Selling My Soul Read online

  I rolled my eyes and walked around her into the restroom. After I finished and washed my hands, I came back outside to the car where she stood, holding her stomach with one hand and fanning with the other. “That was so disgusting. I don’t see how you could stand the smell.”

  I shook my head. “You have no idea.”

  “Girl, listening to you, I might never go to Africa.”

  “You’d be fine if you went to the city. We just happened to be in a remote area, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, girl. You’ll never find me in the bush.”

  “Don’t call it that, Monnie.”

  “Why not?” She frowned.

  I got in the car. It had to be because I was tired. My absolute best friend in the whole world was getting on my very last nerve being all prissy and entitled. I rolled my eyes. Americans . . .

  “So what are you going to do now that you’re home?” Monica maneuvered her way back onto the freeway.

  I reached out to grab the door handle. My fingers were sore from clutching it. “Well, I have enough money saved to live for about six months while I look for the right job. I want to take my time and make sure it’s something I love.” There was no way I was going to tell her that in my heart of hearts I really wanted to go back to Africa. Although with Moms sick, I didn’t think I’d get to do that anytime soon.

  “You’re not going back to PR? I thought you loved public relations. You’re so good at it.” Monica looked down at my hand gripping the door handle and slowed down some.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to do PR anymore. It was starting to get on my nerves before I left, and I can’t imagine going back to it now. I want to find something in the non-profit sector. I’d love something working with kids or women in transition or something. If I did anything remotely close to PR, it would be to raise awareness about what’s going on in Africa. There’s been a lot more of that lately with the Red campaign and Bono and Madonna and all those folks. But if people really knew, this country and other developed countries would be doing so much more to help. Maybe I would use my PR experience and fundraising skills for that.”

  Monica looked over at me. “I really admire you, Trina. You’re really like a real Christian is supposed to be. I ain’t gon’ lie. I don’t think I could give up my life and comforts over here and live the way you did for the past two years. You make me feel selfish. All I want out of life is a happy family.” She rubbed her belly. “A good marriage, one or two more children, and a peaceful life in suburbia. I enjoy teaching Sunday School and volunteering with the kids at church from time to time, but that’s about it. I’d never even dream of going to Africa. Makes me feel like I’m not really saved, or that maybe I don’t have enough of the love of God in my heart.” She saw me grab the dashboard when it looked like a huge truck was going to ram into the side of the car, and she slowed down some more.

  “It’s definitely a call, Monica. God put it in me. That doesn’t mean I’m any more of a Christian than you are. We have different callings, and no one is better than another. You’re called to support Kevin’s music ministry and to be an awesome wife and mother. Don’t take that for granted. That’s a beautiful thing.”

  “And you’re called to sleep in huts and pee in holes in the ground in Africa.” She laughed at her own joke. “Girl, God knew better. I can’t live without my bed and down comforter and the mall and my hair products and razors. And toilets. And bottled water. And good food.”

  I laughed with her. “Girl, it’s amazing what becomes not important to you anymore. All the things we think are essential . . . you learn to live without them. It’s a fair trade-off for a much simpler and more meaningful life.” I added, “For me, anyway.” Not wanting to make her feel bad.

  I looked at the clock on the dashboard panel. “Gosh, I didn’t remember Baltimore being this far away. Why is it taking us so long to get there?”

  Monica’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve got to be joking. I’ve had to drive sixty miles an hour to get your hand off the door handle, and then fifty-five to keep you from pushing that imaginary brake you got on the floor down there. You know me. If you want me to get you there, I can. I was just trying to keep you from putting a hole in the floor of the car.”

  I laughed. ”Sorry, girl. You have no idea.” I leaned back against the headrest. “Go ahead and do your usual eighty. I’ll just close my eyes and plead the blood.”

  She laughed, and I felt the car shift into high speed.

  I must have drifted off to sleep because next thing I knew, Monica was jostling me. “Trina, wake up, girl. We’re here.”

  I sat up and blinked, trying to orient myself to where I was. Instead of trees and mud huts and swarms of African children running around, I saw brick buildings and concrete. And the kids running around on this street didn’t make me feel like bending to embrace them. They made me want to lock the car door.

  “You okay?” Monica rubbed my arm.

  “Yeah. I’m good. Just jet-lagged. Let’s go on in.”

  We locked the car and rushed up the walk to my mother’s brick row house. I noticed the mailbox was overflowing and opened it and pulled the mail out. Without meaning to, I noticed several of the letters had pink envelopes. A couple said, “final notice.” My heart sank. One thing my mom never did was get behind in her bills. She had worked two jobs the entire time me and Tiffany were growing up. It was important to her that even though we were dirt poor, we could wear designer clothes like the rest of the kids. I never cared, but Tiffany, the fashion maven, took full advantage.

  Moms also put large sums of money aside from her paychecks for us to go to college. I had gotten a full scholarship and told her to keep it for herself for everything she had done for us growing up. Tiffany had wasted the money going on and off to college for many years. She never finished a degree because of her frequent major changes. Moms was probably still Tiffany’s primary means of financial support. Or at least until now. Looked like she needed some support herself now.

