Allegedly

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Momma?”

  She smiles so wide it hurts to look at her. It’s like looking into the sun. She’s dressed like a teacher today instead of queen of the Baptist church. Brown skirt with a tan shirt and black flat shoes. She looks almost normal, almost how I remembered her.

  “BABY!”

  She charges toward me with a hug. I don’t hug her back.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I’m here to see my baby girl, what do you think?”

  She’s a whole week early! Something’s up.

  “I figured we’d spend the day together. Like old times, just the two of us, right? We can go to the park?” She says it like it’s a question. “You used to like the park, right?”

  “The WHOLE day?”

  I haven’t spent more than fifteen minutes alone with Momma in six years.

  “Don’t you have to go to church, or a picnic or something? Where’s Troy?”

  “Mr. Worthington. And he’s out on business and won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  Momma can’t stand to be alone. Not for a single minute. She used to stand outside my bathroom door if I was taking too long in the tub. She’d fuss if I tried to be in my room alone, finding something for me to do with her, like cleaning the oven, refolding the sheets, or holding the dustpan. And when she wasn’t following me around the house, to every room, every corner, she was following behind Ray to every bar and mistress’s home. Ray was evil, but I appreciated him for getting her off my back.

  “Now, come on! I’ll buy you some ice cream. Strawberry, that’s your favorite, right?”

  Car sickness slams me, because I don’t know this momma. I don’t want to go with her, I don’t even want to be alone with her. She’s like the stranger I was told never to talk to.

  “I don’t know—”

  “What’s wrong with you? You sick?”

  Am I sick? Damn right I’m sick. I’m pregnant! She knows that and comes over here like nothing happened. Standing with this dumb grin on her face, eyes all loopy like someone knocked her over the head with a baseball bat.

  “Well, I—”

  “Hey, what’s that on your face?”

  Oh no. I forgot about my lipstick. My outfit.

  My date.

  “I was just—”

  “Where you off to, Miss Missy?”

  Remembering how hard she slaps, I back away from her, out of reach. I don’t know what to say. Momma caught me playing with makeup, sneaking off to be with a boy. This is one of those embarrassing teenage moments I didn’t think could exist in my real life.

  “N-n-nowhere, Momma. Just . . . let me just go change.”

  She raises an eyebrow and nods. I run upstairs, rub off my lipstick with toilet paper, and change back into my T-shirt and hoodie. I call Ted on my secret phone and tell him what’s happened. He asks if I’m okay and I lie.

  On the way back down, I stop dead in my tracks. Momma is sitting on the bench by the door. She has that look on her face, like her body is still here but her mind is a thousand other places at once. I recognize the look before she spots me and tries to hide it with a grin.

  She is having “a day.” She is not taking her pills.

  “Well, Miss Missy. You ready?”

  There is a small narrow park near the group home by the elementary school, where the weeds are overgrown and the grass is soaked with dog piss. Momma links our arms like we’re close, talking nonstop about the hair salon and her choice of hair color, chestnut brown with a hint of red. Talking fast is also a sign she’s having “a day.”

  I can remember one of the first times this happened. It was before Junior, even before Ray. I couldn’t have been more than three or four. Momma was on the floor, on her hands and knees scrubbing spots that weren’t there.

  “This house is so filthy!” she’d yelled, throwing a rag at me. “Mary, what you waiting for? Get down here and help!”

  “But I don’t see nothin’, Momma.”

  She’d slapped me so hard I’d hit my head on the radiator pipe. I hadn’t cried. I’d just gotten on the floor with her and started scrubbing, eyes watering from the bleach.

  “No, not there! What are you, blind?”

  I’d started to believe I was.

  “Momma’s sorry, baby girl. I’m just . . . having a day.”

  That’s what she’d called it. But “a day” turned into weeks and months.

  Another time, when I was about seven, she’d just stayed in bed. Wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t get up for anything. I’d eaten peanut butter and water crackers for three days until we ran out.

  “Momma, please get up. I’m hungry.”

  “Not now, baby girl. Momma’s just . . . having a day.”

