Unbeweaveable (13 page)

Good Times

Sunday morning rolled around and I couldn't stand one more minute of inactivity. I didn't have time to get much exercise in New York, but all the walking I did, and the fact I had an ulcer that induced vomiting, kept my weight down. But my ulcer was on good behavior lately, and my Maalox bottle was half-full—something that never happened towards the end of the month. This also meant that some of my size 4 clothes were starting to feel tight, and after being scalped I couldn't be fat, too. I threw on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top and went to the kitchen to ask Renee if I could borrow a pair of sneakers.

“For what?” she asked, flipping over what looked like a blueberry pancake.

“I want to go running.”

“Sounds great. We have an amazing gym here.”

“I think I want to try doing it outside.”

“In this heat? You'll be a puddle of sweat in five seconds.”

I crossed my hands over my chest. “Still, I'd like to try.”

She shrugged. “Check in my closet. I know I have a few pairs in there. Don't bother returning them. Just take whichever one you want.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading to her bedroom. I opened her door and shook my head. Her bed was unmade, her pristine white comforter tossed on the floor. I walked into her closet and stood there for a minute, my eyes trying to adjust to the mess before me. Shoes, clothes—everything lay on a heap on the floor. The clothes that were hung up were awkwardly on wire hangers, one sleeve on, the other tilted to the floor. I clawed through the mess, and pulled the only pair of sneakers I could find, a brown pair with Coach's distinctive logo splayed across the shoe. I sat on the floor and put them on and walked back toward the front of the condo to the door.

“See you later,” I said to Renee.

“Don't melt.”

Getting off the elevator I nodded at the doorman and headed outside. A burst of heat hit me so hard, I lost my breath. I shook it off and started running, heading to the walking trail that surrounds Renee's building.

Five minutes later I was back in the condo, soaking wet from sweat. My hair had puffed up into a teeny-weeny Afro and my legs felt like licorice.

“Back so soon?” Renee asked.

“Shut up.”

* * *

After a shower and laying my hair down with gel, I was in the kitchen eating the blueberry pancakes Renee fixed.

“These are good. Homemade?”

“But of course.”

“Where's Beverly?”

“Mama sleeps late on Sundays. You don't remember that?”

I shrugged and inhaled another mouthful of pancakes. “I guess I forgot.”

“You don't remember the sign she made and put on her door every Sunday?”

I laughed from the memory. Renee and I used to sit on the floor outside her room and write notes on big pieces of construction paper, then slide them under Beverly's door. Most Sundays she would walk out like a zombie and slip on the paper on her floor. She never completely fell, just stumbled around like a drunk. She'd yell at us every Sunday morning, and never remembered to look down the following Sunday.

“What do you have planned today?” I asked.

“I wanted to just lie around and rent movies.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Renee squealed in delight, and, after finishing my pancakes, we headed to the living room. I was tense for a few minutes after eating so many pancakes, but my stomach sent no pain, and I felt the tension leave my shoulders. We laughed our heads off at the new Vince Vaughn movie, and then watched DVDs of all of
The
Hills
like two Valley girls. It was the first time I'd really relaxed since I got to Houston. I have to admit, lying on the couch with Renee on the floor near me was soothing.

I thought that Beverly would pop out of her room around lunch. But she hadn't left her room all day. Renee went in there occasionally, sometimes bringing her water or food on a tray, but other than that I didn't hear a peep from her. After yesterday's tussle, it felt good.

“We used to do this all the time when we were little,” Renee said. I was running her long hair between my fingers, pretending I owned it.

“Huh?”

“We used to watch TV with you lying on the sofa and me like this on the floor. And you used to touch my hair.” She turned to look at me. “Remember?”

The memory came flooding back. We used to sneak in the living room and watch
Good
Times
or
Sanford
and
Son
.

“I do remember now,” I said. “Man, I wonder how I forgot that.”

She shrugged. “I can't believe how much you forgot. When you moved to New York it's like you created a different life for yourself.”

