Babygirl by Mychal Hope

Babygirl  |  Mychal Hope

Mama had my brother first; he came out with his hands folded and his head down. My parents used to say that he hardly made a peep, even when he was hungry. If he did cry it was gentle and sounded like please. I made Mama get a C-section. She blamed me for her body when she got angry. Lifted her shirt up and pointed at the ragged line that runs across her stomach where they cut her open, laid her guts out, and gave me life. Mama would look at me with fire in her eyes and despise me for what I did before I was born. When I was hungry I’d roll over, pull a boob free, and feed myself. Mama said that’s how she knew we wouldn’t get along. What kind of lady takes without asking first? 

I was fourteen when I told everyone at the school lunch table that I hit my mama back. I was bored, breaking carrots in half and tossing them at the sixth graders as they walked by to grab their milk. My statement garnered attention. All of their eyes widened and they leaned forward like I was someone to listen to. I never hit Mama back; she wasn’t much of a hitter anyway, words were her weapons. There were times I’d have rather been slapped in the face than hear the things Mama had to say. Mostly, I just wanted people to like me and I didn’t know how to be nice yet. The people at my table ate it up, all except for Rosie who sat opposite of me, staring at me with my mother’s eyes, cold and prickly.  

My town was semi-small; everybody knew someone’s cousin and mine went to school with me. Rosie’s something special. God stamped a smile on her face in the womb, sent her into the world with the whitest teeth anyone’s ever seen, hair long and blonde. She held herself like royalty and everyone treated her as such. She was golden and I was rotted, curdled like my mother. A daughter’s burden.

Rosie brought a lunch pail filled with little triangle sandwiches and strawberries cut into hearts. What a bitch. She whispered to her friends, her long hair creating a curtain that divided them from me. The gleaming barrier couldn’t block out their vicious humming. I sat quietly as the gaggle of girls giggled and looked away when they saw me watching. I felt like prey. It’s said hyenas can kill a lion if the group is big enough. They run in circles around it, isolating the kitty cat and taunting it with their jeers. I sat straighter, wiped my hand on my dress, crossed my legs, and waited for them. 

She saw me twiddling my thumbs and sat up, sparkly hair falling back into place, shoulders poised, sandwiches untouched. She smiled, white teeth and pink gums. I didn’t; there’s a gap between my two front teeth and Mama said I needed to start grinning with my mouth closed. I placed my hands on the table and grabbed another carrot. I couldn’t sit still. Rosie watched the movement with a hunter’s eye. I cracked the stick in two and her gaze jerked back towards my face. Then she laughed and shook her head, like I was really funny. “You’re something else, Babygirl.” She said like she meant it, like it could be a compliment if I was stupid. 

“Oh, yeah?” I replied, playing the game. “Why’s that, Rosie?”

It’s an old game; it came before our mothers and will remain after we’re gone. We held eye contact as she took a teensy bite of her sandwich, putting her finger in the air, asking for just a second, please. I broke another carrot in half. She swallowed. 

“My daddy says you drive your mama up the wall. She called last week asking for us to take you in, but he said no.” Her smile grew bigger, a winner’s triumph. Embarrassed and angry, my vision went hazy, blurring around the edges. I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks as people started to glance my way. Everyone had been pretending not to hear, but who could fake civility when good ammunition was brought forward? Encouraged by the audience, Rosie made sure to finish well. “You ain’t hittin’ your mama, Babygirl. She won’t even let you get that close.” 

She was goddamn glowing. Victory tasted as sweet as her stupidass love-shaped strawberries. Fucking skank. I didn’t know my cousin well enough to call her a liar, but I know my mama well enough to believe that what Rosie said was probably the truth. Everyone was silent, trying their best to breathe through the thickness in the air. Rosie was grinning and her cackle huddled close and hissed to one another. The game was won and congratulations were in order. I chucked a carrot at another passerby and smiled, gapped teeth and all. 

“You wanna know something funny, Rosie girl?” I asked, chewing on the tension in the cafeteria. She looked at me, cold eyes contrasting her warm radiance.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug, taking another teeny tiny bite from her pretty little sandwich with the crusts cut off.

“My mama said that there’s a reason your baby sister looks like your neighbor and it ain’t cause he’s a cousin three times removed. You catchin’ what I’m sayin’?”

