Joi’s eyes widen, her lip trembling before she swallows up some air and picks up the garbage bag. New Girl sighs and grabs the cat bare-handed, tossing him into the bag.
“Damn,” Kisha says, sucking her teeth. “I’mma mess up my nails doing this shit.”
My back aches from squatting for what seems like hours. And I’m starving! We haven’t had breakfast or even changed out of our pajamas yet. Bean moves, elbowing everything in its way. I try to hold in a whimper but the stench of bleached cat makes me dry heave. China glances over at me from across the room. She frowns, starts to say something then shakes her head, eyes falling back to the floor.
“You ever been pregnant?” China asks Kisha, scrubbing next to her.
“Yeah,” she says like it’s nothing. “Twice.”
“Word? Why you never keep them?”
“’Cause I don’t wanna get all fat like psycho! I like my ass the size it is,” she says, slapping her butt with a smirk. “I made a little change though. Got them stupid niggas to pay for it. Tell them it’s four-fifty at the clinic when it really be like two hundred. I got myself a nice little Coach bag from Macy’s last time.”
Kisha giggles, all proud of herself while China shakes her head and keeps scrubbing.
“Anyways, my moms wasn’t gonna let me keep no baby,” Kisha says, all the humor gone from her voice. “Real talk, she barely wanted me. She wanted my sister though. Pretty light skin baby girl, hair just like psycho. Bet she playing with that girl’s hair now. She could never leave it alone.” She pauses, face darkening. “But whatever, I don’t need no kids. What I look like being some baby mama?”
China stops to look at her. Kisha zeros in on one spot and scrubs harder, nails long forgotten. Even Tara stops to watch her dig her way to the basement.
“You ever want kids?” Kisha asks China, out of breath but focused.
“I got some already,” China huffs. “A baby brother and sister.”
“Where they at?”
“I don’t know. Foster care, somewhere. Tried to get my aunt to keep them but she wasn’t trying to feed any more mouths than she already got. But when I turn eighteen, I’m gonna get them back.”
“They gonna let you do that?”
“Why not? They my blood.”
Kisha looks doubtful but doesn’t argue. Ain’t that something? Everyone swears I’m stupid for even dreaming of keeping Bean and this girl thinks she’s going to get some kids back that aren’t even really hers.
“I got a couple of more months in here. Gonna get my certification, get a job, then I’m out!” China snaps then looks at the rest of us. “Ain’t trying to fuck that up by killing some stupid cat!”
The room stays quiet while our sponges work against the floor, blood and gritty bleach powder covering our hands. New Girl ties up the bag of what’s left of Mr. Giggles and puts it in the backyard. Ms. Reba probably wants to bury him, have a funeral or something. That’s what you’re supposed to do with the dead you love. I wonder where they buried Alyssa and what the funeral was like. Did they bury her with her favorite blanket? What does it say on her stone? Will they ever let me visit?
Damn . . . Alyssa-ing, even while covered in cat blood.
“I was pregnant once,” Tara says and the whole room stops. The idea of Tara, of all people, being pregnant . . . I think it’s an SAT word: aghast. It means to be horrified, stunned, disgusted, and confused. We look like every one of those words.
“So why’d you get rid of . . . it?” Kisha asks cautiously, sitting back on her heels.
Tara shrugs and rings out her soapy blood-filled chunk of sponge. “Daddy said the white man would never understand.”
It’s Sunday. Visitation Day. Two weeks since I last saw Momma. We’ve been on house restriction since the Mr. Giggles accident so I honestly don’t mind her coming. I take a cold shower, have breakfast, and wait in the visitors’ room for her this time. We need to talk. Things are getting serious. Ms. Cora filed the motion and we have a court date. That means there is going to be another trial, with more lawyers, doctors, and people in our business. I have to get Momma to see that the easiest way out of this is to tell the truth.
