Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
We step off the janky elevator into the dimly lit hallway. One of the few working lights flickers. A fusion of cigarette smoke and cooked food flavours the air. Behind one of the doors, a baby wails. Once upon a time, the carpet was red. Now it looks brown. I eye the peeling wallpaper and feel ashamed.
We reach my mother’s apartment, and for a second I just stare at the door. Sighing, I lift my hand and knock.
Noémie adjusts her hold on the bottle of French wine she brought from her collection. I told her that she didn’t need to bring anything. She insisted, saying that it’d be rude to come to dinner empty handed.
Paulette cracks the door open.
Today, my mom’s wearing a dark-blue house frock and one of her signature satin bonnets. A smile begins to blossom on her lips, but it wilts upon seeing that I’m not alone.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend ,” she says flatly.
I silently curse myself. I should have given my mom a heads up that Noémie was coming.
Stepping back, Paulette swings the door open wide.
Noémie and I shuffle inside. The apartment smells like Jamaican food—pimento, Scotch bonnet peppers, and sautéed onions.
While my mom never openly voiced disapproval of my sexuality, I know how she feels about me being a lesbian—she doesn’t like it one bit.
My mom’s not good at controlling her face. If she doesn’t like someone or a situation, her eyes and the set of her mouth lets you know exactly what she’s thinking. Right now she’s thinking that I have some nerve. Paulette’s dark-brown eyes pinball between me and Noémie. She’s wondering if we’re together. She decides we must be. She isn’t impressed. She doesn’t want me to go to hell.
I clear my throat. “This is Noémie, my roommate,” I say.
My mom’s expression doesn’t soften.
“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Alexander,” Noémie says. Then, unexpectedly and before I can stop her, Noémie leans over and brushes her cheek against my mother’s, making one of those kissing noise.
Every muscle in my body seizes as I watch the exchange. Generally, my family isn’t touchy. We barely hug. Greetings are usually reserved to fist-bumps.
My mother stares at me with a look that says, Is this girl mad?
“She’s French,” I explain.
“French,” Paulette repeats with a huff.
If Noémie detects the strain in the atmosphere, she doesn’t show it. Grinning wide, she holds out the bottle of wine. “For you. It’s a Bordeaux—pairs well with beef and lamb.”
My mother accepts the offering, sticking the bottle under her arm. “Thank you, Noémie. Make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready soon.” With those words, she leaves us, disappearing behind a green, yellow, and black beaded curtain that leads into the kitchen.
Noémie nibbles her lower lip. “That could have gone over better. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I should have warned you about my mother. She isn’t always the most welcoming,” I say, holding out my hand. “Give me your coat, I’ll hang it up.”
Noémie removes her taupe peacoat and hands it to me. She bends to unzip her boots.
I try not stare, but Noémie looks stunning this evening. She’s got on a cream cable knit dress, which she’s styled with a thick gold buckle belt that cinches her waist. Her auburn hair is down. Orange maple leaf stud earrings glint in her ears, matching the glossy polish on her neatly trimmed nails.
Usually short nails are a flag, signalling that woman might not be quite straight. I’ve never seen Noémie sport those fashionable acrylic talons that are favoured by most chicks. But because of Wayne, I know that Noémie prefers short nails for practical reasons. During a slow hour at the coffee shop, they’d been talking about nail art. Wayne asked Noémie why she wore her nails so short.
“They aren’t very hygienic,” Noémie responded. “Can you imagine trying to knead dough with those things on?”
Wayne looked at her like she’d turned into a gargoyle. Before that conversation, he hadn’t known that Noémie is a master chef in the making.
After hanging up our stuff, Noémie and I move over to the living room and sink down in the larger of the two red corduroy couches.
Noémie crosses her legs. My eyes follow the movement, and when I realize that I’m staring at her legs, I drop my gaze to my lap. I clear my throat. “So, I know I said dinner starts at five, but … it never does.”
“That’s fine,” Noémie says.
I scratch the back of my ear. “If you’re hungry, I’m pretty sure the soup’s ready. I can get you a cup. Have you had Jamaican yellow soup before? It’s pretty good.”
“No, I haven’t tried it before,” she says, “but I’m good for now.”
“Okay.”
Beres Hammond’s smooth voice fills the space. The song, “Tempted to Touch,” feels a little too on the nose for this moment. God must have a sick sense of humour.
