by Gemma Weekes
But she did send for me eventually, when I was fifteen. Perhaps she thought I’d be more interesting by then. First was a short letter saying she’d fly me over for the summer. Yeah right, I thought, folding it up into the smallest square possible and stuffing it in my desk drawer. I read it and refolded it so many times it fell apart, but I didn’t believe a word. Not even when the ticket arrived. Not until I was standing at the check-in desk with my bag, passport and scared-looking dad. Even at that point I expected to be turned away. Ms Eden Jean-Baptiste? I’m afraid there’s been a mistake . . .
But I was wrong. It wasn’t a trick. I went through security in a daze. I kept beeping because I forgot to take the change out of my pocket.
The plane ride was somehow both long and quickly over. Announcements came crackling through tiny speakers: new time and weather and I remember thinking how weird it was things like that aren’t fixed. What can you rely on if you can’t rely on the time to be 6.07 p.m. like it says on your watch?
The city surged up like tears and I plummeted toward her, balled tight in my window seat, my belly bursting into stars. My throat shut. My ears screamed. I tried to conjure her face but it had already begun to go out of focus.
The plane skidded down on the runway and out I came into this new country, blinking and oddly numb. The queues at security went on ceaselessly, so long I almost forgot what I was there for. I heard myself say I was here to spend the summer with my mum. A man so angular he seemed barely human nodded me through immigration, out into the broad and chattering airport. I thought it would be a miracle if I saw her at all. She would have forgotten. Or changed her mind . . .
‘EDEN!’ she yelled, waving. I saw her instantly. Both of her arms were a-jingle with bracelets. The light was behind her, putting a shine on her black curls and custard-cream skin. Her smile was pure Hollywood. ‘EDEN, over here!’
She kissed me loudly on both cheeks and I wasn’t sure how to feel. My mind was still on the turning of the world, how 6.07 becomes 1.07 p.m.
‘Mum.’
‘I can’t believe you’re here!’
Her soft Caribbean-English accent had now been substituted for an even softer Caribbean-American one. She held me at arm’s length, taking in my four years’ worth of growth. I shrank from her. I was at the height of my rebellious clashing, and it seemed really cool most of the time but now I just felt stupid in my mismatched clothes. Nothing like Lisa from The Cosby Show. I’d really tried with my hair, but it had gone frizzy on the plane. I looked like a baby chicken. She smiled.
‘Look at you! Put on a little weight, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah, and I’ve also grown tits,’ I said.
Mum laughed like it was funny. I hadn’t seen her since I was eleven years old and the only thing she could bring herself to say was, You’ve put on some weight?
‘The child is hilarious, didn’t I tell you?’ she said to her new man, Dominic. He was standing off to one side, looking nothing like the husband of a grown woman should. He looked just the right age to play a teenager in films. ‘All her life she’s been a little comedienne!’
He gave me an empathetic smile, shook his head slightly like Don’t mind her, she’s always like this. I looked away. ‘I’m honoured to finally meet you, Eden,’ he said, seeking eye contact. Black hair fell over one eye and he pushed it back.
He pulled my suitcase to the car and loaded it while my mum chatted about New York summers and the great time I was going to have and how sorry she was that I’d have to stay at Aunt K’s house but that after all, me and my aunt had always gotten along so well, and Dominic’s apartment was tiny. You know how it is, sweetheart. Her boy toy offered me a bottle of Coke and a pack of Fritos, asked me if I was tired. He asked me what kind of music I liked so he could play it in his car on the way to Park Slope.
‘Eden?’
I jump. Out of nowhere my name is close and in an unfamiliar mouth. A tall, dark-skinned old man is standing next to me, his face very still in all the hubbub. I laugh. ‘Sorry,’ I say, composing myself. ‘Hello.’
‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘It’s alright . . .’
‘I’m Baba,’ he says with a formal air. ‘Your aunt sent me to pick you up. Welcome to New York.’
‘Thanks,’ I say and he takes my bag. His walk is assured and fluid.
‘You’re more than welcome.’
‘How did you recognise me?’
