“I know,” she snapped. “But you need support until you do, and a few modifications around here won’t ruin the house.”
I was quiet, too tired to fight, too sore to pretend she was wrong. I’d slipped in the bathroom maybe once a week. The ramp in the back that my father had built for my grandmother creaked as if it was two inches from collapsing. The front steps were too steep, the doorways were too narrow, and the counters too high. There was a long list of things that made this place unsafe for me to live alone. But the idea of letting some stranger come into my house and start changing things was scary.
My grandparents’ home was my fortress, my sanctuary. It was the one place where I didn’t have to explain why I moved slowly or why I needed everything in reach, the one place where I could feel love radiating from the walls. My grandfather had worked hard to buy this home at a time when black people weren’t allowed to live in this neighborhood. Everything about this home had sentimental value. It almost felt like a crime to change anything in here.
“The modifications are only going to make this place better and give it longevity. Grandma and Papa wouldn’t want you wheeling around here, getting stuck in doorways,” Teagan reasoned. I stared at her for a minute, coming to terms with everything in my head.
“You already filled it out, didn’t you?”
“And did. All you gotta do is E-Sign it. Check your email.”
I rubbed my temples. “You really don’t believe in boundaries, huh?”
“Nope, this place is half mine, and I believe in keeping my big sister safe and alive.”
I shook my head, half annoyed and half grateful. This was Teagan, bossy and protective. Sometimes I forgot who the big sister was.
“Fine, pull it up. I’ll sign it.”
“Thank you.” She pulled me away from my bathroom and pushed me toward the main hallway.
“But if they mess up my paint closet and disturb my peace while I paint, we’re gonna fight.”
“I’ll warn them, Noa.” She laughed as she backed me out and gave the chair a little spin before pushing me out into the hallway.
“There,” she said with a dramatic flair. “Crisis averted. Thanks to your little sis. Now, go brush your teeth and take them meds. I’ll pull up the documents for you to sign.”
I rolled my eyes but managed a smile as I turned down the hall toward the bathroom, the one I should have been in, in the first place. This one had my setup—a door I could actually fit through and a sink I could actually use. I made my way to the counter, grabbed my toothbrush from the holder, squeezed out the paste, and started brushing in slow, circular motions. My arms felt a little tight, the typical morning stiffness from the lupus, but I pushed through it. I rinsed, spat, then reached formy pill case to take the daily dose of meds that I guess were keeping me alive. I popped the lid open before grabbing my Wednesday pills with shaky fingers and swallowing them with a handful of water. I hated the taste of my pill cocktail, but skipping it wasn’t an option. Chronic illness didn’t care if the pills tasted bad.
As I wiped my mouth, I heard Teagan clanking around in the living room. I already knew she was pulling cushions off the couch and rearranging furniture. Her type A personality didn’t mesh well with my Type C personality.
“You deep cleaning again?” I called out.
“Just freshenin’ up,” she replied. “I don’t want these contractors coming in here, thinking my sister lives like a pig.”
“I don’t live like a pig.” I shook my head as if she could see me. “It’s organized chaos.”
“Whatever. Just know they won’t see this place looking a mess on my watch.”
I rolled back into the front room and veered off into the dining area, where my easel waited in the corner, displaying a half-finished canvas I’d started a few days ago. I stared at the beautiful black woman bent over in the fetal position. She was bruised but not broken. Her mouth was open in a scream no one could hear, like most of my paintings these days.
My body hurt, and my bones ached, but I dipped my brush into the brown paint anyway, not because my artwork kept the lights on, or I had a gallery to show, but because painting was all I had left. It was the only thing I could control. I pressed the brush to the canvas, painting her eyes shut. She was tired. It was reminiscent of how I felt. Tired but not broken. Weakened but not weak.
“Oh, Sis. This is beautiful. Your skills with that brush never cease to amaze me.” Teagan came walking up behind me. “This one should be in a gallery,” she said.
“I don’t do those anymore,” I reminded her. Art shows and galleries were something I’d given up a long time ago.
“Well, you should.” She disappeared back into the hallway, mop in hand, and I returned my attention to my canvas, dragging my brush across the surface, letting the music that was still playing in my bedroom take over.
“Your signature?” Teagan returned, pushing her tablet in front of my face. I looked down at the application. Sure, I’d just agreed, but that didn’t make this any easier.
“And you’re sure about this program? Sure I’ll get in?”
“I’m hopeful! They’ve helped other women like you.”
“People just like me?” I raised a brow. “Wheelchair bound black women with autoimmune disorders and funky attitudes?”
“Yep.” She grinned. “They pick a few houses every quarter for free labor. You can’t beat this. The materials are donated, and they partner with contractors on parole who need work. All licensed. All supervised.”
