Chapter Eleven #2
“Hmm hmm,” she responded.
“Okay. When Mimi gets done with your hair, I want you to pack whatever you need, okay?”
“Okay.”
Just as Mimi finished Moriah’s hair, Yolanda pulled up in a car with a guy I’d never seen before.
“Go ‘head and do what I told you to do, Moriah. Hurry up.”
“Okay.” She stood up from the steps and ran inside the house.
Yolanda reminded me of Trecee. That’s why they never got along.
They were both chasing dreams, expecting handouts from men—everything else, including their priorities, was on the back burner.
I doubted she’d visited her child at Parkwood.
According to Romelo, they wanted to keep her a little longer than seven days.
From my understanding, she wasn’t allowed to have visitors yet.
She was severely suicidal and wasn’t taking her meds.
The downside? She didn’t have insurance, so Romelo was paying out of pocket for her intake care.
Outpatient therapy was yet to be determined. At least I cared enough to ask.
When Yolanda reached the steps, she didn’t speak. Mimi and I remained seated, waiting for her to walk by, but she didn’t. She stood in front of us, looking every bit drunk.
“How you at my house and don’t speak, heffa?” she spat in a drunken slur.
I waved her off and shook my head, gazing down the street at nothing in particular.
“Go on with all that.”
“Trecee told me what yo hoe ass did.” She continued to provoke me.
“Are you mad that you didn’t fuck him before I did?” I argued back. “I’m not here for any drama.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re here—”
I glanced up at her. “What the fuck do you care anyway? You don’t give a fuck about Trecee—none of your fuckin’ kids.”
“At least my kids have a mama. Yours left you for a pimp—”
Before she could finish, I hauled off and popped her in the mouth, busting her in her shit. Her blood splattered on my shirt. It wasn’t a fair fight because of her drunken state. Shockingly, her blood spewed on the steps, along the faded blood where Trecee bled months ago.
What a fuckin’ coincidence.
She touched her mouth as if anyone else outside was bleeding, then stumbled toward me but tripped on the steps. Moriah came rushing outside with a smile on her face amid the drama, but it faded when she saw Yolanda slumped in blood.
“What the fuck?” I heard Romelo spit from behind me.
I was so engulfed in the drama that I didn’t notice his Benz pull up alongside the sidewalk. Everything was spiraling out of control—neighbors were nosy, coming out of their houses and peeking from their windows.
“Juicy, what the fuck you done got into now?” His hand reached the cusp of my chin, trying to examine me like I had bruises on my face.
“I’m fine. She’s the one who needs a fuckin’ doctor!” I pointed at Yolanda.
Her mouth was gaped open, bloody, and anyone would think I did more damage aside from popping her in the nose. You couldn’t tell if the blood was coming from her mouth or her nose, though.
“I’m stop droppin’ yo ass off. Next time we come over here, I’m gonna have to supervise yo Laila Ali, jackin’ ass. Out here beatin’ bitches up like Kimbo Slice,” he joked, walking past me to check on Yolanda. She slapped his hand away and ignored his aid.
“I don’t need none of you motherfuckas’ help.”
“Mimi, go put her in the car,” I stated, motioning toward the car. Moriah was distraught and had witnessed enough. As bad as it was, she’d endured enough trauma—none I could take back, none I could erase.
“I’m ’bout to call the police on that bitch,” Yolanda grimaced, attempting to hold onto the railing, but she lost her balance. Somehow she rummaged through her purse and pulled out her phone.
Romelo, quick on his feet, reached for it and stepped on it—shattering the screen.
“No, you ain’t. I’on even play that shit.”
“That bitch—”
“Call me another one.” I stepped toward her, but Romelo put his hand on my stomach and gently pushed me back.
“Aye, chill the fuck out!”
“No, fuck that bitch! You ain’t never did shit for me.
I don’t owe you shit, not even a thank you!
You need to rot in hell for the way you treated me—the way you treated your kids.
All of their fuckin’ life, you gave them the bare minimum, but you’ll give your last to a nigga if he asked for it.
Hoe, you sad!” I yelled. “Fuck, I look like bowing down to a bitch like you. You’re a sad representation of a mama, and you always will be. ”
Fueled by rage, I swung past Romelo but was defeated by his pushback.
“Go get in the car,” he muttered coolly.
I stared at him for a second. I wasn’t budging. I wanted Yolanda’s bottle of a beaten-ass to feel me.
“Go. Get. In. The. Fuckin’. Car,” he demanded.
I shot Yolanda an evil stare before trotting away and getting in the car like Romelo told me to. I’d have to deal with the consequences later.
It’s a lot of shit I’ve kept bottled up—my mama.
She’s a sensitive topic, and through my adolescence, I never coped with it.
I was too young to speak on being hurt and too young to know what it was like not to have a mama I could call “mama.” That’s the pain I carried, forced to stuff in my backpack and suck it up.
Yolanda was a bogus ass placeholder, but I never had the guts to run away—too afraid of what the real world would do.
So I suffered until I became tolerable. I’ve always been independent and done shit on my own.
Taking on the role of a mother at a young age wasn’t easy, but I did that shit without thinking back.
Black girls carry a lot of weight because our ancestors taught us that black women can take on the load.
Our ancestors taught their daughters that it’s okay to play house—cook dinner, wear the apron, help with homework, and don’t talk back.
When will it stop? When will it become okay to break the cycle?
“Synthia, is my mama okay?” Moriah sniffled.
Taking a deep breath with tears forming before my eyes, I glanced over at Yolanda through the window.
Romelo knelt down, talking to her, pointing at me and Moriah.
Our eyes were locked, and we never broke the gaze until Romelo drove off, peeling away the trauma and pent-up emotions that had been suppressed between us over the years.