Somebody's Someone
Read Somebody's Someone Online
Authors: Regina Louise
Author’s Note: This work is a memoir. It contains no fictional or composite characters. All incidents and stories are true; however all names have been changed.
Copyright © 2003 by Regina Ollison
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: June 2003
ISBN: 978-0-446-55633-0
The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE: SINS OF THE MOTHER
CHAPTER THREE: TALKING TO STRANGERS
CHAPTER FOUR: NO TIME FOR GOOD-BYES
CHAPTER NINE: GLENN AND NADINE
CHAPTER TEN: NO ROOM IN THE END
CHAPTER ELEVEN: WHAT CHILD IS THIS?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DO YOU LIKE ME?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: BUTTERFLIES KISSING
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: A CHRISTMAS WANT
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: FOR THE LOVE OF YOU
CHAPTER TWENTY: SOMEBODY’S SOMEONE
For the half-million-plus children,
caught in the social welfare system, who just
want to be Somebody’s Someone
Thanks first and foremost to the little girl who reminded me of the times I’d wished upon stars, and to my ancestors for their whisperings in my ear.
To Jane Anne Staw, my beloved writing coach, who gave me a resounding “YES” when everyone else said no. I love you, Janey! Donna Levine, thank you for the faith. Arielle Eckstut, my agent extraordinaire, what can I say? You convinced me that you were the one for me and here we are at the finish line; here’s to us! Thank you so very much. Melissa, Jim, and everyone at Levine/Greenberg—thank you for the support. Caryn Karmatz Rudy, you beautiful soul, I am so grateful to have you as my editor. You’ve made so many things possible for me and I can’t praise you enough. And more than that, you’ve given me my first home in more ways than one. Thanks for choosing me, while I was choosing you (and not poking fun at the fact that I travel via Amtrak). Molly Chehak, thank you for doing your best to get back with me, it’s much appreciated. A BIG thanks to all the amazing sales, marketing, and publicity folks at Warner Books (you all know who you are) who took the time to meet with me and hear my story. I loved the lunch and conversation.
A special acknowledgment to all my clients. You’ve all been so willing and patient throughout the invention of my second career. Your commitment to continually supporting me is nothing short of miraculous; THANK YOU all!
For my sister, I only wish that this book brings the closure for you that it has for me.
Elizabeth Hartley and Phillip Thomsett of Vidal Sassoon, thank you for giving me a chance.
Lisa Faustino, I will be eternally grateful to you.
Yasna Stefanovic, Dee Mosbacher, and Nanette Gartrell, you gals rock! And I love my pen.
Nicole Garrett-Fitt, I adore you and thanks for reading the first few pages and eagerly looking forward to more. Clay Cahoon. OHMIGOD! You’re awesome and I adore you.
Parris McKnight and Karen West (formerly of Barnes and Noble booksellers), a big kudos to you, ladies. Thanks so much.
Antonio, GIRL! You are my sister!
Brian and Shelly O’Neil, thanks for the use of your “cabin.” And J.B. Cahoon, thank you for brothering my son; we are so fortunate to have you in Michael’s life.
Scott Miller! You are my peoples! Debra, Stephanie, Erin, Caroline, thank you for being great people.
Rebecca Slovin, thank you for all the support and the word-ofmouth. You are a true “Maven” and I am so lucky to know you.
Susan Choi, thank you for being so generous. I am fortunate to know you.
Dean, you’re the man. Your dedication and desire to support me has been consistent throughout this process. I have nothing less than profound respect for you. Thank you, gargantuan.
Ave Marie Montegue, you have been so instrumental in supporting me with my project. I am very grateful to you. I look forward to more Kwanzaa celebrations.
To Julia Youngblood of Serpent Source Foundation for Women Artists, thank you for being there for me from beginning to end. Your initial words of inspiration will never be forgotten. I only wish for all women to have the fortune of crossing paths with you. Your financial support helped me afford the time needed to mine this project inside out. I only hope to one day be able to return your generosity.
To Brett Hall-Jones and the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, thank you for giving me a place within your community. It is a great pleasure to feel as though I fit in among such a talented group of artists. And Diana Fuller, thank you for the chance to experience the Screenwriters Workshop. It was simply out of this world!
To Denise (DAHLLLL) and all the staff at Hedge Brook Retreat for Women, thank you for hosting me. I’d love to return someday.
Finally, I want to send a gargantuan thank-you to my family of friends; without you this couldn’t have been possible: Jimmy, Lauren, and Marissa Gordon; Carol, Emmett, Beth, and Alex Zaworski; and last but not least, Miss “Queen” Anne Gordon-Quinn. I love you all so much. Thank you for accepting me unconditionally; may God bless you all.
Laine Demetria, when I first met you and asked the question “Can Humpty be put back together again?” you handed me a small stone and said it signified me finding my way back to myself. For you, I thank God every day. I love you so big.
Diana, my breath of fresh air, how could I have done it without you? Since you’ve entered my life, I am more whole than I have ever dreamed of being, and some of that I owe to you. Thank you so much, sweetie; not only for the time and dedication, but for accepting me for who I really am. You have my love.
Last, but most definitely not least, for my reason for living— my precious son, Michael—it is because of you that I do what I do. Thank you so very much for being my muse to do it differently.
