by T. Styles
When she hangs up I punch myself in the face. My life is crawling out of control. And, to make matters worst, I’m pregnant. I finally took the test and cried my eyes out a whole hour after the results. I’m an abuser. I have a temper. I’m a white woman giving birth to a black child, and I’m a liar. I’m also all-alone.
I haven’t spoken to my mother and father in years. So I decide to call my brother instead, who I keep in touch with every so often. I block my number and dial his.
“This must be, Scar,” Matt says to me when he answers. “She’s the only one who would call me from a blocked number.”
It sounds so good to hear his voice. When we were kids, Matt was my protector. But, even he didn’t know what my aunt was doing to me in the privacy of her home. My aunt didn’t treat him the same way she did me. For some reason her hate was geared solely toward me, and I never found out why.
“Hi, Matt. I miss you so much,” I tell him sitting on the floor in my bedroom.
“You don’t know how good it feels to hear your voice,” he tells me. “Scar, you gotta stop staying away for so long. I haven’t spoken to you in almost a year. Are you still married to that nigger?”
An electric volt feels like it shoots through my body. My mother and father aren’t what I consider traditional racists. They work with black people everyday, and my father even has some black friends. But, when my parents aren’t around black people some of the things they say are hard to hear. The funny thing is, I heard similar racists comments geared toward white people when I’m here. My sisters often forget that I’m white when I’m in the room, but it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less. I guess at the end of the day, people are scared of what they don’t know…who they don’t know.
My brother on the other hand is a whole different story. He hates blacks. All blacks. He can’t stand being around them and rarely talks to them. I never said anything to my brother in the past about his comments. When he called Camp a nigger the last time I spoke to him on the phone, it was one of the reasons he didn’t hear from me in a year. Now things are different. I feel the need to keep it real with him.
“Matt, I love you. With all my heart,” I start. “But, if you ever call my husband a nigger, or use that word in my presence I will never speak to you again. Are we clear?”
He sighs. “Well I guess I got my answer. You must be still married to him.”
“I’m sorry, Matt. I love you, I truly do, but this man has taken care of me for five years, and deserves a little more respect. I’m not denouncing my race, I’m just in love.” I talk to him as if Camp is still alive and my stomach churns.
“Point taken, Scar. When I’m on the phone with you, I’ll mind my tongue. But, it won’t change how I feel about them people.”
“I can respect that.”
“Good. Now I don’t know if you are aware, but Samantha is doing well. She has all A’s and B’s in school and a bunch of new friends. Her hair is as red as yours, and I swear when I see her she reminds me of you.”
I feel good that she’s doing better, but a part of me hates that her life is going on without me.
“Ma and pop are doing good with her,” Matt continues.
“She’s living with them now?” I ask.
“No, she’s still with Mark. He’s remarried now. Some Chinese girl he met at his real estate company.”
I knew Mark preferred Asian women but he denied it to its death. When we use to watch porn before we fucked, he couldn’t get off unless an Asian woman was involved. Since I’m far from Asian, and part Irish with red hair, Mark made me feel inferior. His attraction was one of the reasons for my insecurity.
“That’s good for him,” I breathe. “I’m glad he’s happy now.”
“Oh, and aunt Nancy has been helping with Samantha too,” Matt says. “Starting next Monday Samantha will be staying with her during the times ma, pop and Mark are out of the country. You know all three of them signed up to sell insurance with that company. Because they work together they are always out of town.”
The phone rolls out of my hand. Aunt Nancy is a monster. A cold-blooded monster that gets off on abusing young girls. I don’t want her around my daughter, but what can I do? I’m not allowed to be around her either.
“Scarlett, are you okay?” Matt asks. “You got quiet on me.”
“I’m fine,” I respond wishing I could send a message to my parents to keep Nancy away from Samantha.
“Scarlett, I don’t know what happened when Samantha was in your home. To tell you the truth I really don’t care, because you are my sister and I know your heart. But, if what they say is true, you need some help.” I hear paper rattling in the background. “I have a number for you that I keep in my wallet in case you call. It’s a support group for abusers and the abused. Not sure how it works, but from what I hear its effective. Maybe you should call.”