“Well, duh. That's what people are supposed to do when they move away. Time for them to spread their wings and be independent.”

“I'm not talking about independence. I'm talking about how you shut me out of your life. It's like I didn't exist anymore.”

I groaned. “Do you really want to get into this right now? I thought we were having fun—”

“We are. I just want to know why you didn't visit. Or call.”

“I did! Remember when Peter—”

“Yes, I remember when Peter died and how you flew down here and stayed for what? An hour after the funeral? Don't you know that's the hardest time for a family? After the funeral?”

I didn't know because I hadn't lost anyone.

“Really, Renee, did you need me there? You had Beverly—”

“It wasn't the same. And yes, since you brought it up, I
did
need you there.”

I sighed. “I'm sorry, okay? Sorry I wasn't there for you. But I'm here now. Can't we just drop all that stuff?”

“You're only here because you
have
to be, not because you
want
to be. If it was up to you, your next visit down here would have been at Mama's funeral. Or mine.”

“That's not true!” Even as I said it, I knew her statement had a touch of truth in it. Would I have come back to Houston for any other reason?

“I would have come back if Beverly re-married. Or if you had.”

She shook her head. “You see? You come back for
events
. But even then it's not a real visit. We never talk anymore…”

“We're talking now,” I said. I sighed again and rubbed the nape of my neck, still shocked to not feel my weave on my shoulders. “Look, since you feel like dredging up stuff from the past, why aren't we at Grandpa's? I told you yesterday I wanted to visit him.”

“I don't know, I guess I forgot.”

“And when I mentioned it this morning, I guess it slipped your mind then, too?”

She stood up and stretched. “Just forget I brought it up.” She walked to the kitchen and I followed her.

“Oh, no, you're not going to get off that easy. Why?”

She looked in the refrigerator, the stainless steel door like a wall between us. “You want a sandwich? I'm hungry.”

“No, I don't want a sandwich.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, pulling out ingredients and setting them on the counters. I closed the door and watched her cut up a tomato.

“You can try to ignore me, Renee, but I'm not going to let the subject drop.”

She stopped chopping. “Fine. I'll take you to go see him. It's not like I was preventing you from driving…”

I raised an eyebrow and she shook her head and continued.

“Although…I can understand your apprehension after the accident the other day. I didn't want you to see him yet because I don't want you stirring up stuff about Mama.”

“I know. But I really just want to visit him. I'm not going to ask him anything about my father.”

“Ask who about your father?” Beverly asked.

I didn't even hear her walk up, so the sound of her voice made me jump. Bare feet on hardwood floors would do that to you.

“Ask who about your father?” Beverly asked again, returning an empty glass to the sink.

“Nothing. I wanted to visit Grandpa tomorrow.”

Beverly crossed her arms over chest. “What is it that you would like to ask him that you don't feel comfortable asking me?”

Why did my parents divorce? Did Beverly really love my father?
All those questions and more swirled through my brain. Instead I said, “Nothing now. You caught the end of our conversation. I was telling Renee how bad I felt about yesterday. I'm sorry.”

Beverly uncrossed her arms and exhaled. She pulled me toward her and held me in her arms. It was the second time that being in her arms brought tears to my eyes. I blinked them back and felt the familiar burn deep in my stomach. I pulled away.

“You all right?”

I smiled and rubbed my stomach. “I'm fine. Just pigged out a little too much. I think I'll turn in.”

“It's only 1:00! You're tired?” Renee asked.

I kept rubbing my stomach and nodded. “Just going to take a quick nap,” I said to both of them as I walked to my bedroom.

“Don't forget, you're coming with me tomorrow!”

