The Hearts We Burn Page 4

  I knelt down beside the grave and pulled out the fresh bouquet of flowers I had brought, silently picking up the old ones and setting the new ones in their place. I sighed, surprised when those familiar tears didn’t come. Maybe, just maybe I was beginning to heal. Or becoming numb to the despair.

  “Hey, Mama’s angels,” I started after an extended moment of silence. “I see Granny came by to visit. Y’all weren’t acting up, were you?” It helped, the light jokes. As forced as it was, I had to take this time not to wallow in my grief of their deaths but uplift the beauty in their lives, their presence. Even if it wasn’t here with me. At least I was trying to take Evelyn’s advice. “Mommy hasn’t been working a lot,” I went on. “Just missing you girls, really. I sleep in your nursery all the time. I dream about you every night. And Daddy and I talk about you. Which one of you would’ve had their first tooth, crawled first, who would’ve said ‘Mama’ first. My vote was on you with that one, Brooklyn.” I paused again and looked to the street when I heard a car engine. I swallowed my disappointment when the white Nissan Camry gently eased by and disappeared through the gate.

  Had I really expected Keon to come? After our heated argument, the fourth this week I might add, had I really expected my husband to be the bigger man and put our issues to the side for just a few hours while we visited our girls? Saturday morning, like clockwork, he knew this was what we did. What we had agreed to do. And yet, here I was alone. Surprised? I really shouldn’t have been. Hurt? To my core.

  I tore my eyes from the now empty street and glanced a few plots down to the other names I would have to bring myself to visit shortly. My time with my girls was special, albeit short, but the other grave never felt the same.

  “It’s strange,” I murmured almost to myself. “I come out here every week, I sit and talk to you girls, and I’m still just as broken as I was months ago when they told me you two didn’t make it. My therapist assures me it’ll get more bearable as time goes on. Not easier. ‘Bearable’ was her word. But I don’t know. It’s like I leave a piece of myself here each time I visit.”

  Tears clogged my throat and I released a heavy sigh. “Of course, not saying any of this is your fault, Babies. No, never that. For the rest of my life, you know I’m going to come see you. Even if it means one day, I’ll never leave.”

  I said my goodbyes, and slowly rose to my feet, taking in an extra moment of silence. I felt guilty as hell for not wanting to make the short walk across the gravesites. I wondered if there was some kind of curse I was laying over my life. Probably why I was in the predicament I was in. Nonetheless, I blew silent kisses to my daughters’ memorial, dabbed at the tears beginning to form at the corners of my eyes, and prepared myself.

  Kimmy had been my best friend, probably long before I was hers. Our chance encounter at the lockers at Lakeview Middle School had resulted in years of laughter, tears, and a sisterhood bond that had only strengthened over time. I had moved on past denial into that acceptance phase that left a raw bitterness gnawing at my insides.

  “. . . Breaking news. A woman and child were killed when a predawn fire tore through the mansion estate in a neighborhood overlooking Lake Spivey . . .”

  At the mention of the location, the familiar location so close to my own home, I turned my head to the TV to watch the newscaster continue her story.

  “Twenty-five-year-old Kimera Davis and her son, seven-month-old Jamal, died in the blaze, Sgt. Paul Roberson of the Henry County Police Department said. Neighbors recounted a chaotic scene as flames engulfed the house and firefighters tried to rescue those inside. The fire started on the first floor in the back of the home, according to Stockbridge police. A Cleveland firefighter and an EMS worker were also injured . . .”

  I didn’t realize I had been screaming until I felt hands struggling to restrain my arms against the hospital bed. I was sobbing, my head was throbbing and all I could focus on was the image of the house burned to a pile of charred wood flashing on the screen. And knowing Kimmy and Jamal had been inside. Then I felt the tiny pinprick of the needle on my forearm, and just as quickly, the horror subsided and my eyes fluttered closed, the tears coming in quiet trails down my sunken cheeks.

