In 1995, tragedy struck when Maurice Wilson returned home from the grocery store and was killed by a stray bullet, leaving his wife, Juanita, a widowed single mother of two. Having no life insurance and barely any savings, Juanita is forced to sell what few valuable items she has to give her husband a decent burial. With her husband no longer around as the primary breadwinner and without his salary, Juanita struggled to financially keep her and her children's heads above water, but she managed to survive.
Tragically, two years following the death of her husband, her youngest child is diagnosed with cancer, leaving Juanita deeply in debt due to copayments for treatments, surgeries, prescriptions, and transportation to and from her job and doctors' visits. Overworked and underpaid, Juanita works a job she hates at the prestigious law firm of Wayne, Rothstein, and Lincoln to provide for her children. When her oldest child, Jalen, begins to feel neglected because his mother cannot afford to buy him the things he wants, constantly works overtime, and is always taking care of his younger brother, he is lured by the streets and a local drug dealer named Drastic.
In 1995, tragedy struck when Maurice Wilson returned home from the grocery store and was killed by a stray bullet, leaving his wife, Juanita, a widowed single mother of two. Having no life insurance and barely any savings, Juanita is forced to sell what few valuable items she has to give her husband a decent burial. With her husband no longer around as the primary breadwinner and without his salary, Juanita struggled to financially keep her and her children's heads above water, but she managed to survive.
Tragically, two years following the death of her husband, her youngest child is diagnosed with cancer, leaving Juanita deeply in debt due to copayments for treatments, surgeries, prescriptions, and transportation to and from her job and doctors' visits. Overworked and underpaid, Juanita works a job she hates at the prestigious law firm of Wayne, Rothstein, and Lincoln to provide for her children. When her oldest child, Jalen, begins to feel neglected because his mother cannot afford to buy him the things he wants, constantly works overtime, and is always taking care of his younger brother, he is lured by the streets and a local drug dealer named Drastic.
I’m sitting in Jamaica Hospital in Queens, fidgeting uncomfortably in a tan leather chair beside my son, Jerami. Once again, he overexerted himself playing basketball with my oldest, Jalen, and now he’s hospitalized with a fever. I don’t want to deny him a normal childhood or treat him like he has to live in a bubble. His cancer does that enough, but I don’t like seeing him in a hospital bed hooked up to machines, writhing in pain, either.
I used my fingers to smooth out his furrowed brows when I saw lines of distress on his forehead. His brown eyes slowly fluttered open. Disoriented, he groaned and rubbed his chest. He smiled when he saw me and said, “Hi, Mommy.”
It warmed my heart seeing him smile. “Hey, sleepyhead,” I said, rubbing his hand.
“I’m tired.”
“I know. Rest up. I’m right here next to you.”
As if our talk drained him, he nodded and quickly fell asleep.
My lower back was killing me, sitting in this uncomfortable hospital chair. I stood up to stretch and saw my reflection in the small hospital mirror. Taking care of my two sons alone was taking a toll on me. I looked tired, worn, and weary. My tired chestnut eyes showed a lack of sleep and tons of stress. No amount of makeup could hide the dark circles under them. My untamed coffee-brown hair was desperately in need of a perm. Chain-smoking cigarettes and being broke and malnourished showed by how my loose-fitting clothes hung on my slender frame.
While there were those subtle physical signs, my reflection didn’t show the mental anguish and chaos my life has been through these past three years.
I have a lot of anger inside of me. I’m angry that drug dealers decided to have a shootout in front of the grocery store, killing my husband in the crossfire. I’m angry that my husband’s murderer will never be brought to justice and sentenced for his crime. I’m angry because I feel like I have no control over anything in my life.
I sat back down and twisted the wedding rings on my finger. It’s been three years since my husband, Maurice, passed, and I still couldn’t bear to take off my rings. There isn’t a day that has gone by when I haven’t missed him.
Some days are etched in your soul forever. For me, that date was Sunday, October 18th. My anger brought me back to that fateful day. Alone with my thoughts, I relived the horrific memory that has been a critical turning point in my children’s and my lives... the day my husband was murdered.
