A House Divided

by Donna Hill

  “Listen to me.” Miranda leaned across the table so that their heads almost touched. “You’ve lived in the biggest, baddest city in the world. You pushed yourself through grad school, landed a job in your field, and made a name for yourself in the industry. No one can take that from you—not your overbearing mother or the wicked aunties. Go see your Nana,” she said softly.

  Zoie dabbed the corner of her eye with the knuckle of her finger.

  The waitress stopped at their table as if cued from the wings of the stage, ready to take their orders, giving Zoie a momentary reprieve.

  As usual, Miranda had the waitress explain each item and how it was prepared. The infuriating habit had lost its punch with Zoie ages ago. Zoie would generally bury her head in her menu until Miranda was finished and then smile apologetically to the wait staff on her dear friend’s behalf.

  She and Miranda met in college. Zoie majored in journalism, and Miranda went after a business degree, which she parlayed into a plum position with the Port Authority, and now she oversaw operations at Kennedy and LaGuardia airports.

  Miranda was right, Zoie thought, as Miranda prattled on. She’d put plenty of time and distance between herself and her family. She was stronger now.

  “And for you, ma’am?” the cool-as-a-cucumber waitress asked.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” she stuttered, jerked from her musing. “Umm, I’ll have the roasted chicken and grilled vegetables . . . and another margarita.”

  “Right away.” She scooped up the menus and moved away as stealthily as she’d appeared.

  Zoie nursed the ice from her glass.

  “How are things between you and Brian?”

  Zoie blinked several times. How did they segue to Brian? That was one of Miranda’s other talents—changing subjects without warning. “There’s nothing ‘between us,’ ” she said, making air quotes. “Our working relationship is fine, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I still think you could have worked things out.” She snapped a white linen napkin open and spread it ceremoniously on her lap.

  “Why does it have to be me who has to work things out?” she asked two octaves above her normal range. “What about him?”

  Miranda’s hazel eyes darted around the room. “Because you’re the pain-in-the-ass stubborn one, that’s why.”

  “With friends like you, Randi . . . I swear.”

  “Would you rather I be the kind of friend who kisses your ass even when you’re wrong?”

  “Yes, damnit!

  They burst out in laughter.

  “You’re crazy,” Miranda said over her chuckles.

  The waitress returned with their drinks. “Enjoy,” she said and hurried off.

  Zoie lifted her glass. “To truth.”

  Miranda tapped her glass against Zoie’s. “That’s all there is.”

  * * *

  Twelve hours had passed since she’d listened to her mother’s message. With work, the shock of her new assignment, and her standing after-work meet-up with Miranda, she’d been able to relegate the words to the back of her mind and tamp down the guilt that niggled at her conscience. She simply had not had the time. That’s what she told herself.

  Now, however, in the aloneness of her one-bedroom condo, there was no escape. Rose’s words echoed, that sinking feeling resurfaced, and the fear that she’d successfully ignored demanded her attention.

  A glass of wine first. A shower next. Yes, wine and a shower. Then she would call. Nothing was going to change.

  * * *

  She almost felt like herself by the time she’d finished off her wine and let the waters beat against her skin. Down the drain her worries went, along with her anxieties. She was fortified now.

  Inhaling a breath of resolve, she sat on the side of her bed and picked up her cell phone from the nightstand. She swiped the screen and tapped in her password. Her heart thundered. Three messages from her mother. She didn’t want to listen to the chastising, the questioning, the guilt trip that Rose would surely send her on.

  Zoie tapped in the number to the family home in New Orleans, held her breath, and waited.

  “Hello . . .”

  The sound of her mother’s voice drew her all the way back to the days that she longed to forget, but never could.

  “Mom, you left me several messages. I’m sorry I was—”

  “She’s gone.”

  The jigsaw puzzle of words made no sense. They didn’t fit together.

  “What are you saying? What do you mean? Gone where?”

  “About an hour ago,” her mother said, her voice flat and empty as if siphoned of whatever emotion she had left. “I suppose if you’re not too busy you can come home for the services.”

