“That’s not going to cut it, Marquita. You’re already two months behind. I’ve tried to be nice, but I can’t let you stay here for free,” Rob told her.

  Marquita didn’t like the way her slumlord demanded money like he was in the right and she was in the wrong. A boldness swept over her. She swung the door open. “What about the garbage disposal you never fixed?” She pointed toward Larry and his drunk friend. “And why you let these winos hang around the front porch like this?”

  Larry slowly turned his head in her direction and stuck out his tongue at her. “I have a repairman scheduled to fix the garbage disposal, but that doesn’t mean you can skip out on the rent.”

  Shaking a finger toward Larry again, she said, “And what about them? I have a kid in here. This don’t even seem like a safe place to live.”

  Larry said, “You won’t be living here much longer, so don’t worry about us.” He and his friend high-fived.

  “Shut up, Larry, and get off my porch.” Marquita slammed the door, not caring that the landlord was still standing there. In a huff, she sat down on her sofa.

  Marquita’s journal was on the coffee table next to her broken-down sofa. She picked up the journal, opened it to an empty page, grabbed her pencil, and started writing. When she was writing, nothing else mattered, even when she was writing about having a broken heart because the guy she’d had a baby by hadn’t called, texted, or nothing since he made all those promises of love last summer.

  She thought she had found someone to love her—someone who made her feel special. She thought they would build a life together. But like a dummy, she gave her heart to a guy who forgot all about her once he was back around all his college friends.

  Moochie started crying, letting her know that he was either wet or hungry. She prayed he was just hungry, because the diapers were running low. Putting her journal down, she headed to the bedroom.

  “Mommy’s coming.” She checked his diaper. It was wet and full of poo. Marquita rolled her eyes like they were trying to pop out of her head. She told Moochie, “I hope you got some diaper money, because you’re using up these diapers too fast.”

  He cried louder.

  “Okay, okay.” She changed his diaper and then made his bottle. As she fed her son, she watched his lips tighten around the nipple of the bottle as those chunky cheeks of his compressed in and out, in and out. For a two-month-old, he sure did eat a lot. What was she going to do when he was two, or ten for that matter?

  He downed the bottle. Marquita burped him and then laid him back down.

  Moochie laid there and cooed while Marquita fretted and worried. “How on earth am I going to take care of you?”

  Chapter 5

  “Help us understand what’s going on, Dr. Phillips. Jon-Jon is strong. He’s always been athletic. Why isn’t he walking yet?” They were at the orthopedic office. Jon-Jon’s doctor had a suite inside the same Novant hospital where Jon-Jon had his last two surgeries. Trish loved this place because it was fully equipped to handle Jon-Jon’s needs—X-ray machines, nurses, and physical therapists on staff.

  Dr. Phillips wrote something in Jon-Jon’s file before putting down his pen and looking at Trish. “Jon-Jon gave me permission to speak with you and Mr. Robinson, so I was hoping we could discuss some observations that I think might be hindering his progress.”

  Jon-Jon had a physical therapy appointment today. Dr. Phillips had called yesterday and asked that they meet with him while Jon-Jon worked out with the physical therapist. Trish and Dwayne were now seated in front of Dr. Phillips’s rich mahogany desk. “I don’t like the sound of this,” Trish said. “If he’s not making progress, then . . .”

  Dwayne interrupted Trish’s conversation with the doctor. “He’s saying that Jon-Jon done got lazy. And why wouldn’t he? You do everything for him. You won’t even let him lift himself up in that bed to get his own cup of water.”

  Like a mother giving her disabled son a glass of water was too much coddling for him. Trish shifted in her seat, trying to create a little more space between her and Dwayne.

  “No, Mr. Robinson. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Dr. Phillips spanned his gaze from Dwayne to Trish. “As I told you before, your son’s spine was severely damaged in the accident. His prognosis is an AIS grade B, where he has motor complete but sensory incomplete spinal cord damage.”

  “We know all that, Doc. You’ve told us several times that Jon-Jon might never walk again because of this”—Dwayne waved a dismissive hand—“motor complete thing you’ve mentioned over and over . . . which just simply means he ain’t moving no muscles.”

