reading?”
Shit.
Nosy Posy!
“
1,000 Places to See Before You Die,
” I say because it’s on the table next to the bed. I want my guests to travel and then dream about it when they stay over.
She laughs. “And what page are you on?”
“It’s
where.
I’m in Bora-Bora.”
“That’s in French Polynesia.”
“See, it does pay to go to college. So what’s up with you, honey-bunny?”
“Nothing. Just reaching out.”
“You never just reach out, Estelle. What’s going on?”
“Remember, you’re my mother, and periodically it’s normal for me to want to call and just say hi.”
“Hi again. But we just talked a few days ago. Is there something going on?”
“No! Everything is copacetic. Have you heard from Frankie?”
“Not for a week. Why?”
“For some strange reason, she sent me a text and said she’s madly in love. She never texts me.”
“What’s this one’s name?”
“Hunter.”
“Is he white?”
“The last two were, so why would she switch up now? You won’t see me at her wedding. I don’t care who she marries.”
“Oh, stop it, would you, Estelle?”
“Frankie’s the one who needs to stop. She didn’t come to mine because she was supposedly studying film in Paris. She’s also a dingbat and a spoiled brat with a host of undiagnosed issues.”
I refuse to react to this. Estelle never has anything positive to say about her sister, and there’s nothing wrong with Frankie other than being young and foolish. Estelle has been mad at Frankie since she was born and stole all Estelle’s thunder—and attention—from Niles.
“So tell me, how are the twins and Justin?” I ask.
“Everybody’s doing great. We might want to come visit you in the next couple of weeks, if that’s okay.”
“The whole clan?”
“No, just me and the girls.”
Lord, help me. They’re a handful, and they get on my nerves, but I probably shouldn’t blame them for acting like kids when it’s my patience level that seems to be diminishing right along with my hormone levels.
“That’ll be fun,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can. “And you’re sure everything is all right?”
“For the last time, everything’s fine, Mom. I’d tell you if it wasn’t.”
“Okay, then. Let’s talk again in a few days, and kiss the girls for me.”
Estelle hardly ever calls just to chitchat, and her lighting into Frankie like this makes me think something else is going on. I just pray she’s not having another baby, or she’ll be stuck in that house forever.
Before I get a chance to take anything out of the trunk, the phone trembles again. This time I look to see who it is, and of course it’s Wanda. “What do you want, huzzy?”
“I’m bored, and I need to get out of the house.”
“Then go stand outside.”
“Pour me a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I finish pulling out all the scrapbooks and phone books and line them up to form what winds up being a very short history. I set aside the scrapbooks that have photos of my brother and the card he gave me when he left for the army. A few years ago, probably closer to five, Ma gave me four of these photo albums and said, “There’s probably a million hours of my life and my parents’ lives cracked and stuck to these pages,” and I promised I’d have all the pictures and newspaper and magazine clippings scanned and digitized and some of them colorized. I’m ashamed I haven’t done it, but I’m going to make good on that promise before it’s too late.
I take a long, lazy sip of wine and decide I should just dive on into this trunk. I open it, and the first thing I pull out is a handwritten letter in what I can tell is my handwriting. “Oh, hell,” I say to the empty room as I unfold it. I grab my glasses, which are parked between my breasts, and read:
Darnell: Do me a favor and do not call me ever again in life, since you seem to keep getting me confused with your other whores.
Shit.
Nosy Posy!
“
1,000 Places to See Before You Die,
” I say because it’s on the table next to the bed. I want my guests to travel and then dream about it when they stay over.
She laughs. “And what page are you on?”
“It’s
where.
I’m in Bora-Bora.”
“That’s in French Polynesia.”
“See, it does pay to go to college. So what’s up with you, honey-bunny?”
“Nothing. Just reaching out.”
“You never just reach out, Estelle. What’s going on?”
“Remember, you’re my mother, and periodically it’s normal for me to want to call and just say hi.”
“Hi again. But we just talked a few days ago. Is there something going on?”
“No! Everything is copacetic. Have you heard from Frankie?”
“Not for a week. Why?”
“For some strange reason, she sent me a text and said she’s madly in love. She never texts me.”
“What’s this one’s name?”
“Hunter.”
“Is he white?”
“The last two were, so why would she switch up now? You won’t see me at her wedding. I don’t care who she marries.”
“Oh, stop it, would you, Estelle?”
“Frankie’s the one who needs to stop. She didn’t come to mine because she was supposedly studying film in Paris. She’s also a dingbat and a spoiled brat with a host of undiagnosed issues.”
I refuse to react to this. Estelle never has anything positive to say about her sister, and there’s nothing wrong with Frankie other than being young and foolish. Estelle has been mad at Frankie since she was born and stole all Estelle’s thunder—and attention—from Niles.
“So tell me, how are the twins and Justin?” I ask.
“Everybody’s doing great. We might want to come visit you in the next couple of weeks, if that’s okay.”
“The whole clan?”
“No, just me and the girls.”
Lord, help me. They’re a handful, and they get on my nerves, but I probably shouldn’t blame them for acting like kids when it’s my patience level that seems to be diminishing right along with my hormone levels.
“That’ll be fun,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can. “And you’re sure everything is all right?”
“For the last time, everything’s fine, Mom. I’d tell you if it wasn’t.”
“Okay, then. Let’s talk again in a few days, and kiss the girls for me.”
Estelle hardly ever calls just to chitchat, and her lighting into Frankie like this makes me think something else is going on. I just pray she’s not having another baby, or she’ll be stuck in that house forever.
Before I get a chance to take anything out of the trunk, the phone trembles again. This time I look to see who it is, and of course it’s Wanda. “What do you want, huzzy?”
“I’m bored, and I need to get out of the house.”
“Then go stand outside.”
“Pour me a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I finish pulling out all the scrapbooks and phone books and line them up to form what winds up being a very short history. I set aside the scrapbooks that have photos of my brother and the card he gave me when he left for the army. A few years ago, probably closer to five, Ma gave me four of these photo albums and said, “There’s probably a million hours of my life and my parents’ lives cracked and stuck to these pages,” and I promised I’d have all the pictures and newspaper and magazine clippings scanned and digitized and some of them colorized. I’m ashamed I haven’t done it, but I’m going to make good on that promise before it’s too late.
I take a long, lazy sip of wine and decide I should just dive on into this trunk. I open it, and the first thing I pull out is a handwritten letter in what I can tell is my handwriting. “Oh, hell,” I say to the empty room as I unfold it. I grab my glasses, which are parked between my breasts, and read:
Darnell: Do me a favor and do not call me ever again in life, since you seem to keep getting me confused with your other whores.
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