  Then the lights had gone out. The food in the fridge had started to rot until the whole apartment had smelled of spoiled chicken and the mice had come looking for their dinner. I’d fumbled around the dark for the coffee can, counting out sixteen dollars and twenty-nine cents by the window under the streetlights with my icy fingers. I’d known it wasn’t enough to pay the bill, since I’d paid many times before. But I’d figured maybe it could buy Momma some medicine, so she could get better and get out of bed. I’d gone to a neighbor, hoping she could tell me what to buy. Instead, she’d taken Momma to the hospital.

  That’s when she’d come back with the pills and things got better. At least for a little while.

  “You didn’t get all that stuff off your lips,” she says, staring at the kids playing on the jungle gym in the schoolyard as we walk by. “That’s a bad color on you. Makes you look cheap.”

  I unlock our arms and rub my lips on my jacket sleeve.

  “Ain’t today just so nice,” Momma says, looking up at the trees. “I love this time of year. Remember when we used to go to the park?”

  I do remember the park. Prospect Park. Momma would take me to the swings and I would soar up to heaven. Then we would lie in the big field and share a rainbow icy. Those were good days. Those were the days when she was still taking her pills.

  “Remember, you used to pick them flowers?”

  “Flowers? I never picked any flowers, Momma.”

  She waves me off like I’m the crazy one.

  “Yes you did, now you just bein’ silly! You used to bring them daisies and black-eyed Susans back to the house and put them in the old Coke bottle in the kitchen. Remember?”

  She is talking about someone else now. Sometimes I wonder if she had a daughter before me, but she never talks about anything before me.

  “Momma, I need my birth certificate.”

  “What for?”

  “’Cause.”

  “‘’Cause’ ain’t no answer, chile. And I knows you my child, you came from me. Don’t need no paper to tell me that. I was there.”

  This is going to go nowhere. “I think they need it . . . for my paperwork.”

  Momma mulls this over, biting the corner of her bottom lip.

  “Well, why don’t they ask me then? Nobody ever asks me nothin’. Just carry on like I ain’t got no say in nothin’.”

  She goes on like that for a while. We stop by a kid’s sprinkler, turned off for the winter, green with mildew. The breeze kicks at us. She pulls out her compact, checking her makeup, making sure her hair is still in place. Then she looks up through the thick trees, grinning.

  “My God, the Lord is amazing, isn’t he? He can make the prettiest blue sky and the prettiest little girl in the world, all at the same time. Don’t forget, baby girl, the Lord has a special place for you by his side in heaven.”

  She looks down at the ground, fiddling with her fingers.

  “You think you going to heaven?” she asks with a smirk, like she already knows the answer.

  “Do you?”

  She stays quiet for a minute then laughs nervously.

  “Well, of course I do, silly girl!”

  She is lying. I know she thinks I’m going to hell. Does she really think she’ll be anywhere diffe
rent?

  “Just remember, baby girl, Jesus is the only way to heaven. You must honor him, ’cause whosoever believes in him has eternal life! That’s Acts 4:12.”

  “You mean John 3:36.”

  She frowns, side eyeing me, and waves a pointing finger.

  “Well, he ALSO says honor your Father and MOTHER, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving to you. Remember that too, Miss Missy. Exodus 20:12.”

  If only I knew who my father was.

  “Momma, about the other day—”

  “What about it?”

  “I really need you . . . to tell the truth now.”

  She smiles, all sweet-like. “Well, I did, baby girl.”

  Delusions. That is another part of her having “a day.”

  “But you heard me. I’m having a—”

  “Oh, we need to forget about all this nonsense! I tell you what we really need. We need to do something fun. Just me and you.”

  Fun? I don’t have time for fun.

  “No, Momma. We need to talk about Ray and Alyss—”

  “Lawd, chile, you still have that stuff on your face!”

  She takes a tissue out of her purse and rubs my lips like she’s shining silver. Rough, like the way she used to rub the sleepy seeds out of my eyes in the morning before school. She stops and stares at me, cradling my cheek.

