“Yes, Maya, you did have quite a bit more money in this account. But it seems that a rather large withdrawal was made only yesterday…a total of—”
“I wasn’t even in the bank yesterday. It’s a mistake. My money should all still be here.”
“You are aware that your parents are cosigners on this particular account, aren’t you?”
I considered this. “Well, my dad set it up for me when I was little. I guess that means he’s a cosigner. But he wouldn’t take my money.”
“And your mother is a cosigner as well.”
“My mom?” A chill followed by a wave of sickness washed over me, like I might throw up all over her desk.
“Apparently your mother made a withdrawal.”
“And you let her?” My voice was so loud that the bank got quiet once again.
“It’s a shared account, Maya.”
“Not shared by me!” Tears of fury burned in my eyes. “Why did you let her take my money?”
The woman seemed very uncomfortable now. She lowered her voice. “It’s not that we let her take your money. As a cosigner she had every right to withdraw the funds. Usually it’s the parents who make most of the deposits in these accounts anyway, and we certainly can’t stop them from—”
“I made every single deposit in that account!”
She stood and took me firmly by the arm as if she planned to lead me out. I even noticed her nod toward a security guard, who quickly joined us by the door.
“Need some help here?” he asked.
“I’m sure that you and your mother can sort this out at home,” said the manager in a stern tone. “Perhaps your mother has simply transferred the funds into another account, perhaps a tax-deferred account or a college fund that could draw more interest. You really shouldn’t be so—”
“No! You don’t understand!” I raced out of the bank and ran all the way home. But when I got here, Shannon, of course, was gone. She’d been gone last night, and she was still gone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was up to.
So I went to her so-called office, which she rarely uses except as a place to dump the things she refuses to deal with. And I began to dig through the piles of junk mail and bills heaped on top of her desk. Some of the items were months old. There were a couple of bank statements for her, and not surprisingly, her account was overdrawn. Then I noticed a similar envelope in the garbage. My bank statement, which according to the postmark, had been sent out earlier this week. Shannon must’ve seen that I had mail from the bank, opened the envelope, discovered my money, and decided it was okay to steal it from me.
Then I noticed something else on her desk. A copy of my emancipation letter! I had planned to give it to her right after I filed with the court—next Monday. Shannon had obviously been snooping in my room. And she obviously knew about my plan! She probably went through the materials I’d put together to present to the judge.
And that’s when I knew it was ruined. In one quick trip to the bank, Shannon had spoiled my perfect plan. I wanted to kill her. Seriously, if she had been in the room with me, if I’d had a gun, I would’ve shot her. I really think I would’ve. Not that I’m proud to admit this, but it’s the truth.
Feeling desperate and hopeless and even dangerous, I called my dad and insisted on speaking to him. “It’s an emergency!” I screamed at the person who was fielding his calls. “This is his daughter, and I have to talk to him! Now!”
When he finally came to the phone, I was sobbing like a baby, so hysterical that I could hardly speak. “Calm down,” he kept telling me. “Take a deep breath, and tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”
I finally calmed down enough to speak. Between sobs, I told him everything. I told him the truth about Shannon’s messed-up rehab and her return to using. I told him about the savings account and how Shannon had robbed me. I told him that I had planned to be emancipated and that she had found out and sabotaged me. And finally I told him that I was probably going to kill myself before the day was over. And then I hung up.
And even now…I’m not so sure that I won’t kill myself. I can’t think of one good reason to go on living. Not one. Life is not only unfair; it’s too hard. And it just goes from bad to worse to impossible. I want to give up.
Maya’s Green Tip for the Day
Who cares about the planet?
What’s the point of even trying?
Why not just let the earth suffer? Go ahead and waste energy, pollute the air, pile up the landfills, poison the water…
What difference does it make?