Usually, the hyenas don’t win, surrounded by many, the lion only needs to kill one of them to scare the others off. Her smile faded, slowly pulling from the corners first and then gone were her pearly whites. I snapped another carrot in half, refusing to break my gaze. I have my mother’s eyes, too. Unmovable and harsh, born frozen. I leaned forward, dark hair mingling with my broken carrots as it brushed over my plate on the table. 

“I’m sayin’ your mother’s a whore, Rosie.” I felt it, the heinous slash that comes with hurting someone guiltless. Rosie’s mother was kind and good, heart as golden as her daughter’s hair. Nobody actually believed her mother slept with their neighbor, but putting it out there scrapes a smooth reputation. My mama never said anything about my aunt, but it hurt my feelings to think of her calling around begging for people to take me away. It was my father that spat this lie when he was drinking, haha-ing with his big boys, and now I had, too. My victory felt sour and decayed. 

Rosie sat there, staring at me, half-eaten triangle and little hearts. I don’t think I had ever seen her frown before, she looked so completely normal. Her glow turned red, reflecting in blotchy patches across her face. Humiliation rattling her bones, anger making her hands shake. I could see it in her eyes, the bitter sharpness, the similarity. As if someone had put a mirror between us. We were the same. I wanted to apologize, could feel it on the tip of my tongue, so acidic in its unfamiliarity. I opened my mouth, trying to force it out, but nothing came. We sat there until the bell rang and then I got up and left. That’s what happens when daughters act like their fathers, they never learn how to say sorry.

Daddy left us a couple weeks later, four days before Mama’s birthday. We all watched him leave from the kitchen table, eating our mashed potatoes as he clip-clopped in his fancy man boots out the door. We finished dinner, washed the dishes and went to bed. Mama didn’t tell anyone, shame keeping her mouth shut. When someone leaves they act like somehow it’s your fault. Maybe if you kept your house cleaner, or made your food tastier, or raised your children better, your husband would stay. Maybe if you were a completely different person than the one that you are, your husband would stay. Maybe if you ripped your heart out of its chest and cut it up into small pieces and put it on a nice plate, your husband would stay. 

For her birthday, Mama asked us not to say anything. Our grandparents were throwing a party at a snazzy restaurant. Mama laid out a dress she wanted me to wear, pink and pretty, with flower shaped pockets. It was itchy, the tulle on the inside stuck to my skin. I told Mama I loved it, just like she’d tell her parents that Daddy was busy tonight. 

The restaurant was nice, it had trees outside wrapped in glittery lights and windows covered in thick shiny curtains. The carpet inside was plush and green, mishmashed with sporadic clusters of tansies.  A room in the back was rented for the evening, spacious and dazzlingly decorated. There were two tables, one in the center, big and round. The second one, pushed to the corner, just wood and paper plates.  The motherfucking kids table. 

Hyenas are a matriarchal led species. Most often, the ladies lead the clan, holding a higher and more complex social role than the males. They become alphas because they form dependable groups. The family was whispering when we walked in, the main event of the evening and you wouldn’t even know it. The air tasted different, heavy and gummy. My uncle and aunt sat close to my grandparents. Rosie leaned against the back of my grandfather’s chair, arms looped loosely around his chest as she rested their heads together. My grandmother held Rosie’s sister, Kitty, in her lap. What a pretty picture it would make if we weren’t in it, standing awkwardly in the background waiting to be acknowledged. 

They had to know we were here, felt our eyes locked on their faces and our ears clinging to their conversations. It seemed like some weird punishment. Mama was teetering from side to side, embarrassed and uncomfortable. My brother was breathing loudly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find any words. 

“Happy Birthday, Mama!” I said into the buzz of the room, cringing at my voice booming in a space it didn’t belong. The cackle jumped, their giggle-calls quieting with the interruption. Everyone looked over at us, frozen in their familial positions. They had dinner once a week without us, Mama knew it but pretended like she didn’t. We’re all so good at make-believe. 

They were staring, caught and frozen. Mama stopped rocking and squeezed her hands into fists, like she didn’t know what to do with herself. The three of us stared back, sinking into the squishy carpet, waiting for the ground to swallow us whole. I think I made it worse.

