FEBRUARY
Today is the day I’ve been expecting for four years, seven months and twenty-four days. I put my hand over my heart to catch it from sinking and let the phone ring out while staring at the screen. Mommy? Why does my screen say mommy? There’s no way I’m ready to hear her voice. No way I’m ready to listen to what she has to say.
My dad is moving stuff into storage today, so it’s just me, sitting in my room with my headphones on drawing on my iPad. My phone is on the floor beside me, still lit from the missed call. I’m waiting to see if there’s any text notification, one of those long, essay-type messages I’d have to scroll through to read her explanation for where she was when I graduated middle school, or what she was doing when I got my driver’s license, or why she wasn’t there to scream at me when I smoked weed for the first time, got my nose pierced and dyed my hair blond.
I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I told myself a million times that I’m over this whole having a mom thing. And I am. I really am. Never mind that her number is still saved as Mommy in my phone and seeing that word splashed across my screen triggers all this bullshit I spent years dealing with.
She calls again. Mommy. And it’s like the vibration from the phone is echoing through my body. I’m staring at the red Cancel icon knowing what I should do, but I lower my headphones and swipe green to answer.
“Hi.”
My first words. Our first words since not long after I got my period. I put my iPhone to my ear and cover my other ear with my finger to keep it all in. Even the walls in my room feel like intruders, so even though I’m home alone, when I say “hi,” it comes out just above a whisper.
“Hello, Coi.” Her voice sounds restrained, almost calm, and still has the melodic tone I remember so well. I wait for what’s next. What words are going to come out of her mouth? “How are you?”
“Good.”
“You sound good.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
My mother was never comfortable with silence. I can still hear 50 Cent and Jay-Z and Beres Hammond and Buju Banton blaring at all times of the day and night. The only thing louder than the music was her screaming at me to do some chore or yelling at her boyfriend over the phone. It was either that or her laughing at one of the Housewives shows, usually Atlanta, like she had the same condition as the Joker, and getting so into it that she’d jump on the couch and turn the volume all the way up.
“Nothing?” she repeats. I don’t respond. “I really miss you, Coi.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You can start by saying you miss me too.”
I remove the phone from my ear, press End, put it on silent, and put my headphones back in.
But I can’t hear the music. The only sound in my head is my mom’s voice on repeat like a catchy pop song. Except this isn’t a song I want to hear.
You sound good.
Are you busy?
What are you doing?
I really miss you.
I stuff my face in my pillow and scream till my ribs hurt. Then I stop and do it again.
You can start by saying you miss me too.
That was a joke, right? It had to be. I don’t remember my mom having any sense of humor, but that right there is Dave Chappelle–level comedy. Maybe that’s why part of me feels like bursting out in a belly laugh. My eyes are closed so tight I can feel the pressure on my temples. I just spoke to my mother.
The volume on my headphones isn’t loud enough. I need to hear this music. I need to kill this other voice that’s trying hard to rent space in my head without actually paying for anything. Staring at my iPad, I can see that this illustration is turning out much better than I expected. That color theory class is actually doing me some good. Not just the one I’m taking now, but the one I took when I was still in high school. My dad put me in graphic design classes the year after he won full custody. I was fourteen and remember being afraid to tell him that I wanted to be a fashion designer. Not that my dad is scary or anything; I just didn’t want to risk seeing him fold his lips together and stare down at me with those prophetic eyes. It’s not really his height that makes him intimidating or that he can still easily throw me over his shoulder without a grunt. It’s those eyes. Behind those dark stares are expectations. My dad imagined his way to where we are now, and the silent expectation was that I would imagine something even greater for myself. But the odds of making it as a fashion designer are probably worse than making it to the NBA, so yeah, I wasn’t jumping at the chance to break the news to him. And when I finally summoned enough courage to tell him, he wasn’t jumping at the possibility either.
“You sure this is what you wanna do?” he asked. “Because it’s okay not to be sure. You’re barely a teenager, Coi. You should be trying a bunch of different things just to see what you like.”
Maybe if I wasn’t standing in front of him to see his eyes narrow, to feel his mind thinking ten, twenty, thirty years down the line and calculating the odds of me having a great life, I wouldn’t have felt so anxious.
“Yeah…yeah, I think I’m sure.”
My dad could’ve killed the idea right then. Told me that I was a kid and that I had no idea what I really wanted and shouldn’t be closing the door on every other possible career to chase this dream that like one percent of one percent of people achieve.
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “If this is something you’re sure about, then I’m with you. I’ll do whatever I can to help you and buy whatever you need to get started. But there’s one thing you have to do for me.”
“What is it?”
“You have to learn how to do graphic design.”
“Umm, okay. Why?”
My dad is a copywriter and a ghostwriter, a career that none of my friends understand even after I explain it.
“Trust me, if you learn graphic design, you’ll always be able to make money. And you’ll be able to put that money toward building your fashion career.”
What he said didn’t really mean much to me back then. I just wanted to do fashion, so I agreed. I got to take sewing classes on the weekends and my dad put me in graphic design classes twice a week. Now I’m eighteen years old, in my first year of college, and already getting paid to design magazines for indie publications and build websites for startup businesses. I guess sometimes parents actually know what they’re talking about.
As grateful as I am for the money I’m making, fashion is still the vision. My Instagram is like an ode to the nineties, which is the decade I was really meant to be raised in. I’ve watched Catwalk, like, ten times — Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell might as well be gods on earth. My last post was about Aaliyah. Everything I wear is because of her, and with every piece I design, I’m thinking of one of her music videos or what the outfit would look like if she wore it on stage.
With all the sewing classes I took throughout high school and my obsession with watching every single YouTube video I could about fashion, I really didn’t need any creative training. I’m taking fashion business in college so I can learn how to sell my clothing line. I’m trying to be one of the one percent of the one percent. I don’t care how
crazy those odds seem.
