A dark place, p.5
A Dark Place, page 5
When he walked back into the living room, Sierra was there, still on her verbal rampage.
“I’ll be damned if I work as hard as I do to come home to this. Asked you a simple question . . . ,” she said, rambling.
He wasn’t listening to her anymore. That was how he was; he dealt with the task at hand. Sierra was free to leave, and if he never saw her again, it would be okay with him. Sure he would be hurt—after all, he loved her—but he would get over it. His life had been filled with losing loved ones, and he had learned never to get so close to a person that you couldn’t do without him or her.
His mind was on Jamillah and what was really going on with her. He had to admit that he had never seen her this low. She was a mess, but never before had it gotten to the point of her being assaulted. And as much as he despised her drug abuse and subsequent trifling behavior, she was still his sister, and he didn’t appreciate anyone beating her ass. On the other hand, if she was running around stealing from people to feed her habit, then she had gotten what she deserved. He vacillated a little with his thoughts and then opened the front door.
Chapter 7
Jamillah wasn’t on the porch, where he had left her. Urban stepped out onto the porch and peered down the street. He saw Jamillah standing by the passenger door of a navy-blue Crown Victoria. When Jamillah saw Urban, she pointed at him and then nodded her head. She dropped her head, then said something to one of the two men in the car and hurried back to Urban’s yard.
“Where’s the baby?” she asked when she reached Urban.
“Who is that?” he asked, nodding at the car.
“My ride.”
Something didn’t seem right. Dealers didn’t give crackheads rides. And from what he could make out from his vantage point, those two guys didn’t seem like dealers, at least not street-level ones.
“Your ride?” he said, eyeing the occupants of the car.
“Where is the baby?” she asked anxiously. “Come on, Urban. This isn’t a joke.”
“Here,” he said, offering her the money while still checking out the car.
She snatched the money from his hand and stuffed it in her pocket. “I need the baby, Urban, for real.”
Urban took his eyes off the car and let his gaze bore into her. “You are not getting that baby. Now, whatever kind of sadistic shit you have going on with those clowns is your business, but you will not get that baby.”
“Urban, if you don’t give me that baby, then I’m as good as dead.”
“Well, then, that’s how it has to be. That’s the bed you made,” he said. “May you rest in peace in it.”
The look on Jamillah’s face said that his words had hurt her more than those men’s fists ever could.
“You have a nice day,” Urban said.
“Urban, give me that damn baby!” she screamed. “They gonna kill me.”
Urban stopped and turned around. He stared at his baby sister. She was raggedy, dirty, battered, and bruised, and he wondered what had happened to his favorite person in the entire world. He missed the little girl she used to be. He missed her so much that if he were given a guarantee that she would be okay if he gave his life, he would stand in front of a firing squad without a second thought. But that wasn’t the case.
He felt himself tearing up. They used to be as close as two people could ever be, but the drugs had taken his place. The drugs had robbed them of the bond they had shared through so many challenging days and nights. Crack was her brother now. She had buried Urban long ago, when she took her first hit, and had placed him into a deeper hole with each subsequent toke of the glass idol she worshipped. Urban dropped his head.
“They will kill me, Urban,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face.
Urban quickly wiped away his own tears when he realized that death might be a welcomed reprieve from what she had become. “You’re already dead,” Urban said as he wiped away more tears.
Jamillah’s pitiful look changed in an instant, as if she suddenly realized getting the baby wasn’t an option and she had to get to plan B in a hurry. She took one look at the car with the white men sitting in it and took off running in the opposite direction.
“Fuck you, Urban!” she yelled as she ran like a track star toward the back of his subdivision.
The men in the car didn’t give chase. Instead, they eased out into the street, pulled into Urban’s driveway, then backed up and drove off.
Two white men, dressed in crisp white shirts and shades. One of them had even nodded at him.
Interesting!
Chapter 8
Jamillah was running. She had visions of being on the Greene Stadium track at Howard as the crowd of ten thousand cheered her on. Her dirty Nikes hit the pavement as she ran with the ease of a gazelle. After all these years, she still ran with the grace of Marion Jones. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew she needed to get there fast. Her life was now in grave danger, but all she could think about was revenge against her brother and her foster mother for putting her in this position. She wanted to kill both of them so badly that she couldn’t think straight.
Jamillah looked around the area as she ran. Her mind raced as fast as her feet moved. She couldn’t think of anything. She was a fish out of water, surrounded by fancy cars and rich white people, all of them seeming to be on the positive side of wealthy. She, on the other hand, was on the negative side of poor—slap dead in the middle of their world.
The people she passed looked at her with disdain. She hated them too. She caught a glimpse of an old white woman standing on her expensively manicured lawn with what had to be the ugliest dog in the world. But how she wished she could trade places with her. The white lady pulled her dog close to her and literally ran into her house, as if the mere sight of Jamillah was going to send her into cardiac arrest.
