Chapter 27. Lyric
Lyric
LIP OF THE DAY:
Protection Spell
Grammy and I spend one more night at Kiana’s, which is good because after all the gin we consumed Ki and I are laid out on the twenty-sixth.
“You smell like a liquor store,” Grammy says when I stumble out of Ki’s room to help her to the bathroom and with getting dressed.
I nod, trying not to gag because even the word liquor makes me want to hurl.
“Well, I had myself a few classy martinis with Kiana’s fathers and then took myself to bed like a lady. I guess that was good, since it looks like you had enough fun for both of us.”
“Grammy, please, not so loud.”
“Chile, I’m talking in my normal tone of voice. You are in a bad way, huh? Did I ever tell you about the time I near ended up sleeping on the steps of the Chicago Public Library after a few too many at the club?”
I just want silence, water, and to crawl back in bed with Ki, but Grammy launches into another one of her stories like it’s nothing, and I try my best to keep up.
It’s a relief when I leave her in the hands of Ki’s dad Amadou, who is up drinking coffee and making eggs.
“Good morning, Ms. Viv!” he calls. “Carl and I were thinking of going to a matinee of the new Fast and Furious. You want to join us?”
“Sure do. That Vin Diesel is my TV boyfriend. When he drives those cars all fast, I have all kinda lustful thoughts.”
“I know what you mean.” Amadou laughs.
“Gross,” I say, “but have fun at the movie. She’s in your hands now.” I wave to Amadou as I grab a glass of water and some Advil, and then head back to Kiana’s room.
On the twenty-seventh, Grammy and I finally get word that our heat is fixed.
I sigh when we walk through the door of our apartment, dropping my bags, immediate warmth greeting us.
I love Kiana’s immaculately decorated house and her dads, but it’s good to be home.
All the familiar smells hit me at once—Grammy’s cocoa butter lotion, lemon air freshener, and a slight charred scent from the kitchen from something I burned.
All those nights away from home, in the middle of someone else’s family traditions and drama, made me appreciate what me and Grammy have even more.
It may be small, but it’s ours and it’s quiet, and cozy, and full of love because we survived and made it so.
“Lord, I missed my chair and TV,” Grammy calls from her room, where she’s already flipped on some show and is making herself comfy.
“Need anything, Grammy?” I call.
“No, thank you, baby. I’m just fine, I’ll rest these bones of mine. Carl and Amadou had me thinking I was young again the last couple nights, up late laughing.”
I leave Grammy and start assessing what groceries we have left and what laundry needs to be done.
When my phone dings, I practically crash over to my bed to see if it’s Juniper.
Kiana and I made a very drunk pact not to contact either Juniper or Holden unless they reach out first. I keep hoping maybe—maybe she’ll reach out.
But it’s not Juniper. The text is from Jeannine telling me our store is all dried out and that shifts start up again tomorrow.
“Wonderful,” I mutter, throwing my phone down and resuming sorting dirty clothes into piles. When I check in on Grammy an hour later to see if she wants to take a walk, she’s talking on the phone to someone, her face all lit up and excited.
“It’s your mom,” she mouths. “We’re talking details about where to meet. She says hello.”
I wave awkwardly as if my mom can see me over the phone, and then shut Grammy’s door quickly.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my spiked heart rate. I’m trying not to get my hopes too high, but Grammy, she seems all in. I’m worried she’ll get hurt again. Thank goodness I have work to distract me for a while, because nothing feels in my control right now.
Too soon, Grammy and I are driving the hour to Lowell to meet my mom.
Grammy is an anxious mess. For the last couple days, getting her to do anything but talk about the visit or sort through photos of me from the last eight years to show Mom has been a chore.
This morning, she woke me up at the ass crack of dawn to help her do her hair and makeup just so.
“Get me my pearl earrings,” she said when she was almost ready.
I retrieved them from her small jewelry box and helped slip them into her pierced ears. She fluffed her hair and fidgeted with her outfit. “Do I look OK?”
“You look beautiful,” I said softly. “Really beautiful.”
She smiled at me with so much hope in her eyes that I said a quick prayer that this would all go to plan.
But our moment was short-lived, because then Grammy started fussing over what I was going to wear. She immediately vetoed the jeans and T-shirt I’d picked out the night before, and demanded I put on a dress. “I will not have your mom thinking I have you out here in rags!”
“These are not r—you know what, never mind, fine.”
And that’s how I ended up in a striped black-and-white sweater dress, my hair up in a tight bun and small gold hoops in my ears. My lipstick choice, however, was nonnegotiable. I smeared on a heavy matte, blue-black lip, a lip fit for a warrior, a lip that felt like armor.
“You look like you’re going to Wakanda,” Grammy said when she saw it, shaking her head.
“Perfect,” I said. “You ready?”
Now, on the road, Grammy grips the armrest anytime I make a turn or change lanes. “You’re driving too fast!” she scolds as I pull off on our exit, almost to the Biggby coffee shop where we’re meeting Mom.
“I’m going exactly the speed limit, Grammy. I promise I’ll get us there in one piece.”
She huffs and starts to wring her hands. “We’re almost there,” I say.
We arrive at three p.m. on the dot, and despite Grammy’s worry that we’re late, Mom isn’t there yet, and neither is anybody else. The place is empty. Most people use the drive-through anyway, and it’s the day before the holiday, so nobody is hanging out here.
“Go look in the bathroom, Lyric, baby. Maybe she’s in there.”
“Grammy, she’s not here yet. It just turned three o’clock.”
