Mema's Pretty Little Black Girls

SHERABIM JOY

Copyright 2019 © MEMA’S PRETTY LITTLE BLACK GIRLS

By Sherabim Joy

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DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my maternal grandmother, Geneva Billingsley whom we all lovingly referred to as Mema. Though the book is not based on her life or that of any of my family members, she always commented to my sisters and myself that we sho were some pretty little black girls.

I acknowledge my two older sisters, Joddice Dickerson and Keraya Jefferson, the other two pretty little black girls, who had to endure me sending them non-stop manuscript samples for their critique. Thanks for being great big sisters. Also, I have to acknowledge my son, Emmanuel Curvin, who is my daily motivation. One hug from him, and I am inspired to pursue my dreams of literary excellence.

Last but not least, I must thank God for entrusting me with the gift of writing. Jesus, I love you.

Marilyn

The still quietness of simplistic living blankets the grounds of Walnut Grove. I slow my stride along the cobblestone pathway that leads to the building’s entrance to stop in front of the cedar brown Tuscany-style pavilion which is neatly situated in the park like setting.

The wind is laced with a hint of ferocity and threatens to blow my wide-brim, straw hat off my head. Although my smartphone weather application advertised a high wind advisory, I was determined to wear this hat, which I had been coveting for weeks. I initially restrained myself from purchasing it, as the original cost was too high even for a shopping addict such as me who rarely flinches at the digits printed on price tags. 

It’s a plain straw-hat void of intricate details and designs, yet it retailed for $325.00 because of its world-renowned designer.  It wasn’t worth the price, so I chose to leave it on the hat stand. However, I began to dream about that hat nightly and I had to have it. Shortly after I originally eyed it on display, I received my annual bonus and almost broke my ankle dashing to the boutique to purchase it. Yes, it was still full price, but the hat accessorized today’s outfit perfectly. I reasoned within myself that I deserved it considering the successful case that I had won for my firm which earned me the higher than normal bonus payout.

I admit that this was not the most practical outfit to wear today. However, I refuse to allow a little wind to hinder me from personifying my signature flair of cuteness and fashionableness. Perhaps I should have sacrificed my vanity for warmth.  Though we were in the middle of the summer season, the tease of autumn was undoubtedly in the air, and the chill was starting to prick my skin. I should hurry up and get inside, but I cannot resist the urge to step inside the pavilion for a few moments.

The pavilion’s weather-worn architectural shingled rooftop is in desperate need of replacement, and the wood flooring squeaks beneath my feet, revealing its age. However, the flaws do not minimize the beauty of its hand-carved structure and the peacefulness that alludes from it. It is the perfect place for inward reflection and emotional detoxing.

A smile flashes across my face as I gingerly stroke the slightly rusting, wood-framed, wrought iron bench that sits in the pavilion’s center. I reminisce about my last visit here to see Mama. We sat for hours chatting together on this very bench, admiring the lush blooming flower garden and the playful ducklings as they serenely glided along the nearby lake.  The ambiance was soothing, and we were both enchanted by the beauty that surrounded us.

I momentarily relish in the tranquility of the day, inwardly yearning that this rare, yet much needed stress-free experience, would flow to every aspect of my life and remain there for eternity. However, I know that this moment of mental rest will be short lived as my thoughts quickly revert to the heart wrenching phone call that prompted my return here.

How I wish that I could just stay here and not have to face my truth! However, I know that the reality that awaits me beyond the heavy oak doors of Walnut Grove is unavoidable. I glance quickly at my diamond studded designer watch and realize I must continue my journey.

I smooth down my white handkerchief hemmed sundress and tuck the strands of hair back into place that had escaped from beneath my prized hat. Mama always taught me to portray confidence even when the essence of my reality was that of emotional despair.  Mustering up the courage to continue, I proceed down the pathway in my canary yellow peep-toe stilettos to visit Mama.

The elevator doors open, and I confidently step out and make my way down the dimly lit vestibule. "As much as I pay for this place every month. you would think they could afford better lighting," I think to myself. I quickly grab an attitude as I think about the payment that I just submitted to them last week. "Sixteen dollars for Tylenol", I mutter begrudgingly as I remember the itemized bill that they sent to me. Just because I had money didn’t mean that I wanted to be wasteful. "Humph", I inwardly complain. If they keep overcharging, I may just sue them for price gouging through my law practice. I just need to figure out if their fees are considered gouging, which I highly doubt. Either that or I’m going to provide Mama with her own supply of over-the-counter medicine that I can purchase on sale at my local pharmacy for a fraction of the cost. Our medical system is a rip off if you ask me.

My agitation with the cost of Mama’s care subsides as quickly as it arose as a tall dark-haired man who bears the appearance of Henry Cavill, the hottie who was cast as the new Superman, is walking towards me.  He stops when he reaches me and flashes a smile that makes my heart flutter and my palms sweat. Now, my skin is as black as charcoal, but I have a weakness for fine Caucasian men; hence my once interracial marriage. "Get it together, Marilyn, I mentally chastise myself; this is serious business, and you’re not here to snag a date"!  However, I could not help noticing that his left hand was absent of a wedding band and his badge simply read attending physician on it.  "

A Professional, just like a like them," I muse. After I see Mama, I’m going to devise a plan to stay in touch with him so that he can attend to my plethora of needs.

Hello, can I help you? He asks me as he extends his hand.  I shake his hand and smile hoping that he doesn’t pick up on my deep attraction to him. His eyes were an unusual emerald green color; a much lighter shade than Superman’s. However, I would still welcome the opportunity to allow Dr. Daniels to be my personal Superman. "Lord, I must stop looking at him," I think to myself as I force myself to maintain my composure. I feel like a tigress in the wild ready to mate.

I’m here to see Geneva Williams. I’m her daughter Marilyn.

Aaah! he said knowingly. Yes, I’m Dr. Daniels, your mother’s physician. We spoke on the phone the other day.

I peer at him curiously. He could not be Dr. Daniels. I met him when I admitted Mama here five years ago, and he was almost as old as she was. Noticing my perplexed expression, he quickly answers my thoughts.

I’m Dr. Daniels, Jr. I assumed my father’s practice and I am overseeing your mother’s care, he explains warmly.

I let out a relieved chuckle.

Thank you so much for explaining! I know it’s been a while since I’ve been here but, unless you took a swim in the fountain of youth, you could not possibly be the man that I met five years ago!

We both laugh. Doctor Daniels begins to update me on Mama’s dire prognosis.

Look, Marilyn, I am going to be straightforward with you. You need to prepare yourself before seeing your mother. She will probably not know who you are, he soberly advises.

I clutch the package that I’m holding tightly to my chest and I pat it confidently.

Don’t worry; she will remember me once I show her what’s in this box!

Dr. Daniels smiles at my confidence and proceeds to lead me to the room that Mama has been assigned to. He gives me an encouraging squeeze on my right shoulder and leaves me to the challenge before me.

I inhale deeply, square my shoulders, and enter Mama’s room as confidently as I enter courtrooms on a weekly basis. However, I barely cross the threshold of her room when Mama verbally pounces on me.

Who the heck are you? Mama demands. Her voice is as cold as the iceberg that struck the Titanic. She looks me up and down and frowns at me disapprovingly.

Your skin is too black to be wearing all of that yellow! she barks as she points her bony finger at me.

She continues to glare at me, her once warm and soft brown eyes now speckled with gray and age.