The True Definition of Neva Beane Page 10
“Your mama and daddy love you to death,” he says.
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the baby until he goes on.
“They never would have gone away this summer if they didn’t know how much Nana and I love you and that we’d do everything we can to support you. Especially Nana. She’s the real backbone of the family. But let’s not talk about her now. Let’s talk about me.”
He’s looking down at Zamaya. Maybe that makes it easier to say these things.
“Sometimes I don’t know what to do and I come off a little too gruff,” he says. “But it’s only because I care about you that I’m afraid for you. And now that I’m saying this out loud, I think maybe that’s not right. Maybe I’m afraid of you. Afraid that you’ll grow up too soon and move away from me. But one of the things I’ve learned from holding these babies is that you have to be calm to do them any good. They pick up energy from you and they respond to it. Sort of like what’s been happening between me and you.” Granddad pauses and looks up at me. “So, what I’m saying, Neva, is let’s be calm together.”
He takes the empty bottle out of Zamaya’s mouth, places her on his shoulder, and gently pats her back. She wiggles her feet and hands and makes little burping sounds.
Granddad smiles and hands Zamaya over to me. “Wanna try?” he asks.
n. 1. the ability to understand and share the feelings of another 2. the imaginative experiencing of feelings, thoughts, or attitudes: The nurse was filled with empathy for her patients.
It’s totally dark when Granddad and I push through our house’s little gate and step into our garden, but the porch light is on and it casts a soft glow over the front of our house. It doesn’t feel that much different from the cuddlers’ room at the hospital. This is how home should feel all the time.
Granddad unlocks the front door and we see Nana sitting all alone at the dining room table. She’s slumped a little in her chair and her head falls forward every few seconds before she pulls it back up, but she still manages to look elegant.
“Nana, what time is it? You should be in bed.”
I’m standing next to her at the table but Granddad lingers at the foot of the stairs.
Nana squeezes my hand and then pats it. “How’s your head?” she asks, getting up.
“Much better.”
“That’s good.” She takes a few seconds to smooth the front of her blouse. “Those headaches are awful.”
“Did you see my note?” asks Granddad. “We were over at the hospital.”
Nana nods and puts her arm around me. “I know you just got in, but I feel like sitting outside. Want to join me?”
“I’ll be upstairs,” says Granddad, moving aside so we can pass him.
Me and Nana sit on the green rattan love seat for a few seconds not saying anything. She hums softly and I think about how it would feel to stay like this forever, but that would be too easy. I’m not a baby anymore. I should stop acting like one.
“Are you sure that light isn’t bothering you?” she asks, looking up at the porch ceiling. I can’t stand light when I’m in the grips of a headache but my head doesn’t hurt anymore, and anyway I don’t want to use that as an excuse.
“Nana, I’m sorry …”
“I know you are,” she says.
“We, me and Clay—”
“Clay and I,” she interrupts, and I nod.
“Clay and I tiptoe around Granddad but we expect you to be nice all the time. It isn’t fair.”
“You can’t speak for Clay, Neva. Just speak for yourself,” she says, looking straight at me in that way she has of looking deep inside my heart. It’s not the way she would look at me if she thought I was still a little girl. It’s that new way she’s been looking at me since my body and everything else started changing.
“You told me how you felt disrespected but I didn’t really know what that was like until I felt it myself. I felt like nobody cared about me so I had to prove something. To myself, mainly.” Nana nods her head. Not in agreement but to let me know she’s listening to me. “And when I got to that meeting people wanted to hear what I had to say, but I didn’t really know what to do with myself.”
“Why do you feel you have to do something with yourself?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, looking out at the shadows in the garden. “It’s hard to explain. I mean, I know I’m great, but sometimes I don’t know if that’s enough … compared to other people.”
“You know you’re great, Neva. You’re already ahead of the game. You don’t need to do or be anything else.”
“That’s what Mama says too.”
“Your mama’s called three times today. Twice while you were sleeping and once while you were out,” Nana says. “She’s ready to cut the tour short.”
I’d thought I wanted to hear those words but now they sound selfish. I can’t ask Mama to give up her dream. To walk away from what she needs.
“Mama can’t leave the tour, Nana. She shouldn’t do that.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No … I mean, yes … I mean, I did want it, but I don’t want it now.”
“Knowing what you really want is hard,” she says, “but you always question things, Neva. And that’s good. You question things and you figure them out. You didn’t go about this in the right way but you found that spark that I was afraid you’d lost.”
“You could see that?”
Nana nods. “You’re not the only girl to go through that. And even when you’re an adult you can suffer bouts of insecurity.” Nana tilts her head. “You have no idea how hard Granddad and I had to work to get your mama to feel okay about going away for the summer. She didn’t want to be away from you. But we’ve all seen how her eyes light up when she’s singing, right? How could we let her pass that up?”
“I’m glad she didn’t.”
“Do you really mean that?”
I look out into our half-lit garden and picture Mama standing on a stage in front of an audience. Her eyes are closed but her mouth and her whole body are open. She’s rapturous. That’s the word that pops into my head.
