I always knew Etta was destined to be a professional dancer. Even when others doubted...
1:19 P.M.
Lola...
LOLA
You tell Etta her Aunt Lola is crying in the 1st grade bathroom she’s so proud of her. BTW, it is beyond gross in here.
1:19 P.M.
And Ty...
TY
I think great things await Etta and her mom (if she lets them)...
1:20 P.M.
“Mama, I know you’re proud of me, but that smile of yours is telling me there’s more to the story,” Etta says, locking arms with me.
I show Etta my phone.
“You gonna give him a chance, right? Just don’t be givin’ up the boo too early.” Etta laughs and hip checks me. A tiny, girly shriek escapes my mouth.
“Oooooh, Etta, you still not old enough to talk to your mama like that!” But deep down I kinda like it. My baby may slowly be becoming my friend.
Aunt Viv is sitting stiff and perfectly upright squeezing the life out of Etta’s hand. Since there were two hours between Etta’s audition and our interview with the director of admissions, Etta and I wanted to explore around Lincoln Center a bit, but Aunt Viv insisted we eat lunch close by so we could be early to the interview. Then, after commandeering our plan, the woman barely touched her sandwich. I’m so consumed by the increasing reality of Etta being accepted to Juilliard that I don’t mark any of Aunt Viv’s odd actions with great concern. That is, until she doesn’t ask the waitress to wrapup her untouched sandwich. Aunt Viv detests people who allow perfectly good food to go to waste. There can be one cookie left on a tray of three hundred at an admissions open house and Aunt Viv will wrap it in a napkin, bring it home, and have it with her coffee the next day. When you grow up poor with six siblings and only enough food to feed half of them, you are well trained to stretch every last crumb on a plate.
“Aunt Viv, where’d you go during my audition?” Etta asks. I, too, want to know the answer to this question, but I don’t want to get my head bitten off given Aunt Viv’s peculiar behavior since we left San Francisco.
“I needed to check out a few things around the school. Make sure everything is okay, you know, no hiccups with our visit.”
“Check out what things?” I ask, a bit miffed, since that’s my job as Etta’s mother, though it never occurred to me that there was anything specific that needed double-checking.
“We best be going.” Aunt Viv doesn’t even register my question. She raises her hand for the check and then digs into her purse to reapply her lipstick. Aunt Viv is going into this interview with a winner’s attitude.
We are a whole fifteen minutes early for the interview and I can feel the anxiety creeping back up among the three of us. This is what I wanted to avoid by taking a walk around the West Side to get some fresh air and regain a calm perspective on this whole college admissions process. Instead, the three of us are squished together on an uncomfortably firm modern couch freaking out in our own individual ways.
I reach around Etta’s shoulders to rub Aunt Viv’s back. I can feel her heart beating fast and firm through her blouse. It doesn’t feel normal to me. I lean forward to peek at Aunt Viv and her skin looks dull. We’re sitting, which is good, but I’m wondering if I should excuse myself and go call Golden Boy—Dr. Golden—Ty, oh whateverthe hell I should call him now that he’s no longer a prospective Fairchild dad, but still Aunt Viv’s cardiologist and possibly my new bae, too.
“Etta, Vivian, Josephine Bordelon, Mrs. Santos will see you now.” Seems in university admissions you get your own Elsamyassistant. Duly noted.
Aunt Viv stands, presses down the front of her skirt, and briskly walks in the office ahead of us like all she wants to do is get this interview over with and get on with her day. For a woman who deeply wants Etta’s dream of going to Juilliard to come true, this is a pretty bold move since this is Etta’s interview. With the three of us safely inside the office, I’m immediately struck by the unbelievable resemblance between Mrs. Santos and Aunt Viv. Despite the difficulty white folks have, not all black people look alike. I guess there’s an exception to every stereotype, and I’m standing in front of her.
“Josie,” Aunt Viv is the first to speak up. Etta looks confused by Aunt Viv talking first. Pure rudeness, if you ask me, but Aunt Viv has been off her etiquette game since Sunday morning. So I pause to hear what she has to say since Etta’s future is now riding on her big mouth. It better be good. “I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Santos. Ophelia. Bordelon. Santos. Your mother.”
TWENTY-NINE
Our hotel room has two queen beds, but Aunt Viv lies right beside me on mine. We’ve been horizontal for almost an hour, a word yet to pass. I don’t know what to say or ask first and Aunt Viv has never been one to put words in my mouth. At our urging Etta continued with the plan to spend the afternoon and evening with a Juilliard dance program ambassador learning about the school from a student’s perspective. I figure on a Monday night that perspective can’t involve too much alcohol or late-night clubbing.
I pick up the remote to turn on the TV because clearly I’m not ready to talk. Aunt Viv places her hand over the remote and lowers it back down, keeping her hand on it for a lingering moment. “I think we’ve had enough drama for one day, no need to add someone else’s.” Tears well in my eyes and slide down my temples. I’m frozen in place. Aunt Viv pulls a Kleenex out of her sleeve and dabs my face dry. I can see where the scars from fifty years of working in a kitchen and the natural wrinkles of time have intersected. These hands have held together both the Fairchild community and our family for decades. Idon’t know where to start without risking hurting Aunt Viv by bringing up questions with answers she keeps buried deep and out of sight.
“Have you always known?” I guess that’s as good a place to start as any.
“I’ve known since September.”
“How? And why now?”