Two thirty rolls around. I’m real tired and ready for my nap. Bean makes me so tired all the time. I sit in one of the armchairs and try not to get too comfortable. Momma will be walking in the door at any moment. Thanksgiving was a week ago, but maybe she’ll bring a slice of her sweet potato pie. She did one year, when I was still in baby jail. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.
Two thirty-five. I look out the window, expecting to see her parking, but the streets are empty. I tap my fingers against the windowsill, staring at the baby birds in the trees on the sidewalk. There’s seven of them, flapping around, chirping.
Where’s your momma, little baby birds? It’s dangerous out there.
I look back at the clock. It’s 2:45. Wait, where’s Momma!? She’s never late. Never.
I pace around the room, rubbing my stomach like I could rub right through to Bean’s head. Something’s happened. This isn’t like her. What if she got in an accident? What if she’s sick? Who would tell me? Troy?
What if she got hit by a car or something? Momma never looks both ways before crossing a street. And she’s not taking her pills! She always gets lost when she doesn’t take her pills. I don’t even know where she lives! She never told me. Should I call the police? Maybe Mr. Jose. No, Ms. Cora. Maybe Ms. Stein might have her number . . .
Then it hits me, and this confusing type of relief wraps me up like a blanket, but I still feel cold. She’s not coming.
She’s just not coming.
chapter eleven
New Girl is writing a letter.
That’s what she does now. We stay in our room, like the two unwanted guests we are. Me, studying, her, writing nonstop letters. I read one of her letters once when she went to the bathroom. They’re to her sister, telling stories of how her mom used to make her scrub toilets, clean clothes, and iron on the hottest day of the year. Promising she would tell her the “truth” once she sees her in person, and that when she’s free, she’ll come rescue her. From what I can tell, her sister never writes back.
I’m on page 563 of my book and buy the New York Times every day now; two dollars and fifty cents on weekdays, five dollars on Sundays. It’s a lot of money, but I read it cover to cover, circling words I don’t know. Sometimes I go down to the Learning Center and look them up in Ms. Claire’s office, since her dictionary is way better than mine. I only average about two new words a day, but I’m reading faster and I know what’s going on in politics, business, and sports. Ms. Claire says that will help me get into college.
All I have left now is Bean to take care of and the only way to do that is if I get my degree. I’ll use the money people owe me from those stupid books about me to go to school. Then I’ll find a job, make more money, and buy one of those fancy apartments I see in the real estate section. Someplace where it’s safe, with lots of room for Bean to play. Because when Ms. Cora wins, I’m getting Bean the hell out of here, no matter what.
Ms. Stein busts into my room, unannounced as always.
“You have a visitor!”
I shoot up, dropping my book.
“Who?”
It’s Wednesday. I’m not expecting Momma, no way, especially with everything that is going on.
“Hell if I know. Some friend of your mother’s.”
Troy. That’s the only friend Momma has that would know about me. What the hell does he want? Maybe he’s here to pay me off, like a bribe or something, to save Momma. I never thought about that. Maybe I could use that money to save Ted and he wouldn’t have to live with those girls anymore. But what if he’d rather be with them? Damn, I hate what he has done to us, making me question everything.
I run down to the visitors’ room, fixing my hair, and stop short in the doorway. My stomach drops. It’s not Troy. It’s not even a man. It’s a woman.
“Hel
lo, Mary.”
Alyssa’s mother is standing in the middle of the visitors’ room. The ghost of my past I was afraid of most. She’s here to do it. She’s here for revenge. She’s here to finally kill me.
Everything is numb; I don’t know what to do or say. If it wasn’t for Bean, I’d let her do what she wanted all these years. But now . . . how do I talk her out of killing me? I guess I should start by being polite, like Momma always taught me.
“I . . . it’s just . . . I mean, it’s good to see you.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes.
“Cut the crap, Mary. You were never a good liar.”
Continued Transcript from the January 4th Interview with Melissa Richardson,
Alyssa Richardson’s Mother
Detective: Okay, let’s step back here a minute and start from the beginning. When did you first meet Dawn Addison and her daughter, Mary?
