I come from a long line of nervous women. The nervousness started when my great granny\u2019s brain cracked. I never met her, but here\u2019s what I\u2019ve been told: it was the Great Depression. She and hers were down to cornmeal and dandelions. She chased her husband with a meat cleaver until he promised that he and the kids would go without supper. She wanted to buy genuine taffeta. She wanted a pretty dress.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And my granny, she had broken thoughts, too. When my mama was pregnant with me, my granny climbed the sugar maple in her yard. Before Mama burned bridges with the men in the family, they swore Granny mistook the telephone wire for a branch. My mama said otherwise. Mama said Granny eyed it, and right before she took hold, she said: Goodbye, little life. She shook with the spirit.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Two weeks ago, my mama joined them in their crumbling. I told her I graduated and that made me a woman. I told her I was leaving Tennessee. I told her I was going north because I was in love. That was that. She said, \u201cDumplin, he don\u2019t love you. He ain\u2019t even a man.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I bit my tongue. He drove a mustang. He had thick sideburns.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe only likes you \u2018cause you got that exotic look.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I said, \u201cYou just don\u2019t like him \u2018cause he\u2019s white and \u2018cause he drinks up all the Coke.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDumplin, you watch your mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t even got a man.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She set my baby sister down, safe in a swaddle. She chased me, tank-top tugged down. Tried to squirt me with her milk. Pinched nipples\u2014yellowed streams of milk from her chest. I hid in the safest part of the trailer. Her closet. The door gets jammed sometimes. She hunkered and tugged at the knob. That stuck sheet of pine was my savior. She gave up and sprayed the wood until Nevaeh cranked up her colic. Mama\u2019s footsteps creaked away. Nevaeh\u2019s whines rattled. We haven\u2019t seen our mama since. She went with my man to Ohio.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It\u2019s just us. Baby Nevaeh and me. We splay on the futon. She nurses the bottle just fine. I feed her until she wiggles away from the flow. The first time, I hurt her. Her squalling carried into the blue minutes of dawn. That lip-burn better not scar. We\u2019re okay now. I nestle her in my arms, breathe in the vanilla malt on her breath. I coo. \u201cHush, little baby, don\u2019t say a word. Your mama is a fucking turd.\u201d I rock her into dreams. \u201cAnd since she up and went cuckoo, I\u2019m gonna stay and care for you.\u201d I settle her in the crook of the futon. What goes on behind those pretty eyelids, dark and thin as petals? What do those flittering eyes see?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My dreams have been haunted with mad women. Mostly it\u2019s Mama sneaking up the slope of our yard in shadows. Meat cleaver swinging from her grip. Sometimes I\u2019m the one who\u2019s lost it, pushing Nevaeh into bathwater murky as sin. But I\u2019m not like my family.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I dig in my old toy bin by the recliner and pick a Barbie. Her white face tattooed with purple marker. Hair chopped short. Clothes long-lost. I prop her on the windowsill behind the lace curtain. Beside her, a Cabbage Patch doll I stationed yesterday. They sit on pink doilies and watch the yard. At the end of the gravel driveway, the postal woman stuffs letters in the box. Her stomach bulges. Her mullet stiff in the breeze. She studies the window, shakes her head.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I pop in a VHS tape: Labyrinth. <\/em>While it rewinds, I cook popcorn on the stove. The cabinets and pantry will hollow soon. Mama left her WIC papers, food stamps. I\u2019ll need to get a job. I\u2019ll keep Nevaeh fat. I sit on the carpet and start the movie with salted fingers.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A soft tapping on the door. I peer through the peephole. A plump, light-skinned girl stands in a windbreaker. Her hair tied in thick plaits. A Blow Pop pocketed in her cheek. She lives in a fenced-in house across the street. She knocks, louder.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I swing open the door and hush her. \u201cI got a baby sleeping.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhy you got dolls in the window?\u201d She smacks her tongue against the sucker.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cBusiness is better when it\u2019s minded,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cMy name\u2019s Elma. What\u2019s your name?\u201d She cranes her neck past me, into the living room. \u201cCan I hold your baby?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s sleeping,\u201d I whisper.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHey, you got any ice cream?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou sure don\u2019t need none.