Malawi's Sisters Page 6

  As she headed upstairs, panic rushed through her chest and she knocked rapidly on her parents’ bedroom door before pushing it open. “Mama?” A lump lay under the bedspread. “Mama, is that you?” The mound made no movement and Kenya settled on the bed next to it, tugging at the covers to reveal her mother’s head. Alarmed, Kenya shoved her mother’s shoulder.

  Bet shrugged her away. “Leave me alone. I’m trying to rest.”

  The air filled with the hot smell of sweat and the odor of a day or two without washing. Her mother wore a pink, short-sleeved cotton nightgown. Her short hair stuck up in small tufts and her face appeared to have thinned; dark shadows lingered beneath her eyes.

  “Mama, please. Let’s get you up. Get you washed.” Kenya tugged lightly on her mother’s arm.

  “Go home, Kennie. Leave me alone.”

  Kenya squeezed her mother’s forearm, pleading for her to move. Bet’s arm snapped up surprisingly quickly from beneath Kenya’s palm and back-handed Kenya’s face. Stunned, Kenya jumped up and backed away, fingering the sting in her cheek as her mother curled back under the covers. Nibbling the skin around her nails, she stared at the lump that was her mother. She wasn’t sure what she had expected. Solace. Connection. The comfort of her mother, uniting in the loss of Malawi. Sharing memories, and maybe tears. As her romantic notion evaporated, her mother’s state of disarray confused her. Mama was always so particular about her appearance. She had weekly hair and nail appointments. Kenya considered calling her father, but decided against bothering him at work. Instead she headed downstairs to the kitchen. Maybe some food would help. A few dishes were piled in the sink and something sticky was on the floor. She found a cloth and wiped it clean, making a note to find out if the weekly housekeeper could schedule an additional visit.

  Kenya rummaged through the cabinets searching for something quick and easy to prepare, and pulled a can of chicken soup off the shelf. She heated it on the stove and found a sleeve of crackers in the pantry, then took the meal up on a tray with a glass of water, a spoon and a cloth napkin.

  “Here, Mama, I made you some soup. Chicken.” She sat on the edge of the bed, resting the tray on her lap. “You always say that’s the most healing soup there is.”

  Bet refused, pressing her face into the pillow like a child. Kenya closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please, Mama.” Her mother kept her head stuck to the pillow. Placing the tray on the far side of the bed, Kenya sidled closer to her mother. “Maybe we could take a walk outside?” she said. “It’s beautiful out. You need to get your blood circulating.”

  Bet lifted her head, her eyes wide and screamed, “Just. Leave. Me. Alone,” pausing between each word as if Kenya didn’t understand English. She continued to glare, silently daring her daughter to say another word. A mixture of anger and frustration rose in Kenya’s chest, shortening her breath, and for a second she wanted to smack her mother’s face. Shocked at her own reaction, Kenya backed away from the bed and rushed out. Downstairs, she stood in the kitchen, hands pressing on the counter, breathing hard, trying to understand what just happened.

  In the distance, she heard the house phone ringing. When it stopped, the silence through the home seemed to crush her brain. Her body jerked at the sudden chirping of her cell phone. She searched through her purse but it stopped before she could answer the call. It was Daddy. She called him back.

  Cynthia answered saying her father was on the other line. After a brief pause, Cynthia asked, “How are you, my dear?”

  This was not the usual “how are you” question. Cynthia was asking, “How are you coping with the death of your sister,” but Kenya wasn’t ready to talk about it despite knowing Cynthia for more than a dozen years. The woman was practically family—she had worked with Kenya’s father since he became an associate judge with the Superior Court.

  Attempting a breezy everything-is-fine tone, Kenya said, “I’m good.”

  Cynthia hmmed, then said, “You let me know if you need anything, okay? Here’s your father.”

  “Sweetheart, listen.” He paused and Kenya stood rigid by the kitchen sink. “Things are about to get crazy,” he said. “The media are all over your sister’s shooting. People are saying it’s racially motivated. I’ve hired Teddy Livingston. You remember him, don’t you? Anyway, he’s going to help us. I need you to call your mother. Tell her what’s happening. She’s going to freak out when she sees the news. People may be calling. Don’t talk to any reporters. We’re going to work on a statement from the family. Get a hold of Ghana and let her know.”

