The Stars and the Blackness Between Them

by Junauda Petrus

  “I love you, Audre. I love you, Audre. I love you. I won’t let nothing happen to you. This is your body. It belongs to you. These are your hands. They belong to you. These are your feet. They belong to you. I love you, Audre.” I say things to myself, like I is a sweet grandma. Like I is my own ancestor. And I say it to me from me.

  “I love you, Audre. You are safe.”

  MABEL

  DR. CLOUD WASN’T RIGHT. I didn’t think she could be wrong ever.

  I feel dry up inside of me. Every day feels like I’m falling deeper into a hole of myself, one that ain’t got a floor or even a hell. Just a nonstop falling flight into my insides. Every night, I cry until I’m weak and sleep catches me. I wake up every day and I hurt more than the day before. Like my skin is made from iron, my blood is lava, red-hot, breaking and moving. My bones are a magnet to the core of the earth, locking me to my bed. Every feeling is too much, and I am too little to feel them. Through my curtains, I see the sun is shining, too hopeful for the life I’m choking on.

  My mom is standing and looking out the window. My dad is on the edge of my bed and he won’t look at me. Or he can’t. We are home after the third opinion and several weeks of confusion and medical professionals and blood work and tests and late-night research and being picked up from school early and missing classes and then whole days. He could look at me after every other time and say something hopeful and lighthearted. This day, we are all in our own worlds, and we can’t look at one another.

  When Dr. Cloud called and didn’t email, I felt a little nervous but also not that bad. She had even assured us that sometimes second tests are needed to clarify results, but that she also wanted us to see an oncologist—which I had no idea what that was until I searched it online and saw that it had to do with cancer. Except, it seems I don’t have cancer—at least not a regular one. They don’t understand what I have but from all of their tests, it seems closest to some kind of leukemia-like cancer, and it is moving through me aggressively. “Aggressively” is what the oncologist said. The main expert, Dr. Johnson, at a youth oncology facility an hour away, had suggested I start taking radiation and chemo right away, but my chances are still not clear.

  I could have a year, he said.

  That’s when the earth opened and swallowed me. I had been pushed off a cliff of myself, and the free fall was numbing. I don’t think I have landed yet. Having a year doesn’t seem like anything. How could I “have” a year? A year is all the life I have left in this world, and it feels like nothing.

  My mother comes and sits next to me. She pulls me into her and is rocking me. I fall apart and crumple in her arms.

  “Sequan, come here, baby,” she says, motioning my dad to come to us. I look at him and he is quiet and leaned up with his eyes watery. He’s wearing one of his IT WAS ALL A DREAM Biggie Smalls T-shirts. He is breathing slow. He comes over and is on the other side of me, and my mom pulls him and me, both up and into her arms.

  Every moment is swallowed up in the next and lost immediately. My mom tells us we should all get some rest. Sahir is at her sister’s, my auntie Niiki’s house. My parents surround me again in their arms. They are holding me up like they did when I was a little girl, but I feel ghost already. I can’t see or feel myself, I come in and out of focus. I feel empty inside. I fade into them, like I have my whole life whenever things were scary. I feel fear in them, which scares me. At least we are broken and scared together.

  AUDRE

  I RIDE AND I IS RIDING TO NOT FEEL MYSELF. I riding so that life can’t catch or find me or hurt me anymore. I escape into the night because I need to disappear, to fly beyond feeling. My bike whisper itself my chariot, and I harness it towards freedom from a beat-up heart. I is tired of the lost feeling. Neri. Mabel. My mommy. Queenie. Port of Spain. Ocean surrounding my home. I’m tired of feeling. I don’t want to remember something. I remember still.

  * * *

  • • •

  The classroom phone rang and Ms. Sharkey stopped lecturing me about how the classroom is a no-phone zone and picked it up. I notice her face looked concerned and then all of a sudden Jazzy pulled my chin in her direction. “So, who you texting, though?”