I was cooking dinner while my husband watched the football game in the living room.
“Mo . . .” I yelled from the kitchen.
He didn’t answer.
“Mo . . .”
He still didn’t answer.
“Maurice,” I yelled again.
I walked out and heard Mo cheering when the Giants scored another touchdown.
“Do you hear me talking to you?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
He was trying to pay attention to both the game and me, but the game had the advantage.
I walked into the living room and stood in front of the TV, wiping my hands on my apron.
“What’s up, babe? I’m watching the game.”
“I need you to go to the store and pick up some pasta.”
Mo tried to look at the TV around me, but I purposely stepped in the way to stop him and make sure he was only paying attention to me.
“You want me to go to the store again? Can I do it after the game, baby?”
“No, I need it now. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you had taken the list I made earlier instead of buying groceries from memory. Now, hurry up.”
“The lines in Associated are crazy at this time on Sundays,” he said.
“If you want to eat dinner any time soon, you’ll grin and bear it. I don’t need much, only eggs and two boxes of pasta for this mac and cheese.”
He sighed and slipped on his shoes. “I’ll be right back,” he said, kissing me on the forehead and playfully slapping me on the ass.
“Oooh! That’ll be for dessert,” I said, winking at him.
Jerami and Jalen walked out of their room.
“Where you going, Dad?” Jalen asked.
“Back to the store. Your mom is bullying me into picking up some more things.”
“Important things for what I’m cooking, and don’t tell the kids I’m bullying you,” I said, playfully elbowing him in his side.
“You see this?” Mo said.
The kids laughed.
“Bye, Daddy,” Jerami said.
“Can I come, Dad?” Jalen asked.
“Nah, take care of your mom for me.”
Mo kissed me goodbye and walked out the door.
Fifteen minutes passed. Out of nowhere, a shiver ran down my spine. I had an unsettling feeling that something was wrong. I tried to shake it off as just nerves, but Mo not being home yet didn’t help. I ignored the feeling and kept cooking.
I heard apartment doors opening and closing and people running down the stairs. I jumped when I heard someone pounding frantically on my door like they had lost their damn mind. I knew it wasn’t Mo because he would’ve used his key. I dried my hands on my apron, anxiously rushed to the front door, and looked through the peephole.
It surprised me to see Tracy, a woman who lived one flight up from me on the sixth floor, standing in front of my door with a concerned look on her face, her hands fidgety. We were cordial when I saw her with her twins around the block, but we weren’t friendly to where we hung out at each other’s apartments, so I knew something was wrong.
I quickly undid the locks and opened the door. Our nosy neighbors peeked out their heads and stood in their doorways to see what the commotion was about.
Tracy’s voice was shaky when she said, “You need to go across the street to the food store . . . Your husband was shot.”
I heard the urgency in her voice. My pulse sped up. My nervousness took over, but I tried to stay calm.
“What did she say, Ma?” Jalen asked, overhearing what Tracy said from the couch.
I couldn’t panic. I needed to find out what happened without scaring the kids.
“Stay with your brother,” I said.
“But, Ma—”
“Did you hear what I said? I need you to listen to me and stay with your brother until I find out what’s happening.”
He nodded, tears glistening in his eyes.
Tracy and I rushed out of our building. Unmarked police cars were used to block off the street. I pushed my way through hordes of onlookers. The cops were cordoning off the scene. My hand shot over my mouth as I gasped in horror, trying to stop myself from screaming. Behind the yellow crime scene tape was Mo, slumped over against the graffiti-covered grocery store gate. His glassy eyes stared at me; blood leaked profusely from his chest. Two paramedics rushed past us with a stretcher. I stepped under the crime scene tape and ran to my husband, but one of the paramedics held me.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. You can’t be in this area,” the medic said.
I jerked away from him. “Get your fucking hands off me. That’s my husband... I need to see my husband.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t. We’re doing the best we can for him.”
“I want to see him,” I said, tears streaming down my face.
