Chapter 39 Hendrix
CHAPTER 39
HENDRIX
T he smell of eggs and bacon used to be my alarm clock in high school. Mama up making breakfast for Daddy and me before he left for work and I went to school. The tantalizing scent lures me from sleep. Prying my eyes open, I sniff.
“Home,” I say, sitting up in the same full-sized bed I slept in growing up.
I stick my feet in fuzzy slippers and right the scarf covering my braids that went slightly askew in my sleep. By the time I make it downstairs, Mama is already flitting around the kitchen carrying plates and silverware.
“I can set the table, Mama,” I say, walking up to her and leaving a kiss on her cheek. “Morning.”
“I got it.” She bustles over to the fridge and pulls out the same clear butter dish she’s had for thirty years. “You must have jet lag after that long flight last night.”
“Mama, I’ve been home a week.”
“Oh.” She quickly covers her confusion by leaning into the refrigerator to search for something. “Right. I meant… Right. A week.”
Dammit. I didn’t mean to correct her. I’m tired and wasn’t thinking.
“And flying in a private jet definitely leaves you a lot less tired, I must say,” I comment, hoping to distract her from her lapse.
“I can imagine.” Mama’s quick smile chases away her frown, and she sets the butter on the table. “Now when am I meeting this baller?”
“Ma, who taught you to say ‘baller’?” I choke out a laugh. “That’s very boomer of you.”
“I am a boomer, right?” She frowns, setting a platter of eggs and bacon on the table. “Or am I Gen X?”
“Definitely a boomer,” I laugh. “But a cool one.”
“So when do I get to meet this Maverick? That’s a fine man.”
“How you know?” I narrow my eyes playfully.
“I can still Google, Hen. Haven’t forgotten how to do that yet.”
The delight in my chest deflates a bit and my grin dims. “Mama, I didn’t mean—”
“Girl, hush and eat.” Her smile is slightly strained, but still firmly in place when she sets the toast down, followed by a steaming bowl of heaven.
“You made grits!” I squeal like a little girl. My mother’s grits are the stuff of legend, and no matter how much I follow her every instruction, mine never turn out quite like hers.
“And look what else.” She turns to pull a pan from the oven.
“Hash brown casserole? Mama, you went all out. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to. It’s good to have you home.”
“Glad to be here.”
She searches my face. “Are you? I know it’s a lot for you to take six weeks off.”
“Well, I’m not taking six weeks off.” I load eggs and a few slices of bacon onto my plate. “I gotta work. As long as I have a phone and internet, I can still get shi—work done.”
Things haven’t changed enough for me to be cussing in my mama’s house.
I pause scooping grits onto my plate. “I think we need to upgrade the internet. It’s gotta be reliable for my meetings.”
“All right,” Mama says. “You sure do a lot of them Zooms.”
“Couldn’t run my business without them.” My spoon is loaded with grits and on my way to my mouth when Mama’s ahem stops me.
“We still say grace in this house, Hendrix Rae.”
“Oh.” I set the spoon back into the mound of grits. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“Heavenly Father,” Mama says, hands pressed together and eyes closed. “Child, why are your eyes open?”
How does she always… whatever. I obediently close my eyes.
“Heavenly Father,” Mama begins again. “We thank You for the food that is set before us and ask that You bless the hands that prepared it.”
Her hands.
“We ask that You’d make it good for the nourishing of our bodies,” she goes on. “Please bless those who don’t have, oh God. The ones that don’t have a home or food to eat. And we thank You for Your power. Your wonder-working power. For the blood Your Son shed that we might have life and life more abundantly.”
Was the blessing always this long?
My stomach releases a growl in raucous protest of the food that smells so good and is being withheld.
“We ask that You’d extend Your healing to our sister Geneva, who’s recovering from surgery. Lord, You know her situation. By Your Son’s stripes, we are healed. We pray for a speedy recovery.”
I clear my throat, hoping to throw a hint, but Mama prays for New Hope’s sick and shut in, the church’s building fund, and the young adult choir before we are allowed to eat.
“In Jesus’s name,” she finally says. “Amen.”
“Amen,” I say, relieved and starving. My taste buds water with the promise of Mama’s grits. As soon as they hit my tongue, I almost gag.