“Just go look!” Grammy’s voice is high, tight.
I sigh and go look in the bathroom. As predicted, it’s empty.
I order me and Grammy some coffee and get us two blueberry muffins, and then we sit in front of the big windows and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
After thirty minutes, I pat Grammy’s hand. “When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Yesterday! She said she’d be here.”
“OK,” I say. “Why don’t you try calling her?”
Grammy nods, pulls up her number. I click her phone on speaker. It’s silent and staticky and then we hear a chime. “This number is no longer in service,” an automated voice says.
“No—that can’t be,” Grammy says, shaking her head. “Try again.”
I try again, and the same thing happens. Grammy sets her mouth in a thin line, and then peers out the window beyond me. “Let’s just wait fifteen more minutes, OK?” she says in a whisper.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me get us a refill.”
I stand and walk to the counter. As I top off our cups with hot coffee, I wipe away a few escaped tears.
She’s not coming, she never was. I knew this would happen.
I want to yell at Grammy for being so optimistic—but I know she is hurting too, barely keeping it together.
We sit for forty more minutes and drink our coffees, watching cars go by, never stopping.
Then, without a word, Grammy stands up. “Let’s go home,” she says.
So we drive the hour back in silence, Grammy staring out her window, refusing to look at me. When we get inside our apartment, Grammy sits down heavily in her chair and says, “Shut my door, Lyric, baby. Will you?”
I nod and do as she asks. Then I stand outside and listen as she starts to weep softly.
Suddenly, my limbs feel like anvils. My eyelids feel droopy. I am so, so tired.
I crawl into my bed, fully clothed. Pull the covers around me and fall dead asleep.
I’m dreaming—it’s not a nightmare, but it’s also not familiar.
I am alone, in a big, drafty house that overlooks an even bigger lake.
The moon is out and it is so bright the water is a silver flash across the night.
I am upstairs, looking out an open window.
It’s summer, because I can smell honeysuckle and wet earth, and there are crickets screaming at one another from the tall grass.
I see a fox, slipping in and out of the nearby woods, and then an owl hoots from some branch, but I swear I also hear someone singing.
“Hello?” I call out. “Who is there?”
My voice is small, like a child’s. I notice my hands are small too, and my feet, and then I realize I’m wearing pj’s covered in cartoons.
I’m all alone in a house that’s not mine, and somewhere outside I can hear Mama’s singing growing fainter and fainter until I can’t tell if she’s a woman or a cricket or a fox or an owl or the lake blinking secrets at me.
I leave the house. I walk and walk and walk through the woods.
I am so quiet. I don’t make a sound. I know she wants me to look for her.
To find her. It is a game. I walk and walk until I am too tired to go on.
So, I stop. Build myself a pile of leaves, and curl into the middle of it.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, I am high up, perched in Grammy’s arms. No, I am in Juniper’s arms. No—Daddy is throwing me high in the air.
No—I am in Kiana’s hands, high above the glossy floors of school, in a cup of coffee.
No—I am—the sun is too bright to see what or who is holding me.
But I am held. I am seen. I am held. I am not on the ground anymore.
When I finally wake up, it’s past ten p.m. I usually help Grammy with her bedtime routine at nine.
I hurry to her room and find the door still closed, but I don’t hear any weeping. “Grammy?” I knock. “Do you need any help? I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“I’m fine. Come on in.”
I step inside. It’s completely dark, TV off. “I’m still trying to get myself together, baby girl,” Grammy says from the corner where her chair is.
“I’m going to turn on your bedside lamp,” I say gently.
Instantly, the room is illuminated with a soft pink glow. I see Grammy in her chair, still fully dressed—stockings, shoes, pearl earrings and all. And in her lap, the stack of photos she planned to show Mom.
“Here, let me take those,” I say, holding out my hand. Grammy hands the photos over silently, and I tuck them away in the plastic box in her closet.
“Do you want to get ready for bed?” I try.
“Don’t think I could sleep, even if I wanted to,” she says with a weak smile. “Think I’ll just sit here awhile longer.”
“Grammy,” I say, sitting on the edge of her bed so that I’m right by her. “It’s OK. I’m mad at Mom, but not you. You don’t have to punish yourself for having hope.”
“Yes, I do!” Grammy yells with a malice I’ve never heard before.
She still won’t look at me. “I knew better, and I was selfish and I dragged you into all this like a fool. I’m ashamed and humiliated that I put you through that.
” This time, her voice cracks, and she smooths her skirt as best she can, trying to keep back tears. “I knew better, I knew better.”
The tears come cascading quietly down Grammy’s face again. I reach out for her hands and cup them in mine, my eyes also wet.
“I miss her too, Grammy. Or at least the idea of her,” I say.
I pause, and after a beat I say, “But I had a dream, and I think I figured out what to do with my anger—how to make it useful.”
This brings Grammy’s gaze right to mine. “And how’s that?” she croaks.
“By holding it close, not being ashamed of it, and then letting go so I can make room for something new—something that will hold me too.”
Grammy nods through her tears. “That’s sounds real nice, baby girl.”
Then we sit together for a while longer—all the things we could say irrelevant, our heaving, hardworking lungs the only remedy for the grief.
As much as my whole rib cage aches with all the could-bes, all my hopes and worries and wants; as much as it hurts; as much as I am angry at my mom for ghosting again—the last thing I want to do is hit something.
Instead, I want to gather all the pieces—put them back together, but this time, without fear of letting the cracks show.