The onlookers shook their heads. Most of their faces showed empathy, but no one was surprised that a shootout happened in broad daylight in this neighborhood. It was common for innocent people to be caught in the crossfire and hit by stray bullets.
The code of the street was no snitching, but I needed answers. I stopped fighting with the EMS workers and turned to the spectators.
“Who did this? Who killed my husband? I know somebody saw something. I know one of you knows who shot him,” I cried.
Everyone stayed tight-lipped and averted their eyes.
One dark-skinned brotha who looked about sixteen said, “It’s fucked up what happened to your man, but you know how it is. Bullets don’t got no names on them.”
I heard that stupid justification too many times from so many knuckleheads. To them, Mo was just a casualty in the never-ending war in the street.
I felt faint. My knees gave way, and I fell to the street in a daze. One of the EMS workers walked up to me.
“Are you OK, ma’am?” he asked, waving his hands and snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I felt myself being lifted off the ground. The EMS worker’s lips were moving, but I could barely hear what he was saying. I finally made out the last part, but I wished I hadn’t.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. His injuries were too severe. He didn’t make it.”
I wept uncontrollably as the EMS workers placed Mo’s body on a gurney, covered it with a white sheet, and put him in the ambulance. The crowd slowly thinned out, and everyone went on as usual, as if nothing had happened. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Tracy. She pulled me close into a tight embrace and rocked me in her arms as I cried on her shoulder.
My husband didn’t hang out in the streets. He didn’t do or sell drugs. He was a good, hardworking man whose life was taken from our kids and me because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I felt guilty. I felt responsible. I couldn’t fathom how I’d be able to tell my sons that their father was killed.
“This is my fault. He’d still be here if I had just made something else for dinner instead of making him go back to that damn store.”
Tracy hugged me tighter. “It’s not your fault. You had no way of knowing this would happened. The only person at fault is the man who killed him.”
Tracy never left my side. She rode inside the ambulance with me to the hospital, where I sat for hours answering every question the police asked me. Nobody in the neighborhood said shit to the cops, and the police had no leads or suspects. In their eyes, I was just another poor, pitiful widow whose husband was gunned down because of stupid hood drama.
After talking to numerous police officers, detectives, and a hospital grief counselor, the cops drove Tracy and me back to Queensbridge.
***
Tracy and I sat on the wooden benches in front of our building, and she helped me get myself together while I tried to mentally rehearse how I would break it to my sons that their father was dead. With my voice hoarse from crying and screaming, I said, “I appreciate you being here, but don’t spend all your time with me. You have your own kids to take care of.”
Tracy had twins, Akeem and Ebony, who were Jalen’s age.
“Juanita, you need a friend right now. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll head up with you when you go to tell your kids. I’m here for you, and I won’t let you do that alone,” she said.
There was no way to break such life-altering news to my sons gently, and I already knew it was going to be the hardest thing I had to do . . . explaining to them that their father was never coming home again.
Tracy and I talked for a good forty-five minutes until I was composed enough to face my kids. I have to admit; I was glad she was there with me.
We went inside our building, and I woefully walked to my floor. My hands shook so badly that it took me several tries to put the key into the lock to open the door.
Tracy patted my back. I took a deep breath, turned my key, and stepped inside. Jalen and Jerami’s eyes were red-rimmed and teary. They jumped up from the couch and rushed toward me.
I held Jerami; he was crying in my arms.
“What happened? Where’s Dad?” Jalen asked, his lips trembling.
My words were stuck in my throat. Tracy placed her hand on my back for support.
“Is he OK?” Jalen asked.
It was so hard to think of the right words to make things better, but there was no way to sugarcoat it. Jalen and Jerami stared at me and waited intently for my reply.
I let out a long, stressful breath, steadying my voice for my next words. “I’m so sorry, babies. Some men were shooting in front of the food store, and one of their bullets hit him . . . and Daddy didn’t make it. He passed away.”
I saw the innocence die in Jalen at that moment. His eyes widened as my words sank in, and his expression quickly turned to anger.
“. . . This is your fault. You made him go to the fucking store,” Jalen screamed.