Lord, they’re awful. I have no idea what they are missing or what was added, but they’re inedible. I reach for a napkin to discreetly spit the food into, and move on to the eggs and bacon. Fortunately, they’re as delicious as always. After the Christmas dinner debacle, I wasn’t sure Mama should cook at all, but things stabilized some with Aunt Geneva in the house and the regimen of meds back on course. The doctor cleared her to cook with light supervision and said taking something she loved so much away could prove detrimental. So she will cook some until it becomes apparent her condition has advanced too much for that at all. Still, Aunt Geneva usually at least loosely supervises. I wasn’t up to do that today.
“Do your grits taste funny?” Mama demands, frowning and spitting hers into a napkin.
“Um, yeah. A little.” I reach for the cup of coffee set by my plate, black the way I like it. “Probably just too much salt or something. It’s no big deal.”
I don’t want it to be a big deal. One of the first ways we knew something was wrong with Mama was her food. She’d always been the best baker for miles. I’ll never forget that first German chocolate cake that was just… off.
“I don’t understand.” Mama walks over to the stove, opening the cabinet where she’s always kept her spices. She pulls down the little white dish for salt. “I don’t taste any salt, but I know I used it.”
She pinches a little between her fingers and drops it onto her tongue. Her face freezes into a mask and she shoves the dish back in the cabinet. I’m surprised when she pushes past me and out of the kitchen.
“I’m not hungry, Hen,” she calls as she mounts the stairs. “Clean up the kitchen when you’re done, ’kay?”
When her bedroom door closes, I tiptoe over to the stove and pull out the salt dish. Looking furtively over my shoulder, I go through the same motions Mama did, pinching the salt and placing it on my tongue.
My face screws up at the unexpected taste. “What is that?”
Not salt, for sure. I taste again experimentally.
“Baking soda.” I close my eyes and sigh, slumping against the counter. “God, help us.”
I finish my breakfast quickly. I want to check on Aunt Geneva before I have to call in for my first meeting. They’re on Paris time, so they’ll be deep into their day. I need to look like I’m deep into mine, too.
I pad upstairs and down the hall, hesitating at Mama’s closed door, but then moving on. I know how self-conscious she gets when she makes mistakes that remind her of how her brain is betraying her. I tap on my aunt’s bedroom door. The muted sounds of Kirk Franklin’s “Melodies from Heaven” make me smile.
“Aunt G,” I call softly. “You all right in there?”
“Come on in,” she answers.
Her surgery was a few days ago and she just came home yesterday. She’s on bedrest at least for the next three weeks, possibly longer. Abdominal hysterectomies have some of the longest recovery times, and considering her age, she has to take it easy and be really careful.
She’s propped up in bed, Velcro rollers in her hair, Bible on her lap.
“Morning.” I walk into the room and settle on her bed. “Did you sleep well?”
“It was kind of a rough night. I don’t want to take too many of those pills they gave me.”
“You had major surgery, Aunt G. Some pain is expected and taking meds to help manage it is okay.” I study her face, concerned by the faint lines of strain around her mouth. “Need help going to the bathroom?”
She grimaces. “I hate this, but I think I might.”
“Come on, young lady. Let’s get this over with.” I pull back the covers, help her to her feet and to the bathroom.
Once we’re done and she’s back in bed, she looks worn out.
“Thank you, Hen,” she pants, slightly short of breath even from that brief journey.
“Of course.” I get the covers settled back around her and fluff the pillows behind her head. “You all set? Need anything?”
“I probably won’t get around to it,” she says, “but hand me that big crossword puzzle book and my phone in case I get bored laying here on my back.”
I grab the hefty book from her dresser. I’ve seen her working on these more than once, pencil clenched between her teeth and brows drawn in concentration.
“I do ’em to keep this old brain of mine active.” She accepts the book and caresses the tattered pages. “I do Wordscapes on my phone sometimes, too. If I’m gonna get it, it’s probably too late to do anything about it now, but still…”
Aunt Geneva shrugs and looks up—searches my face for understanding.
Get it. Alzheimer’s.
