Chapter 33 Mekhi
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop impatiently, waiting for my mother to join me in the kitchen.
It was too damn quiet for all the shit tumbling through my mind, just the hum of the fridge and the tick of an old wall clock I still hadn’t gotten rid of.
Farrah was at the library, and Jarrell had taken Khayla somewhere.
This was as private as we were going to get, and I needed privacy just in case I exposed my mother was flaw.
She strolled in a minute later, pretty and polished as usual.
Gillian had always kept herself up, but back in the day, when we were struggling, her pretty had grown a hard edge, a little desperation, like she knew it was the main thing she had going for herself.
I’d been able to give her a soft life, and it showed. I was proud of that.
I just hoped she deserved it.
Walking over, she planted a kiss on my forehead before taking the seat across from me where I had set her favorite tea and some kind of muffin Farrah had made. Gillian smiled as she settled in her chair. She took a tentative sip of her tea, then stared at me.
“What’s up, favorite son?” she asked, her voice light, teasing.
She had no idea what was about to come, but my silence started to reveal it. Her smile shrank slowly, like some exotic flower deprived of the light.
“Mekhi–”
I wasted no more time getting to the point. The sooner I laid it out there, the sooner I might have answers.
“Some nigga named Trell wants me gone.”
She set the teacup down with more force than necessary, her brown eyes suddenly hard. “What you need me to do? You know whatever it is–”
I shook my head. “I don’t even know who the nigga is.”
Mama frowned. “So, what you need from me? I might know some people who can find him.”
“I got the best people looking. I thought you might know somebody by that name…”
I let my voice trail off Mama’s gaze pinned me. “I’on know no goddamned Trell, but I told you, I can help find him.”
My mother had done a lot to survive, some of it undesirable. She still had contacts from her former life, valuable ones who wouldn’t hesitate to help her or me. I hated to mix her up in this, though. I started drumming on the table again, not sure where to go next with this.
“What is it?” she asked me. “What you thinking about?”
“Even though you don’t know this nigga, it seems he knows you. He rented a hotel room in your name. And he told my girl that I should ask you about what was rightfully his.”
She frowned, then closed her eyes for a minute, like she was thinking hard. Finally, she shook her head.
“I don’t know a ‘Trell,’ baby,” she repeated, sounding completely sincere.
I watched her for a tell, any small sign. Dropped eyes, sudden fidgeting, a light sweat, a small tic… there were so many ways she could give herself away, but she displayed none. Either my mom was innocent, or I was the child of a psychopath.
“And he talking about what’s rightfully his? I don’t owe nobody shit. I wouldn’t be walking around owing somebody, not when you always come through for me. And not when I know how these fools would try to use that against us.”
I nodded, accepting her at her word. No matter how rocky shit got between us, I didn’t believe Gillian would do anything to put me at risk. No one would ever describe her as affectionate, but she loved me.
“So, we gotta figure out if there’s really a connection to me,” she said, rubbing her temple thoughtfully. “Maybe a man scorned? You know your mama used to leave ‘em crying,” she said, only half joking.
“Ma, please,” I muttered. “This nigga is young, though. He wasn’t around in your heyday.”
She scowled at me. “Boy, I’m still in my prime.”
“Okay, cougar,” I waved her off.
She smacked my hand. “I really can’t place that name. Hell, what he look like?”
I ran down Farrah’s description of Trell. Shit, I’d given it so much, I had it memorized. Gillian’s head snapped up midway through it.
“Wait, wait, wait,” she demanded, leaning toward the table.
I frowned at her. “What? You think you know the nigga?”
“Did you say he had a birthmark on his eyelid?”
“Yeah. You know somebody like that?”
She blew out a long breath and squeezed her eyes shut before opening them and staring at me.
“No,” she said.
And there it was. The slight clenching of her hands.
The quick look away. The tenseness of her mouth.
She was lying. My mother was lying to me about shit that could get me killed.
I shook my head. Gillian was playing with my life in my face.
The shit was… I didn’t have words as I rubbed my chest, trying to ease the sudden ache.
“You sure?” I asked, hoping she’d admit whatever it was that had her looking real suspect.
She sat across from me, suddenly looking smaller than I ever remembered. She picked up her cup, then held it like it was going to protect her from something… maybe the truth.
“What did I say?” she snapped, setting it right back down.
“Ma,” I said slowly, “I’m gon’ ask you one more time… you know who Trell is?”
Her eyes flicked down, just for a second. It wasn’t long enough for most people to catch. But I noticed. I always noticed.
“I told you, baby, I don’t know nobody by that name,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “You out here running into all kinda people, Mekhi. You can’t expect me to—”
“Stop.” My hand hit the table, not hard, but enough to make the cup rattle. “Don’t do that. Don’t gaslight me, talk to me like I’m some nigga who don’t know you. You know something.”
Her lips pressed together tightly. That’s how I knew I’d hit a nerve.
Inside, I felt that old tension crawl up my spine.
It was the kind of feeling I thought I reserved for the streets, the instinct that said don’t trust nobody.
But this was my mother. My mama. The woman who scraped and sacrificed so I could have something better.
So why was she lying to me?
She sighed, leaned back in her chair. “Mekhi, baby, you need to calm down. You been under too much pressure, that’s all this is. That girl clearly got you stressed—”
“Farrah ain’t the problem.” My voice changed just a bit on her name.
I caught it and Gillian did, too, if the way she side-eyed me was any indication.
I forced my tone back low. “The problem is somebody keep playing games with my life and with hers. And this dude—this Trell—he out here saying I need to ask you why he coming for us.”
Her eyes darted to mine, wider this time. That surprised her. “He said that?”
“Yeah. You ain’t even ask what he said. That’s how I know you lying.”
The silence that followed was thick. I watched her swallow, exhale, look away.
“I did some things,” she finally whispered, “back when you were little. Things I had to do to keep us fed. I didn’t ask no questions. I didn’t know names. Maybe one of ‘em caught up to you, I don’t know.”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t believe her. This wasn’t some random. Shit was too personal.
“Ma, look at me.”
She did. I saw fear in her gaze. And guilt.
I leaned back, just watching her. I wanted to yell at her, demand the truth. But I knew it wasn’t coming today.
She finally spoke, voice trembling. “You think you leave the past, Mekhi, but the past don’t leave you. It just haunts you, follows you from address to address.”
I stared at her, the weight of that sinking in, feeling like cement in my chest.
“Yeah? Well, I ain’t got time for ghosts. I don’t mind airing ‘em out.”
She flinched at that—just slightly.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if my mama was scared for me… or of me.