Family Tree the Novel Page 2

  All of my sisters and brothers, including myself, went our own way. We talked but we never really said anything. Pam and Sister kept their true feelings to themselves. I don’t think they shared their insides with me, or if they even knew themselves anyway.

  Sister did share on occasion, about her needing a man to make her whole. However, she never said it in those words; after she got a man our conversations would stop.

  Pam complained about everything and everyone. Nothing was ever enough for her, always needed more. She never made an effort to change herself, insisting things always be done her way. I ignored her, talking to her seemed pointless. Pam reminded me too much of my mother, with double standards.

  Maya, on the other hand, gives only to get the approval that will never come. I know my mother dislikes her, it’s obvious by the way she treats her. Maya reminds her of the fact she made a mistake in having her. Maya seems depressed most of the time and complains about her mistreatment by our mother. Maya is heavy; food is Maya’s drug. Maya is compulsive about everything though, not just food: constantly checking and rechecking everything. It’s a waste of time, to do and watch. I can’t be bothered either way. Being around them keeps me analyzing them constantly. I only want to enjoy their company.

  There is a problem. I think it’s me.

  I once sat in an employee meeting when a fat woman squeezed in to sit down next to us. I was surprised; I liked the way she felt. I told her so and everyone around us laughed. She was clearly embarrassed having to squeeze in. Though I was comforted by her warm feeling and size which felt like being squished by a cloud of warm dough. I wonder if Maya made anyone feel comforted because they were both overweight? I would love to be one of Maya’s children for that warm contented feeling in a hug. I slept with a fat guy once, and it was not the same.

  Samantha is like me, staying in the struggle to be content. I am proud of her for that. I am so much older than she is. I wasn’t around her much growing up. Besides, she was a tattletale. Samantha loves being in a married state. – ‘Joined at the hip’ is a more accurate description. I am unlike her in that way; I do not need marriage. I am married to myself.

  Brother and Philip do not show their feelings, perhaps because they are male? I don’t know. I know I don’t know their favorite color, or what they value most. I feel like I’m different from them all. I talk about how I feel, except with them. If I do, I’m smothered in a cellophane resistance I can see through but cannot breathe in.

  Philip hated school because he didn’t do well; he found his own way without it. He educated himself with what he needed to know to survive. I admire him for that. Philip equates his self-esteem with material things. Well, on the other hand, he could be a serial killer.

  Brother is still as mysterious as he’s always been. He never shows his emotions. No one is always, ‘all right’ every time you ask. He keeps his life his. If I pry, he talks, sometimes a little about women. He has always had a bunch of women making a big deal over him; he is very handsome and dresses well. Brother appears to make himself feel better by having negative attention from women.

  He seems to like that chaos he creates through his dishonesty with them about how he really feels. I believe it is a subconscious effort to sabotage his relationships with women he really does not want. I have never respected the behavior of women who act like that with him, and I don’t see how he can. ‘If you are not going to be something positive in my life, then you won’t be in my life,’ that’s my motto. His relationships manifest from needs, I am not certain of what they are, I suspect to distract him from the truth – whatever his truth is. I just hope he has a confidant. He needs one, and I know he keeps secrets.

  I think Brother is secretly gay. He reminds me of a typical closet-case homosexual. They are sometimes womanizers, the way he is, and he is definitely in denial over something about himself – with an obvious need to be distracted from himself constantly.

  CHAPTER 3

  The grief my mother causes is too much for me; she is toxic. I’m more tolerant of my siblings. I blame Mom for the reasons we have so much to do to get better. I can forget the past. She did the best she could. It’s up to us to change ourselves as adults.

  It is the present that hurts. My mother’s continued deceit, rejection, and the acceptance of her behavior from my siblings. I only end up with more issues when I’m around them. I feel like I’m the only one of us who has genuinely tried to become better – search for a sense of happiness from within; I don’t know if Mamma understands this. My mother does not want to be burdened with sorting out whatever bothers her, instead she complains constantly: about her children and illness with no effort to be different.

  Some shrink told me once, you’ll be the same age if you do and the same age if you don’t. I did. I was too unhappy not to try a change. I feel ganged up on when I’m around my family because I stir things up and challenge their warped logic. I hope that I suggest a positive response, instead they are only provoked. The effort of inspiring change among them is worth the risk of losing them. If they ever change because of something I showed them, it would give me the feeling of God’s presence within me. I needed that for some reason, to feel divine.

  My mother makes things seem worse than the truth a lot of times. She finds supporters of her misrepresentation of facts, causing conflicts among her children – losing the focus while I gain another issue with her. If mom creates conflicts, she takes the focus off her unhappy life. Like Brother does with his women. It’s just easier and less painful to deal with me instead of backing up and crashing into a brick wall.

  I used to imagine I would write a soap opera called, ‘Drama: The Negro Chronicles.’ Everyone in my family would star in each episode. I love them, but don’t like them as people sometimes. Mary and Jesus showed me differently. I get from them something I am missing from my family; speaking freely about everything and knowing it’s okay. Not guarding the facts is okay, too. I had to find my family someplace else. Yet, I miss my real family always.