  An inferno was building inside Trish. She put a hand to her temple and tried to massage away the ensuing headache. Dwayne was always shouting and interrupting and getting in the way of Jon-Jon’s recovery. He couldn’t just sit here and take in information, find out how he could help. Dwayne was just a pain “where the sun don’t shine.” She tuned him out and tried her best to listen to the doctor.

  Dr. Phillips was saying, “I don’t deny that his lack of motor functions means he may never walk again, but he hasn’t lost all sensory functions, so there’s a chance.”

  “Then why ain’t he walking?” Dwayne demanded. “Why ain’t he back on that football field? It’s been six months.”

  Ain’t . . . ain’t . . . ain’t. Did Dwayne have to mangle the English language like Ray Lewis coming in for a tackle that would leave his opponent twisted and shattered? Her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

  And did everything on God’s green earth have to center around that football field? You’d think Dwayne didn’t want a son if he couldn’t run up and down some field, getting tackled by guys twice his size, coming home bruised and bandaged. What was so great about football? She couldn’t care less if he ever played again. She just wanted Jon-Jon to walk and have a normal life. But what was normal anymore?

  “I don’t know about football, Mr. Robinson. I don’t even know if your son can ever walk again. But from what I know about this kind of injury, he’s got a 33 percent chance of being ambulatory.”

  “Thirty-three percent is hardly any chance at all. And now you want more money for another surgery you can’t even give us good odds on.” Dwayne stuffed his hand in his pocket and came up with change. He counted out thirty-three cents and slammed it on Dr. Phillips’s desk.

  Trish jumped. Put her hand to her heart.

  Dwayne ignored her and continued his assault on Dr. Phillips. “There, I just gave you thirty-three cents. Now, you tell me what you can do with that?”

  Trish had just purchased a candle from Black Girl Candle Company called Headache Be Gone. She was going to light it as soon as she got back home. “Dwayne, will you please let the doctor speak.”

  Dwayne swung around, lashing out at her. “I am letting him speak. He ain’t saying nothing we don’t already know.” He turned back to the doctor. “Am I right? Haven’t we already been over this stuff? How many times you gotta bring us down here to tell us that my son might never walk again?”

  Trish let out a long-suffering sigh, followed by eyes fluttering heavenward. “Do you have anything new to tell us, Dr. Phillips? Jon-Jon’s been back in physical therapy for two months now. Is his physical therapist seeing any improvement?”

  “That’s actually what I wanted to discuss today. We really need to schedule that surgery as soon as possible to get the fluid off his spine, because 33 percent actually gives Jon-Jon a good chance at walking again. But his chance for recovery will seriously diminish if we can’t get that surgery in motion. Another thing is—to be frank—your son has basically given up.”

  “Jon-Jon ain’t no quitter.” Dwayne shot out of his seat and paced around the room. “The boy’s just gotten lazy.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Trish. “If his mom would go back to work and stop treating him like a baby, maybe he’d do more.”

  “I don’t treat him like a baby.” Her son couldn’t walk, and this man—the man she married—was giving her guff because she handed Jon-Jon a glass of water rather than making him stretch his upper body to get it himself. “You like pointing that finger, but you need to ask yourself if you’re helping enough.”

  “Helping enough!” Dwayne threw up his hands. “Who’s putting food on the table, woman? Who’s keeping that roof over your jobless head?”

  Getting out of her seat, she huffed like a bull with a matador in sight. “If you say one more thing about my job, I swear for God, I’m going to—”

  Dr. Phillips held up a hand. “I don’t want to start an argument. I’m just wondering if either of you have noticed that Jon-Jon is depressed.”

  “Of course he’s depressed. He can’t walk,” Dwayne barked.

  “In my opinion, he’s falling into a clinical depression. I don’t think your son wants to live anymore, let alone walk.”

  “Wait . . . what?” Trish’s hand went to her heart as she sat back down. They had lost so much since the accident. If they lost Jon-Jon after everything else, she honestly didn’t know if her heart could take it.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Dwayne put his hat back on his head and walked out of the office without another word to the doctor.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why he acts like this. I’m so, so sorry.” Trish was mortified, befuddled, and embarrassed by Dwayne’s actions.

