With the Fire on High(48)

And I almost laugh in his face when he utters those words. I can sign permission slips for my own daughter but can’t sign one for myself.

“Sir, I really think you should speak to my advisor. I have a kid. I need my phone.”

But either he doesn’t believe me or he doesn’t care because he just shrugs and leaves with my phone in his hand. I could go to the front office and try and get someone there on my side, but I know from past experience the office staff usually sides with the security officers. I’ll have to wait until the morning to get my phone back. By the time the end of my day arrives I’m ready to be home.

I bump the door open with my hip and readjust the two grocery bags I got after school. “’Buela? Babygirl?” I call upstairs as I go into the kitchen and set the bags onto the counter. I sure hope ’Buela didn’t have another doctor’s appointment today, but she would have brought Babygirl home first. I plan to sit her down tonight and ask what’s happening. I’ve been watching her closely, and even changed up what I’ve been cooking for her to include more vegetables and less butter, but I know that all these doctor’s appointments must mean something is wrong, and I’m going to have to face it sooner or later regardless of how much she wants to protect me. Maybe they are upstairs taking a nap.

I try to distract myself from thoughts of illness by putting away the groceries. I might have gone a little overboard today buying some new spices—I swear I can spend all day at the supermarket. I especially love the one in our neighborhood that brings in ingredients straight from the island. I get to walk the aisles and pick up herbs and peppers from all over the world, thinking of all the ways to remix my favorite dishes.

“’Buela?” I call out again, but nobody answers. It’s almost four thirty and it’s strange for the house to be so quiet at this time. I walk through the living room, picking up toys and bibs. I call out again and it only takes my going halfway up the stairs to realize no one is home. The upstairs is dark and silent. ’Buela must have taken Babygirl to the park, although it’s too cold for that. Maybe she got caught up talking to one of our neighbors. I hope she didn’t forget she asked me to do the grocery shopping—the last thing we need is for her to walk in here with more gallons of milk or extra boxes of cereal. I organize the magazines in the living room, wipe down the coffee table, and put away all of Babygirl’s toys and books that somehow always wind up between the couch cushions like a sharp gift for my backside when I sit down. I glance at the wall clock, almost five. The sky outside has already lost the sun. ’Buela doesn’t have that many friends in the neighborhood. She’s mostly friendly with the neighborhood church ladies and the families on either side of our house, but not enough to drop by their houses.

Something is wrong. And as if it guessed my thoughts, the house phone rings. I dive for it.

“Hello?” I bite back on the panic I feel.

A throat clears. “Emoni? This is Mrs. Palmer. Tyrone’s mother.”

Close to three years and she still thinks I don’t know her relationship to my family. “Hello, Mrs. Palmer. Is everything okay?”

The phone rattles some before she speaks again. “Well, no. Everything is not okay. Emma came down with a fever. The daycare has been trying to call you all day, but no one has answered. They tried your grandmother’s cell phone but it seems to be off and no one was answering the house phone.”

Damn, damn, damn. “Is Emma okay? Where is she? My phone . . . is still at school. Do you have her?”

“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Palmer says, as if she doubts my explanation and believes I would intentionally not answer my phone. “Well, it’s a good thing they had both parents on file. They eventually called Tyrone, who called me. I left work early to pick the baby up. Doesn’t your grandmother usually do this? Where is she? I’d like to speak to her.”

Mrs. Palmer always does this. Acts as if I’m too young and stupid to discuss my own daughter. But the thing is, I don’t know where ’Buela is, but I don’t want Mrs. Palmer to think that both ’Buela and I are irresponsible. “She had a doctor’s appointment and she’s not home yet. It must have run late. She’s always good about picking her up. Are you home? I’ll come get Babygirl.” I’m frantic to get my baby in my arms but I bite out some politeness. “I’m sorry they bothered you, Mrs. Palmer.”

“Yes, well. Now that I know you’re home, I’ll drop her off myself. There’s a reason we got that baby seat installed, after all.”

I hang up the phone. My bottom lip hurts and I realize I’ve been chewing on it the whole conversation. I throw a scarf on and head outside to wait for Mrs. Palmer.





It Pours


Mrs. Palmer’s brown suede coat sways over her heavyset frame as she undoes all the buckles that hold Babygirl safe in the car. I try not to anxiously peer past the car door or push her and undo Babygirl myself. I tug the scarf around my neck to keep Mrs. Palmer from seeing my hands are trembling.

Mrs. Palmer plucks Babygirl from her car seat and backs out of the car. She’d be a pretty woman if she didn’t always have her face looking like she smelled something ripe. She didn’t like me from jump, since before I was pregnant, but Tyrone said she’s like that with everyone. She hands Babygirl over carefully and the gentle way she does it makes me almost like her.