What the hell are you running for, bitch? Jamillah thought as she kept dashing. She hated herself for getting that reaction, but she hated the woman even more for reacting to her in that way.
Her mind shifted back to those men in the car. Why were they so angry? Was getting a baby that important? she wondered as she ran.
Marcus was dead.
They had killed Marcus.
Why did they kill Marcus?
Her eyes started watering again. Marcus was a good guy. He had never hurt a soul, and as much as she’d allowed herself to do so, she’d loved him. He didn’t have anything to do with the deal she’d made with those people for the baby, and yet he had died over it.
Jamillah tried to block everything from her mind and concentrate on the here and now. Her legs were beginning to ache, and her lungs were threatening to explode. She slowed her sprint to a fast trot and instinctively held her hands above her head. She kept looking around for the evil and murderous men, but they were nowhere to be found.
She thought about the money Urban had given her, and instantly felt hunger pangs. Fear had a strong hold on her, but hunger was quickly stealing her attention. She exited the subdivision and raced across the busy four-lane highway and into the parking lot of a QuikTrip gas station. She walked into the store and caught the attention of the two customers who were roaming around. They gave her the same look the white woman had given her, but she ignored them and went straight for the deli section. She took two sausages from the grill and removed two buns from the heater. She placed the sausages, a little mustard, onions, and chili on both buns and grabbed a bag of potato chips. She grabbed a twenty-ounce Sprite and walked to the counter. The clerk eyed her suspiciously, but she ignored him and placed the items down.
“Those sausages are . . .” He paused, taking in the sight of her horrible-looking condition. He could not hide the surprise on his face. “Those sausages are not two for a dollar,” he said rudely.
“I didn’t ask you that,” Jamillah snapped.
He seemed stunned by the response and tried to recover. “I know, but people come in here all the time and get it mixed up,” he explained, then added a smile. “Didn’t want to surprise you when I rang it up.”
Jamillah ignored him and stood there. The guy took the hint and started ringing up her items.
“Seven dollars and thirty cents,” he said.
Jamillah pulled out one of the hundred-dollar bills Urban had given her, and handed it to him. She looked around for a restroom as she waited for her change.
“Where is your restroom?”
“Outside, behind the building.”
“Thank you.”
Once she had her change, Jamillah walked around to the back of the building, where she found the restrooms. She needed to get herself cleaned up, but she couldn’t see herself taking her food into a nasty bathroom. It was funny how her habit had her living in some of the worst conditions known to man, yet she never would allow herself to take food into a bathroom. Jamillah sat on the sidewalk by the restrooms. She opened her drink and took a big swallow. Next, she opened up one of her sausage dogs and almost devoured it in one bite. The smell alone sent a soothing comfort throughout her body. She took a big bite of the second one and savored the taste of her first hot meal in at least a week.
As she enjoyed her food, she looked around for a MARTA bus sign. She didn’t find a single one. She looked out into the busy intersection and didn’t see any form of public transportation. “Damn,” she said. “How in the hell am I going to get out of here?”
She was stuck in suburbia, without a crack house in sight. What was she going to do with herself?
Chapter 9
Biopp, biopp! The wailing of a police siren startled Jamillah as opened the bag of potato chips she’d bought.
A gray-and-black cruiser turned into the QuikTrip parking lot and pulled up directly in front of her, and a short Mexican American police officer got out of the car. He walked over to Jamillah and did a double take when he saw the condition she was in.
“Ma’am,” the young officer asked, “are you okay?”
“Yes,” Jamillah said. Then she quickly chomped down on her sandwich before gathering her chips and drink. She stood and started walking away.
“Are you lost?” the officer asked, walking behind her.
“No,” she said and continued walking.
“Stop,” the officer ordered.
Jamillah thought about running, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She was tired, and her body was starting to feel the effects from the beating she had received from the evil white men.
“Ma’am, could you please come back over here for a minute,” the officer said in what was more of a command than a question.
Jamillah really wanted to run now but figured she was in a no-win situation. Aside from being a fashion misfit in an affluent area, she really hadn’t done anything, but she knew that this didn’t matter to the police.
“You look like you could use an ambulance. Would you like for me to get you one?” the officer asked.
“No.”
The officer walked over and stood in front of her.
Jamillah had to force her knees not to shake as she stood there. She hated the police. The guys in blue and her kind were natural enemies, no different than lions and hyenas. But when she looked at the man standing before her, she found him unlike other officers she had encountered in the past. Something in his eyes said he was compassionate.
“Ma’am, do you have any identification?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jane Doe.”
“Okay,” the officer replied, with a disappointed look that said she wasn’t going to make this easy. “May I ask where you’re coming from?”
“My brother’s house,” she said in a low tone as her heart rate increased.
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“John Doe.”
“Where does Mr. John Doe live?”
Jamillah turned around and pointed in the direction from which she had come. “Hey, I’m not bothering anyone. Can I go now?”