“Sorry baby,” my grandma said, rushing to the rescue. We came back up, the floor spitting us out. “Happy Birthday, honey.” She came up with her arms outstretched and Mama fell into them gracefully. Putting her head into grandma’s neck, a little girl, so young and so far away. Nobody else got up. Grandma didn’t greet me or my brother, instead she grabbed Mama’s hand and brought her over to the lackluster celebration.

“Where’s that husband of yours?” My grandpa asked my mama jovially from his chair, still resting in Rosie’s headlock. He didn’t like Daddy. Outside of Mama, no one did, but he liked his daughter married. 

Grandpa officiated my parents wedding, said a long spiel about how important it is to be a good spouse, to love one another through all things, and when he was done and got the audience good and crying, he turned to my father and said “there’s no returns, she’s yours now.” He meant it, too. Bad news, granddaddy, bad bad news.

Mama stuttered, for all her birthday wishes, it’d be her that spilled the beans. Sticking to my gift, easy-peasy, I told him, “Daddy got a new job. He’s workin’.” 

“That’s good. What’s he doin’,” my uncle asked, a glint in his eyes. There was something here between them the three of us weren’t in on. They’re looking at us the way one looks at a toddler, like they knew more. Like we’re just the slightest bit dumb. Superiority permeated the atmosphere. 

“Big man work,” I said disrespectfully. “Heavy duty shit.”

The only thing my grandfather admired about Daddy was his work ethic. My father was a hard worker, did the jobs no one else wanted to do. Didn’t mind getting dirty as long as he got paid. He was strong, a real working man. It made my uncle insecure because he wasn’t very good at sweating. Born with small hands and soft skin, he chose college.

“Watch your mouth, Babygirl.” Mama said, jabbing her elbow into my arm softly. Usually she’d have some sense about her, she’d be angry at me for cursing in public, but I kept the cap on the beans. 

“You know, everybody has different talents. Some people are born with strong brains and some people are born with strong arms,” my uncle said sophisticatedly. 

“Mhm,” I replied, letting it rest before picking it up again. “You callin’ your daddy dumb?”

“Jesus Christ,” my grandma murmured, putting a hand to her forehead. “How about the kids go sit down, huh? Go, now. Go.” She flicked a hand at me, like she was shooing away a pest, sending us to spend our night in the corner. 

I grabbed my brother’s arm, pulling him along with me to the tiny table. Rosie floated behind us, her footsteps elegant and soundless. Kitty skipped, the buckles of her itty-bitty black shoes jingling with each hop. When I got to the table I pulled out the chair closest to my brother, but Kitty slid into it. She had bows in her hair, light pink sparkly sweet. Destined for a no-good-night, I settled next to my cafeteria buddy.

It was fiddly and the table was ugly. All of us gathered in a quiet circle; it felt like time-out. We were close to the adults, but had enough space so if you talked quietly there was privacy. Twisting my head to the side, I saw Mama, small and hunched into herself. Giving so much personality so little volume. She was the only one in the room with no partner; at least I had my brother. The table was still chattering, keeping Mama out of it on purpose. She watched them, a desperate look on her face as she tried her best to be included. Smiling at something that wasn’t told to her, leaning forward, like maybe it was the distance keeping her apart. Her eyes were sad and feral, darting around the table and room, looking for some sort of reprieve, self-conscious about the lack of interaction. 

“My mama knows what you said,” Rosie told me, bringing me back into my circle. I turned around, giving her my attention. She was leaning on her fist, elbow pressed against the sticky wood, fossilized with all the remnants left over from multiple unwashed kid hands. Her grin smashed into her knuckles, cheek pulled upwards, polished canines bared.

Kitty swung her feet back and forth, poking at my brother with her little pink painted fingers. He swatted her away, unaware of the war brewing. I hadn’t even thought about her telling her mother. It felt like something you carry yourself, saving the other person from an embarrassment they shouldn’t have to deal with. It was schoolyard shit, not talk-to-parents shit. 

“What’d she say?” It’s like I couldn’t help it, the words falling out of my mouth crookedly in their hurry forward, no wit or intelligence behind them. I wanted to know if it was my fault, the icky in the room. I felt gross, my mother’s birthday ruined because of my mouth. My heart was beating fast, sweaty hands pulling at my scratchy dress as I fought down impending panic. I hadn’t meant to make a mess.