He reads me the number and I write it down. “Thank you, Matt,” I say holding the small sheet of paper in my hand. “I love you for this.”
“I love you too,” he responds. “I gotta go, but don’t stay away too long. Besides, I have something soft and pretty in my bed right now.”
“Ughh! Gross!” I laugh hanging up on him.
I’m about to call the number he gave me when Denim walks into my room with Jasmine. Jasmine is babbling and playing with her bottom lip. Every time she taps it, it jiggles and I wonder how she does that. “Scarlett, can you watch Jasmine for me? I have to go to my mother’s house. She went into insulin shock and she’s asking for me.”
My heart thumps. I haven’t been in the company of a child alone since Samantha, and it was on purpose. Whenever Denim needs a sitter, it was anybody but me. She knows that which is why I’m surprised she’s even in my bedroom, asking for help.
“I can’t do it, Denim,” I say getting up off of the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling too well.”
Her face twists up into a frown. “It’s an emergency, Scarlett. I realize for whatever reason you don’t like kids, but I need your help. It ain’t even like I ask you all the time.”
“I never said I didn’t like kids,” I respond. How does she know I hate kids?
“Well that’s what the sisters told me,” she replies. It makes me feel bad that they are talking behind my back, and I wonder what else they’re saying about me.
“Denim, I’m not good with kids, that’s why I don’t watch them. But I never told anybody I don’t like them so get that out of your head. Besides, get one of the other sisters to do it.”
“They’re not here,” she says. “I really need you to come through for me right now.”
I look at Jasmine. She’s still babbling, and playing with her fingers. I realize I don’t like Jasmine. She’s annoying, and I know she’ll set me off. Please God don’t make me do it. I don’t want to be my aunt. I don’t want to hurt her. “I’m sorry, Denim, I can’t.”
Denim steps back and look like she wants to hit me. “Are you my sister or not?” She’s gripping Jasmine’s fingers so tightly as she stands in my doorway, that the tips of her fingers turn red. “Or maybe you only watch the white babies. Maybe the black ones are off limits.”
“Denim,” I yell.
“I said are you my sister or not?” She’s so mad at me that her tattoos look reptile, because of the blood rushing to the surface of her skin. “Because if you aren’t my sister, and we aren’t real family I need to know now instead of faking it with you,” Denim continues as tears pour down her face. “Now my fat ass mother is over there about to die and I need a little support around here! Can I count on you or what?”
Silence.
“But…I…it—”
“Scarlett, the only question is can I count on you or not?”
I look at Jasmine who never gives me eye contact. I can hear a voice in my head tell me not to watch her. The voice sounds soft, and protective like it cares for me. I’m confident in my answer to say no. But instead of going with my head I go with my heart a
nd say, “Okay, call me when you’re on your way back. Try not to stay out too long.”
An hour later I am in my bedroom with Jasmine…alone. This is my worst fear. She is on the floor, my favorite place, playing with her fingers. Her babbling is not as loud, and I feel I can do this. Suddenly it seems foolish for refusing to help Denim when she needed my help in the past. Jasmine is not that bad at all. Her voice goes up one octave, but I’ve heard worse. I just turn the TV up louder to shield the sound. Her voice is very consistent.
I try to focus on the TV show. I think it’s a reality show or something, but I’m not sure which one. But, Jasmine’s voice grows louder, and suddenly I can’t hear anything. It’s like she’s trying to be heard over the show. I look down at her, and bite my tongue. I can taste my blood faintly. It’s salty, and the pain relaxes me.
I focus back on the TV and Jasmine’s voice grows louder. A sheen of sweat develops on my forehead. I wipe it off and another sheen pops up on my upper lip. I wipe the sweat off with the back of my hand, and look down at her again. She’s louder. Why is she louder? I hate the pigtails in her hair too. Why didn’t Denim put her hair in a single ponytail? Or something like that? When I was with my aunt she pulled my pigtails, and drug me around the house by them. My head would hurt for days after.
