Knowing (14 page)

“He did? Did he say what time he’d call back?” Ginger kicked off her black leather pumps and slid back on the chaise in the living room.

Katherine followed suit, propping her socked feet on the pink velvet sofa. “Didn’t say. Just said he’d call back.”

Ginger rested her head on the back of the chaise, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Jason’s not home from school yet?”

“You don’t remember him telling you last night that they changed his schedule?” Katherine knew it wasn’t like Ginger to forget Jason’s schedule.

“I forgot, Mama. I’m glad you’re here. Did I tell you that already?” Trying to shake off her temporary loss of memory, she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

Sinking her Fred Flintstone size nines into the thick white carpeting, Katherine sat up abruptly. “You haven’t mentioned what the doctor said was wrong with you.”

“Ohhh.” Folding her hands under her breasts, Ginger cocked her head to the side, trying to break the tension in the stiffened artery that sent blood to her brain. “It was the minoxidil that made me faint. I forgot” — she looked guiltily at her mother — “I forgot that he mentioned that this particular medication would lower my blood pressure.”

“What kind of shit is this? He gives you medication that will lower your blood pressure, when your blood is already low now?”

“Mama. All the tests showed when they gave their patients with high blood pressure this particular medication it made their hair grow. But he warned me that there were side effects. Anyway, don’t worry. I can’t take the medicine anymore.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper.

Katherine studied her for several beats of silence, seeing the defeated look on her daughter’s face. “So that’s it — that’s all those educated motherfuckers could do is send you home without . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Ginger rushed to fill the silence.

“Mama, I’m gonna light that damned fireplace if it kills me. Will you see if there’s any white zinfandel in the wine cellar for me, please?” Not wanting her mother to see her crying again, she made an effort to appear her usual self.

One day ten years ago, when Ginger was married to Michael Carter, Ginger went to sit in the living room and stared at the blank television screen. Then, feeling the onset of a headache, she went to the mirrored cabinet in her cheery yellow bathroom for her medication. The reflection that looked back at her was that same anxious face she recognized from two years earlier. Turning her back, she tried to shake the self-pity that was speedily targeting her heart strings. She went back to her recliner and waited for the medication to stop the pounding in her head.

She could smell the strong scent of Glover’s Mane that she’d applied to her scalp when she returned home after working the afternoon shift. Her mother told her that rubbing this medication on every day would stimulate her scalp and help reverse the process of her hair loss. What did she have to lose? She was ready to try anything. The doctors couldn’t help her. Maybe one of the old folks’ remedies would.

In her bathroom there were numerous other so-called remedies, including some from her mother’s old hairdressers. Ginger had spent thousands of dollars over the years running to every reputable dermatologist she could find who said they could help her.

She had even spent a week at Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Canada, taking every test imaginable. And she’d left disappointed.

She’d been given cortisone injections in her head that started her hair growing. But it would only work for a period of two or three months, then the hair would fall out again if her body hadn’t completed what they described as its cycle of “hormonal imbalance.”

Finally, one day after leaving the doctor’s office in considerable pain, bleeding from roughly forty to fifty injections into her bald scalp, she had decided the brief improvements from that treatment were no longer worth it.

Later, a friend suggested a new method offered at a health-food store. They had a powerful machine that looked into your eyes and was supposedly able to ascertain every impurity in your body. So Ginger walked into the Honeybee Health Food Store and deposited her ninety dollars on the counter.

She left the store in total bewilderment, however. The therapist had recommended that she immediately stop eating flour.
Flour
. She was told that it coated her small intestines and kept the normal functions of her bowels from performing routinely, causing impurities throughout her system which led to hair loss. He also recommended that she follow a diet low in fats, sweets, and starches. He made a list of several vitamins for her to take daily. Her bill totaled one hundred and fifty-three dollars — a small price to pay if it worked. Six months later she was still as bald as a newborn bald eagle.

When her alopecia finally completed its eighteen-month cycle, and she was once again enjoying a full head of hair, the joy was short lived. Fifteen months later it was back. She had been trying to watch
All My Children
. After all, weren’t their problems worse than hers? And without thinking, she had started pulling on one of her braids — then another. They resembled dying trees being uprooted from the dark earth, surrounded by patches of barren soil.

The eerie sound of hair coming loose from its foundation startled her. Ginger sprang to her feet and ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror. She wept aloud, horrified to see two braids clutched in her hand. Angry and shocked, she pulled out the remaining braids, one by one. It was almost like tearing a piece of paper; the long, thin, braids of hair felt like there was no life left in them. Brittle and dead.

She remembered how, hours later, her three small children had found her still sitting in a zombielike state in the living room, staring at the television screen, in total disbelief.

After placing a fluted glass of zinfandel on the glass end table next to her daughter’s resting form, Katherine closed the drapes, darkened the room, and added three logs to the fire. The smell of wood smoke filtered lazily from the ceramic-and-mahogany fireplace. The silvery pieces of wood hissed, as various chunks snapped, smoldering into fragments of powdery cinders.

Katherine covered her daughter with a handmade afghan from the front hall closet. She remembered when Ginger had learned to crochet, having been taught by her friends at work. They wanted to make use of their spare time when they’d completed their production for the day. She’d called her from work, so excited to tell her about it. Two months later, Ginger had handed Katherine a beautifully crafted hooded poncho, crocheted in a rich wool yarn in blends of smoke gray, tropic sand, and beige.