\u201d I step in front of her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She backs onto the porch. \u201cThat ain\u2019t your baby.\u201d She crunches the candy to shards. \u201cMy mama said that your mama is a easy heifer.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Nevaeh cries. I shut the door on Elma and scoop Neveah from the futon.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Elma presses her face against the windowpane. She fogs the glass with her words. \u201cWhat\u2019s a heifer?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n By the time I get settled, the sister on screen tries to know the difference between a truth and a lie. Nevaeh sucks butter from my fingers. The movie ends at sunset. Dusk reaches up to the porch, to the windows. I lock the door and turn on the porch light. All that swimming darkness. I scoot with Neveah pressed to my chest, to the toy bin. A clay girl, strawberry-sized. Her cheeks freckled. Her arms pocked by the old gnaw of my baby teeth. She joins the others on the windowsill. I cuddle Nevaeh on the spread futon. We sleep.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the morning, I give Nevaeh a gentle wash in the kitchen sink. Her soft scent: lavender, baby powder. I dress her in yellow cotton. She babbles in her stroller. Before we step out, I check my pockets\u2014ID, WIC, pocketknife. The walk to the grocery store isn\u2019t far, but if anyone tries anything, I\u2019ll stab. If the sharpness won\u2019t kill them in the moment, the rust will, later. I wait by the door and steady my heartbeat. No demons stalk in daylight.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The sun bakes the porch. It rained last night. The tulipwood swells, dark. I pull the door halfway shut before I see it\u2014below the window, a teacup with a chipped brim. It sits on a saucer. And in that cup, ripped dogwood blossoms and twigs float in rainwater. I rush back inside with Nevaeh and lock the door. My hands shake in the toy bin. I fill the windowsill with watching eyes: porcelain, paper, wood. A doll with acorns for eyes. A little girl with chewed bubblegum eyes. The last doll is a nesting doll. Eyes on the outside, eyes on the inside. I place her in the middle.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We step out. The stroller\u2019s sunshade protects Nevaeh\u2019s eyes. She sucks a binky. I lock the door, tug the knob three times, slip the key in my pocket. I kick the teacup and saucer. They shatter on the sun-bleached lawn. The day is humid.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The air conditioner of IGA kisses our skin. My muscles ache. My breathing throbs. I walk slow in the coolness, lean my weight into the stroller. Sleepy saxophone notes slide out the speakers. I push past dewed produce, by towers of toilet paper, keeping distance from strangers. The white women with beauty parlor curls smile at Nevaeh with pity in their eyes. I shop: a pound of cheese, low-fat milk, whole wheat cereal. Nine cans of formula. A stocker with a stain of a mustache helps me carry the food to the cashier. The cashier is a little older than me with glossed lips.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThis is WIC,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The stocker lingers, helps stuff plastic bags. The cashier totals. I give her the papers and ID.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The stocker peers. \u201cName doesn\u2019t match,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s my sister. My mama\u2019s sick,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHave your mother come in,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s on her deathbed,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll get a manager.\u201d He huffs and struts away.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The cashier whispers: \u201cThere\u2019s a shift change at five. I work a double today. If you can come back around six, I\u2019ll ring this up for you, no problem.\u201d She gives a half-dimpled smile.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My thanks: pressed lips, a nod. We leave our food in the bags, walk back down the backroad to our trailer. The lock twists open with a click. I undress Nevaeh in the dim living room. She\u2019s drenched with sweat. Her tiny body lolls. I settle her on the futon in front of a dusty box fan. She takes the bottle. I eat macaroni. She sucks the cheese from my fingers. At 5:45 Nevaeh slips into sleep. I work the binky in her mouth and tuck her into my old bassinet. \u201cI won\u2019t be long,\u201d I whisper. I lock the door and pound my feet on mud, to asphalt, to tiled floor.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When I reach the base of our yard, the bags sag from my wrist and arms. My back and shoulders full of ache. Elma crouches on the porch below the window. I toss the bags to the ground and jump up the two steps to face her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She squints at me. \u201cYou broke my mama\u2019s teacup.