Unbeweaveable (8 page)

Beverly

My sister's home used to be in River Oaks, a part of Houston that was legendary for the size of their mansions. She said the house was too much for her so she bought a four-bedroom condominium in a part of town just as ritzy.

“You wouldn't believe it, but when the condo was getting built, I thought about you and asked for a fourth bedroom. I knew one day you would come to visit us.”

“Beverly still lives with you?” I asked.

“Of course! Why wouldn't she?”

“How silly of me. Of course.”

My heart slowed to a crawl as she pulled into her parking garage and we walked to the elevator that led to her condo.

She stayed next door to the Houstonian Hotel and was walking distance to the amenities of the hotel, fine restaurants and their top-notch spa.

“It's nice over here,” I said, looking at the landscaped grounds, the tennis courts and the swimming pool.

“Isn't it? They have everything, a gym, pools, tennis courts, walking trails. They really spoil you here.”

We exited the elevator and she gave the doorman her car keys and instructed him to bring the luggage to the eighteenth floor.

“Do you think Beverly is home?” I asked, as we stepped on the elevator that would lead to her apartment.

“Yes, she's home. She's waiting for you.”

“Why?” I asked, as the elevator climbed to the eighteenth floor. We exited and I followed her down a long expansive hall to her condo.

“Why wouldn't she be home? It isn't everyday that you come to stay with us.”

She unlocked the door to her condo and I sucked in my breath at its beauty. Dark, shiny hardwood floors were below my feet and the ceilings had to be at least twenty feet high. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up an entire wall and let in an abundance of natural light. My mother stood next to the window, the light turning her grey hair to a brilliant sterling silver. Her entire head was coiffed into a beautiful grey bob, full and thick as a woman half her age. She turned to look at me, her light brown eyes giving me a quick once-over, and the same look that I had seen for twenty-nine years resounded in her eyes. Sadness and another emotion I couldn't put my finger on crossed over her eyes. In a moment it was gone, quickly replaced with a smile. She walked toward me, her arms outstretched for a hug.

I opened my arms to her, and was taken aback with the ridiculous urge to cry as I fell into her arms.
Mariah, stop being so melodramatic! It's just a hug.

She stood back and held me at arm's length.

“What happened to your hair?” she asked. She tried to touch it, but I pulled away from her.

“Hello, Beverly. How are you?” I said, refusing to answer her question.

She blanched at the mention of her name, then straightened her spine and said she was fine.

“How was your trip?”

“Okay.”

“You look tired. Renee, show her to her room so she can freshen up.” She squeezed my hand. “It's good to see you, Mariah. It's been too long.”

I nodded, not accustomed to the attention, and followed Renee down the hall to my bedroom.

Even though Renee had downsized, her condo was still over four thousand square feet, and I found myself feeling small and lost as I listened to her describe her home.

“It's a split floor plan, me and Mama are on the other side of the condo and you're on the side with my office,” she said, opening the door to a room with a mirrored desk and a laptop, thin as glass, perched on top.

“Feel free to use whatever you want in there; we rarely use it. Your room is over here,” she said as I followed her further down the hall to the guest bedroom. “Here we go,” she said flinging the door open.

The room was bigger than my entire apartment, with a king-size cherry sleigh bed in the center of the room flanked by two ceiling-high windows. The room was painted a pale grey and had shiny accents of crystal and chrome in the accessories.

“Your bathroom is here,” she said, as I followed her deeper in the bedroom. “Everyone has their own washer and dryer, although most of the time we just send our stuff out to be cleaned. Kelsey comes every Monday and Thursday to clean, so just try to pick any clothes off the floor because she automatically assumes that they're dirty if you leave them there. Your luggage should be here in a minute.” She paused suddenly as if she realized that she was rambling and turned to me. “What do you think?”

“I think it's great, actually. You have a beautiful home.”

Renee beamed. “Thanks. I'm glad you like it. Mama said you had to stop your cell phone service, so I can take you to get another one. Oh, and I'll show you the storage unit where your old furniture is. Just in case you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything else you need, anything I can help you with?”

“No, not that I can think of right now.”

She looked around the room and then nodded. “Well, I guess I'll let you relax a little bit. Unless you want me to show you around the condo? The kitchen and the other bedrooms?”

