Chapter 22. Juniper
Juniper
SONG OF THE DAY:
“Snowbound” by Sarah Vaughan
I love the way
houses at Christmas look
all lit up with lights
inflatable dinos or reindeer
littering yards
candles and wreaths
adorning doorways and windows.
But more than the cheery decor
it’s the smells—
the way rooms fill
with the scents of pine and cinnamon
rosemary and thyme
vanilla and cloves
simmering in a pot on the stove.
I missed this last
Christmas, a disaster
after Mama Alice left
and Mom was too depressed
to do any of our traditions
like baking cookies
roasting her famous
herbed butter turkey
apple cider and movies
after dinner.
I was worried
this year would be
more of the same
but here we are:
Christmas Eve day—
and once again our house
feels hopeful
full of light and cheer
Sarah Vaughan playing on
the speakers
snow coming down
in buckets outside.
Around ten a.m.
I’m peeling potatoes at the counter
with Mama Alice
and Mom is
basting the turkey in the oven
when I get a text from Lyric:
Heat is out in our building. I know it’s early, but
Grammy and I are headed to your house.
I hope the invite still stands.
Oh shit!
I say, dropping the peeler on the floor.
Mom and Mama Alice
look at one another.
What is it, Junie?
Mom finally asks.
Lyric and her grandma
are on their way over
now.
Well, Junie, it’s a little early.
Of course they are welcome
but we won’t be eating
until this afternoon.
I know—but
their heat is out.
So, I think
it’s an emergency.
Goodness, no heat in these temps?!
Mama Alice exclaims.
They must be freezing.
Mara—I’ll get the guest space set up.
They’ll be needing to stay over, I imagine?
Mom nods without skipping a beat.
Thanks, Al. Juniper—why don’t you go grab
a couple extra settings and chairs for the table.
I beam.
Thank you both
for being so cool.
Mom kisses me on the cheek.
Don’t you forget it. Your friends are always welcome.
But you’re still on dishes
at the end of the day.
Deal. I grin.
Fifteen minutes later
I throw open the front door
a gust of wind and snow
revealing Lyric and Ms. Viv
all bundled and carrying bags.
I’m sorry I texted so last minute.
It’s been a morning,
Lyric begins, still in the doorway.
I just thought with the weather
we’d come over before
we couldn’t anymore—
but we can leave if—
Come in, come in!
I interrupt.
Get out of the cold.
I take Ms. Viv’s arm
and lead her inside
then help her get out
of her boots and coat.
Lyric unbundles
and then greets my moms
in the kitchen
holding out a shopping bag.
I brought a half ham,
she says sheepishly.
We were planning on
having it tomorrow—
Then that’s exactly what
we’ll do,
Mom interrupts
taking the bag from Lyric
and smiling.
We have the guest space all set up
for you and your grandma tonight.
Junie told us about your heat—
you’re both very welcome here.
I appreciate that,
Lyric says softly.
I’m sorry to impose.
I know you weren’t expecting us.
Oh hush! Mama Alice says
from the couch
where she and Ms. Viv
have gotten introduced.
It’s no trouble.
I’m just so glad y’all are here.
This is not the time
to be without heat, my lord.
I must say, Ms. Viv
says then.
It smells divine in here.
What’s that you got cooking
in the oven?
That’s my mom’s turkey,
I say with pride.
We won’t eat dinner
until around four
but it will be worth the wait.
Can I help with anything?
Lyric asks then.
Oh, no, darling, Mama Alice says.
You and Ms. Viv just warm up
and relax.
Junie—maybe it’s time to start a fire?
Mom calls from the kitchen
where she’s resumed chopping something.
I can do that.
Wait, a real fire? Lyric says.
Yes, in the fireplace. It’s one of the reasons
we got this house.
It’s wood burning and everything.
I had one of those
in my Muskegon house,
Ms. Viv says.
Do you remember, Lyric, baby?
You used to be mesmerized by it.
I do.
Lyric nods.
And then says to me:
Can I help?
Lyric is already rolling up her sleeves
and I can tell
by her body language
she’d feel more comfortable
with something to do.
It dawns on me that she’s nervous.
I reach over
and grab one of her hands
give it a squeeze.
She looks me in the eye
for the first time today
and I whisper:
I’m really glad you’re here.
The corners of her mouth
pull up into a shy smile.
OK, good. Me too.
Will y’all stop flirting
and get to that fire?
Ms. Viv calls out.
I feel my ears heat
when Moms laugh
clearly amused by Ms. Viv’s
bossiness.
We’re on it,
I say.
After a rowdy dinner
complete with a game of celebrity
followed by decorating sugar cookies
and eating them for dessert
we all settle in the living room
to watch The Holiday.
Mom and Mama Alice take the couch
Ms. Viv the armchair
which means Lyric and I
get the love seat.
I throw a big blanket over us
and we don’t cuddle exactly
but our bodies are too close
not to lean into one another
as the movie plays.
We’ve kept the fire going steady
but as the evening progresses
we let it die down.
Around ten, Mama Alice and Mom excuse themselves
—or rather, Mom wakes up
a snoring Mama Alice and
leads her to their bedroom.
See you in the morning!
No present opening until we’re all caffeinated
and awake.
I roll my eyes.
I’m not ten, Mom.
I have self-control.
