Mama never got along with her younger sister, my Auntie Lori. They were born five years apart, but fought like twins, according to Grandma. Auntie Lori would follow behind Mama, and Mama would get mad that she kept steppin' on her heels.
Coattail ridin' bitch. That's what Mama always called her.
When Mama was ten, and Auntie Lori was five, they fought over who got to join the Girl Scouts. The county was small, so the neighborhood was small, so the troop was small. With so few spots available, they had a special rule that no siblings were allowed.
So they fought and argued with as much harshness and ferocity as a ten and five-year-old could muster until Grandma put a stop to it. Nobody got to be a Girl Scout, and nobody got to buy the cookies either.
At the time, Mama and Auntie blamed the Kismit family. Valerie and Marcus Kismit both had the twin gene, so three pregnancies turned into six babies; all girls.
Brady Bunch wannabes. That's what Mama called them.
They fought again when Mama was sixteen, and Auntie was eleven. Mama had gotten her first job, a junior camp leader at the local park.
It was only for the summer while everyone was out of school, but Auntie Lori insisted on being there every day that Mama worked and brought all her friends with her. It was okay at first, but then they started causing trouble and leaving trash and flinging the swings up into the air until the chain wrapped around so much that they got stuck up there.
Triflin' bitches. That's what Mama called Aunite Lori, and her friends.
It only took six weeks for Mama to get fired, and then she and Auntie really fought. Scratching and hair pulling on the front lawn. It was so bad that Marcus Kismit sent his volleyball team of kids out there to break it up.
That time, Auntie Lori got in trouble, and Grandma made her give Mama all the allowance that she had saved up. It wasn't a lot, but Mama still took it and used it to buy gas for her car and spent the rest at the mall.
Another fight that Mama and Auntie Lori had was when Mama was my age, twenty, and Auntie Lori was fifteen. Mama had started dating this guy. He was an older guy, twenty-five, and a dealer. When Auntie found out, it was because she was snooping through Mama's stuff. Looking through her drawers and inside her jewellery box and found a picture of them.
She took the picture straight to Grandma and snitched. Grandma tore Mama a new one that same night. Tanned her ass and threatened to kick her out if she kept entertaining a lowlife who called narcos a business.
Dumbass Narc. That's what Mama called Auntie Lori after Grandma was done with her.
So Mama lied on Auntie Lori, said that the only reason Auntie knew that her boyfriend was a dealer was because she had tried buy off of him using her allowance money. Auntie Lori didn't get spanked; my Mama used to, but Grandma did take her allowance privileges and drove her around town to look at all the homeless drug addicts and asking which one of them she wanted to adopt her.
When Grandma and Auntie Lori got back, Mama had packed her luggage and her backpack and was on her way to the nearest Greyhound station. She went up to Chicago and took her time estranging Grandma and Auntie Lori. It wasn't like she went completely M.I.A but, she refused to answer any of their calls or emails for a good long time.
Especially since her boyfriend, Walter, who caused the fight and encouraged her to leave, had caught the Greyhound with her.
The next time that Mama talked to Auntie Lori or Grandma was when she called to tell them that she was pregnant. She didn't tell them that the father was the same man who caused the big fight, nor did she tell them that he got a good job as a construction worker and wasn't some lowlife, as Grandma predicted.
Narcissistic bitches don't get to know. That's what Mama told me.
They talked again nine months later when the baby was born. When I was born. They didn't get pictures, just like they didn't get the ultrasound throughout the pregnancy. All they got was my name, Penelope.
Growing up, Mama only talked about them to complain about them, especially before I was old enough that she was a problem, too. Every story seemed just a bit too one-sided, and Mama was either the victim or the one who could do no wrong, and I always knew she wasn't Miss Perfect.
Miss Narcissistic. That's what I called her.
One good thing, possibly the only good thing to come from having a narc mom, is when she sees you as a part of her rather than an enemy she gave birth to. Because that means you can't do wrong, since that'd imply that she did wrong.
Can't be ugly or she's got bad genes.
Can't be a smartass cause that'd mean she raised one.
Can't be selfish cause she'd never raise her only daughter to be inconsiderate.
Which is exactly why, when Aunite Lori called Mama, whining that her husband, Rick, a man I never met or heard of, had died and that taking care of her son Carl was just too much, Mama sent me.
Mama had me pack my luggage and a backpack full of clothes meant for chasing around a 13-year-old boy and one black dress for a funeral, and sent me on my way to King's County, Georgia, via Greyhound.
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I sent Mama a text the moment I stepped off the air-conditioned bus and into the hot and humid Georgia air. It was early summer, but school was still in session. Middle schoolers had three more weeks until they'd be cut loose and sent to bother their parents for three months while the teachers attempted recover. Which also meant that Auntie Lori, an unemployed housewife, had no reason to make me find my own way through a city I didn't know to her house.
It wasn't even like she had a funeral to plan anymore. Auntie Lori had told Mama that Rick was cremated and that he'd never wanted to make a thang out of his dying. It didn't make much sense to me, how is getting shot while on duty not a thang? How could she not even give him a headstone to let her son visit? How could she not fucking pick me up from the Greyhound station?
Triflin' bitch. My Mama was right. The town is small enough that it doesn't need any public transportation other than the Greyhound, so now im forced to drag my luggage the five miles to Auntie Lori's home.
By the time I got there, almost an hour had passed. Not because I walk slow but because I kept having to take breaks anytime the threat of heatstroke got a bit too real. Sweat was everywhere. It had soaked into my tank top and denim shorts, making the fabric heavy. Rolled down my arms to my hands, making my grip on the handle of my luggage slip from my hand everytime i tried to pull it over a crack in the sidewalk.
She was sitting on the porchswing when I walked up the path that led towards the house. Brown hair let down, a pleased look on her face, a light blue tank, loose denim jeans, and a tall glass of sweet tea in her hands.
All things considered, she didn't look like a grieving widow.
Either way, I still smiled at her, rubbed my sweaty palm off on my shorts, and then stuck it out for her to shake.
"Hi, Auntie Lori. I'm your neice Penelope. Mama calls me Penny if you wanna call me that too, though." A little wordy, but sweet enough for meeting my estranged aunt for the first time. Especially since her husband had to die for this to even happen. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Mama said I helped a lot when my daddy died, so fingers crossed you'll find me helpful too."
My daddy died when I was four, and Mama was too busy scrubbing cayron and applesauce out of the carpet to grieve.
"Oh, Penny! It's so sweet of you to come all the way out here to help me out around the house. I know me and your mommy never got along that well, but I'm so glad to have you here. Come on in, I'll let you shower and relax. Sweet tea sound good?" I fought back a frown at how she didn't even acknowledge her dead husband or my dead dad, and instead smiled wider when she mentioned sweet tea.
"Oh, that sounds perfect, Auntie Lori."