“Maybe later. Right now I just want to rest.”

“Sure, okay. Well, let me know if you need anything.”

She left the room and I sank down on my bed and blew out a ragged breath. After a few minutes I grabbed my purse and walked into the bathroom and was startled by my appearance.

I touched my dry, lifeless strands and shivered. I shook my head, and not one hair moved. I threw my head down and brought it up, the way I did to brush volume into my weave. Nothing. My hair just sat there like a helmet, frozen in place. I pulled it back away from my face.
Maybe if I just did this
…Nope.
What
if I tried it like this?
Na-da.

I slammed my fist on the white marble vanity. “Do something! Don't just sit there! Move!”

This is the best I've got, babe. This is me. Better learn to accept it.

Memories

Can you miss something if you never had it? Can you miss the sound of your father's voice if you've never heard it? I did. Looking up at my stepfather, Anthony, a man who neither looked like me nor acted like me, made me long for the father I would never know.

I only have one picture of him—the edges were so thin from my constant touching, that I had to have it framed.

“What was he like?” I would ask Beverly, stopping her from whatever task she was performing to answer my question.

“Oh, Mariah, why do you have all these questions? Your father is dead. Nothing will bring him back.”

“I already know I look like him. I just wanted to know if I act like him, too.”

Sometimes she would smile, other times she would just look off into the distance into a memory that I longed to know. “Sometimes, the way you sleep, he used to sleep just like you, curled up into a ball on his side. Just like a child.”

“Did he love me?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Would he—”

“That's enough for today, Mariah. I can't take anymore of it right now.”

“But I want to know—”

“Enough! No more, not right now.” Her eyes would fill with tears, and she would escape to her bedroom. On days when I really pushed her for answers, tears would run down her face and she wouldn't come downstairs for several hours.

“She's too upset,” Anthony would often say, as we ate our dinner in silence.

“I just want to know more about him. Is that so wrong?”

“No, not at all. And you should want to learn more about your father. But his death was really hard on your mother. Try to understand that it's hard for her to talk about it.”

I nodded, but I didn't understand.
I
was the child, it was hard on
me,
not her.
I
was the one who didn't have a father.

I would keep asking, keep trying to prod information out of her, but it was difficult, she just wouldn't open up to me. Every encounter would end in tears, hers, and frustration, mine.

It wasn't unusual for me to leave my room in the middle of the night and creep downstairs to get a cold glass of water. One night, I saw her. She was sitting in the corner of the family room, talking softly to herself, quiet tears going down her face. She was rocking back and forth, and her arms were around her like she felt a chill in the room. In one of her hands was a piece of paper—no, on closer inspection it was an old picture. I tried to walk away unseen, but she saw me and our eyes locked. Her eyes were glassy and strange, and I felt that even though she was looking at me, she didn't see me.

“Forgive me,” she mouthed.

A chill ran through me and I raced back to my room. I slid under the covers and put them over my head, trying to block out the sight of seeing my mother in such a state.

Forgive her?

For what?

If mentions of my father brought this much pain, then I wouldn't bring him up again. And soon I stopped pestering her. Questions of him were like a faucet that was turned off. First everything went at full blast, but then slowly slacked off until, after a couple of drips—nothing.

* * *

My mother was married to Anthony King, Renee's father. He was a constant fixture in our lives, and although he wasn't my father he still treated me as if I was part of the family—not his daughter, but like a niece he tolerated. Which was fine by me, since my mother insisted I call him Uncle Anthony. He traveled a lot for work, but we saw him on most weekends. I felt like an outsider when he came back home, the way they all cuddled together on the sofa to watch a movie—looking just like a postcard. Their skin was all various shades of vanilla and the few occasions I sat with them, I came in as dark as a raven, ruining their precious family time. I knew I was welcome to join them, but I didn't feel welcome—their conversation swirled around me like dust in the air and hard as I tried I couldn't hold on and get a word in.

Mentions of Anthony brought smiles and happy memories to my mother's beautiful face, while mentions of my father brought tears and regret.

The framed picture I have of him was of Beverly and him on their wedding day at the courthouse. He's tall and thin, with black, shiny skin and a short, neat Afro. Beverly could almost pass for a white woman; her skin was the color of milk and she was smiling brightly at the camera.