  He talked fast and Kenya struggled to keep up with what he was saying. The news. Racially motivated. She uh-huhed so he knew she was still there.

  “Help your mother. She needs help with the funeral arrangements. I don’t know when we’ll get her back. Your sister. When they’ll send her . . . her body. I’m waiting for the official autopsy report. But call Sully at Sullivan’s Funeral Home. We used him for your grandfather. Sully’s great. Just talk to him.”

  “I’m with Mama now.”

  “Perfect. Okay, I gotta go. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry to dump this on you. But you’re my number one girl. You got this, right?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I got this.”

  She focused on the kitchen cabinets. His number one girl. His first-born. Her face was a shadow reflected in the glass doors, the cups and plates stacked neatly on the two shelves. Ordered and calm, the way she wished life would be. As her father’s words sank in, she heard herself say: “Holy shit!”

  Kenya kicked into action. She dialed Ghana’s number but it went straight to voice-mail. “Sister, please. I need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you get this.” She dialed Sidney’s number but again got voice-mail. “Sid, I’m going to be late home today. I don’t know your schedule, but you need to pick up the kids. I have to— It’s Mama. I’ll explain later.”

  Taking two steps at a time, she rushed back up to her mother, calling for her to get up.

  “That was Daddy on the phone. We need to get organized.” Her mother was again huddled under the covers. As Kenya recounted her father’s call, she noticed the tray of food on the floor, toppled over. She imagined her mother spitefully shoving it off the bed with her feet. She suppressed the urge to clean it up. “Mama, please!”

  At that, her mother’s head popped up like a snapping turtle and her voice slammed into the air, spittle flying from her lips, “Leave me alone, goddammit. Just leave me alone.”

  Kenya retreated a few steps, feeling the jagged pins of her words piercing her skin. She thought about her father and began again. “You are getting out of this damn bed and taking a shower.” She pulled the covers completely off the bed, leaving her mother huddled uncovered on the mattress. Bet hissed once again, ordering Kenya out. The two locked eyes for several tense moments; as a youngster, Kenya could stare the longest without blinking. If her mother wanted to play this game, Kenya would win.

  Beaten, Bet slumped onto her side, curled into a ball and began to make loud wailing sounds that Kenya found both heartbreaking and disturbing. She caressed her mother’s shoulder with her fingertips. Bet shrugged the hand away, but this time Kenya took a firm hold of her mother’s arm and pulled her to a sitting position.

  “We’re all grieving, Mama. We all feel this, but we can’t hide under the covers forever.” Bet’s face distorted into a frown. “We have to support one another.” Gripping both hands, Kenya dragged her mother off the bed and led her to the bathroom. “You’re starting to stink.”

  Bet closed her eyes, scrunching her face as if to cry, but instead inhaled and remained by the sink without Kenya’s help. Kenya turned on the faucets, found bath salts and almost emptied the container into the tub. “You’ll feel much better.” Her mother didn’t resist and Kenya took that as a win. She would get the woman into the tub, yet.

  She was glad Dr. Collins had a cancellation and could fit Kenya in for a session this afternoon. She took a seat in the comfy chair opposite Dr
. Collins’ empty chair; the doctor was at her desk scribbling something in a notebook. Kenya liked this office with its high ceiling and wall of windows. Tall leafy ferns and mini-trees stood in a row along the windows. The carpet was soft and sometimes Kenya sat cross-legged on the floor. Today she wanted the big comfy brown armchair with burnt orange and yellow cushions that made her feel secure. She chose Dr. Collins more than a year ago now, not only because she was a black woman, but because she had a reputation of being blunt and honest. Kenya especially liked that about her. She rocked a short graying afro, but her wardrobe seriously lacked style, and Kenya often found herself wanting to encourage Dr. Collins to wear brighter colors and fitted clothes. Today she wore a gray dress that hung like a sack on the woman’s slim body. And her shoes, Kenya thought, were something a nun would wear. Comfortable, perhaps, but god-awful to look at.