I nodded, and race-walked down the hall to my bedroom. After closing the door I ran to my bathroom and threw up violently into the toilet. I flushed undigested food down and sat there on the cold, travertine floors. After the feeling of nausea subsided, I crawled to my nightstand and opened my bottle of Maalox, swallowing it like water. I grabbed my journal and pen and wrote:

Have I really been away so long that my mother's touch makes me cry like a silly little girl? I hate the way she makes me feel—all clingy and needy. Me, needy? No way. And I hate the way I just lie around all the time. Renee keeps telling me to relax, but it feels lazy to me. I don't know what to do with myself. What do you do when you have all the time in the world? I hate change. As weird as it sounds, throwing up just now made me feel better. That was the closest thing to a routine that I've done this past week. How sad.

Not a Clue

Hearing someone knock on my door was not a regular occurrence when I lived in New York. Norma had a key, and the only other knocking would normally be Chinese takeout. So you can imagine how nice I was to Renee when I found out she was the culprit behind the knocking.

“What?”

“Sorry,” she looked down at my white socks. “You're not ready. Are you still coming?”

“Where?”

“I told you I'm speaking at Druid today. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She looked at me. “So…”

“Oh. Oh, you want me to come with you?”

“What other reason would I be knocking on your door?” She looked down at her watch. “Can you be ready in ten minutes?”

I rubbed my hands through my hair, which I'm sure was standing up all over my head. I tied it down with the scarf every night, but somehow the thing managed to slip off, so I woke up with bed head every morning.

“I'll try.”

She nodded. “I'll wait for you downstairs.”

Fifteen minutes later I walked off the elevator to meet Renee in the lobby. She stood when she saw me.

“I thought you said ten minutes?”

“Do you see this hair?” I said, pointing to my head. My hair was brushed back and slicked with pomade. Well, I wish it was slick. Puffy would be a more appropriate word.

“It looks fine to me.”

“You would say that. You know I look a hot mess.”

“You're fine. Come on, we're going to be late.”

I followed Renee to her Mercedes and got into the passenger seat. “I can tell this is going to be a bad day,” I said as I buckled up. I ran my hands through my hair and burst into tears.

“Oh, my goodness, Mariah are you okay?”

I couldn't answer. I pounded my thighs with my fists, bit my lips, but nothing would stop the tears from falling. I couldn't stop them.

“What's wrong?” Renee asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.

I jumped back. “Don't touch me! I'm fine. I'm just fine,” I choked out as the tears kept flowing.
Mariah, get a hold of yourself. You are a strong black woman, and strong black women don't cry! Now pull it together
. But the more I tried to rein it in, the more the tears flowed.

Renee pulled me into her arms. “It's okay. Let it go. Cry, Mariah. It's okay to cry.”

I went limp in her arms. All sorts of sounds came from me, grunts, howls, and groans. I just kept crying. I sat up finally and wiped her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“It's okay. It'll dry by the time we get to the school. Now tell me, what brought this on?”

“My hair.”

“Your hair? You're crying because you don't like your hair?”

“No, I'm crying because I
hate
my hair. There's a big difference.”

Renee laughed.

“You think this is funny?”

“I think it's downright hilarious.”

I wiped my wet face and opened her glove compartment looking for a napkin. There wasn't any.

“Here,” she said, handing me a tissue from her purse.

I wiped my face and blew my nose. I pulled the visor down to check my appearance, but got one look at my hair and slapped it closed.

“I should've known you would think this was funny. You don't know what's it like to walk around with nappy, short hair. You have good hair.”

Renee pointed to her head. “This is good hair?”

“Don't play dumb, Renee. You know exactly who got blessed with good hair and who got stuck with the nickname Cotton Ball. You know I struggled with my complexion for years. That's one thing I can't change. But I refuse to be dark and nappy. I can't have two burdens on me.”

“Burdens? Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes, I hear myself! I don't care about being politically correct. It's just you and me in this car. You like being the lighter sister, the pretty one. You like the fact that I'm in Houston, staying with you, needing your help. You get off on this. And you know what else? I'm starting to believe the real reason why you won't offer to put some weave in my head is because you're afraid I'll steal your shine.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Let's face it, Renee, you may have all the looks in the family, but I got blessed with all the brains. If I get my weave back, you'll feel threatened by me. 'Cause with my weave I'll have it all.”

