A Not-So-Simple Life (14 page)

Of course, my accusations and language only added heat to the fight. And before I knew it, we were both screaming and cussing, and she slapped me, and I slapped her back—hard! I was so enraged that I wanted to tear her hair out and scratch her face and all sorts of horrid things, and we were just about to really go at it, but someone was pounding on the front door.

“What’s going on in there?” demanded a male voice. And
suddenly not only my dad but also a couple of his guy friends burst into the house and rushed into the living room, and after a brief scuffle, they managed to separate us before I had a chance to murder my mother.

And that’s when I just totally lost it. With tears streaming down my face, I ran to Dad and fell into his arms. “I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed. “I can’t live like this anymore.” I’m sure I said a lot of other hysterical things too, but I don’t really remember. What I do remember is that Thomas, my dad’s manager, took me to my room and somenow got me to calm down while Dad talked to Shannon.

“You’re coming with us, Maya,” Thomas told me in a kind voice. “Let’s get whatever you need and get you out of here.”

I could hear my mom and dad in the other room. Dad had picked up right where I’d left off, yelling and screaming and making all kinds of accusations. And I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had evolved into a physical fight as well, although my dad has always been opposed to violence. Anyway, I’m sure we could’ve gotten a TV contract for our own reality show just then. Another one of those celebrity closeups about the dysfunctional family and how they get along.

“What is this?” Thomas had picked up my denim jacket to discover it was hiding Shannon’s gun.

I just shrugged, and he shook his head as he unloaded the gun, then stuck it in his jacket pocket. “This has gone way too far,” he muttered, “way too far…”

Finally I had a couple of bags packed, just stuffed with whatever was handy. Then I went out to the living room, where Dad and Shannon were still screaming at each other. And somehow Thomas and the other guy managed to drag my dad away from her and out of the house, and we all climbed into a black SUV and drove away.

And so it is that I’m on the road with my dad. Right now we’re staying at a big hotel in Memphis. I don’t know where we’ll be after that. Mostly I’ve just been sleeping. I think I might sleep for a year or so. Or at least until I turn sixteen and figure out where to go from here.

It’s been a surreal few weeks. Being on the road with my dad and his crew started out to be interesting. I mean, his tour bus (an enormous, luxurious motor home) is pretty cool, and I’m seeing some new places and meeting some new people, but it has gotten old surprisingly fast. We spend a few days in a city, then just when I get my equilibrium, we head off to another place. Sometimes we sleep on the road, and although my bunk is pretty comfy, I have a hard time actually sleeping. I feel a bump in the road or whatever, and I am wide awake. And then I start to feel seriously claustrophobic in my little bunk-bed closet-like I’m about to scream or something if I have to stay there another minute. But I don’t
want to get up and wander around because I’ll disturb someone else. Very frustrating.

It’s a little better when we stay in hotels, but that’s usually only for a night or two. For one thing it’s expensive, my dad has pointed out, but besides that, there’s a schedule to keep. And keeping that schedule takes its toll on everyone. Mostly my dad. Although he’s tried to be patient with me—and I know I’m an intrusion—he can easily get really grumpy. To be fair, he’s not grumpy like Shannon, but he can say things without thinking. And I suppose I’m feeling more sensitive these days. Sometimes I wonder if I might need serious counseling or even a shrink.

And it doesn’t help matters that I can barely remember where we are from one day to the next. Even though Dad gave me a map, I still wake up disoriented. And the worst part is that I miss being outside, puttering in the yard, sitting in the sunshine. Ordinary stuff like that. Oddly enough, I sort of miss Shannon too. That’s what makes me think I need some psychological help. I must be crazy. But I’ve heard about Stockholm syndrome. And in some ways, living with Shannon was a little like that. Not that she held me captive, not physically anyway, but I did feel like I was trapped. And I still dream of emancipation.

Speaking of emancipation, I called the Montgomery Agency to explain that I wouldn’t be working for them anymore.