I resist groaning. I resist looking at Noémie. But my bouncing knee gives away my anxiety. I scan the living room, picking out things I hope Noémie doesn’t notice. Like the fine dust coating the picture frames and the base of the TV stand. The rug has seen more years than I’ve been alive. It looks its age—stained and fraying. The parquet floors have seen better days too. Much of the varnish has flaked off.
Noémie speaks, but I don’t catch her words. I look at her. “Sorry, what’d you say?”
“Artist in the family?” she repeats, cocking her chin towards the wall displaying more than a dozen of my sketches and paintings—a timeline of my progress.
Looking at my past work makes me cringe. My first attempts at realism were really, really bad. I’ve tried to get my mother to take them down, but she’s stubborn. Paulette will only remove something if I give her a replacement, which is not happening. I only draw for myself now.
“Yes, my Jordan is so talented,” Grandma Janet says, coming from out of nowhere.
Both Noémie and I rise from the couch.
I enfold my grandmother in a hug. Yes, my family isn’t touchy feely, but Grandma Janet is the exception. “This is my roommate, Noémie,” I say, pulling away. “Noémie, meet Grandma Janet.”
Having learned from her encounter with my mother, Noémie only extends her hand in greeting. “Very nice to meet you,” she says. “I have to say, before today, I didn’t know just how talented your granddaughter is. Jordan refuses to show me her drawings.”
“It’s nice to finally meet one of Jordan’s friends,” my grandmother says, clapping Noémie on the back. “Oh, let me get you some soup. It will do your belly good.” She leaves and returns moments later with two steaming Styrofoam cups brimming with soup.
Noémie and I take a cup.
From the kitchen, my mother calls out for my grandmother.
Stiffening, Grandma Janet yells back, “Lawd, nuh cry out me name suh.” She tuts her irritation. “Better go and see what she wants.”
When my grandmother disappears behind the beaded curtain, I blow on my soup and try to ignore the weight of Noémie’s eyes on me. She stirs her soup with a plastic spoon slow and methodically. I choose to ignore the spoon and silently slurp some of the fragrant yellow broth. The broth is flavourful in the best way, with notes of pumpkin, thyme, and pimento. But it’s far too hot and I burn my tongue a little.
Noémie moves towards the wall of my artwork. I follow her. I don’t want to talk about my cringey sketches and paintings, but I want to be close to her.
Noémie’s fingers fiddle with the plastic spoon as she assesses a sketch I did of Amari. “You are really talented,” she murmurs.
The compliment makes my heart skip, and it’s times like these that I’m grateful to be melanated. My face is hot, but Noémie won’t be able to tell that I’m blushing.
Lifting the spoon to her lips, Noémie takes a dainty sip. “Ah, c’est délicieux,” she says, closing her eyes. “I will have to ask for the recipe.”
“I’m not sure my mother will give it to you,” I say. I like that Noémie likes the soup.
“I can be very persuasive.”
“Is that so?” I arch a brow.
“I usually get my way,” she replies, smirking.
I’m about to say something, but I get distracted when the apartment door opens. My sister steps inside—with Samira.
The world slows for a moment. Samira’s gaze darts between me and Noémie. She scowls. Even though we’ve been broken up for forever, I think Samira is under the pretence that I’m still hers—that I’ll always be hers.
Amari, who’s holding a large box of Popeyes chicken, notices Samira’s dark expression and shoots me a look meant to maim. I brush it off.
My ex looks good this evening. Her locs are so much longer now, passing well past her shoulders. She’s dyed the tips blond. I wonder who she’s fucking now. Do they know Samira likes her hair pulled right before she climaxes? Do they know how wild she gets when her sides are nibbled? It’s always easy to forget about Samira when she isn’t around. Out of sight, out of mind. But whenever I see her, the memories come flooding back, along with the heartache and wanting.
Samira and I were so good together. We should have been end game, but apparently, I never loved her—if I actually loved her, I would have let her touch me.
“You’re selfish and you are broken, and you don’t let anyone in, Jordan,” she said. Even all these years later, it stings recalling her words.
Still standing by the door, Samira kicks off her Timberland boots and slides out of her Canada Goose puffer jacket, revealing a black turtleneck dress that clings to her taut body and sizeable tits like a condom.
Samira looks up at me before I can look away. I don’t like that she caught me staring. I turn away from my ex, deciding that I need fresh air.