  The church had been thick with mourners for their funerals. A mix of family and members of Pastor Davis’s church congregation stood in clusters under umbrellas on the steps outside, speaking in hushed whispers, and dabbing at their cheeks with soiled tissues.

  I had felt eyes on me as I entered the building and slid into one of the back pews. Two coffins rested at the front, angled diagonally from the altar, and a picture of each of them rested in a frame on top of the powder-blue stainless steel. Just looking at the headshot of Kimmy, and then Jamal, those eyes that were gushing with warmth and innocence, had more tears falling.

  Once everyone was seated, the pastor stood at the front adorned in a cream and purple robe. He signaled the musician to lower the music. “Good afternoon.” His greeting was met with a few solemn murmurs. “We are here today to seek and receive comfort. Not one, but two souls have been called home to be with the Lord and though our hearts ache, we must find peace in trusting and relying heavily on God. Not just in this time of need, but always. Proverbs 3:5 says ‘Trust in the LORD with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding.’ We are going to move past the tears, the questions, and the doubt. For God does not make mistakes. And the Holy Spirit is here today to comfort and strengthen each of our hearts. And He will continue to be with us as we continue to live for God.”

  The pastor quoted a few more scriptures, then someone belted a tear-jerking rendition of Yolanda Adams’s “I’m Gonna Be Ready” that had a mass of sobs erupting.

  Even as the woman trailed on the last note, the instrumentals continued to play. I slipped from the pew like putty, my body weakened with grief.

  A shadow fell across the headstones and I immediately knew by the wide build who it was. I had asked him to meet me here. It had been an act of desperation but I was surprised when he obliged.

  “How you holding up?” Barlow’s voice came out rough as he stopped at my side. His shoulder bumped against mine, his hands shoved in his pockets. Both of our heads were lowered looking at the graves of my family and from a distance, I’m sure it looked as if we were grieving together. Certainly not conducting drug transactions.

  Hearing his code to make sure we were still good to handle business, I nodded my head. “Doing good today,” I answered as usual. I removed my own hand from my pocket, clutching the folded two hundred-dollar bills against my palm with my thumb. To keep the distance between us closed, I rested my head on his shoulder and his arm immediately circled my back to rub gently. Barlow took my hand and for a moment, we just stood in that platonic position while he expertly switched out the money I held for a Ziploc bag of pills. The trade was one fluid motion but as a precaution, we stood a moment longer before breaking contact.

  I immediately released the breath I was holding. Even after months of buying these pills on the black market, it always caused me a little anxiety. What if we were caught? What if Keon found out? But I had to reassure myself it wasn’t like I was a crackhead or buying heroin. It was merely the same meds my therapist had already prescribed. It was just never enough. I knew the shit I was going through so there was no way she could tell me how much medicine I needed to make me feel better. So, thank God I had met Barlow. It was my idea to start meeting at the cemetery. I was probably being paranoid, but something just didn’t sit well with me doing this in back alleys or anywhere out in the open.

  “So, when you gone let me take you out, little mama?” Barlow turned to face me for the first time, a sly grin on his lips. The man was the epitome of thug with the stocky build and face tattoos and arm sleeves coating his dark complexion. It was clear though his hustle was doing well for him because he always looked clean, yet not flashy enough to draw attention. It was as if he smelled like money, if he let you get close enough in his space to take a whiff.


  “Come on now,” I said, my smile sympathetic. “You know I’m married.”

  “Yeah, but he obviously ain’t taking care of you like I can.” Barlow nodded to my side pocket where I was now gripping the bag of pills in my fist. “He know about your little problem?”

  I frowned. “I don’t have a problem.”

  Barlow nodded, at the same time pulling out a blunt and a lighter. He fired up, lifting his head again to blow a steady stream of smoke in the air.

  “Yeah, aiight,” his voice laced with sarcasm. “All I’m saying is, I can make you happy, Ma. Give me a chance.”

