Someone to Watch Over Me (6 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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My eyes bugged out and I lost my breath. Was she actually referring to it? The baby?
This woman (not even my blood relative), whom I knew only from pictures and the occasional family reunion, had in an instant let me know that I wasn't out of my mind. That it really was happening and that I wasn't the only one who could see the basketball sitting at the top of my legs. She stopped for a second, peered down at me above the rim of her glasses and asked, “What's the matter with you, sweetie? You look like you seen a ghost.”
“Nothing . . . ma'am.”
“Everybody calls me Aunt Dottie, precious.”
Aunt Dottie hung up the last of my maternity dresses and dismissed herself. “I'll give you some time to yourself. When you're ready, you can come to the kitchen and eat you some breakfast. I'll be leaving in a little while so I can go open up the store.” She shuffled herself out of the room on a pair of worn-out ruby red slippers.
A store? I'd overheard my stepfather talking about the store and how it didn't matter that Aunt Dottie couldn't watch me since I was already pregnant. They just needed me out of town for now.
I unzipped my book bag and searched the room for a suitable home for my best friends, my novels. My mother asked why I'd packed books she knew I'd already read. I shrugged, knowing full well it would have been impossible to leave behind the only people I had left in the world. When I could find no resting place for Carolina, Beatrice, Maxine, and the others, I settled them onto the floor, just to the right of the bed, in eight stacks of five. The last book I pulled from the bag was the Bible. Try as I might, I couldn't get it to line up with the others. It was too thick. Where am I gonna put this? More importantly, I wondered, what exactly am I supposed to do with the Word of God now? I was fifteen and pregnant, had been all but kicked out of my home, and was sent out to the middle of nowhere to live with an old lady who didn't know diddly-squat about being an expectant mother. I was facing an inevitably painful experience, and after all that was over, all I could do was turn the baby over to my Aunt Vivian, whom I knew just about as well as I knew Aunt Dottie at that point.
I put the Bible back into my bag and stuffed the bag to the back corner of the closet. Momma had said there was no use in crying out now—I wasn't crying then. I guess I just figured I was on my own so far as God was concerned.
I finished unpacking my things and placing them throughout the ancient room. The walls were perfect for a baby's nursery: light blue wallpaper with pastel flowers from the midpoint up. The top and bottom were separated by a white, raised wooden bar. Beneath the bar was wood paneling that had obviously been painted white. With some stuffed animals, a bassinet, and a few rugs, it would be the perfect place to nurse a baby. But who was I kidding? If things continued on the way they had been—with arrangements being made on my behalf—I'd be lucky to see the baby's face before my mother and Mr. James shipped him or her off to be adopted by my mother's cousin in Iowa.
Chapter 7
A
major reconstruction made the hallways of Saint Frances Hospital a practical maze.
PARDON OUR DUST
signs posted throughout the corridors excused the unfinished walls and missing tiles on the way to room 117. I couldn't help but think of the last time I'd been inside this facility. That day, I decided I wasn't going home with my parents. I wanted to stay with Aunt Dottie and complete my high school education in Bayford.
My mother did not receive the news well, initially. She felt I should simply return home and carry on with life as usual, as though I'd never gotten pregnant in the first place. “Only this time,” she'd warned, “we're going to keep an eye on you.” I knew she meant I'd be forced to tag along with Mr. James everywhere, just like my mother did to prevent him from cheating on her again. She wasn't wrong, I don't guess, in her reasoning with regard to me or Mr. James. I mean, it is hard to cheat when you never get a moment away from your wife, and it would be near impossible for me to get pregnant again if I was always with my parents.
What she didn't understand about me, however, was that having sex with Bootsie was one of the worst experiences in my life. The last thing she needed to worry about was me having sex again for many, many years.
The other thing I don't think she got was how much this whole ordeal had changed our relationship. Before my mother married Mr. James, she always had a boyfriend. Couldn't blame her, though. I imagine it would be hard to stay single when you're breathtakingly beautiful before you even brush your teeth in the morning. My mother was a perfect brick house, 36-24-38. She was honey brown with long wavy hair and light brown eyes. In the seventies, it just didn't get any better than Margie Henderson. Men were always asking my mother out, buying her things, picking up her check in restaurants.
On the other hand, her beauty was a curse. She said she couldn't keep female friends because they feared Margie would steal their man. More than once, a friend's boyfriend came on to my mother, ending the female friendship abruptly. There were also instances when she'd notice a man following her in the grocery store and have to ask security to walk us to the car. The guard, of course, obliged, then promptly asked her for her number when we reached her vehicle.
