Lydia Thomas
What is Love?
This Sunday, the moonlight peaked through the narrow window of Lydia’s room, catching the jars of paint and brushes cluttering her desk. She laid in bed, instantly regretting telling her mother she’d attend church with her. She was exhausted. Last night was too much to handle. Mr. Lou Sheffield took all she had to give and still wanted more. She knew she’d have to figure out a way to keep him satisfied longer. That man’s appetite was more than she could bare.
Today, she wanted to paint and let her life fall away a bit. She’d awaken at 4:44am again. These sleepless nights were becoming her norm. It seemed the universe wanted her to resolve every problem she ever had at that exact moment... the Deacon and Curtis, her lack of money, and ultimately, her ‘zoning off’ and why couldn’t she control it. She’d often wished Moma had taken her to the doctor when Aunt Milly asked her about it when she was 10 yrs old. She wanted to tell her mother how it felt. How her days were like a series of blurred images and her own body often felt like a stranger.
“Oh well, I’m grown now,” she whispered to herself, “It’s too late for me.” Suddenly, she noticed the gold paint she’d used the night before had been sitting for hours.
“I’d better use that before it gets too hard. I ain’t got no money to let it go to waste no how.” She glanced at her favorite brush, the one with the extra fine bristles. The Deacon bought it for her. She knew he paid good money for it by the textured brush strokes it made when she painted. It was yet another payment to keep quiet about Curtis.
“He should be the one feeling ashamed, not me. I was only 14,” she thought to herself. “Dirty ass man.” Tears began to pile up in the corners of her eyes as she walked over and took the brush. She dipped it in the paint, just enough to coat the fine tip, then dabbed it a bit, to get more of an even spread. She softly glided a beautiful gold lining on the edge of the bottom lip of the self-portrait she had been working on.
She loved painting herself. She’d lovingly adorn her image with stunning hats, sophisticated dresses and beautiful make-up. It helped her feel important. It was one of the ways she saw herself as Someone Worthy.
At times, she’d fantasize she was one of the Japanese geishas she had read about. She admired them. She thought they were the epitome of what a woman should be; elegant, beautiful, strong, and smart. Women who made the best of their lives. She was equally impressed with their beautiful kimonos, and head-dresses, a sight of perfection.
Some days, she’d imagine herself dressed in her own beautiful crimson gold kimono with red and silver details, standing in the middle of a Japanese garden. But she figured a black woman in a Japanese Kimono and headdress was too much. The thought made her she smiled faintly.
She read how geishas used their bodies and sexual knowledge to please men. It afforded them extravagant lifestyles. She learned early that beauty was currency and she’d been forced to trade it when she had nothing else to give.
Lydia hated the way men looked at her, the way she allowed them to use her. Even though it paid for the dresses, the hats and makeup that helped her feel like, Someone Worthy. It was during those times, she considered ‘zoning off’ a good thing.
She lifted the brush, hesitated, then set it down again, realizing she had lost track of time. It was now 7:19am.
“Moma is probably catching hell trying to get Curtis dressed.” She figured she’d better hurry up and get dressed herself. “No one wants Ms. Odetta to be late for the ‘church folk’!”
When Lydia arrived at her mother’s house, she could hear Ms. Odetta roaring, “Ain’t nobody gone mess with us today!” from the window in Curtis’s room. She slowly approached the door, feeling herself beginning to drift. She softly grabbed the doorknob and pushed it forward. The front door creaked open as Lydia stepped inside. The click of her heels muted against the wooden floor. She glanced over the room like she wasn't sure it was real.
“Girl, is that you?” Ms. Odetta said, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
Lydia barely heard her mother. Her ears felt stuffed with cotton. Her own breathing too loud in her head. She stared lovingly from the door, fixated upon her only child, Curtis, with heartache.
He stopped flapping his arms the moment she walked in. His head tilting slightly as he caught the scent of her perfume. She began to 'zone off’ again, disconnecting from anything around her.
Curtis didn't look at her. He didn't need to. He walked straight toward her. His steps sure, but unhurried. Lydia froze. Her hands twitching at her side. She didn't know if she would be able to kneel. Her legs felt numb. Yet, she forced herself to sink to the floor to meet his arrival. She bowed her head, allowing him to feel her face. They greeted each other in their own special way, his hands cupping her cheeks. His tiny fingers warm against her skin. She closed her eyes, trying to ground herself in the sensation. It felt like she was floating away in dream she couldn't quite grasp.
“You're the only one I love,” she mumbled to him in the midst of her fog. His touch settled her in a way nothing else could. She closed her eyes, fully taking in the measure of love she rarely gets to enjoy from her son. She fully disconnected from herself and joined him in his world.
Curtis felt her cheeks, tracing the shape of them, soothing his own spirit. His calmness comforted them both. He pulled back and looked at her hair with a blank gaze. His eyes unfocused. His fingers began to feel the wavy, soft texture. He rubbed a small weft of her hair across his face as he leaned his head against hers.
“Hello Baby Bear,” she whispered softly, kissing him on the cheek. He pulled back again and mumbled,” Ahoh-Mah-Bah, his way of saying ‘Hello Moma Bear’.