  “Please don’t apologize for him,” Dr. Phillips said. “These are stressful times. I understand that.”

  Trish didn’t have time to dwell on her foolish husband. Dr. Phillips had just told them that Jon-Jon didn’t want to live anymore, and her husband was acting like a bona-fide fool. “Are you sure about this, Doctor? I mean, I know he’s been depressed, but he’s not thinking about suicide.”

  Dr. Phillips scribbled some information on a note pad, tore the page, and handed it to Trish. “He told me himself, but I’m not a psychologist. Dr. Vance works in this building. She knows her stuff. Why don’t you make Jon-Jon an appointment?”

  * * *

  The minute Trish, Jon-Jon, and Dwayne got in the car, Dwayne wagged his index finger close to Trish’s face. “I guess you’re happy about not contacting them blood-sucking attorneys to get the ball rolling on Jon-Jon’s case, even though you know he needs his surgery.”

  Trish wanted to let Dwayne have it. How dare he put all of this on her? But she didn’t want to upset Jon-Jon or make him any more depressed than he already was, especially after she saw how her son just sat in his wheelchair completely uninterested in the rehabilitation session. He’d looked like he just wanted it to be over—and not just the session but everything . . . his life.

  A tear formed in Trish’s eye as she watched the cars go by. Her eyes had cried a thousand tears over Jon-Jon’s case, Dwayne’s hardened heart toward her and her son, and everything in between. She sat in the back seat while Dwayne drove them home, and Jon-Jon sat on the passenger side. The way Trish saw it, the families who drove past them looked happy, like life was doing right by them. They’d found the right mate, gotten married, and had children whom God had blessed so they never had any spinal cord injuries. They’d probably never even heard the terms “motor sensory complete” or “motor sensory incomplete” or cared what they meant.

  “I don’t want you asking your mom to hand you stuff that’s right next to your bed when you can just lean forward and grab it yourself.” Dwayne’s harsh voice shot through Trish’s melancholy fantasies like a broken arrow. “You hear me? No son of mine is going to get soft.”

  “I’m not soft, Dad. Just tired of doing stuff that won’t change nothing.”

  “Stop being lazy, boy. You lay in that bed all day, watching television and sulking. Ain’t no son of mine just gon’ lay around sucking up air while I go out and bust my hump on a job every day.”

  They were pulling into the driveway. Trish couldn’t wait to escape the confinement of this car and get some space from Dwayne, but he just wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t leave her son alone, and she couldn’t take it anymore. “Will you shut up and leave him alone!”

  Dwayne and Jon-Jon turned questioning eyes toward her. She gave them a yeah-I-said-it look. Dwayne didn’t say anything else. For the love of God, he actually shut his blubbering mouth, turned off the car, and pulled Jon-Jon’s wheelchair out of the trunk.

  “You okay, Mama?”

  She rarely spoke disrespectfully to Dwayne in front of Jon-Jon. And she’d tried her best not to do it in private either. Trish mostly just ignored him or gave him the silent treatment when he acted idiotic. But things were getting so bad between her and Dwayne that she couldn’t hide it anymore—and didn’t want to. “I just don’t like him calling you lazy. You’ve always done more than was expected of you. Now that you can’t do for yourself, it’s our responsibility to help you, not call you names.”

  Dwayne opened Jon-Jon’s door and helped him into his chair. Trish stayed in the back seat watching as Dwayne rolled the wheelchair up the ramp. Breathe, breathe. The thickness she felt in the air had suddenly cleared and she could breathe. She could think.

  At that moment, Trish knew what she had to do. She got out of the car and walked into the house. Dwayne had put Jon-Jon back in his bed by the time she made it to her son’s room. Seeing that she wasn’t needed, Trish turned and walked toward their bedroom.

  Dwayne stopped her. “I’m heading back to work, but when I get home, I think we should talk.”

