On the Come Up(24)

I don’t know though. I don’t freaking know.

Laughs come from somewhere in the house, quickly followed by a “Shhh! Don’t be waking my babies up.”

I lift my headphones off. It’s Saturday morning, so I know who those laughs belong to.

I slide into my Tweety Bird slippers. They match my pajamas. I will always be a fool for that little yellow bird. I follow the voices toward the kitchen.

Jay’s at the table, surrounded by recovering drug addicts. One Saturday per month, she has meetings with people she knew from when she lived on the streets. She calls the meetings check-ins. The community center used to hold them, but they ran out of funds and had to stop. Jay decided to keep the program going herself. Some of these folks have come a long way, like Mr. Daryl, who’s been clean for six years and works in construction now. There’s Ms. Pat, who just recently got her GED. Others, like Ms. Sonja, show up once in a while. Jay says the shame of falling off the wagon makes her stay away.

Sonny’s and Malik’s moms are here, too. Aunt Gina sits on the counter with a plate of pancakes in her lap. Aunt ’Chelle’s already starting dishes at the sink. They were never on drugs, but they like to help Jay cook breakfast and even make bagged lunches for folks like Ms. Sonja, who may not get a good meal otherwise.

Sometimes we barely have food, yet Jay finds a way to feed us and other people, too.

I don’t know if it impresses me or annoys me. Maybe it’s both.

“I’m telling you, Pat,” Jay says, “your momma will come around and let you see your kids. Keep working on gaining her trust. I understand the frustration though. Lord, do I understand. After I finished rehab, my in-laws put me through it when it came to my babies.”

I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear this.

“I’m talking court cases, supervised visits—how you gon’ have some stranger supervise me as I spend time with my babies? All these stretch marks I got from bringing them big heads into the world, and you don’t trust me around them?”

The others chuckle. Um, my head is normal-size, thank you very much.

“I was pissed,” Jay says. “Felt like everybody held my mistakes against me. Still feels like that sometimes. Especially now as I go on this job hunt.”

“They giving you a hard time?” Mr. Daryl asks.

“The interviews start out fine,” says Jay. “Until they ask about my gap of unemployment. I tell them the truth, and suddenly I become another junkie in their eyes. I don’t hear back.”

“That’s such bull,” Aunt ’Chelle says, picking up Ms. Pat’s empty plate. Malik looks nothing like his momma. She’s short and plump, he’s tall and lanky. She says he’s his daddy’s clone. “You know how many rich white folks come to the courthouse on drug possession?”

“A whole lot,” says Jay.

“Too many,” Aunt ’Chelle says. “Every single one gets a little slap on the wrist and goes right back into society, like it’s all good. Black folks or poor folks get on drugs?”

“We’re ruined for life,” Jay says. “Sounds about right.”

“You mean sounds about white,” says Aunt Gina, pointing her fork. Sonny is his momma’s twin, right down to their short, curly cuts.

“Mm-hmm. But what can I do?” Jay says. “I just hate that I don’t know what’s gonna happen nex—”

She spots me in the doorway. She clears her throat. “See? Y’all woke my baby up.”

I inch into the kitchen. “No, they didn’t.”

“Hey, Li’l Bit,” Aunt Gina says in that careful way that people only use if they feel bad for you. “How you doing?”

She must know what happened. “I’m fine.”

That’s not enough for Jay. She tugs at my hand. “C’mere.”

I sit on her lap. I should be too big for this, but somehow, I always fit perfectly in her arms. She snuggles me close, smelling like baby powder and cocoa butter.

“My Bookie,” she murmurs.

Sometimes she babies me, like it’s her way of making up for when she wasn’t around. I let her do it, too. I wonder though if she only sees me as her baby girl who used to snuggle up with her until I fell asleep. I don’t know if the snuggles are for who I am now.

This time, I think the snuggles are for her.

Aunt Pooh picks me up as planned. I tell Jay that we’re just hanging out. If I told her I’m going to a studio, she’d say I can’t go because my grades dropped.

The studio is in an old house with peeling paint over on the west side. When Aunt Pooh knocks on the front door, some older woman talks to us through the screen and sends me, Aunt Pooh, and Scrap to the garage in the back.

Yeah, Scrap’s here. Aunt Pooh must’ve brought him for backup, because this house . . .

This house is a mess.

Hard to believe anybody lives here. A couple of the windows are boarded up, and weeds and vines grow up the walls. Beer cans litter the grass. I think I spot some needles, too.

Hold up. “Is this a trap house?” I ask Aunt Pooh.

“That ain’t your business,” she says.

A pit bull lying in the backyard suddenly perks his head up and barks at us. He charges our way, but a chain keeps him near the fence.