  CHAPTER 4

  I called my Brother Philip’s house and got acceptance for my collect phone call from the jail. Philip answered and I asked to speak to my son. Philip assured me Malcolm was fine. He told me Malcolm handled what had happened to him like a champion.

  “Malcolm is so smart. He calls it the way it is, he misses nothing,” said Philip. Who do you think raised him? I thought, taking credit for his attitude. I am proud of Malcolm, he isn’t like them either.

  Philip handed my son the phone, “Hello Mom.”

  “How are you?”

  “I am fine.”

  “Don’t just tell me that because I’m in jail.”

  “I wouldn’t,” he said in a tone as if I should know that.

  “What a terrible thing to happen, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he said sadly.

  “I’m so sorry you had to find her, she would never have done that if she had known you kids would find her.” I took a breath. “She couldn’t have been in her right mind,” I told him, hoping he could feel my love for him and somehow be comforted in my absence. “Did she seem different to you?” I asked, prying.

  “She was her same old drunk self. She seemed fine to me,” he said. Her being drunk everyday was normal. “She was going jogging like she did every day. She kissed us on the cheek.” Malcolm told me. “I told her I was cold and she covered me with a blanket.” He explained. What he had said made me remember the time she gave me her coat when I was cold on the way home from school when we were children.

  “When did this happen?” I asked,

  “Yesterday, in the morning.”

  “Where was your Grandma?”

  “She said she had to go to the doctor.”

  Just then, I realized my mother and stepfather had been in court with me at the time of her suicide. I had asked Mom not to come; why hadn’t she listened to me? She might have stopped Lady, and why did she lie to Malcolm about where she was going? This doubled the pai
n in my stomach.

  Malcolm said, “Mom her lips were blue. I remember what you told me, if anyone’s lips are blue you call 911, then try to help them.”

  “That’s right,” I assured him.

  “I knew she was dead because ants were crawling all over her face,” he explained. “Abraham wanted to wipe them off of her but I wouldn’t let him touch her.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. We couldn’t help her.” My son started crying. “If she was still alive she would have wiped them off herself, or been trying to.”

  “That’s right,” I said trying to hold back my tears. I was trying to be strong for my son, breaking the rule I had taught him. If you feel like crying, cry. It makes you human not weak. What had happened to my theory? I guess I was afraid of completely falling apart and I didn’t want my son to feel worse because I was crying and in jail, where he couldn’t help me either. I held it in, literally choking myself.

  A deputy on duty was trying to arrange a special visit so my family could bring Malcolm to see me. I told Malcolm this.

  He said, “Okay.”

  “Can I speak to Philip again?” I asked, I needed details I didn’t want to ask Malcolm about.

  Philip told me, “Lady had a vodka bottle and a bible in front of her. Also, a pack of cigarettes and lighter all lined up neatly.” This meant to me that her death was planned; nothing was in disarray or broken. Lady decided to kill herself. I wondered what the passage was in the bible she had read. I wanted a clue to her final thoughts.

  “As much as she drank, her liver would have killed her,” I told Philip, we laughed then cried.

  Philip said, “She changed her mind was the coroner’s suspicion. She had a cut on her leg from a branch, she tried to stand during the hanging.”

  Rigor mortis had left Lady stiff in a struggling position. I hoped it was true. I wanted to believe she thought of us and changed her mind. I would have helped her, she knew that. I had been trying to since she came home. I didn’t want her in eternal turmoil for committing suicide, not being forgiven by God.

  I believe God doesn’t give us more than we can bare, and from it we get stronger. I was living proof of that fact. I thought she knew this because she prayed constantly. What had happened to her faith in God? All these things wreak havoc in my head, like the poignant smell that lingers in the air after boiled eggs are burned. I needed to open a window, to let out the burning stench. I choked on it.

  Just then, the deputy came in and told me the visit had been arranged that would allow me to see Malcolm. I cried a swollen cry, that crashed like a wave, and thanked her.

  I told Philip the news getting a hold of myself. The deputy gave me a number to give Philip to call so the finals could be arranged, like who was coming and was their car insured before coming in the compound.

  I hung up and waited while pacing. It would be a few more hours before the visit.

  * * *

  An hour passed and I was called back to Mental Health. I didn’t know what was up now. Maybe they changed their mind, or my son had lost his. A flood of possibilities drowned me. My nerves were shot as I walked back to Mental Health.

  Is anyone else dead? Did my son snap, from everyone bugging him? I couldn’t take any more bad news.

  The psychologist asked me if I felt like talking now; I was both relieved and irritated.

  I said, “No.” I felt like slapping her for the added aggravation she caused me. I was content for the moment, knowing my son was being allowed to visit.

  Why wasn’t she getting it? What I needed wasn’t going to come from her. I wanted to see for myself that Malcolm was okay.

  Then the psychologist asked, “Do you think you might need Mental Health in on the visit?”

  I wanted to say, “Hell no,” but I didn’t.