“Jalen, please—”
“I hate you,” he yelled, storming to his room and slamming his door. Jerami shook out of my arms and followed his brother.
“He doesn’t mean that. He’s running high off emotions right now and lashing out at you. He’ll come around,” Tracy said.
I spent the rest of the night rocking my youngest son to sleep as he cried for his daddy, wanting to know why God had taken his father from him. Those cries hurt my heart, and I had no answers for him. I wondered the same thing.
That week and even a few days after the funeral, my sons cried every day for their father. I comforted them the best I could and told them everything would be OK, but I had difficulty convincing myself of that.
***
Tracy was a nurse’s aide at Jamaica Hospital, where I am currently in the emergency room. We bonded because, like me, she was raising two kids of her own, her twins, Akeem and Ebony, and we both had to provide for our two children with no support. Her kids’ drug-dealing daddy split and moved to Philly after he decided being a father wasn’t for him.
Tracy helped me through my lowest moments. She was there when I truly needed her, and she immediately became my best friend, someone I could talk to about everything and anything, and she never judged me.
She was so real and down to earth and had an air and strength about her that I wished I had. She saw the best in me and uplifted me when I didn’t see shit about myself worth praising. I honestly don’t think I could’ve coped with the loss of my husband without her. When it came time to make arrangements for Mo, I didn’t know where to begin with planning for a funeral. Luckily for me, Tracy coordinated everything.
Maurice didn’t have a life insurance policy. His parents were dead, and he didn’t have much family. The little family he did have was in North Carolina, and none of them had money to send to help with the funeral expenses or even the funds to come down to attend it.
Our church didn’t help. Everyone told me how sorry they were for the boys and me, but no one, not even the church itself, gave a dime to help bury my husband. That financial responsibility for Mo’s burial fell solely on me.
I maxed out my credit cards, used up the few dollars in our savings, sold some furniture and some of my jewelry, and when that still wasn’t enough money to give Mo a decent burial, I sold the ’89 Ford Taurus that Mo and I bought to get around.
I couldn’t afford to pay for car insurance, tolls, maintenance, or gas anyway, so going without a car for a while made sense. Until I could get back on my feet financially, I was stuck taking public transportation to get around.
The day of Mo’s funeral was rainy and dreary. There was a small turnout. Barely anyone from the neighborhood or our church came. A few of my friends and a handful of his coworkers from the auto body shop paid their respects.
My so-called friends deserted me once Mo died. I was too overwhelmed with work and bills to hang out like I used to, and the few times they visited, they told me I depressed them too much. Now, every time I see them in the street, they avoid me, so I’ve written them off and moved on.
Getting used to sleeping alone at night was hard, but I had to accept that waking up to an empty bed every day was my new normal. While that was hard, things only got harder. With Mo gone, all the responsibilities of raising our two boys were solely on me. The huge cost of burying him and going from two incomes to being the solitary breadwinner forced me to learn quickly how to budget better for groceries and other bills.
Living in the projects, I didn’t have to pay utilities, which helped somewhat, but my credit cards, student loans, and other personal loans Mo and I took out during our marriage were kicking my ass. Our house phone was disconnected, and I didn’t have enough money to reinstate the service. Cable was an expense I couldn’t afford, but I tried to keep it on so the kids could have at least one luxury. It felt like the boys were growing out of their clothes faster than I could buy them.
I learned how to stretch things out, like adding water to laundry detergent, juice, and mouthwash to make them last longer. I bought no-frills brands for everything regularly and got clothes for the boys from the thrift store on Steinway Street. I had to be frugal and creative in how I spent my money, and sometimes, we just had to go without and make do with whatever I could afford.
Eventually, I swallowed my pride and applied for food stamps, which helped to buy things like juice, milk, eggs, and peanut butter. It wasn’t a lot, but it was still a significant help and made it, so I didn’t have to water down everything anymore.
***
Tears rolled down my face at the memory of my late husband. I lowered my head in my hands and raised it when I felt a touch on my shoulder, breaking me out of my thoughts.
Tracy had come in on her break to check on Jerami and me in the oncology wing. I shivered and pulled myself together as the memory faded.
