“Hello?”
“Hi,” I said, after a long pause. “It’s Joan.” I heard static. Derek was silent. After a time, I said, “Listen, I’ll tell Auntie August you—”
“No,” Derek interrupted. “I’ve been here awhile now. Had time to think. I have something I want to say to you. I think it’s time.”
I knew what he meant. After all, I had dug up that comb. And now this phone call. Part of me wanted to listen to him. To see if Miss Dawn’s magic was real. To see if I could stomach Derek. It would be a lie to say I hadn’t thought about the perfect string of curse words to hurl at him. I’d fantasized about what I could say to him to hurt him as badly as he’d hurt me. Felt like I’d been building toward this moment since I was three years old. I was all of eighteen now. Had just turned the month before.
“I reckon so,” I said, slow.
Derek gave an unexpected small laugh, cutting some of the tension. “You sound like Auntie Meer,” he said.
“Well.”
“How she doin’？”
Mama had shocked us all—she had graduated nursing school a year early. It was unheard of. Her years of throwing herself into her studies, years of falling asleep on top of her books, in mid-conversation with me or Mya—they had paid off. August, Mya, and I had all attended her graduation ceremony. She had asked us to wear white. This, this was her wedding day, she had proclaimed. We had all helped her with her valedictorian’s speech. Auntie August chain-smoked, and pointed to the page, saying it’s got to wow them. Mya, of course, wrote the jokes.
Mama. In the months since Christmas—since I turned in my application to the Royal College—Mama had grown quiet. She still let out a defiant hmph whenever she saw me with my pocket sketchbook, but she held her tongue. I trusted that Auntie August was doing as she promised: was working on Mama for me. I kept quiet and prayed and prayed and prayed every night on rug-burnt knees that I would get in.
Derek kept quiet on the other end of the line, waiting for me to respond.
The anger came then. And it came swift. “I should go,” I managed. I wanted to scream at him, to make him feel some of the fear and shame and disgust I’d felt for years, but the words seemed to be gone from me now.
I was so engulfed in the call, so enraged at the mere fact that I was on it, that I did not see Mya. She must have been standing there for a minute. A socked foot reached behind her other leg and scratched the back of her calf. She wore her nightgown, a long African-print housedress, and she was eating a peach as she stared at me.
She was only fifteen, but Mya planned to follow in the steps of both our mother and grandmother: She wanted to be a doctor. The child was good with numbers and science and all the things that confused me, like dark mass and periodic tables and inertia. And she loved saving things. She’d sit on our front porch steps and tend to creatures—bathe and treat small wounds on the calicos and the tabbies, help birds with broken wings. Mya was equally talented at the guitar. Her genius with numbers transferred so easily to reading sheet music, remembering chords. My wasn’t just technical; she could really play that thing. Her musical talent must have come from Auntie August, who still played at the piano in the parlor every so often. Mya played her guitar for the shop. Had the women in there howling. And every day, she looked more and more like Mama. She took after her—petite and bright, with burgeoning hips.
I’m not sure how her tiny self did it, but in a sudden and nimble move, Mya snatched the receiver out of my hand.
“The fuck—” My anger spun toward my sister. I reached for the receiver, but Mya had it tight in her grasp, held it pressed firm against her ear.
“Mm-hmm.” Mya’s tone was serious.
“My,” I said. I was exhausted. My anger and adrenaline suddenly went to my knees. I felt I needed to sit, have a cup of tea.