  Trish didn’t respond. He would figure out that she wasn’t speaking to him when he got back home. In her bedroom, Trish waited until she heard Dwayne back out of the driveway, then she gathered up her toothbrush, soap, and nightgown and took them into the guest bedroom.

  The guest bedroom was behind the kitchen where Jon-Jon’s room was. A full bathroom separated Jon-Jon’s room from the guest room.

  “I will sing a fruitful song, in a barren land.” She pulled most of her clothes out of her closet and took them to the guest bedroom. The closet in her new room wasn’t as wide or long as her walk-in closet, but she stuffed as much in as possible. Then she piled her sweaters in the oversize chair she’d purchased from the Goodwill in Matthews township, where the rich white folks donated their old stuff. Like her mama always said, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

  The guest room didn’t have a nightstand. Until now, Trish hadn’t noticed the missing nightstand. They’d hosted at least twenty people in the ten years they’d owned this house. Why hadn’t anyone complained about not having a nightstand? Trish kept her water or teacup on her nightstand along with all her vitamins and allergy pills. And in North Carolina, she couldn’t go long without her allergy medicine before having a sneezing fit and puffy, watery eyes.

  She went back into the master bedroom, took everything off the top of her nightstand, then jostled it as she relocated it to the guest room.

  “Mama, what you doing over there?”

  She hadn’t realized how much noise she was making. “I’m just making some adjustments so I can be closer to you. Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  She wanted to go into his room to check on him, but didn’t want him thinking she was treating him like a baby. The doctor told her it had been a miracle that she had been able to carry Jon-Jon to full-term. He wasn’t just her baby; he was her miracle. All his life Jon-Jon displayed such promise, but this accident and Jon-Jon’s “all but giving up” attitude just seemed like God was trying to take her miracle away.

  As she lay down in a bedroom that essentially made her a guest in her own home, Trish wondered how God could have gotten this so wrong. How could He have let something like this slip? Could it be that her family just wasn’t on God’s top-ten list of things to do?

  Trish really needed answers from God. Yes, she was grateful that Jon-Jon survived the accident. But after living for decades with the reality of not being able to have another child, was she really supposed to give up on all her hopes of having grandchildren to love and keep close to her heart? It just didn’t seem right.

  And it wasn’t right or fair to Jon-Jon that she cried herself to sleep some nights, thinking about the shoulda beens that might never, ever be. Sighing deeply, she tried to shake it off. She couldn’t blame Jon-Jon for not producing those three beautiful grandbabies that she would have taken to the movies, hung out with, and baked cookies for. Wiping a tear from her eye, she said, “It’s not his fault.”

  She could forgive Jon-Jon for giving up, but that daddy of his was a whole other situation. She was tired of his you-need-to-go-back-to-work complaints, his attitude, and his comments about Jon-Jon just laying around all day. The boy couldn’t walk, for goodness’ sake. Everything about Dwayne irked her so bad that he ought to be glad she didn’t have a job. Because if she did, she would be renting an apartment and filing for a separation.

  * * *

  The next morning, Dwayne knocked on her bedroom door. She didn’t say anything so he knocked again and again. “Your stuff is gone from our room.”

  She started not to respond. She had planned not to speak to Dwayne for a month of Sundays. She’d had enough of his toxic, woe-is-me filled words. But she heard the distinct sound of hurt in his voice. His voice had sounded like that when his daddy died, and Dwayne had tried so hard to be strong in front of everyone during the funeral. But later that night she’d heard him crying in the bathroom.

  She’d walked out of their bedroom, sat on the back patio for a few minutes. If Dwayne hadn’t wanted to cry in front of her, then she wanted to leave him with his dignity. So when she entered their master suite the next time, she made noise by knocking a few books off the TV stand and complained loudly as she picked them up. When he came out of the bathroom, his eyes were dry and he was hungry. Trish had made his favorite meal: penne noodles with chicken, shrimp, and alfredo sauce. She topped it off with his favorite dessert: a pineapple coconut cake.

  She wasn’t about to cook a single thing for Dwayne today, but she would leave him with his dignity. “I thought it would be better for Jon-Jon if I was next to him for a little while. That way I can hear him if he calls out to me in the middle of the night.”