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“First off, a boy died. Show some respect. And sometimes, actually no, most of the time, things aren’t about you. I can’t see Kwame wanting to blow up your life any sorta way… for what? He’s the one who broke up with you. Dumbest move he’s ever made.”
“But then he wanted me back and I had moved on and then I married Alex, which he definitely took as a slight… to say the least. Like I was doing it just to hurt him for hurting me.”
“People have gotten married for less,” Donette says with a cynical sigh and then a pointed pause. “So… were you?”
“Mom! No! I loved Alex.” Simone rushes to correct herself. “I love Alex.”
“And maybe a part of you loves Kwame still too?”
Simone and her mother both understand this question is rhetorical, but they also both know the answer.
“Look here, I don’t believe in coincidences. Sometimes God sends us messages in mysterious ways. And as far as Kwame goes, it’s possible he’s not thinking about you one bit. He’s just doing what he needs to do for him. Or all of the above. People rarely have one reason to do anything. Seems to me his motives don’t matter at this point as much as yours.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, are you ready to face some hard truths or run from them?”
“You mean that Poppy may have had something to do with Wade’s death?”
“Yes, and not just that… your marriage too. Kwame. Alex’s drinking. Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice he was tossing back whiskies at Thanksgiving like a bear gobbling up its last meal before hibernating.”
“He’s stressed and…” Simone stalls out, distracted by why she has this immediate reflex to defend him. Alex is good to her, he worships her—how much has she overlooked because of that? She reverses course. “Yeah, Alex’s drinking is a problem,” she concedes. “I don’t know what to do about anything, Momma.”
“Like I told you, you’re going to do what’s right. And you’re going to trust yourself to figure out what that is.”
“I came here so you can tell me what to do.”
“Damn if it ain’t the hardest part of being all growed up, that your mama can’t tell you what to do anymore. If I ever could. As much as I enjoy bossin’ you around, I don’t have all the answers—I just like to think I do. You’re so hardheaded anyway. Remember when you were six and refused to wear anything that wasn’t red? You went to first grade every day lookin’ like Elmo. God you could be impossible. But like I said, I can’t tell you what to do. Nobody can. And it’s not about someone giving you the right answer, no way, it’s about having someone believe in you enough to give you faith in your own instincts. You gotta come to trust that you’ll know ’xactly what to do when the time comes for you to do it. ’Cause I sure do. That’s why you came here, baby girl. You just needed that reminder from your mama. Now, come on. Let’s go collect that grandson of mine and get going. We’re gonna be late.”
Her mother nods to her to get up from the bus bench and extends her hand for Simone to help pull her up, as Donette’s knees protest loudly with several cracks and pops at the effort of standing.
“Go where? Late for what?”
“We’re sorting toys for the holiday giveaway the shelter does for kids. I signed us up for a shift.”
“I’m not exactly in the mood for volunteer work. Or to be around people.”
“I raised you to always be ‘in the mood’ to help others. Generosity is a state of mind. And this’ll get you outta your head. A reminder that you’re fortunate enough to be wearing hundred-dollar Lululemon pants and be able to buy my favorite grandson anything he wants will help put your woe is me attitude in perspective. The shift’s only an hour. You always got time to do good.”
Simone looks down at her overpriced leggings and feels the slight wave of shame that her mother intended her to.
“Besides, I want you to meet someone. He runs the place.” It’s possible that Simone has never seen her mother blush before, but an unmistakable flush colors her pistachio-hued cheeks.
“He?” So much curiosity, excitement, and concern packed into one syllable.
“Calm yourself. His name is Malcolm and we get tea once a week after my volunteer shifts, and that’s about all you need to know. Heaven knows you got your own drama to worry about. Not sure how my daughter ended up in a tangle like this, I tell you. A nosy ex still carrying a torch, who thinks he’s a male Ida B. Wells, and a father-in-law who might be an Edgar Ray Killen? And you caught in the crosshairs. It’s a straight mess.”
Leave it to Donette to crystallize the situation, clear, direct, and all too accurately. She lets that sink in as they walk quietly for a short stretch, and then her mother speaks again.
“Here’s another thing, Simone. Oftentimes the problem is not that you don’t know what to do in a situation; the problem is that you do, and you just don’t wanna do it. That’s a different ball game.”
The truth of this hits Simone. Hard.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ALEX
It’s wild that this is the second church he’s found himself in in a week, when he hasn’t set foot in one in twenty years, not since the chapel at Tate. A few days ago, it was the dank basement of a storefront Baptist church in a strip mall on the outskirts of downtown. Metal folding chairs, wilted pastries, and a half dozen people who didn’t even need to share their tales of woe because gaunt faces, yellowing skin, and shaking hands made their pain and addiction plain to behold. It actually hurt Alex to look at them. They reflected something back to him that he didn’t want to see, much less acknowledge. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, or promise to speak at the next AA meeting, or even commit to coming to another one. He also wasn’t going to tell a soul about it, least of all Simone, because for one, it would be admitting to something, but two—and worse—she would force his hand and that would mean a second meeting and one after that and one after that, whether he was up to it or not. That Alex has gone to one wouldn’t even count if he refused to go to more, and it should count. It did count. Even if he didn’t know what it would add up to just yet.
The ornate, hallowed sanctuary of St. Matthew’s, where he sits in a hard pew waiting for Poppy to wrap up with Father Mike, is a very different vibe from the dingy Baptist meeting space. Last time he was here—his parents’ funeral—his feet didn’t reach the ground. He’d kicked the pews with his dress shoes and counted each tap. It was a distraction that kept him from crying. Or it was supposed to. As Alex recalls, it must not have worked because there was his grandfather pressing Alex’s little legs and telling him to “knock it off.” He was talking about the tears, Alex was pretty sure, not the kicking. Probably both.