Tears started welling up in Renee's eyes. “Is that what you think of me?”

My stomach began to burn and I pressed my hands to it. I didn't answer.

“Is that what you think of me, Mariah?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and started the drive to our old high school.

“You are a mean, ungrateful bully.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I'm sorry about your hair, Mariah. I am. But I'm not going to apologize for how I look. This is how God made me. And if I were you I wouldn't apologize for how I looked, either.”

“I didn't—”

“Let me finish!” Renee shouted. She stopped at a red light. “You think you got all the smarts in the family, but if you're so smart you would have figured out that it's not society telling you that you're not good enough—you're telling yourself you're not good enough. I'm sick of people thinking I think I'm better than them because my skin is lighter or because my hair is longer. So they try to talk about me, call me names, tell me how stuck-up I am, or that I think I'm all that. But you know what?
They
think I'm all that. So they try to get me feeling bad about myself. In that twisted mind of theirs, they think I'm better than them. And that's stupid. And so are you.”

The light changed to green and she wiped the tears that were under her chin. “You know the real reason I didn't offer to buy your weave?”

“Why?”

“Because you become that person. You become the person that thinks she's better than everyone, that stomps on anyone who seems beneath her. You're evil with that weave, Mariah.”

Evil? Ouch. That was harsh.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and continued to rub my burning belly.

“So what if I am? I like being that way. It's better to be the one doing the damage instead of the one receiving it.”

“It's the same and you know it. You can feel however you want to feel about your hair. But I'm not responsible for what God gave you. You better learn to appreciate it. A lot of women would kill to have hair like yours.”

“Whatever.” I clicked on the radio and turned the volume up to let her know that I was finished talking.

“I know you didn't.” She clicked it back off. “This is my car. Don't touch my radio. If you don't want to talk just say so.”

“I'm done talking,” I said, acting more like my shoe size than my age.

“Fine.”

* * *

It's funny; when you're young, everything looks big to you. When I was a student at Druid High, everything was bigger, the halls were longer, the teachers intimidating. But as I followed Renee into the library where a few students were gathered, I was surprised at how small everything seemed. Renee walked to the front of the small circle of students while I took a seat in the back and slurped my latte.

She shook someone's hand and he introduced her to the class.

“Students, this is Renee Johnson. She's the last speaker in our drug and alcohol program, and she's going to share her story on how she beat her addiction to alcohol.”

I choked on my latte and started coughing. One of the students had to slap my back to get me to stop, and finally I let out a strangled whisper that I was okay. Renee? An alcoholic?

“Good morning, students. Thanks, David, for the introduction. You wouldn't believe that my dependence on alcohol started right here at Druid. I was always getting made fun of, constantly teased. I didn't have many friends, and the other girls here made life seem unbearable.”

A few students chuckled.

“No really, I got it pretty bad. Some of my classmates started a vicious rumor that I was HIV positive.”

A girl raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“You're really pretty. Those girls were probably jealous that you were getting all the guys.”

“In hindsight I see that now, but that's pretty hard to explain to a sixteen-year-old. The teasing was bad. One evening after dinner at home, I cleared the dishes. I carried them all into the kitchen and noticed my father had left his brandy glass on the table. It was still half-full. I took a sip, and I remember how it burned my throat. But I drained his glass. Soon I was sneaking into his liquor cabinet and drinking and adding tea to make all his liquor bottles feel full. Then I started paying our maid to buy my alcohol.”

I couldn't believe this. Renee? A drinking problem? How could I have missed that?

Another hand went up.

“Yes, sir, in the purple shirt?”

“How did you keep getting away with it? When did your parents find out?”

“I think my father suspected something right away. He had to notice that someone was drinking his stuff. But he never said a word. I drank pretty much through my entire junior and senior year of high school.”