  “Mom . . . Nana . . .”

  “I have to go. The reverend is here.”

  Click.

  She couldn’t breathe; her heart raced and her thoughts spun. A rush of raw anguish rose up from the depths of her soul and escaped. The keen of a wounded animal vibrated in the room, bounced off walls, and slammed back into her, knocking her to her knees.

  Pain became a swirling vortex that stole her breath, shredded her heart, and whipped her around until she was weak and spent.

  Come home.

  “Oh God, oh God, what have I done? Nana! . . .”

  She curled into a ball on the floor and wept.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I can take some time off and go with you,” Miranda said.

  “No, I’ll be okay,” Zoie lied. “But thanks.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Miranda pushed up from the spot on the couch where she’d been since she arrived after Zoie’s hysterical phone call.

  “No thanks.” She continued to stare off into the distance.

  Miranda walked into the kitchen. Zoie could hear the water run, the fridge open and close, and the tinkle of silverware against plates. Those things she could grasp. The loss of her Nana she could not. What was most difficult to reconcile was the guilt. The questions ran relay in her head, one after the other. What if she’d taken her mother’s call? What if she’d spoken to Nana one last time? But she’d done neither. She would have to find a way to live with that—the fact that her Nana had needed her, and she . . .

  “I think you could use this.” Miranda extended a glass of wine.

  Zoie blinked Miranda into focus. A half smile curved her mouth. “Thanks.”

  “I know what’s on your mind.” Miranda curled up on the couch and took a sip of wine.

  “I’m sure you do. You know me better than I know myself.”

  “You couldn’t have known, Z.”

  Zoie’s lids fanned rapidly to keep the tears at bay. She sniffed and took a swallow from her glass. “But I did know that she wasn’t well. I heard it in her voice when I talked to her a few weeks ago. But you know Nana.” She waved her hand. “Said she was fine, just old, like I would be one day.” She smiled at the memory.

  Miranda sighed. “I’ll take care of your flight, and I’ll call your office in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I don’t want you to worry about anything. I got this.” She pushed up from her seat and went to get her wallet from her purse. “I’m going to book your flight, then I’ll help you pack. Where’s your laptop?”

  Zoie mindlessly pointed to the laptop tucked on the bookcase. Miranda retrieved the laptop and got to work.

  Come home. It had been a bit more than a decade since she’d been back, save for her visit for Nana’s eighty-fifth birthday five years earlier. She was there for the day and returned to New York the same night.

  Her mother’s clinging and probing; her aunts Sage and Hyacinth, with their stories and admonishments about her lack of a husband and children and her “loose life”; the bickering and accusations between the sisters—the combination was enough to send her running into the street. The only bright spot was her grandmother, who glided through the maelstrom of her daughters’ ongoing tug of war like a feather on air.r />
  “Oh, they mean well,” Nana said. “They just don’t know it,” she added with laughter lacing her thin voice. She’d grabbed Zoie’s arm then, with surprising strength, and said, “Come with me. Got sumthin’ to show ya out back.”

  Zoie’s breath caught. The garden, which five years prior had been not much more than some green grass and rosebushes, was now lush with rows and rows of vegetables—squash, collards, spinach, red and green peppers, and plump tomatoes.

  “Nana . . .” Zoie said in awe, “this is . . .” She took cautious steps. “Incredible. It’s all so . . . This is what you always talked about.”

  “Doing a nice business. Sell to the local grocers. Good, steady income.”

  “That’s wonderful, Nana.” She put her arm across her grandmother’s shoulders. “My Nana the entrepreneur.”

  “Keeps me young. Your mother and your aunts don’t have a green thumb between ’em.”

  They laughed.

  “Not like you,” Nana said. “You’re a natural.” She clasped Zoie’s hand. “I’ll be sure to pack you up a box to take with you.”

  Zoie leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s head. “I’d like that a lot.”

  It was the last time she’d seen her grandmother.

