What Momma Left Me Read online

  What Momma

  Left Me

  Renée Watson

  For my mother,

  Carrie Elizabeth Watson,

  the definition of resilience

  OUR FATHER

  • • • • • • • • • • •

  I don’t have many good memories of my daddy.

  He was hardly home.

  And when he was,

  he was mad

  at my momma,

  or me,

  or my younger brother, Danny.

  Always yelling about what wasn’t done right,

  what wasn’t done at all,

  what he was going to do.

  He bought me gifts though.

  Always on Christmas, on Valentine’s Day, and on my birthday.

  He gave me this diary two months ago, when I turned thirteen.

  I never thought about writing in it until now.

  I need a place to put these secrets.

  They’re too heavy for me to carry alone.

  Grandma says I am just like my momma. She says I look like her, talk like her, act like her. My chocolate eyes, crayon-brown skin, and skinny, knock-kneed legs are the same as my momma’s when she was my age. “Serenity, girl, if I didn’t know better I’d think this was a picture of my Loretta,” Grandma says, holding up my school photo. I think she is sad but also glad that even though she can’t see her own child anymore, she can always look at me.

  Danny, my brother, looks like my daddy—tall, dark skinned, and skinny no matter how much he eats. He is one year younger than me. He’ll be starting the seventh grade. I’m starting the eighth. I don’t mind us being just like our parents on the outside. But I’m scared that maybe we’re like them on the inside too.

  Danny has my daddy’s temper. Just yesterday, he punched the wall because he couldn’t find his hat. He was mad at me, thinking I hid it. He made a mess looking for it—clothes thrown all over the floor. Then he remembered that he had put it in the closet. Busted knuckles for nothing.

  Danny also has my daddy’s style—expensive, name-brand shoes, baggy jeans, oversized shirts. Momma always said, “Boy, you’re a carbon copy of your father.” She never sounded happy when she said it.

  Sometimes I wonder if all children are like their parents. I think about having a different momma and a different daddy. I think, maybe if I wasn’t the daughter of Loretta and Daniel Evans Sr. everything that happened this summer would change.

  But I am Serenity Evans and nothing can change that.

  I think sometimes that my daddy wants everything to change too. I know he doesn’t like being a father. He’s never said it, but I just know. I know because there are no pictures of him holding me when I was a baby. I know because he never came to any of my school plays or recitals. He is always gone—running the streets, my momma would say. She made excuses for him, trying to convince us that he really did care, but I think even she stopped believing her lies.

  I think Momma realized that no matter how many good qualities there are in my daddy, there are more bad. One night when I woke up thirsty, I got out of bed to get a drink of water. I stopped just before I got to the kitchen when I saw my daddy and Danny sitting at the kitchen table. They were stuffing small plastic bags with green plants. Daddy said, “One day, Lil Shorty, I’ll take you out with me and show you how this green brings you this green.” He took a wad of money out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. Danny picked up the bills in amazement.

  I turned around and went back to bed. I never told anyone. I knew my momma would just cuss and fuss at my dad and then he’d get mad and they’d fight. Then my dad would leave for a few a days, like he always does after they fight—to give my mom some space and clear his head, he says. Whenever Momma would question him about where he was staying, he’d tell her as long as the rent was paid she didn’t need to worry about it. And they’d argue again and he’d leave, so I just kept my mouth shut about Danny helping my daddy.

  I’m really good at keeping secrets. I still haven’t told any of my momma’s.

  And I haven’t told my daddy’s secrets either. I never told Momma about the woman Daddy would visit after he picked me up from school. And I never told that sometimes he and his friends smoked in the house when she was gone to work.

  I knew better than to tell these things to anybody. No good would come of it. And besides, Momma always told me not to go telling our family’s business. “What happens in this house, stays in this house,” she’d always say.

  Not anymore.

  Now that momma’s gone, our secrets are getting out and our house is empty because two kids can’t live alone. And this is another reason why I know my dad doesn’t care about us. I know because he hasn’t come home. I don’t even know if he knows my momma is dead. I wonder what he will do when he comes home to an empty house.

  WHICH

  • • • • • • • • • • •

  Grandma Mattie wants us.

  I do not like her.

  She is my daddy’s mother.

  Her house has no pictures of my momma.

  She tells the social worker

  there’s room for us at her place.

  But we want to live with Grandpa James and Grandma Claire.

  They are my momma’s parents.

  Their house is full of pictures of our momma.

  I haven’t been back to the house since my momma died. At first, I am scared to go in, but once Grandpa James’s car pulls up and we see that the news and neighbors and strangers are all gathered around the house waiting for us, I just want to run inside. Grandpa stops and talks to some of them. There are reporters from the Portland Observer and the Oregonian scribbling in their tablets as Grandpa speaks. “My family would like to thank the Portland community for your prayers and support. We appreciate your kindness.” For the past three days people have been sending food, flowers, cards, and money to Grandpa James and Grandma Claire’s house. Especially people from Restoration Baptist Church, where my grandpa is the pastor. My momma grew up in that church, but by the time she had me she stopped going.

