“Blue Mountain? Never had anybody pledge from there before.”
“Now that you mention it, I believe you’re right. How you feeling this evening?”
“I’ll be better in the morning.” She props the orca on her lap. “That food smelling mighty good.”
“It’s better than good.” I pick up the plate, move into the kitchen, and pop it into the microwave. Once it’s hot, I transfer everything onto a plate from her cupboard, grab a paper napkin, utensils, and a glass. Then I take an ice tray out of the freezer, crack out a few cubes, and fill her glass to the top. Her lap tray is sitting on the counter next to the sink, so I arrange everything, make it look real nice. The tray is in the grip of my hands when I spy a big fat pill bottle next to the faucet—preening like a peacock—daring me to look at it. I put the tray down and grab it by the throat. Oxycodone 20 mg.
Seething, I pick up the tray and march out to the den. Every part of me wants to demand that she tell me how long she’s been taking Oxycodone, but once I see her petting on that orca I decide to keep my mouth shut. At least for now. So I go ahead and set the tray on her lap, then fill her glass with Coke. By the time I sit down next to her on the sofa, I’m all worked up.
“Sure smell good,” she says. “Thank you for bringing it to me, baby.” She puts the orca on the coffee table in front of her, dips a piece of chicken into the maple syrup, then takes a bite. “Latonya fry this chicken?”
I nod. “You taught her well.” I’m biting my tongue to keep from mentioning the pills.
Aunt Fee grins. “She’s a good student.”
I go ahead and fill her in on the day; tell her about the new pledge class. I’m just fixing to tell her about my conversation with Mrs. Whitmore when she stops eating. Seconds later, she puts her napkin back on the tray.
“Can’t you eat more than that? You’ve hardly touched a thing.” Now she’s really got me going.
“Not right now, baby, I’ll save it for later.”
I can’t remember a single time when she hasn’t finished her dinner. And I’ve eaten a thousand meals with this lady. That’s it. I’m putting my foot down. “I saw that pill bottle,” I say angrily. “I’m taking you to the doctor.”
She hesitates and I’m convinced I’ll have to fight with her to go, but instead she says, “Maybe in the morning. No, tomorrow your day off. I’ll go the next day.”
“That’s exactly why we’re going tomorrow,” I say, my heart pounding. “Lord must have planned it that way.”
“His plan always perfect,” she says. “Don’t have no appointment, though.”
“Then we’ll sit ourselves down in the lobby and wait till he can see us.” I pause to collect my thoughts. “I can tell something’s wrong with you.”
In Aunt Fee fashion, she ignores my comment and slides onto something else. “Did you talk to that Whitless she-devil about taking Mama Carla’s place?”
Despite my frustration with her, she’s made me laugh. “Where in the world did you come up with that?”
“It’s in the Bible somewhere. Lilith means she-devil.”
“Say what?” That gets me going again. Then, despite how she’s feeling, Fee chuckles, too. Pretty soon we’re bending over, belly laughing. Can’t stop. It’s good to see her having fun.
But after a while she stops abruptly, holds her stomach, and squeezes her eyes. I reach over and touch her on the arm. “Please—”
“I’m okay, baby.” She pats my hand. “Now tell me about that she-devil.”
There’s no use fighting with her; I’ll let it go—for now. “I talked to her. She’s insisting I call her Mrs. Whitmore.”
Aunt Fee rolls her eyes.
“She says the job requires a college degree. Doesn’t matter that I attended for a year.”
A scowl reshapes her face. Her arms are crossed. Tight. “Forget her. Forget Alpha Delt, too. Go on back to college. You would have been finished a long time ago if things had turned out different.”
A vision of my daughter springs into my mind. I picture her in a long hallway filled with doors. She’s opening and closing each one, desperately seeking answers. About me, about her father, and why she was given away. As if she knows exactly what I’ll say next she takes my chin in her hand and turnsit toward her. “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m gonna say it again. You did the right thing.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Listen here. You gave your baby a chance at a better life. It was exactly the right thing to do. You hear me?”
I shrug, reflect back twenty-six years. In this very house. “It was selfish.”