I’ve thought of it, too. How can I not wonder if this thing that hunted Mama down later in life might one day come for me? Even if I didn’t have a relative diagnosed, Black people are almost twice as likely to develop Alzheimer’s. So, yeah, I think about it.
“I heard jigsaw puzzles are good, too,” I tell her with a smile. “And I started taking some new supplements. I think about it, but we’re gonna be fine.”
I drop a kiss on her head and she nods, her lips twisting with something that is half grin, half grimace of discomfort.
“You eat? Don’t neglect yourself, Hen, taking care of us old birds.”
“Mama cooked some breakfast.”
“Did she make them grits?” Aunt Geneva asks cautiously.
“Aunt G, you could have warned me!”
As soon as our gazes catch, our lips start twitching and we both laugh, even though this is some tough shit we’re navigating. When life deals you the worst hand, the biggest test is how you get through it. Laugh, cry, wail, whine—doesn’t matter. Just through . And here with them the last few days, I see more clearly than ever, that’s what Mama’s doing. What we’re all doing. The best we can to make it through.
“As closely as I watch her,” Aunt Geneva says, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes and the last of the humor from her face, “she sometimes manages to get the salt and the baking soda mixed up. No idea how or why, but it makes for an interesting mac and cheese. I’m usually with her. She doesn’t get to cook alone, but every once in a while, something will slip past me and we end up with baking soda in the grits or something. She hates me standing over her shoulder, as she calls it, but it’s the best way for her to still do what she loves so much and stay safe.”
“The eggs and bacon are good,” I reassure her, holding on to my smile for as long as I can. “Want some?”
“Yeah, and there’s some grapefruit in the fridge. Cut me one up?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get up tomorrow to help her with breakfast.” I glance at my Apple Watch. “I have a few meetings. I’ll bring your food, do my meeting, and then be back to check on you when I’m done.”
“Sounds good.” She points to her Bible on her nightstand. “Got my Savior and my tunes. I’ll be just fine.”
I bring her breakfast up. As I’m turning to go back downstairs, I pause at her bedroom door. “I’m gonna shower and get through my meetings,” I say. “I was actually surprised Mama cooked breakfast this morning. She’s been in her room a lot this week—not coming out much. Is that typical?”
Aunt Geneva shrugs. “Depending on how she’s feeling.”
“Depression is really common in Alzheimer’s patients. You think Mama is depressed?”
“Be hard for her not to be at least a little sad knowing what she knows.”
“Well, in my support group, they said activity helps. Exercise won’t stop the progress altogether, of course, but it can help grow new brain cells, and that’s always good!”
“I know. She and Catherine used to walk at the track, walk around the neighborhood. Lately…” Aunt Geneva shrugs. “Just not as interested in things as she used to be.”
“What about her garden? That was her favorite place in the world. Now it’s overgrown with weeds. No flowers. A mess.”
“The garden makes her think of your daddy. Sometimes when she goes out there, it’s not good.”
It’s a sad conversation, and I have to shove my anxiety aside long enough to shower and put on a little makeup before my first meeting. It’s actually a call with a brand interested in working with Soledad. She’ll be on the call, too, which makes me look forward to the meeting just a little. I miss my girls. Between the week in Malibu with Maverick, which we’ve barely gotten to debrief, and now six weeks here in Charlotte, we’ve got a long-distance friendship going.
“Shit internet,” I mutter, setting up shop in my father’s old office, which now doubles as a sewing room. I’m praying this weak-ass signal holds for the duration of my Zoom. It’s like a museum of my childhood in here, with my father’s dusty dinosaur of a desktop computer and the disabled Singer Mama used to sew my Halloween costumes the monuments, as the relics of our past.
The photos that always adorned Daddy’s desk are still here. An old wedding portrait, in which my parents look terribly young and fresh and ecstatic, their arms looped around each other like they’re holding on for dear life. And they did… till death did them part. That promise of unconditional, unwavering love in that photo—they fulfilled it. There are still photos of me growing up—Girl Scouts, debate team, graduation. Even that cheerleader phase I went through. I had no desire to cheer, but still felt that need to prove “big girls could” do stuff, too. I grew out of that.
I ain’t got shit to prove to anyone but myself now.
Maybe tonight Mama and I can pull out her many photo albums and reminisce some. She seems happiest spending time in the past. Will it help if I find ways to go there with her?
