What Lies Beyond the Veil(Of Flesh & Bone #1)(6)

“How long you think it’s gon’ be,” I ask before she can turn her music back on, “before Momma come back?” I hope this might be my chance to get Nia talking.

“You serious?” Nia rolls her eyes, a half smirk cross her face.

“What you mean?” I say, slow, chewing the ends of my hair.

“Don’t be such a baby, KB. Momma ain’t coming back.” Nia laughs but it sounds all wrong, more like a whine caught in the back of her throat. I can’t tell if this is one of them times when Nia says something mean just to mess with me, or if this time, it’s really true.

“Yeah she is,” I say, cause I can’t think of nothin’ better. Of course Momma’s gon’ come back. Nia goes back to her rocking and swaying as I count all the reasons in my head: Momma, me, and Nia are a family. We barely even know Granddaddy. We got school again in the fall. We already lost Daddy. “Why would you say that?” I ask, but Nia don’t respond.

My mouth turns dry til my spit is a giant lump I can barely swallow. I want Nia to say something else. And I want her to come inside with me. I sigh and stand, mouth, “Good night,” as I stumble cross the porch through the blinding dark, even though I know it ain’t gon’ reach her. I know I ain’t gon’ reach her.

Granddaddy’s sittin’ on the couch in front of the TV, but it’s off. I wonder what he’s doin’, sittin’ there all quiet. He don’t say nothin’, just stands and walks to the back of the house. I figure he wants me to follow, so I do. His quiet feels just as tiring as Nia’s being mean, but right now ain’t nothin’ much I can do bout either one. I make sure to stomp as loud as I can, though, when I follow Granddaddy to a room back by the kitchen, a tiny room with a tiny bed. Ain’t nothin’ in the room but a bed and a dresser, with a pile of towels and two pillows on top, one for me, one for Nia. Granddaddy nods—I barely seen he did it—then leaves. I think bout Anne from my book, realize that Granddaddy act kinda like Marilla Cuthbert, who ain’t talk to Anne much at first. Problem is, ain’t no Matthew Cuthbert here who’s gon’ talk to me when Marilla won’t. Ain’t nobody but Granddaddy.

I place my muddy shoes on the floor of the empty closet and hang up my rainbow jacket. I ain’t got no pajamas so I keep all my clothes on cept my jeans, which I fold tight and set on top of the dresser. I’m s’posed to braid my hair before bed like Momma tells me to and like Nia taught me, but I just pull it into a thick, messy ponytail. Stupid Momma ain’t here and stupid Nia don’t care.



* * *





That night, I lay awake and listen to crickets. They make a rhythm like raindrops that reminds me of a day when flooded streets trapped me and Nia and Momma and Daddy together in the house for an afternoon. It was a Saturday, which was a day we usually spent apart. Daddy would leave early and, as usual, not say where he was goin’. Momma would do laundry all day, and sometimes go to the grocery store or secondhand store, depending on what we needed. That would just leave me and Nia. Used to be, we would play house or school together, pretending to be teachers or students or mommas, but always still sisters, too, in any game we played. No matter what was goin’ on with Momma and Daddy, we always had each other. But then it got so Nia would do her own thing, and so I would pretend to have my own thing to do, too.

But not that day. The rain started the night before, and by morning it was coming down in heavy buckets. Daddy tried to leave, but he opened the door and water from the porch rushed in and covered his feet.

“Maybe you don’t have to go?” Momma whispered from the couch. And for once, that question ain’t start a fight. Daddy stayed, and we played games and ate popcorn and watched movies all day. Even though I caught Daddy staring at the door a few times, he never left, not once. Momma covered his face with kisses every few minutes, I think to thank him for staying. They held hands, me and Nia shared a blanket and a bowl of ice cream, and nobody fought all day long. I thought we were finally fixed. But that night the rain stopped, and it all started again.

Granddaddy’s little room for me and Nia is black dark, so I can’t see nothin’ cept the little bit of light peeking in from under the door. I imagine Granddaddy sittin’ on the porch, rocking and humming in the silent dark, and then I imagine Momma there, too, their knees touching, a smile lighting her eyes. I try to imagine Granddaddy without a frown on his face, but it’s all I can see.

I still got a whole summer here with him, though, like it or not, so I try to start thinking of stuff to do. I wonder if Momma had adventures in Lansing when she was a girl. There ain’t many adventures to have in Detroit, unless you count the times I bought lottery tickets for Momma. Momma don’t believe in spending money on stuff we don’t need, cept lottery tickets. She’d send me to the store with a ripped-out slip of paper filled with numbers, and instructions to tell the man at the counter, “A dollar straight and a dollar box,” which made me feel like a grown-up. Kids ain’t allowed to buy lotto tickets, but nobody ever stopped me.

I must’ve fell asleep, cause even though I don’t remember her coming in, Nia’s knee touches mine in the cramped bed. I can’t see her, but she’s snoring loud as our old, rusty lawnmower Momma taught me to cut grass with after she begged Daddy to teach me for months.

“Nia,” I whisper in the shadowy room. I wanna wake her, make her explain what she said bout Momma. But she only snores louder. I ain’t scared of the dark, but the dark here feels different, like it’s wrapping my whole body in a hug that’s too tight. In my head, I count the piercing cricket chirps. I wanna fall asleep, so I count and count. Seventy-six, then I’m sleep.