The Interruption of Everything (18 page)

They both shake their head no.

“Did your mama get a job?”

They both shake their head no.

“Do you know where she might be?”

“Yeah. She in jail,” Tiecey says matter-of-factly.

“She’s in what?”

“
JAIL
,” LL says loudly to make sure I hear it this time.

“When did she go to jail? And for what?”

“I think yesterday. I answered the phone when she called collect and she told me she might be home today or tomorrow.”

“Did she say why she was in jail?”

“Nope. But probably the same reason she was in there for last time.”

“What last time?”

“That last time last time,” Tiecey says. “For them drugs.”

“Let’s go,” I say to the kids. “So we can hurry back before Lovey wakes up.”

We get back in less than an hour to find Joy sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. Her right eye is black. Her left hand bandaged. “I was worried about my kids,” she says.

“Is Lovey still asleep?” I ask.

“Yep. I thought she was dead when I first went in there, but she’s still warm.”

“I don’t know what to say to you, Joy. I really don’t.”

“You could ask me how I’m doing.”

“It’s obvious that you’re not doing so hot. What were you in jail for?”

“Something stupid that ain’t even worth bringing up.”

“Please, do bring it up.”

“I got into a little rumble.”

“I can see that. About what?”

“A little confusion about some cash.”

“So it got you thrown in jail and beaten?”

“Looks like it.”

“Whose stuff is that in the garage and where is Lovey’s car?”

“I’m having a garage sale tomorrow. That stuff belongs to me. Somebody owed me. And Lovey’s car is still in the shop.”

“No, it ain’t,” Tiecey says.

“Why don’t you just be quiet,” Joy says. “Did anybody ask you Miss Grown-Ass?”

“She sold it to somebody for some money to buy them drugs.”

Joy jumps up and runs toward Tiecey but I mistakenly grab her by her injured hand and she screams and stops dead in her tracks.

“Sit your butt down,” I say, pushing her back toward the porch. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on around here, but these kids need to be supervised and it looks like Lovey does, too. If you aren’t responsible enough to do it, then somebody else is going to have to.”

“I’m going to rehab,” she blurts out.

“What’s rehab?” Tiecey asks.

“A place I can go to get off drugs. Does that answer your question, Miss Smarty?”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but I hope to find out.”

“And just when are you supposed to do this?” I ask.

“I’ll know in three weeks, on my court date.”

“And what are the kids and Lovey supposed to do in the meantime?”

“I’ll be around to handle my business,” she says. “Don’t worry about them. Who you think been doing it all these years?”

I don’t respond. Tiecey and LL insist on bringing all the bags in by themselves. I make a simple dinner: roasted chicken, baked potato, salad, and steamed broccoli—which the kids are afraid to eat at first. We eat together at the kitchen table like a family, something that seems foreign to them. Lovey seems to be herself. Even Joy is cooperative and cleans the kitchen. Later, I put lots of bubbles in the kids’ bathwater and remind them how to say their prayers. I give them each a big hug and kiss before turning out the light. They seem to like this. Once downstairs, I iron something for them to wear to school. Joy notices.

“I was planning on doing some ironing before I went to bed,” she says.

“I don’t mind,” I say.

“It may be hard for you to see, Marilyn, but I am trying.”

“I wish you would try a little harder, Joy.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a problem.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed. So have your kids. I’m just praying you go through with this rehab thing and I hope they can help you get off whatever it is you’re on.”

“It’s crank.”

“What’s that?”

“It don’t really matter. The point is, I know it’s gotten out of control ’cause I’ve been messing up and now that Lovey’s got that disease, I can’t keep leaving her or the kids in here all day by themselves.”

“Who said she’s got a disease?”

“Anybody in their right mind can see she’s got it, Marilyn. Just wait. That doctor ain’t gon’ do nothing but tell you what I already know.”

“Since when did you get to be so knowledgeable about any disease?”

“First of all, I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I
can
read, Marilyn, and sometimes I do.”

I can’t believe it. She’s crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Joy cry. I feel bad for making her feel bad because she undoubtedly already feels bad. I walk over to put my arms around her, to offer her some comfort but she jerks away.