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat the hell you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She sprinkles bits of bermudagrass in a cup of milk. \u201cThe dolls told me they was thirsty. The dolls told me, Elma, come feed us tea.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThey did not,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She sprinkles more grass and stirs with her finger. \u201cThey woke me up last night. They was mad. They told me you don\u2019t help their thirst.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cGo on and get before I tell your mama.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s a heifer?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I give her a mad-mama look. I give her a look that tells her I\u2019m three seconds from beating her with my flip-flop. She scurries away. I cart the groceries in and go straight to Nevaeh. She looks at me, eyes wide as quarters. Her cheeks tear blotched.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cOh, baby, I\u2019m so sorry. I\u2019m the sorriest.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I plant feathered kisses on her forehead until she whines. She takes the bottle. While she sips in the bassinet, I harvest our mama\u2019s things: jeans cut into shorts, tank tops crusted with milk, balled rubber bands twisted with her dead ends. A ceramic ice cream cone full of pennies. I dump the change on the floor and toss the cone in a trash bag with the rest of her things. A pair of scissors. A globe of yarn. There\u2019s no more room in the bag. Hell, everything in this place she owns. I tie the bag, run down the porch, to the backyard. I toss it to the hem of the forest.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I talk to the bag. \u201cTomorrow, I\u2019ll get a job. What I need you for?\u201d I shoot spit to the mud. \u201cWhat Nevaeh need you for?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I fall asleep, naked, to Nevaeh\u2019s light breathing and the lullaby on TV: You remind me of the babe. The babe with the power. The power of Voodoo. You do. <\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n A sharp clanging rips me from my Mama-with-hatchet nightmare. I jolt up, throw on mama\u2019s robe. The clock above the flickering TV tells me it\u2019s three in the morning. The finished VHS tape sends out a steady bleat. I kill the TV\u2019s power. Another clang outside. The rummaging sound leads me and the jut of my pocketknife into the black. Silence. Plastic crinkles. I run to the backyard. Elma hunkers over strewn clothes, rolls the ice cream cone between palms.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s this mess?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThe dolls told me there was a treasure.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cYou lie.\u201d I fold the pocketknife. \u201cYou been watching me.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She yawns. \u201cI only been watching my dreams.\u201d She pushes past me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cThat ain\u2019t yours.\u201d I reach for the cone. My thumbnail snags on her wrist.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She squeals. \u201cYou made blood.\u201d She slams the cone to the ground. It chips on a stone. \u201cYou the heifer, ain\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Her feet pitter-patter away. I scoop up the mess, pile it onto the torn bag. Something leaps near my foot. I fork my fingertips through the dewed blades of grass until I feel it. The bumped skin of a cricket frog.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cHello, little friend.\u201d I carry his chirps inside and put him in the bassinet.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n All the sleepiness leaves my bones. I shuffle to the kitchen. The magnet calendar on the fridge stops me from searching for pickles. Today is my birthday. The cabinets have what I need to mix. The sun peaks past the horizon when I finish: sweet cornbread with chocolate icing.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I take a tea candle out my room and put it on the cushion of chocolate. I suck down air and blow. The nineteenth wish of my life: let me give Neveah the care I\u2019ve never known. I leave the treat on the counter and go back to my babies. The frog hides between two stuffed bears. I smear a little icing on the feet of the toys. The frog stays. \u201cYou just eat that when you get hungry,\u201d I say. I cuddle with Neveah. Before I can close my eyes, she screams.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n My morning is swampy diapers, warm bottles, two baths, back pats. At noon, she shuts her eyes and mouth. I find a white dress from our church days. I haven\u2019t worn this since I graduated middle school. I squeeze in. My chest hugged flat. The short sleeves push out my arm fat. I slip into a black, hooded jacket. One sleeve is burned at the wrist. If I push the stroller just right, no one will notice. I nibble a slice of cornbread in the bathroom while I pretty my face. My choice of shoes: flip-flops, a pair of sneakers. Flip-flops will do.