  “Yuh is nosy,” I said, opening my notebook on my lap and pretending to get distracted in it.

  “You already knew that.” She laughed and snuggled into her corner of the couch, extending her legs out and pulling out her notebook too.

  “I was texting Mabel. I ain’t heard from her in a little while and I was just making sure she cool.”

  “I’m sure she’s cool. You don’t gotta worry about her. She’ll be back in school once they figure out what’s up with her,” Jazzy said. “So you have any idea who you going to research?”

  “Not sure. Ms. Sharkey suggest I think of someone from Trinidad. I might study Calypso Rose, since she is a feminist calypso singer from Trinidad and I ain’t really know much about her.”

  “Yes, a little something for the island culture, that’s a good look. Me and Ms. Sharkey was talking yesterday, and I’m gonna make a documentary about Missy Elliott’s Afro-futuristic influence on Black feminisms and sexuality. So Imma watch Missy videos on repeat, and interview my mama and them—”

  We noticed Ms. Sharkey was off the phone and walking toward us on the couch.

  “Hey, you two. Can you stay after class, please? It’s important. I’ll write you a note for your next class.” She tried to smile nice, but she also look a little nervous.

  After the bell rang, Ursa walked in with a woman who is statuesque and stylish in a hijab and dark-red henna designs on her hands. Then another boy from my math class—Terrell, I think. Then my dad walked in next with Mabel’s mom and our principal. The energy is heavy and sad, and I feel it hit my body.

  Before anyone spoke, there was hugging and crying, like we all knew something bad was coming.

  Ms. Coco’s eyes looked so sad when she finally stood to speak. “Hey, sweeties.” She took a breath and then another. “As you know, Mabel has been missing a lot of school lately, since we have been figuring out what is going on with her health.

  “Y’all have been so supportive of her, and she has appreciated y’all reaching out, even if she hasn’t always been able to respond. A couple of days ago we received a diagnosis of a rare leukemia-like illness that is moving aggressively and unpredictably in Mabel’s body.” She paused and I realized I was holding my breath. She voice got more heavy. “The doctors, specialists, are not sure how to cure this and are trying everything, but are not sure if they will be successful. They are not sure if she will survive it.”

  My heart dropped. The room got still and without air.

  “What? Ms. Coco? What are you saying? Is Mabel dying?” Ursa sounded broken, and Ms. Coco went to hug she and she mother. As they hold her, Ms. Coco looked again to the whole room and started to talk again.

  “The doctors have said that this can end her life, but me and her father are not accepting that and will be doing everything to heal her so that she can live a long, sweet life. Our baby is going to need the love and support of her friends right now, even if she isn’t gonna know how to ask. She is taking this hard, as you can understand, and may need some space. But of course she still needs love. Check in on her from time to time, and keep her in your prayers and thoughts. Imagine her healed and pain-free.” She broke off, looking at her hands. Then she was quiet.

  In that moment, my body feel like it want to collapse, but my dad was right there with a hug and was helping me not disappear.

  * * *

  • • •

  The steel between my thighs is lightning, and the breeze on my back is my wings. The blackness is an oil spill of indigo and cosmos spread before me. I is fire in my lungs, and each breath feel like it almost want to drown me or levitate me. I is riding so fast, I hear every conversation of every winged thing that prevail in the night. They gossip a
nd laugh, and it shudders a sparkle into my spirit, and I can go faster. My skin is glowing, and I is levitating over life, over myself and the hurt, but then over the trees and the streetlights.

  I ain’t understanding how gravity release me from the earth, but I is flying somehow and I is not stopping, ’cause I ain’t want to. I wanna feel this levitation until the pain stop. Somehow I am like Queenie, but I ain’t understand how so. But I is pumping my thick thighs until they tingling, pumping and taking the sky into my chest and my legs and it is effortless, like I always know how to do this.