  I didn’t really know how to respond. No, this wasn’t the first time Barlow had tried to come on to me, but it was becoming more and more persistent. And I was running out of ways to decline his advances without making it awkward between us.

  Barlow must have taken my silence as permission because before I knew it, his hand was on my face and he was planting his lips on mine. I froze, shocked.

  Surprisingly, his lips were soft, gentle, a stark contrast to his image. And, if I let myself admit it even for a second, I did enjoy the attention.

  A moan escaped my lips and the sound had me snatching my eyes open and stepping back to break the kiss. I was breathing heavy, the taste of his weed still fresh on my mouth. Barlow seemed satisfied with my reaction and he grinned again, putting the blunt back to his lips to take another drag.

  “Barlow . . .” My voice came out much weaker then I intended. Still, I pushed out the words. “Don’t do that shit again. We can’t—I can’t . . . I’m married.”

  His nod was quick, his face neutral. “Yeah, I got it, Ma.” But did he get it? He was now staring at me, a little too long for comfort. What did that mean?

  When he turned to leave, my hand quickly snaked out to stop him. I prayed like hell this didn’t mean he was done with me. “Is this . . .” I swallowed, my eyes almost pleading as he turned to look at me. “Are we . . . can I still call you? You know, if I need you?”

  “Yeah, I’m not about to fuck up business,” he said. “Hit me when you need me.”

  I didn’t like his verbiage. As if he knew I was going to call. He knew I needed him. And dammit if he wasn’t right. Still, I was satisfied just the same so I let his arm go and watched him make his way back to the waiting Escalade he had parked behind my car.

  But what had my heart quickening was another vehicle easing by on the graveled road, the familiar license plate like a glare against the crisp black paint he had just gotten detailed. I know because he’d said that’s where he was headed when I talked to him this morning. But here he was, in prime sight to witness everything that had just happened between me and Barlow. Shit, now I just had to figure out what all my husband had seen.

  I couldn’t bring myself to go home. Not yet. I tried to psych myself up by telling myself that it wasn’t Keon I had seen in the cemetery. No, he’d told me he wasn’t coming. I know because we had argued about it but I had settled on making the trip alone. I had been so upset that I had called Barlow, though it wasn’t “time” for more medicine. I figured might as well take advantage of the opportunity. So why, then, had Keon’s car been there? Had he been trying to surprise me? Did he know something and had been trying to catch me?

  He hadn’t bothered stopping and with good reason. I hadn’t thought a lie all the way through just yet so, though I was in full-fledged panic mode, I couldn’t help but sigh in relief when the car had turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  So now, in a weak attempt to prolong the inevitable, I knew, I maneuvered my car in the opposite direction from our house and headed to my mother-in-law’s instead. I just needed more time to think. To come up with something. Anything that wasn’t the truth but sounded reasonably like it could have been.

  We had ended up moving Mama Davis to an assisted living facility. Keon and I couldn’t bear the thought of her alone in that home she’d shared with the good pastor, consumed with grief and aging memories after his death. She was adamantly against moving in with us, though I could have used the company just as much as she could have. So this was the next best thing.

  Golden Gates was known in the community for being the crème de la crème so Keon and I hadn’t hesitated to move her there. Of course, it was expensive but the peace of mind was worth it. To our surprise, Mama Davis hadn’t put up a fight. Probably due to the exhaustion of everything she had been going through, which only saddened me more.

  It was hard enough for me losing my babies, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine what my mother-in-law was going through. A few months prior, her husband was murdered and now, to lose her daughter and grandson. It was more than obvious, however, the circumstances were taking a toll on her. She was clearly a different woman than she was last year.

  I parked in the visitor parking lot and walked along the stone pathway through the beautiful landscaped lawn. A man tended to the shrubbery and lifted his shears in the air to greet me as I walked by. I smiled in return.

