Chapters (31)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Marie Arnold
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
My uncle wasn’t happy that I didn’t give therapy a chance. He scolded me on the train ride home and said I needed to talk to someone. He made arrangements for me to see a Black, female therapist next week. But if the point is to talk to someone, I think I have an idea. I go over to the slippers and put them on. I walk out into the hallway closet where my mom made me confront the monster in my dream years ago. She said the ancestors would protect me. Maybe they’re in there right now, in which case, I can find someone to talk to.
Once inside the hall closet, I go to turn on the light, but on second thought, I leave it dark. Maybe they like it that way. I close the door behind me. I have no idea how much sense this makes, but it can’t hurt to try. Maybe they really are in here, and while they never showed up for me, they’ll show up for her.
“Ah . . . hello? I don’t really know what to call you guys . . . ‘Ancestors’ sounds . . . really formal. How about aunties and uncles? There, that’s better, right? I don’t know if you know me. I’m sure you know my mom. She puts a lot of faith in you guys, and, um . . . she could really use your help.
“You have never appeared to me because I’m not strong and courageous like my mom. She taught me to see, I mean really see, the world, and it scared me. They say knowledge is power, but it’s much more than that—it’s weight. And it just got too heavy for me. I guess that makes me fragile, and it looks like you guys don’t have time for people like me.
“It’s cool. But my mom isn’t weak. She’s the strongest person I know. And she really needs your help. So all of you aunties and uncles from yesterday need to gather at the river; sing your songs and send up your prayers; save her. She’s not just my light; she belongs to the whole neighborhood. Don’t dim the lights of Harlem . . .”
After speaking to the aunts and uncles, I go back to bed. I feel lighter. That’s not to say I am better, because I will never be better until she’s awake. But I go to sleep feeling like maybe I will soon have help.