Rapturous: characterized by, feeling, or expressing great pleasure or enthusiasm
Singing is Mama’s way of prancing. She needs that just as much as I do.
“Daddy said Mama’s on fire, Nana, on fire. She can’t give that up.”
Nana grins and stands up. “No, she shouldn’t.” She moves quickly to open the screen door. “But if you really don’t want her to leave the tour we better get ahold of her before she tells Ms. G she’s quitting. Your daddy told me all you-know-what will break loose if that happens.”
Nana’s inside the house in two seconds, calling up the stairs. “What time is it in Europe, Dexter? Where’s my phone?”
n. 1. the quality or state of being physically strong: Weightlifting can build up your strength. 2. the capacity of an object, substance, or person to withstand great force or pressure, as in the emotional or mental qualities necessary in dealing with situations or events that are distressing
It’s eleven thirty at night here in Philly, five thirty a.m. in Amsterdam. Nana’s disappeared into her bedroom, so I go into mine to send Mama a message.
Please don’t quit, Mama. Ms. G needs you.
Out in the hallway I hear Nana and Granddad bad-mouthing their phones. “These darn things never work when you need them,” Granddad says.
“You’re pushing too many keys, Dexter. Here, let me do it.”
“We wouldn’t be in this fix if you kept your phone charged, Cecily.”
I stick my head out my door. They’d be funny if they weren’t wasting time.
Granddad sees me and yells, “Neva … Clay … somebody … call your mama.”
Granddad’s a sight in his blue plaid bathrobe, short white socks, and leather slippers, but he has one arm tenderly draped over Nana’s shoulders. I have no idea why he’s wearing socks at night in the summertime, but it doesn’t really matter.
“Nobody’s lying down while your mama’s career’s on the line,” says Granddad. “We gotta get to her before she quits.”
My phone rings and I retreat back into my room to pick it up.
“Neva, I’m so sorry I’m not there,” says Mama. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Mama. Just don’t quit.”
There’s silence for a few seconds and I imagine Mama’s face. Furrowed brows and tight lips. Her confused look.
“I’m worried about you, sweetie. I know this summer’s been hard. What’s really going on?”
“I was afraid of losing myself.”
“Oh, baby …” Mama gulps like the wind’s been kicked out of her. “You’re too strong for that.”
She’s talking about strength. That’s the real magic word. That’s the thing I’d lost sight of in myself.
“Mama?”
It sounds like she’s blowing her nose. Is she crying?
“I’m coming home,” she says. “It’s not worth this.”
“I said I WAS afraid but I’m not anymore.”
“Neva—”
“I had a bout of insecurity, that’s all. I’m okay now.”
“A bout of insecurity?” Mama makes a weird noise like a half laugh, half sniffle. “I see you’ve been reading Nana’s magazines again.”
“We talked about it, me and Nana,” I say.
“Nana and I.”
“Yeah. It’s all confused, but I was afraid I couldn’t be myself without you, but then I found what everybody else knew was in me all the time.”
“That’s a mouthful. I’m not sure I follow.”
Mama’s not making her gasping sounds anymore so I tell her about that feeling of falling down into a deep hole, stressing that I used to have those feelings. I don’t have them anymore even though I’m shaking a little bit because I haven’t eaten much since my headache went away.
“You never mentioned this deep hole before,” she says. “But I’ve gone through something like that too. I should be there with you.”
“What about Ms. G?”
“I’m more worried about you and Clay—”
“Clay’s fine—”
“That’s not for you to say,” Mama says. “And the girl across the street. What’s her name, Michelle?”
“Why’s everybody so worried about Michelle? Every time her name comes up …”
Mama sighs. “Michelle knows her strength and she’s not afraid to show it. That’s a very powerful thing.”
Mama doesn’t say anything for a few more seconds but then adds, “Now I’m suffering a bout of insecurity. Maybe I’m fooling myself. Leaving my kids to try to sing at this stage …”
Mama afraid? I think about all the times I needed encouragement and how she handled it. She always made me feel better with a song. So I do the same for her even though my throat is dry and my voice isn’t half as beautiful as hers.
I start by humming and then I snap the fingers of my left hand real close to the phone so she can hear it.
Mama giggles and sighs ’cause she knows what’s coming. “Go ahead, baby, sing me a song.”
“Mama, oh, Mama. Please don’t quit now,” I croon in a soft, low voice. “You have just got to sing your song, sing your song, sing your song …”
n. a box or crate used as a makeshift stand by a public speaker; a thing that provides an opportunity for someone to air their views publicly: His blog was his soapbox.
The last notes of my serenade are still in my throat when I put my phone down and turn around to find Clay standing at my door.
“Not only do you look like Mama,” he says, “you sound like her too.”
I clear my throat because I don’t know how much of my conversation he heard and I feel a little exposed. Sort of the same way I did when he found me admiring myself in the mirror. But he’s not laughing this time and I’m not afraid to look him in the eye.