Marrying Mr. James had been a nice man barrier, at least against men who respected the institution of marriage. The way I see it, my single momma needed stability for herself and her six-year-old daughter, and Mr. James needed a trophy to undergird his political aspirations. With a woman as gorgeous as my mother on his arm, Mr. James got way more publicity than he would have received otherwise since the media tend to gravitate toward beauty.
In the midst of all this, I was simply an addition to Margie Henderson. I knew my mother loved me, but I think what she loved about me most was my “no trouble” persona. According to her, I was the perfect baby—only cried when I was hungry or needed a diaper change. She could take me anywhere and I'd sit and observe without making a fuss. People would comment on what a quiet, well-behaved child I was. If she left me in someone's care, I was content with that person until my mother returned. “I lucked out with you,” my mother would say, because even when I did misbehave, as all children do sometimes, a good time-out was all it took to get me back in line.
So I guess the moment I became “trouble” by getting pregnant, my mother didn't really know what to do with me. Maybe she wanted to be my mother, but she wasn't sure how to do this hard thing. And I'd never disappointed her so much in all my fifteen years.
When she told me she was going to watch me like a hawk, I balked, “I'm not a baby anymore. You don't have to treat me like one.”
“Tori, you
are
a baby who almost
had
a baby,” she argued.
We were both lost, and the easiest thing to do was not figure it out. Walk away and never look back, which is exactly what we both did.
I stayed in Bayford. She and Mr. James stayed in Houston until he realized his big-city political career croaked and got a vision about moving to Africa to live like a king. They sold the house, sold his human resources business, and crossed the seas. The first few years, my mother sent cards and pictures at Christmas. By all appearances, they were indeed living large in Africa, which, according to her, didn't cost much at all. People there thought she and Mr. James were old-money millionaires—right up my mother's alley.
In recent years, I hadn't heard anything from either of them.
The hospital's reconstruction was a welcomed relief because I don't know how I would have handled walking down the corridors again if everything had been exactly the same.
When I reached Aunt Dottie's room, I discovered it was standing room only. Joenetta, her two sons, Uncle Bobby, and a few other Bayford faces I vaguely remembered from the store packed the small space. Whispers abounded as Aunt Dottie slept peacefully. She looked like a little angel. No tubes sticking out of her, no bandages wrapped around her face, her proud, high cheekbones taut against her skin. Still lookin' good. I breathed a tentative sigh of relief, holding final evaluation until she woke.
Visitors were draped across couches and chairs. I should have known Aunt Dottie's hospital room would look nothing like mine in terms of warm bodies present.
Uncle Bobby was the first to greet me. “My, my, my. Dottie's liable to wake up and think she's on her death bed, seeing you here.”
Why, thank you, Uncle Bobby, for that warm welcome and your best wishes for Aunt Dottie.
“Hi, everybody.”
Hugs with varying degrees of sincerity followed, Joenetta's being the coldest. Our bodies barely touched. “I can't believe you actually came.”
“I said I would.”
Joenetta's deep brown skin matched Aunt Dottie's precisely, but where Aunt Dottie was thin and dainty, Joenetta was large and clumpy. Still wearing those nursing shoes everywhere, like she had a job.
“Hmph.” She looked me up and down. “Well, since we finally got a black president, I reckon anything can happen.”
Before I could respond, Aunt Dottie rustled in her bed. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the joy written across her face.
“Hey, Aunt Dottie.” I rushed to her bedside and tenderly scooped her into an embrace. She was a little larger than I remembered, but still tiny compared to a lot of women her age in Bayford who'd given up the battle of the bulge after giving birth. Aunt Dottie blamed her lack of girth on the fact that she never had children.
A part of me was waiting for her to say something; then it struck me—she couldn't. I looked at her again and saw her lips moving. Mumbling something unintelligible. Her dentures were on vacation, which wasn't helping. I could only decipher her thoughts with my heart, in the silent language of emotions. She was glad to see me.
“I'm glad to see you, too.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek. She tried to wipe it with her right hand, but the muscles wouldn't cooperate. Her arm slapped around for a moment. I jumped in to help, feeling the wetness on my own palm. Aunt Dottie's helplessness was worse than I'd pictured. I guess I figured things weren't really as bad as Joenetta had made them out to be. I was wrong—Aunt Dottie was, as the old folk say, in a bad way. She wasn't knocking on death's door, but she had a long recovery ahead of her.
With her left hand, she motioned for me to come to the other side of her bed. I quickly obeyed and she took my hand in hers, squeezing tightly. I stood there next to her for a good ten minutes, listening to various family members and friends fill me in on Aunt Dottie's condition. Good news, for the most part. Someone said she needed a lot of speech therapy, to which Aunt Dottie flailed her bad arm as if to say “I'm not worried about that.”
