Who Asked You? (18 page)

“I say let her have them back. They’re her kids and regardless of if she’s fit or not, she has a right to come and get them and take them home with her, wherever home might be.”

“Did I ask you what you thought, Arlene?”

“I’m just voicing my opinion. For what it’s worth. Even when you get sick it’s always good to get a second opinion. Sometimes three.”

“How is Omar doing these days?”

She gets the weirdest look on her face, like I struck a nerve or something.

“Omar is fine. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Did I give you the impression that I was thinking something might not be?”

“No, but I’m just telling you.”

“Is he still losing weight?”

“Yes.”

“How much is he going to lose?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, tell him I said hi and he can stop by every now and then to say hi. He told me he would like to take the boys to a movie one day. So I’m hoping that invitation still stands. Would you ask him for me?”

“When I see him.”

At first I was going to confront her about what Trinetta said she told her about Lee David not being Trinetta’s daddy, and even though it’s true she didn’t have any damn right telling her. This was an accident that happened when Lee David and I were thinking about getting a divorce and then decided not to. I told Lee David after we got back together, and he said he knew Trinetta wasn’t his blood, but she was now his daughter. I knew I shouldn’t have told Arlene. She’s got a big-ass mouth, and I’m still trying to figure out what I did to her years ago that would’ve possessed her to tell Trinetta something as hurtful as this in the first place.

It can wait.

G
randma?”

“Yes, baby.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About what, baby?”

“I wanna be on the swim team.”

“Well, we can certainly look into that.”

“I swim fast, you know.”

“I know you do, baby. You swim like a shark.”

“You wanna know something else, Grandma?”

“I’m all ears.”

“I ain’t taking no more of these pills. And that’s my final answer.”

I
been parked out in front of Trinetta’s parents’ house for going on two hours. A old lady who must be the one taking care of her daddy came to the door right after I first got here.

“Can I help you, son?”

I just shook my head.

“Who might you be looking for?”

“Mrs. Butler.”

“Well, she won’t be home for at least another hour or so. After she picks the boys up from school, they usually stop by the pool and the library. What day is it?”

“Last time I checked, it was still Tuesday, ma’am.”

“Yes, this is Tuesday’s schedule. And who might you be, son?”

“I’m Dante.”

“Are you family?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, you’re welcome to come in and sit on the sunporch, where it’s nice and cool.”

“I’m fine out here, ma’am.”

“Well, just knock if you need something.”

“I will,” I say.

I never met Trinetta’s family and this ain’t exactly the way I wanted to. I couldn’t call on the phone. That wouldn’t be right. Plus, I know they probably gon’ think I’m the one responsible for what happened. But I tried to get her to straighten up and fly right. I was the one who talked her into going to Atlanta and tried to get her into the church after I joined and found out how good it felt to be saved. But even carrying our child she couldn’t see her way on the path to Jesus and fell down into that deep hell she was living in back in L.A. When you love drugs more than you love yourself and even your unborn baby, God is about the only thing that can save you. But Trinetta hid from God. She hid from goodness. She even hid from love. I loved her ’cause I saw the goodness inside her. Something she didn’t even know was there.

When I hear somebody knocking on the window, I look out and it’s a middle-aged white woman. I’m trying to figure out what she doing in this neighborhood and what would possess her to even think about approaching me. I roll the window down.

“Hello, young man. I’m Tammy. I live in that house right across the street and since I can’t help but notice you’re sitting in a car in front of my best friend’s house with your engine running, I’m wondering if there’s something I might be able to do to help you if you’re lost?”

“I’m not lost, ma’am. I’m waiting on Mrs. Butler.”

She looks at me strange like. Like she suddenly know who I am and what I’m doing here. Then she get this look of terror on her face and cover up her mouth with both her hands and start walking backwards away from the car. “You must be that Dante.”

“That Dante?”

“I’m sorry. Where is Trinetta?”

I don’t know this woman and I don’t think it would be right for me to tell her where Trinetta is, I don’t care if she do live right across the street from her mama. So I don’t say nothing.

“Is she in California?”

I shake my head no.

“Can she talk?”

“Not to us,” I say before catching myself. And that’s when I let my head drop and it hits the steering wheel and I grab hold of it and then put the car in drive but have to slam on the brakes when I almost run into Mrs. Butler, who is coming around me and about to pull into the driveway. I see Ricky and Luther in the backseat. They wave to me in slow motion. When Mrs. Butler stops the car and gets out, she stands in the driveway with her hands on her hips, as if she waiting for me to say something, and then she lets them drop.

