A Girl I Use To Know

Chapter 11

It wasn't until the funeral that I looked at the medication I'd been prescribed at the hospital and actually thought about taking it.

Mr. Lopez was adopted and raised by black folk, so I guess he was of the same opinion about psychiatric medication. Black people are not crazy; we do not believe in a lot of stuff that the white folk do and psych meds were at the top of that list.

So, nothing was said about the medication, except when I was asked was it helping during my appointments with the doctors at Stanford. That went something like this...

"How are you feeling, Sha'anna?"

No one can fuck up a name like a white bitch.

"I'm okay I guess."

She gave me the poor-thing look and then asked, "Is the medication helping?"

I nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it. Some people don't take it, but I believe once you understand that medication does not change the events but helps you through them, then it can really help."

I nodded again.

If she only knew I wasn't taking it and hadn't slept since the last time I was there, she'd trip and try to force me to take the medication. Hell, they'd strap me down again if I ever mentioned the nightmares or the fact that I've been calling my brother's phone every day; sometimes three times a day just to breathe on his answering machine. I'd probably never see day.

She smiled at me and said, "Okay, Shana, I just wanted to check on you. I'll want to see you again next week, then we can start once a month for a while."

I gave a nod and moved my mouth hoping it was a smile. As we were walking out, I realized she not once mentioned what happened to my family. She'd also called me by two different names which she read off the same piece of paper.

"Okay, Shineanae." Three names. "That's so pretty, am I saying it right?"

Why white hoes fuck up yo name then ask if they were pronouncing it right is beyond me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they don't have top lips. I don't know, but let's not even get into that.

By the time of the funeral I was completely exhausted, and I missed the feeling I had when I woke up strapped to that hospital bed. I still felt empty, but at least I was rested.

After laying in my mother's burned room for Lord knows how long, Vicky literally carried me back to her place where I lay awake night after night listening to her snore.

The times I did have the nerve to drift off my eyes were forced open by the memory of Poppa in that tube. I'd even gotten glimpses of my mom, G-dub and Free in the same condition, thanks to my imagination.

The day of the funeral went by fast until we parked out in front of Jones'. Then it all began moving slow. I waited in the lobby and watched as people came in. There were so many people, and I was sure most had no idea who we were a month ago. As I watched them sign the guest book and talk, I began to wonder what the news actually said.

I managed to hear bits and pieces of conversations, but once someone saw me all conversation stopped. I guessed either the newspaper ran a picture of the only surviving member of my family or I was not that successful at hiding the look of a child whose family just perished.

Vicky never left my side. She tried, bless her heart, to talk to me, but there wasn't much you could do to distract or make conversation with a child at her family's funeral. At one point I felt bad for Vicky; they were as much her family as mine.

We were sitting in a corner, me in the black dress I wore to my graduation and Vicky in black pants and shirt. She'd managed to talk me into letting her do my hair. I was content with a ponytail, but she wanted a bun. Mr. Lopez came over with an old black man. He said he was Mr. Jones and apologized for my loss. He began with how he'd preside over my family's funeral and started asking me questions.

But before I could answer Mr. Lopez said, "Pastor Paul's here."

Mr. Jones awkwardly nodded and then said, "It's time."

I was led down a row of benches to the front one on the right. In front were two caskets side by side: one a shiny baby blue which had to be G-dub's and the other a cherry red which must have been my mom's. In front of the blue and red caskets was a tiny blue casket for Poppa. I didn't expect to see one for Free, then again I did. It woulda helped me, I think. It would have helped me put him to rest in my heart, helped me finalize it all.

In the front were three pictures, one of my mother. I remembered when it was taken. It was taken by Mr. Lopez on her birthday. We'd surprised her at work; she turned when we were singing happy birthday and snap.

The second was a picture of G-dub from Mother's day, again taken by Mr. Lopez at a church function for the mothers.

The third picture was of Poppa. I took it myself. Mr. Lopez was teaching me how to use his camera. I'd sat on his lap last year, and he held the camera while I focused and snapped the picture.

I turned to look at Mr. Lopez; he was sitting next to Vicky who sat next to me. He was not ashamed to cry for these people. They were his family, too.