Me Without You

“…I don’t know what it means to live as myself, and, so,

I hide in the reflection of others, which, after all, others love:

people care more about themselves than a friend’s mother. …”

A. Van Jordan

"Joana, I need you to help me with this book again," Mama had called from the kitchen. Her arms had been failing her for years and these days she'd be lucky to pick up a piece of paper.

"I'm comin', Mama." I put down my knit-work and headed for the kitchen which was only a few feet away. Moving back in with Mama hadn't been my plan at all, but with Daddy gone and my sisters too busy with their own families, well, I drew the short straw and now I'm back to calling this shack of a mobile house my home.

In the kitchen Mama sits with an old book she done read about a million and one times, her weathered fingers resting against equally weathered pages. The evening sun shines behind her through the kitchen window. It’s a scene I’ve been privy to just about every night since I moved back in, and just like every night Mama looks weaker than the day before and stronger than she will tomorrow. I steel myself and walk to the table to collect the old book and put it away. I should probably get started on dinner.

“Jo, baby, it’s a Friday night, why aren’t you out with your friends?”

I just smile softly at my Mama’s words. It’s Wednesday.

“Now, Mama,” I start, “You know all my friends are busy. Ashley just had a baby and Anna just got married. They don’t have time for li’l ol’ me.”

“Oh, you tell that Ashley to bring that young’n around here, I haven’t seen that baby since she had ‘em.”

The truth is Mama never even met Ashely’s baby boy, and those two haven’t spoken to me in months. I just smile and tell Mama I’ll relay the message and start pulling things out for a meal. That's the thing about being young with a mother that decided to give birth at the age of 48, you have to watch as they deteriorate, become frail and helpless. I’m supposed to be out, making regrettable decisions and leaving a mark on the world, instead here I am making eggs, grits and fish because it’s the only thing Mama’s gonna eat.

It’s fine, I tell myself because no one else is there to tell me that it’ll be okay.

The grease on the stove is popping and Mama is humming one of her songs. It’s almost time for my oldest sister to make her daily call, the one call that makes her feel like she’s doing her part, but I just focus on the eggs in the pan and fish frying beside it.

“I love you, Joana-May,” Mama says so suddenly it startles me and I’m centimeters away from burning my wrist on the stove.

“I love you, too, Mama,” I managed after fixing the woman with a broken stare. Mama only said the ‘L’ word on two occasions; after church and after a whoopin’. It fills me with an unease and I’m only shaken from my stupor once the phone rings.

“Hey, Sash,” I say into the receiver, stirring the grits in the pot, watching the yellow butter mix into the thick white.

“Put Mama on the phone.” I ignore how my sister blatantly disregards my presence and instead press the phone to Mama's ear.

“Who dis here?” She asks, her right shoulder scrunched up to cradle the landline on muscle memory.

“It's Sasha, Mama,” I hear faintly through the speaker. “Your daughter.”

“I know who Sasha is, girl, I ain't that senile,” their mother laughs. I smirk bitterly because, yes, she was “that senile”.

“Right,” Sasha says. “I'm just calling to check on you and make sure Jo takin’ care of you.”

Oh, so she does know I exist, I think to myself.

“Everything is alright around here, suga’. No need to worry about us. Although Clif ain't been home yet today, they must got him workin’ overtime at that damn garage.”

I, nor Sasha, corrects Mama that our father has been dead for five years now. The other end of the call seems quiet for too long.

“Oh, I just need to see all my babies together again. My grandbabies too, don't wait before God take me on to glory to come ‘round, nah,” Mama says. I turn off the stove and grab some dishes for dinner.

“Ok, Mama,” Sasha replies, she sounds as sad as she is bored with the conversation. “Alright, I was just callin’ to check on you, I gotta get the kids ready for bed.”

“Alright dear.”

And then the line goes dead.

Dinner was nothing special; Mama asked for hot sauce on her fish and I had to tell her no because of her blood pressure the same way I do every night. She hummed a church song under her breath and rocked between bites. She asked me to pray for the food five times tonight. It took an hour and a half to be done. I wiped her mouth and sat her down in front of the television just in time for the three episode run of Good Times. I listened to her recite the lines of the show and have a one-sided conversation with herself as I washed and dried the dishes.

I'm exhausted.

I finally return to my spot on the couch and resume where I left off on this practice square. It took me ages to finally learn this new pattern and it's taking me some time to get back in the groove. The third and final episode of the night begins to play. Me and Mama both sing along to the theme song and watch as the beginning scene fades in.

It's the episode of Jame's funeral.

I reach for the remote to change the channel.

“Don't you touch that clicker, Joana-May,” Mama says. She gives me a look from her spot on the couch. I want to defy her, but that was beat out of me years ago and so, I allow the episode to run. I check her reaction throughout. She laughs every time someone walks through the door with a ham, and “mhm"s as Florida scolds her children. Her eyes are glued to the screen and my eyes are glued to her. The episode creeps its way to the end and Florida says she doesn't need help cleaning up after the guest.

I can see it before Florida picks of the punch bowl, the way Mama's mouth droops, her bottom lip quivers and her eyes glaze over and moistens.

“Damn, damn, damn.” I hear from the T.V. and I watch as my mother remembers the death of her husband.

“Clif gone?” She asks me, her eyes wet. “They done took my Clif from me?”

I wish I had defied her.