Eighteen
Denise woke up with the name on her lips. The taste of it in her mouth, briny and bitter, like earth and sea at the same time. She allowed herself ten seconds to lie there, which was about seven seconds too long, and then got herself up out of that bed. She dressed carefully, making sure she did the buttons the right way on her blouse and her blazer, checking her stockings to be sure that there were no runs, pulling and twisting her hair back into a bun and clipping it so that it would stay put. The dress code at the home was relaxed to the point of ludicrous (jeans and tracksuits, for goodness sakes), but she had dressed professionally all her life, even in those early years as a student teacher, and she surely wasn’t about to stop now. Besides, it was important for the patients and their families: it sent a message of respect.
She made the bed, collected her nightclothes, and put them in the hamper, and only then allowed herself to head to the bathroom. Hidden above the sink, behind the aspirin and tampons, was the bottle of pills Dr. Ferguson had given her. She took out a pill and cut it in fourths with the butter knife she kept on the shelf. Even a half gave her a loose, slightly dizzy feeling she didn’t like, and a whole one made her foggy all day, but a quarter was usually enough. She gulped it dry and put the bottle back carefully, closing the cabinet until it clicked.
There. And there she was. That familiar blur of skin and wet brown eyes and black hair. Her hair was going back at the roots; she was way past due at the hair salon. She wished she could do what plenty of other black women did and just shave it close to her head and let it be. She couldn’t help staring when she saw women with hair like that, marveling at the simplicity, the sleekness, the lack of fuss. She herself wouldn’t have felt right with a look like that, though, would have felt—unprepared.
Downstairs, she started the coffee and turned on the radio, broke some eggs on the frying pan. She heard Charlie thumping around upstairs, doing whatever fifteen-year-olds did in the morning. Couldn’t take him but a moment to throw on a T-shirt and some jeans.
“Charlie! Breakfast!”
She stood watching the eggs in the pan and listening to the news on the radio, leaning against the counter. Outside the kitchen window, Denise saw a layer of frost gleaming on the stubble of the newly planted cornfields. It had been a long winter and it kept on coming, continuing its victory laps halfway into spring. In their yard a lone bird tried and tried again to drink from the half-frozen birdbath.
Charlie pounded down the stairs. Always a shock to her, that this huge body with its bouncing dreads could have come from her slight frame, that he was hers, this hulking form that passed quickly in and out of her day. He sprawled onto a kitchen chair and started banging out a beat on the table with his knife and fork.
She placed a plate of steaming eggs in front of him and sat down. “Made you some eggs.”
“Thanks, Mama.” He jumped up to pour himself some juice.
“Charlie, sit, you’re making my head spin.”
“You sleep okay? That dog keep you up again?”
She paused; had she called out again in her sleep? Is that why he was asking? “I slept fine.”
“Good.” He slammed down in his seat.
No, Charlie hadn’t heard a thing. She exhaled quietly. This didn’t mean she hadn’t yelled out, of course.
She sat still, listening to the sound of the radio without focusing on the words. The pill was kicking in; she allowed herself to fall into the cadences of the voice, a man’s voice oozing sanity and sameness, smoothing out the wars and the earthquakes and the hurricanes with its peaceful and predictable rhythms. The world could end, it did end, and you could count on that voice still being there to tell you how it all went down.
“Mama?”
“Hmmm?”
“I was asking if there’s any bacon left?”
She made herself stand and felt dizzy; she opened the refrigerator door and stood there for a moment, holding on to it, looking inside at the bright, cool things. There it was, the shiny package. She took it out.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” She made her way to the stove, placed the bacon on the pan. It sizzled, spitting tiny droplets of oil on her good brown skirt. She knew the second the first waft of it hit her she wasn’t going to be able to eat a bite herself. She hadn’t realized how unappetizing bacon could be.