  “You’re all booked. Eight tomorrow morning. Direct. Delta.”

  Zoie glanced across the space to where Miranda sat. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “I can still go with you. There’s availability.”

  She could use the shield of Miranda against the onslaught of verbiage that would without a doubt be hurled at and heaped upon her. The trio of sisters tended to “act right” around company. But this time she would handle it alone.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you. I’ll be fine. When is the return flight? I’m leaving right after the funeral on Friday.”

  “About that . . . I booked one-way. I didn’t want you to feel pressured. So whenever you’re ready, I can take care of the return.”

  Tossed to the wolves without an escape plan. Under other circumstances, she’d be pissed. But Miranda was doing her a favor. And Nana always said that thing about gift horses or something.

  “Hey, it’s fine, girl. Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”

  Miranda hit a few keys on the computer. “Just emailed your confirmation and boarding pass.”

  “Thanks. I’ll print them out in the morning.”

  Miranda stood and stretched. “I’m going to take a shower and turn in.”

  Zoie frowned. “Huh? You’re staying?”

  “Yeah, a sleepover. You don’t think I’d let you drive yourself to the airport or pay some cab. I’m taking you.”

  “Randi . . .” Her throat tightened.

  “I got you, girl.” She squeezed Zoie’s shoulder, then pranced off to the bathroom.

  Zoie leaned back against the toffee-colored cushion of the couch and closed her eyes.

  A rush of images and emotions hurtled toward her: Nana taking a purple plum from the pocket of her floral shift and holding it in the palm of her hand, teasing Zoie with it; those winter nights when she’d sit between Nana’s knees while she scratched and greased her scalp and plaited her hair; and when Nana would sit on the side of her bed to wipe Zoie’s tears away and reassure her that her mother did love her—she just had a funny way of showing it. Or Nana whooping and hollering when Zoie graduated high school and crying, but only on the inside, when Zoie moved to New York for college.

  Zoie wiped away the tears that dripped from her eyes. All she had now were the memories. She pushed out a breath and slowly rose to her feet. There was nothing to be done now but face the music and get away from the musicians as quickly as she could so that she could mourn her Nana in peace.

  * * *

  Even at the ungodly hour of six-thirty in the morning, Kennedy Airport was rife with activity.

  “Call me if you need me,” Miranda counseled as Zoie exited the car. Miranda got out and came around to the curb.

  “I’ll be fine. I promise.” Zoie wrapped her friend in a tight hug. “I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

  “Zoe . . .” Miranda looked steadily into her eyes. “Give them a chance. They’re hurting, too.”

  Zoie lowered her gaze. “I know,” she conceded.

  “No walls. Okay?”

  Zoie opened her mouth to protest and caught Miranda’s censored expression.

  “Fine. I’ll try.”

  “Good.” She kissed Zoie’s cheek. “Safe travels.”

  Zoie grabbed the handle of her small rolling carry-on, gave a final wave, and was quickly swept along with the flow of travelers who ran, strolled, or were wheeled through the terminal.

  * * *

  She would be pleasant. She would not cringe at her aunties’ disparaging remarks. She would not rise to the bait of her mother’s barbs. Instead she would smile, and clean and cook and smile some more, and pray for the miracle that could change seventy-two hours into twenty-four.

  Zoie dodged bodies and luggage as she wound her way through baggage claim and out to the exit. For a silly moment, as she watched the disembarked passengers tumble into outstretched arms of welcome, she imagined someone waiting for her. Someone who was actually glad to see her.

  She hiked the worn leather strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and strode out into the Louisiana sunshine.

  * * *

  The cab that she took from the airport eased to a stop in front of 9822 Jessup. Zoie’s pulse quickened. She was hot, uncomfortably hot. Beads of perspiration formed along her hairline. Her stomach felt funny, as though she might throw up.

  “That will be thirty-two sixty, miss,” the cabbie said as if he’d said it more than once.

