Be My Warmth

by Shanade White

  “That one gotta be cray-cray,” Gracie hissed once. Tia had waved at her friend to be silent, as Faith, hunched at her workstation, didn’t have headphones in.

  “Bets on how long she lasts before she cracks like a walnut and leaves,” Martin had added cheerily.

  “Guys. Please. She’s literally right there. Don’t need to hear this crap.” Whitney scowled at them, until they had dispersed. Faith’s rigid body language confirmed the worst.

  People need to be careful around that one. She’s fragile enough to do something drastic. Tempted to say she might have been abused or something, growing up. But eh.

  The men’s group went, two weeks before Whitney’s. That left the department making up for the absence of five employees for eight days.

  Arriving back, the men were full of talk of how great the holiday felt for them. They mentioned foreign workers, horseback rides, archery, and some neat food in the mess halls. There was also mention of a spa and the chance for a massage. This stirred the women’s excitement, in particular, Natalie and Sandra.

  Whitney kept her excitement under wraps. But every now and then, she returned to the examination of the ranch’s website, trying to picture being in that kind of environment.

  On the day of departure, for once, Whitney’s mother had time for her. Sure, her only daughter would be leaving in the evening for the annual staff holiday – but with the kids at a friend’s house, her husband Frederick out for the afternoon, and a day off work – it added up to a blessing in disguise. Whether Aniyah allowed Whitney to have a word in edgewise remained another matter.

  “You sure there's nothing else you forgotten? A toothbrush, a spare flannel, nice cream for your skin – maybe a penknife since it’s all outta civilization and you might need something handy, right?” Whitney’s forty-seven-year-old mother sifted through the items on her bed, which were all spread out in several rows for better visibility.

  “Ma, I’m thirty-one, not three.”

  Aniyah ignored her daughter’s protests, lifting up a rather skimpy, black-laced top from the covers. “You can’t only be taking this. Where’s the rest of y’clothes?”

  “I told you, Ma, the company took our measurements, we're gonna be provided with clothes for the trip. Just need nightclothes and underwear. Aight?”

  “Don’t trust those people.” Aniyah pursed her lips, expression mired in doubt. “They don’t make clothes fit well, gonna all hang about your breasts – you’re taking a spare bra, right?”

  “Yes, ma. I’m taking one. It’s classed as ‘underwear,’ like I said.” Whitney sighed. “I’m also taking what I’m wearing now.” Although being a responsible adult, capable of putting out her own fires and making everything run like clockwork, whether maintaining the office or acting as a rock for whatever creeping disaster headed her way, Aniyah always somehow managed to make Whitney feel like the little girl she once was, and always insisted on doing things in place of her adult daughter.

  Sometimes, Whitney contemplated if her mother had ever realized her kid had long since grown up. The girl that ran around their crumbling apartment with strawberry stains over her shirt, smearing the jelly mix over the walls and then her mother’s dress to wipe the goo off was now the girl who stopped her younger siblings from committing the same offense. On a regular basis. Who held an assistant manager position at her work-place. Who could quite comfortably cope by herself.

  Watching her mother grow up and struggle to support her and Da when he had his accident, before delivering more children – “To give your father something else to do other than sit on his ass all day,” gave Whitney a particular insight into the world.

  People worked hard or they didn’t. If you wanted to make it, you couldn’t by sitting down and watching the world pass by.

  That acute sense of struggle and level of duty Aniyah had shown, also still meant Whitney lived with Aniyah years later, dropping the chance for continuing college to work odd jobs. The agency was her big break, going by the merit of her character and application, rather than the degree she might have had on paper. (This was another thing Natalie liked to pick on, in her fouler moods.)

  Essentially, Whitney had sacrificed freedom for family. Something she resented when appreciation ran low.

  Scooping up some panties and scrunching them into her backpack, she glanced at her mother.

  Wrinkles lined the woman’s mouth and eyes, deep set like crevices. She wore a red and black bandana over her ailing, graying hair. Her wide face was used to smiling – Aniyah’s cheek muscles shifted comfortably into one now, as she caught her daughter staring.

