Why are tears the metric for sadness? I’ve cried plenty of times over Tanya, but because I don’t bottle my tears in a jar and splash them in everyone’s faces, I’m not grieving properly.
I know my mom means well. I know I probably shouldn’t get so defensive with her, but it took us a long time to get our communication style figured out, and it can be easy to regress.
“I promise you, I’m facing Tanya’s death head-on,” I say, shoving another bite of donut in my mouth.
You could be doing better.
I slam my eyes shut against that thought. I’m doing the best I’m willing to do right now. Tanya made sure I couldn’t sweep her death or my feelings about it under the rug, and part of me wants to thank her for that. The other part of me wants to bring her back to life just so I can strangle her.
“Okay, good. That’s really good to hear. I’m here for you, Yelli. That’s all I wanna say.”
I bend down and wrap my arms around her middle and squeeze, careful not to get donut dust on her jacket. “I love you, Mom.”
I hear her sniffle against my shoulder. “I love you too, baby.”
When we separate, I lock my hand with hers and we walk to the hot sauce stall.
“I think three bottles would get you on the schedule in time for Evie’s birthday,” she offers with a wide smile.
“Just three? Say less.”
After spending entirely too much time and money at the farmer’s market, Mom and I drive back to my place.
While we unload my goods, I FaceTime Dad and he gives me shit for taking so long to reach out. When Mom starts ganging up on me, I throw her ass right under the bus and show Dad all the stuff she bought me.
Mom doesn’t get a chance to rip into me once Dad hangs up because Nisha FaceTimes me.
I mouth a sarcastic “so sorry” before gleefully answering. “Oh heyyy, Nisha!”
Her face fills my screen. She takes me in, her dark eyes glowing with suspicion. “What’s wrong? Usually you answer with ‘ughhh, I don’t wanna do work!’”
Her mocking tone draws out a giggle from my mom. “She’s just happy you saved her from me tearing her ass up,” she calls out.
Nisha’s eyes light up. “Is that Mama Jenkins? Hey, girl!”
Mom snatches the phone from me so they can bond like always.
When I met Nisha, I hadn’t been back in Baltimore long. I had decided to stay in a hotel until I found a place so I wouldn’t impose on my parents or the girls. Nisha worked at the front desk. At the time, I was rumored to be dating a singer all because I had starred in his music video and someone decided to harass me about it in the lobby. She stepped in and told the guy off. From then on, she became somebody I could rely on.
It went beyond job responsibilities into friendship, and what’s more, I felt safe with her. That was something I had been craving in my professional life, so I offered to double her salary if she came to work with me, and the rest is history.
My mom took to Nisha immediately. Mom said she could instantly tell Nisha had my best interests at heart—something she’d never said about anyone I’d surrounded myself with in New York.
Six years later, that still proves true.
“Um, hello?” I interrupt my mom midsentence.
She looks up at me with her mouth agape.
“She called my phone.”
I hold my hand out, but she turns her back to me. “I swear I didn’t raise her this way.”
Nisha’s laugh echoes off my walls. “You did the best you could, Mama. I was just watching my little Sim waiting for her location to say home, but if I knew she was out with you, I would’ve just hit you up.”
“I know it,” Mom responds.
Unbelievable, these two.