  I sit by the lake, my steel wheels of flight beside me. I’m looking out on the water underneath the trees and leaves of changing color. I talk to the water and my spirit and my own sadness. I pray to everything that loves me, my eyes closed and body huddled close to myself. I’m a tight bud and I try to melt a little, so I can open.

  I pray for Mabel and beg for she healing from any and all malady. I pray for Neri and beg the spirits to protect she, wherever she is. I look at my skin and it is glowing with constellations of ancestors. I ask them about escape and freedom and listen for revelation. Mabel is my friend, and I ain’t want she to die. It can’t happen. I can’t let it.

  MABEL

  LAST NIGHT I COULDN’T SLEEP. The night before it was the same and the night before that. I stayed in bed and cried. Or maybe I am asleep and this is all the dream?

  My parents have been bringing me tea and my favorite foods: chicken soup with dumplings; roasted sweet potatoes; fruit salad; and pineapple fried rice. I don’t touch it. I mostly just lie there.

  “You need anything, honey?” She or my dad seem like they are always asking me that. I don’t know what I could want except for my life and they already gave me that one time.

  “No, I’m all right, Mom,” I say from under my covers. I’m lying, of course. My face feels soft and ugly from crying, like it’s going to fall off and betray me like the rest of my body already has. Nothing feels good to me anymore. She comes and gives me a kiss on my head and then leaves. A little while later, I hear more footsteps, then a knock.

  “Mabel, can I come in?” It’s Sahir. I say, “Yeah,” and he enters. He squeezes in bed with me, like he has since he was little. I can tell by the way his eyebrows are squinched he wants something.

  “What you doing?” he asks.

  I think about it. “Nothing.”

  “You wanna come outside with me and watch me ride my bike?” He looks sad and desperate, his bottom lip quivering. “Mom and Dad both yelled at me. I ain’t even do nothing. I did my chores. All I wanna do is ride my bike.” He leans in real close, holds my face with his eternally sticky hands, and brings his forehead to mine, making his and my eyes cross the closer we are to each other. I hug him real tight and he hugs me back.

  “You look sad, Mabel. Mama said you ain’t feeling well.” And suddenly, I wonder how he will be in a year when I’m gone. He kisses me on my forehead.

  “Yes, I’m sick, but I’ll be okay,” lying to him.

  “Are you tummy sick? You got a fart stuck in your stomach? When I got a fart stuck in my stomach, I do this dance.” Sahir climbs out of my bed and puts his hands on his stomach and starts doing a Minnesota version of the Harlem shake, with extra squatting. He farts almost on cue. Sahir’s eyes are surprised at the effectiveness of his technique, and I bust out laughing. I laugh so hard, I start to shake. Sahir still looking a little shook, starts to laugh too and then jumps back in bed and hugs me again. I tell him I’ll meet him outside. I’m feeling a little better and decide I can watch him ride. He starts doing his dance again, running out the door.

  I’ve been wearing the same blue-and-white polka-dot onesie for the last two days. Sahir, my mama, and my daddy all got matching ones for Kwanzaa. I put on my Chucks and my hoodie on top of it and head outside. As I walk through our hallway, I pass my parents’ bookshelf and kind of feel like getting a book that might help distract me from my sad and cray thoughts. I haven’t been on my phone or computer for the last week. I ain’t been to school, neither. My dad passed by school and picked up my homework, but I haven’t felt like doing it and they ain’t made me. I wonder what they have told my teachers. Or Audre or Ursa. I don’t know if I want anybody to know, because I still don’t feel like it’s real.