I wish I could say I was happy that I looked like him, that at least I had that to hold on to since he passed away. But life would have been so much easier if I looked like Renee. My dark skin and nappy short hair felt like a curse growing up in the constant blare of whiteness. My school was white, my neighborhood was white and so was my home—white. I saw with my own eyes how looking like Mama and Renee afforded them privileges that I would never gain. It opened doors for them, while I had to climb through back fences.

In school people often wondered why we had different last names; after all, we were sisters, weren't we?

“Were you adopted?” was the question my classmates often asked me. I remember going home to my mother and asking her the same thing.

“Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“The kids at school always say that I look different than y'all. And our names are different. Why does she have a different last name?”

“Don't say y'all. That's ghetto. Say you all.”

“The kids say I look different than you all.”

“You were not adopted, Mariah. You both have different fathers. You have your father's name, Stevens. Renee has King. That's the same reason you look different, you have different fathers.”

“Why didn't you change my last name to King so we all could match? I stick out with Stevens.”

“Baby, having the same name as us won't change anything. You still won't look like us, so what's the point? It doesn't matter.”

“It
does
matter.”

“Why?”

“Because I stand out! Because I'm a black, nappy-head dog. You should have changed my last name!”

I ran from her and to the safety of my bedroom, to my books and the homework that was a constant, which made me feel sane.

It took her two hours to come talk to me.

She sat on my bed while I sat at my desk reading a
Valley
High
book.

“I thought you would have been proud to have Paul's last name. I know I was. I've made so many mistakes—too many to count, but your last name is not one of them.”

She put her arms around me and I stiffened, turned my muscles to metal, and wouldn't give in.

“You don't love me,” I whispered. “You kept my name different because you don't want people to know I'm yours.”

She knelt down next to me. “Don't ever say that again. I love you, I do. And I'm sorry that you don't like your last name, but I'm not sorry it's yours.”

She tried to kiss my head but I turned away from her.

She sighed. “I'm sorry you're upset.”

“Why did you have to marry somebody white? You should have married a black man so Renee would be as dark as me. Then I wouldn't stick out so much.”

“You know what, Mariah? I don't think Anthony's skin color makes a difference in your sticking out. Now I'm sorry you had a bad day at school, but don't lash out.”

She stood. “When you're feeling better I'd like you to come downstairs. We're about to watch a movie.”

I never did go downstairs. There was no comfort at school in all its blinding whiteness, and my home life was just as bad. Was there any place that I belonged?

Freddy Krueger

Three hours later I left my room and walked down the hall to the living room to face Beverly. My stomach felt queasy, and even though I knew the air conditioner was on, I could feel a faint trail of sweat sliding down my back. She was sitting on the sofa, holding a wooden hoop with her delicate embroidery inside. The room was still and quiet except for my footsteps. I knew she heard me approach, but she didn't do anything to acknowledge my presence.

I coughed.

Nothing.

I waited a few seconds for her to say something, but she just sat there, her needle going through the fabric—in and out, in and out. No response. Nothing had changed. Why after all this time had I expected anything different? Anger moved my feet and I turned on my heel to leave the room.

“Wait,” she said, her cool voice laced with authority.

“Sit.”

I walked over to her and sat down on the chair across from her. She continued her embroidery, her needle going in and out of the fabric systematically, revealing beautiful pink and red roses. She stopped, placed the embroidery in a basket near the sofa, and looked up at me.

“I'm glad you're here.”

I didn't say anything.

“Renee's happy, too. She can't stop talking about it.”

“It seems like it. Did she leave?”

“She went to pick up a few things from the store. Things to make your stay here more comfortable.”

“That's nice of her.”

“We both want you to feel comfortable. I know things have been hard—”

I waved my hand. “I can handle things being difficult, Beverly. It's how you raised me, remember?”

The mention of her name made her wince. I stared at her and dared her to object to it. She simply sighed and picked up her embroidery hoop again.

“Some things never change, do they?”

“I guess not.”

“So, how long do you think you'll be in Houston?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, how long do you think you'll be here? Staying with us?”

“Not long. I want to find a job as quickly as I can.”

“That's good. You want to keep busy. Now about your hair—”

I ran my hand over it.

