âItâs more than grief, baby…â
âBut sometimes that seems like thatâs all there is.â
âThereâs joy, too. Trust me. But you have to be here for it.â
âI feel raw, Mama.â
âI know, baby. But youâll toughen up. Youâll get stronger.â
âI donât think Iâm as strong as you, Mama. Maybe itâs the white in me…maybe…hahahahahaha…â
Amara sits straight up in bed, gasping for breath, her eyes wide. She looks back and forth, surveying the room, disoriented. Then, she remembers, and looks down at herself, clad in her purple bra and her black boxers and her pale, clammy skin.
Oh, right.
Her stomach somersaults, torn between hunger and apprehension. She can smell breakfast being made downstairs, but it doesnât smell like Mamaâs usual breakfast of grits and bacon. It smells sweet, like… cinnamon? Cinnamon rolls? French toast? What the fuck?
Amara narrows her eyes. Mama never has time for elaborate breakfasts. Does she already know somehow? Did she come in here overnight, find me sound asleep and white as hell, and then decide to make me pancakes to celebrate?
Amara decides against this given the fact that her sleep was anything but sound last night. She tossed and turned to the beat of vivid, terrifying dreams; thereâs no way her mother could have opened her latched bedroom door without making enough noise to disturb her.
She looks over at her door to confirm it is indeed still latched, and thatâs when she realizes that her door is not her door at all. Her raggedy chain latch is gone, replaced with an elegant mechanism sheâs only ever seen the one time they stayed in a Courtyard by Marriot when she was ten. Her doorknob is no longer chipped brass over an unidentified gray metal; now itâs sleek brushed nickel with a dimple. Even the composition of her door seems to have changed, and when she gets up out of bed to examine it further, she realizes itâs no longer hollow, but solid wood.
Itâs after she gets out of bed to check out her door that she begins to notice that a lot of things are different about her room. So different sheâs wondering if sheâs even in the same house, but so subtle that sheâs questioning her sanity.
The bed she just got out of is bigger than hersâmaybe itâs a full instead of a twin?âand it has a walnut headboard and a footboard. Was that there when I got up? The whole room is bigger, in fact, if she thinks about it, but itâs almost imperceptible at firstâor is it growing? Amara stands still for a minute, then shakes her head. No, itâs just anxiety swirling in her head, making her feel like the world is moving in and out of focus. But the room is bigger. Thereâs no doubt about that. And her bedding looks different, too…was the purple of that blanket so vibrant before? I didnât have a bedskirt, she thinks as she bends over to look under the bed.
She starts to walk around the room, touching everything, making sure itâs at least as real as she is. Her oak dresser is walnut now, and has crystal and silver drawer pulls instead of plastic handles. The wall mirror over the dresser that she used last night to confirm the success of her spell is oval instead of square. The walls of her bedroom are smooth with flat eggshell paint instead of orange peel textured in semi-gloss off-white, and thereâs moulding around the top edge that wasnât there last night.
She stops walking and looks down. The laminate she thudded onto when she climbed back into her room is not laminate anymore. Itâs hardwood.
Amaraâs heart is beating out of her chest. She feels panic and nausea clawing their way up her esophagus. She starts to take deep breaths, desperate for control, and in the process, she catches a new scent brewing downstairsâcoffee.
Mama never drinks coffee.
MAMA NEVER DRINKS COFFEE.
The smell of coffee crystallizes her awareness that she is not home. She doesnât know where she is, but last night she was home and this morning sheâs not and now I need to figure out how to get home fast, in case Mamaâ
RRAP-Rap-rap-rap-rRAP
Amara freezes. Someone is at the door. Someone who is probably not her mother.
She creeps over to the dresser and opens the top drawer where she usually keeps her t-shirts. She pulls out the first one she findsâa heather gray scoop neckâand throws it on over her head. She pulls out a pair of ripped jeans from the bottom drawer and shimmies them on without unbuttoning. At least my clothes are the same. I think.
RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP
âJennifer, breakfast is ready!â A deep voice sounds from the other side of the door.
Jennifer?
Amara takes slow steps towards the door. As if moving through water, she reaches up and flips the latch, then turns the little notch in the middle of the doorknob and twists the handle to open it, keeping the knob firmly in her grasp in case she needs to use the door as a weapon.
