Chapter 4
FOUR
LYNETTE
“Mom, I think I found a subject for my Black Women’s History Month project! Dad’s Black History Tidbit of the Day meme is about this enslaved lady who walked a long way from Mississippi to get where she was going.”
With the three-hour time difference, his father scheduled their tidbits to arrive at midnight so Justus would have them when he awakened.
With my face planted in my pillow at six fifteen that Saturday morning, the most I could manage was muffled, groggy praise. “Sounds good, J.”
“Ever heard about her?”
“Not until today.”
“Mom, you’re a teacher! You’ve never heard of Zanitha Freeman?”
I rolled over in bed and struggled to lift a sleep-heavy eyelid to squint at my son, who’d rushed into my room, waking me, to share his good news. “I beg forgiveness from you two…”
Words faltered at the sight of a figure hovering at the edge of my bed, modeling Granny’s hat like some repeat of yesterday’s attic apparition. I sprang upright.
“Justus! What the heck?” I sighed in relief as my vision cleared. Thankfully I wouldn’t have to grab the pepper spray from my nightstand drawer as phantom repellant. “Son, why do you have Granny’s hat? And why’re you wearing it?”
“I brought it home in the back of the car last night. You didn’t notice?”
I rubbed sleep from my eyes before swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, choosing not to admit I’d obviously been too whipped by a recurring headache for it to register.
That migraine was a delayed allergic reaction induced by time spent in Granny’s dusty attic.
Such was my intentional mitigation of trauma-induced fear that still surfaced occasionally because of my father’s sudden, unexpected demise.
Daddy’s death left my family traumatized.
Mama. Bria. Shay. Me. We dealt with it collectively yet individually.
And differently. I’d been hypervigilant, running to the doctor like a hypochondriac.
Every discomfort, twinge, or ache was suspect and usually so minor it corrected itself.
When I wasn’t wearing out my welcome with my physician, I was making myself sick googling symptoms and self-diagnosing. It took Mama to get me straight.
Baby girl, you fool around and conjure up a disease you gonna have to deal with me. I promise that won’t be pretty.
Tangling with LaVeda Stanford, a now retired award-winning nurse practitioner, wasn’t an option.
I went to grief counseling and worked through a gamut of emotions. Had some triumphs. Some setbacks. I healed and reclaimed my equilibrium through the process. Now, two decades later, protecting my peace was essential.
Admittedly, sometimes my pendulum swung in the opposite direction, taking on what might be misinterpreted as dismissiveness—my putting myself last in the name of motherhood, family, and career.
Looking at my son in Granny’s UFO-sized hat, I thought perhaps it was time to recalibrate and reclaim balance.
“I somehow missed the fact that you commandeered Granny’s hat. But I’m still wondering why you’re wearing it.” Again.
He hopped onto the bed beside me, big brown eyes sparkling. “I put it on my pillow last night. When I saw Dad’s Black History Tidbit this morning, I figured it helped me find my essay topic. Maybe it’ll help me get a good grade if I wear it while doing my research.”
“Not Little Mr. Pragmatic tryna sprinkle some Black Girl Hat Magic!” I couldn’t resist teasing my child who’d inherited his father’s literalist DNA.
He shrugged. “I believe in Granny’s hat. Wanna see the Miss Zanitha stuff Dad sent?”
“Yes.” I reached around him to grab my robe from the foot of the bed and slipped into it.
“I’ll show it to you after we eat. Can we have cinnamon swirl pancakes?” My son’s condition made him care very much about order. Routine was not to be interrupted.
“Don’t we every Saturday?” I kissed his forehead.
He waved a hand as if dispelling funky fumes. “Eww, Mom. Morning breath.”
“Whatever, Lord Justus. Go away so I can grab a shower.”
“Don’t do your weekend hour shower. My stomach’s growling and I feel weak.”
“How about I take a half-hour power shower? You can use my laptop for your research since you’ve landed on an exciting subject. Let’s reconvene in the kitchen at seven. Deal?”
“Done.” We bumped fists in agreement. “We’re still seeing The Avengers today, right?”
“Can’t think of a better way to spend my time.”
“Mom, you don’t like Marvel so that’s an untruth… which is the same as a lie.”
My son had a built-in truth meter that easily detected falsities. Might’ve been his character. Or an attribute of his neurodivergence. Either way he was ruthless about moral matters like fairness and honesty.
“Fine. I won’t exaggerate a predilection for creatures in skintight suits saving the universe.” Marvel was entertaining but I wasn’t into superheroes or superhumans.
