Page 13 of Ms. V's Hot Girl Summer

Well…that was a damn lie… I could think of at least two other things that could be better. Sex and a certain mother of twins who inhabited my dreams, the wet and dry variety.

Fuck. Here I went, objectifying that woman with my dirty, filthy thoughts of bending her over her car hood, lifting one of those mom dresses she wore, the flowery ones with straps on the shoulders that flowed around her ankles. They made her ass look like Easter bun on Resurrection Sunday.

No…there was no time to jerk off, so I needed to focus on other things. Like the whiteboard in front of me.

Meds, check. I’d portioned all of them out and placed them in a daily medicine dispenser, which I handed to Celo.

Food, check. The freezer overflowed with easy-to-defrost and reheat meals for the three of them.

Security: Double check. I asked Seño B to keep an eye on the apartment. There was no one more nosy, stubborn, or careful than her. She’d hit me up in a second if things were going wrong.

I did a damn good job but I couldn’t even be proud of it. I remember my mom being well…a mom, leaving me empty.Why?This is the question I ask myself daily. Why my dad, why my mom, why me? I am twenty-five. I should be enjoying myself and living life.Why?

Nah, I wasn’t about to indulge in depressing thoughts. It was better to lean into the power of my mind. Feeling sorry for myself fit me like the huge-ass jeans my father used to wear back in the day when he thought he was fly. That’s why I preferred that slim fit and positive thinking. It was how I moved forward.

With dinner already prepared for everyone, I could, in theory, relax for the evening, but my nervous energy wouldn’t leave me be. The high-pitched groan of lasers and the vibrations of the sound system in our living room pushed me to leave my privacy and enter our apartment’s common space. Mom sat on the recliner, watching her two youngest boys play video games, her hands clutching the fabric of her pj’s at her knees. A different pang hit my insides, this one tasting like regret and sorrow as it crawled up my throat.

Age had not been kind to my mother. Deep lines marked the corners of her eyes, mouth, and between her eyebrows. Her skin, once a gorgeous deep mahogany, had turned dull the more she refused to go outside. Her hair shined prematurely gray, and her gaze was always focused on some faraway memory. I wish I didn’t believe in soul mates. But how couldn’t I when I had the consequence of two souls separated too early for their time right in front of me? The psychiatrist may be right about her medical diagnosis—bipolar disorder—but without her heart engaged in maintaining her well-being, grief was really the thing to blame for her current state.

Cabanga. That is what Seño B said my mom had when she found me sitting outside our apartment with my head bowed as my mother had one of her episodes. Sometimes, nothing helped. I was so good at calming her that it became second nature, but there were days that the memories assaulted her, and Dad’s ghost whispered in her ear until she couldn’t keep herself straight.

Seño B had pulled me up with impressive strength and brought me to her apartment for a cup of sorrel with a little rum; never mind, I wasn’t twenty-one back then. She’d sagely said there was no external cure for cabanga.

No medicine that would cure such devastating and hollowing pain.

Cabanga was a yearning beyond comprehension, a hunger for something or someone so strong, your entire being transformed, and a cloud followed you. The only cure would be my mother wanting to be better and finally allowing herself to heal.

I hated thinking that way. But in times like this when I saw her wearing her pajamas from the day before, even though she’d assured me this morning she had showered, I wondered if cabanga was truly what she had.

None of my three family members acknowledged my presence. My phone pinged in my pocket as the common emptiness threatened to take over. My mood shifted as I read the text message.

Brandon: So you gonna travel next week and miss our weekly get-together

Brian: So we were thinking you should come thru for dinner tonight

Brandon: And we can play video games after! Mom is cool with it; come thru!

Mom is cool with it.Shit, I wish I believed that. That woman barely gave me the time of day, but to see Trinidad again would be exactly what I needed to leave for Ofele in good spirits. My shower walls had been painted several times these past two weeks, evidence of how bad I had it for Ms. Velasquez. Just the thought of her and I started bricking up… .again… Damn.

“Ma, comiste? Did you like what I cooked?” I asked, a thread of guilt coursing through me as I contemplated leaving my family behind to spend time with Brandon, Brian, and Ms. Velasquez.

“Ay…well, I didn’t want that, so the boys went out and got me some McDonald’s. But you can eat the food tomorrow. That way, you don’t have to cook,” she said it so matter-of-fact. I told her several times a day for the past two weeks that I was traveling.Days.But who cared what Orlando had going on? Certainly not my mother nor my brothers.

Fuck…focus on the positive.

Focus on what you can control.My father’s voice always took over on days like this when I was at my lowest energy levels.

“I’m traveling tomorrow, Ma. It’s all good. Imma go out to Brandon and Brian’s. They invited me for dinner and video games. I leave really early tomorrow. My flight is at 6:00, so I won’t see you in the morning. Okay?”

I stared at the three people closest to me in the world, and none of them looked up. Milo acknowledged my words with a brisk nod; damn… I guess I would take that, at least. Chasing away the void forming in me, I walked toward the front door, grabbed my keys, and exited the apartment. Leaving behind the noise of running feet and laser guns and the louder indifference my family clearly felt for me.

Focus on what you can control.

* * *

“Maaaaaa, Orlando is here!” Brandon hollered into the apartment, making my ears ring. I’d been to the Velasquez humble abode before. The turquoise walls reminded me of a calm afternoon at my paternal grandparents’ home in St. Mary, Jamaica. Every little corner of the apartment had personality, from the mustard-yellow sofa to the glass jars and knickknacks on the walls; the functional way Trinidad had arranged their home made me jealous.

Our apartment, with its stark white walls, beige furniture, and nondescript art I bought in Home Goods had zero warmth compared to this place. I wish I could bottle a tenth of the vibes in here and take them home with me. Maybe then we could be a proper family.

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