Ginger’s head swung lazily to the side as Katherine tucked the woolen blanket under her chin. She studied her daughter’s face. Her mouth was gaping open as though her dreams had surprised her. Katherine stifled the urge to call her name. Unable to understand or fathom the reasons of her daughter’s illness, she felt suddenly depressed.

A mother was a child’s first teacher. She was there to ease out that first burp, to teach the child to walk and talk . . . to teach the basics of life. Now she was powerless to help her child. She had to put her faith and trust in the hands of God. A silent prayer was on her lips:

Seek you first the kingdom of God and all his righteousness

and all things needed for this life will be added on to you.

He says lean not on your own resources or understandings

If you will lean on him in prayer and meditation —

Katherine knew Ginger was mentally exhausted. The anguish that plagued her daughter every two years was overwhelming. She thought of the quickest way to relieve some of the pressure from Ginger: organizing and using a few scare tactics on her half-disciplined, lovable grandchildren.

“What kind of game are we going to play, Granny?” asked Autumn, tilting her pixy head. Sierra wondered about her grandmother’s strange change in attitude. Earlier she had cussed them out, telling them how junky and funky they were. She lined all four of them along the couch in the basement and read them up and down. She told Sierra she smelled like a rank pussycat. Told Jason his room was so funky a skunk wouldn’t have felt at home. She started in on Christian, saying after putting a load of white clothes in to soak that she’d spotted several of his drawers that looked like they’d been dragged through mud.

Autumn had laughed, and pointed at each of them, thinking she’d escape the wrath of their grandmother. “. . . and Autumn, your teeth looks like Green Giant corn.” Then Autumn started to cry.

Katherine had paced the floor, back and forth, yelling at all four of her grandchildren. Telling them they were taking advantage of their mother’s working. They knew Ginger went to bed early. Usually they shammed on doing the work their mother expected from them.

Katherine wasn’t fooled by their innocent faces. They were young devils masquerading in sheep’s clothing. She put the fear in them that Ginger didn’t have the energy to.

Then Katherine guided her two granddaughters upstairs to their bedroom. She placed her index finger over her closed mouth, studying their wide-eyed stare. “We’re going to pretend that Mama is Sleeping Beauty, and we’re waiting on the prince to wake her up. We can’t make any noise until Prince Charming comes to kiss the princess, otherwise the spell will be broken and Mama will stay asleep forever.”

Autumn looked to her sister for guidance. She couldn’t decide whether this was going to be a fun game or not. “We have to be real quiet, and make the kingdom clean and beautiful so Sleeping Beauty will want to live here for the rest of her days.”

Sierra shifted her weight onto one leg, put her hands on her hips, and said, “You mean we gotta clean our room, and be real quiet about it, Granny?” Katherine nodded. And Ginger said this girl was slow.

When Ginger woke hours later from a deep sleep the house was quieter than usual. The realization that Katherine was there enabled her to relish the silence. If anyone could control her overactive children, her mother could.

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“It’s me baby.”

She relaxed at the melodic sound of his voice. “Jackson.”

“I called you earlier, but Katherine said you were having lunch with Kim. I thought your classes started this afternoon.”

“No. They start tomorrow.”

“Katherine come down for the weekend?”

“Uh-huh. She figured I’d need some company with you gone. I picked her up after work today,” she lied. Ginger kept silent about her fainting at work the day before. Her physician had given her a note to give to her supervisor stating that she take the remainder of the week off, returning to work Monday. “I guess we’re both kinda lonely.”

“Your voice don’t sound right, baby. You all right? ’Cause if something is wrong, I’ll take a flight out in the morning.”

“No, sweetheart. You take care of your mother. I’m fine. Is she home yet?”

“Saturday. We’re bringing her home Saturday morning.”

“Did Jab make it down?”

“Yeah, we’re all here talking about old times.”

Ginger smiled to herself thinking of all the stories Jackson had told her about the nine of them growing up with hardly any money, and never really noticing they were poor. All their neighbors and relatives around them in Lee County never had any more than they did. Nobody had had a car — or other expensive items.

They had never been introduced to the luxuries of life. They were poor financially, but rich spiritually, physically, and mentally. Their life was so filled with good memories of cherished moments that Ginger couldn’t help but feel envious of their love.

You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me

At two o’clock in the afternoon, thick cumulus clouds clustered in the sky. The cold air tickled Ginger’s lungs as her breath hung in the atmosphere. Wiping the layer of fresh snow from her windshield, she headed for the freeway.

As she stopped at the light on Jefferson, she noticed the newly remodeled bridge. The serenity of the view beckoned her. She decided to seize a few moments to enjoy the picturesque waterscape. Crossing the Douglas MacArthur Bridge, she entered the thousand-acre park of Belle Isle. The island featured an aquarium, zoo, and Dossin Great Lakes Museum. It had been the city’s playground for more than a century.

The place was an oasis where picnicking families flocked in the warm months, filling the air with the aroma of spicy barbecue, fresh sweet corn, and savory collard greens smothered in smoked ham hocks steaming over smoking barbecue pits.

After parking her minivan, Ginger relaxed, opened the windows to inhale the cool breeze whipping across the frozen river, and turned the radio to Light 93.1 She let the soothing music flow through her body. Ginger’s eyes feasted on the forest of trees still draped with winter ice. The blanket of snow and frozen glaze across the Detroit River extended to the neighboring Canadian border.

She didn’t want to read any more textbooks, talk, or even think. For just a while, she just wanted to
be
. It felt so wonderful to be calm, and just to observe, to merge with nature, instead of enduring the pressures of work and home.