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VANN
NOW...
Iwas in my old bedroom, face buried in a pillow, head throbbing from what could only be a hangover. I was sure my breath was on tilt, too, but I didn’t care.
I could hear movement in the house, movement and voices. The house was old, and although well-built, I could always hear everything, a side-effect of my unusually keen sense of hearing, which paired well with my acute sense of smell. My eyesight had once been sharp, too, but that had changed.
Everything had changed and I fucking hated it.
My bladder was full courtesy of the previous night’s activities. I needed to get up and pee, but it was like my body was melded to the bed. I couldn’t move and didn’t possess the will to make myself do it. I just wanted to sleep until I woke up and things were different. I wished there was some way that this was all a damn dream, a nightmare, but all it took was one look in the mirror to confirm my new reality.
“Vann-Vann! V said to get yo’ black ass up!” My uncle’s voice rammed into my mushy brain.
“All right, Rabbit. Tell her I said okay,” I mumbled into the pillow.
“She said she know you had yo’ ass down at the casino drinking last night and you need to get yo’ ass on up.”
“I’m getting up, Rabbit.”
Then I heard, “He say he getting up but he ain’t. His ass still in the bed, V.! Want me to hit his ass?”
The thing is, I knew my mama hadn’t said all those asses. In the time I’d been home “recovering,” Rabbit had become obsessed with the word. But I got my ass up because my uncle was heavy handed as hell.
My head swam as I swung my feet over the side of the bed, but I managed to stand, informing Rabbit, “I’m up. See?”
He smiled. “Good! He up, V!” Satisfied, he left, adding, “His ass is up!”
Groaning, I scratched my head and stumbled across the hall to the bathroom. I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes but said fuck it, carefully descended the stairs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. I could hear my mom talking to someone and almost turned around because I really didn’t want to be around people and have them staring at me or asking questions I’d probably never feel like answering.
Nevertheless, I kept walking, entering the kitchen to find my mother at her altar, a cup of coffee in her hand while she talked to ...no one.
I hated this shit. I mean, I loved my mama, but I hated the weird shit she was always into. It had caused me and my baby sister so much damn stress as kids. I lost count of how many times I’d prayed for her to stop, to choose us over her weird beliefs, and although I was older and wiser, although I possessed a greater understanding of all things Valley London, I had yet to grow comfortable with most of it.
I stood just inside the kitchen, the aromas of bacon and coffee making my stomach turn and grumble at the same time, watching as she chuckled while sipping from her cup. Never turning in my direction, she said, “Boy, come on in here and sit down and stop staring at me like it’s the first time you’ve seen me.”
I swear my mother had a sixth sense and eyes on each side of her head.
Yawning and scratching the side of my head, I stepped toward the stove, made a plate, and collapsed into a chair at the big table, taking in the sun-filled space from the plants that seemed to be everywhere to the yellow wallpaper.
I was chewing a mouthful of fried potatoes when I heard my mother say, “I was talking to my mama.”
I turned to look at her as she lit a candle on the altar. “O...kay?”
“That bothers you?” she asked.
I shrugged. “It’s weird. She ain’t here.”
“But you’d be okay with me standing in front of her grave talking to her? You think she’s there? This was her home. She was born in this house. Can’t get no closer to her than right here.”
The shit actually made sense, so I shrugged again. A few moments later, she’d joined me at the table.
“How you feeling?” she asked.
Glancing up to see her eyes fixed on me, I mumbled, “Fine.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
