Saturday, October 31, 2020 - “Her Cherry Colored Lips” - Jade Brown

         HER CHERRY COLORED LIPS

         “Can you stand?” Her crow’s feet expanded. The bath water had cooled down enough to stutter her into remembrance. Her breath was keeping tabs on the time that laid idle around her. Perhaps she was floating.  

         “Not yet,” she now hummed when she spoke. I liked to see the vibrations rummage through her diaphragm. Yes, please keep her moving.

         The towel has now smothered itself for her comfort. I pull it from under her bum to wring out over the tiny sink. The water festers about the room, telling us both to cry. I look over and her stare still revokes a scenery. The vent above the tub tries to out sing her hums, but instead falls victim to the perseverance of death. My throat clenches. I settle the nausea with a story, propping myself onto the rim.

         “Toy was telling me,” I swallowed melancholy, pushing a grin. “Toy was telling me how Gail’s family has a game room in their basement. They invited me over sometime to play Street Fighter.”

         She winces. Not from the invite but powerlessness. “That’s so nice.”

         “I’m excited. Toy told me that Gail is pretty good at Street Fighter, but I don’t think she’s better than me.”

         “No one is better than you, sweetie,” her eyelids fold over. “Can you get the back of my neck?”

         I lift the pixie cut wig just enough to drench her nape. She spares me some room, or what she convinces herself is sufficient. She was only in her fifties, but the way her body held its breath made her appear twenty years older. Bath water is too translucent. I’ve never seen my mother naked before this day, and somehow I knew, it would probably be the last time I’d ever see her at all.

         Perpendicular the boisterous vent, was a compact window. It soothed a warm cobalt air inside, and reminded me that dinner time was approaching. I tried to picture the scant pantry, but maybe I didn’t want to. My recollection could only come up with black beans, kidney beans and whole kernel corn. For the  past few weeks that was all my buds could get a hold of. Toy had taken the last stack of string cheese to his overnight shift.

         Greedy.

         “We might have some beans in there if you want that for dinner,” I repositioned myself to my knees, resting my elbows beside her. Steadily to not strike her.

          “Do we have franks? Can you make franks and beans? I like Nathan’s.”

         “We might have the chicken kind. Nathan’s is too much,” I really don’t even think we have the chicken kind anymore.  

         “I want Nathan’s. Can you take the card and go to the shop to get some?”

         There was no money on that card. Probably like $3.14, which can only get two bags of chips, one Nutty Bar and four ice cream sandwiches.

         “Oh! I think we got some ham in there. How about one of my famous ham sandwiches?”

         Her fingers, now rippled and thin, massaged the surface of the water. She slapped it gently, causing a catapulted drop to dab my forearm. That was a yes. I hesitated for a second, realizing the slick leathery makeup of the cold-cut may be too difficult for her to swallow. There was also a pack of shrimp ramen in there, if I pour the flavoring into a cup of a hot water, it’ll make a descent soup.

         It’s settled.

         “Lila,” hummmmm. “Did you start your homework?”

         I looked at my backpack leaning up at the end of the corridor. It was opened. Not because I had started, but the moment I got home I found her in a stew of her own feces.  

         “Lila!” She smiled when she called my name then. “You’re home!”

         I ripped out three sheets of looseleaf from my Rugrats binder and used them to shield the mess. I don’t know whose sight I was trying to redirect, mine or hers. Toy was gone. He’s been leaving earlier and earlier each day. Spending all his time off with Gail. When I first stumbled in, my mother shouted out Antoine with grief and rage. For Toy’s sake, I wish I were him.

         “I’ll get to it after dinner,” also avoiding fractions. “Can you stand now?”

         Her vision rose. I could see her strolling to a nearby playground. Running her hand across the rubber swing to make sure it wasn’t hot enough to peel skin. Looking down at the auburn mulch, testing to see the best time to fall into it knee first. Listening for the sounds of the sprinkler. Instead, eloping to a Latina selling ices from a broken eggshell cart. My mom always loved cherry, the same natural color of her lips. The topping she’s left on my life. She had no money, but she stands to watch others who do. She smiles while reclining deeper into her own tears.

         She smiles at me, “I’m so sorry, Lila.”

         I remove the brittle wig from her scalp. Scarce brown puffs grow in patches. I kiss the the edge of her forehead, closer to her nasal bridge. My arms create a wreath around her head, allowing her face to be the celebrated centerpiece. A stream diverges from her eyes to my white button down. I release her.

         Hummmmm.

         She gifts me the scene of a playground.

I try my best to drown it out.

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Jade Brown is a fiction writer and poet based in New York City. Her work focuses on liberating women who are shoved in dehumanizing categories, with emphasis on women of color. Jade's heavy use of allegories in her writing brings light to social construct, racial dynamic, and feminine opulence.