“Ma’am, you have blood all over your face and a nasty gash under your eye. You mind telling me how that happened?”
“I fell.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to call you a medic. After they check you out, then you’ll be free to leave.”
Jamillah looked at his gun. She wondered if she could grab it, shoot him, steal his car, drive back over to Urban’s house, shoot him, too, and then take the baby.
The officer said something into the radio handset that hung from his shoulder.
“Would you like to have a seat, ma’am?”
“No,” she said. “Can I go?”
“No, ma’am. The paramedics will be here in a few minutes. You can sit down in the cruiser and finish eating if you’d like.”
Jamillah sighed. She realized there was no way out, and she also knew that her body was in desperate need of medical attention. She felt that she might have a broken rib or something.
“Thank you,” she said, surprising herself by accepting the offer.
The officer opened the passenger door for her, and she walked over, sat down on the back seat, and placed her food next to her.
“So you say your brother lives around here. Did you guys get in a fight?”
“No, he hates me, but he wouldn’t hit me.”
“Why does he hate you?”
Jamillah held her arms out wide. “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Because I’m . . .” Her voice drifted off. “Because I’m a loser. Because I’m addicted to drugs and can’t seem to kick the habit. Because I’m a disappointment to him. Should I go on, or do you get the picture?”
“Being a loser is a state of mind, and you can kick the drug habit anytime you want, but you have to want it,” he said with a slight smile.
“I’ve been an addict for a long time. I’m addicted to crack cocaine. He wants nothing to do with me. He told me I was dead to him,” she said, fighting back the tears as the thought of how her brother felt stabbed her deep inside.
“I see,” the officer said. “I can get you some help if you like.”
“Been there, done that, and got a thousand T-shirts to prove it. The rehab centers are a joke,” Jamillah told him. Then, all of a sudden, she felt bad for treating the officer so rudely. He seemed to be a very nice guy who genuinely wanted to help her. He was a far cry from the City of Atlanta police officers, who seemed to take great joy in mistreating the unfortunate by beating them up even more than they already were.
But this was Dunwoody, and the cops seemed to be different. Or did she just get a good one? Either way, she felt blessed to be in the man’s presence. She really needed some kindness in her life, and he was exactly what the doctor had ordered.
“Well, most places are what you make them,” the officer said. “May I give you my card? When you’re ready, I can help you get yourself checked into one. You seem like a bright woman.”
“I was a bright woman, but bright people don’t make dumb decisions that cost people their lives,” she said, her tears flowing again.
“Whose life are you talking about?”
“Everyone who loves me,” Jamillah said, realizing she was talking to a cop. “They are all dead to me. And I’m dead to them.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” the officer assured her. “Here.” He handed her the card.
Jamillah looked at the card. Then she got the brightest idea she’d had in a long time.
“You’re a nice man,” she said, looking at the card. “Officer Juan Vargas.”
“Thank you. And you seem like a nice woman. You’ll be an even nicer one once you get yourself back on track, and I’m sure you can bring all those dead people back to life.”
“That is very nice of you to say. You seem pretty sure that I’ll get back on track. Obviously, you don’t know me very well.”
“I have the gift of discernment,” he told her, then smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “And you can do great things when you put your mind to it. Maybe this is life’s way of preparing you for the great things you will do.”
“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think, Officer Vargas?”
“I’m only being honest. The first step to recovery is to believe it can happen,” Vargas said with a smile.
Jamillah nodded. His smile reminded her of her own raggedy mouth, and she became sad again. “Where is this rehab place you’re talking about?”
“There are several, but we can get you to one that’s close to your home. That way, your family can come and support you.”
“No,” Jamillah said, shaking her head. “I want to go to the one farthest away from them. If I’m going to do this, that’s the only way I’ll do it.”
“It’s always easier when you have a support system,” Officer Vargas told her.
“I have to do this alone. If not, then it was nice knowing you,” she said, getting up.
“No, no, no,” Vargas said, holding out his hands. “Look,” he added, pointing at the ambulance, which had just pulled up. “It must be your destiny.”
Jamillah huffed. She walked over to the ambulance and was approached by two young medics, who reached out to her, as if she was about to fall. They led her to the back of the vehicle and sat her down on a gurney.
“You’re definitely going to need stitches,” one of them said, running his fingers across a nasty gash in her head. “My God, what happened to you?”
“I fell,” Jamillah said with a sarcastic smirk.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” the other medic asked.
“Yes,” Jamillah said honestly.
After a few more pokes and prods, the medics suggested they take her to Northside Hospital for admittance.
Jamillah’s first thought was that she couldn’t imagine sitting in the hospital for any amount of time. She was itching to get the money Urban had given her to the dealer so she could smoke her troubles away. But then she thought about those men who had roughed her up. That was when she realized there couldn’t be a better place than the hospital to rest and rethink things.