“And second of all, I know about diseases ’cause I’ve got quite a few myself. Wanna hear ’em? Herpes. Hepatitis C. Pancreatitis. And looka here: Alopecia,” she says, snatching off what is apparently a curly wig that I’ve thought all this time was a bad weave. Most of her scalp is smooth with small islands of black hair here and there. “But wait! I ain’t quite finished! The nurse in the emergency room who fixed my hand told me that not being able to stop using drugs even when I try is a disease, too. It’s called addiction. So, you see, sista-girl, I know a little somethin’ somethin’ about diseases. Any more questions?”

I cannot open my mouth. My heart is throbbing like a bad toothache in my chest. I wish it would stop. I wish I were blind. I wish I were deaf. I wish I could do something to show her how sorry I am for never allowing myself to get close to her. For not ever trying. For never taking time to care or wonder about what or how she was doing because I’ve always been completely consumed by my own life. I wipe the tears away from my eyes because I’m not blind. I heard everything she just said, because I’m not deaf. And I realize that I have two diseases I hope there’s a cure for—selfishness and apathy—because this stranger standing in front of me happens to be the only sister I have.

Chapter 17

I
want Joy to be wrong. I want to be wrong. I’ve read just about everything I could find about Alzheimer’s on the Internet. There are plenty of other reasons why Lovey could be forgetting things. She could just be depressed. She could’ve had a ministroke or a series of them that just haven’t been diagnosed. Maybe it’s her thyroid. Or kidneys. Or liver. She could have a vitamin B-12 deficiency. I’m crossing my fingers and praying that whatever it is, the doctor can give her a pill to help restore her back to her old self.

We get her blood drawn at the lab right downstairs from Dr. Merijohn’s office. Right after her physical, he tells Lovey she can get dressed, and he’ll be back with me in a few minutes. The doctor tells me that physically she appears to be fine but her blood pressure is still somewhat elevated beyond the comfort zone. That he’s also worried her cholesterol might be too high but he’ll know for sure when he gets the results from the lab in a day or so. I hope Lovey didn’t sneak and eat anything like I told her not to do. He tells me that when we go back into the examining room, he’s going to ask Lovey a series of questions that are his own version of the kind of test a neurologist would give. But because he’s known Lovey for a while, he feels strongly that he’ll be able to determine whether she’ll also need to be seen by a neurologist for more extensive testing.

When he opens the door, Lovey crosses her legs in a somewhat coquettish fashion. The young doctor doesn’t seem to notice. I can’t believe it when she winks at me. We sit at opposite ends of a small metal table. The doctor sits on a low stool near the wall. It swivels.

“Do you remember me telling you when I came back with your daughter that I was going to ask you a few simple questions?” the doctor asks.

“I do,” she says, grinning at him. This time he does notice. He is a handsome man—even Lovey can see behind those horn-rimmed glasses—and he can’t be more than forty. His hair is silky black, his skin olive. He smiles back, to humor her, I suppose, because she blushes. Then he gets serious. “May I begin?”

“Wait a minute. How long will this take ’cause I’m so hungry I could probably eat your shoe?”

“Not more than five or ten minutes at most.”

“Okay. But what kind of questions you planning on asking?”

“Simple, everyday types of questions. I don’t want you to be afraid.”

“Do I look like I’m afraid, sir?”

“No, and you don’t have to call me sir.”

“Okay. Then call me Lovey.”

“Thank you,
Lovey.
Are you comfortable over there?”

She nods yes, like he just asked her out on a date.

“Nice and relaxed?”

She nods yes again, and slides down in her chair to prove it. “Why she have to be in here?” she says, pointing at me.

“Because she’s your daughter and she wants to hear how you answer the questions.”

“Why? When it ain’t none of her business.”

“Well, because it’s good to have a family member here who cares a great deal about you, just in case you should need their help.”

“Whatever you say. But I won’t need no help, I can tell you that right now.”

“Good. Here we go. Lovey, do you know what day this is?”

She looks at him like he’s asked her something far too personal to reveal. But in the very next second, she changes her whole demeanor and thinks about it. Then she looks at me. “Do the kids go to school tomorrow?”

I look over at the doctor. His eyes say it’s okay for me to tell her because he’s already gotten his answer.

“No they don’t, Lovey.”

“Then it’s Friday.”

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in the doctor’s office.”

“Do you know my name?”

“Not right this minute. I ain’t seen you in a long time, that’s why.”

“It’s Dr. Merijohn.”

“You married?”

“I am indeed.”

“Happily?”

“Yes. Now…”

“That’s too bad,” she says.