  “Sorry.” She dug into her purse for her wallet and took out two twenties and handed them over. “Keep the change,” she said, deciding that if she was going to have to play nice, she should get some practice.

  “Thanks, miss!” Suddenly energized, he rushed out of the cab and came around to personally take Zoie’s suitcase out of the trunk.

  Catch more flies with honey than vinegar, as Nana would have said.

  Zoie smiled her thanks, gripped the handle of her bag, and walked the gangplank to the family front door. Before she was halfway down the concrete lane, the door to the house was flung open as if it had been pushed in with hurricane-force winds.

  Rose Bennett Crawford stood in the doorway, all five foot six inches of her; the one attribute that she’d passed on to her daughter. Even at this distance, Zoie saw the censor in her gray-green eyes, which were underlined with dark circles, and she got the irrational impression that everything that had made her mother who she was had been scooped out, leaving a shell in a dress.

  Rose folded her hands primly in front of her.

  Zoie forced one foot ahead of the next until she stood in front of her mother, who because of her height looked Zoie right in the eye.

  “Ma . . .” she whispered. She wrapped her arms around her mother’s stiff body and nearly broke in two when she felt her mother’s slender frame shudder with sobs. “Ma . . . it’s going to be okay,” she said into Rose’s neck. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d hugged her mother or had her mother hug her. Tears were not new. Rose used tears to manipulate. Not this time. They were real and anguish-filled, and for the moment that she held her sobbing mother in her arms, she allowed herself to believe that they could be mother and daughter. But just as quickly as the moment came, it went.

  Rose stepped back out of Zoie’s arms, swiped at her eyes, and wiped her hands on her apron. “How long are you staying? I hope you took a few weeks off. There’s so much to do around here. Your aunts aren’t much help these days.”

  “Weeks . . . Ma—”

  “Your job will keep. You should be important by now.” She turned to go inside. “I fixed up your room. Wasn’t sure when you were going to show up, but I knew whenever you came home, it would be for your Nana. Only one that ever mattered to y
ou,” she mumbled, but loud enough for Zoie to hear.

  Zoie squeezed her eyes shut. Take all those words apart, and they meant nothing—just words. But mix them together, add a dash of martyrdom, a sprinkle of self-righteous indignation, and an “I’m so disappointed in you” look in the eye, and the result was the reason why she stayed away.

  The instant Zoie crossed the threshold, she was no longer a thirty-one year old accomplished journalist. She was a budding young woman of nineteen in a verbal battle of wills with her mother and her aunts about her decision to move to New York. They ranted and raved and assured her that nothing good could come to a young woman in a city like New York. They insisted that she’d be raped or mugged or both. She’d never find a job. A journalist! The aunts cackled at the absurdity. College in New York! Who was going to pay for it? Don’t come runnin’ back ’ere with yo tail between yo legs.

  And all the while that her aunts volleyed her back and forth between them, her mother sat at the kitchen table, shedding silent tears with eyes full of recrimination.

  It was Nana who put a halt to Zoie’s lambasting.

  “Enough! Leave the chile be. How y’all gonna not be happy that she is grown enough to step out into the world? ’Cause y’all lived your whole lives right ’ere er’body else s’pose to?” She then turned on Rose. “You gon’ drown us all in them damned tears. You had your chance. Why can’t she?”

  Zoie opened her eyes. She would get through this.

  “You go on and get cleaned up. Your aunties are anxious to see you, so don’t take forever.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She continued up the stairs while her mother went off to the kitchen.

  Zoie crested the landing of the five-bedroom house and walked down the hall to her room at the end. The plank wood floors creaked beneath her feet. As a teen, she’d sworn that either her aunts or her mother had loosened the floorboards so that they could listen for her comings and goings. She remembered, on too many nights after getting in from a date, the creak of the floors, followed by the swinging open of doors. Who’s that? What time is it? Lawd, tore me out of a good sleep. Chile, only loose girls come in this time of the night. Teeth sucking, eyes rolling, doors slamming, and, of course, her mother’s look of shame.