Them that’s got shall get
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own
That’s got his own
—Billie Holiday
“God Bless the Child”
SINS OF THE MOTHER
IF SOMEBODY WAS TO ASK ME
how I came to be here, I swear b’fore God that I wouldn’t know what to say to ’em. My whole life, I always wanted to be able to hear stories ’bout how I came into the world a wanted and special child. But the folks I lived with told stories ’bout my mama that wasn’t meant for children’s ears. Truth be told, seemed like nobody could even dig up a idea of how I got inside my mama, let alone what happened afterwards. Since no one was gonna tell me what I wanted to hear, I let myself believe that God had gave me a mouth and mind of my own to do what I seen fit, and I set about imaginin’ what my beginnings would’ve been like. That way, if folks was to ask me ’bout myself, I’d have an answer ready for ’em.
There she’d be, my mama, sittin’ in her hospital room in a rocking chair, arms wide open to collect me—her head leaning to the side as she smiled and reached out. I’d be folded up in a soft pink blanket that smelled like flowers from God’s backyard. After the nurse laid me in my mama’s arms, she’d drag her breath in and know that everything was the way it was s’posed to be. Then for the fun of it, my mama would pull my li’l arm out to see whose hands I’d got. Maybe they’d be stubby and fat like Uncle So-and-so’s? Or even lean and long like Great-gran’mama Whatchamacallit. And somehow, knowing that she was thinking ’bout me, I’d reach out and bind my little fingers round her one and know we belonged to each another. We’d feel just like the white families do on them TV shows I watched. ’Cause finally, there I’d be, the one my mama’d been waiting her whole life for—a li’l girl to call her own.
In no time a’tall, she’d name me. Not just any ole ugly name, like Lula Mae or Donna Janine. No, it’d be one that had been hanging round her mind, waiting for me to come so she could finally give it a rightful resting place. After that, she’d unwrap me like a present and count all my fingers and toes to make certain they was all there. Then the nurse would call my daddy and he’d come, and drive us all home. We’d live happily ever after. And that would be the end.
If anybody was to ask me, that’s what I’d tell ’em.
Truth was, from as far back as folks could recollect, me and my sister Doretha lived off and on in a foster home with a woman named Johnnie Jean Thornhill. We called her Big Mama since using her first name was out the question if you was under a hundred. And the times when we wasn’t with Johnnie Jean, we’d be trying to get back together with our mama, Ruby, whose only talent—accordin’ to the grown folks—was running round town drunk and cussing up a storm while trying to take up with other women’s husbands. This meant that those few visits we did have always got cut short and Big Mama’d have to come and pick me and Sister up from wherever my mama would’ve left us. Nobody would tell me this stuff to my face—I had to play like I was ’sleep most of the times to hear the whispers of the grown folks.
When I did ask somebody ’bout the exact reason my mama left, and how it came down, everybody got deaf and dumb all a sudden like that girl Helen Keller that I read ’bout so I had to play possum real good and just sit and listen. I finally got the answer and then some. I learned that Doretha had come some five years b’fore I was even thought of. They say that Ruby’s not wantin’ Sister started way b’fore Doretha was even born. It was all on account of Ruby being thirteen with nobody to claim what was laying in her belly, and since Big Mama could get extra money for taking in a pregnant girl, she convinced Ruby to stay on. And once Sister was born, Big Mama took to her like she was her very own. Apparently, five years later, nobody was stepping up to claim her second child either—that would’ve been me, Regina Louise—but I never got that far to hear how I came.
If you let Doretha tell it, she didn’t even know I was her sister till she was almost nine and me four. But that was almost seven years ago, and I couldn’t recall knowing her any different. And the part ’bout Ruby being her mama was something she never talked on. And if you did, it was sho’ to put her in a bad way. I learned quick how to stay on Sister’s good side. If the truth was to
really
be told, I never even knowed Ruby was gone till she called one day and said she was on her way to get me and my sister. But she never showed up.
The first time Ruby didn’t come wasn’t so bad. I just told myself that she hadn’t been to the house in such a long time that she prob’ly forgot the address and was still driving round looking for it. But the many times after that, when she’d promise and still didn’t come, there’d be a achin’ in the middle of my bosom anytime I’d hear her name talked ’bout.
If anybody bothered to ask me, I’d tell ’em that the worst thing ’bout a mama leaving her children was that there ain’t nobody to take up for ’em if trouble seemed to find ’em. And at Big Mama’s, folks sho’ needed taking up for.
Careful not to disturb the raggedy screen door that barely kept the man-eatin’ mosquitas from tearin’ our asses up, I leant my body into the frame and stared up at the sky. I could tell by the way the clouds moved that God was gonna start cryin’ soon. I wondered who had pissed the angels off this time. The white lady from the Church of the Nazarene told me that whenever somebody committed a cruel act against one of God’s children, their guardian angel would run and tell him, and he would cry for their pain—that’s where raindrops come from. The white lady said that when the clouds changed quickly from fluffy white to smoky gray, well that’s when the angelic messengers was runnin’ ’cross the heavens. And when every breath you take holds the promise of his tears mixin’ with the dirt, it was guaranteed to be a grand event. Thunder! Lightnin’! And sometimes if the crime was unforgivable, he might just throw golf balls made of ice at ’em. I know one thing: I felt sorry for whoever it was this time, but I sho’ was glad it wasn’t me.
That screen door was what sep’rated where we lived from the other folks who also lived on our land. See, there was two houses plus a silver Airstream trailer on our one property. Me and Sister lived with Big Mama and her husband Daddy Lent in one house. Since our house was so small, Sister and I shared a room. That made two rooms left: one for Big Mama and Daddy Lent, and the last one for none other than Lula Mae Bledsoe—the dangerous one.
The other house was for Big Mama’s real daughter Aint Bobbie and her four children plus one. The plus one was a nobodies’ child named Donna Janine—who Aint Bobbie took care of even though she wasn’t hers. As for the trailer—it was used for the overflow of visitors that we would sometimes have.
