Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker

Somewhat Saved (19 page)

BOOK: Somewhat Saved

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“I don't have the answers.”

“I didn't want her to have neither one of those babies.” Sasha still wouldn't look Sister Betty in the eye. Everything felt like she was trapped in an old B movie. She was sitting in the hotel room of a woman she couldn't stand and revealing all her dirty secrets. Why? That's the part she couldn't figure out. She'd become the punch line to her own joke on life.

Once Sasha started releasing the secrets she'd held tight for so long, she couldn't stop. She ignored the shocked look on Sister Betty's face as more of the unadulterated truth poured from her soul. And when she finally finished recounting the sins, some of which she'd almost forgotten, she felt smaller. It was as though most of her tiny frame was made up of lies and contradictions. And then Sasha collapsed, exhausted, against the back of the sofa. Sasha looked every bit like the munchkin she'd been called so often.

Sister Betty got up and returned with a glass of water. “Here, Sasha, drink this.”

Sasha refused the water. “You've got to help me stop Bea. If what I did gets out, I'm ruined. My reputation, my position on the Mothers Board.” As though she'd suddenly realized that her selfishness was dominating the conversation, she quickly added, “And that poor child Zipporah shouldn't have to deal with the family. She seems to be doing just fine. It's not her fault that she looks just like Ima but it will be her undoing.”

Sasha pouted to appear more convincing. “I know you probably think I'm just making all this up but you know me better than that.”

Deep down Sister Betty knew Sasha was probably telling as much of the truth as she could, or would. It was still too much for her to take in and she wasn't about to become more involved than she was already. “What do you mean, I've got to help you?”

“I'm not leaving here until you do!” Truth had purged Sasha. However, her nastiness, which was crucial to her survival, hadn't completely deserted her. Sasha's eyes narrowed as she silently challenged Sister Betty's authority to rule in her own hotel room. Sasha, without blinking, kicked off her slippers to get comfortable.

And that's when Sister Betty rose and ordered a pot of strong, hot, chamomile tea, for Sasha. She needed something stronger, so she brewed a carafe of cayenne pepper tea, the extra-strength blend.

Sister Betty tried to absorb this information or as much as she could. A baby; Sasha was responsible for altering the lives of two innocent babies, Ima becoming a she-devil and Zipporah, an angel. Could it be possible?

Looking over quickly at Sasha, who sat staring down at her clasped hands, Sister Betty suddenly began to have doubts. In the past she'd known Sasha to make lives miserable. If what she'd confessed was true, that would make Sasha pure evil. Sister Betty narrowed her eyes and sighed. She concluded that Sasha had finally lost her mind and prayer might not be enough to find it.

It was barely after nine o'clock in the morning but Bea was determined to catch up with Zipporah before the rehearsals for that evening's performance began. She'd already tricked Chandler into giving her Zipporah's room number by telling him that she wanted to personally return Zipporah's wallet even though he'd already told Zipporah it'd been found.

When Bea had called Zipporah earlier and suggested that they have breakfast, Zipporah had tried to politely decline. Bea acted as though she didn't get the hint and wouldn't back off. Out of a sense of respect and a need to have her wallet, Zipporah accepted Bea's invitation.

Bea ambled into the hotel restaurant wearing a floral print dress, zebra-striped jacket, and large sunglasses. The sunglasses were a last minute touch in case someone wanted her autograph. She hadn't been bothered for it in the past few days but she needed to stay ready for the obligations of fame. Bea still didn't realize that it had never shown up for her.

She spotted Zipporah immediately. Zipporah had that star quality, according to Bea, that seemed to illuminate the space around her.

“Good morning, Zipporah.” Bea sang the greeting as a tribute to Zipporah. She didn't seem to care or notice that her rhythm and notes were flat.

“Good morning, Mother Blister.” Zipporah suppressed a smile. She really couldn't be angry with the old woman. There weren't that many people who seemed to care about her, whether she was talented or not, without wanting something in return. But she couldn't deny being curious about the reason Bea wanted to have breakfast with her.

Bea immediately handed Zipporah her wallet. When Zipporah took it, Bea noticed something she hadn't seen before. “That's a lovely tattoo on your wrist.” Bea took Zipporah's hand without permission. Turning it over, she examined the small image on the inside of Zipporah's wrist.

“It's not a tattoo.” Zipporah smiled and explained further, “It's my birthmark. I guess I'm accustomed to it so I don't pay it any attention.”

Bea returned the smile. “Is that so?” She examined it again and for a moment thought it looked familiar, too. “What exactly is it?”

“When I was younger it looked to me like a small plant leaf.” Zipporah traced the outline of the birthmark. “Now it looks like a collard green leaf.”