Thirteen
December 9
Well, as it turns out, I am still alive. But only because my dad flew out here to the rescue. Because he had a concert on Saturday night, he couldn’t come sooner. He offered to have someone else come to help me, but I told him I could manage. However, that was a lie. Anyway, I suppose it was good that he got here when he did. Otherwise I’d probably be locked up for murder right now.
Shannon got home Sunday afternoon (that was yesterday, two days after my darkest day). By then I had found her gun, which wasn’t very well hidden, in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. At first I considered using it on myself, but then I decided that I’d wait for her to come home, and we could check out together. Yes, I know I was insane…and maybe I just wanted to scare her. Fortunately for both of us, the gun was hidden away in my room when she showed up in the middle of the day, catching me totally off guard.
“Hey, baby, what’s up?”
I jumped up from the sofa where I’d been lying for hours, just staring at the ceiling. “Where’s my money?” I demanded.
“What?” She gave me a fakey innocent look.
“My money!” I shrieked. “You stole it, and you know it.”
“Oh, don’t you mean our money, Maya?”
“Our money?” My face was so close to hers I could smell her bad breath. I was staring straight into her eyes, and if looks could kill, she would’ve been toast. “That was not our money, Shannon! That was my money!”
“Well, it was obviously money that Nick sent…so I would consider it as ours.” She put on her little pouty face now. “And I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me like that, Maya.”
“That was not money from Nick! That was money I earned myself! Every single cent you stole from me was money I had worked for. And you deserve to go to jail for taking it. You are not only the world’s worst mother, Shannon. You are a lying, cheating, crackhead thief!” Then I began to swear at her. And normally I don’t use that kind of language, because I sound so much like her when I do, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was in a rage—a total out-of-control rage.
Of course, my accusations and language only added heat to the fight. And before I knew it, we were both screaming and cussing, and she slapped me, and I slapped her back—hard! I was so enraged that I wanted to tear her hair out and scratch her face and all sorts of horrid things, and we were just about to really go at it, but someone was pounding on the front door.
“What’s going on in there?” demanded a male voice. And suddenly not only my dad but also a couple of his guy friends burst into the house and rushed into the living room, and after a brief scuffle, they managed to separate us before I had a chance to murder my mother.
And that’s when I just totally lost it. With tears streaming down my face, I ran to Dad and fell into his arms. “I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed. “I can’t live like this anymore.” I’m sure I said a lot of other hysterical things too, but I don’t really remember. What I do remember is that Thomas, my dad’s manager, took me to my room and somenow got me to calm down while Dad talked to Shannon.
“You’re coming with us, Maya,” Thomas told me in a kind voice. “Let’s get whatever you need and get you out of here.”
I could hear my mom and dad in the other room. Dad had picked up right where I’d left off, yelling and screaming and making all kinds of accusations. And I wouldn’t have been surprised if it
had evolved into a physical fight as well, although my dad has always been opposed to violence. Anyway, I’m sure we could’ve gotten a TV contract for our own reality show just then. Another one of those celebrity closeups about the dysfunctional family and how they get along.
“What is this?” Thomas had picked up my denim jacket to discover it was hiding Shannon’s gun.
I just shrugged, and he shook his head as he unloaded the gun, then stuck it in his jacket pocket. “This has gone way too far,” he muttered, “way too far…”
Finally I had a couple of bags packed, just stuffed with whatever was handy. Then I went out to the living room, where Dad and Shannon were still screaming at each other. And somehow Thomas and the other guy managed to drag my dad away from her and out of the house, and we all climbed into a black SUV and drove away.
And so it is that I’m on the road with my dad. Right now we’re staying at a big hotel in Memphis. I don’t know where we’ll be after that. Mostly I’ve just been sleeping. I think I might sleep for a year or so. Or at least until I turn sixteen and figure out where to go from here.