“Lovey, I’m going to say three words and I’d like you to repeat them back to me: Ball. Flag. Tree.”

She stares dead at him and says, “Ball,” and then pauses like she’s trying to make herself concentrate, but it doesn’t work. “Can you say ’em one more time, only a little louder, ’cause I didn’t quite hear you?”

“Sure: Ball. Flag. Tree.”

“Flagtree,” she says triumphantly.

“Do you know what year it is, Lovey?”

“We just had a millimeter come. And Oprah turned fifty. It’s probably somewhere around two thousand three or four, but I been so busy I ain’t paid much attention to no calendars.”

“Do you know who the president of the United States is?”

“Of course I do. Jimmy Clinton.”

“What month is this?”

She turns to look out the window behind her. “It’s gotta be June ’cause I can see the heat.”

“Okay. Starting from one hundred, would you count backward by seven as far as you can?”

“What?”

“Count backward from a hundred by sevens. Just do as much as you can.”

She’s trying to calculate this in her head but I can see confusion rushing to her face. “I ain’t never been good in math. Give me a easier one. Please?”

“Sure, Lovey. I’ll say a few numbers in sequential order and I’d like you to continue the sequence for three or four more numbers.”

She’s watching his lips utter every word.

“Two four six eight ten.”

She’s still staring at his mouth. But I can see she’s getting upset and she clams up.

“Okay, we can skip that one. Can you spell the word ‘drum’ backward for me?”

“Drum,” she says, and then as if saying it louder will allow her to see the letters she yells: “
DRUM
!” But this doesn’t seem to be working because she says, “
M
,” and stops.

“It’s okay, Lovey. You’re doing fine.”

“Some of these questions are stupid.”

“Which ones, Lovey?”

“You know which ones.”

“Do you remember the three words I asked you about a few minutes ago?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why don’t you say them?”

“Ball. Flag. Tree. Anyway, we’re almost finished.”

“Good, ’cause this is getting on my nerves and I’m starving.”

“Would you touch your left foot with your right hand for me please?”

She looks down at both feet, makes an X with her arms and bends over and taps each foot with the opposite hand.

“Thank you. Would you close your eyes for me?”

“Why? What you gon’ do to me?”

“I’m not going to do anything. I’d just like you to tell me what it is you smell when I ask you.”

She closes her eyes so tight the lids tremble. I close mine too, just to be fair.

“Okay, what does this smell like?”

“I don’t smell nothing,” Lovey says. “Wait a minute.” She inhales deeply through her nose. “Is it some kinda tea? What is it I’m supposed to be thinking I’m smelling?”

“I smell toothpaste,” I say, and Lovey opens her eyes and he shows us the tube from which he’d squeezed about an inch onto a tongue depresser.

“I was just thinking it smelled like Colgate but missy here beat me to the punch.”

“It’s okay, Lovey.” He holds up a paper clip. “Can you tell me what this is?”

“It’s not something I use in my house.”

“I understand. Lastly,” he says, handing her a pencil and a piece of paper. “Would you write down this sentence for me?”

“Just make it quick, would you?”

“Okay. Ready?”

“I’m listening.”

“It is a very nice spring day.”

“Slow down, would you?”

He and I both watch her struggle with the first word, and then it’s as if she’s waiting to see if her hand will automatically write of its own will. It doesn’t.

“Did you get it all?”

“Say it again. But a little slower, please.”

“It is a very nice spring day.”

She presses the pencil against the paper so hard the lead breaks and flies into the air and then she stands up and throws that pencil like a dart right at the doctor. “You done got on my last nerve, you know that? We better be finished.”

“We are, Lovey. And I thank you for your patience and cooperation.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s go, girl.”

“Who is that girl, by the way?” he asks.

“She’s the girl that brought me here and the girl that’s taking me to McDonald’s. Good-bye and good luck, Dr. Frankenstein,” Lovey says, and out the door she goes.

The doctor gives me a referral to a neurologist. Dr. Richardson is African-American and she’ll be able to give Lovey a more extensive examination and test. He tells me when he gets the results from the lab that she’ll probably order an MRI once she gets Lovey’s past medical records which he’ll be sending over.