“Go on inside, boys,” she says, and they do exactly what she tell ’em to do.

“Where is she, Dante?”

“At the morgue.”

“Here or in Georgia?”

“Georgia.”

I look into Mrs. Butler’s eyes and she look into mine, and somehow she can see that this was not my doing. “I’m sorry,” I say, and walk over to hug her.

“I know,” she says. And hugs me back. “I know.”

T
he boys didn’t cry until they saw me cry.

“We didn’t want our mama to die, did we, Ricky?”

Ricky shakes his head in slow motion.

“I feel very sad,” Luther says.

“I wanted her to maybe come live with us here with you, Grandma. So we could help her with the new baby.”

I want to say something, but sitting on this couch with the two of them and listening to what’s pouring out of their little hearts is breaking mine. I don’t know how I can find the words to comfort them when I’m aching all over. I regret hanging up on her. I regret not helping her try to get off drugs, no matter how many times it took. I regret abandoning her, knowing she had become a stranger to herself. I regret not telling her how much faith I still had in her. How much I still hoped for her. I thought my anger and impatience and disappointment was telling her just how much I loved her because I was watching the smart, sweet daughter I raised disappear. I regret not cheering for her more. I regret trying to be her conscience, her common sense. I regret that I didn’t have the power to save her. It is clear to me right this minute that regret is just a wasted emotion.

I look at both of my beautiful grandsons, kiss them on top of the head, then put my arms around them and hold them close. I realize I am now responsible for their future. I don’t know how you can tell how much of what you give children will determine how they turn out. But all I can do is try to give them the best of what I have to offer. I hope it’s enough.

After I tuck them in, I hear Dexter come in. I walk out to the kitchen and there he is, hunched over the counter. He has heard. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

He stands up and attempts to hug me, but for some reason I find myself backing away and pointing my finger at him. “I just want to say this. Parents are supposed to die before their children, Dexter. So I’m begging you right now, please don’t make me have to go through this again. Please.”

“I won’t, Ma. I promise you.”

Quentin couldn’t—or didn’t—make it to Trinetta’s service, claiming little Margaret was too young to travel. Why he felt the need to bring her is beyond me. Dexter brought his old—and I suppose now his new—girlfriend, Skittles (whose real name is Karen), who tried her best not to look like a stripper but came up short. She cooked something that nobody touched, not even the boys, who eat anything yellow. And to everybody’s surprise, Omar didn’t sit next to Arlene, but way in the back of the church with his cousins Lauren and Zachary. Since he’s lost all that weight, he looks just like his father. Venetia sat next to me and squeezed my hand so hard I thought the bones in all of my fingers would break. Twinkle sent flowers and left me a message saying she had been praying this wouldn’t happen to Trinetta, which is why she moved her daughters back to Memphis, where she grew up. She said she couldn’t afford a plane ticket but wanted me to know she’s finishing cosmetology training. I don’t know how Nurse Kim heard about Trinetta’s passing but she sent a very nice card. It was postmarked from Alaska.

From one week to the next, and as these weeks turn into months, I’m still having a hard time accepting that my daughter is not coming back. I’m hoping she calls and tells me this has just been a big misunderstanding. But she doesn’t call. I go to work under a cloud. I am surprised when I put a meal on the table and don’t remember cooking it. Sometimes, cars honk at me to move when the light changes. I have lost weight but would take it back if it could reverse what has happened. I wish I knew how long grief lasts, because it is so heavy on your heart and doesn’t seem to make room to let in any kind of joy. Children seem to recover much faster from loss and disappointment than adults. I wish I could steal some of that energy. I don’t want to pretend like I didn’t lose my daughter, I just want to be able to remember her and smile.

Venetia and I made up. I apologized for being insensitive at a time when she just needed someone to listen to how she was feeling, not why. Of course, Rodney is still pretending to be a bachelor and Venetia’s still pretending like he’s just on a working vacation. Whatever works for them works for me. I just want my sister to be happy, and knowing that she’s not is what makes me sad sometimes. Arlene, on the other hand, still has the same attitude but bit her lip and broke down and told Venetia that she just didn’t like the way her husband had been taking advantage of her all these years, that she was angry for Venetia and wished Venetia would realize that adultery is a sin and go ahead and divorce Rodney’s cheating ass so she can sell that house, which she told Venetia she could get a good price for, and Arlene said she would be more than happy to find her a more contemporary condo, since Venetia was only one child away from being free now that Zach was away at college. She meant well.