But first, work.
Fortunately, the call doesn’t last long. They know they want to work with Soledad, so we discuss the sponsored posts she’ll do and even a brand trip to Paris for Fashion Week. Once the client logs off, Soledad lingers and it’s just the two of us.
“Wow,” she says, her eyes wide. “That was pretty amazing, right?”
“Definitely. Exciting stuff. I’ll follow up.” I take in her curly hair in a perky ponytail, her face with a light dusting of powder and her bright eyes and smile. “How you doing down there in the A?”
“We’re good. You know we leave on that cruise tomorrow.” Her eyes light up. “It’s the first trip with my girls and Judah’s boys. Wish us luck.”
“How do Aaron and Adam do with travel?”
“Pretty good now.” Soledad shrugs. “Judah says it’s gotten easier over the years. Partly because the boys are getting older and have routines and tools that work, and also because the rest of the world is finally catching up with understanding and accommodating differences better. Stuff like line passes at theme parks or sensory rooms in big stadiums. It can still be stressful because they need that routine and travel’s so unpredictable.”
“I can imagine.”
“But we’ll be fine. What about you? How was Malibu?” Soledad waggles her brows. “How’s your billionaire boyfriend?”
“It sounds so weird and cheesy when you say it like that. But he’s pretty amazing.”
“And Zere?”
“No word.” I sigh and tap a pen on the desk. “She’s still thinking about whether she can be in business with me for the show. It’s probably gonna be a no.”
“How’s that make you feel? Any regrets about choosing Maverick?”
I swivel in Daddy’s old chair, smiling at the familiar creaky sound it makes. “Ya know, I thought I’d be more in existential crisis mode because I’ve always been so determined I wouldn’t choose a guy over my career or ambition, but that’s not what this was. I chose myself because I’m choosing my happiness.”
“Atta girl.” Soledad snaps as if I just dropped bars of spoken word. “Can’t wait to meet him IRL.”
“The girlies got you talking their talk.”
“What can I say?” Soledad runs her curly ponytail through her fist and smirks. “They keeps me young.”
“I saw that trend you did with Deja and Lupe. How long did it take you to record that dance?”
“Hours to learn and record, but it was worth it.”
“Lots of views?”
“Lots of time with the girls. They graduate soon, Hen.” Soledad looks a little misty in the eyes. “The momancholy is gonna be so bad. Oh, speaking of the pending emotional destruction of graduation, the girls are doing a short summer program at A&T when we get back from the cruise. We won’t be too far from you and were thinking about coming to visit when we pick the girls up.”
“Oh gosh, Sol, that would be amazing.” The offer makes me realize how much I need my friends. Things have been good here so far, but there is always this tension like anything could go really wrong at any minute, a constant low-level anxiety that becomes exhausting.
“And Yasmen wants to pop by the Grits in Charlotte.”
We both widen our eyes meaningfully because the woman who dated Josiah briefly while they were divorced is also head chef at their Charlotte location.
“Gurhhhhlll, hide the knives,” I say.
“It’ll be fine,” Soledad chuckles. “We’re all adults, and Vashti is now engaged and has a baby on the way. She ain’t thinking ’bout Josiah like that.”
Seeing how things turned out with that messy situation gives me a little hope that Maverick, Zere, and I will get our awkwardness sorted and one day live in perfect harmony. Zere in a relationship and pregnant would be the best we could hope for. It’s exactly what she wants. She just wanted it with the wrong man.
My man.
“Anyway, so we’ll definitely be in Charlotte for a bit and will come see you. Can’t wait to meet your mom and Aunt G.”
“They’ll love that, but don’t you come without the girls. I want to see them.”
“You want to spoil them.”
“I may have done a little shopping,” I admit with a grin. My phone alerts me to the next meeting starting soon. “Sol, I gotta bounce, but I’ll follow up with them about next steps and hope to see you guys soon!”
The internet holds on through back-to-back video calls, and I have a catch-up with Skipper to make sure all is well in Atlanta. The day zips. Mama’s pretty quiet in her bedroom, and besides a mixture of General Hospital and Fred Hammond’s greatest hits, I don’t hear much from Aunt Geneva either. By the time evening rolls around, I’m done and starving.