And this course is teaching me something. I’m learning how to market, learning about trends and finding a manufacturer and branding and shipping. So much of this stuff comes down to numbers.
Numbers.
One thousand six hundred and ninety-nine days. I know what that number means. That’s why I hung up the phone.
It’s hours after the call when I finally hear the front door of our apartment unlock and feel a wave of relief. Normally I just wait for my dad to knock on my bedroom door and tell me he’s home. He always stands in my doorway for a few seconds to ask what I’m doing before heading into the bathroom or starting dinner. This time, I rush out of my room and meet him in the hallway while he’s taking off his boots.
“My mom called me.”
My dad chuckles like he thinks I’m not serious, but when he sees the look on my face he knows this is real.
“What? When?”
“A little while ago.” I’m always looking up when talking to my dad. Even when his boots are off, he’s still tall enough that I can see the bottom of his chin.
“Did you answer?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
I shrug my shoulders and follow my dad into the kitchen. He turns on the tap and uses the dish soap to wash his hands.
“She didn’t say anything, really. I hung up on her.”
We both burst out laughing. It’s our favorite thing to do together. But I know my dad won’t let me get away without giving him more info.
“So you hung up on her?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
This should be an easy answer. I can name at least a dozen reasons off the top of my head. My dad’s leaning up against the sink waiting for me to say something. I’m searching through my mind thinking of which of those reasons is the most obvious. Which one makes me hate her the most?
The necklace?
My dad’s still waiting. I’m still searching.
My sister?
Now my smile is gone.
One thousand six hundred and ninety-nine days?
I can’t catch my breath. My dad’s already pouring a glass of water from the fridge. I’m hunched over with my eyes closed, trying my best to focus on inhaling long and deep through my nose and exhaling through my mouth.
“Just breathe, Coi. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
My dad says this as he’s rubbing my back. Tears are streaming down my face, faster with each memory. I’m trying to wipe them away as quickly as they’re flowing.
I don’t cry. Not for her,
Not ever.
Tears are pooling under my chin. After another minute, my breathing slows down and my dad hands me the cup of water.
“That hasn’t happened for a while,” he says. He guides me to the couch, and we sit down side by side. I guess I should be grateful that this is the first panic attack in almost a year. They started the summer before high school, which is the same summer my dad won custody, which is the last summer I saw my mother.
I keep the cup in my hand so I have something to look at besides his face and can hide these teary eyes that make me look like some kind of victim. I can tell he’s thinking through what to say. Actually, he probably knows exactly what he wants to say but is thinking through how to say it.
I’m his little girl. His only child. The reason for most of the drama in his life but hopefully most of the joy, too. Sometimes I forget that my dad’s my dad. That this person I can talk to about all my firsts was the same age I am right now when he had me. Thinking about that freaks me out. There’s no way I could take care of a baby right now. No way.
“What you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s something I have never told my dad, which I feel kinda bad about. But I did actually see my mom last summer.
It was weird. Me and my best friend, Jes, were hanging out at her house when my aunt texted me and asked if I could do her hair.
“Just a few braids,” she said. She was almost nine months pregnant at the time so I felt like being nice, plus I really love my aunt. She’s my mom’s half-sister, but whatever half she got is the half I wish my mom had. She’s also the only family member on my mom’s side who’s kept in touch with me since I’ve been with my dad. We mostly only text, but every once in a while, she’d invite me over and I’d feel brave enough to agree.
Me and Jes jumped in an Uber and when we pulled up to my aunt’s townhouse, she was sitting on her porch.
“We might have a little problem,” my aunt said as we made our way up the driveway. “Your mom just called and asked if she could drop your sister off. Of course, I didn’t tell her you’d be here…how you wanna handle this? I can call you an Uber if you don’t wanna stay.”
Just the thought of seeing my mom made my stomach sink. I looked over at Jes.
“Don’t look at me. I live with my mom. I see her every day.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my aunt.
“Can I just wait inside? She’s just dropping her off, right? So if you meet her outside, she won’t have to come in.”
“I can do that.”
My mom lives only a few minutes away from my aunt so we hustled inside. I was still anxious, though. I thought about hiding in my aunt’s bedroom closet just to be sure. I also thought about leaving altogether, but it was too late for that.
It couldn’t have been two minutes later when I heard dance hall music blaring from outside. My mom clearly still knew how to make an entrance. Instead of retreating to my aunt’s room, I tiptoed to the front window that overlooked the driveway and shifted the blinds just enough to get a peek. And there she was. My mother. Standing close enough for me to tell her whatever I wanted. She smiled with my lips, spoke with my voice, pointed her feet outward when she walked, the same way I do.
I had to fight the urge not to run outside. All the animosity was melting away faster than the chocolate ice cream Jes and I tried eating in the Uber. But I didn’t move. Not one inch. I just stood there, at the corner of the window, looking at the person I feared and pitied and hated and never trusted, and watched her drive away.
I’m not sure why I never told my dad about that. It’s almost like I’ve been processing it for all these months. And there was something special about that day; I got to see my sister. Kayla was like nine the last time I saw her, so seeing her four years later was like meeting a different person. When I first split from my mom and reached out to my aunt to speak to Kayla, she told me that talking to Kayla probably wasn’t a good idea. That my mom was telling Kayla she didn’t have a sister any more. That I wasn’t part of their family. There was only one time Aunty let Kayla speak to me on the phone, and she said she spent the rest of the day reminding Kayla not to tell her mom because they’d both be out of the family, too.
When Kayla first came inside, I just sat on the couch, crossed my legs and pretended like I didn’t see her. But as soon as she turned that corner, ...
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