  “I know that look. You be thinking deep thoughts.”

  Whitney shook her head, also smiling. “That’s right, Ma. Deep thoughts.”

  Aniyah nodded to herself as she took one last look at Whitney’s selection for the trip, before enveloping her in a motherly hug. “Make sure you take good care of yourself. And don’t you be seeing any strange men. I know how the last one broke your heart.”

  “Ma! Seriously!” Whitney squeezed out of the hold. “Are you gonna keep bringing that up each time?”

  “Just looking out for you.”

  Whitney inhaled slowly, placing a hand on her head. “Look, the guy group of work has already gone. It’s the gal group that starts today. ‘Sides, if I decide I wanna have a good time, Lord knows I’ve waited long enough for some action.”

  Her mother’s expression strained in concern. “If you’re sure… I know you got your head on straight, but be careful, baby. Men can be disappointing.”

  Whitney knew the source of her mother’s fear. If her daughter became pregnant to a fling, it wouldn’t do good for any of them, since they barely made enough to save – even with her managerial position in the office. Still, she disliked the constant assumptions that her mother made – expecting Whitney to be prone to the same mistakes that Aniyah had committed in the past. She wished her mother understood that things changed. Things didn’t stay the same. People adapted, and lived, and thrived, with the capability to comprehend right and wrong, and make their own choices based on it. Whitney did everything by choice, and not by hindering herself.

  Aniyah didn’t understand that. She still acted like it was her fault that Whitney did what she did. The guilt crept through in small jabs of conversation, in tears of frustration if her job underpaid for the month, or if her husband broke down due to the hopelessness of his situation.

  Downstairs, both of them dedicated themselves to cleaning. Aniyah had never been the sort of mother who could sit still and talk for long – since there always remained something to do or something to prepare for. Whitney figured that attitude was what still kept her in a relationship with her dad, who had honestly, in her opinion, been depressed for years, and never bothered to seek help. She planned to address it with her mother again, after they finished blitzing the kitchen and living room. The thought of bringing it up sent a sliver of fear in her breast. Whitney first grabbed the feather duster to hit the cobwebs in the high places, sometimes needing to stretch on the balls of her feet for the places her tiny mother couldn’t get to.

  In the coming weeks through their organizational efforts, Whitney had allowed herself to think some more about Jack Brook. Partly because Natalie insisted on gushing about the things he had done with his money, showing philanthropic deeds and charities supported – and partly because the receptionist Whitney contacted also confirmed that Jack Brook would dine with them to get to know the visitors better, and ran several of the horse-related activities on the first two weeks of each month. The men’s group had unfortunately missed out on that occurrence.

  The women’s group, however, would not, since they would be leaving on the 4th of October – arriving on the Monday after a long carpool trip. When Whitney casually announced that fact to the female staff of her office, they all more or less collapsed into paroxysms of delight. Rich plus celebrity, even for the married ones, came off as a big deal. Whitney did her own rese
arch in the meanwhile, but found little else, other than reviews about the ranch, and some of the donated charities.

  Whitney used a dust cloth to wipe over a mantelpiece with some framed pictures, then a damp sponge for the glass table, taking care to wring it out in the sink when the surface became too clogged with grime.

  Jack Brook, whoever he was, gave off the vibe of a reclusive billionaire, preferring the quieter life in the untamed lands of North Dakota. Gossip magazines that featured him played upon his bachelor status – but in all the blogs and sites Brook himself had a hand in, there was no mention of anything. This meant to Whitney that he probably was not interested in dating, or already had someone special, and kept them out of the limelight.

  Her thoughts flitted between the fanciful notions of meeting the Jack Brook behind the pictures, and the result of her former relationship – thanks to Aniyah bringing it up. Whitney grabbed the vacuum cleaner from the storage closet, plugged it in and kicked the button on, suctioning crumbs and city dirt off the carpet.