The doorbell rings every night around this time, though, so my stomach is now set to this schedule. I open the door to yet another lady from Mama and Aunt G’s church bearing an aluminum foil–covered casserole dish. This meal train thing their church does is on point.
“Just pop it in at three fifty for about twenty minutes,” says Mrs. Redmond, tonight’s church lady, handing over the dish. “I gotta get to choir practice, but tell Geneva I’ll be by soon to visit.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
In the kitchen, I preheat the oven and lift the foil away, giving the contents an investigative sniff. Something with cream of chicken and broccoli. Another scene from the past paints itself onto my mind’s eye. The backyard overflowing with our neighbors, Daddy grinning through the smoke rising from the grill as he doled out hot dogs and burgers. Mama and Ms. Catherine singing “Free Your Mind” and doing En Vogue’s choreography. The memory echoes in the silent kitchen. I glance through the window over the sink, superimposing those vibrant days onto the unkempt garden and rusted-out grill tucked into a shed beside Daddy’s old John Deere riding lawn mower.
I relented, let Mama stay here because it’s what she wanted, but more and more I wonder if it was the right decision. This house is haunted, and Mama needs more than ghosts for company.
“Hmmmm, that smells good,” I say, opening the oven and watching the cheese sprinkled on top bubbling. “Mama, dinner’s almost ready.”
No answer.
I set the casserole on the stove top and walk upstairs to knock on her door.
“Mama, Mrs. Redmond dropped off dinner. It’s almost done. You coming to eat?”
Silence.
“Mama?” My voice comes out less certain, and I turn the knob slowly like it might delay me finding something sad on the other side.
Mama’s sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to her chest and releasing staccato breaths. Her panicked eyes meet mine.
“I’m sorry,” she manages between choppy inhalations. “I made a mess, but I’ll clean it up.”
“Mess?” I frown. “What are you…”
By her bed, her slippers are covered in vomit. Some of it is splattered on her bare feet.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.” I rush over to the bed and sit beside her, placing my hand on her back. “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t… I can’t… breathe, Henny.” Tears fill her eyes, leaking over her smooth cheeks. “My head’s been hurting all day, but I—”
“All day? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew you had all your calls, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Finally got Geneva to take one of her pain pills and she was sleeping good. Didn’t want to bother nobody.”
“Mama, you’re never a bother.” I hug her to me by the shoulders. “Don’t do that again. Please, for me.”
“I’m scared.” Her wide eyes find mine. “I can’t breathe, and my chest hurts.”
“Could it be a reaction to something?” I ask, suppressing my panic.
“I don’t know.” Mama looks at me through that fog where things aren’t clear and make less sense. “I… I don’t know, Henny.”
“Stay here.” I stride to the door and call over my shoulder. “Let me ask Aunt G about it.”
I don’t bother knocking, but burst into my aunt’s bedroom. She’s knocked out and blinks at me dazedly from beneath the folds of her bonnet.
“Hen?” she asks, voice rasped with sleep. “What is it?”
“Mama. She says she’s having trouble breathing and has a headache. Her chest hurts. Has this been happening?”
Her eyes widen and she tries to pull herself up, wincing in pain. I rush over and put a staying hand on her shoulder.
“Be careful. You just had major surgery. Take your time.”
“I think it’s her pressure.”
“Pressure? Like hypertension? Mama doesn’t have high blood pressure.”
Aunt Geneva flicks a nervous glance up at me. “She does now. She didn’t want to worry you so—”
“What the hell?” I shout, unable to hold back my frustration. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t want to worry you, and she’s usually really good about taking her pills. I always…” She closes her eyes and sinks back into the pillows. “I always check behind her.”
But not for the last few days she hasn’t. Not since her surgery. And I didn’t know to check.
I run from the room and down the hall back to Mama. Oh, God, I need to call 911. I need to get her to the hospital. I need to calm down, but my heart is Vesuvius, every thought and sensation spilling over at once like lava, but I can’t explode. Mama needs me calm.
When I reach her room, trepidation and panic laugh in my face. There is no calm and no containing this volcano of emotion when my mother—my responsibility, the one who has always taken care of me—lies unconscious on the floor.