Sins of the Mother

If somebody was to ask me how I came to be here, I swear b'fore God that I wouldn't know what to say to 'em. My whole life, I always wanted to be able to hear stories 'bout how I came into the world a wanted and special child. But the folks I lived with told stories 'bout my mama that wasn't meant for children's ears. Truth be told, seemed like nobody could even dig up a idea of how I got inside my mama, let alone what happened afterwards. Since no one was gonna tell me what I wanted to hear, I let myself believe that God had gave me a mouth and mind of my own to do what I seen fit, and I set about imaginin' what my beginnings would've been like. That way, if folks was to ask me 'bout myself, I'd have an answer ready for 'em.

There she'd be, my mama, sittin' in her hospital room in a rocking chair, arms wide open to collect me -- her head leaning to the side as she smiled and reached out. I'd be folded up in a soft pink blanket that smelled like flowers from God's backyard. After the nurse laid me in my mama's arms, she'd drag her breath in and know that everything was the way it was s'posed to be. Then for the fun of it, my mama would pull my li'l arm out to see whose hands I'd got. Maybe they'd be stubby and fat like Uncle So-and-so's? Or even lean and long like Great-gran'mama Whatchamacallit. And somehow, knowing that she was thinking 'bout me, I'd reach out and bind my little fingers round her one and know we belonged to each another. We'd feel just like the white families do on them TV shows I watched. 'Cause finally, there I'd be, the one my mama'd been waiting her whole life for -- a li'l girl to call her own.

In no time a'tall, she'd name me. Not just any ole ugly name, like Lula Mae or Donna Janine. No, it'd be one that had been hanging round her mind, waiting for me to come so she could finally give it a rightful resting place. After that, she'd unwrap me like a present and count all my fingers and toes to make certain they was all there. Then the nurse would call my daddy and he'd come, and drive us all home. We'd live happily ever after. And that would be the end.

If anybody was to ask me, that's what I'd tell 'em.

Truth was, from as far back as folks could recollect, me and my sister Doretha lived off and on in a foster home with a woman named Johnnie Jean Thornhill. We called her Big Mama since using her first name was out the question if you was under a hundred. And the times when we wasn't with Johnnie Jean, we'd be trying to get back together with our mama, Ruby, whose only talent -- accordin' to the grown folks -- was running round town drunk and cussing up a storm while trying to take up with other women's husbands. This meant that those few visits we did have always got cut short and Big Mama'd have to come and pick me and Sister up from wherever my mama would've left us. Nobody would tell me this stuff to my face -- I had to play like I was 'sleep most of the times to hear the whispers of the grown folks.

When I did ask somebody 'bout the exact reason my mama left, and how it came down, everybody got deaf and dumb all a sudden like that girl Helen Keller that I read 'bout so I had to play possum real good and just sit and listen. I finally got the answer and then some. I learned that Doretha had come some five years b'fore I was even thought of. They say that Ruby's not wantin' Sister started way b'fore Doretha was even born. It was all on account of Ruby being thirteen with nobody to claim what was laying in her belly, and since Big Mama could get extra money for taking in a pregnant girl, she convinced Ruby to stay on. And once Sister was born, Big Mama took to her like she was her very own. Apparently, five years later, nobody was stepping up to claim her second child either -- that would've been me, Regina Louise -- but I never got that far to hear how I came.

If you let Doretha tell it, she didn't even know I was her sister till she was almost nine and me four. But that was almost seven years ago, and I couldn't recall knowing her any different. And the part 'bout Ruby being her mama was something she never talked on. And if you did, it was sho' to put her in a bad way. I learned quick how to stay on Sister's good side. If the truth was to really be told, I never even knowed Ruby was gone till she called one day and said she was on her way to get me and my sister. But she never showed up.

The first time Ruby didn't come wasn't so bad. I just told myself that she hadn't been to the house in such a long time that she prob'ly forgot the address and was still driving round looking for it. But the many times after that, when she'd promise and still didn't come, there'd be a achin' in the middle of my bosom anytime I'd hear her name talked 'bout.

If anybody bothered to ask me, I'd tell 'em that the worst thing 'bout a mama leaving her children was that there ain't nobody to take up for 'em if trouble seemed to find 'em. And at Big Mama's, folks sho' needed taking up for.

Careful not to disturb the raggedy screen door that barely kept the man-eatin' mosquitas from tearin' our asses up, I leant my body into the frame and stared up at the sky. I could tell by the way the clouds moved that God was gonna start cryin' soon. I wondered who had pissed the angels off this time. The white lady from the Church of the Nazarene told me that whenever somebody committed a cruel act against one of God's children, their guardian angel would run and tell him, and he would cry for their pain -- that's where raindrops come from. The white lady said that when the clouds changed quickly from fluffy white to smoky gray, well that's when the angelic messengers was runnin' 'cross the heavens. And when every breath you take holds the promise of his tears mixin' with the dirt, it was guaranteed to be a grand event. Thunder! Lightnin'! And sometimes if the crime was unforgivable, he might just throw golf balls made of ice at 'em. I know one thing: I felt sorry for whoever it was this time, but I sho' was glad it wasn't me.

Copyright © 2003-2009 Regina Louise