  Dr. Collins settled in the armchair opposite, sitting upright, legs crossed at the ankles, notepad in her lap, her voice low and soothing. She repeated her condolences. “So how are you today, Kenya?”

  Kenya wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about her sister. “My mother is losing her mind,” she said. “She won’t get out of bed. Won’t eat. And was just as mean as a bull to me this morning. I was shocked. I mean, all I was trying to do was help her.”

  “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

  Her mother was vicious, she said. “Just vicious. I was just trying to help.” She shifted her gaze to the carpet. The room was silent for a moment and Kenya could hear the muted noise of cars along Wisconsin Avenue.

  “Are you angry at your mother?”

  “Well, yes.” Kenya looked at Dr. Collins surprised at the question. Of course she was angry at her mother.

  “Why?”

  “Well . . .” Kenya thought for a moment. “Because she wouldn’t get out of bed and take a shower. She wouldn’t eat. I made soup and she just knocked it off the bed. And I had to clean it up after I washed her like she was a toddler.”

  “Kenya, she just lost her daughter. You just lost a sister. Tell me what you’re feeling about your sister. Do you blame your mother for her death?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Okay, then why are you angry at your mother?”

  “It’s like she’s giving up. She wouldn’t do what I was telling her to do. She can’t just give up like that, you know.”

  “Why does she have to do what you’re telling her to do?”

  “Because she can’t give up. She has to keep on living.” She paused. “We all do.”

  Dr. Collins nodded and Kenya felt like she’d said the right thing. A large truck passed by outside.

  “But why?”

  Kenya was growing exasperated by the doctor’s questions but tried to keep her voice steady. “Why what?”

  “Why does she have to keep on living?”

  This was a ridiculous question and Kenya almost said so, but instead she said, “Well, of course she . . . she can’t just give up.”

  “Why not?”

  Kenya wrapped her arms across her chest, gripping her elbows. “Because she . . .” She shifted in her seat, pushing back against the cushion behind her. “She has other daughters. Malawi wasn’t the only one. It’s like she was the only one. But she wasn’t. I’m here, too.” Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t want to cry. “That sounds petty.”

  “No. It’s not petty. You’re being honest, finally, and that’s good.” Dr. Collins adjusted her feet and made a note on her notepad. “Okay, take a deep breath and exhale, nice and slow.”

  Kenya’s breath seemed to stutter as she breathed in. She inhaled a second time and fiddled with the hem of her blouse. She noticed a thread that needed to be clipped.

  “Now, tell me what you’re feeling about Malawi.”

  “I’m not . . . I’m not ready to talk about Malawi.”

  “Why?”

  Kenya ran her fingers over the thread knowing that if she pulled at it, another thread could come loose. She wanted to ask for a pair of scissors.

  “We don’t have to talk about your sister if you’re not ready.”

  Kenya shifted the discussion to Sidney and his efforts to make her comfortable with him again, and her inability to fully forgive him. She talked about the disgust she still felt when he touched her and the angst every time he left for another business trip.

  “It takes time.” Dr. Collins had said this before, and Kenya had scolded herself more than once, knowing that if she wanted her marriage to work, she had to let go and forgive. Even as she talked about her husband, she was thinking about Malawi. The baby sister she never really knew.

  After a long silence, she recounted how her sister had died. “I just feel bad. You know. I wasn’t supportive of her. Of Malawi. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t love her or anything like that, but I could’ve been a better sister. You know? I could have called and gotten to know her better.”

  “Do you think that would have made a difference?”

  “Sure. We would have been closer.” She paused. “Nine years is a long time, I guess, between two people. She and Ghana were closer. They did things together. I should have done things with her.”

  “And how are things with Ghana?”

  “She won’t call me back. I’ve left messages, but . . .” Tears threatened again and Kenya pushed them back.

  “It’s okay to cry, Kenya.”

  Kenya nodded. “Is it time to go yet?”

  “Almost. But I want to come back to your mother for a moment. What do you think will help you with your mother?”