“You all right, Queen? I see something is heavy on your mind,” she said.
Tracy and I called each other “queen” to uplift each other.
“I’m OK. You know how it is—the usual bullshit. Just wishing this nightmare with Jerami’s cancer was over, and I’m missing Maurice.”
“I know how that last part feels. I haven’t had a man touch me in a long time, either. I miss it too,” she joked.
“You’re so nasty.”
We laughed. I needed that.
Tracy held Jerami’s frail arm and checked the monitors he was connected to. Then she stepped out of the room, and my mind returned to the stress in my life.
I lost faith in God. How could God take my husband from me and allow my son to be diagnosed with cancer two years later? I watched Jerami slowly wasting away daily and questioned why God would let it happen. He already took my husband from me; I didn’t know if I could handle another devastating loss.
My head was barely above water, and things were financially more burdensome with Mo gone, but we were making it for the most part. Two years later, just when I thought I had gotten somewhat of a routine down, all that shit went out the window when Jerami got sick.
“Ma, I’m not feeling well,” Jerami said.
I pressed my palm against his forehead. He felt warm. He hadn’t been feeling well for a couple of months and complained that he was always tired.
“Boy, you’re fine. Wake up and start getting ready because you’re going to school today.”
He didn’t have much of an appetite anymore and was losing weight. Truth be told, I felt it coming. I had a sense of uneasiness that something wasn’t right. A mother knows when there’s something wrong with her child, but I convinced myself it wasn’t anything serious. Maybe just a lingering cold or at least nothing big enough to miss work over, but when it didn’t go away, I took off work and had him checked out by his pediatrician, Dr. Cruz.
Initially, Dr. Cruz thought it was the mumps or a recurring strep throat. He prescribed antibiotics, but Jerami wasn’t getting better, and he started looking bloated in a matter of days.
“As you’re aware, Mrs. Wilson, I ordered Jerami a complete blood count test or CBC finger stick count,” Dr. Cruz said.
His face looked grim and serious.
I nodded and asked, “What did the test show?”
“Jerami has an enlarged spleen and liver. I recommend you go to the ER immediately.”
“Oh my God, is my son going to be OK?”
“If we handle this swiftly, he has a good chance of being so. You need to take him to the Emergency Room right away.”
I rushed Jerami to Jamaica Hospital. The doctors returned to say Jerami had to be admitted for more tests. After the tests were conducted, the dark cloud over my life got darker. Jerami was diagnosed with lymphoma. I heard stories of mothers who had kids with cancer, but I never imagined a reality where it would happen to me . . . that it would happen to my son.
I didn’t break down and cry or ask God for strength. I felt guilty and responsible because I knew something was wrong and didn’t have him checked out sooner. I put work before my son, and after that shitty day, I promised myself I’d do whatever it took to help my son get through this.
The staff took him to the oncology wing at Jamaica Hospital for more specialized care. They introduced me to Dr. Maier, who was assigned to be Jerami’s oncologist. Jerami had a spinal tap, bone marrow biopsy, and an aspiration procedure to narrow down the type and severity of lymphoma he had.
I watched helplessly as Jerami had emergency surgery and started treatment that night. Seeing my baby go under anesthesia for the hour-long procedure pained me. Bone marrow had to be extracted from his hip. A small plastic disc called a “port” was inserted into his chest and used as a catheter to administer the chemo and antibiotics.
Before I had time to digest everything the doctors told me, I was in Jerami’s hospital room, holding his hand through another surgery prep. The whole ordeal had me close to tears, but I needed to be strong for him.
Jerami’s eyes were so fearful and innocent that when he asked, “Mom, am I going to die?” my heart stopped. I didn’t want him to see me break down and lose all hope of beating his sickness. I tried to hide the trembling in my hands and the shakiness in my voice.
“Of course not, silly. You just need to take your medicine, and you’ll be fine.”
“You promise?” he asked.
“I promise,” I said, smiling at him and blinking back tears.
I had to say it with strength and assurance, but it’s hard to be strong when your child is poked and prodded in front of you.