January 3
It’s been a surreal few weeks. Being on the road with my dad and his crew started out to be interesting. I mean, his tour bus (an enormous, luxurious motor home) is pretty cool, and I’m seeing some new places and meeting some new people, but it has gotten old surprisingly fast. We spend a few days in a city, then just when I get my equilibrium, we head off to another place. Sometimes we sleep on the road, and although my bunk is pretty comfy, I have a hard time actually sleeping. I feel a bump in the road or whatever, and I am wide awake. And then I start to feel seriously claustrophobic in my little bunk-bed closet-like I’m about to scream or something if I have to stay there another minute. But I don’t want to get up and wander around because I’ll disturb someone else. Very frustrating.
It’s a little better when we stay in hotels, but that’s usually only for a night or two. For one thing it’s expensive, my dad has pointed out, but besides that, there’s a schedule to keep. And keeping that schedule takes its toll on everyone. Mostly my dad. Although he’s tried to be patient with me—and I know I’m an intrusion—he can easily get really grumpy. To be fair, he’s not grumpy like Shannon, but he can say things without thinking. And I suppose I’m feeling more sensitive these days. Sometimes I wonder if I might need serious counseling or even a shrink.
And it doesn’t help matters that I can barely remember where we are from one day to the next. Even though Dad gave me a map, I still wake up disoriented. And the worst part is that I miss being outside, puttering in the yard, sitting in the sunshine. Ordinary stuff like that. Oddly enough, I sort of miss Shannon too. That’s what makes me think I need some psychological help. I must be crazy. But I’ve heard about Stockholm syndrome. And in some ways, living with Shannon was a little like that. Not that she held me captive, not physically anyway, but I did feel like I was trapped. And I still dream of emancipation.
Speaking of emancipation, I called the Montgomery Agency to explain that I wouldn’t be working for them anymore.
“Why on earth not?” demanded Ms. Montgomery.
So I told her the truth, complete with details of how I wanted to murder my mother, and if my dad hadn’t shown up, I might’ve.
“Oh, my…” I think she gasped.
“So you see, I’m with my dad now. He’s touring, and I’m going along for the ride.”
“It’s unfortunate timing,” she told me. “Your career was just beginning to heat up. We’ll have to cancel your bookings.”
“I’m sure someone else will be happy to have them.” That was an understatement. After only a few months, I was well aware of the competition between models. Just joining the team had made me numerous enemies. In fact, Campbell was probably the only one who treated me half decent. And that’s probably because she was still in demand.
“We’ll miss you,” said Ms. Montgomery.
And although my jaded side (yes, I realize I’m jaded, go figure) assumed she meant that she’d miss the money, I wondered if she really meant me…
And of course that reminded me of something, or rather someone. And to be fair it’s someone I think of almost daily. And yet I’ve never written about her in this journal. But time’s the only thing I have on my hands at the moment. Time and memories.
When my dad left, he didn’t leave me completely. He invited Grandma Carolina to step in. Shannon protested at first. But only until she realized that Grandma Carolina could replace not only Nanny Jane but Francesca and Rosa as well. We’d been limping along for a couple of years by then, and our household was, shall I say, a shambles!
The weird thing was that I didn’t even know I had a Grandma Carolina—or any kind of grandma, for that matter. But when my dad left, he made one condition: Shannon had to let his mother move in with us. This resulted in a horrible fight with Shannon making so many horrible accusations that I actually believed this Grandma Carolina was the devil incarnate. Okay, I was only seven; I’m sure that’s not exactly what I thought. But the way my mom talked, I assumed she was like the bogeyman.
Consequently, it took me a while to warm up to this woman even though she reminded me a lot of my beloved Nanny Jane. But even at seven, I was becoming jaded. I didn’t completely trust this woman—and Shannon treated her like a servant. Or perhaps like a slave. Grandma Carolina never complained. Not really. I mean, she would say things—make observations—but they weren’t complaints. And strangely enough, she mostly seemed to have compassion for Shannon. In fact, I think that’s what first won me.
