Second House from the Corner (27 page)

The Nissan eases into the parking lot, and I take a hefty breath as I remove my key. Surrounding the perimeter of the buildings are well-manicured shrubs and bushes sprinkled with coconut petunias, vibrant dahlias, and bursting marigolds. My mother lives on the third floor. A young woman with a braided bun stands at the front reception desk. She greets me with a smile, clear braces.

“May I help you?”

“Manette Hayes.”

“Sign her name and your name here.” She points to a sheet for visitors. “Give me one second.” She moves to a file cabinet.

“You also have to sign here.”

“What is this?”

“It's a record of all the guests visiting a particular patient.”

I write my name on the ledger. My eyes scan over the names before mine. I recognize Aunt Stella, my mother's girlhood friend, and Uncle Jessie, her favorite cousin, but there was one name that I don't. Kita Reeves.

“Thank you.” The woman takes the ledger from me. “You can go right up.”

Who is Kita Reeves?

On the elevator I stare up at the ceiling as the car creeps to the third floor. I haven't been here since Twyla was born. When the doors open I pass the nurses' station but don't recognize any of the staff. The corridors cling to the same smell. Cooked cabbage mixed with disinfectant.

I check the common room first, and find Mommy sitting in front of the big bay window. Her back is slumped and her neck is lulled to the side, as if it is too heavy for her head. Her ponytail is long, but her hair lacks luster and shine. It is mostly gray. She seems thinner than when I saw her last. Weaker. I watch her from the entryway for a while, unable to move toward her. Then she turns her head and looks right at me. My heart takes off. She recognizes me.

“Mommy.” I take the few steps toward her. She looks at me, eyes on my eyes.

“Mommy. It's me, Faye.”

Then she looks away, and her eyes glaze over like she wasn't seeing me at all. I pull up a chair next to her and stare out the big window with her, trying to push away that unflattering feeling of desertion.

An afternoon soap opera is on the big television hanging from the wall. Three women sit at the table, playing cards. Most of the others are covered in knit blankets, nodding from their medication. Mommy and I sit side by side for a while, neither of us moving. I touch her hand, move in closer, and before I know it, I'm chatty. I share each of my children with her, describing them down to their birthmarks and quirks. I tell her about the dream I had last night about her combing my hair. The whole while, I'm stroking her veiny hand. Her skin is cold, and I adjust the throw over her lap. There were older pictures of the kids in my wallet, and I hold them up to her face. She looks and then looks away.

“Mommy, I know you are in there. I know you came to me in my dreams last night.”

Her fingers are limp and lifeless. My nose dribbles, and I wipe it with the back of my hand, trying not to feel sorry for us.

“Time for chair yoga and meditation.” A woman with coiled black hair and dressed all in white is standing in the doorway.

“You can come, too.” She directs her voice at me with a smile. Her skin is creamy, her eyes emerald green and inviting. I can imagine lying down and resting in those eyes.

Mommy's head bobbles as I wheel her to a conference room on the right where the woman has led us. People in wheelchairs sit in a circle and two attendants stand in the corner. Candles are lit and I can smell something burning.

“What's that smell?”

“White sage. It cleanses the energy in the room.”

The place did feel good. Cozy, even. The nursing home with all of its odors and smells evaporated. We had been transported someplace else.

“Welcome to chair yoga and meditation. I am Shira.”

I detect an accent but can't place it. I like her immediately.

“Today we are going to focus on grounding our energy. So place your feet as flat on the floor as you can and then push your bellies forward.” She demonstrates.

A lady wearing a black wig and a T-shirt that says “World's Greatest Nana” rolls her neck and shoulders with agility to Shira's command. I wish she were my mother or that my mother were her. I adjust the blanket on Mommy's lap, feeling an overwhelming need to protect her. I move a hair from her face and kiss her cheek. I've missed her.

At least half of the patients keep up. The man sitting next to Shira moves to her rhythm with a grin that makes him look like he thinks he is her teacher's assistant.