“Why on earth not?” demanded Ms. Montgomery.

So I told her the truth, complete with details of how I wanted to murder my mother, and if my dad hadn’t shown up, I might’ve.

“Oh, my…” I think she gasped.

“So you see, I’m with my dad now. He’s touring, and I’m going along for the ride.”

“It’s unfortunate timing,” she told me. “Your career was just beginning to heat up. We’ll have to cancel your bookings.”

“I’m sure someone else will be happy to have them.” That was an understatement. After only a few months, I was well aware of the competition between models. Just joining the team had made me numerous enemies. In fact, Campbell was probably the only one who treated me half decent. And that’s probably because she was still in demand.

“We’ll miss you,” said Ms. Montgomery.

And although my jaded side (yes, I realize I’m jaded, go figure) assumed she meant that she’d miss the money, I wondered if she really meant me…

And of course that reminded me of something, or rather someone. And to be fair it’s someone I think of almost daily. And yet I’ve never written about her in this journal. But time’s the only thing I have on my hands at the moment. Time and memories.

When my dad left, he didn’t leave me completely. He invited Grandma Carolina to step in. Shannon protested at
first. But only until she realized that Grandma Carolina could replace not only Nanny Jane but Francesca and Rosa as well. We’d been limping along for a couple of years by then, and our household was, shall I say, a shambles!

The weird thing was that I didn’t even know I had a Grandma Carolina—or any kind of grandma, for that matter. But when my dad left, he made one condition: Shannon had to let his mother move in with us. This resulted in a horrible fight with Shannon making so many horrible accusations that I actually believed this Grandma Carolina was the devil incarnate. Okay, I was only seven; I’m sure that’s not exactly what I thought. But the way my mom talked, I assumed she was like the bogeyman.

Consequently, it took me a while to warm up to this woman even though she reminded me a lot of my beloved Nanny Jane. But even at seven, I was becoming jaded. I didn’t completely trust this woman—and Shannon treated her like a servant. Or perhaps like a slave. Grandma Carolina never complained. Not really. I mean, she would say things—make observations—but they weren’t complaints. And strangely enough, she mostly seemed to have compassion for Shannon. In fact, I think that’s what first won me.

One time Shannon was having a hissy fit about something. I think she wanted fresh coffee, and because she hadn’t gotten up until noon, I suspect the coffee was a bit stale. Well, instead of making a fresh pot like a normal person, she threw
a fit. And I watched in the shadows. But Grandma Carolina, instead of engaging with her, simply made a fresh pot. But as she made it, she sang a song. Some old hymn as I recall, and although I can’t remember the words, I remember thinking that Grandma Carolina had been the winner of that round. But I didn’t even know why. To be honest, I still don’t know why. I just know that she came out on top. And in that moment, she had my full attention. Not that I wanted her to know it exactly.

After that I began to trail her around the house, and she would talk to me, almost the way a person might talk to a wild animal. Sort of softly and gently, nonintimidating, as if she knew I’d been through something. And eventually I started to respond. And before long we were the best of friends. In some ways—most ways—she was the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever had. No, she was my mother.

Grandma Carolina taught me to appreciate nature and how to garden. She knew the names of birds and trees and flowers. She knew how to make compost tea (fertilizer for plants), and she knew how to make biscuits that would melt in your mouth. And maybe best of all, she knew how to make Shannon happy. Or as close to happy as Shannon has ever been. But did Shannon ever thank her? Or show an ounce of appreciation? Yeah, right.

Instead, Shannon actually picked on Grandma Carolina when she was in a particularly bad mood. Sometimes Shannon
even called her names—and I mean racial names—the kind of names that people would get into serious trouble for saying if anyone overheard them. Of course, I was the only one to overhear them. And I couldn’t help but wonder if those names were not just for my grandma…but for me and my father as well.