In the hall stands a man who resembles her fatherâs brother Tad so closely she would swear it was him if she didnât know this whole situation was too fucked for anything good to come of it. Tad died in the same car accident her father did; Tad was a drunk just like Pop. This isnât Tad. His house wasnât even this nice.
âGood morning, Jennifer.â Not-Uncle-Tad smiles, with far too many yellow teeth. His blonde hair is greasy and stringy, a sad combover trying to hold middle age at bay. His white skin is ruddy and waxy. âAre you ready to eat? Youâre going to be late to school, sunshine.â He flashes the golden smile again, and Amara can see grey around the top of one of his front teeth. She feels sick.
âMy name is Amara.â She looks up at him with a defiant gaze, a brave affect to mask her racing heart and flip-flopping stomach. But sheâs still not letting go of the door. âIâm not hungry.â
âA-mah-ruh.â Not-Uncle-Tad says, wrinkling his nose in disgust. âWhat white girl is named AMARA?â He bursts into laughter that fills her head, seeming to originate from all around her.
Amaraâs blood runs cold.
Not-Uncle-Tad stops laughing and smiles again. âYouâre Jennifer, honey. Thatâs what we named you.â His last sentence reverberates throughout the room. âAnd you donât need to be hungry to eat. Your mother spent all morning slaving over a hot stove for us. Youâll find room.â
The door pulls itself from Amaraâs grip, tearing at the skin on the palm of her hand and flying all the way open. She yelps in pain.
âShh. Youâll be fine. Youâre strong, right?â Not-Uncle-Tad laughs again. âCome, then.â He holds out an oxford-clad arm to Amara, gesturing for her to follow him.
Amara rubs her hand and moves out of the doorway, slow, deliberate. She stays several steps behind what sheâs now sure is another man-thing as he descends the stairs, leading her past the large living room and into a sunny, airy blue tile kitchen with a butcher-block top island and stainless steel appliances. A tall white woman stands at the island, hands splayed behind an assortment of breakfast foods.
âGood morning, Jennifer,â the woman says, with the same unnatural smile as Not-Uncle-Tad but with blessedly less yellow and gray. âI thought I was going to have to come and get you.â Her tone makes the hair on the back of Amaraâs neck stand up. She fights the urge to runâwhere? She has no idea where she is. She might be in some literal hell, for all she knows. She has to gather more information. As long as they arenât trying to kill me… But they are trying to make her eat, and that could be poison. She swallows and continues walking towards the kitchen.
Not-Uncle-Tad stops at the white-legged wooden table next to the island and pulls out one of the matching wicker-seated chairs. He sits down, tucks his napkin into his button-down shirt, and grabs his utensils, propping his elbows up on the tan wood tabletop like a child. He grins at Amara as she approaches.
âI said, good morning, Jennifer.â The woman slams her fist into the butcher block.
Amara jumps and freezes in place for a second. She keeps her eyes on the woman as she pulls out a chair at the table across from Not-Uncle-Tad and sits down.
âWho are you?â Amara tries to sound confident.
The woman cocks her head and smiles at Amara so wide that she holds her breath, worried sheâs about to unhinge her jaw.
âIâm your mother, Jennifer. Who else would I be? What kind of question is that after I just made you breakfast?â
It takes a great deal of restraint and a healthy dose of fear for Amara not to run over to the woman and smack her in the mouth.
âYouâre not my mother. My Mama is Black.â
âAnd you are…?â The woman giggles, a sinister sound. âBlack women donât have white babies.â
Amaraâs hands begin to feel tingly, light. Sweat is beading on her upper lipâwhatâs left of it, at least. A deep realization flows through her, tangible by the cold sensation in her veins. Sheâs lost everything. He tricked her. The heat of her embarrassment thaws out the frigidity of her terror.
The woman watches Amara, taking pleasure in the conflict and anguish playing out across her face. âYou need to eat and get to school, honey,â she says in an icy tone, placing plates of food on the table in front of her and Not-Uncle-Tad. The woman folds her arms over her chest and stands above her. âEat.â
Not-Uncle-Tad grins at Amara and starts shoveling food into his mouth, spilling everywhere.
Amara looks at him, horrified.
Sheâs pretty sure she shouldnât eat whatever food this thing made her, but she also doesnât see herself having a choice. She picks up a fork and carves off a piece of fluffy French toast dripping with pure maple syrup, examining it from all sides before she puts it in her mouth and starts chewing.
It tastes amazing.