“I've made you an appointment tomorrow afternoon with my hairstylist, Henry. He's very good and he'll get your hair under control and ready for Houston's humidity again. You'll need a relaxer, of course, and maybe with a few deep conditioners we can get that hair of yours to grow.” She started to laugh. “Do you remember when you got your first relaxer?”

“How could I forget, Beverly?”

She took me to get a relaxer a day after I got the perm, not telling the stylist what previous chemicals I had on my hair. I left the salon bald as a newborn baby, with red chemical burns all over my scalp that crusted over into unsightly scars over the next week. It took several months for my hair to grow back, and another year before I would even try another relaxer. Walking around with my head looking like Freddy Krueger made the teasing unbearable, and it was then that I met Norma Gomez, the new girl at our school.

“You got burned or something?” she asked, sitting down next to me at lunch.

“Something like that.”

She stared at my head for a few minutes and then started talking about her old school.

“My parents thought private school would be better.”

“Look at them, the Wetback and Freddy Krueger! Hey, Mexican, why don't you swim back to the border and get me some tacos! I'm hungry!” Norma's face turned red, while I continued eating.

“Leave her alone, Michael,” I said.

“It's okay,” Norma said, grabbing my arm.

“It's not okay.” I turned back to Michael. “You better leave us alone.”

“What you going to do about it, Tar Baby?”

I don't remember hitting him. I don't remember the crunch of broken bone that his nose made when I hit it with my fist. I just remember being pulled off him and getting suspended for a week. The teasing continued, but it was different after that day. From then on, I said something back just as cruel.

Beverly's laughter jolted me from the memory. She kept laughing to the point that tears pricked her eyes. “Whew,” she said, wiping her eyes with her hand. “You were always such a character. Your hair finally did grow back, though.”

“That wasn't funny. I had a hard time with that.”

She shrugged. “Honestly, Mariah, don't get so sensitive. You barely had enough hair to cover your head anyway. What did it matter if it all fell out?”

“I was ten years old! Do you know how traumatic it is for a ten-year-old to walk around bald?”

“I
knew
you would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Difficult. Mariah, I hope the time that you're here can be enjoyable. We really want to try to get along.”

“That certainly sounds like what you're trying to do.” I stood. “We finished?”

She looked at me. “I'm sorry I laughed. That was cruel—”

“Are we done?” I asked, my voice shaky.
Don't you cry, Mariah. Don't you dare cry in front of your mother.

She nodded and I left the room and retreated to the patio.

* * *

The air was warm, but I couldn't feel it. I was cold inside, a chill spread through my bones, and I rubbed my hands together to fight against the cold that swept through me. It's been years since I came to Houston, and now I remember why I don't visit. Houston made me feel small, with its wide expanse of highways and unbearable heat. Houston made me feel like a child again. Or rather, Beverly made me feel like a child again.

Bringing up that memory of when I lost all my hair brought tears to my eyes. The teasing that I endured from that touched my kidneys and was made worse by the feelings that remained when I arrived home.

Renee used all her allowance money and got me a wig. At nine years old she managed to get a mail-order catalogue and bought a wig for my bald, scarred head. I wish her taste in wigs was as good as her intentions, because the wig made me look like Weezy from
The
Jeffersons
. It was a tight-curled jet black synthetic thing that sat on my head like a hat. The teasing worsened, and so did my mouth. Even the teachers would get in on it, commenting that I should stay out of my grandmother's closet. I was appalled by their lack of compassion and retreated further into myself. Who could you run to when your own teachers were making your life as bad as the students?

“Stop that crying,” Beverly said to me after school one day. I was holed up in my room and wouldn't come down to eat. Henrietta had fixed chicken enchiladas—my favorite.

“They keep making fun of me. Look at me! Why did you have to take me to another hair salon? I'm a monster.”

She sat on my bed and, in a firm voice, she told me to sit up. I obeyed.

“I'm only going to tell you this once, Mariah. All this crying you're doing, has it helped you?”

I shook my head.

“Is your hair back?”

I shook my head again.

“Tears don't do anything. They are a waste of emotion. They'll never get you anywhere, won't do nothing for you but make you sick.”

She touched the prickly wig that sat on my head.

