“Mrs. Brown?” Rachael was standing at the threshold of momma’s room.
“Everything’s okay,” Tonya said. She hurriedly closed the lids of the shoeboxes and put them back in their place. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay.”
She waited until Rachael retreated to the kitchen, then she rummaged around in the closet. There was a pile of old blankets on the top shelf. She moved the shoeboxes that contained the guns and nestled them between the blankets, making sure they were secure and well-hidden. That should take care of that, she thought.
“Mrs. Brown, I have a shopping list I’m drawing up,” Rachael called out from the kitchen. “Can you pick up a few things for me?”
“Sure.” Rachael shut the closet doors, set the notepad down on the bureau and exited her mother’s room. “What do you need?”
And for the time being the thought of what her mother could have possibly meant by those two words was gone from Tonya’s mind.
Chapter Twelve
Adelle awoke slowly, becoming aware that it was morning in gradual stages: the position of the sun as it shone through the open blinds of her room; the sound of cars outside; of the morning talk shows coming from the television in the living room. Other things slowly filtered in as she wove in and out of slowly dawning consciousness; the woozy, stoned feeling she felt throughout much of the past two days was wearing off; she was feeling more aware of herself and her surroundings.
And she was focused.
Adelle looked at the clock on the bureau by her bed. It read ten thirty-five. Some talk show was on the TV and Adelle tried to remember what day it was. Talk shows only came on weekdays, which meant…
The sound of purposeful footsteps coming toward her room brought a feeling of impending doom as time seemed to slow down for her.
Natsinet emerged in her doorway, that evil look on her face. Dressed in a clean white nurse’s uniform, she looked like something out of a nightmare. She was carrying a metal tray, which she set down on the edge of the bed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Smith! So good to see you again!”
The nightmare of the past week still fresh on her mind, Natsinet tried to move away from the nurse and only succeeded in rocking back a few inches into her pillow.
Natsinet laughed.
“Well, looky you! You moved three whole inches! See, we are making progress!”
Stacked on the tray was the stun gun, what looked to be a cattle prod, and a butane grill lighter. Natsinet ran her fingers along the instruments, as if debating which one to choose.
“So…” Her face had a look that Adelle usually associated with cats who were anticipating playing with the field mouse they’d just caught, “Ready to get back into your therapy again?”
No, not this, not this, I was supposed to see Tonya this weekend, please not this…
Her therapy session that day was the longest by far.
Or so it felt.
It didn’t take much to reduce the old woman to a quivering lump of flesh.
Time seemed to spring forward quickly for Natsinet the first few days of that week. She didn’t think it would be that way, but then she supposed the saying “Time flies when you’re having fun” had some validity to it. It certainly flew by for her. Of course, it was probably agonizingly long for Adelle Smith as it should be. Worthless sack of shit wasn’t worth anything anyway, so why bother even working at trying to maintain the old woman’s quality of life. Natsinet had spent the weekend trying to convince herself to feel some guilt over what she was doing to the old woman, and as much as she tried she honestly couldn’t find it in herself to feel guilty. She knew that most people would think she was a monster for abusing the woman, but Natsinet didn’t care. For the first time in her life, Natsinet didn’t care about what people thought of her. She was doing what she wanted, what made her feel good. No one else would understand. They were incapable of understanding. They hadn’t lived her life. She knew that from her interview with her supervisor at Hospice Nursing. Racist old cracker woman. If it weren’t for the fact that she needed this job, Natsinet would have bitch-slapped that old fossil the day of her interview. Unfortunately, she couldn’t lose the chance at this job and she was fortunate to have it now. She couldn’t lose it, and she wasn’t going to lose it. In fact, her abuse of Adelle Smith would go unrecorded. Natsinet had it all figured out.
The fact that Rachael didn’t suspect a thing was heavily in her favor. Natsinet had things set up so that if Rachael discovered that she was abusing Adelle, it would be easy to dismiss as simple accidents. Were those marks on Adelle’s arms and legs burns? Not at all, she just got a little too much sun when I left the drapes open one afternoon—it was such a nice day! Were those rug burns? Scrapes? Well, yes, but Natsinet was trying to help Adelle regain use of her legs again. She fell, yes, but it was an accident. And what about Adelle’s accusation that you beat her, shot her multiple times with a stun gun, and dragged her across the floor? I would never cause deliberate harm to one of my charges. My record is impeccable. See for yourself.
And they would do so and see that, yes, her record was impeccable. Her superiors at Philadelphia General had put in a high recommendation for her to Hospice Nursing, and her teachers all had kind words for her. She had a spotless record.
So what had caused her to not only humiliate, but treat this woman—this patient—like something less than human?
Because she was less than human.
Natsinet was in the kitchen making herself a light lunch, a sandwich and a small salad, as these thoughts flew through her mind. She had to admit to herself what was becoming obvious. As a whole, she didn’t care for Black people. Yes, her father was from an African nation, and yes she was often forced to check off the box marked “African American” in employment and government forms when the disbelieving clerk raised an eyebrow at her first choice, which was always Caucasian. She would get that look. You don’t look White to me. Then she would be forced to explain her mixed heritage, after which the clerk or whoever it was she’d handed the form to would say, You can’t check that box if you’re of mixed race. You’re going to have to check the African American box. And then Natsinet would be forced to check that box, regretting that she was being forced to relegate herself to those who were responsible for the majority of crime in this country, who whined and complained the loudest, who demanded they be handed every damn thing and not work for it, who’d ruined her life. She didn’t like the fact that the last time she tried to buy a car she saw a chunky White salesman whisper something to a colleague, who quickly raced into the rear of the showroom; moments later the classic rock music that was playing over the showroom’s speakers changed to rap and the chunky White salesman was going out of his way to speak a sort of fake street argot to her. She was so mad she made him work at trying to get a sale out of her for three hours before she finally said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and walked out.
So yes, she didn’t care much for Black people because of the bad impression they left on her. Even Black comedians made a career out of exploiting the stereotypes. Sure, there were Black people who had risen above those stereotypes, who had made something of themselves. But in her experience she could count all those she’d known personally on both hands. Most of the Black people she’d had to deal with in school were lazy and not interested in learning anything, and most of the ones she’d dealt with as patients in the ER were even worse.