Francine's Spectacular Crash and Burn

chapter one

I'm not going to spend too much time telling you about my mother's death. I have to tell you about it because it's what started everything, but her passing isn't the point. I mean, it's not the focus. Not really. I will say that even after all the therapy in the world I still sometimes blame myself for what happened, or I'll blame Aunt Liane, even though neither is true; no one was to blame. Prior to her death there was nothing going on in my life-just the days sort of bleeding into each other. I was twenty-five years old, living at home, and I spent most of my time with my mother. And yes, it was as pathetic as it sounds.

Mom gave astrological readings and motivational talks. I was in charge of filming her YouTube channel. She was corny as hell, but her followers liked her videos and trusted her readings. At the time she had over a hundred thousand subscribers.

Anyway, Sunday, two days before she died, she sat behind her desk wearing a bright yellow raincoat and hat like a meteorologist stuck in a storm. She used all kinds of props and costumes in her videos; the garage was filled with her stuff.

I fixed the lens so that it held tightly on her face. "Ready?"

She did one of her warm-up exercises-closing her eyes and blowing through her lips, making them vibrate like a rudder. She gave a nod and I counted off like a director on a movie set.

"Good morning, love doves. Corrina Stevenson here with today's astrological weather sighting. Jupiter enters Aquarius, so take hold; it's going to get stormy!"

She picked up the umbrella next to her desk and gave it a twirl. Like I said, corny as hell.

"My Leos, it's time to start that project you've had on the back burner; the winds of Venus will be growing stronger, which will create problems if you're not prepared."

We made her videos on the weekends and posted them throughout the month, one or two per week. At the end of each reading, Mom shared advice-things she'd read in books or heard from the self-help gurus she followed. She'd put her own personal spin on the lesson and pass it on. It was all bullshit when you considered the lie she was living. She was like all the other charlatans out there, like those preachers damning you from the pulpit, then you find out they're having an affair or molesting a kid. Well, she wasn't that bad. I guess you could say she was more like the celebrity you thought was living their best life, only to learn they'd checked themself into rehab.

Mom suffered from anxiety and bouts of agoraphobia that were so bad she wouldn't leave the house for weeks at a time, sometimes months if I let her get away with it. You'd never have known any of this based on the videos or if you met with her over Zoom for a reading, yet she ticked off every box for the most severe cases of agoraphobia. I asked her several times what started it, if something had happened, but she'd never tell me anything except BS like, "The past is the past for a reason, and I refuse to live there."

For the last video, Mom changed into a Viking princess costume with a Viking hat that had long blond ponytails attached to the inside. Mom had soft features: big warm brown eyes, a small gap between her front teeth. I knew her heart was in the right place, but the blond wig clashed with her dark-brown skin, and at five feet four inches, she was nearly three hundred pounds and the dress she wore tight and ill fitting.

I counted off. Pointed. She held up her plastic sword and shield, did her thing until I said cut.

"Are you sure that was okay?"

I was tired and ready to tell her whatever she needed to hear. "You were great."

"I don't know. I feel like my energy is off today. I think it's because you-know-who is coming."

You-know-who was my Aunt Liane, my mom's half sister. Those two couldn't stand each other.

She took off the silly Viking hat. "Go and get me a pill, would you?"

"You already had your pill."

She begged, and we went back and forth. Mom and I bickered like enemies at times, but she was my best friend, my only friend, really, and I knew how much Aunt Liane stressed her, so we compromised on her taking half a pill.

"Thanks, baby." She smiled her Corrina Stevenson smile, the smile she saved for her videos. I hated that smile.