  “Boy, you always had your daddy’s eyes,” she whispers, her own eyes glassing over.

  I think Momma really used to love my daddy. She was always staring like this, not looking at me, but looking for him. I touch Momma’s rough, dry hand, crusty and cracked from all the houses she used to clean for white people, and stare back; searching for me in her, pretending for a moment that she could change and be the kind of Momma I wish she would be. The kind of mom that Alyssa had, the kind that could really love me.

  “Oh! Wait a minute,” she shouts, stealing her hand back from mine. “I got a great idea!”

  Excerpt from Identifying the Real Killer

  by Craig Fulton (pg. 43)

  One of the first traits of a psychopath is narcissism. The term comes from the Greek myth of Narcissus, the boy who fell in love with his own image in a pool of water. Note that the boy doesn’t fall in love with himself, but with the actual image reflected back at him. This is what psychologist Theodore Millon describes as “compensatory narcissism.” When people feel insecure, they create a grand self-image in an attempt to compensate for what is lacking internally. They present this façade to the world in order to hide the emptiness they feel, thus falling in love with the idea of themselves. But, if you threaten their self-image—threaten to expose the thing they love most, themselves—they will react, often in a hostile manner.

  “Now, smack your lips together like this!”

  I follow Momma’s instructions and rub my lips together like hands trying to get warmer. The sticky gloss smells like candy, my lips coated a bloody red.

  The lady at the MAC makeup counter in Macy’s chose pink, but Momma insisted on red.

  “It suits her better,” she’d said.

  It’s the final touch to my new face, painted with unfamiliar things like mascara, eyeliner, shadow, and glittery powder.

  “There! Beautiful! And maybe if we just let your hair down a little . . .”

  She yanks the tie out of my hair and combs out my curls, rough handed as always. Every Sunday when I was little, she’d sit me between her legs with a tub of blue grease like she was going to war, fighting with the knots, slicing through my hair with a black plastic comb like a pizza cutter, mumbling “Goddamn . . . shit,” under her breath before braiding and twisting my curls into sections, finishing them with a bow. She always let me pick the bow color; that was my special treat.

  “Now, you have to blot. Take a piece of tissue like this and bite down with your lips. Like me.”

  Momma clamps her brown lips on the tissue. I watch, then follow.

  “Perfect! See, baby girl, there’s some things only a momma can teach you how to do!”

  The MAC lady giggles, offering help when she can, but Momma’s in charge, showing me how to curl my lashes with the funny-looking metal thing, how to pucker my lips when I sweep on blush, and how to line them with a pencil before putting on lipstick, like coloring a picture.

  I nod at the mirror, framing a girl I’ve only seen on TV. A model. A doll. Her eyes get bigger as I lean in closer.

  “Wow.”

  She stares and I stare back at her. We blink together, our long lashes the big black wings of a crow we could fly away with. Amazing what some paint and powder can do. Erasing the sadness from my eyes, the paleness from my cheeks, the wrinkles from my lips. I’m a brand-new penny, a golden treasure. Momma’s face appears in my mirror with me, her chin over my shoulder; still playing with my hair, so eager and happy.

  “Just perfect . . . baby girl.”

  We smile and I can’t help but to look for my smile in hers. I wonder if that’s the problem. Too much of my daddy in me, not enough of her. Maybe if she had been able to see herself in me, she would have loved me a little more.

  On the car ride back to the group home, I sit perfectly still, with my shoulders back like Momma always told me, staring at myself in the side-view mirror. For the first time, I can’t wait to get back to the group home. I’m going to walk around every corner of the house so they can all get a good look at me. I want everyone, the whole world, to see I’m pretty.

  I wish Ted could see me now. Wish I could look like this every day. But the only thing Momma bought me was the lipstick. The rest she bought for herself. At least I know what to do for my next date, thanks to Momma. She promised to take me shopping. Maybe I can buy a new dress, something blue. That is Ted’s favorite color. Maybe Mr. Troy Worthington will go out of town again; then Momma and I can have another day like this one.