I get up and rush to the bathroom. From where I am I turn my head, and see Jasmine on the floor. Her voice is gotten louder. It’s like she’s on my shoulders, babbling in my ear. I cover my ears, but now she’s screaming. I wonder if it’s all in my mind. I turn the cold water on, and splash some in my face. A few splatters pop up on the mirror, and suddenly my reflection looks distorted. I look like a monster. An ugly monster.
I rush over to Jasmine. My toes press into my black carpet. I look down at her. My fists are clenched, but I’m not about to hit this little girl. “Jasmine,” I say softly, “stop making so much noise okay? I can’t hear TV.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me. She doesn’t look up at me. I increase my voice louder. “Jasmine, stop making so much noise. Auntie Scarlett is trying to watch TV. Do you want some juice or something?” My smile is stiff and fake. Like the rubber dick under my bed I play with most nights.
Her babbling is so loud now that I can’t hear anything, but her voice. Not the TV. Not the sound of the heater that runs constantly, and more importantly not my own thoughts. So I scream, “SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU RETARDED, BITCH!”
She doesn’t look at me. Instead she falls back on the floor and cries. Then she takes both of her hands and slaps them against her head repeatedly. The sound that comes out of her now reminds me of fifty people scratching one chalkboard…at the same time. I want her stopped. Now!
I reach down and grab her. I shake her hard. A smile spreads across my face because the noise is no longer consistent. It’s broken. Her head shakes rapidly back and forth and I can feel my adrenaline kick up. Now I’m in control. For the first time ever she looks into my eyes. Does she recognize me? Know my name? Will she tell her mother what I did?
I release her, and she plummets to the floor. She’s quiet now. She’s laying face up, and staring at the ceiling. The peace feels like an orgasm racing through my body. I sit on the edge of the bed, and enjoy what I’ve accomplished. I’ve defeated her. I’ve won. I peek down at her again. Her eyes are open, and she’s not dead. Maybe Denim should’ve shaken her up a long time ago.
I lie down in my bed, and focus on the TV again. I can hear the voices on the show clearly, although I don’t know what’s going on. I’m at ease until suddenly she starts babbling again. I hop off of the bed and shake her rapidly. So hard that I can smell the feces leaving her body. I rush her to the bathroom, and throw her on the floor. Her chin bounces on the linoleum.
I can’t take this. I can’t take this noise. I can’t be around kids. I turn the water on. It’s hot and steam rushes from the tub. I rip her clothes off like the first layer of lettuce. When she’s naked I see chunks of feces in her clothes and on my floor. In the carpet by my tub. I push the carpet down. I get angry, and toss her in the tub. Her head knocks against the wall, and then I hear a snap.
From where I stand I can see her right leg hanging awkwardly outward and to the right. It’s broken. I’ve broken her leg. She’s screaming loudly. I don’t know if it’s because of the hot water or the pain. I’m about to call the ambulance until I remember I don’t want them coming here. What if my sisters come back and see what I’ve done? I pick her up and decide to take her to the hospital. Oh my God! What now?
BAMBI
Me, Denim and Race rush to the counter in the hospital to see what’s going on with Jasmine. I’m so scared I’ve bitten a tiny chunk out of my bottom lip. I can’t understand what’s going on. I was on my way to visit my mother when I got a frantic call from Scarlett that something has happened to my niece. I’m confused on why Scarlett even had Jasmine to begin with. She never watched her before.
“Yes, I’m here to see about my daughter,” Denim says to the hospital receptionist. She’s shaking so hard her teeth rattle. “Her name is Jasmine. Jasmine Kennedy.”
An elderly patient with a gray-cotton-ball hairstyle pushes out of Denim’s way in a wheelchair, to park in the waiting area.
The older black receptionist looks through the chart on her desk. “Oh yes, give me a second, sweetheart.” She stops at a point on the page and says, “I’ll page the doctor for you. Have a seat in the waiting area. And, don’t worry, everything will be okay.”
I rub Denim’s back while we walk to the waiting area. We sit next to a dude in black sweatpants, with a pair of crutches leaning on his thigh. Race rubs Denim’s leg.