Her pills were lined up on the kitchen counter under the windowsill. She'd stopped taking her regular medication about two years before, after one of her clients, Alfonse, became her direct supplier. We weren't sure how Alfonse-he didn't give his last name-a man from the Czech Republic of all places, had access to so many drugs. We assumed he was a chemist or pharmacist. Mom didn't ask and Alfonse never disclosed his secret. Through the tarot, she predicted his wife was cheating and guided him through his divorce. Over time they became friends and she told him about her anxiety and depression. One day, she read his chart and advised him not to go to work. Sure enough, the train he normally took jumped the rails, leaving two passengers dead and several others injured. He'd paid her back for saving his life by sending her pills. You no longer go to doctor. I take care of you, his note read.

And boy did he take care of her. No matter how much I complained, she refused to go back to her regular meds. The prescriptions were printed in Czech, so Alfonse wrote on the labels with a black marker in scrawny script and poor English, instructions like TAKE THESE WHEN YOUR SAD ALWAYS or TAKE THESE FOR GOOD SLEEP.

I halved a pill from the bottle TAKE THESE FOR VERY GOOD COURAGE and poured a glass of orange juice.

Mom's anxiety had started several years earlier, around my freshman year of high school. She'd always had bouts of depression, but with my help-and this meant sometimes pleading with her to get out of bed-she was able to keep her job working in the human resources department at East Bay Utilities.

Over time, she stopped letting anyone into the house. But her YouTube business kept growing and she started selling bath potions and oils meant to help customers ward off bad juju and manifest the life of their dreams. By the time I'd graduated from high school, she was living solely off her astrology business and a telemarketing job she'd found that required no commute.

I had a shitload of resentment toward her during that time, which you'll have to forgive me for. I mean, I had no idea she was going to die. How was I supposed to know she was going to die? Which leads me to telling you right now, ask forgiveness, accept the apology, ask the burning questions, give the hugs, and say your I-love-yous, because it may be cheesy AF, but it's true: We are all on borrowed time. Every one of us.

chapter two

Aunt Liane and Uncle CJ showed up a few hours after we'd wrapped up filming. It was a week before Christmas. Uncle CJ was a Jehovah's Witness, so out of respect, Mom and I decided not to put up a tree until he was out of sight. Neither of us was into the holiday anyway since there was no one to celebrate it with. Aunt Liane and Uncle CJ were our only remaining relatives, and the best thing about Aunt Liane was that she lived in Fresno, a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Oakland, which meant we didn't have to see her much. My dad, I should mention, died when I was nine years old. He was one of a handful of black foremen in the Bay Area and was struck by a beam on a construction site. He was the kind of man who liked to joke around. Like the time he gave me a plate of Oreo cookies but had secretly replaced the fillings with toothpaste-that kind of thing.

Aunt Liane and Mom lasted a good thirty minutes before the bickering started. Aunt Liane said something about Mom's weight, and Mom mentioned getting plenty of exercise from working in her garden.

Aunt Liane rolled her eyes. "Planting flowers is not exercise." Her latest weave featured maroon-colored strands that framed her face. She was always very matchy-matchy: her blouse was maroon, the heavy makeup she wore was maroon, and her nails, decorated with tiny gold studs at the tips and as long as mosquito legs, were also maroon. She and Mom were as opposite as characters in a Grimm fairy tale. Aunt Liane was toothpick thin and hadn't seen her real hair in decades, while Mom was big and kept her hair natural. The only resemblances their drunk father passed down to them were their dimpled chins, dark skin, and emotional trauma.

Aunt Liane pulled back the foil on the scalloped potatoes she'd brought. "Are you using the Fitbit I got you?" She turned to me before Mom had time to respond. "Has she been getting out at all? Has she been going on her walks?"

Mom tossed her head back and barked. Literally. "Ruff! Ruff!"-followed by a burst of laughter. That's when I noticed her pupils pirouetting about in her eyes like ballerinas on steroids. Shit. "I'm not a dog, Liane."

Aunt Liane frowned. "No one said you were a dog, Corrina."

She turned to put the potatoes in the oven, giving me a second to join Mom at the sink. "How many?" I whispered.

She raised two fingers.