Anyway, thanks to Grandma Carolina, who I later learned was born in South Carolina, my life from the age of seven to twelve was relatively cool. I mean, I still had Shannon to put up with, but having Grandma Carolina around was like having an anchor. Or something like that.

And during those years, we went to church. Not Shannon, of course. No, she always had an excuse. And no matter how Grandma Carolina hinted and hoped, it just didn’t happen. For one thing Shannon never got up early enough. But besides that, I think she just didn’t want to go. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen with us. Maybe she wasn’t comfortable with us.

And in fairness, Shannon would’ve stood out in that particular church—a fair, blue-eyed blonde amid a sea of African American faces. To be honest and despite my darker skin, I had moments when I felt out of place as well. I mean, most of my school friends at that time were white. And I suppose I thought of myself as being like them. They accepted me as one of them, and I went along for the ride. Well, mostly. It got a little dicey in middle school.

But the truth is, I never felt more at home and comfortable than I did standing with my grandma in her church. With her holding my hand as we sang some pretty lively songs. And then being around her friends, even if they were all a lot older than me. They were kind to me. They liked me. It was like family.

And when I was eleven, I went forward. I had considered going forward a number of times before. But I was a little bit stubborn. Finally I thought I “saw the light.” And when Reverend Samuel gave the altar call, I stepped out into the aisle and went forward.

Well, Grandma Carolina couldn’t have been more pleased if she had won the lottery. And she was known to buy tickets occasionally. Afterward, everyone patted me on the back and welcomed me into the “family of God.” Reverend Samuel gave me a Bible, and it was great. But short lived.

Exactly one month later, in early December and shortly before my twelfth birthday, Grandma Carolina had a heart attack. I was at school when it happened, and I didn’t even find out about it until I got home. And even then, Shannon didn’t say much. Just that Grandma Carolina had been cleaning the oven…and died.

My dad came home for the funeral, and when he saw how distraught I was over her death, he explained that my grandmother had some pretty serious health problems—high blood pressure and cholesterol—and that she had known her
time wasn’t far off. That was why he had encouraged her to come live with us—so she could take it easy. Of course, I thought that was pretty ludicrous since Shannon had treated Grandma Carolina like a servant and maybe even hastened her death, but I never said as much. Not to anyone. I just silently grieved the loss of the best friend I’d ever had.

Life got worse after that. And although I’d given my heart to the Lord, I think I took it back. My reasoning was that if the Lord cared so little about me as to take the one person I really needed, well, why should I give a hill of beans for Him? So I don’t.

Does this make me feel bad when I think of Grandma Carolina? Yeah, duh. For that reason I try to put both her and God out of my thoughts. But it’s just not easy—I mean with her. As far as God goes…well, I don’t think I care. If He really does exist, which I doubt, He’s doing a pretty crummy job of taking care of His creation.

I
hate to admit it, but I’ve developed what I’m afraid is a major crush on one of the roadies. His name is Jason, and he’s twenty-seven. I know that’s a lot older than me, but I’m pretty mature for my age. I seriously wonder if it could work. Also, I am keeping my age secret. He knows I’m still a teenager, but I’m hoping he thinks I’m more like eighteen. Now some people might not think Jason is the best-looking guy around, but I would have to differ with them. Besides being tall and fairly well built, he’s got those classic features that could be found on a Michelangelo sculpture. Add to this some great dark, wavy hair that he wears tied back in a pony and a distinguished goatee, and the man is just about perfect! Not that I’m into looks. Really, it’s his soul that attracts me. He’s an artist and a musician. And he even likes to cook.

All we’ve done so far is talk. He’s a great listener and has had some life experiences that seem to parallel my own. We are simpatico. He even said as much. Well, not in a romantic way. The problem is that although he’s nice to me, he still treats me like a kid sister. Sometimes he teases (in a
good-hearted way), and he’s also very protective. And he’s warned me that some guys on the crew are not to be trusted. Not that I’m worried. Mostly they just ignore me or look at me like I’m this huge nuisance, which is not the case.