Dr. Patel, a deeply gray man with a strong Indian accent, came later to give us the results of the most recent test. “The results are virry, virry good so far. You can go home soon, Ms. Lester. Undergo therapy, and you must take better care of yourself. Take your blood pressure pills every day, as we discussed. I tell you, keeping the blood pressure under control may help to prevent future strokes.”
Aunt Dottie nodded dutifully.
“No more skipping pills.”
She gave him a thumbs-up.
“No more fasting through breakfast—you must take your pills with food.”
She gave him a sideways thumb, which sent a slight chuckle throughout the room. Aunt Dottie was the queen of fasting and praying.
The doctor tried one more avenue. “Last thing. Anything that brings stress to you, my friend, try virry hard to let it go.”
Another thumbs-up.
“Doctor, when can she go home?” I asked. Aunt Dottie pumped my hand and winked to let me know she'd been wondering the same thing.
“In another day or so. I just want to be sure her blood pressure is regulated and there is no more bleeding at the site where the stroke occurred. Most people who have stroke at her age remain in the hospital for several days.”
Joenetta shifted her weight. “Y'all didn't keep Big Daddy in here that long.”
Dr. Patel scrunched his face. “Big Daddy?”
Aunt Dottie pointed a warning finger at Joenetta, ending the conversation. Joenetta could only cross her arms and roll her eyes.
Dr. Patel focused his attentions on Aunt Dottie again. “Your therapy will be hard, Ms. Lester. Virry hard. I do not know if you wish to do therapy while staying at your home or if you wish to go to nursing home.”
I knew even before Aunt Dottie began vehemently shaking her head that a nursing home was out of the question. She'd sooner live on the streets of Bayford than a nursing home.
“If you go home, you will need much, much help.” He looked around at us all. “You have many people here now. This is virry good. But if you go to nursing home, people help you there. The nurse will talk to you more later when I discharge you. Think about it. Talk to your family about it. Right now, we will take you for last X-ray, okay?”
On cue, a nurse came in and wheeled Aunt Dottie away, leaving the rest of us to deal with this huge elephant Dr. Patel had plopped in the middle of the room.
“Well, can we get a calendar going?” I suggested. Seven days a week, six people in the room, not counting myself. “Everybody can sign up for certain days of the week maybe?”
“I work every day but Tuesday, and that's the only day I got off.” Uncle Billy quickly opted out.
Joenetta gave her lame excuse about why she couldn't be depended upon. “I'll help when I can, but my car has been acting up lately.” Joenetta's son, Brandon, seconded her excuse and added that he couldn't help because he didn't “do all that good” with helping people.
Sister Meecham, one of Aunt Dottie's fellow church members, said she would have a hard time committing to Aunt Dottie's care because she herself was on dialysis three times a week. She did, however, agree to at least make sure Aunt Dottie had something to eat every night.
Another rap on the door. I recognized the face. “Cassandra?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, girl.” I pushed passed Joenetta to hug Cassandra. “Oh, thanks for getting Aunt Dottie to come to the hospital before things got out of control. How have you been?”
“Good, good.” Cassandra had been one of the few girls in Bayford to befriend me while I was pregnant. The rest of the young ladies mostly stayed away from me for fear that pregnancy was contagious or because their parents told them I was a “fast girl.” Cassandra's parents might have told her that same thing, but she didn't heed their warnings. She said she'd done “it,” too, already, and the only difference between me and her was I got caught but she didn't. I guess that made us bad girls together. Funny how people bond sometimes.
Cassandra and I lingered in an embrace for a moment. “You look great, Tori. Got your hair all kinked up. I see plenty of people on TV with their hair all kee-kee-kee.” She created a sound that, apparently, represented the ring of natural hair. “Like what's her name, Whoopi Goldberg?”
“Kinda.” I smiled as she took the liberty of tousling my twist-out. “These aren't dreadlocks, though.”
“I haven't been able to wrap my mind around the new thinking yet,” she said, laughing. “Perms and flatirons are my best friends.”
“I heard that,” Joenetta added her two cents. “‘Specially if you got a bad grade of hair and a way-back hairline, right?”
Always could count on my other aunt to share her unwarranted opinion.
Cassandra waved off Joenetta. “I didn't mean no harm by it. I'm just sayin', it'll take some getting used to. It's cute-rootie though, Tori. Don't worry about it. You go on and do you, girl.”
A spark of harmless jealousy peppered Cassandra's tone. She and I were the same age and had gone down such different paths. I'd moved out of Bayford when I got the partial college scholarship. I could only assume she had stayed in this town and was making a living working at Aunt Dottie's store. Couldn't be much of a living, I knew. She had predicted I would go off to college and get rich while she, hopefully, married Baron Williams, the boy she'd been crushing on since middle school. When she and I met, we were entering tenth grade and Baron hadn't noticed her. He still hadn't seen the light by graduation day.

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