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“Is she really?” I ask, wondering how she could be. I mean, if what Felecia said is true, then I don’t know how anyone could be okay. Not without some kind of counseling at least. And the truth of the matter is we haven’t had a chance to really talk to her. The times we’ve spoken have been real brief conversations about other things, like her being pregnant, then having the baby, and now her wedding.
“I hope she is,” Paris says thoughtfully. “We used to all be so close growing up. It’s sad how we’ve grown so far apart over the years.”
Truth is Paris and I were the ones closest to Pasha growing up. She and Felecia would sometimes spend the weekends at our house when their grandmother worked the overnight shift at Beth Israel in Newark. She was a nurse and oftentimes would work double shifts on the weekends so that she could be home with Pasha and Felecia during the week. We’d be up laughing and playing with our dolls and other toys while Persia kept her distance. Persia wouldn’t allow them to come into her bedroom, or play with any of her toys. She’d tolerate them if they were only visiting for the day. But, when they stayed over, she’d oftentimes be very mean and nasty toward them. I never understood why. Felecia one time said it was because Persia was jealous. That turned into a terrible fistfight between the two of them and with both of them getting ass whippings for fighting each other. We were expected to get along, and be there for each other. Not fight one another.
“Yeah, I know. Relationships might change, but the love doesn’t ever have to.”
“You’re right. It’s a shame, though.” She pauses. “Promise me we’ll never let anything come between us.”
“Girl, please. We’re thick as thieves. There’s nothing that could ever break our bond.” My phone beeps. I remove the phone my ear, glancing at the screen. It’s our mother. “Mom is calling in; let me take this call.”
“And try to be nice to her.”
“Bye, hooker.” She starts laughing and disconnects. “Well, this is a nice surprise,” I answer. “How are you?”
“I’m doing fine. We haven’t talked since brunch so I wanted to call to see how you were.”
I smile. “That was sweet of you. I’m doing good; thanks. How are things with you?”
“I’m doing great. But of course you wouldn’t have known that unless I called you, which is why I decided to reach out to you, first, instead of waiting for you to call me. Fanny thinks it’s ridiculous that I have to—”
I shake my head. “Mother, stop,” I say, cutting her off. I pause. Think before I speak. “I’m happy to hear from you, okay. So let’s not turn this into a situation where I wish I hadn’t answered the phone, please.”
“Porsha, I’m not looking to get into an argument with you. I’m simply saying it would be nice if you’d call me sometimes; that’s all.”
“You’re right. I apologize. I promise I will try to do better.”
“Apology accepted,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you treat me with such indifference. I’m your mother. It’s like you let Persia turn you against me when I’ve done nothing but love you girls.”
“And talk about us, Mother. Let’s not forget that.”
“I can’t help it if I don’t like some of the choices you and your sisters have made; especially with this whole sleeping with the same—”
I cut her off. I know this is my mother, and I love her, but I swear, sometimes I really don’t like her. Like right now when she’s getting ready to start her shit. “I know, Mother. We’ve heard this I-don’t-like-the-nasty-shit-you-girls-are-doing speech a thousand times already. And it still hasn’t changed anything. And you wanna know why? Because we don’t care what you think.”
“Porsha, I’m your mother. You girls should care about what I think. Does what your father thinks matter?”
“Mother, we’re grown. You and Daddy and anyone else are entitled to your opinions. And none of you have to like what we do. But we’re not living our lives for you, for Daddy, or for anyone else. I don’t know how many times we have to keep having this conversation, but it’s not going to change anything. At the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter what you think. That doesn’t mea
n that we don’t love you. It simply means we want you to please keep your comments to yourself.”
“Okay, Porsha,” she says, sounding aggravated. “This is not why I called you.”
“Then why did you call?”
“For three reasons: I was thinking about you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Without thought, I smile. My attitude softens. Truth is I really do miss spending time with her. And I realize our—well, Paris’s and mine because she and Persia have never gotten along—relationship with her deteriorated the minute she learned we were fucking the same men. She’s said a lot of hurtful things because of it.
“Mom, I love you. And I don’t wanna fight with you, anymore. But sometimes you make it hard to like you.”
“It’s terrible how you girls treat me,” she says, disregarding everything I’ve said. “I made sure you girls had the best of everything.”
“Yes, you did, Mom. And you don’t have to keep reminding us of that, either. Trust me. We appreciate everything you and Daddy did for us. But, that doesn’t mean we have to live our lives according to how you want us to, or how you think we should.” Another call rings in. It’s Emerson. I let out a sigh of relief. This conversation was starting to give me a headache. “Mom, I gotta go. I have another call I need to take. I’ll call you toward the end of the week, okay?”
“Okay, go take your call. I need to get ready to meet Fanny, anyway.” We say our goodbyes, then disconnect.
“Hello?”