  Grandma walks past the crowd, grabbing us by our hands, squeezing mine tight, and rushes us to the house. Grandma’s hands are soft and her nails are always painted with clear nail polish. She dresses in the nicest clothes and sometimes she lets me play in her soft, wooly hair. I like to comb through the silver and black strings, braid them, and see the new patterns the gray makes.

  Grandma is a big woman. Wide hips and thick legs. She says it’s from having babies and cooking all those good family recipes. Grandma says cooking and baking is a family heirloom passed down from her mother’s mother. She caters for weddings and all kinds of special events. My momma cooked too. Momma promised me that one day she’d teach me how to make a red velvet cake and all the other secret family recipes, but now that she’s gone, she can’t.

  Grandma squeezes my hand tighter the closer we get to the door. Even though my momma always entered the house through the side door, we go in the front. I am glad I don’t have to walk into the kitchen.

  “You two just need to pack enough clothes for the week. Your grandpa and I will come back later for everything else,” Grandma tells us. “And bring your games too,” she says, eyeing Danny’s video games and controllers. They are scattered on the floor in the living room. I look at the screen. Danny’s game is paused on a dead soldier lying on the ground. I remember that the day my momma died, Danny was sitting on the living room floor, with his back against the bottom of the sofa, playing video games. The TV was loud, as if the war on the screen was happening in our living room. I remember my momma telling me to tell Danny to turn the game off.

  “Serenity, honey, did you hear me?” Grandma taps me on m
y shoulder and I shake the picture out of my head and look at her. “I asked you where the suitcases are kept,” she repeats.

  “In the closet in my momma’s room,” I tell her. Grandma walks down the hallway to my parents’ room. When she walks inside, she starts weeping. I turn the television on because I don’t like the sounds of her sadness.

  The news is on and a picture of my momma, the one taken of her last Christmas, is showing on the screen. A reporter says, “Loretta Evans will be laid to rest Thursday morning—”

  That’s all I hear because Grandma comes in the living room and snatches the remote out of my hand. She turns the TV off. “I don’t want you watching the news! You hear me?” She is asking me questions but I know I am not supposed to answer. I don’t know why Grandma is yelling at me and why she doesn’t want me to see the news. I already know the things they are going to say. “No TV, you understand? No TV unless I am in the room!” Grandma is yelling and crying and I start to cry too. Not because she is yelling at me, but because I am not used to seeing her this way.

  “Sorry, Grandma.” My voice must sound like I feel—scared and confused.

  Grandma takes my hand. She looks down at me and says, “Serenity, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I—I just don’t want you and Danny seeing those images over and over again.”

  “But, Grandma, the news has nothing to do with it,” I tell her. “I see those images all the time in my dreams.”

  Grandma looks at me, tears in her eyes, and for the first time in her whole life I think she doesn’t know what to say.

  Grandpa comes in the house. He is just as wide as Grandma, but taller. “What’s that for?” he asks Grandma. And then I notice that Grandma has one of my momma’s dresses folded across her arm. The white one she bought two weeks ago. She thought it cost too much but decided to buy it anyway. To treat herself, she said, as we walked to the checkout. Then, when the cashier rang it up, we found out it was on sale. Momma was so happy she bought herself a matching purse.

  “I’ll dress her tomorrow,” Grandma says. “For the casket.”

  I don’t know why, but I am really angry when I hear this. Angry that my momma has been in the same clothes for three days. I go to my room and pack my clothes. Even though Grandma said to only pack for a week, I put in extra. Just in case something happens.

  “Serenity?” Danny knocks on the door just as I zip my overnight bag. His eyes are red and puffy from crying; he talks like all his energy has run away. Like when he was sick last winter with the flu.

  “Huh?”

  “Should I take my Goldfish?”

  “What?”

  “My crackers for snack time. Should I take them?”

  “If you want to,” I say.

  Danny just stands there. “Will you get them for me?”

  I look at him, standing there with his Game Boy in his hand. “Where’s Grandma?”

  “Taking my suitcase to the car,” he answers.

  “Where’s Grandpa?”

  “Helping Grandma make room in the trunk,” Danny says.

  I turn the light out and close the door. “Come on,” I say. We walk toward the kitchen. Danny is behind me. The closer I get to the kitchen, the more my heart beats my insides. My stomach flips upside down and my hands are sweating. I remember feeling like this last Halloween when Danny and I went trick or treating with our cousins Brian and Michael.

  The woman who lives in the house at the end of the block had a fake coffin in her yard and played a recording of scary noises howling through the bushes. I was scared to go up to the door, but I did it anyway. I wanted the candy.

  But this is different. I don’t want to be brave. I want Danny to say that he doesn’t care about the Goldfish crackers that Momma bought him for his snack. But instead he says in a small voice, “They’ll get stale if we don’t eat them.”

  And I remember how mad my daddy got when the milk spoiled because we hadn’t drank it fast enough. He made my momma drink it. “Ain’t no wastin’ food in this house!” Daddy kept screaming as he forced the glass of milk to her mouth. Momma got sick and we were careful never to waste food again.

