Page 43 of Truce Of The Matter

“Yes. I am, but Daija, please let me explain.” With my voice comes my ability to move so I take a step toward her but she steps back. A look of pure disgust blankets her face and shakesher head as she takes another step back, away from me. “Daija. I was?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you have to say,” she snaps then sucks her teeth. With pure hatred in her eyes, she smirks. “You say that we are so much alike. Hmph. I’m nothing like your lying, conniving ass. Nothing. Ugh. I swear. Stay the fuck away from me!” She smashes her original birth certificate into my face then storms out of the room.

Crushed.

Devastated.

Heart obliterated.

Everything in me wants to run after her but right now, I’m empty, weak, and I have nothing left in me to actually step forward. Nothing. I can’t even withstand my own body weight. As if the bones in my legs are as broken as my heart, I crumble and fall to the ground. The sound that rips through me and explodes out of my mouth shocks me.

Time seems to creep as I lay helpless on the kitchen floor, wailing. When I’ve released every sound from my soul, I try to stand and go after Daija. About three times, I make the attempt but fail miserably. My legs will not cooperate. The fourth time, I manage to get onto my knees. Encouraged, I reach out to the dinette table then hold onto it firmly as I get completely upright. As soon as I’m up, I become keenly aware of the smoke thickening in the air from my burning salmon.

It seems like I ruin everything.

“Shit!” I scream, frustrated, defeated, and broken.

With the help of the dinette table, one of the bar stools at the large island, then the island itself, I amble to the stove, turn off the griddle and the pot of burnt grits, then turn on the fan in the hood. After taking several deep breaths, I muster up the strength to find Daija. As I search downstairs, my legs awaken and slowly become steadier but I still hold the rail on the staircase as Iascend the steps to her bedroom. The sound of soulful R&B music gets louder as I approach.

Her door is closed but I don’t knock or ask for permission to enter, from fear of a rejection. So, I press the handle, squeeze it, and push the door open. Straight ahead, I see her suitcase, open, resting on a towel, on her bed. Clothes are all around it and shoes are sprawled out on the floor in front of her bed. She isn’t in my line of sight but when I close the door, I see her sitting on the built-in bench in her bay window. Her legs are bent, her arms hugging them and her head down on her knees. Her sobs are barely audible over the loud music but I hear them. I hear her.

I walk over to her sound bar, grab the remote and lower the volume. Her head jerks up at the change in sound. When she sees me, she shakes her head then lowers it again. I grab the chair from her vanity and take it with me to her window. I place it right beside her then sit. Before she can scream at me, ask me to leave, or curse me out, I just start talking.

“I had just turned fourteen the month before vacation Bible school. It was the last week of Christmas break back then. As usual, we were going to Miller’s Pointe for the week. Aunt Faye was one of the chaperones for the girls since Taj was going but she wasn’t on the bus with us. So Taj and I sat in the back with our boyfriends. Tremayne Jenkins,” I say and she lifts her head. Her red, swollen eyes widen at the name. She knows exactly who he is because he’s one of the assistant pastors at our church, his father’s church.

“He was sixteen and I thought I was in love. It’s crazy because we barely saw each other. Neither one of us were allowed to date. My parents were strict but the reverend and the first lady were tyrants. Our dating consisted of sitting together at church, hanging around at church events, and talking when he came to the restaurant. The most we had ever done was hold hands andsneak a kiss, no tongue. We were both virgins but the plan was to change that at VBS.”

I close my eyes, then shake my head at the memory. “The old phrase ‘you can’t get pregnant from just the head’ is a lie. I learned that two months after VBS. Our attempt to have sex was awkward and unsuccessful but I did walk away with something… you. It was Taj who told me I was pregnant. My irregular period was spotty and I could not stop spitting.”

I don’t know how but her wide eyes somehow get wider at the mention of Taj’s name. However, she only communicates with her eyes. No words leave her mouth so I continue.

“She bought several pregnancy tests from the store and I took them all. And all of them confirmed her suspicion. I was fourteen, barely knew my body, and definitely didn’t know what to do. So I did nothing. Told no one, not even Tre. Taj and I concealed my secret for another two months. Jackets and too-big clothes worked until I tried to leave the house in the middle of May wearing a large, brown, puffy coat. Me and my momma went back and forth for almost twenty minutes before she just took it off of me. The moment she did, she saw my growing stomach.”

“In that one moment, every decision was made for me. Every one. I had no say in anything. I wanted my baby—I wanted you—but that wasn’t an option. My choice wasn’t even considered. After being forced to tell her who the father was, I was subjected to a horrific dinner with my parents, Tre, and his. He and I just sat there as our futures were dictated.”

My hand swipes the tears I hadn’t realized had fallen on my cheeks. “That dinner was anger charged and no one cared how I felt. Even Tre let my hand go under the table and seemed to side with our parents. But when he whispered to me, ‘they’re right,’ I knew I was all alone and my baby would no longer be mine. The jabs in my heart nearly took me out that night and I cried for theremainder of my pregnancy. My tears didn’t stop after that, I just learned to swallow them.

“I was sent off to live with momma’s sister, Louise. I had you in Tampa General Hospital. That was your original birth certificate you found. I thought Momma had gotten rid of it. Against my pleas and cries, you were taken out of my hands immediately. Momma was your mother and I was just your big sister. The decision was made and final. When we returned here, the lie began. I never wanted to give you up, not even to my parents. You were mine. You are still mine, Daija, and everything I’ve ever done has been for you.”

“You lied to me my entire life,” she finally says. “Everyone has. You, Momma, Daddy, Taj, everybody.”

“No one else in the family knows, just Taj. Aunt Louise took the secret to her grave,” I interject.

“And you think that makes this better?” she snaps. “Only a few people lied. That’s better? Well, guess what? It’s not better. I’ve been surrounded by nothing but lies. Shit, my whole life is a lie. This can’t be my life. You can’t be serious right now. I’m over this and I can’t believe you.”

Her legs flatten and she tries to get up from the bench but I place my hand on her legs. “Daija, please don’t leave. I came here today to tell you and we need to talk this out,” I beg.

“And say what? Huh? Out of all people…You. You,” she repeats, her hurt so loud I hear and feel it. “How couldyoulie to me? You! You could have told me,” she says in a more elevated tone. She’s louder but her voice cracks from her cries.

“I couldn’t. They wouldn’t let me,” I try to explain. I need her to understand I didn’t have a choice, at all. “I was a child. Fourteen years old.”

“But what about when you turned eighteen? Twenty-one? Twenty-five? Thirty? Hell, what about when I turned eighteen? You had plenty of opportunities to tell me that you are mymother, not my sister. My mother! Don’t you get that? I looked up to you. You got on my nerves a lot but Ilovedmy big sister. I told you everything and you told me nothing. Everything you said to me was a lie. I hate you so much right now. Please, let me leave!” she practically screams her last plea and I reluctantly relent. I remove my hand from her legs and she scoots off the bench. “I’m staying at Porsh’s tonight,” she declares.

“Daija, I love you,” I utter.

“Truce, I can’t.”

Her last words are barely audible. Without looking back, she rushes to the door, snatches her purse off the vanity, and leaves. I don’t run after her. I let her go. She needs time. I’ve been processing this for the last twenty-one years; she’s only had hours. I just pray that she forgives me.

---