I tell him I’ll make that appointment as soon as I get home. I have to run to catch up to Lovey, who’s already going down the stairs. When I pull up to the drive-up window, I order her Big Mac with small fries and a vanilla shake, and when I hand her the bag she looks at me and says, “This is mine. Where’s yours?” I just tell her I’m not hungry. But the truth is, I can’t eat anything because I’ve sought answers to too many questions at too many drive-up windows and the answers have never once appeared in the sauce or on the bun.

It’s hard to believe that Joy is still at home. The radio is on but turned down low because I can hear the washer agitating back and forth. Clothes are hanging on the line in the backyard. Lovey beelines it over to the sofa without uttering a single word. After finishing her meal, the only thing she said in the car was, “They make the best Big Macs in the world.” Joy is mopping the kitchen floor because I can see the shiny wet and dull dry spaces. I stand in the doorway and watch her. She seems somber and sober. I can’t believe that so much is going on inside her body. Why didn’t she tell anybody? I wonder if Lovey knows.

“She’s got it, don’t she?” she says.

“She has to go to a different doctor and get a brain scan called an MRI. I called already to make an appointment. I’ll be back in two weeks to take her.”

“I can take her.”

“How, Joy?”

“In her car, that’s how.”

“But Tiecey said you…”

“Who you gon’ believe, me or a seven-year-old?”

“Well, how would she even know something like this?”

“’Cause she’s too grown, that’s why. All I gotta do is give this dude two hundred dollars and I can get the car back. That’s why I’m having the garage sale tomorrow.”

“I can just give you two hundred dollars, Joy.”

“I don’t want your money, Marilyn. Especially not today.”

“What’s wrong with today?”

“I’m taking something that helps stop me from craving. I’m trying to get through
today.
”

“Well, this is a good thing.”

She pushes the orange sponge forward and the last dry lane disappears. When she slides it back the tip of the metal jabs her in the ankle. I wince but Joy doesn’t acknowledge the pain at all.

“I want to take her,” she says. “And you shouldn’t have to drive all this way to take our mother to the doctor when I’m right here.”

“I don’t mind,” I say.

“Well, I do. I look bad in front of my kids and I don’t want them to keep seeing me the way I been acting. I’m ashamed of myself for not telling you about Lovey when she’s been like this for almost a year. Maybe longer.”

“It’s okay. But I just saw her at Christmas and she seemed fine.”

“She was putting on. But she can’t do it now.”

“Joy, I’m really sorry about all the things you’re dealing with, but why didn’t you let me know?”

“What, and put a damper on your little Cosby world?”

“Have you been to the doctor?”

“Of course I’ve been to the doctor. If your hair was falling out in clumps and every time you ate something it felt like you gotta throw up and your stomach hurt like hell and no amount of drugs seemed to make it stop, who wouldn’t go to the doctor?”

“Does anything help?”

She just looks at me. “Look, I’ll take Lovey to that doctor in two weeks and you can call here every day if you want to check up on me. If it’ll make you feel any better.”

“I don’t have to go that far, Joy.”

“How’s your husband?”

“He’s fine. On his way to Costa Rica on Monday.”

“For what?”

“That’s a good question.”

“You mean you ain’t going with him?”

“No, I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve got other things I want to do.”

“He didn’t invite you, did he?”

“To be honest with you, no, he didn’t.”

“Is he screwing somebody else?”

“I doubt that very seriously.”

“Please, Marilyn. Why is it that all women think their pussy is so good that can’t nobody top it?”

“Did you hear me say that?”

“You don’t have to. How old is Leon again?”

“He’ll be forty-six the end of next month.”

“He’s probably going through that midlife thing. I saw a special on television about it.”

“Did you really?”

“Yeah. What? You don’t think I’m interested in things?”

“I don’t think that at all.”

“You act like you can’t even imagine me watching no documentary.”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“You don’t have to Marilyn. It’s all over your face. But I’ll tell you something. Maybe I didn’t get a college degree like you but I’m not dumb. I do some seriously stupid shit, but I am far from dumb.”

“I never thought you were.”

“Well, finally we agree on something.”

She actually smiles. I smile back.

“So, is Leon tripping hard?”

“He is tripping very hard.”

“Ain’t much you can do about it, from what that program said, except ride it out.”

“Ride it out. Speaking of which, I need to hit the road so I can beat the traffic.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” I ask.

“How you feeling these days? You should be going through something yourself along the female side of things, ain’t you?”

“I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”

“I saw a special on this, too.”

“On what exactly, Joy?”

“On menopause and perimenopause. I never knew there was a difference, did you?”