Malawi's Sisters Page 10

  “I did?” Her mother had waved her hand in the air in her classic dismissive style. “Well, he obviously didn’t make much of an impression.”

  But it hadn’t mattered what her mother said because her father liked him. He’d told her later that he liked a man with a strong handshake, which Ryan had. “Says a lot about a man,” he said. And that was all the approval she’d needed.

  She pulled into the driveway and marveled at the chestnut standing at the entrance. Memories came of the many times she had climbed its branches and flung the nuts at her sisters, giggling hysterically as Kenya ran inside screaming her injury to the neighborhood. She sauntered up the brick walkway thinking of the years she and her sisters had run around the yard and through the trees behind the house, playing, arguing, teasing one another. Her father had named them the three musketeers. Such good days, she thought, and an unexpected pang of longing grabbed her, desperate to pull her back to when all three girls ran careless across the lawn. Her father was right. It was time to take care of each other.

  Although she had a key, out of respect, she knocked at the door. Several minutes passed with no response so she let herself in, opening the door slowly and calling through the house. “Mama. It’s me, Ghana. Where are you?” She closed the door behind her and waited a few moments.

  Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs wearing a bathrobe and slippers, despite it being well past noon. “Mama? You doing okay?” She stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her mother to come down, but her mother appeared hesitant.

  “Why are you here?” she said, her sharp tone piercing Ghana’s chest.

  “Just coming to see you.” Her voice was cold now, wary. “That’s all. Thought I’d surprise you.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  Ghana swallowed a lump in her throat. If she turned now and left, she wouldn’t have to endure her mother, she wouldn’t experience this gripping pain in her heart. But instead she remained glued to the bottom step looking up, a child again. She wondered why her mother couldn’t simply be glad to see her, but instead of revealing her thoughts, said: “You need anything?”

  “No.” Bet descended, taking one step at a time as if she was about to fall over.

  “You alright?”

  “I’m fine. Christ! Why does everyone want to know how I am?” She reached the bottom and passed Ghana without a word or gesture of welcome and headed into the kitchen. “Have you talked to Kenya?”

  Ghana followed and leaned on the island counter. “Not today.”

  “She calls me every day, you know.” Bet appeared to be halfheartedly searching for something. “She came by the other day. Dropped off some food for me and your father. I thought that was sweet of her.”

  Ghana tried to ignore the dig and watched her mother looking around the kitchen. She grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. She appeared smaller since Ghana last saw her; eyes sunken and dark, hair brittle and dull, gray advancing up from the roots.

  “You talk to Kennie every day?”

  “Well, I’m usually resting, but she leaves a message. It’s nice to know someone is thinking of me.”

  A heaviness descended upon Ghana. She watched her mother shuffle from one cabinet to another, aimlessly searching for nothing in particular as if orienting herself to a new home. Eventually, she opened a crockery jar and pulled out a teabag. “I was just going to have some tea, then go back up and lay down.”

  Ghana noticed her mother place one teacup and saucer on the counter, and rummaged through her thoughts for what to say. She wanted to talk about Malawi, but was afraid of how her mother would respond. At the sink, her mother stared through the window with her back to Ghana.

  “Okay, well, I see you’re busy. Just thought I’d stop by.” Ghana straightened and turned to leave, but her mother called her back.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Really?” Ghana swiveled around to face her mother. “At a time like this, you think I wouldn’t want to see you?”

  “Took you long enough. It’s been almost a week.”

  Her mother’s words were like a smack across her cheek. Yes, she should have come sooner, but she was here now. “Really? This is how it is?”

  “Oh, Lord, Ghana.” Her mother covered her own face with her palm. “I can’t do this with you.”

  “Do what? Have a fucking conversation.”

  “Good God, Ghana. Who curses at their mother like that?”

  “And you wonder why I didn’t come sooner.”

  “My God.”

  “I lost someone too, Mama.” Her voice had steadily been getting louder until she realized she was shouting, but couldn’t stop herself. “I lost a sister, and you’re not the only one who feels the loss.”