  I rang the doorbell and stepped back. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw when the door opened.

  I gasped. “Moms.”

  Six

  “Tree!” My mom reached out for me. I was so shocked by how she looked that I just stood there. Her face fell, and I shook myself out of my stupor to hug her.

  “Moms! It’s so great to see you. I missed you so much.” Hugging her felt like hugging a skeleton. My arms could have wrapped around her twice. I pulled away from the hug and looked at her closely.

  Her eyes were sunken, and her skin was pale gray rather than peachy brown. Her usually plump, round cheeks were sickeningly thin. I reached up to touch her head covered with a scarf. I rubbed my fingers over it and realized it was flat on her scalp. Her beautiful, thick hair was gone. She had always been much shorter than both me and Tiffany at five foot five, but now she seemed even shorter, smaller. My mother had always been “a looker” as they called her back in the day. It hurt me to see how much the sickness had stolen her beauty.

  She forced a weak smile, but I knew my inspection of her was making her feel awful. Somehow I’d have to find a way to act like nothing was wrong.

  “Come in, girl. Look at you. Your crazy sister said you looked like . . . Monica! Is that you?” My mom’s eyes traveled downward to Monica’s belly. “Oh my word. Look who done swallowed a watermelon seed.”

  Monica laughed, and we both followed her into the house. The house smelled like sickness—the same smell I had experienced on the few trips I made to the hospital to sit with some of the children from the village.

  Moms’s usually immaculate house was cluttered and messy. Hers was the kind of house where you could stand in the front door and see pretty much everything there was to the first floor. The small kitchen crowded by a large breakfast table. The living room with the old floor model television serving as a stand for the new television. The worn couch that Moms had reupholstered every few years for as long as I could remember.
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  Upstairs, there were three small bedrooms. Unless something had changed since I left, me and Tiffany’s rooms looked like we never left. Still had the same beds, dressers, and little school desks. Tiffany’s room probably still had her New Edition posters all over the walls. As always, pictures of me and Tiffany graced the walls everywhere throughout the house.

  As I followed Moms, I realized how slow she was walking, like moving through the house took all her strength. I looked at Monica with a million questions in my eyes. She squeezed my arm and tried to smile.

  This was one of those times it was good for my best friend to be a nurse. I would be sure to have her help me ask Moms about her condition, and then I would grill Monica with more questions later. Maybe she could help me talk to the doctors tomorrow. I was sure I wouldn’t get the straight truth from Moms. In spite of how bad she looked, I knew she’d try to gloss it over and assure me that she would be fine.

  “Tree, you hungry?”

  I started to say no until I felt the grumbling in my stomach. I realized it had probably been a good eight hours since I had eaten.

  Moms looked at my droopy jeans. “They ain’t got no food over in Africa? Girl, you skin and bones.”

  Look who’s talking. “The food is different over there, Moms. Plus we walked almost everywhere we went. Got a lot of exercise.”

  “Well, I knew my baby was coming home, so I had Aunt Penny come over and cook. We got a real welcome home feast for you.”

  She started taking covered dishes out of the refrigerator. It pained me to see her get short of breath as she carried the dishes to the counter. I knew it would hurt her feelings if I offered to help.

  Monica walked over to the refrigerator. “Let me get that, Ms. Michaels. You sit down and visit with Trina. You guys have a lot of catching up to do.”

  I could have kissed Monica. She winked at me when Moms turned her head.

  Moms came over to sit down with me at the kitchen table. I remembered the bills I had been clutching since I came in the door. “I got the mail. It looked like it was about to spill out the box.”

  My mother looked down at the pink envelopes and late notices and grabbed them out of my hands. “Thanks, Tree. I’ll just put them in the drawer over there.” Her eyes didn’t meet mine. When she sat back down, she reached across the table and grabbed my hands. “So tell me about Africa.”

  My heart warmed a little at the sparkle still in her eyes. Typical Moms. We weren’t going to talk about the big, stinky elephant in the middle of the room. Her question made me know I wasn’t to ask about her health or the bills. I was to tell her about my journey, and we were all supposed to act like nothing was wrong.

  As I recounted some of my experiences in Mozambique, she stared at me, eyes wide with wonder. A few times she reached over and pulled her fingers through my afro. She smoothed her hand across my cheeks and squeezed my leg. She kept touching me like she couldn’t believe I was sitting in front of her. At one point, I could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Moms? Are you in pain?”

  She sat back and waved away my fears. “Of course not, Tree. I’m just so proud of you. I can’t believe everything you did. You sacrificed so much to help those people over there. Our people. You make a mother’s heart proud.” Her voice choked up, and tears spilled from her eyes. “You make me feel like I’m leaving an awesome legacy.”

  I felt a knot rise in my throat. “Eventually you will, Moms. But you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. I’m not gonna let that happen.”

  She chuckled. “How you figure? They got cures for cancer over in Africa?”

  “As a matter of fact, they do.”

  The microwave dinged and Monica opened it and pulled out a plate heaped with food. The smell of down home, southern cooking filled the room. Even before she brought the plate over, my nose told me there were collards seasoned with pork, candied yams, sweet corn, and fried chicken on that plate. “Goodness, Monica. That’s enough to feed a tribe.”