  “I was trying to get her to eat, you know. Get her out in the fresh air. But she refused.”

  “How does that help you?”

  “It gives me something to focus on?” Dr. Collins remained quiet. “Makes me feel better if I’m helping her?”

  “Okay. Does it?”

  “Make me feel better? Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. And be sure to acknowledge what you’re feeling. Give yourself space to grieve. It’s an emotional roller coaster and everyone goes through it in their own way. Be open to your own emotions as well as what your mother is experiencing.” Dr. Collins tilted her head and smiled without showing teeth.

  “I’ll try,” Kenya said, pushing herself up and out of the comfy chair. She wanted things to be different with her mother. And with Ghana. She always tried to do the right thing, but no one ever appreciated her efforts. Except Daddy. Daddy was always appreciative. Even if Malawi had been his favorite.

  13

  Ghana moved through the tiny kitchen in Ryan’s apartment. She needed movement, rhythm, something to keep her hands busy. She sprinkled flour on the counter and spread the dough over it, stretching it out with the rolling pin. She couldn’t just sit and think about her sister. She needed action. She pressed the wooden pin into the soft dough, pushing against the countertop, forwards and back, forwards and back, her mind and body stuck in a rhythm she couldn’t stop, until there was nothing but the bare laminate surface between two lumps of dough. Malawi loved pizza. Loved. Ghana gathered the dough and tried again to form a pizza round.

  The kitchen was small but she liked the coziness of it. She had moved in with Ryan six months ago, after dating for a year; sometimes she was uncertain whether or not she’d done the right thing. She had never dated a white guy before, but something about him just felt right. He had the keenest blue eyes she’d ever seen and dirty blond hair he kept cut short—average in a striking way.

  “Was he, like, a quarterback in college?” Malawi had asked, giggling. “He looks like he should have been. You know, that classic all-American guy.”

  Ghana remembered her sister standing by the refrigerator, leaning on the counter, a wine glass in her hand as Ghana cut a block of cheese into squares. “All-American white guy,” Ghana had noted.

  “At least you picked a hot one.”

  Ghana laughed. “You cool with it?”

  As she thought back, she wasn’t sure why she
’d needed Malawi’s approval, yet had wanted confirmation that dating someone outside her race was okay. “I think he’s awesome,” Malawi said, which pleased Ghana.

  While still home for the holidays, Malawi had come to their party to celebrate Ghana moving in with Ryan. The evening had been filled with lots of laughing and beer and wine. Ghana had put out some nibbles (cheese and crackers, chips and dip), made a pot of chili, and the tiny apartment had been filled with black, white, and Asian friends. A real United Nations party. Puerto Rico, El Salvador and Japan were in the house. Ryan’s best friend Steve was white and Japanese, and his girlfriend was black and Japanese—Ghana loved that their Asian culture had brought them together.

  Ryan and Malawi had chatted and giggled together, making Ghana smile, but now air caught in her throat—that evening had been the last time she’d seen her sister in person. Ghana’s chest tightened and her breath disappeared. She stopped moving and inhaled slowly, her heart thudding hard in her chest. Just breathe, she thought. She hadn’t told Ryan that a white man killed her sister. She covered the dough with marinara sauce and piled on pepperoni, sliced mushrooms and onions.

  Ghana first saw Ryan at Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda. She’d volunteered to give massages to wounded warriors and he was there visiting his younger brother who’d lost both legs and an arm in Afghanistan. Ghana worked on Jason for almost an hour, though each session was only supposed to be twenty minutes, which didn’t seem like enough time for a man who had lost three limbs serving his country. Ryan came to thank her—his brother had raved about how much better he felt. So she started visiting twice a month, and more and more Ryan was there, too. “I have to make sure he doesn’t take advantage of you,” Ryan said with a grin. Jason called him a cock-blocker.

  “It’s just massage,” she told Jason. “I don’t provide any ‘happy ending’ services.”

  He giggled like a teenager and gave her a mock sad face but said, “Watch my brother. He says he just wants to spend time with me, but I know he’s really trying to get with you.”