Queenie(66)

“Are you under a lot of stress?” Maggie asked, the sentence getting quieter so that by the time she said “stress” she was mouthing it. Jamaicans don’t typically believe in mental health issues. “And have you been praying?”

“What do you mean by stress?” I ignored the latter part of her question. “I’ve never had a panic attack.” I gasped as a wave of what I immediately recognized as acute panic hit me.

“Doesn’t matter, Henny hadn’t. They just started,” Diana said, picking at bits of the peeling wallpaper.

“Okay,” Maggie said, composing herself by smoothing down her bright orange kaftan. “Diana, stop touching, please. Queenie, get out of those wet clothes and grab your overnight things. Let’s go to Mum’s. Can we try to get the bus, or should I call a cab?” Maggie asked, adjusting her wig.

“I don’t want to go out,” I whimpered.

“You’re not turning agoraphobic on me—come on, let’s go. I’ll call a cab.” Maggie clapped her hands as Diana helped me to stand up.

I looked at my little cousin. “Sorry about this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, helping me up the stairs.

I shoved my headscarf and my laptop into my rucksack. As soon as we got into the cab, Maggie was on the phone to my grandmother, speaking in what I think she thought were hushed tones: “. . . I don’t know, Mum. She doesn’t have a fever, she doesn’t have a stomachache. I don’t know if she’s eaten. . . . Should I call Sylvie? . . . She’s her mum, she’d want to know! . . . Okay. Well, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”



* * *



“Wake up. Queenie. Wake up.” I opened my eyes to see Diana’s face looming over mine. “We’re here. Do you need me to help you in?”

“No, I’m fine,” I said, swatting my cousin away. “Why are you being so helpful this evening? It’s not like you.” I stepped out of the car and struggled up the gravel path with Maggie and Diana toward my grandmother. She was standing with her hands on her hips. I stepped through the porch door and she pulled me in by the arm and looked at me.

“Wha’ wrong wid yu?” she asked as Diana sat on the stairs and got her phone out of her pocket.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, looking at the floor. My grandmother put her hands on my cheeks and lifted my face so that my eyes met hers.

“Tell me, nuh?” she insisted.

“I don’t know. I feel weird.” I moved her hands from my face.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, pursing her lips.

“I’m not hungry,” I told her, moving from the porch into the house.

“I didn’t say are you hungry, I said have you eaten?” My grandmother’s lips were tighter, but still she managed to speak.

“No, I can’t. Can I just go to sleep?” I said, going to walk up the stairs.

“Food first. I put some fish fingers on for you,” my grandmother told me, and pointed toward the kitchen. Food Is Love is my family’s unofficial motto. Pity that the motto is also Have You Put on Weight?

My grandmother and I sat in the kitchen, Diana and Maggie’s chattering in the living room occasionally broken up by my granddad begging that they “stop being so loud. Please!” and my grandmother barking, “Stop being miserable, let them live!” through the wall.

As I forced fish fingers and soggy toast down, I wondered if I should tell her about what had happened with Tom. I couldn’t bring myself to offer the information, so decided to wait until she brought it up. I was surprised she hadn’t asked already.

Diana came in to rummage for food, which prompted my grandmother to jump up and start preparing her a three-course meal, so I took the opportunity to sneak upstairs. Needing to watch something for distraction, I pulled my laptop out of my rucksack, and swore as the contents of the bag came out with it.

“Do. Not. Swear. Me teach you fi swear?” My grandmother had crept up the stairs.

“No, sorry. Sorry for making a mess,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Get into bed. Here’s a hot water bottle, and here’s your nightie. I washed it for you.” She handed me a white calf-length nightgown speckled with lavender flowers. Lace frills overwhelmed the bust and sleeves.

I removed my clothes shakily and put it on as she picked up the various bits of crap that I carry around daily from the floor.

“What’s this?” she asked, unfolding a piece of paper.

I leaped over to her and grabbed it out of her hand. “Nothing.”

She looked at me and pursed her lips.

“Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.” She turned the light off and left me standing in the dark.

“I won’t sleep, it’s nine o’clock!” I called out after her, getting into bed and hugging the hot water bottle to my stomach.

It’s over, I thought, Tom’s words bouncing around my brain. How can it be over? I fell asleep almost immediately.



* * *



As always, at my grandmother’s house, I woke up not knowing where I was, but immediately recognized my surroundings when I saw the moonlight shining onto a painting of the Virgin Mary on the wall opposite the bed.