Melissa: A little over a year ago. My husband and I are from Savannah, Georgia. Greg was transferred up here to New York. We thought it’d be a fun adventure. We were here a couple of weeks when a coworker of his invited us to his church. We thought it’d help, you know, since we didn’t have any family or friends here. The pastor’s wife invited me to their women’s group meetings they have on Wednesday nights. That’s where I met Dawn. She walked right up to me and introduced herself. Real sweet, very southern. It was . . . I guess . . . familiar. She’s a little older, but we took to each other right away. And then I met Mary.
Detective: What was Mary like?
Melissa: Mary was always quiet. Real quiet, but smart.
Detective: How could you tell?
Melissa: I used to be an elementary school teacher. Sometimes I’d look over Mary’s homework and the stuff was just too easy for her. I started giving her a reading list and extra math homework. Plus, Dawn wasn’t too bright. Mary always had to help her with the bills and reading for her. I was over at their house once and Dawn was behind on practically all her bills and trying to figure out what she owed. Mary walked right over and did all the calculations, right in her head. She had just turned eight.
Detective: What’s Mary’s relationship with her mother like?
Melissa: They’re inseparable. Never see one without the other. I thought it was a little strange, I guess, for a little girl to not have any friends or anybody her own age to play with.
Detective: Were you close with Dawn?
Melissa: I had just found out I was pregnant and Dawn . . . she helped me out a lot. Came over once a week with Mary. She cooked, cleaned, gave me all kinds of advice on what vitamins I needed to take and what to do. She even massaged my feet.
Detective: What happened when Alyssa was born?
Melissa: Alyssa . . . was a beautiful baby. She was . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.
Detective: Take your time.
Melissa: When . . . when we brought her home from the hospital, Dawn was there. She made us dinner and helped me the first night. I was having trouble breast-feeding. Alyssa wouldn’t take right away. Dawn, you know, just knew what to do. Mary was there too . . . I let her hold her. I had never seen Mary smile so big.
Detective: Did Mary like Alyssa?
Melissa: Mary loved Alyssa. She brought some of her toys for her. She even helped me change her diaper.
Detective: So you didn’t sense any animosity?
Melissa: No. Not at all. But she was so quiet. I never knew what she was thinking.
Detective: Was Alyssa a fussy baby, give you any problems other than the breast-feeding?
Melissa: She was colicky. I used to give her gripe water to help calm her down. I gave some to Dawn the night I left Alyssa. She said she didn’t need it. She called it witch juice.
Detective: I’m sorry, I have to ask, did you ever drop Alyssa? Maybe something fell and hit her that could have caused the bruising before? Maybe your husband?
Melissa: No. Never. Not even once.
Detective: Just out of curiosity, when you arrived at the house, did you see anything unusual? Anything out of place?
Melissa: Just Mary. She was standing in the corner, staring. I asked her what happened. She said she didn’t know.
Detective: How was this strange to you?
Melissa: Because you don’t know Mary. Mary isn’t a very good liar.
“Damn, you grew up beautiful. You don’t look a thing like your mother.”
She’s here. She really is here, standing in front of me. I forgot how much Alyssa had her eyes. It almost hurts to look at her.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
She strolls over to the sofa and sits with a heavy plop. I don’t move, too afraid to do anything. The dreams I had of this day were always nightmares.
Momma used to call Mrs. Richardson a beauty queen, because of her tall, thin, perfect body, pink skin, big blue eyes, and long brown hair. “Chiclet Teeth,” Momma would call her bright smile, but it never seemed like a compliment. She used to wear all kinds of colorful dresses, heels, and makeup. Now she’s like a washed-up version of her former self, with a potbelly, thinning hair, jeans, and a T-shirt. No makeup. Not even grease for her chapped lips.
“Well, nothing to say?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Hm. Are you in school?”
“Sort of.”
“Do you still read?”