She tries to suppress the elation and disloyalty sheâs feeling as she digs into breakfast, devouring the French toast before turning to the bacon and finally the eggs and fruit. When sheâs done, Amara pours herself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice from the tall ceramic carafe, another thing sheâs only seen at a hotel. She guzzles the OJâah!âand wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
The woman smiles her jaw-dislocating smile again and begins to clear the table. She turns her head over her shoulderâa little too far for Amaraâs comfortâand says to her, âYouâll call me Mother.â
Amaraâs head reels. She feels like running again.
Not-Uncle-Tad jumps out of his chair and walks out of the kitchen. âTime for school, Jennifer,â he yells as he crosses the living room. âLetâs go! I need to get to work.â He grabs a black leather briefcase from beside the coat and shoe rack in the entry hallway.
âI wouldnât keep him waiting, Jenny.â The woman looks at Amara without expression.
Amara raises herself out of the chair in slow motion. She walks over to Not-Uncle-Tad, who smiles and moves a pair of tennis shoes out from under the shoe rack with a tassled-loafer-clad foot. She looks up at him, then down at the pair of shoes. She slips her feet into them and bends over to lace them up.
As sheâs bent over, the womanâMotherâappears behind her.
âYouâll need this,â she says, dangling a backpack over Amaraâs back.
Amara stands up straight, knocking her head into the heavy bag. She grunts.
âI packed a lunch for you,â Mother says, smiling.
At the word lunch Amara gets a warm sensation in her gut, and she feels guilty for being excited.
âThanks,â Amara says, confused at the melting away of opposition she senses in herself. I knew I shouldnât have eaten that food. She grabs the backpack from Mother and walks through the door Not-Uncle-Tad is holding open for her.
âHave a good day, you two,â Mother crows, smiling her impossibly wide smile with her impossibly snow-white teeth.
Amara follows Not-Uncle-Tad down a flower-lined cobblestone walkway towards a new blue Toyota Prius parked along the curb. She looks around. The house is at the end of a street next to a wooded area. Jacaranda trees line the street, their purple flowers staining the sidewalks. The surrounding houses are built the same as Mother and Not-Uncle-Tadâs placeâa suburban split-level, two-storiesâexcept theyâre all painted different shades of grey or blue and some of them donât have flowers lining the walkway. Amara feels her apprehension take on mammoth proportions. This isnât anywhere near where I stay.
Not-Uncle-Tad clicks his keys and the car beeps and flashes. He opens the door and climbs in the driverâs seat. Amara swallows hard, grabs the door handle and gets in the passenger seat, hoisting the backpack Mother gave her onto her lap. She buckles her seatbelt around her as Not-Uncle-Tad does the same, presses the button to start the car, and begins to pull away from the curb.
âYou can call me Father, by the way,â Not-Uncle-Tad says to her after a minute. Amara ignores him and looks out the window in silence, trying to figure out where she is.
Not-Uncle-Tad/Father emits a cruel chuckle. âThereâs no street you can take back. But enjoy the view. Itâs quite… privileged.â Amara looks at him out of the corner of her rolling eyes. He keeps his gaze on the road, but the corner of his mouth flicks up.
They drive together in silence for another ten minutes. Father seems much less interested in forcing interaction with her than Mother is, and Amara is grateful to have time to think. She needs to do the spell again. Maybe she can explain the mistake to the man-thing who sent her here and get back to Mama before dinner. Sheâs going to a schoolâthere will be stuff she can use there. The good thing about being a broke teenage witch is that you figure out how to improvise on a budget. I can get myself out of this. I will.
And when I get home, Iâll find the warlock wannabe motherfucker who told me about this spell and I will end his ass.
The car comes to an abrupt stop in front of a high school overflowing with white kids of various styles and subcultures. Father turns his head to look at Amara. âThis is you.â The car doors unlock.
She opens the car door and climbs out, looking around.
âIâll be back to pick you up here after school. Try to make some friends. Itâs easier.â Father laughs. âOr not. Either way.â His armâjust his arm, not his body at allâreaches for the open door, becoming longer and then shorter, slamming it shut. He speeds off, leaving Amara on the sidewalk, heart racing.
Well, Iâm not going to class, thatâs for goddamn sure.
Inspired by the film Wake (Bree Newsome), the novel The Good House (Tananarive Due), the short story âWet Painâ (Terence Taylor), and, I’m sure, Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye. Also, the last part of this tweet by Jay Smooth.