“Really?” Bea laughed. “You ain't never had collard greens until you taste mine.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Zipporah picked at the bacon and cheese omelet. She really had no intention of eating it but Bea had blurted out the order before she could stop her.

“You can ask me anything you want.” Bea couldn't stop smiling. She was overjoyed by Zipporah's apparent acceptance.

“Why are you so friendly toward me? What is it that you want?”

“Say what?” Bea was truly astounded. Her face turned a deeper purple, which made her complexion look like an overripe eggplant.

“I didn't mean to insult you.” The moment the question had left her mouth and she saw Bea's hurt look, Zipporah was sorry. “Why don't we just finish eating our breakfast, is that okay?”

Bea thought for a second as her normal color slowly returned. She was really impressed that Zipporah was no pushover. She just didn't expect the question to be turned around on her. “I'm not upset.” She reached over and took her pocketbook from a vacant seat. While Zipporah looked on, Bea took an envelope out of her bag.

“Now, I'm really confused,” Zipporah said as she dropped the wallet into her pocketbook. She didn't want to insult Bea by checking its contents, so she picked her fork up to nibble at the food.

Then Bea pushed the envelope across the table toward Zipporah. “Just open it,” Bea said.

Zipporah put down the fork and opened the envelope. Curiosity was nibbling at her, yet she took an extra moment to wipe away a crumb with her napkin, almost trying to avoid what was coming.

Bea sat back as straight as she could. She locked her eyes upon Zipporah's face, daring not to look away and miss any reaction.

As Zipporah opened the envelope she tried to imagine what was in it. She opened it slowly, as though she were announcing the winner at the Grammys. And then she saw it. In the picture, standing next to what looked like the ramp of a cruise ship, was the other elderly woman, Mother Pray Onn. Standing next to Mother Pray Onn was Zipporah as a younger woman.

The questioning look crawling across Zipporah's face was not lost on Bea. She didn't say anything, preferring to watch the scene play out.

“I was never in this picture.” Zipporah pushed away from the table but she didn't stand.

Bea didn't flinch. She watched Zipporah intently and said, “No, you weren't, you're right.”

“Then who is this?” Zipporah was becoming suspicious, feeling tension in her stomach.

“It's not you.” Bea leaned in closer and beckoned her to do the same. Nearby eyes inside the restaurant were staring.

“Take another look.” Bea pointed at the picture.

Zipporah pulled her chair closer to the table and looked at the photograph again. This time, she studied it slower, letting her suspicions take a backseat. To her surprise there were some subtle differences that came into view. The younger woman wore her hair in a ponytail and her clothes were far more expensive than any Zipporah had ever worn. But those were the only differences she saw. The woman's height, weight, complexion, including the way she smirked for the camera, at first glance looked exactly like Zipporah.

Zipporah's face went blank.

Bea's face lit up. She knew it. If Zipporah saw the resemblance, then Sasha had to have seen it, too.

“That young woman in the picture with Mother Pray Onn is her niece, Ima.”

“We could be twins, but I don't have any brothers or sisters.” Zipporah was happy to know that the other woman had a name. It was starting to make sense. Apparently, Mother Blister was drawn to her by the strong resemblance to her friend's niece.

Zipporah returned the photo to the envelope, pushed it back toward Bea, and then relaxed.

Bea picked up the envelope but now it was she that couldn't relax. She suddenly realized where she'd seen a similar birthmark.

Without another word uttered, Bea suddenly stood.

“What's wrong now?” Zipporah didn't like this seesaw game of emotions.

If Bea heard Zipporah, she didn't act like it. She threw down some money and dashed away, leaving Zipporah more confused than ever.

Zipporah fell back into her seat and tried to make sense of what had just happened. No matter how hard she thought about it, she couldn't. She decided she'd finish the bowl of fruit, and allow the prying eyes of the other patrons a chance to return to their own business. When she finished eating and was certain she'd avoid further embarrassment, she rose.

Zipporah took another glance around to make sure she'd not left her wallet or anything other than a couple of dollars for a tip. She was at that moment happy that no one knew who she wasâor so she thought.

Someone in the restaurant did know exactly who Zipporah was, and he watched from a nearby table. He watched her as she rose from her table. And so far, he appreciated what he'd seen. She had the determination of a thoroughbred; she was a winner, he surmised.

He would've known her anywhere. It was in the way she sat and randomly pushed her food around her plate. The way her hair fell forward covering the side of her face with just the tip of her nose peeking out. When it appeared that the conversation was going wrong at her table, he'd watched her suddenly push her chair backward, ready to spring into action if she needed to do so.