“Wonderful, Sam,” Shira praises him. His face lights bright.

Shira rests her hands on her heart and starts humming the sound
Om
. We join our voices with hers. Then she pulls a bowl and a wooden stick from under her chair and starts playing this amazing tune. It hums and vibrates deep down in my soul.

“Close your eyes, dear ones, as I lead you into meditation. If there is anything that you are still holding on to, let it go. This is a place of healing.”

I inhale, allowing my lungs to expand.

“Let's try breathing with our eyes closed and going deep within our bodies for five minutes. Enjoy.”

My mind rests. Before I know it, Shira is standing in front of me.

“How was it?”

“It was great. I needed that.”

She extends a card to me. “I teach class to able bodies tomorrow night. You should come.” She gives me a hug. She feels like the Holy Spirit.

I roll Mommy back to her room. There is a brush on her table, and I brush her hair until it shines. She has a knot at the back of her head, and I make a mental note to ask the nurse about it. A bottle of Poison is on her dresser, and I spray a dab onto her wrist. Her arm twitches and then her mouth curves. I wonder if the scent brings any memories to her mind. I make a mental note that when I return to bring her a fresh bottle. Maybe I'll even bring Preston and the kids with me.

There is a jar of cold cream on her nightstand, and I warm the lotion between my palms and then massage her face, fingers, and feet. I hum “Amazing Grace.” She says nothing, looks at me sometimes, but most often just stares at the wall. I work at peace, not expecting anything from her. Instead I bask in her presence. I hum children's lullabies as I work because I can't stop hearing my children's voices, Mommy, Mom, Mama, Mommeeeee.

 

THIRTY-SEVEN

The Cleansing

The next night I drop Gran off for evening service. She had already gone to morning and afternoon services, came home, had a little dinner, and then back for some more.

“Gran, you haven't had enough?” I say, helping her from the car.

“I gots lot to pray on. Family all shook up.” She leans against me hard as she pulls herself to her feet. “You ought to come with me, do you some good.”

Not happening.

“I'll come back and pick you up.”

“Gal, the only way out of this is the Lord.”

I turn to her with a smile that lets her know that I don't want to be disrespectful, but I'm not going. Gran huffs but acquiesces.

*   *   *

The address that Shira gave me happens to be a few blocks north of the church in what they now call the Arts District of Philadelphia. It is a storefront dance school, and I find easy parking right in front. When I walk into the building, the smell of white sage resets me. From the small lobby I hear laughter drift from the right. I walk in that direction and see a door that opens into a large studio. The room is half filled with people sitting on the floor on top of fluffy pillows, Mexican serape blankets, and yoga mats.

Shira is kneeling in the center of the room, playing a bowl. Her heavy hair is pulled in a loose bun off her face. Her green eyes are on me.

“Welcome, Felicia,” she calls, but her fingers never miss a step as she twirls a mallet around the rim of the bowl. The vibration of the bowl unthreads me. Barefoot people pour into the room behind me. That's when I realize that I need to remove my shoes and leave them outside.

“Thank you,” Shira says to me when I return.

We all sit in a large circle. Shira taps the bowl three times and then places it back on a metal plate. I can still feel the vibration encircling us. My spirit is alive. The smells, vibe, energy were unlike anything I've experienced before, but it all felt necessary for where I wanted to go.

“Tonight I want to talk a little about finding your purpose.”

The room stilled. Most sat crossed-legged with their eyes closed, so I did the same thing.

“There is something that we have all been put on this earth to do. Purpose. We all have a purpose. My purpose is to motivate. What's yours?”

Her question rolls around in my head like a loose pebble. Beyond being a mother and Preston's wife, do I have a purpose? I can't really say acting, because it's not like I'm out pounding the pavement trying to make it happen. More like waiting on a call from my agent, hoping she can make it happen.

“Now, let's begin our meditation together as one.” Shira takes a long pause. “As we go into the meditation, I am going to put some questions out into the Universe. Who am I? What do I want? What is my purpose? How can I serve?” Shira words swaddle me like a soft scarf. I feel warm and present.

