gorgeous. How did you know that?”
I shrug. “I like to play around with different settings until something works.”
“You’re so brilliant. I wish I was as good as you.”
“Huh? You’re way better than me. Your photos are brilliant.”
“My ‘brilliance’ comes from books...and memorizing what people tell me to do. You come up with everything on your own. You’re...a natural.” She continues scrolling through my photos. She laughs. “Omigosh! Look...at all these. You took all of these and I didn’t...even realize.”
“You like them?”
“It’s me and Dad.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “We look so happy. You captured that...so well.” She pauses to adjust her sleeves. It’s no longer the color of the day for us, since Michelle had to go and cut off her olive T-shirt, so now Violet wears a black-and-gold hooded Hamilton sweatshirt. “Oh, the marathon!” She grins. “Top five highlights of my life, for sure. I mean, afterward...wasn’t so gre
at. But crossing that finish line.” She keeps scrolling. “Willy! You got shots of Willy? Gosh, he was so sweet.” She lowers her head and begins to cry.
“What’s wrong, Vee?”
“I’m just... I’m really sorry.”
“Sorry? Why?”
“I feel...bad.”
“Like you’re gonna throw up again?”
“No.” She cries. “Indigo, I’ve been...a terrible sister to you.”
“Violet, you’re the best sister ever. Please don’t cry.” I lean forward and grab her hand.
She shakes her head. “I pushed you away. I shouldn’t...have shut you out the way I have these past few months. I...” She pauses to wipe her nose.
I dare not interrupt. I’m barely even breathing. I desperately need her to continue. She has shut me out. It’s true. And for so long, I’ve wanted to know why. What did I do wrong? Why did I have to lose my best friend?
“I knew I was hurting you, Indi. I guess... I guess I didn’t care.” She sniffs. “Or maybe on some level... I wanted you to hurt, too.”
“Violet. You don’t mean that.”
“See? I told you I was terrible. I do mean it. I didn’t think it was fair that I was dying. I felt so cheated.” She secures her cannula behind her ears. “I always thought that if I worked hard and did everything right... I thought life would bless me for it. I had it all figured out. And then this happens. And you...” She quiets for a moment. “Maybe I shouldn’t admit it.”
I sit in a stunned silence. All this time I’ve been thinking it’s not fair that I get to live while Violet dies, and it turns out...she’s been thinking the same thing. I heave a heavy sigh. Far off in the distance, I can see wild horses running at the base of the mountains. It’s the closest thing to real-life magic I’ve ever seen. Aside from the sun, I suppose. If only every living thing could be so free.
“I get it,” I start. “You don’t have to say it. I’m basically a screwup, so why am I the one who gets to live?”
“Indigo—”
“It’s cool. I’m not mad at you for thinking it. I think the same thing, too. It’s why I was going to kill myself.”
“Kill yourself?”
“It’s why I was climbing the building.”
The Voice in My Head Page 18
