A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (96)

Della had lost seven babies to late-term miscarriages, and she could feel the emptiness in her womb long after they were gone. With each loss, she’d had to wonder: Had Nana felt it when Felice jumped off the roof? Had she felt that same eternal hollowness? Could a mother’s body perceive the loss, no matter how old her baby was, or how far away? Was it a messy, unwieldy grief, or as neat and clean as a bullet hole? And was it more harrowing to lose a child than to lose a mother too soon?

As far back as she could remember, Della had searched for her mom everywhere. In her friends’ mothers’ faces, in her teachers, in Ethel Waters’s movies. What would it have been like to know her scent, her laugh, her voice? The trajectory of her life would surely have been different. She may not have met Dr. Bennett at that Christmas church social when he was just a young college student visiting his cousins on the bayou. Della had gone to that damned social to spite the popular girls in town, who’d always said she was “witch spawn” and had no business stepping foot in the Lord’s house. If she’d known her mother—if she hadn’t had that chip on her shoulder—maybe she wouldn’t have been so hot on proving those wenches wrong.

But she’d never know. There was so much she didn’t know. Wasn’t that why she’d bought 225? West 137th Street? To absorb Felice’s energy, try to understand her better, and hopefully get some answers?

And yet, she thought, when Ricki came to me with answers, I turned her away.

Della didn’t want to believe Ricki’s story, because it sounded like the truth.


There were a few short knocks on the door.

“Hiii! Ricki! Long time no see! What’s it been, five days? A week? And you must be Ezra…”

Naaz’s bell-like voice rang out throughout the house. Della’s stomach flip-flopped at the sound of his name. Before, Ezra was simply Ricki’s crush, fling, love, but now, if he was who he said he was, he was also the last person to see her mother alive.

She was propped up on pillows on her velvet chaise lounge when Naaz came bounding into the living room. “Ms. Della, your visitors are here…”

Ricki entered the room, followed by Ezra. The moment she saw Della, she froze. Her bright smile fell and she stood there, caught in a stare of surprise.

Lord, thought Della, do I really look that peaked?

After a beat, she dropped Ezra’s hand and rushed over to her. Gently, Ricki pulled her tiny, stooped shoulders into an embrace. And then, with great effort, Della raised her arms and hugged her back.

“Ms. Della, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I know you’re angry with me; I know everything I told you sounds insane. And I never wanted to hurt you. But I had to tell you. I couldn’t go… without telling you Ezra’s story, the curse, all of it. It wasn’t my place to speak to you about Felice. I shouldn’t have even said her name.”

She blurted this out, barely pausing to take a breath.

“It’s all right, baby. I know, I know.” Della quickly patted her on the back twice, signifying that the hug was over. Breathing was difficult, and Ricki was cutting off her air supply. With one final squeeze, Ricki stood back up. Her granddaughter looked lovely in a puff-sleeve maxidress that Della had made for herself fifty years before. The handmade hand-me-down had been her Christmas gift to Ricki, who’d been so touched when she’d opened it that she’d burst into tears.

“I’m sorry for being unreachable, sugar,” continued Della. “I just needed to sit with myself for a moment. You understand,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

Della peered past Ricki and saw that Ezra was standing across the room at a respectful distance. One hand jammed in his pocket, his expression unreadable. She hadn’t seen him since she and Ricki inexplicably ran into him at a bodega a few weeks ago, and she could barely remember what he looked like. If Ricki hadn’t left so many messages and letters mentioning him, she wasn’t sure she’d remember him at all. Which was especially curious after seeing him. This was not a forgettable man. His was not a forgettable face.

Is it one worth dying over? she wondered. Mama thought so. But that isn’t fair, is it? Felice’s troubles started long before she met him.

Della was so lost in thought that she didn’t see Ezra was holding a bouquet of sunflowers and yellow roses until Naaz took them and went to find a vase. Della gestured at him to come join them.

“Pleasure to see you again, ma’am.” Ezra pecked her on the cheek, looking dapper in herringbone trousers and an open-collar shirt. Della felt that if he’d worn a hat, he would’ve tipped it. “I appreciate the invitation. I imagine… well, I know I’m the last person you want to see.”

“With all due respect, you don’t know me at all, Mr. Walker.”

Ricki flinched, her eyes darting to Ezra.

“You’re right about that, Ms. Della,” he said with a courteous nod. “Beg pardon.”

“No need. Sit down, you two,” she said, gesturing to the love seat. “And eat this food—I ordered so much. I certainly can’t eat it. I just here recently rediscovered the delights of Cream of Wheat. That’s about all I can stomach.” She attempted a smile. She knew she had to tell Ricki the truth. “I know I don’t look well. I’m not well. There’s no easy way to tell your loved ones you’ve got terminal cancer.”