Caul Baby by Morgan Jerkins (read any book .TXT) 📕

of shirts and two bras that she wore. They went inside the apartment, and Amara jumped at the sound of things dropping onto the hardwood floor upstairs. Concerned, she looked over at Denise, who said, “Come into the kitchen, and I’ll explain everything.”

There, as Denise pulled out bread, turkey, cheese, and bacon for both of them, she said, “Laila likes to throw things from time to time, and I let her, as long as it ain’t sharp. Most of it is plastic, but she’s got the arm power of an Olympic javelin thrower.”

“How long she been throwing stuff?”

“Since . . . hell. Since she came back from the hospital. Didn’t take them long to diagnose her with postpartum depression and bipolar disorder. But I’ll never forget what she told me after she calmed down: She was gonna give those Melancon women fifteen grand to help her. Fifteen grand. And they told her no. Something about a curse or something happening to their family. I couldn’t make it out because she was crying, but I don’t get it, Mar. Why wasn’t her money good enough? And if they aren’t helping people from their own community, then who are they giving their cauls away to?”

Amara stayed silent.

“I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if they would’ve said yes. Would it have changed anything? And at the same damn time, I wish they didn’t exist at all. That this whole caul thing wasn’t even a factor. Or—or that they could be stopped.”

“Have you thought about talking to someone about that?”

“I’m only one person, baby. Those women got a ton of money. I’d drown in legal fees, and even then, what would be the charges? Folk magic?” She laughed. “I don’t know the law like that. Look at me just rattling off problem after problem when you just got here.”

“If there was a way, legally, for you to go after them, would you do it?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then I’ll find a way.”

“Honey, I don’t want you to start worrying about us like that. We’ll be fine.”

“But I’m already studying law. I can do this. I promise I can. Maybe not now. But someday.”

“Someday,” Denise repeated, and sniffled. “It’s so good seeing you here. It’s been a long time.”

“Sure seems that way, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Denise said weakly as she slathered mayonnaise on the slices of bread. Amara noticed how her mother’s hands trembled while lifting pieces of turkey and provolone onto the bread, and how the sweat beads proliferated around her widow’s peak over what should have been a simple task. As Denise walked over to the table with a plate of sandwiches in one hand and a bag of chips in the other, Amara held her breath with the worry that her mother would collapse at any moment.

“You want something to drink? Water?”

Amara nodded.

Denise went to the refrigerator, opened the door, and stared at the interior, her left hand flexing then gripping the door handle. She looked over her shoulder and assured Amara with a smile then brought the pitcher over to the table as well.

“I’ll get the cups,” Amara said.

“Thank you.”

They took bites of their individual sandwiches while stealing glances at each other.

“So,” Denise said. “How are you? What’s new?”

“Nothing much. Same ol’, same ol’. Model UN has been kicking my butt.”

“What are you arguing?”

“What?”

“In Model UN. What are you arguing? What are you debating?”

“Well . . .” Amara leaned back in her seat. “It’s complicated. It’s—deciding whether or not a case was a crime of passion or premeditated.”

“I see. And how are your classes?”

“Fine. Stress from the papers and exams.”

“You said that last time.”

“What?”

“I said you said that last time. It’s a whole new school year, sweetheart.”

“Well, yeah, but—” Amara stammered. “I’m an upperclassman now. It only gets worse before it gets better.” Amara shrugged.

“Hmm,” Denise replied. She cupped her glass with her shoulders arched then lifted her head to continue. “I know you’re not telling me the whole truth, Amara. I know you aren’t. And while I won’t nag you to death over it, I thought we were closer than that.”

“Mom—” Amara’s voice cracked because she was fighting back tears.

“Nope.” Denise held up her trembling hand. “I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is guilt-trip. You will come to me when you’re ready, and I won’t allow it to be a moment sooner. I just had to speak my piece to you as your mother, that’s all. I’m just glad you’re back. Been lonely without you here.”

“I did miss you, Mom. And I shouldn’t have left you here with Laila all by yourself.”

“Now you’re guilt-tripping yourself. You have other things to worry about than being someone’s caretaker. That’s not what I want for you.”

“But what about yourself?”

“What about me? I work and then I come home.”

“But, Mom, look at—”

“Look at what? Me? I knew that was coming. I felt your eyes on me when I was making those sandwiches. And since you brought it up, there’s no use in me hiding.” Denise went to the refrigerator and brought a bottle of wine to the table. Amara watched as Denise downed her glass of water in one continuous gulp before filling that same glass with wine. She took one sip and the tremors in her hand began to subside.

“Do you drink? I may be your mother, but I know you’re still a college student.”

Amara finished the last bit of water in her glass and pushed it over to her. Taken aback, Denise alternated between pouring and looking up at Amara, whose face could not have been any more pitiful. When her glass was returned to her, Amara started guzzling, and Denise said, “Whoa, slow down. You don’t want to down it like that.”

“Sorry.” Amara wiped her mouth with her sleeve and leaned back in her seat. From over the rim of her glass, Amara saw how Denise’s hands were shaking whenever she stopped taking sips of her wine.

Just as Amara was about to ask if her mother was all right, there was a loud thud upstairs and