Canon
Neevah’s laughterfloats down to me from upstairs when I walk in the front door. Thoughts of all it will take to finish Dessi Blue—shoot the last few scenes, go into post-production, editing, not to mention promotion and the work Monk still needs to do on the score—crowd my mind. A lot of time has passed since the day I found that little green sign footnoting Dessi’s life on Highway 31. There have been a series of delays, stops and starts, but the fire to tell her story, which is the story of so many Black performers from that era, is no less bright than the day I found her. Once Neevah is cleared to finish, and not a minute before, we will get it done. I didn’t just find one amazing woman when I saw that sign. I found two. The other one is upstairs, filling my house, which used to be so empty; hell, lonely, with the sound of her happiness. I want to see that sound on her face, so I set aside all the to-dos that came out of our meeting with Galaxy, and quietly make my way up the stairs.
I pause in the door, watching her on the bed. She’s lying on her stomach, her legs bent and swinging back and forth as she grins at her iPad screen. Her niece, Quianna, whom I think looks as much like Neevah as she does Terry, laughs, displaying her new braces.
“So you think Canon will be okay if I come visit for a few weeks this summer?” Quianna asks.
“I think he will be,” I speak up, walking farther into the room and into the camera’s view.
“Hey, Canon!” The young girl’s pretty face brightens. “I won’t stay long, and I won’t break anything.”
“You have to ask your parents first,” Neevah says, her chin resting in her palm.
“Oh, you know she already did,” Terry says, walking into the frame. “Think I’ll turn down some time where I’m not worrying about this child? Shoot, I’ll be what? Unbothered.”
“We’ll make a plan,” Neevah says, smiling. “Maybe you can convince your grandmother to fly out to Cali again.”
“You spoiled Mama, Canon.” Terry laughs. “You’ll have to charter her another private plane for that.”
“I’ll see what we can do,” I tell her.
“Quianna, come on,” Terry says. “Wrap it up. You gonna be late for dance.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Aunt Neevah,” Quianna says, “and we’ll make plans.”
“Definitely.” Neevah waves. “Love you guys. Bye.”
Once they sign off, Neevah flips onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. “Never could have seen that conversation happening a few months ago.”
I lie down beside her on my back. “I think recovering from the surgery in North Carolina was smart.”
“I mean, at the time I didn’t have any choice.”
“You could have come back to Cali after the first week or so, once they cleared you to fly, but you stayed there to heal. Not just your body, but your relationship with them.” I link our fingers between us on the bed. “I love that you did that. It’s paid off.”
“Seems to have.” She turns onto her side, looking at my profile. “I have some good news, by the way.”
I turn my head to look at her and have to smile. The malar, or butterfly rash, that splayed its wings across her nose and cheeks has faded now that we’ve got that flare under control. With a functioning kidney, the healthy tone of her coppery skin has been restored and most of the lesions and rashes on her arms and legs have faded. She lost so much hair, she decided to cut it off, leaving a short cap of natural curls. There are still a few spots growing back in, but her scalp seems to be recovering along with the rest of her.
“Sooooooo,” she says, sitting up on one elbow to peer down at me. “I had an appointment with Dr. Okafor today.”
“Good. I bet she’s tired of you by now.”
“Not as tired as I am of her. We’ve seen each other, like, every week for the last two months.”
I tense, but keep my expression unchanged. I haven’t wanted to pressure Neevah at all about finishing the last scenes of Dessi Blue. The flare was so bad and so obviously triggered by the stress of filming. Dr. Okafor wouldn’t even entertain Neevah going back until we saw clear signs things were turning around for the better, in addition to making sure her body didn’t reject the kidney and that she was recovering from the surgery well. I completely agreed and have been the loudest voice making sure Neevah follows every one of the doctor’s instructions.
My tension comes from my own fear that something will go unexpectedly wrong. I’ll never forget carrying Neevah off the set, terrified about what would happen to her. I’ve actually been talking through my fears with my therapist, especially since I’ve lived through chronic and, in Mama’s case, terminal illness with a loved one before.
And Neevah is so loved.
“So what did the good doctor say?”
“I asked if I can go back to work.” Neevah glances up at me through long lashes.
“And?”
“And yes!”