  Her mother placed her hands over her ears, shaking her head from side to side. “I won’t listen to this.”

  “You’re not the only one in mourning.”

  “Leave me alone. I won’t listen to this.” Her mother padded out of the kitchen as quickly as her slippers would allow. “Just leave me alone.”

  Ghana followed her into the hallway. “I thought I’d come here to talk and reconnect with you, but fuck it. You don’t want me here anyway.”

  Her mother stopped at the bottom of the staircase and turned to Ghana. “You’re ungrateful. You always were. Just so ungrateful.”

  “Ungrateful? Can you hear yourself? Do you even hear anything you ever say to me?”

  “Get out.” Her mother waved her hands as if shooing away a stray animal and ascended the stairs.

  Heat charged through Ghana’s neck into her face and she began to shake. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving and I’m never coming back.”

  Ghana slammed the front door behind her hoping something would shatter inside the house. She began to cry and struggled to put the car into reverse and back out of the driveway.

  18

  Kenya sat alone in a conference room in Uncle Teddy’s office. The room was cozy with a round table that sat eight and a side table with bottles of water, glass tumblers and a box of tissues. Teddy Livingston wasn’t really an uncle, but he was such a close friend of her father’s that she grew up calling him Uncle Teddy.

  She touched the pearls in her ears and the gold heart-shaped pendant at her neck, a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday. She hoped he’d notice the pendant, that it comforted him in some way. Kenya had spent much of the weekend considering a suitable outfit for this news conference. She hoped she’d struck the right tone and wondered if she should have called her mother to see what she would be wearing. Sidney had said nothing to her when she left this morning. But then, she hadn’t said much to him since he got back from L.A. She was in this weird emotional space right now and couldn’t figure out her feelings. She just needed time. That’s what Dr. Collins said.

  She didn’t like the spotlight being on her family; they should grieve in private. Growing up, they—the girls—weren’t supposed to talk about their life, about Daddy, because of his work as a judge. Mama had said people didn’t need to know their business.

  Kenya studied a piece of art on the wall, modern and colorful, shapes and shades that meant nothing to her. She smoothed her navy skirt and adjusted her jacket, wondering if a suit was too formal. She tried to picture her family standing before cameras. Her in her suit, Ghana wearing God-knows-what with her hair askew and tattoos showing, and then their parents. They would be formal, too. Daddy in a suit and Mama in a nice conservative dress. She should have gone to the house to help her mother get ready—to make sure she came. Kenya inhaled and counted the bottles of water. There were five bottles and six glasses.

  When the door opened, her head snapped up and her mother walked in, her face stern and pale, eyes red and sunken. Kenya rushed to her side and took her arm to guide her to one of the chairs.

  “I’m not a child,” her mother barked, jerking her arm away.

  Bitch, Kenya thought, letting her mother seat herself. She wa
nted to scream in her face, “I was just trying to help you,” but instead she turned to her father, who wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. She held on to him, unable to let go, as if her limbs would melt away without him.

  He kissed her forehead and pulled away. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she said, lightly touching the pendant.

  “Thank you, Sweetheart. You look beautiful. Grab me a bottle of water.”

  Her chest warmed with pride as she opened a bottle and set it on the table in front of him before taking a seat. Teddy rushed in holding several sheets of white paper. Kenya admired his Armani suit and burgundy tie, and noticed a diamond in his ear. The man gave her father a firm handshake, then bent down and kissed her cheek causing her to blush. “Thanks for coming,” he said, straightening up. He was her father’s age with a goatee almost completely white, yet he had an energy that seemed much younger. He had a strong presence and authority that Kenya found attractive. He talked about the press conference, which would take place in the reception area. When he caught her staring at him, she shifted her gaze to her mother, who seemed to be studying the grain of the conference table. Kenya took a breath and leaned forward, touching her mother’s hand. “You doing okay?”

