Page 37 of Love & Vendettas

“Yeah. We’re having Hamburger Helper cheeseburger macaroni tonight. I’m almost finished,” she explains.

“Cool,” I state.

I’d offered to make dinner tonight, but she has a growing love of cooking and wanted to do it on her own. I’m sure that it won’t taste like a normal Hamburger Helper. She’s quickly becoming a beast in the kitchen with those seasonings and using vegetables like peppers, onions, zucchini, and tomatoes in her daily cooking.

“I’m gonna check on Mama,” I tell her.

“Okay.” She turns and heads back to the kitchen.

Satisfied that everyone has something productive to do, I walk to my mom’s room. I hate to disturb her if she’s sleeping, but I need to check on her. She didn’t eat dinner last night, and I know that she didn’t eat anything at work because she never does.

I knock on her door and get no response. I knock again and wait for a minute or two before I knock a little harder.

“Mama,” I call out, knocking harder this time.

She’s a light sleeper, so it surprises me that she’s not answering.

I turn the doorknob slowly and say, “Mama,” without looking inside. I don’t want to catch her undressed or anything, but when I still get no answer, I stick my head inside.

She’s not in bed.

I head to her bathroom door and spot a sliver of light coming from underneath. I knock on the bathroom door, and I hear a faint mumbling. It sounds like she’s talking to someone, but her phone is still on the nightstand.

Frowning, I knock harder. “Mama, you okay?”

“Isaiah?” she calls back.

Frowning, I push the door open and ask, “Are you dressed?”

“Yeah. I’m dressed. Ready for you.”

I look inside and see my mama sitting at her little vanity counter, which my daddy bought her two years ago. She turns to me and asks, “Do I look pretty?”

She has a sad smile on her face, and her red lipstick is colored outside of the lines of her lips. She holds an eyeliner in her hand, and I can tell that she tried to apply it, but the lines don’t stop along her eyes; she’s traced the line down to the top of her cheeks.

My mother, who is an expert at applying makeup, looks like a sad clown. She looks as if she gave four-year-old Cheyenne her makeup and told her to apply it.

“Mama,” I say, walking toward her.

“You ready for our date, Isaiah? I’ve been waiting all week for this. Jessi even let me borrow her purple dress. How do I look?” she asks, standing and spinning around in her purple bathrobe.

It baffles me that she thinks I’m my daddy.

“Jessi?”

“Yeah, you know my sister Jessica.”

Aunt Jessi was killed in a drive-by shooting in New York six years ago. Fear begins to claw at my insides as I wonder what the hell is going on with my mama.

“Mama, it’s me, Zaire. Daddy is locked up, and Aunt Jessi…” I pause, not sure how to say the words, but I finally do. “She’s dead, Mama. She’s been gone for six years now.”

Mama laughs and waves her hand at me. “Boy, stop. You play too much. Are you still taking me to the Golden Palace or not?” she demands.

“Mama, they closed that restaurant over ten years ago. Come on. I think you’ve been working too hard and just need a little rest,” I say, reaching for her hand.

My mama swats at me. “Isaiah, get off me. What’s wrong with you?”

“Mama, it’s okay, it’s just me, Zaire.”

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