Says the woman who’d rather eat snails and nails than ask for help.
“But, yes, The Avengers is on our plate today.”
“Cool! I never used the movie gift card Nana gave me for Christmas. I can buy our popcorn. I’ma go get the pancake ingredients ready.”
“Make it happen, Captain.”
He headed for the door, pausing midway. “Mom, I believe in Granny, her hat, and you. Want me to wear the hat during bedtime prayers tonight and help you get into grad school?”
“Yesss, baby boy, rock that hat on your mama’s behalf.”
I watched him leave, heart warm with thankfulness as I started the task of making up my bed.
My baby’s worth the sacrifice of a Me Time opportunity.
With church on Sundays, Saturday was my only day for Me Time opportunities that, truthfully, I hadn’t upheld with any regularity lately. Before my sister Shay relocated to Florida last year, if we weren’t out doing something together on weekends, we served as each other’s babysitters.
With my brother-in-law Austin’s insane schedule as an executive chef, Shay and I leaned into each other for support. Their twin girls were three years older than Justus, but the three were so tightly knit we called them triplets.
Whenever Shay and I went out together Mama filled in, delighted by spending time with and spoiling her grandchildren. But I’d always been cognizant of not making Justus anyone’s responsibility except mine. And Rodney’s.
Now that Shay was states away Me Time took a backseat. Superheroes might not have been my thing but, after the hectic parent–teacher conference week, exchanging the day for costume-wearing immortals was becoming appealing.
At least Marvel costumes don’t look like something from 1823.
Stumbling into that dress form in Granny’s attic yesterday was eerie. As if I’d pitched into a person, not a thing.
I placed decorative pillows on my bed, telling myself the off-putting sensation was due to it being fully clothed and styling Granny’s hat. There was zero need to amplify the issue. Still, I shivered recalling the incident, feeling as if it had been divinely orchestrated.
God meant for me to smash into Granny’s mannequin for what reason?
I had zero ideas on the subject. Maybe it was an unnecessary reminder of Granny’s greatness, how she’d been a proudly independent woman despite gender or racial limitations.
“Yes, to Granny’s greatness. And I’m officially one of those women,” I announced. The kind who loved a mountain of decorative pillows. “They take up the space not inhabited by a man.”
I abandoned that nonsense and the eeriness of yesterday’s incident to absorb the coziness of my room that was a testament to my bargain shopping skills.
Living on a teacher’s salary didn’t mean I couldn’t have nice things.
My narrow budget meant finding workarounds of necessity.
I rarely paid full price for anything. Bedroom furniture included.
I’d found most of the room’s decor on clearance or at estate sales.
The vibe was eclectic. Unique. Or to quote Nichelle, my BFF, “bougie-on-a-budget-chic.” A nod to luxury.
My very real oasis drenched in aqua and ivory.
I was a June baby. Pearl was one of my birthstones and the creamy ivory was calming.
Soothing scents from my vanilla and citrus reed diffuser danced across the room as I opened the windows to the spring breeze that caused my gold and aqua sheers to gracefully sway.
I gazed out the window at my tiny yard. It was little more than a concrete square bordered by planters barely large enough for the flowers I loved but struggled to grow.
I didn’t have a green thumb like Granny.
Instead, every other Friday I treated myself to a Trader Joe’s bouquet.
One was currently atop my dresser. Wilting.
I tossed it in the wastebasket and straightened a framed picture of a three-year-old Justus dressed as Woody from Toy Story before heading to my bathroom, appreciating soft blessings.
I flipped on the light switch when entering the bathroom, where my aqua and ivory color scheme continued.
“My child said I had cobwebs in my wig.”
I removed my satin sleep bonnet and stretched a shower cap over my honey-streaked curls, smirking at my son’s diss.
After squeezing toothpaste on my electric toothbrush, I drenched a cotton ball with witch hazel.
Why buy a forty-dollar toner hyped by some IG influencer when I’d inherited Mama’s and Granny’s smooth skin and old school witch hazel worked for them?
Leaning towards the mirror, swiping drug-store toner over my mocha brown face, my smile proved short-lived. Not because of the crust in the corner of one eye or a daggone gray chin hair that needed plucking. But because my mind looped back to my earlier thoughts.
Granny was great despite racial imbalances.
I brushed my teeth, recalling her stories of Jim Crow placards indicating where it was or wasn’t permissible for our people to eat, drink, shop, receive services, sleep or even be. Hotels. Theaters. Restaurants. Water fountains. Swimming pools. Entrances. Exits. Even libraries.