But it was a new town. A fresh start. Maybe I could sleep like a normal person. Maybe it’d be okay.
I curled up on the shitty futon and eventually dozed off.
The nightmare was waiting.
The thud of his bootsteps across our kitchen. The slide of her jeans against the linoleum as she tried to back away. The bat, rising and coming down.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I woke up to my own screams, the sheets drenched in sweat, the reverberations of the bat still running through me like aftershocks.
I sucked in deep breaths until I felt steady, then threw on some clothes and laced up my boots.
So much for fresh fucking starts.
Outside, I stared into a dark, quiet night and began to walk.
ThreeShiloh
That Friday, the end of the first week of school, I woke at 5:00 a.m.—like usual. Dawn had just begun to creep into my bedroom that was impeccably neat yet completely full of everything that was me.
Bibi called it my nest.
“You’re like a magpie, collecting beautiful, shiny things.”
My best friend, Violet, called it a reflection of my creative energy. My full-size bed was tucked in one corner to make room for shelves filled with books about metalwork, gemology, crystal energy, artist biographies, and poetry collections. Collages hung on every available wall space along with mandalas I’d drawn in black ink and a few watercolors from my brief foray into painting. Pencil sketches and doodles were stacked in neat piles on my desk under the window beside planners and notebooks full of to-do lists—each with every item scratched off.
I flipped on the multicolored lights hung where the wall met the ceiling. Their soft glow gave the room a dim but colorful ambience I loved.
I put on some Prince and sat at my desk to draw, and in twenty minutes, I had a rough sketch for a new piece. A ring where thin strands of metal—copper and silver, probably—coiled around a semiprecious stone like a vine. This afternoon’s work in the garage. I smiled.
I make my own shiny things.
Of all my creative outlets, making jewelry pulled me the strongest. The work was difficult; it required a lot of skill, materials, and time.Early mornings, late nights, and weekends. If I didn’t give it everything, thenothingfeeling would swoop in, whispering I was a mistake my mother never wanted.
I held up the drawing of the ring. It wasn’t curing cancer, but it was what I had to give. To put something beautiful in the world that wasn’t there before.
The clock read six thirty. I exchanged the headscarf I slept in for a shower cap, showered, then ran through my morning hair care routine.My cousin Letitia is an artist herself, I thought as I sprayed shea butter moisturizer on my scalp and along the hundreds of perfect little braids that fell softly around my shoulders. Not for the first time, I considered taking her up on her offer to fly back to NOLA in six weeks for a touch-up at her salon. Maybe I’d barge in on Mama and demand answers. About her. My father. Maybe then, the hollow feeling inside would be filled up with the truth.
Maybe you don’t want to know the truth.
The warm smells of breakfast seeped into my sanctuary, dispelling cold thoughts. I dressed in a sundress in yellow and strappy sandals. A half-dozen coppery bracelets slid down my wrists, and I slipped on a silver-and-turquoise ring I’d made earlier that summer. Before I stepped out, I checked my horoscope desk calendar with its prediction for the day.
Be prepared for something unexpected.
I scoffed. Nothing was unexpected. I planned and prepared to make sure of that.
I joined Bibi in the kitchen where she was at the stove, presiding over pancakes and bacon. She shuffled around the small space in a white housedress and slippers, her robe sweeping over the old linoleum.
“Morning, Bibi,” I said, pecking her cheek.
“Good morning, honey pie. Grab a seat. There’s fresh cantaloupe.”
I sat at the too-big dining table tucked between the kitchen and living room. A bowl of sliced melon sat amid the ceramic tea set in the center. Bibi made her way from the stove with two plates in her handsand joined me. In her own house, it was nearly impossible to tell her vision was all but gone. Or that she was eighty years old.