Jerami had to stay in the hospital for ten days. It was a hectic, and overwhelming experience filled with loads of information and unfathomable emotions.
“Mrs. Wilson, Jerami needs a blood transfusion. I highly recommend that we act quickly and get this done,” Dr. Maier explained.
I nodded. Things needed to be done immediately, and I felt powerless to help my son. There wasn’t time to think.
After Jerami’s transfusion, I had a lengthy meeting with Dr. Maier. He explained to me the strategy for Jerami’s treatment.
“Proper treatment for Jerami will be six weeks of radiation five days a week in addition to fifteen months of chemotherapy,” Dr. Maier said.
“Be honest with me. Does my son stand a chance of surviving this? Is his cancer curable?” I asked.
Dr. Maier smiled. “The good thing is, with the right treatment and patience, I believe he has a significant chance of beating this. Have faith.”
It was hard to have patience or faith when you’ve been through the shit I’ve been through.
“Now for the ugly part. I’ll be honest. Most likely, Jerami will start feeling his treatments’ side effects about three days after receiving them. Seeing him lose his hair, toenails, and fingernails will be scary, but you can’t lose hope. You have to trust this is all part of the process.”
My eyes watered, but I bit my bottom lip and fought back my tears.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Don’t mind me; go on,” I said.
“Jerami is going to experience nausea often. I’ll give him medication to combat his nausea, but I can’t guarantee it’ll completely stop it. He’ll vomit often, and the long-term effects of everything may cause kidney damage. The thing with chemotherapy is that it kills both cancerous and noncancerous cells, which will lead to Jerami having a low blood count and being susceptible to infections. In other words, he’ll have no immune system . . .”
After hearing that, I was a crying mess.
“Mrs. Wilson, I know it’s a lot to process—”
“I’m sorry I’m being so emotional.”
“It’s completely understandable.”
“You were saying?”
“Yes, because the entire treatment process is so taxing on the body, some parents choose to have their children remain out of school and pay for homebound instruction.”
There was no way I could afford that. The whole ordeal sounded like too much for any child or parent to handle, but I’d do whatever it took to keep my son alive.
“I can’t afford to have him homeschooled. Is there any chance he could get treated and still go to school?”
“He can still go to school, but there will be times when he’s going to be too weak and will have to miss days. Also, you’ll have to be extremely cautious about having him around other children because of his weakened immune system.”
After talking with Dr. Maier, I immediately let my job know about Jerami’s diagnosis and explained there’d be times when I’d need to take time off to care for my son.
I’m the senior executive assistant and administrative manager at one of the biggest law firms in New York—Wayne, Rothstein, and Lincoln. My boss, Francis Lincoln, one of the partners at the firm I worked at, either did not understand what I had to balance daily or just didn’t give a shit.
Francis made it clear that if I wanted to keep my title with the firm, I’d better cut back significantly with taking off. I couldn’t find anyone to babysit with my sporadic schedule at the firm, and with Maurice gone, I badly needed help with my sons.
Out of desperation and with no other family or friends to help me, I scraped together my last bit of money to move my unemployed baby sister Carina down from Atlanta to live in my cramped two-bedroom apartment. Living in those crowded conditions has been rough, but I needed Carina.
Our parents passed from diabetes, and we weren’t close to any of our uncles or aunts. She and I were the only family we had.
Since she couldn’t help me financially, all I asked of her was to help me with Jerami’s appointments, keep Jalen in check and out of trouble, and take care of things around the house while I worked to support all of us, but she wasn’t very dependable and had become more of a leech than a help lately.
My sister, bluntly put, is a slut. Knowing how she was, I didn’t want a bunch of men running in, and out of my house, so I gave her my bedroom to entertain her latest conquests and made her promise to put her hoeish exploits on pause until nighttime when my kids were asleep. I slept on my makeshift bed on the foldout couch in the living room every night.