“I told her we’re okay so she shouldn’t quit—”
“I know, I heard the Clay’s fine part.” He raises his voice in a fake imitation of how I talk, but I don’t sound like that at all and he knows it.
Clay straightens the multicolored quilt on my bed and sits down with his head in his hands. “I was hoping they’d come home early. Like tomorrow and get me off punishment so I can go to the march. I know I can reason with them.”
“What about Nana? She’s the one who grounded you.”
“I know but Dad can overrule her.”
“Really? Is that what you think?”
There’s a sharpness in my voice that neither of us expected. Clay lifts his head and frowns at me.
“I should be at that march,” he says. “Everything that’s going on—”
“There’s a lot going on here too, Clay. You don’t know how much you hurt Nana.”
“Dang,” he sighs. “How many times do I have to apologize?”
“You apologized but did you really mean it?” I’m sounding a little high and mighty but he needs to hear this. “How would you feel if—”
“Oh, you’ve been hanging with Michelle so now you’ve got your own little soapbox.”
“I don’t know about a soapbox but I’m wondering why you didn’t forge Granddad’s name.”
Clay wrinkles his eyebrows together in that way everyone in this family does when they’re confused. He’s so sensitive about some things. Why can’t he get this?
I turn away and check the time on my phone because the look on my brother’s face tells me he needs a few seconds of privacy.
“You think I have it all together,” Clay says from behind me. “But, okay, maybe I don’t.”
I don’t know what to say to that so I just keep fiddling with my phone until the silence between us is shattered by Granddad’s voice in the background. It’s past midnight but he always shouts when he’s on a long-distance call.
“He doesn’t really need a phone,” says Clay. “People in Europe can hear him just fine without it.”
“I know all of West Philly sure can.”
We laugh a little and I tell Clay how Mr. Charles came over to check on us the other night.
“Mr. Charles is all right,” says Clay, standing up and stretching. He twists his lips into a sheepish grin. That’s the only word for how he looks.
Sheepish: showing embarrassment from shame or a lack of self-confidence
“I would say see you in the morning,” he says. “But it’s morning already.”
It’s still dark outside but Clay and I are cool again. That’s in itself a form of light.
n. 1. identification of someone or something from previous encounters or knowledge 2. acknowledgment of something’s existence, validity, or legality: Her recognition of the truth made all the difference.
It’s morning but I don’t leap out of bed like I do when I know Jamila’s waiting for me. Instead, I stretch a few times, hoping the empty spot in my chest will go away, but it doesn’t move even one inch on its own. I close my eyes and relive last night’s conversations with Mama and Clay. They weren’t so hard so I hope being honest with Jamila won’t be either.
I’m sorry you’re hurt. Be over after breakfast. That’s the message I send my girl before going down to eat.
Granddad’s at the table but he’s still in his nightclothes. Nightclothes as in pajamas. Not what anybody would wear to go out clubbing. He looks a little disheveled.
Disheveled: untidy
That’s not usually his style.
“Excuse my attire, Baby Girl.” He peeks at me over the top of his newspaper and I can tell from his eyes that he’s suppressing a smile. “I’m not used to pulling these all-nighters.”
Technically it wasn’t an all-nighter since as far as I know, we were all quieted down by one a.m., but I don’t correct him. He doesn’t look that bad and anyway, what’s the big dea
l?
Clay comes out of the kitchen with a plate of pancakes in each hand. He places one plate in front of me and gives the other to Granddad. He turns right back around and disappears into the kitchen again before I can say anything.
“Why don’t you go sit down,” I hear him say to Nana. “I got these last two plates.”
So, we’re all going to just sit here and eat and act like it’s totally normal for Clay to make breakfast? I could say something smart about it, but I don’t.
“How’d everybody sleep?” Nana asks, sipping her hibiscus tea.
“Like a baby?” says Granddad, winking at me.
“Are you going over to Jamila’s?” Clay asks. “She’ll be glad to see you.”
I hope that’s true but he doesn’t know what happened between us. He didn’t see us in the garden struggling with the raspberries. Jamila broke her foot and her ankle and I had the worst headache of my life. We tried to hide our emotions but they found a way out like they always do.
v. reject with disdain or contempt: She spurned their invitation to dance with a flick of her wrist.
It must have rained last night because the honey fragrance of mint slaps me in the face when I open the screen door and step out onto our front porch. The plants are taller too and the sidewalk is more wet than it would be just from the morning dew.
I jump down into our garden and fill a baggie with as much mint as it will hold but I ignore the raspberries that are sitting right there looking at me. They’re ripe but I leave them on the vine.
I ride my bike over to Jamila’s, rehearsing what I’m going to say:
I’m sorry about your foot and ankle. Do they hurt?
That’s totally stupid and phony. Of course I heard about what happened. Clay was on duty at the swim club when she fell. How about:
You broke your foot and your ankle? Are you still going to Ghana?
That’s not right either. It sounds like I’m gloating and I’m not.
I pedal faster, thinking I can maybe get my brain to work faster too. I ride right up to Jamila’s daddy and her auntie standing on the sidewalk in front of her family’s dark blue Volvo.