A Dance of Life

9

Patricia is getting ready to leave when I get back home. "Hey," she calls out as I loudly slam the front door. She's emptied the contents of her handbag onto the floor and is sifting through them. "Are you good?"

I ignore her question and come down to her eye level, "What are you looking for?"

"My debit card. Turns out we've run out of leftovers, and I don't have time to make any food," she replies, violently shaking the bag.

I raise up the takeaway package from the restaurant, "You can have mine and I'll make something to eat. In fact, I'll make plenty to eat and keep the rest."

She stops what she's doing and eyes me thoughtfully, "Are you sure you're good?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I jiggle the bag at her, "Are you taking it or not?"

"I'll take it, but I still need to find my card," she tells me as she stands up, lending me a hand.

"I'll look for it for you, Pat." I hand her the food and walk into the bedroom.

"We're resuming this conversation when I get back," she shouts from the living room.

"Yes, mom," I yell back in reply, chuckling.

Mom. I sigh and shake my head, I really miss you, Mama. I know I would have been able to talk to you about everything going on. You would have listened to me rant, and rave and when I was done, you'd cup my face and say, "You're Annelise Atalia Allard; you are favored by God, His grace is upon you, and you are brave and noble. You can overcome anything because God always has your back."

I laugh at the memory and wipe my eyes. I grasp for my baby/family photo album from the storage box under my bed and in the process, I see Patricia's card lying in the dust. It probably fell out of her wallet at some point or the other. I put it on her dresser and sit on the floor, wiping the dirt off the album.

The cover is overlaid with stickers of things I loved when I was around six; Lizzie McGuire and glitter. That's about it. My obsession with Lizzie McGuire reached the height that I created my own invisible alter ego. I chuckle as I recall the crazy things I got up to. In the middle is a picture of me from 3 months old.

I wonder if my baby would look like me, I think, fingering the photo. I get rid of the thought immediately and open the album. My parents really wanted to document everything; the first page is scattered with photographs of my mom at different stages of her pregnancy. I feel the tears threatening to fall, and I let them.

Oh, Papa, I sniff, what happened to you. Happy doesn't begin to describe the expression on his face in the labor pictures as he holds my mom and then holds me. I turn the page, but my vision has become blurred by the salty water in my eyes. I close the album and hold it against my chest, wishing I could go back in time. I miss you so much, Papa.

Go see him.

I'm not ready... and neither is he. I shut my thoughts off; I don't want to think about my father. I put the album back and push it further under my bed and deeper into my memory.

Shower, cook, then research. Chaos cannot come from order.

***

I open the fridge to find that we barely have ample ingredients to make a bowl of Ramen noodles relatively healthy. I groan; I'm hungry. I check the cupboards for any cereal, luckily, there's enough Frosties for one bowl. I pour it in and send Pat a text. Not only are there no leftovers, but there's also nothing to make any meal with!

She responds with a 'shrug' and 'nervous laughing' emoji. I shake my head, so much for order and chaos, and a night in.

I eat my food slowly and head out to Target. The bus ride is about 5 minutes, but I suddenly feel tired. I'm tempted to go back home and take a power nap, but I quelled the idea and focused on the street lights.