Page 27 of It's Me They Follow
JANUARY 15, 2020
6:06 A.M.
Dear Elle,
I had a random memory or dream or flashback—maybe because it’s January.
Remember when Mommy was diagnosed as “legally blind,” when we were kids, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing?
So how she did not hear my head smacking into the wall repeatedly that New Year’s Eve is an unresolved mystery for me.
The day started wrong. Mommy was spinning in the kitchen, lost in a maze of her own making. I came in to say good morning and hoped she’d remember to wish me a happy twelfth birthday. But instead, she wished me a happy New Year’s Eve.
“Thanks, Mommy.” I understood what she meant.
It was a special day, so she let me set her table with place mats and cloth napkins and designer plate set on top of designer plate set alongside her collection of angels.
“These’re cute,” I said, admiring her collection. “But I want to set the table WITHOUT so many angels this year.” I pokedaround in her decoration box for other options.
“No, you will put ALL my angels on that table, Little Miss Ma’am. Every single one.”
“But it’s New Year’s Eve,” I whined. “What do angels have to do with that?”
Mommy changed the subject. “Is it dark in here, or is it me?”
It was not dark.
“Yeah, it’s dark,” I lied. And that was the sin that did me in.
I lied because the darkness was her eyes going from legally blind to actually blind, and I knew it. I didn’t think she could handle hearingIt’s only dark for youon New Year’s Eve morning. How do you tell your mother that her veggies are moldy? That her butter is hairy? That her bread is fuzzy? That she’s got eggshells flying everywhere because she can’t see?
You don’t.
We waited hours and hours to eat because it took her longer than usual to prepare her Southern-style barbecue ribs, golden fried chicken, sweet potato pie, black-eyed peas, and—what I wanted most—her famous extra-sharp macaroni and cheese.
We thought we were waiting for the food to be done, but actually we were waiting because Ma had invited our father over so we could eat as a family for the holiday even though they were legally separated—again.
“Set a place for your father at the table,” Ma said.
“Malcolm X?” I asked.
“Not funny,” she responded.
I did as I was told and set a place for Pa while praying mymake pretend father, Malcolm X, would show up instead. He did not.
When Pa finally got to dinner, it was too late. He had driven himself while drunk, sitting too long in New Year’s Eve traffic. He stumbled throughout the dining room smelling like his favorite mix of vodka, orange juice, and cigarettes. Pa was using the wall to prop himself up. Sweat seeped from his pores like a fattened holiday pig.
He didn’t speak as you and I sat playing a game of Name That Angel at the holiday table.
“Let’s name that one Mother Mary,” you said, pointing to a porcelain angel with praying hands.
“Imma name this one”—I held up an angel with real feathers for wings—“Ms. Harriett.”
“Imma bless the food,” Pa cut me off, settling into his seat at the head of the table. His teeth a burnt brownish yellow. His skin a kidney-failing purplish gray. “Dimner looks perfect,” he slurred.
“Thank you, darling.” Ma shook her head and encouraged Pa to say grace.
“Dear Lord,” Pa began, “I know I’m not perfect—far from it, Lord—but thank you for being a Lord of forgiveness and mercy. Thank you for helping my children and my beautiful wife to see past my faults and understand my needs. Please keep us together and make us better. In the name of Jesus, amen.”