“Don't worry about the answers to the questions. Just let them drift out into the Universe. The answers will come when you need them.” She falls silent. “We will do a twenty-minute meditation. I'll watch the time for you. Enjoy.”

I thought I would be fidgety, but twenty minutes felt like three. Shira hit the mallet against the metal bowl. Her husky voice slithered into the room, gently pulling me from the state I was in.

“Begin to bring your awareness back into your bodies.”

I opened my eyes and looked around the room. Faces pasted with the same dazed, orgasmic look. I grin.

“Thank you, dear ones, for coming. Go in peace.” She bows, and the people in the room start moving slowly toward the door. I take my time getting to my feet, not wanting to break the spell. My hands fall through my very short haircut. I stretch while trying to remember the last time I felt so centered.

“Felicia, don't leave,” Shira calls to me.

I sit back down. It takes about five more minutes for her to clear the room, and then she smiles at me. Her walk is tall even though she is petite.

“How was it for you?”

“Nice. Like a bubble bath.”

“Are you in a rush?”

“No.”

“May I give you a reading?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come, I'll show you.”

Shira leads me to a tiny room off to the side of the dance studio. The entrance was covered with colorful sarongs that I have to move aside to enter the space. I am instantly reminded of a Catholic church. The room smelled strongly of frankincense. Or was it myrrh? I remembered the scent well from when the priest used to shake the censer at the start of Mass. When I was at Catholic school we went to Mass a few times a month.

Shira sits cross-legged on a thick, silk pillow. There is a small table between us. I kneel on the other side. She reaches underneath for a black velvet bag. She pulls the drawstring and out comes a stack of cards.

“These are tarot cards. They are meant to give you some guidance.” She shuffles the cards and then hands them to me. “Shuffle until you feel your energy in the cards. Until you feel compelled to stop.”

I immediately thought of Preston, how much fun we always had playing cards at the kitchen table. Listening to Pandora radio. Me drinking wine. Him some crazy-name beer. Those nights were lovely and always ended in hot, rude lovemaking, and I push my knees together to discourage the feelings that stir.

“Okay.” I place the cards in front of Shira.

“Now split them in three piles from left to right. Wherever you feel the natural break.”

I do as I'm told. Shira turns over cards until I see three rows of three. She looks down at the cards for a few beats and then starts talking. Her voice sounds different. Deeper, fuller, and even huskier.

“This is your foundation, your past, what you've been sitting on,” she says, referring to the bottom row. “This is what you are going through now,” she points to the second, “and this is what's most likely to occur if you continue down this path.”

My stomach is knotted with anticipation. I've never done anything like this. Gran would be knit and tangled if she knew. But I need this and eagerly lean forward. Shira studies the cards for a while, her eyes almost trancelike as she starts speaking.

“You've been going through a very rough, trying time. But I see here that the worst is over.” She points to a card with a person laying facedown with swords piercing his back. “This is the eight of cups. It signals that you need to turn away from something or someone who has been unhealthy in your life. It could also be a behavior or way of life. Once you turn your back completely, the transformation will begin.”

She moved to the second row of three.

“This is the tower card,” she explained. “You have built your life on ego, and such grounds are unstable. This card symbolizes being broken down to the barest element so that this time, when you build up, you build from the core of your being. This is the hangman, and it's in reverse.” She ran her thumb along the card. “This means that you've been feeling restricted in your life, confined. You need to get in touch with these feelings so you can release yourself. It is time to live from your core, not from the peripheral. That's why this transformation seems so challenging.”

She picked them up, shuffled, and gave another spread.

“This is called a Celtic cross.” She flipped a card over and continued. “Here's the challenge,” she said. “The challenge is you. You haven't forgiven yourself for something that happened in your past. Whatever it is, you need to let go.” She flips a card and then places a card on top. The card has a picture with cups, a rainbow, a husband and wife with their arms wrapped around each other, and kids dancing.