  Inside, the lobby looked like something out of the W Hotel, with its marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and chandelier dripping from the dome ceiling. Yes, it was more than obvious what the money we handed over each month was going towards. But again, we were comforted by the round-the-clock care she was receiving, the amenities, and the sincere attention the residents received from the staff.

  I checked in at the front desk, flashed the receptionist my ID in exchange for a visitor pass, and walked back outside toward the housing units. Residents had their pick of the style of their home, from Victorian to contemporary luxury. They were grouped together, joined on either side like condominiums, with a common gardens area and gazebo right in the heart of the units. They were all one-bedrooms and despite being a substantial downgrade from her house, still just enough for what Mrs. Davis needed.

  I knocked on Unit 1302 and waited for her to buzz me in. I had a key but I wanted to respect her privacy. Especially because she wasn’t expecting this little impromptu visit from me.

  “Who is it?” Her voice cracked through the speaker beside the door.

  “It’s me, Mama,” I said.

  The buzzer signaled she had unlocked the door and I stepped inside her quaint cottage. The furniture was included and as minimal as it was, Mama Davis had brought her mementos and keepsakes to make the home her own. Her Wall of Fame held a collection of pictures from over the years, family, friends, and church members. It almost seemed like another life entirely. A two-way fireplace was against one wall but for safety reasons, was there for decorative purposes only, and above that, some Lifetime movie on mute played on the wall-mounted flat screen TV.

  The smell of soup steered me to the kitchen and sure enough, Mama Davis was gingerly removing a bowl from the microwave using oven mitts. She sat the bowl on the counter and I inhaled the delicious aroma.

  Again, due to safety, the residents weren’t allowed any appliances in their homes other than a microwave and a refrigerator. However, with the food included every month, the chefs made meals the residents could indulge in within the common areas or bring back to their homes to enjoy alone.

  “Hey Mama,” I greeted and stepped into the kitchenette to give the woman a kiss on the cheek. Her smile was tiny, but a smile nonetheless.

  “So glad to see you, Adria,” she said, searching her drawers for a spoon. “I wasn’t expecting you and Keon until next weekend.”

  “I know. I just . . . decided to drop by and surprise you. Check on you and make sure you were okay. You were on my mind.” It wasn’t a total lie. She was always on my mind. Never mind me using her as an excuse to keep from going home and facing my husband.

  Mama Davis nodded and braced against the counter. My smile immediately turned into a frown when I caught her face wrinkle in pain.

  “Mama, what is it?”

  And just like that, the brief flicker was gone and her expression was once again neutral, except for that small smile on her lips. “
Nothing, Sweetie,” she said. “You don’t have to come check on me. They’re taking good care of me here.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. I took her elbow and led her to the two-seater dining table. “You were fixing yourself some lunch?”

  “Yes, they had this vegetable soup for dinner last night and it was so delicious. Have some. There’s more in the refrigerator.”

  I obliged, taking out the covered Tupperware to make my own lunch. I poured us both some lemonade, grabbed us some slices of bread from the loaf on the counter, and brought everything to the table.

  I hadn’t made myself comfortable in the chair before Mrs. Davis grabbed my hands and bowed her head. Her grip was surprisingly strong for her feeble frame.

  “Father God, thank you for this food we are about to receive for the nourishment and strength of our bodies,” she prayed. “Please bless the hands that prepared it, bless our minds, hearts, and bodies.” She paused before adding, “And Lord whatever my children are going through, please give them peace, for Your Comfort is with them always, and let them lean not on to their own understanding but look to you for guidance and strength. Thank you for a long fruitful life, Father. Thank you for mercy, love and grace. In Your Son’s Heavenly name, we pray . . .”

  I joined her with the last word. “Amen.”

  I felt a little uneasy with Mama Davis’s prayer. It was as if she knew. But of course, being the First Lady and a devout follower of Christ for so many years, she was bound to have spiritual gifts of her own. She didn’t even bother addressing the words she had felt led to speak just now, and I didn’t bother bringing them up either. I guess it was true. What was understood, need not be explained.