  Bet pulled her hand away, folding her arms into her lap and again Kenya felt a stab in her chest. The door opened and Ghana strode in, transformed from a beatnik hippie chick to a professional businesswoman. Her hair was scooped up and pinned in a neat pile on her head. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse and a plain brown skirt that fell to her ankles, and a burgundy linen jacket was slung over her forearm. Kenya stood up while her father gave Ghana a tight hug and kissed her temple. As with Kenya, Teddy kissed Ghana on the cheek and whispered what Kenya guessed were welcoming words. Ghana smiled and nodded. When he shifted away, Ghana opened her arms as if to present herself to her sister. Kenya took her hands and they giggled and admired each other.

  “You look amazing,” Kenya said.

  “Well, figured if I’m going to be on TV, I should try to look like I fit into this family.” Almost as if choreographed, they both turned to their mother, who made no acknowledgment that anyone else was in the room. Ghana’s smile disappeared and she whispered, “Make no mistake, I’m here to support Dad.” Something happened, Kenya thought, but Teddy asked everyone to sit down before she could ask. Her father remained standing, his hands fidgeting, knuckles cracking.

  “I just want to review what’s going to happen,” Teddy said. “It will be brief. Malcolm will read a statement, but we’re not taking any questions. The goal is to show the family is united, and that Malawi was a model citizen, an amazing teacher who didn’t deserve to die. Sound good?” He looked at the three women at the table. “I really appreciate you all coming. It’s important the family is seen supporting one another. Malcolm, especially, needs your support.”

  Kenya glanced at her mother, who was giving Teddy a hard stare.

  “This is not about Malcolm,” Bet said, her voice a sharp hiss.

  “Mama—”

  Bet’s voice got louder. “This is not about Malcolm. It’s about my little girl.”

  Teddy and Malcolm exchanged a glance. Her father said, “Elizabeth, this is not the time, nor the place. You want to get loud and shout at me, do that at home. Not here.”

  She pushed the chair back and stood, pressing the forefinger of her right hand into the table. “This is about my baby girl. Not you.”

  Malcolm stepped forward, but Teddy intervened. “Bet,” he said, gently. Moving to her side, he leaned in between Bet and Kenya and placed his hand on her shoulder. Bet shrugged him away, cutting her eyes at him before shifting her gaze back to the table. He adjusted his tie then continued. “Of course it’s not about your husband, but you have to understand as a Superior Court judge, he could become a target, and we want to avoid that. Okay? We all know this is about Malawi, and that’s made clear in the statement. You all need to be seen supporting each other. I don’t care what happens behind closed doors. Okay?”

  Bet narrowed a stare at him that, when they were little, would force the girls into silence. Ghana leaned her left arm on the table, gripping her chin with forefinger and thumb, eyeing her mother with disgust. Kenya tried to imagine what Malawi would say if she were here. She cleared her throat ready to encourage her mother to be calm, but Bet sat back down, folded her arms across her chest and stared at the table like a reprimanded child.

  Teddy blew air through rounded lips, checked his watch, and asked if everyone was ready. Malcolm slid his palm under Bet’s elbow and helped her back up, and to Kenya’s surprise she let him hold her as they followed Teddy down the hall toward the reception area. Kenya let her sister go ahead, then followed in behind.

  A lectern was set up at the end of the hallway, and beyond it, Kenya could see several photographers and hear the click-click of their cameras, already snapping pictures. Several reporters stood with notepads in hand, calm, patient, waiting for the announcement. The family took its place behind Teddy who made some initial remarks. His voice was firm, almost stern, though Kenya couldn’t retain any of what he said. She looked at the faces gazing back at her and her family and felt queasy. Teddy said Malawi’s name and Mama, who was just in front of Kenya, began to shudder, her shoulders jerking. Kenya realized her mother was silently crying. Cameras flashed, capturing this moment of anguish, and Kenya wanted to grab her mother and run back down the hall to the conference room. We’re a private family, not a reality show. Instinctively, she placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder and hoped she wouldn’t shrug her away. Malcolm extended his hand and clasped her mother’s fingers. Teddy moved to the left and Malcolm stepped forward, releasing Bet. Kenya leaned in and filled the gap by grabbing her mother’s hand; she could feel her shaking. She heard only a few words but knew what was being said because she’d read the statement last night when Teddy emailed it to everyone. When Malcolm stopped talking, a ruckus of questions arose but Teddy raised his hand. “Please respect the Walkers’ grief at this time,” he said. “They are not taking questions today. Thank you. I’ll be back in a moment to answer your questions.”