  I know I shouldn’t be getting my hopes up. That buzzing in my head keeps telling me none of this is real. But I can’t help it. Maybe Momma could actually be my Momma for a while. Maybe she’s better and things could change.

  The sun is an orange burst, an explosion in the sky. The leaves on the trees are turning red like my lips, gold like my skin. Momma rolls down the window and the chilly fall breeze rushes in, but I’m warm and toasty.

  “Today was fun, right, baby girl?”

  I turn, strands of my hair blowing in my gluey lips. Today was fun. I haven’t been with Momma in so long, I forgot how magical she makes everything she touches. Turning something as simple as showing me how to apply mascara into a memory.

  “We can have more fun days like this one,” she continues. “All the time . . . if you want.”

  I do want. I want to be with Momma. She is like my best friend, my only friend. I never knew I could miss someone and hate them at the same time. But that’s family, like Ted says.

  “Hey, I was thinking. I’ll go home and make you a pot of my chicken stew with dumplings. You used to love my chicken stew, remember?”

  Chicken stew! That’s my favorite! Momma always made her dumplings with extra rock salt, made them taste just right.

  “You so skinny! They not feeding you good at all.”

  I’d kill for one of Momma’s meals. I haven’t had a decent home-cooked meal without any of the sides being made from a box or popped out of a can in forever. Seasonings didn’t exist in baby jail.

  “But . . . if you start bringing up old mess, they may not let you have fun days like this anymore. They may put you away again. You understand, right?”

  And just like that, all the warming joy in my heart floats out the car window.

  “You just got free; you don’t want to start your new life with lies and mess. That won’t do you no good.”

  I press the window button on the door. It doesn’t move. The child-lock is on.

  “You don’t want to be put away again, do you, baby girl?”

  I don’t say nothing. I’m a block of ice, even with the fiery rage buildin
g inside me. I stare straight ahead, unmoving.

  “Oh, now, don’t sulk. I just want what’s best for you, that’s all! You know your momma always looks out for her baby girl.”

  We’re closer to the group home now, where the trees are bare, leaves dead on the ground, soggy and black like her heart.

  “Well, there you go again. Acting all crazy, like you can’t hear. You know that’s why they put you away the last time. ’Cause you don’t want to talk. But I know you talk. I know you hear me.”

  She pulls up to the curb and I don’t wait for the car to stop before popping the door open, leaving the lipstick behind.

  “Mary? Mary!” Momma calls but I ignore her, stomping to the front door, my back straight as an ironing board.

  “Well, fine then. Ungrateful! You always been ungrateful. And you can forget that chicken stew!”

  The door almost smacks Winters in the face when I bust through, and I wish it had.

  “Addison!”

  He steps back, smiling, with an approving nod.

  “Well, you look nice,” he says.

  I slam the door behind me. It shakes in its frame.

  “Had a nice day?”

  I don’t say nothing. He drops his half smile and huffs.

  “Humph . . . guess not,” he mumbles.

  We stare at each other, the flames inside me growing bigger. I can smell the smoke.

  “I . . . uh . . . ,” he starts again. “I talked to your momma the other day.”

  Don’t kill him, Mary. Don’t kill him.

  “Mary, you okay?”

  He actually looks concerned and I’m almost thrown off. But then I think about Momma.

  “Are you?” I hiss in that deep voice again. A voice so unrecognizable, I almost look around to see where it came from.

  His eyebrow cocks up, eyes squinting as if he’s trying to see through me, an icy glass sculpture with fire inside. He huffs, watching me blow by him. New Girl is sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting.

  “You look so pretty,” she beams.

  The smoke is choking me. I stomp past her to the bathroom, slamming the door.

  “Mary? What’s wrong?” she calls.

  The faucet screeches and sputters out black water, then brown, then clear. I soak a washcloth to a boil, letting it burn my face as I scrub the day off me. Scrubbing harder to erase the memory. Punishing myself for being so stupid. When I’m done, I tie my hair up, change into my pajamas, and go straight to bed.