Grace After Midnight_ A Memoir - Felicia Pearson [1]
How?
Why?
Sure wasn’t because of Mama. Mama was Loretta Chase. The woman may have wanted me—I can’t know that for sure—but I do know that she couldn’t care for me. Later I learned that Mother was the kind of lady that always kept a drug dealer around to fill her needs. She could do that because she had a pretty face, long wavy hair, and a fine figure. Men flocked to her. My daddy ran from her—or she chased him off. I never did get the story.
I didn’t get a lot of the stories about my real parents. They’re ghost figures in my childhood. I saw them in my dreams when I was a little girl. Sometimes they creep back into my dreams now that I’m a grown woman, but they’re always covered in mystery.
The mystery was heavy because as soon as I was born I was put into a foster home owned by two people who had a row house in the toughest neighborhood in East Baltimore. Their names were Cora and Levi Pearson and their place was on East Oliver Street, three doors off the corner of North Montford. That’s where I grew up. Oliver and Montford is where it all happened.
When I arrived the Pearsons were already in their early sixties. Sweet folk. They took care of me, but I still wanted my mama. And when I heard that Mama was calling for me, I got happy all over. I wanted to see her.
All little girls wanna see their mothers. All girls need their mothers. The earliest dreams I can remember are dreams of my mother. I’d see her standing there before me, holding out her arms, hugging me tight, putting me to bed and tucking me in.
“You’re my precious baby,” she’d say.
I’d smile at her, close my eyes, and fall asleep inside my dream.
THE CLOSET
My memories of Mama’s visits are like dreams.
During the first two visits we were at the park. I remember clouds and rain, I remember a dark sky, wet grass, and plastic slides in the playground. I remember Mrs. Simms, the white social worker, who held my hand until, from behind a tree, a woman appeared. The woman was beautiful. She ran to me with her arms wide open. I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.
“It’s your mother,” said Mrs. Simms. “Go to your mother.”
I let the woman embrace me. She smelled of cigarettes and perfume. Tears ran down her cheek. I didn’t know why she was crying. She held me tight and said words I don’t remember. I imagine that she said she loved me. We walked for a while. She, Mrs. Simms, and I went to a candy store where I got a soda and a little bag of M & M’s.
“You and your mother look just alike,” Mrs. Simms said.
I loved hearing those words because I knew my mother looked like a lady in a magazine.
The rain stopped—I can’t remember if this was the first visit or the second—and children were in the park. My mother said something about my pigtails. As a little girl, my hair was done up in little pigtails.
“If you let your hair grow out,” she said, “it’ll look like mine.”
She let me touch her wavy hair.
“Can I bring her to my house? Can I be alone with my daughter?” she asked Mrs. Simms.
Mrs. Simms said, “Maybe. Maybe next time.”
Next time came soon. The night before I was too excited to sleep.
What would my mother’s house look like? I was sure it’d be pretty because she was pretty. I was sure it’d be big. The house on Oliver Street had three floors and three bedrooms, but I knew my mother’s house would be bigger. The house on Oliver Street had all sorts of people living there—grandchildren and cousins to Mr. and Mrs. Pearson. But I was my mother’s only child. I wouldn’t have to share the house with anyone but my mother. Maybe I could live with her forever.
I always hated dresses, but I wore one to visit my mother because I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to look like my mother. My dress, lavender and embroidered with white lace, was brand new. My foster mama had bought it for me to wear to church.
My excitement built as Mrs. Simms drove me to my mother’s. But when we arrived, I was sure she had made a mistake. It wasn’t a house at all, but a tiny one-room apartment with a small kitchen, and a couch that opened up into a bed. The room