Queenie(3)

“Your lovely soft brown skin, Queenie, but lighter. Like a lovely milky coffee. Not too dark! And Tom’s green eyes. Your big hair, Queenie, those dark eyelashes, but Tom’s nice straight nose.” I looked around to see if anyone else at the table was shocked by what she said, but apparently it was acceptable.

“I don’t think that you can pick and choose like a facial composite, Joyce,” I said, fiddling with the pepper grinder.

“True,” Joyce said. “It’s a shame, that.”

Later on when we were in bed, I turned to Tom and put my book down. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked, concentrating on whatever tech article he was reading on his phone.

“Your grandma. At dinner she said that our future baby should have your nice straight nose.”

“Ignore her. She’s just being old, isn’t she?” Tom said, putting his phone down on the bedside table. “Your nose is nice and squishy. It might be my favorite thing about your face.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess,” I said, picking my book back up. “Well, let’s hope that our children don’t get any of my squashed features.”

“I said squishy, not squashed. And I’d rather our kids looked more like you than me, your face is more interesting than mine. And I love your nose, almost as much as I love you,” Tom said, booping me on the appendage in question with a finger.

He moved so that I could nuzzle into him. I did, and although I wasn’t a person who ever felt particularly safe, did, but just for a second.

“So you’ve thought about it?” I asked, looking up at him.

“Your nose? Sure, I think you’ve got a lovely nose.” He rested his chin on my forehead.

“No, our children. Future babies.”

“Yeah, I’ve got it planned out. In six years when we’ve got a house and I’ve forced you down the aisle, we’ll have children,” Tom said, smiling. “Three is the right amount.”

“Three?”

“One is selfish, two means they’ll always be competing, but when you have three they can start looking after each other as soon as the eldest is eight.”

“Okay, okay. Three coffee-colored babies. But milky, right? Just like Grandma ordered.”

? ? ?

Queenie

Tom, hello



Queenie

Are you seeing my messages?



Queenie

I’ll call when I’m on my way home



Queenie

Got to go to the chemist and get some pills



Queenie

Let me know if you need me to bring anything home



I sat in the corridor staring at my phone’s smashed screen, waiting for Tom to reply. A few minutes passed, and eventually, no reply later, I walked back toward the waiting room. I could hear Maggie talking as I made my way toward her.

“One day, years ago now, my ex-husband told me he was popping out for petrol, and do you know what? He was gone fifteen hours! When he got back, I said, ‘Terrence, where did you get the petrol, Scotland?’?” She paused for effect. “I told him to get out after that. I had a baby to look after, I had my bills to pay, I couldn’t deal with any man’s nonsense.” Maggie paused to adjust her bosom. “The day after he left I went to the doctor and I said, ‘Listen, tie my tubes in a knot, I’m not having any more!’ I’m telling you. The one I’ve got is fifteen now, all she gives me is trouble. It’s all about makeup and boys and fake eyelashes and making videos for YouTube. This isn’t what my mum came over from Jamaica for, for her granddaughter to be throwing away her education.” Maggie folded and unfolded her arms. “I go to church, and I pray, I pray for myself, I pray for my daughter, for my niece. I just have to hope He’s listening, Marina.”

How were my aunt and this stranger already on first-name terms? I hadn’t been gone that long. I threw myself down next to my aunt. Marina, sitting opposite, was nodding vigorously although Maggie had finished speaking.

“What did they say?” Maggie asked, pulling out the hand gel again.

“Nothing really! Just women’s problems, you know.” I swerved the question.

“What women’s problems?” Maggie is a first-generation Jamaican and therefore a woman entitled to information about others.

“Just women’s problems!” I said, forcing what I hoped was a convincing smile.



* * *



Maggie and I stood at the bus stop outside the hospital. She spoke about something I couldn’t quite pay attention to as I looked up at the three gigantic tower blocks looming opposite, so high up that dark clouds almost hid their tops. I kept my head tilted back, hoping that if I did it long enough the tears that were brimming in my eyes wouldn’t fall out.

“Queenie, what did the doctor say?” My aunt narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t buy this ‘women’s problems’ rubbish. Do I have to pry it out of you?” Why did I think I’d got her off the topic earlier?

“She wanted to look at my cervix, Maggie,” I said, hoping that would get her off my case. “Something about it being narrow?”

She looked at me, annoyance and then shock contorting her face. “Pardon? Must you embarrass me?” she said through gritted teeth, looking around. “We do not talk about our vees in public.”