(African) American Gothic

Trigger warning: this story contains themes of suicide and mental health.

Two plates sit untouched at the head of the dining room table. Gramee and Grandpy stare at me, eyes stern, hollow. Gramee has her signature black dress with the white scalloped collar, Grandpy at her side with overalls under a dinner jacket. They have the same square glasses, silver and glaring.

“Do you want to live here with me?” They don’t answer. I sigh, scraping carrots around on my plate. “Look, I know our cousin’s got the bigger house with the pool and everything. But do y’all even like to swim?”

Nothing.

“Didn’t think so, swimming isn’t best in your condition. Anyway, I really miss you, and I’m glad you’re here. Y’all can stay here permanently. I have to find room, of course, but it’s an easy adjustment.”

I flash a smile. Trying to be perky, but they’re not buying it. Silence cloaks the room.

“I know things aren’t the same since he died, but we’re gonna get through this as a family. You’ve been moving around a lot, but it’ll be different with me—”

A knock at the door. When I answer it, Eliana stands in the rain no longer than she has to, swiping past me in her slick and boots, dampening my sweater. She smells like petrichor mixed with stale eau de toilet. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Yes, I did. You forgot again.”

I don’t remember forgetting.

Eliana grabs her phone and thumbs the screen, looking up at me with those beady brown eyes. Dark curls droop on her oversized cinnamon forehead.

“What were you doing?”

She sniffs, sauntering in the kitchen like she pays my mortgage. She freezes at the sight of Gramee and Grandpy at the dining room table.

“Edina.”

I touch the cold metal of the fork behind my back, testing the prongs for pain. If I accidentally poke her hard enough, she’ll have four little holes of squirting blood, like a fountain.

“What were you doing?” Eliana asks again.

“Having dinner,” I said.

“Edina, we’ve talked about this.”

“They can hear you, you know,” I hissed.

“Our great-grandparents are dead. That’s a damn painting—”

“Shhh,” I say to Gramee, patting Grandpy’s strong shoulder. “Told you it’ll be better living with me.” The deepest secrets in this family can only be whispered in the oil flecks of their painted ears. “Stop trying to act like I’m crazy. You don’t care.”

“You stop, Edina. Ever since Ma’s husband died you’ve been all weird. You just want attention.”

“Not yours.”

Eliana frowns, kinky curls angrily bouncing off that forehead. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Couldn’t get it even if I wanted it.”

“Go to hell.”

“Living it.”

She grabs her raincoat and slings it on, water pelting the floor. “It’s your turn to see Ma. You should stay with her for a while. A long while. You belong there, too.” With that Eliana slams the door, making one of the frames fall and shatter. She always does that shit on purpose.

“Why did my stepfather kill himself?” I ask Gramee and Grandpy.

I just miss them so much. My great-grandparents are the only ones I can ask for advice. A painting that’s older than I am. It was their anniversary gift (commissioned by some famous painter I forgot about). That painting has seen more family members in a century than I’ll ever meet at a reunion.

And now that my stepfather is dead and my mother’s been committed to a mental institution, I have this African American Gothic-style masterpiece. It’s my turn to take care of the great-grandparents I’ve never met.

My older sister, Eliana, wants to sell the painting so we can pay for Ma’s bills, but I won’t have it. Eliana had the painting before me and Ma before her, going back to my uncle grandparents. Even though I never met them, that painting is worth more history than money can buy.

But bills were piling up, and even my income and Eliana’s put together wasn’t enough. When Eliana told me she’d listed the painting and had buyers lining up, I paid her a visit. While she was upstairs painting her nails, I went up to her room and asked if she’d sell her wedding ring.

“Over my dead body.”

“Richard died in 1995.”

“I said my body. Now leave me alone.”

I did. I took my ass right down to her living room and grabbed the black canvas covering Gramee and Grandpy’s faces and walked right out the front door. They’ve been with me a month.

I sure do talk to them. There’s no one else to talk to. Something about those stern brown faces makes me believe they knew everything. “Is Eliana ever going to find love again? Should I pick up a second job? Why does everyone treat our side of the family so bad?”

That painting of my African American Gothic Great-Grandparents is the closest thing I had to therapy. Eliana and I have never been close, Ma’s away, and my stepfather is dead. Everyone else just gossips about our side of the family like a herd of inky woolen sheep.

Every day after I get off work, I come home and think about which picture to take down (curator equals no wall space) so I could put Gramee and Grandpy in their rightful places to watch over me. I didn't know why it was so hard. In my ten years of expertise, I couldn’t think of any historical figures I wanted on my wall except them.

Every night when I tried to go upstairs for bed, I turned right back around, turned all the lights back on. Turned the thermostat up. Placed my great-grandparents gently on the couch in the den, nestled safely in pillows.

~

“This blanket’s like a potato sack,” my mother complains, scratching her leg under the blue blanket.

“It’s fine, Ma.”

“Smells like one, too.”

I’m trying to concentrate on the TV but her hand fidgeting with her plastic bracelet is distracting.

“Why you not wearing makeup?”

“Why does it matter?” I stop my eyes from rolling out of their sockets.

“You don’t want a husband?”

Instead of answering, I watched the bare walls so long they went from white to yellow. I must have fallen asleep, because a blanket was thrown over me, leaving its quilted imprint on my arm. It was itchy.

“Ma? You OK?”

“Is William home from work yet?” She was sitting up in bed, staring at something I couldn’t see.

“Ma, he’s dead.”

I pulled the HELP cord as soon as she screamed. Ma didn’t stop when two nurses rushed in with straps and needles. I grabbed my purse, staggering out. The woman at the front desk called my name.

“Edina! Sorry to bother you, but please don’t forget to sign out.” She pointed to the visitor’s log. I nodded, ghost fingers signing box and time.

“Thank you. Oh, and by the way: your payment is past due.”

Of course it is. “Thanks for the reminder,” I spat bitterly, turning to leave.

“Sorry about your mother,” she mumbled.

It didn’t matter. That was my other mother, not the real one.

I rushed home to tell Gramee and Grandpy what happened, but the den was empty. I looked all over the house, but they’re gone, gone, gone. I picked up the phone.

“Listen, the visit with Ma didn’t go well. I don’t want to be home alone. Can I sleep over there?”

“Sure.”

It was the first time my sister and I shared the same roof in months.

“Do you think she’ll get better?” I asked.

“If she can get over him.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m glad you’re here. Sorry about the visit with Ma.”

“Thanks, and me too.”

We sat painting our toenails with dollar store polish. I had Ruby Red and Eliana got Pink Princess.

“Eliana?”

“Yeah?”

“This is gonna sound weird, but I can’t find Gramee and Grandpy’s painting. I looked everywhere.”

“Oh.”

“You haven’t seen it, have you?”

“No, how would I know?” She wiped the corner of her toe, smudging her thumb pink.

~

“You look beautiful Ma.”

“Oh, hush.” She swatted my hand away, blushing. The scarf’s silky material almost covered her cheeks.

Bills were finally paid on time, so I went to see Ma more often. Her eyes were getting brighter, and she’d gained weight. I hadn’t heard her scream in a while.

Eliana hadn’t spoken to me in months. I didn’t blame her. I’d be mad at me, too.

It’s only fair, though. She made me let go of our great-grandparents, so I made her let go of her ex-husband.