“I'm sorry about your hair. I didn't know you weren't supposed to mix those two chemicals together. If I had—”

She looked down. “If I had I wouldn't have done it. But you can't be mad at me forever. And tears won't help you, baby. If they did, I'd be a different person. Okay?”

“Okay,” I mumbled.

“Come with me,” she said, taking my hand and leading me into the bathroom. She slid the wig off my head.

“Don't!”

“Now, look at yourself in the mirror.”

I closed my eyes. “I can't.”

“Open your eyes!”

I obeyed. I saw my bald head, with hair interspersed like a child playing peek-a-boo. I saw the angry black scabs and the white skin underneath from where I'd picked a few off.

“Your looks will never get you anything in life.” She pointed to my head. “But this will. You're a smart girl, Mariah. And smart girls do not cry.”

“Even when they get their feelings hurt?”

“Especially then. You lock those feelings away and push them out. Don't think about it. It'll make you stronger, tougher,
wiser.
It'll make you the best.”

“No tears?” I asked, wiping away the ashy patches on my dark skin from the old trails of tears.

“No tears.”

No tears
was my motto in life, the thing I said to myself when boyfriends dumped me, when friends moved away, when pets died.
No
tears
.

I said it over and over again, my tongue thick and heavy from the tears that were jumping at the chance to fall. But I didn't let them. I willed them back into that dark place where dreams die and where hope is lost. I kept chanting to myself until Renee touched my back and I jumped.

“I was calling your name. You didn't hear me. I just got back from the store. Are you okay?”

“No. I'm not. This was a mistake. What was I thinking of coming here?”

She sighed. “I know this can't be easy for you. But let me try to help. I promise to take care of you.”

“That's not your job.”

“I know. I just want to be there for you. I know she can be hard, but she loves you—”

I laughed. “I don't think Beverly is capable of loving me.”

“That's not true. She does. She just had a hard time with everything. With Paul's death and all.”

“I'm well aware of how I was brought into this world, Renee.” I gripped the iron rails until my hands ached.

“I picked up some food. You must be hungry.” She reached out and touched my hands, rubbing them until I loosened my grip on the railing. “It's okay, Mariah,” Renee repeated over and over until I let go. She kept rubbing my hands as if they were cold.

“Let's go eat, okay?” Her voice was shaking.

I nodded and followed her into the kitchen. Paper bags of takeout from Pappasito's, my favorite Mexican restaurant, were on the black granite counters. I stood next to her in the shiny modern kitchen feeling dull and out of place.

“The plates are here,” she was saying, pointing to a dark cherry cabinet. “And that's where we keep the glasses. Why don't you grab a couple?”

I grabbed three margarita glasses and set them on the counter. She placed one back in the cabinet, stating that she didn't drink anymore.

“Look, after the day I've had I need something besides Diet Coke. Got anything stronger?”

“No.”

I sighed, and put the glasses back and pulled out regular glass tumblers. She poured Diet Coke in our glasses and added a squirt of lime.

“Come on, let's set all this up and sit outside. It's nice out today.”

“I know. I was just out there, remember?”

Without looking at me she asked if Mama had talked to me.

“I guess. Why?”

“She was worried about you. I think she's as happy as me about having you back. She needs to tell you some things—”

“I think she shared all she wanted to share with me. She didn't exactly make me feel at home, you know.”

She shrugged. “She's been having a hard time. She'll come around.”

“A hard time?
I've
been the one having a hard time.”

“I've wanted to talk to you about that. You sort of brought those problems on yourself. But don't worry,” she said quickly, when she saw my glare, “you're here now and you can start over. Have a clean, fresh slate. Right?”

“I can't believe I'm back here,” I said again. “I can't do this right now—”

“What? I'm sorry, I said something wrong…”

“No. I just want to be alone.”

“But I wanted to celebrate—”

“Why would this be a celebration for me, Renee? Losing everything so I have to move back home with you? You think I'm excited about being here? I
hate
Houston. I
hate
everything about being here.”

“But your family is here—”

“Correction.
Your
family is here. I don't have a family.”

Her face crumpled in like a piece of tin foil.

“I'm sorry, I meant—”

“I know what you meant. Here,” she said, handing me my soda. “I'll leave you alone.”

“Sorry,” I said to her retreating back. I couldn't tell if she didn't hear me or she just
chose
not to hear me.