  The last one still left a knot of discontent in Whitney’s stomach. Even today, she wasn’t certain who to blame for the fallout. Both she and Bobby crashed in and out of the relationship like cannonballs, ending as suddenly as it had started. Bobby’s chain necklace lay draped over the mirror in her bedroom. He was gone, but the better memories lingered. Sometimes they made her sad. Sometimes they conjured anger. It depended on her mood.

  Kneeling on the floor, Whitney reached into an awkward corner of the living room, scrubbing a patch of dirt and dust settled behind her dad’s armchair. Straightening, she admired the handiwork of a cleaner, less dust-choked apartment. The stacks of newspapers on the coffee table now lay neatly piled together. With the coffee mug stains on the glass thoroughly wiped clean, the collection of Lego scooped into the box and last night’s breadcrumbs hoovered up (along with that one spider), she stopped working. She placed the vacuum cleaner away and strolled into the kitchen to fill and turn the kettle on, preparing two mugs of coffee.

  “Looking good,” Aniyah said, running a yellow gloved hand over her forehead. Droplets of water trailed over her arm and dampened the white sleeve of her shirt. “I need to sit down now, got those back pains flaring up again. Whew!” She waddled over to a two seater sofa after snapping off her gloves, palms cradling her lower back. “Always happens when I bend over too much.”

  “Ma. Do stretches like I told you. If you do shit without warming up, you're gonna break yourself.” Whitney sorted out two teaspoons of sugar for herself, and one for her mother.

  “I will, I will.” Aniyah watched eagerly as the kettle boiled. Whitney poured in the hot liquid, mixing it with coffee powder and green-topped milk, before stirring. “Thank you, baby.” The grin jumped onto her face again, as she took the freshly brewed coffee from her daughter.

  “Ma.” Whitney plonked herself next to Aniyah. “Are you up for some questions right now? Might not like ‘em, but we sure need to talk at some point ‘bout it.” She examined her mother’s face for the reaction. Aniyah preferred to avoid anything invasive about her husband or general life situation, often shifting subjects faster than a bolt of lightning.

  “Hmm, honey.” Aniyah took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee. “Five minutes. ‘Spose we don’t get much chance to talk these days. Can tell it’s twisting you.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” Whitney placed her hands on her lap, brushing fingertips against one another. “So, I gotta say, it’s about Da. And you.”

  Aniyah’s face stiffened. “Go on.”

  Deliberating on it, Whitney decided to go for the steamroller approach. Her mother’s reaction instilled a sense of foreboding in her blood. “He’s not getting better. He doesn’t get involved with the house or the kids. You talk to him ‘bout it, he always acts ashamed, or angry you caught him out. Does nothing anyway. Just sits there with a big storm cloud over his head. And you – you keep defending him. Saying he can’t help it with his back. But you're not helping him either. You give him the right to do nothing by endorsing it. Like I’ve said before.”

  Her mother slouched, adopting defensive body language. “That’s not true, Whitney. You know your Da does help around the house – when he can. He feels bad because he can’t provide for his family, like a man should. The injury really tore him up. It’s not right of us to get mad at him for something he can’t help. That’s cruel to do so.”

  “This.” Anger flared in Whitney. She flailed her arms in helpless frustration, “Is exactly what I’m talking ‘bout. You just did it. Now. You literally – just made an excuse for him.”

  “It’s not an excuse, daughter-mine. It’s the reason why things are how they are. How can you even say that?”

  Sarcasm dripped unbidden into Whitney’s voice. “That’s kinda what an excuse is, Ma. The reason may sound like a good reason, but it’s still an excuse. Doesn’t change the fact that this is no longer something he can’t help. Because both you and me know he’s capable of more. Can you listen to yourself for a sec?”

  Rage leapt across Aniyah’s face. “So, what? You saying he should go do something, even though he was near crippled? You saying your Da, who worked hard all these years for this family, even though we both were young, too young to have you – should be forced to break himself more? That man’s sacrificed everything for you!”