***
Tracy walked back into the room with a pillow and blanket, breaking me out of my ugly trip down memory lane. No matter how many pillows and blankets she gave me, nothing made those hospital chairs comfy, but it didn’t matter; I needed to go home tonight. I missed Jalen terribly. I hated not giving him as much attention or being there for him as much as I should have. I wanted to get home, hug him, and ask him how his day had gone. I prayed that Jalen had the maturity and patience to understand that his little brother was fighting for his life and needed more of my time and energy.
“Are you staying here tonight, Queen?” Tracy asked.
“Nah, I’m gonna head home and check on Jalen. I got a bad feeling Carina flaked out again and left him to care for himself.”
“I feel you. Take care of your oldest; things are good here. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Most mornings before I left for work, I’d call her to meet in front of our building after she came home from her shift. We’d smoke our daily cigarettes together. Hers was to destress from work, and mine was to prepare me mentally for it.
I nodded, said my goodbyes, and kissed Jerami on the forehead.
In situations like this, where Jerami was admitted after having a fever, Carina usually spent the day with him while I went to work. Once I got off and made my way to the hospital, she was supposed to go home to keep an eye on Jalen, but that rarely happened. She usually left Jalen home alone while she fucked around, hoping one of these losers she slept with would take care of her and put her up in an apartment rent-free.
With my hectic work schedule, taking care of Jerami, and depending on Carina to watch Jalen, it was a constant struggle to stop my oldest from hanging out in the streets and being influenced and consumed by them.
***
I took the F train to the Twenty-First Street Queensbridge Station. I was home. My boys, sister, and I lived in Queensbridge, a run-down housing project in Long Island City north of the Queensboro Bridge.
I walked up the broken escalator to the street. I ignored the usual losers that stood around the street corner, maneuvering through the pack of men and rejecting them as they spat corny pickup lines at me along my way to walking to my building.
“Psst . . . Come here, baby. Let me holla at you,” one man said.
“Hey, pretty lady, I got a stiff nine inches for you right here,” another said, grabbing his crotch.
I rolled my eyes and tuned them out as I headed to my apartment building.
The strong, lingering, rank odors of weed and piss hit my nostrils as soon as I opened the door and stepped into my building lobby. The elevator hadn’t worked in months, so I trudged up the musty, narrow staircase, climbing five flights up to my apartment.
I opened my door, kicked Jalen’s sneakers out of my way, and sorted through the mail. I threw the bills on my kitchen counter and tossed the rest of the junk in the trash. I sighed at seeing the growing stack of bills on the counter. Between all types of lab and imaging tests, radiation treatments, surgeries, clinic visits, and medications, all those things have drained my finances, which have me barely making it check to check. Paying bills became a weekly debate about what could be put off to pay later and what was necessary.
Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink, and I’m sure Carina’s lazy ass was waiting for me to give in and wash them. I sighed, quickly washed them, and placed them on the draining rack. A bag of dirty laundry sat in the corner, still waiting to be cleaned. I’d have to tackle that another day. This was my life.
I walked down the narrow hallway to my son’s room and looked in on Jalen. He was asleep, tightly tucked under his covers. I stepped around, all the action figures scattered across the floor, and looked down at him as he slept. I knew I shouldn’t wake him, but he needed to know I loved and cared for him just as much as his brother. I made it my duty to wake him up and ask him about his day on nights when he went to bed before I got home.
I sat on the edge of his bed and gently tugged on his toes until he woke up.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” he said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
“How was your day?”
“Fine . . .”
“Are you excited for your first day of school tomorrow?”
He let out an annoyed breath. “Yeah, Ma, I guess.”
“Where’s your aunt?”
He shrugged and yawned again. “I don’t know.”
“All right, go back to sleep. I love you, Sonshine.”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
I smiled to myself. He might not be fond of the nickname, but it was special to me. I kissed him on the forehead.
“Good night. Get some sleep,” I said.
I closed his door and dragged my tired body to the bathroom. I ran the water, getting it as hot as I could stand, stripped out of my clothes, slipped in slowly, and soaked in the tub, grateful that my day was over.
Daily, I tried to create a sense of normalcy with my kids. I tried to keep up the façade that everything was OK and under control so my children could function as normally as possible, but the reality is . . . It’s all bullshit. Things are far from OK, and nothing about our lives is fucking normal.