  I walk to the end of the living room and stand in the dining room. The kitchen will be next. Grandpa comes inside. “Your grandma’s waiting in the car. You two ready?” he asks.

  I look at Danny. He says, “Can you get my snack crackers from the pantry?”

  Grandpa looks at us. “You want anything else?”

  We shake our heads.

  Grandpa goes into the kitchen without hesitation, like a superhero. I hear him rummaging through the pantry and then the cabinet door slams shut. “Sure you don’t need something else?”

  Then I think to ask for one more thing. “Can you bring me the plaque?”

  “What plaque?”

  “The prayer that hangs over the stove. Do you see it?”

  I hear Grandpa strain as he reaches for it, and I feel bad for asking an old man to work so hard. Grandma says he needs to take it easy since his heart attack last year. Grandpa comes out of the kitchen with a box of Goldfish crackers in one hand and the plaque in the other. The plaque is a thick square, dark brown trimmed in gold. Centered in the middle of the brown is a shiny gold square with black writing. The top of the plaque says The Lord’s Prayer and under it the scripture is printed in fancy writing.

  Our Father which art in heaven,

  hallowed be thy name.

  Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done,

  in earth, as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread.

  And forgive us our debts,

  as we forgive our debtors.

  And lead us not into temptation,

  but deliver us from evil:

  For thine is the kingdom, and the power,

  and the glory, forever. Amen.

  The day Momma died, the only thing that made me feel better was saying that prayer. Momma said it whenever she was sad and lonely, so that day I stood in the kitchen, holding Danny’s hand, and read the prayer over and over out loud until help came.

  “Thank you,” Danny and I say. Danny takes the crackers. He opens the box and starts eating them like they are the best thing he’s ever tasted. I take the plaque, holding it tight. Grandpa turns off the lights and we leave.

  “You two don’t have to be afraid. You’re safe with me,” Grandpa says. “And, ah, we can go grocery shopping to get you some more snacks when those run out.” We get into the car. I love Grandpa for this and I am glad he told the social worker that he wanted me and Danny because I want him too.

  As we drive away, I think maybe we should leave a note for my dad. But I’m sure he’ll know where to find us. Grandma turns and looks at us from the front seat. “Sweethearts, put your seat belts on.” She sees the plaque in my hand and smiles. “Your mother’s favorite scripture,” she says. I read it to myself again and again the whole way to my new home.

  • • • • • • •

  Momma’s funeral is over and I am glad. I hated sitting at that church, in the front row, right in front of her casket. I hated the songs, the scriptures, the crying, the people telling me I would be okay. I hated the way Danny screamed when they opened the casket. The way he cried so hard, he slept all afternoon because he was too tired to do anything else. I hated the way my momma looked—like clay, like Play-Doh. I hated that she looked happy and peaceful, like she was glad she was gone. Like not living was what she wanted. I will never go to a funeral again and if I have to, I will not look in the casket. It is unfair that the dead have smiles on their faces and the living are left crying.

  “Serenity! Danny!” Grandma shouts. “Come here, please,” she says. Danny and I walk into the kitchen. “Your grandfather and I want to talk with you.”

  I sit down next to Danny, across from Grandma. Grandpa is sitting at the head of the table. He clears his throat. “Your grandma and I have thought about this, and we think it’ll be best for all of us if you and Danny transfer from Eagl
e Creek to Rose City Academy.”

  “Do we have to?” I ask.

  Grandma says, “Yes, sweetheart. It’s closer to the house. This way, if me or your grandfather can’t pick you up, you two can walk home.”

  “But all my friends go to Eagle Creek.” I can’t believe I’m finally in the eighth grade and won’t be able to take advantage of this. At Rose City it won’t matter that I’m an eighth grader, I’ll be the new girl.

  “Rose City Academy is a good school,” Grandma says. “It’ll get you prepared for high school.” I can tell Grandma chose her words carefully. I know what she really means. Eagle Creek Middle School is always in the news and the paper because our test scores are low. “And there are no uniforms at Rose City Academy,” she says.

  Her tactic works on Danny. “Good,” he says. “Those blue and white uniforms at Eagle Creek are ugly.”

  Grandma keeps listing reasons why Rose City Academy is a good school (trying to convince me), and finally she says in a soft voice, “We think it will be good for you to start over.”

  Start over. Maybe she’s right. At a new school, I could avoid all the questions and the sad looks that people keep giving me because they know about my momma. At a new school, with new teachers and new friends, I can just be Serenity. Not Serenity who looks like her mother, Loretta. No one will know. Danny and I can just be.

  “What about Daddy?” Danny asks.

  Grandpa leans back in his chair. “What about him?”

  “Will he know where we are? How is he going to find us when he comes back?”

  Grandpa looks each of us in the eye, then speaks. “I don’t think your father is coming back.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It’s been a week. Don’t you think he would have contacted us by now?” Grandpa asks. It gets real quiet. The ticking of the clock is the only noise I hear.

  Danny looks at me. I don’t know what to say. It must be true. Most of the time Grandpa is right.

  ART IN HEAVEN

  • • • • • • • • • • •