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Something thuds in the living room. I bolt into the hallway, to the futon. Nevaeh rests with a bottle poking out her lips. She\u2019s safe. I look for what fell. The nesting doll, her innards split open. I put her together and return her to her post. The door is locked. The yard is empty. My steps can\u2019t be heavy in this home. Something always breaks.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The mean heat of the afternoon makes me sweat. The sweat makes my skin lick the polyester. I itch. Nevaeh\u2019s stroller wobbles over pebbles and sticks on the backroad. We cross the burning parking lot, into IGA. I go straight to customer service. A man with a moon belly stands at the register.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019d like to apply for a job.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n His thin-lipped smile stretches.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I stop filling out the application three times to feed Nevaeh, to change her. Emergency contact: N\/A. Have you ever worked before? All my life.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cCome in a couple of days for the interview.\u201d He takes the papers. \u201cYou\u2019ll want to find a babysitter.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I nod. The frog will keep her company. The dolls will keep her safe. I stroll her out into the early evening. The sky pink as taffy. When we reach the driveway, Nevaeh sputters out grunts. By the time I get her to the futon, her wailing hurts me. She won\u2019t take the bottle. Rocking doesn\u2019t soothe her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cWhat you want?\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Her screaming eats at me. Her words formless as poor dough, but I know what she says. \u201cYou ain\u2019t mine. You ain\u2019t nothing but a heifer. You ain\u2019t nothing.\u201d Our fight is worse than throwing knuckles. She cries, I stroke her back. She wiggles away from milk, I sway. She calms a few minutes past midnight. She rests with puffy eyes.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I pace. My nerves won\u2019t settle. I flick on the porch light. A mourning dove coos. That lonely sound feels like cold marbles in my belly. The frog still nestles between the stuffed bears. I take one. \u201cShe\u2019ll be right back,\u201d I say. I put her beneath the window, facing the wall. Pine and corkwood can\u2019t block the sight. An extra pair of eyes offers me peace.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When our mama would get in a bad mood, she\u2019d light a roll-up cigarette and fill the home with stink. In her room, the machine sits on a nightstand. My sloppy hands gut the first. Dry tobacco spills. The second cigarette is more paper than tobacco. I bring it along with a lighter to the door. I tap my pocket. Knife there, folded and ready. I unlock the door and open\u2014just a crack. Nevaeh doesn\u2019t stir. I blow smoke out into the sliver of night. It burns to the filter. I step on the porch to toss it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Puddles of honey on the porch. Crowds of ants in a frenzy-march. Elma is a girl full of wrong. She\u2019ll say, \u201cThe dolls want honey for tea.\u201d The dolls don\u2019t want anything to do with her. She knows that and hates me for it. She gave me bugs.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I drop the ember and filter to the porch. I creep as fast as I can to the bassinet. I cup the frog. \u201cYou a gift,\u201d I whisper. It chirps. I go outside. The door clicks behind me. The frog squirms. I keep a tight grip and run down the driveway, across the street, to Elma\u2019s mailbox. \u201cRemember, you nothing but a gift.\u201d I try to make it quick. The frog twitches after the second stab. My pocketknife shines inky in the starlight. I put his leaking body in the mailbox, on top of a grocery store\u2019s ad paper.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I leave the knife in the kitchen sink to soak. I join Nevaeh on the futon. She reaches out in her sleep, brushes my mouth with her fingertips. \u201cI hope you dream about nice things,\u201d I say. I kiss her nails. \u201cBut don\u2019t dream too nice. Don\u2019t see pearls and taffeta. Dream about what you got, or you\u2019ll wake up sad, baby.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I wake up to the sugared singing of birds. Nevaeh\u2019s eyes wander around the ceiling. I lift her. \u201cYou want breakfast, don\u2019t you?\u201d I bounce her in my arms, walk over to the window. A heat bubbles in my chest. I\u2019ve never felt a fear like this in my life. Elma\u2019s newest gift to me: on the porch, a wooden puppet sits with crossed legs. Ants trail up and down and up her stiff limbs. Her head is fixed up. Glossed eyes, knowing and never-lived, aim at the window. I meet her gaze.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cDon\u2019t dream too nice. Dream about what you got, or you\u2019ll wake up sad.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":6565,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[6,1829,1830],"class_list":["post-6560","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-monica-brashears","tag-what-the-dolls-see"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n