  Malcolm grabbed Bet’s hand and the group hurried up the hall, back to the safety of the conference room. Bet almost collapsed and Kenya dragged a chair closer to the door so her mother could sit down. “Ghana get some water,” said Kenya, gesturing to the side table. Ghana offered a slow blink in response, her lips pursed. “Please, Ghana.” Painfully slowly, her sister poured water into a tumbler and passed it to Kenya.

  “Here, Mama, drink.” Bet took a short sip but the glass was unsteady in her hand. Her face was wet with tears and Kenya pulled several tissues from the box. Bet blew her nose and rested her head on the table.

  “Okay,” said Teddy. “You folks wait while I finish up and get these guys out of here. There’s a back way out, in case anyone is hanging around.”

  “Why don’t you want us to say anything?” asked Ghana.

  “I just want the message to be clear and consistent. Sometimes these guys get you on your own and they can twist your words. There’s already some rumblings that Malawi was drunk, that she brought this on herself, just dumb shit like that, and I want to make sure they can’t create a story out of some innocent comment. Make sense?”

  Ghana nodded but seemed skeptical. Or maybe just annoyed by her mother.

  “I want to make sure we get an arrest,” he added. “And nothing should distract from that right now.”

  Kenya arrived home just as Sidney was coming down the stairs.

  “Not going into the office?” she asked.

  “Surprise,” he said with a chuckle. He approached her slowly, almost cautiously, and kissed her cheek, sliding his hand around her waist. Her limbs stiffened.

  “C’mon, Kennie,” he said, taking a step back from her. “When are you going to give me a break?”

  “I just lost my sister, okay. I’m not
in the mood.”

  “You think I’m trying to have sex with you because I want a hug and a kiss? Seriously?”

  She tried to pass him to go upstairs, but he caught her arm. “I said I’m sorry. Goddammit. I want my wife back. That’s all.” He squeezed her arm. “Babe, I’m trying to be the man you married, but I can’t do it if you keep pushing me away.”

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. “I’m just—I’m just confused right now. I don’t know what I’m feeling about anything.”

  He opened his arms and asked, “Can I hold you?”

  When she nodded slightly, he came close, wrapping his arms around her waist, his hands pressing into her back. He held her for several moments, the side of his chin resting against her temple, and she felt the tension begin to slip away. He started to sway, his hips moving right to left and she let her body move with him. His right hand slid up and cradled her neck, the back of her head. He’s going to mess up my hair, she thought, but kept silent, forcing herself to relax.

  “Remember when we used to dance all night long, letting the music move us?”

  She smiled thinking about those days before the kids were born, when they were young and struggling to pay the bills, yet happier than she could ever remember being. They would sit up at night with all the lights out, a couple of candles on the coffee table and listen to cassette tapes that Sidney had compiled with all his favorite jams. They’d jump around, twisting and swaying to the fast ones, then press together like they were now to the slow ones, moving their bodies in time to the music. Nineties music—Junior calls it old-school. Kenya chuckled and Sidney squeezed tighter, pressing his thighs against hers. She had enjoyed his touch once. Perhaps she could again.

  “I love you, Kennie,” he whispered. “I don’t ever want to hurt you again. Please believe me.”

  She returned his squeeze and was ready to let him back in.

  19

  Malcolm survived another day in court, struggling to be fully present. Several times the attorneys had to repeat themselves because he’d lost his focus. He had seen their looks of concern and irritation—the unspoken words: “Don’t fuck up my case, Judge.” Joe had suggested he take time off, but Malcolm wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he wasn’t at work. He didn’t want to be at home with Bet, listening to her moaning, her accusations, her rejection. He didn’t want to be in his own head, yet couldn’t get out of it.