  You sacrificed everything. I sacrificed everything! He did nothing! Whitney wanted to scream at her. “No. I’m saying. Stop making excuses for him. He's never gonna get better if we keep reminding him he’s bad. He never gonna try anything as long as he feels he can get away with nothing. Don’t you be telling me you don’t feel mad at times when he sits there, complaining that he doesn’t help, or can’t help. You’ve come to me in tears ‘bout it. We’ve both been in tears ‘bout it.” Whitney forced herself to calm down. It was hard, ridiculously hard, because the resentment boiled over quick and heavy. “I want him to get better, Ma. You do, as well. I want us to be fixed ‘cause it been shit for years.”

  Aniyah, however, had other plans, and moved her hands in a chopping motion. “I think we should stop talking about this now. Your Da needs love. Won’t do for either of us to sit here and get mad ‘bout it. I’m gonna make something to eat.” She got up rigidly, averting eye contact with Whitney, and stalked into the kitchen.

  Fury warred with sadness, before simmering behind the wall where Whitney stored her emotions. Sometimes she needed to stomp on the feelings until they stopped leaking through. “Aight, Ma. Thanks for letting me talk. I’ll go pack my bag.” She removed herself from the small leather sofa, shifting aside the bead curtains. She wished, desperately wished for once to gain a different result from their confrontations.

  However, she also struggled to keep her own frustrations in check, once a subject became breached. The little times she approached it meant there was no emotional resilience to dealing with it head on. So, as usual, the problem remained unsolved. As it had been for years.

  Whitney felt the answer should be obvious. Aniyah and her father, Frederick, although both clearly unhappy, both never said a single useful thing about it. Two extra children to the mix acted as a Band-Aid on an issue that consumed them from inside like a festering wound.

  Whitney glanced at her cellphone’s clock. Natalie would soon pick her up. Her, Natalie, and Faith, all squished into a company car together. A drink, or three – sounded excellent around about now.

  *****

  From Minnesota to North Dakota, the drive would take an estimated fourteen hours. Whitney ended up leaving her mother in a stony, hurtful silence, but promising to at least call for updates on the holiday. Because, as always, they were family. They exchanged a brief goodbye embrace, just before Aniyah scampered off with the reason of picking up her two kids from their friend’s house. Frederick didn’t come back in time to say goodbye, which left Whitney in a continuing bad mood as Natalie blithely pulled up into their driveway.

  A giant sticker on the front hood of the
company vehicle displayed the “Outback Bandits” logo, (two silhouetted gunslingers astride their horses) and Natalie, opening up the car door for Whitney, already wore some of the designated clothing for the trip – a creamy linen tunic buttoned up to the last two slits, and beige leggings, with light brown shin-high boots secured with laces. She also had a wide brim slouch hat with some corks hanging from the sides. Blonde hair curled down to her shoulders. Whitney thought she was stupid for putting it on for a fourteen-hour drive – where they would also be resting fitfully in the car for part of the night – since the trip didn’t cover motel expenses.

  “Well, get in, then! The trunk’s full – it’s got our clothes and my gear tucked in it, so you’ll need to keep your bag between your feet. Faith can have the back seat, unless you want to join her there as well. But I doubt you will. She’s a bit strange.” Natalie winked. Whitney cautiously stepped in, staring openly at Natalie’s hat as she shrugged off her black jacket.

  “That part of the clothing range?”

  “Why, yes, it is! I’m not quite sure what the corks do, but the hat is excellent for shielding against the sun!” Natalie beamed widely with her over painted red lips, flicking one of the corks for good measure. The shadows from the swinging hat danced over her white-rimmed steering wheel and dashboard.

  “That’s an Australian hat.” Whitney closed the door, and tucked her backpack underneath the glove apartment. “And the corks are for warding off insects.” The waft of clean, sprayed upholstery drifted into Whitney’s nostrils, and the subtle lift of petrol. She examined the gas tank and saw the meter pointing at full.