‘Ahh,’ he smiles, revealing a sparkling gold tooth. ‘She described you perfectly.’
brighter and harder.
THERE IS ONLY the singing. Everything else is forgotten. No scuffed stage, no unflattering lights, no stranded chairs or old, mildewed curtains. If you close your eyes, there’s no audience in this community hall packed with people. Only a thick, soft voice holding every note perfect.
The singer is no more of a showy specimen than the venue itself. She’s round-bodied and of average height, without earrings or lipstick. Her cheap floral dress doesn’t match her shoes. Her head is wrapped in a piece of plain black fabric. My camera is heartbroken and sometimes even cynical these days, but I take the picture anyway.
‘Where’s my aunt?’ I whisper to Baba after a few snaps, shaking myself out of the spell cast over the room. ‘Is she even here?’
‘Of course! Look,’ he says, pointing across the small theatre to a slender woman with long locs and immaculate posture.
‘But she’s fat!’ I whisper back. He gives me a strange look. ‘No, I don’t mean now. She’s not fat now. I just mean, she’s supposed to be. She’s always been fat . . .’
‘Well that is your aunt, Eden,’ he smiles. ‘I suggest you take it up with her.’
I wind my way through the smiling people of all ages and take a seat next to her, which looks to have been left empty for me. I sit for a moment, unable to frame a greeting. She doesn’t look round.
‘You made it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good,’ she says and flashes me a swift grin. I laugh, relieved, a child in the wake of her massive, raw charisma. ‘I’m glad.’
‘Me too,’ I say, helplessly soprano. ‘Can’t believe I’m here. Everything at home has just been so crap and . . .’
‘Wait,’ she says, raising a long slender hand, completely serious again. ‘Listen.’ The singer’s voice is sailing effortlessly at what has to be the top of her range, with no hint of strain or breathlessness. No weight. Not even the hackneyed lyrics of the ballad she’s singing can disguise her purity. ‘That’s what hope sounds like, Cherry Pepper. It takes divine strength to be soft when the world is hard. It’s just like when, every year, the green shoots push through earth and ice to get to the light. That’s the big magic.’
‘Magic,’ I repeat, liking the sound of the word when she says it. A thing that happens, a thing that is. ‘I know what you mean . . .’
‘Ssshhhh!’ says an uptight-looking woman behind me. I throw a slit-eyed look at her and tug at my aunt’s arm.
‘Speaking of magic though, Aunty, what the hell happened?’ I whisper. ‘Where’s the rest of you? You’re skinny!’
‘You ever seen a fat crackhead?’
‘Aunt K . . .!’
‘It’s part of me, Eden. It’s not who I am now, but there’s something liberating about the bottom. Everything is burned away but the very core of you. That’s when you know what’s real.’ Aunt K shakes her head, subtly indicating the singer. She speaks at almost a whisper but still I’m able to hear every spice-scented word. ‘Violet’s been through it all and I’ve never met a stronger person.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘At three years old she was abandoned by her mother to the foster care system, flung rootless from home to home for a decade. She landed somehow with all her wits at an uncle’s house when she was thirteen but instead of protecting her,’ she lowers her voice further, low and hard, ‘he violated her. At sixteen years old she decided that even the streets were preferable to the lif
e she had and that’s where she ended up, living in alleys and shelters and on dirty floors. In pursuit of the love she’d been missing for so long, she got pregnant at seventeen with her first child and deserted by its father. No place to live, no family, no education, no income.’
The singer deftly scales the bridge of the song, visibly swelling with emotion. Her voice is powerful and sure. A girl sitting in a nearby chair wipes her eyes.
‘And she’s right there, Eden. She’s singing,’ says Aunt K. ‘Nineteen and she’s already been through all the seasons of the soul.’
‘Nineteen? Bloody hell!’ I stare hard; the woman looks about thirty. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Always.’
‘What about now? Where does she live now?’
Aunt K smiles a fierce smile and smoothes her locs down over one shoulder. ‘Now she lives in my house, Eden. Just like you do.’
The song comes to a soft end, tailed immediately by frantic applause.