When Arlene calls me and even mentions Venetia’s name, I change the subject or pretend I’m busy and ask if I can call her back. Most of the time I don’t, and I think she’s starting to take the hint. Yesterday, she just left me a message, which to my surprise had nothing to do with Venetia. “Betty Jean, I was just wondering if you’ve been down to Social Services yet and filed those papers, since you’re entitled to monthly assistance for those boys, and if you’re having a hard time over there, please don’t be too proud to say so, because I would be more than happy to give, not lend, you whatever you might need to help you get through this difficult time. Call me when it’s convenient.”

I had to replay this at least two or three times because, first of all, Arlene’s voice was pleasant, I’d even say warm, and I was thinking maybe she might be drunk or something, but by the third listen, I realized she was just being nice. I was so moved, I called and told her how much I appreciated her offer and for caring, and should things get to that point, I would certainly take her up on it.

It takes me six months to finally find the energy to come back to Social Services to ask for their help. My credit cards are up to their limit and my car, which is going on seventeen years old, is starting to need attention, and that attention also costs money. According to Dexter and Luther, I really need a new one. I am not in a position to add any more monthly payments to the ones I’m already making. I’ll worry about it when it breaks down.

Ricky is nickel-and-diming me, being on the swim team. Twice a week I sit by that pool and watch him torpedo his way through that water and try not to think about all the hidden costs that I was not prepared for. For seven years old he’s outswimming some of the nine-year-olds in freestyle, and he’s learning the breaststroke even though his little chest barely pops above those waves. I am so proud of him. And it is becoming obvious that his attention in class has improved since being weaned off that medication. Not all pills work, and there are too many kids out here on medication for one thing, when it seems to cause something else.

I’m grateful Luther doesn’t have expensive hobbies, but the boy is growing like Jack and the Beanstalk. Every time I look around I have to buy him new shirts, pants, and sneakers. He’s still a bookworm and reads anything and everything.

When I hear my name being called, I cannot believe I get the same bitch that didn’t help me before. When I sit down and she starts looking over my chart, she acts like this is the first time she’s ever laid eyes on me. She is wearing that same boring gray suit and still looks like she has never had sex and doesn’t care. I don’t know who told her red lipstick looks good on her. It doesn’t. Especially on her top two teeth. But I’m not about to say a word.

“So, what brings you back,” she asks, looking over my form, and then looks back up and says, “Mrs. Butler?”

I can tell she still doesn’t like me, or anybody else that comes in here, for that matter. I don’t know why some people work in public jobs if they don’t like the public. “My situation has changed.”

“Did your daughter come back?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Sometimes they do. So what brings you here today?”

I hand her the death certificate. She gives me an evil eye.

“What happened to her?”

“What difference does it make?”

She sucks her teeth and that lipstick just smudges.

“I need to put the cause of death in the file.”

“She OD’d in the backseat of a car. How’s that?”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

I want to say, “Once more with feeling, bitch!” but of course all I want to know is how long it will take to get some aid and how much they will be able to help me.

“Thank you.”

“I see it’s been six months since she passed on. What took you so long to apply for assistance?”

“I’ve been a little overwhelmed.”

“I’m sure you have. Has your financial situation changed since you were last here?”

“Yes, it has.”

“In what way?”

“It’s worse.”

“Are you still working?”

“Yes, but I don’t know for how much longer.”

“Why is that?”

“Because my grandsons require a lot of time and attention and they participate in after-school activities and my husband is terminally ill and . . .”

“You didn’t say anything about your husband being sick last time.”

“Well, he is. Do you want me to get the diagnosis from his doctor to prove it?”

“It might help. And again, I’m sorry. It’s obvious you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“Probably no more than most of the folks who come in here.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to expedite your application but I can authorize some emergency food stamps for you today, if that would help?”

“Anything would help.”

“Now, it still might take a few weeks because this is just part of a bureaucratic process, but here’s my card should you have any unforeseen problems.”

She stands up, walks me to the door, and rubs my shoulder.

“Thank you for your help,” I say, and turn back around and move my index finger back and forth in front of my mouth. “Wipe your teeth. You’ve got lipstick on them.”

She does it and then smiles. “Thank you,” she says.