Rosie sat up, smiling at full force, big teeth and killer’s eyes; she was always winning. Kitty wasn’t poking my brother anymore. Bored at the lack of mollycoddling, she started kicking the table. Gentle and constant thump thump thump as she watched the entertainment. 

“What’s it matter?”

“Why’d you bring it up if you don’t wanna talk about it,” I asked back. “Could’ve just kept your mouth shut.”

My voice was fast and shaky. I felt like a stray dog getting meat dangled in front of it, just too high out of reach. If it was my fault, this terrible dinner, I’d fix it. Go to my aunt personally and apologize. I’d force the words out of my mouth, pry them out with my fingers. 

“I just wanted you to know, Babygirl,” she said, waving her hand in the air like she was dismissing the issue, diffusing the conversation.

My meat was yanked, the string tugged back into the Heavens. My brother looked at me, What’d you do? his face asked. He had my father’s eyes, warm and nonthreatening. A liar’s eyes, he just hadn’t grown into them right. I shrugged my shoulders, nothing. 

The food was brought in on big metal trays with fancy clattering lids. The waiters went to the grownups first, plating their food for them, dishing it out in hearty spoonful’s. The adults clapped gleefully, salivating as steaks were slapped on plates. 

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Mama burst out. A trick passed to her from her mother’s mother, an excellent excuse for her hunger. She was digging in, cutting up her steak and buttering her bread.

“You look like it,” my aunt said. There was a pause in my mother, hand halting mid-butter. The room held its breath. There were multiple ways to take that comment. The good way: she looked thin or the bad way: she didn’t. The game, dealt out in sneaky hands across the table, had begun.

 Female hyenas have working penises. They mount both the males and females, ensuring their position. They’re the most aggressive in the species, big and powerful and bitey. “Thank you,” Mama said quietly, mounted with teeth at her neck. 

My aunt was usually kind, good hearted and sugary to be around. She had crystalized, harsh and tart. My fault, all my fault. The waiters came to the sticky table next, our dinner wasn’t nearly as luxurious. Paper plate made beige with tater tots and a hunk of chicken breast, pure fine dining. 

There was a hush as we all ate our food, a clink of silverware on porcelain the background music for the big night. Acrid static bathing the ambience in bile. Both tables were rickety and disjointed, failing at loving family. 

“So, when does your man get home?” My aunt addressed my mother, friendly and genuine. Their first real conversation all night. It would be such a simple question if Daddy hadn’t dipped less than a week ago.

Rosie leaned in close to me, calculated and poisonous. “We know what happened,” she whispered. Her long hair fell, hiding us behind a blonde screen, concealing us from the others. I felt stuck, like a fly caught in a web. I missed being on the outside. My stomach hurt. There were no beans to spill; the can had been long dumped. 

“Late.” Mama replied to my aunt, trying her best to maintain the lie, while quickly realizing the show was coming to an end.

“What did you say his job was again? Must be a strict one if he has to miss his wife’s birthday.” Playing dumb for the sake of the bit. Maybe we don’t change as much as we think we do. We’ll always be kids fighting in the cafeteria at lunch time. “Such a bummer, too. I know he’d love to spend it with you, huh?”

“You remember the girl that sits next to me at lunch? Our mama’s are friends and she told hers what you said.” Rosie disclosed, soft and evil. “My mama was so angry, but then we saw your daddy with his suitcase hitchin’ a ride out of town. You and your mama drove that man away, Babygirl.”

I swear to God I wasn’t breathing. My skin turned blue and my vision went black. Mama’s smart, played this game many times, but she had the baggage this round. No upper hand. I turned to her and she was already looking at me. We were ugly, stripped to our insides. It was jarring seeing her like that; she looked so much younger than I was. Parts of her stolen by the people she loved. A chunk of her taken from me. 

“We know,” my grandma says, putting down her knife and fork. “We know he doesn’t have a new job and trust me, as your mama, this whole thing is hard for me too.”

Mama sat silent, stunned as everyone continued to eat their food. Dark red dripping down their mouths as they bit and ripped apart the meat. Using their teeth to tear into the flesh, licking up the scarlet ooze that trickled down their arms and stained the tablecloth. Animals, savage and wild.