One time Shannon was having a hissy fit about something. I think she wanted fresh coffee, and because she hadn’t gotten up until noon, I suspect the coffee was a bit stale. Well, instead of making a fresh pot like a normal person, she threw a fit. And I watched in the shadows. But Grandma Carolina, instead of engaging with her, simply made a fresh pot. But as she made it, she sang a song. Some old hymn as I recall, and although I can’t remember the words, I remember thinking that Grandma Carolina had been the winner of that round. But I didn’t even know why. To be honest, I still don’t know why. I just know that she came out on top. And in that moment, she had my full attention. Not that I wanted her to know it exactly.
After that I began to trail her around the house, and she would talk to me, almost the way a person might talk to a wild animal. Sort of softly and gently, nonintimidating, as if she knew I’d been through something. And eventually I started to respond. And before long we were the best of friends. In some ways—most ways—she was the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever had. No, she was my mother.
Grandma Carolina taught me to appreciate nature and how to garden. She knew the names of birds and trees and flowers. She knew how to make compost tea (fertilizer for plants), and she knew how to make biscuits that would melt in your mouth. And maybe best of all, she knew how to make Shannon happy. Or as close to happy as Shannon has ever been. But did Shannon ever thank her? Or show an ounce of appreciation? Yeah, right.
Instead, Shannon actually picked on Grandma Carolina when she was in a particularly bad mood. Sometimes Shannon even called her names—and I mean racial names—the kind of names that people would get into serious trouble for saying if anyone overheard them. Of course, I was the only one to overhear them. And I couldn’t help but wonder if those names were not just for my grandma…but for me and my father as well.
Anyway, thanks to Grandma Carolina, who I later learned was born in South Carolina, my life from the age of seven to twelve was relatively cool. I mean, I still had Shannon to put up with, but having Grandma Carolina around was like having an anchor. Or something like that.
And during those years, we went to church. Not Shannon, of course. No, she always had an excuse. And no matter how Grandma Carolina hinted and hoped, it just didn’t happen. For one thing Shannon never got up early enough. But besides that, I think she just didn’t want to go. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen with us. Maybe s
he wasn’t comfortable with us.
And in fairness, Shannon would’ve stood out in that particular church—a fair, blue-eyed blonde amid a sea of African American faces. To be honest and despite my darker skin, I had moments when I felt out of place as well. I mean, most of my school friends at that time were white. And I suppose I thought of myself as being like them. They accepted me as one of them, and I went along for the ride. Well, mostly. It got a little dicey in middle school.
But the truth is, I never felt more at home and comfortable than I did standing with my grandma in her church. With her holding my hand as we sang some pretty lively songs. And then being around her friends, even if they were all a lot older than me. They were kind to me. They liked me. It was like family.
And when I was eleven, I went forward. I had considered going forward a number of times before. But I was a little bit stubborn. Finally I thought I “saw the light.” And when Reverend Samuel gave the altar call, I stepped out into the aisle and went forward.
Well, Grandma Carolina couldn’t have been more pleased if she had won the lottery. And she was known to buy tickets occasionally. Afterward, everyone patted me on the back and welcomed me into the “family of God.” Reverend Samuel gave me a Bible, and it was great. But short lived.
Exactly one month later, in early December and shortly before my twelfth birthday, Grandma Carolina had a heart attack. I was at school when it happened, and I didn’t even find out about it until I got home. And even then, Shannon didn’t say much. Just that Grandma Carolina had been cleaning the oven…and died.
My dad came home for the funeral, and when he saw how distraught I was over her death, he explained that my grandmother had some pretty serious health problems—high blood pressure and cholesterol—and that she had known her time wasn’t far off. That was why he had encouraged her to come live with us—so she could take it easy. Of course, I thought that was pretty ludicrous since Shannon had treated Grandma Carolina like a servant and maybe even hastened her death, but I never said as much. Not to anyone. I just silently grieved the loss of the best friend I’d ever had.
A Not-So-Simple Life Page 11
