“I don’t know,” I mumble.
“What?” MiMi asks. “Open your mouth and look up when you speak to me.” She claps her hands together and my head snaps up. I stare her in the eyes even though my eyes sting.
“I don’t know,” I repeat.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I try to shrug but my shoulders are too heavy. “I’ve been calling her. Texting her. She won’t pick up. Her phone’s not even on anymore. I spoke with Sterling and she ain’t seen her, either.” The words tumble out of my mouth. I wait for my chest to feel weightless, but the heftiness of dread still hasn’t left it yet. “I went to the cops and everything. Spoke with Officer Hunter from church. He ain’t trying to help, though.”
“Wait a minute.” MiMi gets to her feet. No groaning like usual—she’s on them in half a second. “You went to the cops? Jayson, how long has she been gone?”
My eyes are back on my shoes. “Last time I heard from her was Thursday night.”
“Lord have mercy, Thursday night?” MiMi cups her hands over her mouth and says a prayer in between her fingers. When she looks back at me, she has enough tears to turn her golden eyes murky. Just like that, I’m ruined. “I have to find her.” She starts patting her pants, the pocket in front of her shirt. “Keys. What I do with my keys?”
“I’ve tried to find her, MiMi,” I say—and then instantly want to punch myself in the face. I didn’t try hard enough. Hell, I hung up on her. Then ignored her call like she was some bill collector. I’m her brother. Doesn’t matter how irritated I get with her, I’m always supposed to have her back.
MiMi rummages through her purse now. “I just had them . . .” she says more to herself than to me. Beads of sweat crawl down her face like sideburns.
Now I’m on my feet. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get answers. I owe her that much. Just sit down for a minute. You don’t look too—”
“No, Jay. No. I’m supposed to take care of both of you. I promised your father I would. It’s my job to get that baby back home before she gets hurt.” She clutches her forehead. “What if she’s already hurt? Lord, what if my baby’s out there crying for me right now—wondering why I haven’t gotten her yet? What . . . what about her bottle?”
I frown. “Her bottle? What?”
“Don’t make it hoo tot. Too hot. Just run some hot water over it and . . .” MiMi takes a wobbly step toward me. Before I can catch her, she tumbles to the floor. My heart right next to her.
I get back home right around dinnertime and the apartment is so still, so quiet, that I almost choke on the silence. The doctors said MiMi had a hemorrhagic stroke because of her high blood pressure. They said the ambulance got to her just in time. That I did good and moved quickly and other shiz to pat me on the back.
But all I hear is: MiMi wouldn’t be here if you got her meds. If you didn’t lose Nic. If you weren’t such a shitty grandson.
MiMi’s face just before she hit the floor is tatted on my brain. The urgency to get to Nic. The fear that it might be too late to get to her. Parallel feelings sketching parallel paths across her forehead. Not the usual worry lines—MiMi was devastated. And I caused that devastation by pushing Nic away.
I keep beating myself up as I pull out my phone. Stare long and hard at it. I don’t know the prison number by heart, but it’s somewhere in my contacts. Mom would want to know what’s going on with her mother-in-law. With Nic. With me. But having that conversation, after so many years of no conversations, is enough to give me heartburn. I had enough on my plate right now. Instead, I grab a suitcase out of MiMi’s closet. Start shoving in some of her belongings. She has to be under close observation in ICU for a few days, and I want to make sure she has everything she needs when she finally comes to. Bedroom slippers, nightgown, her favorite hairbrush. I pause when I reach her lotions and perfumes. She changes up her scent each season, but I can never remember if she prefers Japanese Cherry Blossom in the spring or in the fall. Nic always knows. But she’s not here to help because of me. She doesn’t even know MiMi’s in the hospital.
Because of me.
I’m almost grateful for the knock at the door. The more time I spend in MiMi’s bedroom, the emptier it feels. I grab the packed bag and make my way to the front door, peek out the peephole. Frown hard when I spot who’s out there.
I open the door and nod at Riley Palmer. Not too enthusiastically. After all, it’s just Riley Palmer. “Yeah?” I ask.
“Aren’t you full of pleasantries?” She nods back at me. “Are you going to let me in?”
Let her in? Riley is the kind of Black chick who thinks Black guys like me eat fried chicken and watermelon with every meal—and have a crew that eats chicken and watermelon in between impregnating random girls. I’m not giving her any opportunity to scope out where I lay my head to come up with any more tall tales about me. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong from upstairs giggle over something just as they crank up the R&B musings of Usher. Mr. Armstrong just got a promotion at the shipyard. Sure I’ll be hearing them celebrating all night long.
Riley glances over my shoulder. “Where’s Ms. Murphy? I want to say hi.”
“She’s not here.” I grip onto the doorknob, brace myself for what’s about to come out my mouth. “She’s in the hospital.”
Riley’s eyes grow wide, circular. I’m sure the color would leave her cheeks if that was possible. “Jay . . .” Her mouth freezes, partially open. Like she’s searching for the right thing to say.
“She’s fine,” I spit out before she finds it. The nurses offered enough sorrys that I could take a shower in them. But sorry doesn’t help MiMi. “She’s just there for observation. She’s fine.” I try not to repeat it again. “What do you want?”
Riley pauses in case I want to say more, but I chew on the inside of my cheek. “If you or Ms. Murphy need anything . . .”
I keep chewing.
Riley sighs and continues. “I need to tell you something. But I was hoping I could come inside.” She leans close to me. So close that I smell the hair gel that keeps her ponytail intact. Almost like candy, but Riley sure as hell isn’t sweet.
“What’s wrong? Scared that you’re going to be grazed by a stray bullet?” I ask. “Think a car with huge rims is going to run you over? If you want to feel cozy, book it back home.”
Riley shakes her head. “Jay, you have no clue where I’m from.”
“Not sure if I care, Riley,” I say. “Either start bumping your gums or leave.”
Riley looks over her shoulder, keeps an eye on the door that leads out of my apartment complex. “I have some information for you,” she says in a hushed voice.
Information? What kind of intel could she possibly have that I need to know? I shrug at her even though she’s not looking at me. The silence makes her look at me again.
“About what we talked about yesterday,” she says, even quieter. “About your sister.”
Her words, though soft, come with gale force winds, so strong that I fall back against my door.