“What’s it like to have a daddy that doesn’t want you?” Rosie whispered in my ear.

It felt like too much, unbearable and excruciating. My body caught fire, lit up and burned slowly. All I could think of was my mama and how my heart ached for us. A lady that saw so much of herself in me she could rarely look me in the eye without turning away in disgust. I hurt for her and hated her, too. I was born my mother’s tongue, speaking the words she can’t get out. The words that jump through her veins and scratch at her skin, begging for their release. 

“You’re a bitch,” I said to Rosie, who just smiled wider. It grated at my charred skin. Kitty was still kicking the stupid fucking table and taking bites from my brother’s chicken. He didn’t even notice, focused on Mama and the battle she was losing. The silverware rattled, clinking obnoxiously every time the table was thunked, overwhelming the tension. The knife that I used to cut my food toddled closer and closer to its departure with each goddamn kick. It was at the edge, thunk thunk thunk, then on the floor. 

“Don’t be rude,” Rosie said, sweetly. “Pick it up.” 

Sometimes in an act of aggression, a female hyena will eat the cub of another to sustain their rank. I grabbed the knife off the floor, grasped its handle tightly, and lunged. Unlike most predators, hyenas eat their prey while it’s still alive. We fell backwards, the chair hitting the ground hard, jerking our bodies roughly, our heads knocking together. People around us were moving and shouting; bones creaked with the strain of old bodies running. Rosie was looking at me scared and stupid, both of us hideous, regurgitated pictures of our mothers. But our eyes were the same, our blood so similar. 

The knife was dull, so I had to saw and hack my way through. There were hands on my arms, tugging me away, bruising my stinging body. I let them drag me back because I had my prize. My gold. I dropped the knife. Rosie lifted a hand to her head, trying to feel for the yellow strands that used to float down her shoulder. My brother was holding me, all the adults gathered around Rosie except for Mama, who never left the center table. My head was fizzy, clonked hard and irritated by Kitty, who was still sitting in our corner, kicking the table and eating my brother’s dinner.

When Rosie saw her hair in my hand she wailed. Screamed and cried and kicked the ground. My aunt cradled her close, murmured to her softly, and made her angrier. She looked over at Mama, not me. I eat my prey while it’s still wriggling.

“You need to keep Babygirl on a leash,” she spat venom. Then she hauled Rosie off the floor and grabbed her youngest on the way out the door, my uncle trailing behind them. 

My grandparents were shocked, still kneeling on the ground where they’d been when they tried to break us apart. Slowly, my grandpa got up, bad knees making him wobbly in his old age. I would’ve offered him a hand, but they were full. 

“That is not how a lady acts, Babygirl.” His steps were still strong when he marched fiercely towards me, waving an arthritic finger in the air. He was sneering, red in the face, steam out his ears. “Now, your daddy’s gone, so someone’s gotta teach you some manners.” He raised a hand, bigger than my face and strong from years of hard work. My eyes widened, lungs straining as they attempted to do their job. My brother’s grip tightened on my arms as he tried to retreat me.

“Don’t you touch my baby girl,” Mama called from the big kid table, popping the dangerous bubble that had trapped me in. Grandpa stepped back, shocked and reprimanded, hand still in the air. Then, after swinging his arm back into place, he turned around and left, no good-bye or look backwards. My grandmother stood up swiftly and smoothed out her dress. She made her way over to Mama, kissed her head, grabbed her purse, and walked out of the room. 

I stood with my back to my brother’s chest, unsure of my next move. Mama’s knife scraped against her plate as she cut her meat up; it had to be cold by now. I forced myself forward, went to the big table and plopped myself in the seat closest to her. Sitting where the grownups sat, the cushion still warm. 

I was stone, dazed, a champion’s penitence. Resurrected by something that moved across my head, smoothing my singed hair and soothing my burns. Mama’s hand dropped down to mine, the one that still gripped the golden locks, and grabbed it. She pulled me close, tucked my head into her neck and held me for the first time since I was a baby. 

After a long second, she mumbled, “Oh, you’re sweaty.” And gently pushed me back into my chair. I sat there warm and unsteady with a handful of hair, as Mama cut another bite of her steak, liquid red running across her plate and down her chin.

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