“Every day.”
She stares at me for a long while. She is shorter than I remember. Or maybe I’ve changed.
“What are you thinking?”
She asked me this a lot when I was little. She would always laugh and sing, “Mary, Mary, pretty little lamb. What are you thinking up in there?” And I would always tell her the truth.
“You . . . you never visited me,” I say, chewing my lower lip.
Alyssa’s momma cocks her head to the side with a frown.
“Come again?”
My throat closes up and I want to hide inside myself. Even after all this time, I still don’t get how I can be so scared yet so desperate for her at the same time.
“Momma said that . . . you would visit me. After it was all . . . over. But you never did.”
Mrs. Richardson cocks her head to the other side and studies me for a long while, like I’m some sort of strange painting. Oh God, what a stupid thing to say! I can tell by her reaction it was stupid.
She lets out a tired laugh and exhales.
“I’m going to kill your son.”
She says it so matter-of-fact that I’m sure I’m hearing things.
“What?”
“You got a low stomach. It means you’re having a boy. And when you have him, I’m going to kill him. Suffocate him with pills and beat him till he’s black-and-blue. You’ll have to have a coffin specially made just for his size, since they don’t come mass-produced like the other ones do. You won’t have many pictures to put in the funeral program, since he wouldn’t have lived much. He’ll just be a baby, three months old.”
I’m going to throw up. I can feel it. My knees wobble and I sit on the floor.
“So yes, I’m going to kill your baby,” she says. “And when they put me away, will you come and visit me?”
I’m so confused. At first, all I can focus on is Bean being a boy. A beautiful baby boy! Ted will love that, he wanted a boy. But then the rage building inside me takes over. A thick pill covered in hot sauce slides down my throat, making it hard to breathe or think straight. All I want to do is slice her face, throw a desk at her head, stab her with a pen, and run her over with a car, for even thinking about hurting my baby. My hands roll into sweaty fists.
A grin smears across her face.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
How could she even joke like that? How could I feel like this? This was the woman I loved more than my own momma. The woman I wanted to be my momma. Why is she being this mean? Because of Alyssa? But she doesn’t know everything that happened.
I breathe through my nose, trying to calm down while she pulls a pa
ck of cigarettes and a lighter out of her coat pocket. She never smoked before. It’s strange to see her this way. Like a recovering junkie. The women in baby jail looked better. She lights a cigarette, slowly blowing smoke out toward the ceiling.
“Did you kill Alyssa?” she asks, without looking at me.
I can feel the weight of the question, built and held inside her head for years. She sounds exhausted from carrying it around for so long. And I don’t want to lie. I really don’t.
“No.”
She sighs with her entire body. “Never thought you did.”
The room stiffens, the house quiet. You can hear children playing up the street. She takes another drag from her cigarette, scratching her arm.
“So why did you say you did it?” She still isn’t looking at me as the question rolls off her lips.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Sure didn’t. So why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I . . . I . . . I didn’t think you would believe me.”
“How come?”
“The rabbit.”
“The what?”
“The crystal rabbit,” I choke. “Remember, I used to play with it and you always told me to put it down. Then you found it broke, but I didn’t break it. And you told me no one likes a liar.”
Mrs. Richardson’s face darkens.
“Mary, those are two totally different things.”
I bite my tongue. That is the second time she has made me feel stupid in a matter of minutes.
“I know that . . . now.”
She blinks and flicks dead ashes onto the carpet.
“I forget how young you were. You really were just a kid,” she murmurs, licking her lips a couple of times. She keeps rubbing her arms as if she is cold and I want to give her my hoodie.
“You just had this . . . old soul. I could see it in your eyes,” she continues. “And the way you used to take care of your momma, without her even knowing. It made no sense.”
She licks her lips again, staring at the stains in the carpet, and I’m suddenly embarrassed that she’s visiting me in such a dirty home.
“You know, Alyssa would’ve been starting first grade this year.”
Allegedly Page 18