Good night, Lyric, she says, ignoring me.
Ms. Viv, if you need
anything at all
just let us know.
The back room is all made up.
Alright, thank you, Mara,
Ms. Viv says. I am beat.
Time for me to turn in as well.
Lyric helps Ms. Viv to the spare room
gets her comfortable and then
she comes back out into the
living room with me.
Not tired yet?
I say.
Lyric shakes her head.
Not at all.
Without talking about it
we sit on the big couch
each claiming a side
our feet touching under the blankets.
So, are we watching another movie?
Lyric asks, her face lit
with soft, crimson flame flickers.
We can,
I start.
Have you ever seen
The Last Holiday?
With Queen Latifah?
Yeah, I think so.
It’s not bad.
I hit play, and
as the opening credits begin to roll
Lyric whispers:
Your moms are really nice.
Yeah, I know.
They like you a lot too.
Lyric nods. I can tell
they love you more than anything.
I swallow and nod.
Yeah, they do. I just wish—
What?
I wish they’d get back
to loving one another
the way they used to before—
Before they separated?
Now it’s my turn to nod.
I pick at some fluff on the blanket.
I do not
under any circumstances
want to cry in front of Lyric.
Hey—
Lyric scoots closer to me
lifts my chin up to meet her eyes.
They will. There’s too much love
in this house
for them not to. Even I can see it.
I hold her gaze.
Our faces are so close
I can smell the cherry ChapStick on her lips.
I—I start, I want to kiss you.
Lyric doesn’t move.
OK, she whispers.
I lean in and brush my lips
against hers
and then she’s kissing me back.
The embers from the fire crackle
in my ears
and I can feel
the electricity in my fingertips
as they graze Lyric’s body
and we fall back into
the soft leather.
Lyric’s hands are in my hair
my mouth on her mouth
and then on her neck
and outside
the wind is roaring
shaking all the trees
but here, in this radiant flicker
of moving dark
we are all the light
we need.
You have no idea
how long
I’ve wanted to do that,
I whisper, coming up for air.
Lyric answers
by pulling me back to rest
on her chest.
Her heart roars in my ear
and each beat seems to say:
Me too, me too, me too.
I close my eyes
as we both drift into
a delicious sleep.
I wasn’t supposed to be home early that Tuesday last September, but there was a freak power outage at school and classes were canceled before lunch.
I’d texted Moms, but nobody answered. I made my way home on the L, one headphone in, ecstatic to have my day back, especially since precalc was kicking my butt and we’d had a test that day.
Off the train, I whistled my way down the street, thinking about what snack I’d make myself from the fridge and if there were any of Mom’s raspberry bars left.
I said hi to our doorman, Manny, and then pushed my way into our building.
I ducked into the mail room and checked our box.
Just coupons, and some bills, per usual.
As I was stuffing the mail into my pocket, I heard my mom’s distinct giggle and then whispers.
I peeped my head out to call to her, and that’s when I saw them.
Mom and not Mama Alice. Some tall, angular Black woman with a short fade, a septum piercing, and an all-black skinny jean outfit was all up in my mom’s personal space.
They were just outside our first-floor apartment door.
The woman leaned close, so close, and then she tucked a stray loc behind Mom’s ear.
It was familiar, intimate, and Mom didn’t even flinch, didn’t protest.
“See you later,” the woman said, and then squeezed Mom’s hand pointedly before whisking past me in the mail room and out our door.
I know I should have confronted Mom then, gone right to her to ask what the fuck was going on, but instead I followed the woman outside.
My head was pounding, and for ten blocks my feet had a mind of their own.
I still don’t know her name. All I know is that at some point I stopped following her.
All I know is that I gaslit myself for weeks after, about why this woman had been at our house, touching Mom like that.
A couple months later, Mom confessed to the affair over dinner and our whole world fell apart.
“I ended it,” Mom said through tears. “I’m not in love with her, Al. I love you. But something has to change. I feel so far away from you.”
I’d never seen Mama Alice so quiet. Quiet as a cave at midnight, quiet as a field right before a storm.
Mama Alice didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, didn’t cry or yell.
And I was just there—caught in the middle of it all, not sure what to do with the truth my gut had known weeks ago.
So, I started clearing plates and washing dishes, putting things away in their place as my head pounded with rage.
After what felt like hours of Mom pleading for us to say something, Mama Alice finally spoke.
“I see” was all that came out. Then she went into their room and shut the door.
Mom turned to me at the sink. “I’m so sorry I let our family down, Junie.”
“You should be,” I spat out.
Mom was crying again, but wiped away her tears. “I hope one day you can forgive me. I understand if you’re angry. I just want you to know, I love you no matter what.”
I should’ve told her that I’d seen them—together—in our doorway.
That I’d spent weeks with a stomachache, trying to rationalize it all away.
I should have told her how she’d uprooted everything, like a feral rabbit in a garden—eating away at the ripe tomatoes and lettuce.
But I felt numb, and very tired. So instead, I placed the last dish in the cabinet and started putting on my snow boots.
“Doesn’t feel like you love anyone but yourself,” I said.
Then I grabbed my coat. I needed to get outside, into the fresh November air, to be anywhere else than in our crumbling home.
A week later, Mama Alice packed her bags and left—for some space, a separation.
And so ended everything I thought I knew about love.