“Did you go to college?”

“No. After I graduated from high school, I stayed home. I kept drinking, and a lot of the times I would black out from having drunk so much alcohol. At a party I drank so much that I woke up in a hospital. They said I had alcohol poisoning.”

“Did you stop?”

Renee laughed. “I wish. Things just got worse. By this time my parents knew I had a problem, so they tried to get me to do all sorts of treatment programs. But I refused.”

“Why couldn't they make you go?”

“I was eighteen. I was an adult. By law they couldn't make me do anything.”

“So what happened next?”

“When I drank I felt popular and cool. I was invited to tons of parties—mostly because I provided all the alcohol. It was at one of these parties that I got so wasted and was out of my mind. I convinced myself that I could drive home. So I did.”

“None of your friends tried to stop you?”

“They were all drunk, too, so they thought me driving was a great idea. But I got in an accident. I was okay, but I was pretty banged up. I hurt the other driver—broke his leg in two places.”

“Did he sue you?”

“Worse. He married me.”

They all laughed.

I remember faintly about Beverly telling me about Renee's accident. I didn't know that's how she met Peter, though. Why didn't I know that?

“Did you stop drinking when you got married?”

“I tried, but I didn't stop. I hid it from him, but soon he noticed how much I drank. He tried to help me, even tried an intervention. I don't have many friends, so it looked pretty pathetic that it was only my parents there.”

My stomach began to tremble.

“My father died shortly after and I really began to hit bottom. I stopped trying to hide my drinking from Peter and…well, things got really bad.”

“What made you stop?”

“I got pregnant.”

My heart seized. A baby.

I could hear the tears behind Renee's voice, but not one tear fell from her eyes. “I did pretty well for the first month. Went cold turkey. Not one drink. But then I slipped up and started drinking again.”

“Even when you knew you were pregnant?”

Renee nodded.

“Did your husband leave you?”

“No. He stayed. Even after I lost the baby.”

Sharp intakes of breath filled the room, followed by silence.

“After that miscarriage, that was it. I haven't had a drink since.”

“Did you try to have more kids?”

“Yes.”

“How many do you have?”

“None. I've had four miscarriages.”

“You think it's because you drank?”

She shrugged. “I'll never know. But to be honest, I do think I put so much stuff in my body that I can't carry a child.”

“Did you adopt?”

“No. My husband died—”

“Did you relapse?”

“I thought I would. But no, I'm still clean. Not a drop of alcohol.”

The students clapped.

Another student raised their hand.

“Yes?”

“Why didn't you talk to someone before your drinking got so out of hand?”

Renee's eyes locked with mine. “I didn't have anybody to talk to.”

* * *

After Renee finished talking to the group of students, I walked out of the library and down the hall to the girls' restroom. I rubbed my stomach, opened the door to the stall and knelt down on the toilet and threw up. I wiped sweat from my brow and flushed. I stayed on the floor near the toilet and for the second time that day, cried.

A few minutes later I heard Renee calling my name.

“I'm in here,” I said, the urge to vomit again coming back. I swallowed, then threw up. Renee pushed open the stall to see me in all my glory.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stooping down near me.

“No. No, I'm not okay. Why didn't you tell me, Renee?” I wiped tears from my eyes. She left the stall and returned with a moistened paper towel. She patted my forehead.

“Like I said, I tried to tell you. But you were so wrapped up in yourself, you didn't pay attention. Eventually I stopped trying to tell you. I hoped that you would catch on by noticing how different I was acting. But you never talked to me. I thought you were so busy at school…I finally figured out that you didn't
want
to talk to me.”

“I'm so sorry, Renee.” I fell into her arms and she rubbed my back. “I didn't know about the drinking and about…the babies.”

I could feel her stiffen, but she continued to rub my back.

“I'm a horrible sister.” I waited for her to deny it, to ease my guilty conscience by telling me that I just made a mistake. But she said nothing and just continued to rub my back.