Neevah
A house is not a home.
Luther’s lyric replays in my head as I pull up to the house where I grew up. A house may not always be a home, but this one used to be. In the years before my father died, this brick ranch-style house was filled with laughter and the four of us were happy.
When he passed away, grief drew Mama, Terry, and me closer. Love kept us tight.
It’s hard to believe this patch of land, this street, this town used to be the breadth of my existence. Not much has changed here. Oh, the Piggly Wiggly is gone and there’s a new Taco Bell/KFC combo on Main Street, but Mama says Mrs. Shay still does a fish fry every Saturday and sells chitterlings dinners at Christmas.
I thank the Uber driver and drag my small rolling suitcase behind me under the car porch and to the door. My flight was delayed and Mama had to take one of the ladies from church to the doctor’s office, so I told her I could find my way home.
“You still got your house key?” she had asked.
I pull out my key ring and select the one I haven’t used in years. I wonder if the key, like me, no longer fits here, but it slides right in. I can only hope my homecoming goes as smoothly.
“I’m home,” I tell the empty foyer, parking my suitcase at the foot of the stairs. I’m not quite ready to face the pink canopy bed and my wall poster gallery of Missy Elliott, Justin Timberlake and Soulja Boy.
“Soulja Boy?” I grimace and laugh. “That was quick.”
It’s not my first time home in the twelve years since I left for college, but it’s one of only a few, and the first time I’ve had this house and all its memories to myself. I wander down the hall into the living room and, like a shrine to what our family used to be, a lifetime of photos line the mantel. Each one chronicles a uniquely awkward phase of my life. Stockings decorated with candy canes hang over the fireplace, the same ones Mama used to stuff on Christmas Eve with our names on them. Now there’s a new stocking.
Quianna.
The beautiful living indiscretion that demolished my illusions and tore my family at the seams. Mama was disappointed and angry with them, of course. She took my side, of course.
But Terry was pregnant and needed Mama more than I did.
Terry was a new mother and needed Mama more than I did.
Terry was here, and I was gone, so she got more of Mama than I did.
In a strange new city, I licked my wounds alone. Away from home for the first time and overwhelmed, I learned to stand on my own by necessity. I never stopped needing Mama, but I let her think I was fine, and to survive, I told myself the same lie. But lately with my life barreling ahead at breakneck speed, with a decade’s worth of work harvesting rewards seemingly overnight, there’s been a tiny hole in my happiness. An irritating tear like a sock in need of darning. A secret tucked inside my shoe, but it doesn’t affect the way I walk, and I’m the only one who knows it’s there.
Last I heard from Mama, Terry and Brandon were packed and ready to go to Virginia. Looks like we’ll avoid each other again. I’m looking forward to some time with Mama, just us two. It’s good that Terry and Brandon went to Virginia to see the other side of his family. After the strain of starring in my first movie, and one as huge as Dessi Blue, I need a break, not more stress.
This room hasn’t changed much either. The couch is still here—the one Terry and Brandon sat on, side by side, building their little wall of solidarity with the mortar of deceit. Masons of betrayal.
An artificial Christmas tree stands in the corner. That’s different. Growing up, we always had a live tree. Daddy insisted, and Mama continued the tradition when he was gone.
I haven’t been here many Christmases. The holiday season is one of the busiest in theater, and it’s hard to get off even for a few days. I often used that as an excuse to stay away, especially when I knew Terry and Brandon would be here. Touring or understudying, waiting in the wings, longing for home, I always pictured a live tree and imagined I could smell the pine.
Not this year.
This too-green thing sprinkled with cheap tinsel is odorless and stiff, with gaps and plug-by-the-number branches.
The alarm dings, signaling an open door. In New York, we keep a bat for protection when doors open unannounced, but the neighborhood watch is a formality here. Crime is not a thing.
I walk to the kitchen, eager to see Mama for the first time in nearly a year. “How was Mrs.—”
My words wither and die. Terry stands in the kitchen at the car porch entrance, toting grocery bags full of food. I can’t remember the last time we were alone, but I know it was as awkward then as it is now.
“Oh.” I lick my lips and grit my teeth. “I thought Mama was coming home.”
“She took Mrs. Dobbs to—”
“I know. She told me. I didn’t think you would . . .”
Be here.