"Insane Mothers"

Meeka’s house is Miami Vice on steroids. There are white leather couches against white walls with giant colorful paintings. The splattered works of art look like they were done by a five-year-old (Which only tells me that they’re originals and worth gobs of money!). Palm trees are scattered throughout a den with one large-paned window displaying an oval swimming pool just begging to be used in warmer weather, outside. The view of a beach peeks out from a huddled line of foliaged maples.


I am officially queasy with jealousy.


“Dat you, my girl?” a woman with a much thicker accent than Meeka’s calls off past the kitchen.


“It’s me, Granny!” Meeka throws her book bag and purse down on the creamy marble (marble!!!) floor that encompasses the entire first level of the Jones’ house.


“Well, what you waitin’ for child! Get your boomsie in here!” If the woman’s voice were a record, there’d be lots of cracks and scratches in it.


“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Meeka’s eyes are lit up as she grabs my hand and practically skids us across the floor. “Oh, wait. You need to remove your shoes. Mother will have my hide if she sees you in them.”


I slide off my fake Doc Martens. When I turn around, Meeka is wiping the already spotless floor with a wet paper towel. I am wondering if Meeka’s mother is crazy. She must sense my thought because she stuffs the towel in her corduroy pants and says “Mother has a thing about clean floors. It’s no big deal, though.”


“Don’t worry. My mom’s off her rocker, too,” I say, because it’s true. “Maybe becoming a mom makes a person insane.”


“Well I never want to find out,” Meeka says.


“Wot takin’ you so long, girl?” Meeka’s grandmother calls, again.


“Oh, same here,” I nod my head like a Pez-dispenser gone haywire.


We start to laugh. It is a relief to know that we are not alone with our imbalanced mothers, with our fears.