A waitress appeared suddenly with his bowl of oatmeal and dry whole wheat toast. He didn't touch it. Instead he smiled, only slightly, as though doing so would hurt his sunken cheeks. He looked almost cadaverous as his eyes, sunken yet wide, fought to stay open. His bald head appeared almost misshapen, making it nearly impossible to imagine him the robust, handsome man of his youth. Rubbing the side of a lemony colored face, its skin well-worn by years of scandalous living done in the name of the Lord, he suddenly stopped smiling. It had taken a glimpse of her to fully appreciate all the time he'd wasted. The glimpse also helped him to fully appreciate that despite his paternal contribution, or lack of it, she'd seemingly inherited those positive traits that had drawn him to the older version of herâher mother.

Yes, he'd give the remaining months he had left to live to let her know that she was his child. His own ambitions, as well as threats from her mother, had kept him from claiming her or her sister, Ima. He would not leave this earth without setting things right.

His eyes narrowed and he almost snarled when he thought about Ima; that young woman was an
exact
replica of her mother. She had no remorse. From a distance he'd seen Ima display the dangerous DNA that made up the entire Hellraiser family. He wouldn't have named her Ima. He would've loved to have given her his mother's name, Hepssi. It was Cree. It meant “the natural one.” But his wife would've found out. She would have put it all together and that would've been suicidal for him and his child or children.

Several years ago, other than her uncanny resemblance to Ima, he had no absolute proof that he was Zipporah's father. But he did now. He was certain she was his child with every fiber of his being, and it was without ever hearing her voice singing or speaking.

Suddenly, he could feel the onset of dizziness that often accompanied his illness. Using a technique he learned from his daughter, Gizel, a Dumas or holistic healer, he envisioned pure air entering into his lungs. He suppressed the urge to cough and began to rub the inside of his left wrist until he thought he'd rubbed away his leaf-shaped birthmark.

This time it took longer than normal for him to regain his rhythm, but he welcomed the calmness when it returned. He gave the waitress a sign that he wanted his check. While he waited, he placed a call from his cell phone. “It's me. . . . Yes, I'm positive.... I'll call you when I return.”

He closed the cell phone quickly and looked up, expecting only to see the waitress. But he found more than he wanted and none of what he needed.

“Have you lost your mind?” Sasha had entered the restaurant thoroughly exhausted from her middle-of-the-night confessional. When she saw him at the table, she was reenergized by her hatred for him. Despite the painful arthritis in her hips, she raced over to where he sat.

“Jasper!” Her eyes narrowed, almost causing her tiny glasses to fall from her nose. “Why in the world would you come to Las Vegas now?”

“I came to see my child.”

Sasha inched her aching hips onto the vacant chair opposite Jasper. “You should've stayed with my sister. I told you that I'd let you know if my suspicions were proven.”

Jasper clasped his hands together and leaned forward. His stomach was again in knots and he was extremely tired. He'd flown most of the night after harassing Areal to get information about Sasha's exact whereabouts.

“I've less than six months to live, Sasha. I needed to see her.” He was becoming agitated and he lost the battle to control his cough. Loudly the hacking sound came forth, bringing with it the evidence of his lung cancer. He caught the yellowish-colored sputum in his napkin, glanced away, trying to dodge the look of disapproval from Sasha and some of the other patrons.

“Sasha,” Jasper finally said as his chest began to heave with exertion, “both you and Areal have had your ways for almost thirty years. I'm getting mine, now. I've only known Ima from a distance and look what a mess she became. I'll not do it to this one, and I'm not going to continue to feel guilty about the one you lost.”

“You can't possibly believe that because you have all this moneyâinherited from the dead wife you cheated on, I might addâyou're gonna step into this girl's life and be accepted.” Sasha was grasping for anything that would stop Jasper. He was trying to ruin both their lives.

Sasha began to panic but she didn't want to give Jasper the pleasure of witnessing it. She was grateful that Areal finally forgave her for goading her into giving up a baby she'd never lay eyes upon. But there was no way Areal would ever forgive Sasha for becoming pregnant by a man who'd also fathered her children. It wouldn't matter that that baby didn't live.

All the emotional walls Sasha had erected were quickly crumbling. She'd sworn she'd go to her grave with her secrets. “If Jesus don't tell my business on Judgment Day, then you'll never hear it from me.” That's what she always said, and of course, if she'd bothered to read her Bible, she would've known better. What she'd done in the dark was about to come out in the light.

“. . . I definitely want to hear her sing.” Jasper had kept talking as though Sasha was still listening, but she wasn't.

“You don't look well at all. You need to get back to New York and see your psychiatrist.”

BOOK: Somewhat Saved

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