‘Thank you, Violet!’ says the compère, a small man in glasses. The applause continues on and on, punctuated by whistles and shouted compliments. ‘She is wonderful, isn’t she? Wonderful!’ he claps his hands excitedly. ‘We’re coming to the end of the evening now, ladies and gentlemen, and soon it will be time to go home. Before we do though, I’d like to call up a lady that you saw earlier playing the trumpet. Ms Katherine Montrose, or Umi as we all call her, is the person behind the manhood and womanhood workshops that have given so many of our young people a foundation. Umi, please come up here and make a speech!’
Cheers follow my aunt as she rises from her seat and walks up the centre aisle to the stage. She kisses the man on both cheeks. ‘Good evening, people,’ she says. And I just can’t square it in my head, the way she was and the way she is. She used to be fat from her gloriously overripe head to her overflowing shoes, with at least two chins and boobs bigger than my head. A proper matron. And now look at her, this lean and wiry sorceress with purple in her hair.
‘We can be beacons,’ she says. ‘We can be earth. We can renew the faith of young people when others have failed them over and over.’ She takes a breath, and the room takes one with her. ‘We can be the light, and help them as we’ve helped Violet. I’d like to thank you all for coming to this event and helping to raise money for the after-school programme. It’s important that our children have an outlet for their creative energy in a society that can be so destructive of their self-esteem and vitality. Already this year, thanks to you all, we’ve managed to buy computers and recording equipment for the centre, go on several trips, and continue our life-skills, manhood, and womanhood programmes. It takes a village, people. We are that proverbial village. Please speak to Alex,’ she indicates the man in glasses standing at the corner of the stage, ‘if you’re interested in getting involved. He’s the head outreach worker here at Bright Prospect Community Centre. I wish you all a safe journey home. Thank you.’
Again there’s applause, but I’m so tired my hands barely come together. People approach my aunt with respectful greetings. Business cards, handshakes and hugs are exchanged. Eventually, as the venue begins to empty, she makes it back to my chair and lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come, niece, it’s time to go. You look exhausted.’
‘Sorry.’ I laugh nervously at her almost unfamiliar face. ‘It’s just been a long day.’
‘Indeed,’ she says, and her face is shut so tight that, for a nanosecond, I’m certain that loneliness will kill me.
‘Really good event though,’ I tell her. ‘You’re like Oprah Winfrey or Maya Angelou or somebody.’
‘Not quite,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a few errands, so Baba’s going to drop you home.’ A flash of that sudden, unexpected grin. ‘I’ll see you tonight. Violet’s cooking.’
Minutes later I’m drowsing in the back seat of a hot car, struck by how different the light is here, brighter and harder, even this close to sunset. I watch the world pass until Baba sends me to sleep with a selection of easy listening favourites on the radio and his profoundly companionable silence.
I awake to increasingly familiar streets. The liquor store and the Caribbean restaurant on the corner. The bodega where Zed and I would buy Lays potato chips and root beers. I’m damp in every fold, fluttery, wide awake. My throat begins to close as I approach the house.
‘We’re here,’ Baba says simply. Outside the window looms the old three-storey family townhouse, looking quietly martyred. Proud of its brick self. I remain motionless and belted to my seat, watching as Baba takes my suitcase out of the boot and rests it by the door. In a few moments he comes back and taps on the window. ‘Go inside, someone will let you in,’ he says, smiling. I get the impression he smiles a lot. ‘I have to go and buy some oil and potatoes for Violet.’
‘OK,’ I say. And sit there.
‘Eden,’ he says, with a look of quiet compassion. Just my name. He must know it all.
I drag my heavy body out of the car, trying to remain mindless, and walk through the gate up to the blue front door and knock with a fist that shakes. Can’t believe I’m here. ‘Hello?’ I say. ‘Hello?’
I really need to sit down.
‘Coming! Wait up!’
And less than a minute later my mother—
cloudy mirror.
I ALMOST LOSE control of my bladder. ‘Mum!’ I say, before I can stop myself.
She looks all concerned and says, ‘No . . . honey . . .’