  She looked down at the plate. “I figured you must be hungry.” She brought it over to the table.

  I pushed the plate over between me and my mother. “You guys have to eat some of this with me.”

  Monica shook her head. “I pretty much eat only organic food.”

  I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. I respected her wanting to be healthy, but it seemed crazy to be picky about food when people were starving in other parts of the world.

  Moms pushed the plate back over to me. “Ain’t got much appetite these days. Chemo done messed up my taste buds.”

  I pushed the plate back toward her. “Please try to eat a little bit. For me?”

  Moms smiled and picked up the fork Monica had set on the table. I wished I had brought enough clothes with me to stay for a month. Maybe if I lived here and made her eat and encouraged her spirit, she’d get better. I knew people with positive attitudes fared better with illnesses like cancer.

  Monica walked toward the kitchen door. “I think I’m gonna step out to the grocery store and see if I can find something I can eat.” I knew she was giving me and Moms some time to talk. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  I walked her to the front door. “Be careful.”

  “Girl, I know these streets. I’ll be fine.” She lowered her voice. “You okay?”

  I nodded my lie, and she gave me a hug before walking out the door.

  I went back and sat down at the table with my mom, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead.

  “So tell me about this cure, Tree.” My mother looked skeptical already. “Some tree bark or roots they got over there?”

  “No, actually it’s the power of God. You wouldn’t believe—”

  She put the fork down, pursed her lips, and rolled her eyes. “Tree, don’t come in here talking that Jesus stuff. You know I ain’t trying to hear it.”

  “But Moms, you wouldn’t believe all the miracles I saw in Africa. Tumors dissolving, deaf people hearing, blind eyes opened. There was this baby that had been dead for hours, and we laid hands on it and prayed for it, and it woke up crying. Cancer is no big thing to God.”

  She shook her head and got up from the table. “Girl, you know I don’t believe in all that Jesus stuff. If it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go. God left this house a long time ago.”

  I knew she was referring to when my dad walked out on us twenty something years ago. She walked over to her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes and her slim gold lighter she’d had for as long as I could remember.

  My mouth fell open. “You’re still smoking?” I could barely say the words.

  She shrugged. “I got the cancer already. What difference would quitting make now? I might as well enjoy myself.”

  She clicked the lighter and put it to the end of the cigarette. She inhaled, and then blew out a puff of smoke.

  Without thinking, I rose and snatched the cigarette out of her mouth. “Are you crazy?”

  My mother’s eyes blazed, and she looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Am I crazy? You the one crazy. Girl, I don’t care nothin’ ‘bout you going to Africa. You ain’t that grown to be steppin’ to me like that. Asking me if I’m crazy.”

  I stood there, towering over her. She pulled another cigarette out of the pack. I snatched it from her before she could get it to her mouth. I snatched the pack, crumpled it and threw it in the trash. “I can’t believe you’re still smoking. I’ve been telling you about this since I was a little girl, and you still insisted on smoking. Now look what happened.”

  My mother stood there staring at me. She looked like she wanted to smack me. I had only gotten a beating once growing up. Tiffany, on the other hand, acted like she couldn’t make it a week without feeling the sting of the belt or switch.

  I stood my ground, daring her to pull out the other pack of cigarettes I knew were in her purse. Instead, her shoulders slumped and tears streamed down her face. She leaned into my chest and wept. “I’m dy
ing, Tree. Dying. Durn cancer done spread all over my body. Doctors say I ain’t got much longer to live. The chemo can’t save me. It’s just enough to shrink it a little, but there’s too much to get rid of. The chemo can only push the time away. If it don’t kill me first.”

  I took her in my arms and held her while she shook. “You’re not gonna die, Moms. I’m not gonna let that happen.”

  It felt weird to be comforting my mother. She had always been my rock and strength. Had inspired me that there was nothing in life I couldn’t conquer. Now here she was, skin and bones. A shell of her usual strong, feisty self. I refused to look at the situation in the natural. The God I had come to know in the last two years was awesomely supernatural. There was nothing impossible for Him. Not even terminal cancer.

  I led my mother back to the table and sat her down. I smoothed my fingers across her cheeks, wiping away her tears. “You’re going to be fine, Moms. Even if you don’t believe in Jesus, I have enough faith for the both of us. He’s not gonna let you die. He knows I couldn’t handle that. So if for no other reason, He’s gonna heal you just for me. And for Tiffany. Who’s gonna take care of her lazy tail if you die?”

  We both laughed. I grabbed both of her hands and squeezed them tight, then leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “Speaking of . . .” I got up and walked over to the mail drawer where she had stuffed all the overdue bills. I pulled them out and brought them over to the table, spreading them out in front of her. “What’s going on?”

  She looked down at the table, then back up at me. “I had to leave work three months ago. You know the COBRA on my insurance is crazy high. Plus . . .” She looked down and to the right and I knew I didn’t want to hear what was coming next. Moms rarely did the eye thing because she rarely lied. She was one of those straight up people that always told the truth no matter how much it hurt. In fact, the only time she lied seemed to be when it had something to do with my father.