Life doesn’t give you many miracles or second chances, so I promised myself I’d make the most of this one. It’s not like I’m lying to anyone outright about my friendship with Jenny, and if asked point-blank, I wouldn’t deny it. So the omission feels defensible, even if by degrees. It could all blow up, of course, which is terrifying, but what choice do I have? Besides, I haven’t spoken to Jen since Monty’s last week, and I don’t know when I will again.
I try to recall the last time I was truly angry at her, how long we’ve ever gone without talking. Once, in high school, she called me a “goody-goody” and didn’t speak to me for a week after I refused to cover for her when she wanted to go to New York and meet up with some guy she’d met online—or those first few months after she married Kevin, when it felt like we might be drifting apart. But somehow, we always come back together, the ups and downs eventually balancing like a seesaw. Maybe it’s because we’ve had the benefit of distance all these years being in different cities—our text exchanges and once-a-year visits haven’t allowed a lot of opportunity for any serious drama beyond her getting annoyed that I don’t call her back fast enough sometimes, or my irritation that she constantly interrupts me. But nothing heated, nothing like her yelling that I hate her husband. Or her asking me for a favor that could compromise my job, and saying, “This isn’t even about race.” Are you kidding me? It’s always about race, Jen. That’s what I’d wanted to scream back at her. She may have the luxury of pretending that it isn’t, but I don’t. Her naivete was stunning. Or was it worse, was she really this oblivious? And how did I not realize this? I once thought I could never know another human as well as I knew Jen, but it’s possible that Jen has changed and I didn’t realize, or I did. Jen is different these days. She used to dream about traveling the world, but when I suggested a trip to India last year she worried it would be too dangerous. She used to collect new friends like scarves, cool interesting people she met at weird music festivals, and now her social life seems to revolve around Kevin’s coworkers’ wives. She used to have a not-insignificant shoplifting habit, and now she’s married to a cop, for heaven’s sake. On good days, I chalk it up to adulthood—this is what it looks like when you settle down, you evolve, your dreams and beliefs and desires are more conservative. On bad days, I blame Kevin: he changed Jen, made her world smaller, made her less open and curious. On very bad days I’ll think, After more than twenty-five years, how well do I really know her anymore? And vice versa?
Given this spiral, it’s a relief when Gigi’s eyes, cloudy with cataracts, slowly flicker open and focus on me, her cracked lips breaking into a smile. “My baby girl’s here.”
“I’m here, Gigi. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come more often this week; it’s been hectic.”
“You here now, that’s what matters.”
Gigi gets irritated when anyone fusses over her, so I ditch the washcloth and move to sit in the chair beside the bed.
“How you doing, Leroya?”
My grandmother’s never going to call me Riley. For a full month after I changed it, I refused to answer whenever she used my given name, a bratty act of defiance, a protest as shameful as it was futile.
“Your parents gave you the name Leroya—after my darn fine husband, I might add—and so that’s what I’m gonna call you. Period,” Gigi said. And that was the end of it.
“Forget about me, how are you?”
“Oh, you know, these old bones have seen better days. But I’ve seen worse too.” She looks up, over my shoulder, at the TV. “That march is today, ain’t it, for that boy? And your interview?”
She doesn’t miss a beat.
“Yeah, it’s this afternoon. And then I’m supposed to sit down with Tamara, his mom, right after.” I hope. I glance at the clock on the wall to see how much time before my meeting with Wes.
“How’s the boy doing? It’s Jesse, right? How is he? He ain’t in this hospital. He over at CHOP. I asked if he was here. I woulda liked to see him, woulda liked to hold his hand.”
The thought of my grandmother being wheeled down the hallway to hold the hand of a boy she never knew when she can’t even get out of bed for a bath touches something deep inside me.
“His name is Justin and…”
“What, girl, what happened?”
“He died. Yesterday.”
Gigi lets her lids fall closed, lies still for a long moment. Then a tear leaks out of her eye and falls onto the pillow. That single tear is quickly followed by others, chasing to catch up.
I scoot myself closer to her frail body, rattled by her emotion. “I know, Gram. It’s so sad. He passed away in his sleep.” I try to reassure her. “He didn’t feel any pain.”
I have no idea if this is true, but I say it anyway. For Gigi’s sake and also my own. It’s what I want to believe, though who knows how he felt in the moment. Or when he was lying on the cold concrete, bleeding. Did he know he was going to die? Did he cry out for his mother? That’s what I keep imagining: Justin wanting his mother so badly, begging for her.
Gigi reaches out a hand dotted with moles, swipes at the tears that spill over. “They just keep killing us, don’t they?”
What is there to say to that? I’m at a loss. Maybe what we need is some light. I stand and go to open the curtains; a golden glow peeks around the fabric. She stops me.
“No, leave it closed. Leave it be.”
I turn back, sit on the edge of the bed. “It’s awful. I know. It’s just awful.” God, can I manage anything more than these empty platitudes?
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Kevin killed that boy.”
“I know, Gigi. I can’t believe it either.”
“He killed that baby.” Gigi’s facing the same struggle, saying it out loud, processing it, trying to figure out how to feel and what it means.
“Just like Jimmy,” she adds softly.
Does she think Justin’s name is Jimmy now?
“Who’s Jimmy, Gram?”
“They left him hanging from a tree, full of holes.”
I still don’t understand, but the imagery instantly conjures a cold dread.
She pulls her hand from under the sheet to grab ahold of mine, like she’s steadying herself.
“Jimmy was my aunt Mabel’s eldest boy. You remember Aunt Mabel, my mom’s older sister.”
I do, vaguely. I remember her as an impossibly ancient woman I met a few times as a child. She always had a butterscotch candy in her mouth and would point to her prune-like cheek and say to me, “Come give me some sugar,” which I resisted until Momma ushered me forward with a jab in the back that said, “Or else.”
“Jimmy was my cousin. Mabel’s oldest. Eleven years older than me. Lord, did I worship him. He loved his woodworking, and sometimes he let me help him in his little shop. In the afternoons we’d go fishin’。 Out there by the stream for hours even though we never caught nothin’。 I’d just be so happy he let me hang around.” Her lips curl into a gentle smile at the memory.