And of course she isn’t. Of course. I’m dazed by her quick form darting outside. In no time she’s dragged me and my bags into the house. I mumble at her to hang on while I run for the downstairs toilet, which I still remember is along the hall and just before the kitchen.
The sink with a crack, the tiny shower cubicle, the chipped, cloudy mirror, my face like someone else’s. The room smells of bleach and disuse; old but spotlessly clean. I pee for what seems like ages. Wash my hands. Dry them on my T-shirt.
When I return, the stranger makes me jump. She’s waiting with a slightly nervous smile in the dim hallway. Pats me on the shoulder, leads me into the living room and fusses me into an armchair.
‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ she says in a thick, nasal, Brooklyn accent. ‘You look kind of flustered.’
‘You . . .’ The living room is much brighter than the hall and I see that the woman’s resemblance to my mother isn’t imagined. Custard cream skin, black curls, light eyes. Although this woman’s eyes are grey, not green. ‘I’m sorry, you just look like someone I know,’ I tell her. She’s taller but she’s got the same small-boned, narrow body. The same cheekbones. The room does a waltz around me. I wish a room would stay still once in a while. I didn’t even really drink much on the plane.
‘Right.’ She gives me a sharp look. ‘You want some water?’
I nod.
When she comes back she sits on a nearby footstool, hands me a glass and watches me take a sip. ‘You feel any better?’
Again I move my head, yes.
‘Now, I ain’t judging you or nothing. But I gotta ask you this. Are you high? ’Cause, girl—’
‘What?’ This is all too strange. ‘Of course not! No!’
‘OK. Thank God for that. Probably just the heat then,’ she says with a theatrical roll of the eyes. ‘It’s enough to drive anyone crazy. Anyway, I’m Brandy.’ She gives me a dainty handshake. ‘It’s so good to meet you! Your aunt talks about you all the time. I’ve never met any of her family but she’s been wonderful to me and anyone who is her family is my family, you know? That woman is a saint.’
‘She is,’ I say weakly. I feel like if I let go of my knapsack I might just float up to the ceiling like a helium balloon. ‘It’s really cool what she’s been – um – doing at that community centre. I went to the fundraiser straight from the airport.’
‘Oh God, I’m so mad I missed it! I had a philosophy class over at Brooklyn College!’ she says. ‘Doing my degree part-time, you know. Getting that education, girl! How was it?!’
�
��It was . . .’ I smile, suddenly thinking of Juliet. She’d have loved it. ‘Inspirational.’
‘Violet sang?’
‘Yeah. She smacked it up.’
Brandy laughs. ‘Yep, that’s Violet. She gave me some tips for my little show that I do most nights, and now the responses I get are stupendous.’
Even her laugh reminds me, the straight white teeth. I grip the side of the chair. ‘God, it’s so weird . . .’
‘What?’ She watches my expression and slowly it dawns on her that, ‘Actually, your aunt . . . she always said I remind her of her sister! Which is, like, your mama, right? Maybe that’s one of the reasons she took a special interest in me.’
‘Yeah . . . you do . . . you do look like her.’
‘It’s really funny though!’ she laughs. ‘I’m a boy who looks like somebody’s mama!’
‘Sorry?’
She laughs again, running a hand through her long, dark curls. ‘Honey, I’m a man! Don’t let the pretty fool you. When I met your aunt I was getting beat up on a daily basis and using socks for titties.’
‘You’re a man? Are you taking the piss?’
‘Dick, balls an’ all, honey dip,’ she laughs. ‘God, your accent is just adorable!’
‘Damn!’ The thought slaps me awake. Even knowing the truth, I can barely see it in his . . . her features. ‘You’re beautiful though!’
‘Thank you.’ She smiles and tosses her hair. ‘Gotta work what you got, right?’
‘Damn.’
‘When I’m not a chick you can call me Brandon.’
‘OK.’
‘Right now I’m a “she”, and in boxers I’m a “he”. You’ll pick it up.’
‘OK.’
‘So,’ she says, brushing imaginary dirt off her hands, ‘we’ve gotta get you settled in the basement. I am so envious. Your aunt just converted it and it is creamy, chica!’