I slipped deeper into depression, realizing that after Maurice died and Jerami was diagnosed, I felt like the veil of faith had been pulled back from my eyes. There was no rhyme or reason to the universe or how it worked. We’re all just lost souls that coexist with one another. We try to make sense of the fucked-up things that happen in the world, so we have a somewhat false sense of understanding and learn to live with them, but Maurice’s death left me with a pessimistic view that the universe is chaotic and there are no happy endings.
I finished bathing, dried my body, and put on some shea butter while slipping on my nightgown. I laid my clothes out for the morning and stretched out on my makeshift foldout sofa bed. I buried my head in my pillow and silently cried until I dozed off, wondering how this nightmare became my reality and praying my life and luck would improve.
***
I stirred from my sleep when I heard Carina unlock the front door and creep in. I cleared my throat to make sure the heifer knew I was awake.
“Where were you?” I asked.
She jumped and swayed. “Wwwhat? Huh?”
She was clearly either drunk or high because she was stumbling around and slurring her words.
“I said, where were you?”
“Wwwhat are you? My fffucking mom?” she slurred and giggled.
“You left Jalen here alone when your sole purpose for staying here is to watch him while I’m at the hospital . . . Are you even listening to me?”
Carina wobbled into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and drank the last of the orange juice straight from the carton. Then she put the empty carton on the counter.
I stood up, grabbed the carton, and threw it in the garbage can. I felt my frustration boiling over and coming out in my words.
“I spent my last dime moving you into my fucking apartment when you were damn near homeless. I pay for everything around here for you and the kids, and all I ask of you is to help out, clean, cook occasionally, and watch after the boys. Half of the time, you’re out somewhere fucking with some bum-ass sucka, and you leave my boys to fend for themselves. You hearin’ me?”
“Ugh, you’re using way too many words right now and messing up my buzz,” she complained.
“Fuck you and your buzz. If you’re not going to do what I need you to do, you can mooch off one of your drug-dealing fuck buddies and move out. It’ll be one less mouth to feed, and it’ll give me my damn bedroom back.”
“All right. Damn, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I wish that were true, but I knew it would happen again.
Mothers Vol. 1 features Juanita as the mother of two boys. She and her husband, Maurice, live in the projects of Queensbridge with their sons. Living in the projects is indication enough that finances are not that great but they are a happy family. That is until that standard day filled with jokes and laughter when things took a life-shattering turn. Left as a single mother, Juanita realizes how bottomless a pit can get. When one of her sons starts becoming more reliant on her, her other son starts on a path that leads to rocky terrain. As if her personal life is not taking enough of a knock, the years she has spent studying and gaining experience for and at her job seem on the verge of being knocked out of the ballpark by a pair of boobs.
Ben Burgess writes a very relatable story. Whether you have walked a mile in Juanita's shoes or you have seen someone else do so or have only heard stories, the journey Juanita walks can be understood by many people from various walks of life. One of my favorite things that Burgess did was not tell a biased story that only aims to tell Juanita's side of the story or one that's played out of the struggling single mother. He put meat on that skeleton of a story and created a wholesome read. One of the techniques he used to make this happen was to use a multinarrator structure. Because of this, the reader not only gets to read other experiences but can get to see things from the other person's perspective in the same situation. So, if you enjoy relatable fiction, do not hesitate to choose this book as your next read.
If you are a sensitive reader, you might find it a little uncomfortable to wade through the profanity used in this book. It is plentiful and constant. There are also detailed descriptions of gratuitous violence. Therefore, if either of these things might be too much for you, you might want to prepare yourself before delving into this incredible read. Besides content sensitivities, the format of the copy I read had issues. I had to flip backward to be able to read the book. This was confusing at first glance and disruptive as I began reading because I would sometimes flip forward like is normally done only to be faced with the page I had just read then I would have to go back so that I can continue reading. Other than those things, this is a professionally edited book that is beautifully written and has well-developed characters that bring a captivating plot to life.