  I read most of their Octavia Butler, Alice Walker, and Maya Angelou this summer. I look at a book by one Japanese author my mama likes, Murakami, and grab that. As I’m looking at the bookshelf, I remember, dang, my mama got a lot of self-help and spiritual books. One about healing your body catches my eye and I snatch that. Most of my dad’s books are history or gardening books. Then I see a book, The Stars and the Blackness Between Them: The Memoir of Afua. The title grabs me for some reason. I pull it out, and on the cover, I see a drawing of a full moon, with the silhouette of a Black man with an Afro and nebula and other cosmic imagery. It’s kind of cheesy looking but intriguing. On the inside cover in my dad’s handwriting, it says, “For Coco, a beautiful sister. May you enjoy this book. Love, Sequan. ’97” The inscription makes me smile, my college-man dad trying to be all woke and woo my mama. I realize this is the book about the dude in prison my dad had mentioned when I was working on my essay for the school-to-prison pipeline. I tuck that one under my arm as well and head outside to watch Sahir.

  LIBRA SEASON

  the leaves were raked up by an older cousin for us to dive into and the impact was crunchy yet soft somehow

  she gathered the splendor of changing leaves

  rustling breeze and flamboyant descents

  to afterlife and let us look at the sky from the softness

  the expressions of love are a labor of love

  hands at harmony with the heart

  reminds us to be slow, decadent

  working and toiling yields for balance

  for pleasure and

  luxuriating in it

  she played a love supreme

  on the turntable to set the mood for indulgence

  and she rubbed the feet of the queen of the house

  seeing the daily attempts to break her back in her eyes and walk

  she brings her tea with extra sweetened condensed milk

  to coat her belly and then she picks her afro out

  so her head feels free

  a radical adornment of care

  auntie is a lover who allow the pots to simmer and set in flavors

  passed down from tired hands whose names she don’t remember

  and never knew just the love is what she tastes

  and the love is what remain

  MABEL

  I’M IN BLACK EDEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT and the half-moon is low and yellow. I can’t sleep. I feel shitty. I have been really weak all day, because I can barely eat and everything I eat goes right through me with this weird medication and treatments. I came outside after waking up for the third time and having diarrhea. I’m glad I didn’t wake my parents this time or else they might trip and get worried, and them being worried don’t help me sleep or live. Being in Black Eden with the quietness and darkness feels like where I need to be. I end up by the raspberry bush that I brought Audre to when she first moved here from Trinidad. All of the raspberries are long gone, and that day feels like it was a me from forever ago, but it was just a couple of months ago. I walk over and sit beside the raised bed where we grow all the herbs. I rub my hands in the remaining dried leaves and flowers, bringing my hand up to my nose each time. Lavender. Mint. Rosemary. After doing that for a while, I bring my face to the dirt and place my cheek on it. With the cold and soft dirt on my face, I feel alive. I see my breath become smoke in the cold air. I am alive, my breath is proof, even if I feel like shit and all I can do is shit. I feel soothed, my body starts to calm down, and I decide to go back inside.

  I crawl back into bed and round my body into a fe
tal position, hugging my stuffed lamb Jonika Jamison—JiJi for short. I have had JiJi since I was a baby. She is light pink and raggedy, her once-soft fur is matted and tufted and dingy. I banished her when she started cramping my swag at around ten years old. But after years of being able to sleep without her, I wanted her back and asked my daddy if he could find her, which was apparently easy, since she was in one of his Jordan boxes in the closet. He was crying and laughing at the same time when he gave her back to me. “I always thought I should keep her in case you changed your mind.” JiJi is now back to ride-or-die status in my bed. Ride or die, for real.

  I’m listening to my quiet storm mix to help me sleep and forget about how wack I feel. Initially after the diagnosis, the feeling of falling asleep made me afraid I would never wake back up. I still ain’t been sleeping well, and the medication I’m taking makes me feel weird when I’m awake, and then on top of that, I just be thinking too much, feeling too much. And then other times, I feel nothing. Just empty and like I don’t care. I turn on my reading lamp, and on my table are the books I found on my mom’s shelf. I pick up the one from the dude in prison. I figure I’ll read it until I fall out. I open it up.

  To the constellations

  of ancestors in our bones.