Two?! I mouthed. I looked over my shoulder to see if Aunt Liane was paying attention, but she was busy checking the pot roast. "You've been taking too many pills lately," I whispered.

"Don't be mad. She drives me crazy." Mom twirled her finger near her ear and crossed her eyes.

I shook my head. We were never going to get anywhere at this point.

Aunt Liane opened the drawer for silverware and said to Mom, "We all know the more you stay inside, the worse you get. How long has it been?" She directed her question at me.

Usually I helped defend Mom, but I was pissed she'd taken extra pills behind my back. "Tell her, go on."

Mom pursed her lips. "Almost two months, but I'm perfectly fine."

"That is not fine. What in the hell does it take for a person to open the front door and walk the fuck out? I don't understand." She began one of her never-ending lectures on Mom's weight and her phobias.

There's a reason for Aunt Liane's bitchiness. Isn't there always a reason? Aunt Liane's mother died from cancer when she was ten years old, and not six months later, her rolling-stone drunk of a father knocked up an out-of-work waitress, and out popped Mom nine months later. Drunk Grandpa moved Mom and her mother into his house, and soon after, my mom's mother, the former waitress, decided motherhood wasn't her thing and took off, leaving three-year-old Mom in the care of her big sister, Liane, who was barely fourteen by then. My grandpa stayed wasted, so in a real sense Aunt Liane raised Mom. Who knows what went down in that house? I can only imagine what it was like for Mom to lose her mother and to be raised by her pissed-off teen sister and drunk father.

I took the plates and silverware to the dining table. The kitchen, den, and dining room were a shared space. Uncle CJ sat in a recliner in the den with his cane nearby. He was born in the Stone Age and had suffered a stroke two years before. But Uncle CJ was the sweetest man, before and after the stroke.

I asked if he needed anything. He pointed his good hand toward the TV, and I changed the channel until he gave a thumbs-up to a basketball game. For all Aunt Liane's bitchy attitude, she loved Uncle CJ, and even though they shared a twenty-year age gap, as far as I could tell, the only downside to their relationship, besides his stroke, was that he'd wanted to move from San Leandro to Fresno after he retired so he could be close to his family. And Aunt Liane hated Fresno.

To be honest, Aunt Liane and Uncle CJ were always there for me, especially before their move. Uncle CJ taught me to drive and play chess, and he and Aunt Liane helped me move into my dorm when I went to college and Mom's agoraphobia was acting up-things like that.

···


Later, over dinner, Aunt Liane decided it was my turn to be berated.

"Uncle CJ and I worry about you, you know."

"I'm fine."

She cut into her roast beef, studying me. "You'll be thirty soon."

"I'm twenty-five, give me a minute."

"Time is ticking right on by and you're still living at home and working as a maid."

"I'm not a maid." I don't know how many times I had to tell her this.

"You pick up that white woman's laundry and you babysit her child. Sounds like a maid to me."

"I only had to babysit twice, and both times were emergencies."

Mom returned from wherever Alfonse's pills had taken her. "Oh, Liane. We all know you mean well."

"The child has a degree from UC Berkeley but what is she doing with it?"

"Li," warned Uncle CJ. "Calm."

Aunt Liane looked at him defensively, then said to me: "I own my own salon in country-ass Fresno after starting from scratch and now every black woman in that backward-ass city knows about me. You need to have a goal."

Mom stared at the green bean on the end of her fork as if it had magical powers. "I'm getting better," she said to the green bean. "I've just had a setback."

"You're always having setbacks." Aunt Liane turned her attention to Mom while tucking a maroon-dyed strand of some Indian woman's hair behind her ear. She pointed at Mom with her mile-long nail. "I took care of you when you were a child and now"-she pointed at me-"your daughter is missing out on life because she's taking care of you, and I know exactly what that feels like."

Mom's expression grew increasingly pained. Even Alfonse's pills couldn't stand up to Aunt Liane's truth bombs. "I help people every day."