  I needed to start remembering what I was taught in the past, and use it, before they drive me crazy. I knew what my son was talking about now.

  “If we need you,” I said, “I will certainly ask that you be brought in.” I smirked at her with an expression that resembled a smile, thinking, I would like you to stop bothering me.

  I started to explain to her what calling me to Mental Health was doing to me, but I couldn’t hurt her feelings. She was doing her job. She didn’t know me. I asked instead if she might spare some paper for me to write with.

  “I only just got here and have not ordered commissary yet.”

  “I find solace in writing and that gives comfort to me, besides I want to write my son a letter. Can you spare a few sheets?” She was more than happy to give them to me, to know she was helping me in some way, was the only way to get her to stop.

  I had been a licensed counselor, but didn’t have the energy to explain that to her either. I studied diligently in college, and through my counseling courses I learned about myself. I knew she would encourage writing. It is a counseling technique; one of its uses is to open up patients who don’t want to talk. If I had not suggested this; she may have never stopped summoning me to Mental Health.

  I surprised myself; how could I think? I did. I didn’t like the burden of having to think for everyone else now, just to get what I need.

  * * *

  The visit took place around 1:30 pm. It was a contact visit; I was surprised. I thought all jail visits were behind glass, as they are on TV.

  I hugged my son, I knew immediately he was okay. I could tell by the expression on his face. ‘My Baby’ brought him. That’s what I have called her since she was born. She and I hugged for a long time. I couldn’t wait for her to let go of me. It was too emotional. I worried that I might have to do something for her; I was barely there.

  Thinking, for everyone around here, still being judged like a caged animal, I couldn’t take much more. I wanted this visit over with the second it started.

  They asked what I was doing in work boots and jeans.

  “Prison strips,” I said and laughed. “I was assigned to horticulture.”

  “In jail?” Maya asked.

  “This is the branch of the jail where if you haven’t done any real crime, you come here. This is not Orange County Jail, this is just a branch of it. There are no bars, and there is a pool table in our cell. It’s like a big summer camp.” I said these things purposely for my son to hear, so he wouldn’t worry about me – and it was true.

  I started off at Orange County Jail in Santa Ana where it’s like the slumber party from hell. You check in, but who knows when you check out. We laughed, when I told them this. I was glad to hear them laugh. I felt it meant they would be all right eventually because they hadn’t lost the ability to laugh.

  I asked if they knew anything – anything else they wanted to tell me about what had happened.

  My son said, “I’m fine.”

  He is like me, I thought. He had talked to everyone about his feelings the way I taught him, and he was fine.

  “Please ask them to stop trying to make me see a doctor,” he said.

  I thought, yeah, he’s fine - he’s complaining. “I will.” I assured him. You know your Grandma means well, I thought. She over reacts, that’s all, but couldn’t be bothered explaining that. I thought it was obvious; anyway. I was happy to know what I had taught him had kicked in when I wasn’t around. I feel like someone important listens to me.

  Maya told me Lady had been listening to a cassette on her Walkman while she was hanging there.

  How odd, I thought, then asked, “What was it?”

  “That group she loved,” Maya told me. I’m glad she had the comfort of music but it wasn’t enough.

  I love music and have used it to make me feel better. She needed more than a good song-induced drunken cry I was guessing.

  ‘Peace girl at war’ was the screen name she asked me to set up for her, when I could show her how to surf the net. However, Lady never went online; I had told her she was computer challenged. She threw a few cuss words at me. I laughed at her. There were still so many
things she hadn’t done that might have given her joy.

  “Their lead singer is dead too you know,” I said.

  “He committed suicide, maybe she felt like he understood her,” Maya speculated. I didn’t give a damn.

  I was ready to leave. I needed to be alone, and think. I thought I understood Lady. If she could only have gotten over her feelings of inadequacy. She was not inadequate. What burdened her so?

  “I’m not familiar with their lyrics, are you?”

  “No,” I said, starting to sound impatient. “What scripture was she reading?” I asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “The wind could have blown the pages,” I said.

  “I guess” Maya replied. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “I wrote a poem; I would like it to be put on her eulogy. “Take it to Mom, Malcolm,” I said. “I wrote it at a time when I felt no one could help me.”

  Here I am naked, exposed and complete, angered and hurt by what scars me so deep. I am mad at the path my life chose to seek; wishing hindsight had already met me. Emotions run through me like sap in the trees, my branches extended with brown falling leaves. Here I am pathetic, planted but free; my eyes weeping the sap of my deep-rooted seeds. But the power of God, will not forsake me; the sun and the rain will heal all my leaves.

  “The message is appropriate,” I said.

  “I remember that poem,” Malcolm said.

  “Okay, you’re all right, I better go back now. This is an official visit.” I don’t like special treatment, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Deputies had certain looks on their faces, as if waiting for me to do something drastic. “I’m really happy they allowed this visit.”

  We hugged again, and they left. I went back to the cell and thanked the deputy who had set it up. I would be grateful to her and My Baby, for as long as I would remember the day.