“Oh, I doubt that,” Lo scoffs. “You barely know her. Your comments prove that.”
My hurt swells and builds until it makes my eyes wet and my jaw clench. “Just because I didn’t live with her like you did doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”
“Whatever.” A door slams shut between us. We rarely talk about the circumstances which led to Lo leaving New Orleans and living with MiMi. I know it’s a sensitive issue. How could it not be? But all of a sudden, it feels like we should have talked about this more. It feels like something our family swept under the rug for years is about to break us.
“Lo, wait. This whole conversation has gotten out of control. Let’s . . .”I don’t know what.
“Let’s what, Bo? Start over?” Bitterness cracks Lotus’s voice. “Some things don’t get do-overs. Not some forty-year-old man taking your virginity before you even have your first period. Not your own mother choosing him over you and shipping you off to the bayou to live with your great-grandmother.”
That incident will probably haunt us both for the rest of our lives. It was the thing that took Lo away from New Orleans. She’d fight to her last breath for me, and I’d do the same for her, but I can’t form words to soothe her deep wounds. I don’t know what I can say to get us where we were before this awful conversation happened.
“But the joke’s on Mama,” Lo continues with a harsh laugh, “because getting away from her was the best thing that ever happened to me. I learned a lot that I never would have if I’d stayed in the Lower Ninth. Now, I can see when a man has a shadow on his soul, and I’m telling you that I saw a shadow. Do with that whatever you please.”
“It just doesn’t make sense to me, Lo,” I say, pleading for her to understand.
“Something’s off. I don’t know what it is, but it is, and I, for one, am not gonna sit by and watch you barter yourself the way our mamas did.”
I swallow the hot knot of hurt that almost chokes me. “Wow. Is that what you think I’m doing?” I ask, my voice pitched so low I barely hear myself. “What our mothers did? You think I’m like them now?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Lo sighs heavily. “I do think you could have done things a little differently, but I get it. It’s hard to think of doing things on your own.”
“That’s not why I’m here, Lo.” My voice assumes a hard edge. “Caleb is Sarai’s father.”
“Yeah, but not yours,” Lo snaps. “So why have you allowed him to dictate everything? To manipulate you into this situation?”
“Manipulate?” An outraged breath puffs from my chest. “I haven’t let him manipulate me. You werethere. You know I was on bed rest. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t even leave the house. I had nowhere to go.”
“You don’t see it.” Her words ring bitter. “Just like your mother never saw it. Just like mine never did either.”
“How dare you compare me to them?” Every word lands somewhere it shouldn’t. On my heart. Through my soul.
“How are you different? Living off a man’s wealth to keep a roof over your head and clothes on your back. Fucking some rich man so he’ll provide for you.”
“Everything I’ve done . . . or not done . . . has been for Sarai, and you know it. I had so few choices. I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know, Bo. I wish . . .” Her voice peters out, and I can feel some of the enmity we’ve flung at each other over the last few minutes draining away. “I wish you had gotten away from them, too. I hope they didn’t influence you more than you realized.”
“That’s an awful thing to say.” Hurt cracks my voice.
“I know you would never choose him over Sarai,” Lo rushes to say. “I don’t mean it that way. I meant—”
“I think we should end this,” I interrupt. “This conversation is only getting worse, and we may not be on speaking terms by the end of it. Drop out of school. Move to New York for the atelier or whatever you call it.”
The silence between us is unlike any we’ve shared. It’s a wall of invisible bricks, layered with the mortar of our hurtful words.
“Okay,” Lo finally replies. “Just remember if you need me, if you need anything, hopscotch.”
Tears prick my eyes when she says that word. She could never get hopscotch right for some reason when we were little girls, so I helped her. I’d hop first, and she’d hop behind me, mimicking my steps until she got it herself. Silly as it seemed, it worked, and long after she could fly across the chalked squares by herself, “hopscotch” was our code for when we needed each other.
I’ll never forget the bloodcurdling scream bellowing through the air at our family reunion. It wasn’t my name she called when that man was on top of her. In her panic, she yelled hopscotch, and I ran. Before I saw them, I heard his grunts. And I heard Lo saying one word over and over.
Hopscotch. Hopscotch. Hopscotch.
I swore then, no one would ever hurt Lo again, not if I could help it. MiMi protected her for years living on the bayou, but when she moved to Atlanta for college, I took up the protective mantle personally. We haven’t actually said the word “hopscotch” in a long time, so hearing it from Lo now, when I’m the one hurting her and she’s the one hurting me, I have no idea what to do.
I mumble goodbye and rush off the phone. Knowing that’s what she thinks about me, after all these years, after everything I’ve seen her go through—right now, I can’t say hopscotch. Lo would be the last one I’d call for help.
Iris