“I’m so sorry, Denim,” I say playing with the tiny loose piece of my lip in my mouth. My nerves are all over the place. I want a drink. “I know Jasmine will be okay.” I don’t know if she will be okay. I’m just good at lying. Just thinking about it makes me miss my twins. “Jasmine is a strong little girl you know that. Plus if there is a God, I know he won’t put this type of pressure on you. Not after taking our husbands.”
“I’m so scared right now,” Race says offering zero to the conversation.
I look at her and roll my eyes. She’s as useless as a dead roach sometimes. “We all are scared, Race.” I sigh.
Just when I say that Scarlett walks out of the back of the hospital. She’s holding Jasmine’s yellow Choo-choo train blanket closely to her chest. Her cheeks are redder than her hair and it’s apparent she’s been crying all day.
When Denim spots her too she pops up, and pushes Scarlett against the wall. The blanket falls out of her hand and floats to the floor. Denim clutches Scarlett’s red shirt in her hands and lifts it up to her neck. “What did you do to my baby you, white bitch?” Denim is gripping the shirt so hard that her blue nail pops off and falls to the floor. Now her finger is bleeding. The veins in her neck pop out and make the characters on her tattoos look reptile. “What the fuck has happened to my baby?”
When Denim calls Scarlett a white bitch my stomach spins. It’s one thing for us to fight, but it’s a whole ‘nother thing to take it this far. “Denim, let her go,” I say gripping her clenched fist. When she doesn’t release Scarlett’s shirt I squeeze tighter forcing her fingers to stiffen and open. Denim lets her go.
I stand as a barrier in front of Scarlett. Looking at Denim I softly say, “I know you mad at Scarlett, but let us not forget that she’s family. Give her a chance to tell you what happened before you automatically make her guilty. She deserves that much respect.” I turn around and face Scarlett. “What happened to Jasmine? How did she end up here?”
Scarlett wipes the tears off of her face. Denim’s blood is rubbed on her neck like a passion mark. “I was giving her a bath. The floor was wet. I tried to pick her up to put her in the water, but slipped on the tub with her. She fell in and my stomach hit the edge.” She raises her shirt and a red bruise runs horizontally across her belly…just above her navel. She releases her shirt. “When she fell she brok
e her leg. I brought her right away here. I’m sorry, Jasmine. Please forgive me.”
I turn around to Denim and say, “See, it was an accident. Like she told you.”
“I don’t believe that, bitch,” Denim points in Scarlett’s face. “She’s a fucking liar, Bambi. I can smell liars a mile away. She didn’t even want to watch Jasmine so she probably did something to her on purpose.”
What she’s saying doesn’t make sense to me. “Denim, if what you say is true, and she didn’t want to watch the baby, why leave your child in her care?”
Silence.
Denim’s face twists up. She clenches her fist, and looks at me as if she wants to hit me. I know the look in her eyes. I’ve felt that way before so I check her right there. “Denim, I know you’re mad right now,” I eyeball her hands again. “I’m fucked up by this shit too, because I love Jasmine like we got the same blood. But, if you put your hands on me you won’t live long enough to see her grow up to become a respectable young woman. I promise you.”
“Fuck you,” Denim points at me. “And, fuck you too,” she points at Scarlett. Denim storms off. Race picks up Jasmine’s blanket and follows her.
I turn around and face, Scarlett. “Are you sure that’s the only thing that happened? Because what’s done in the dark always comes to the light.” I remember my past and sigh. “Trust me, I know.”
“I never meant to hurt Jasmine.” Scarlett looks into my eyes. “You have to believe me, Bambi.”
“I believe you,” I respond rubbing her shoulder. “I just wish Denim did too.”
All of a sudden my antennas go up. When I look to my left I see two dudes step off of the elevator. One short, one tall. I don’t know what makes me focus on them, but something about them seems off. Maybe it is the bloodied white towel wrapped around the taller one’s arm.
I look back at Scarlett. “Let’s go over to Denim and Race to see what’s going on with Jasmine. They should know something by now.”
