We Deserve Monuments

1.

TEN.

That’s how many bullet holes I counted puncturing the rusted brown Bardell County highway sign. There were probably more, but I lost count when it blurred past us as Mom accelerated into town. I turned to look through the rear window, wondering if I imagined them, but they were as real as the seat belt digging into my neck. Dreary sunlight streamed through the holes like an erratic cheese grater, and I couldn’t think of a more fitting welcome to this wasteland.

Richest soil on Earth! Dad said from the passenger seat. That’s not foreboding whatsoever.

I bit back a grin as Mom sighed for the thousandth time since we crossed the South Carolina–Georgia border.

Sam, please, she said. Lay off. Bardell is a—

Diamond in the rough, Dad and I echoed. It was the same phrase she’d muttered the past few weeks as we packed suitcases and prepared for the trip down south. A diamond in the rough. Now, I pressed my forehead to the window to take in the flat fields and umber dirt. It was the same landscape I’d been staring at for what felt like years, and I saw no diamonds. Only rough.

Besides. Mom shot me a terse glance in the rearview mirror. You said you’ve been eager for a change of scenery all summer.

I swallowed my protests. This wasn’t what anyone had in mind. Yes, I wanted a break from the DC nooks and crannies I’d known my entire life. I wanted an excuse to slip out of Kelsi and Hikari’s carefully arranged summer plans. But in my imagination, this getaway entailed an escape to a charming beach cottage or an unfamiliar metropolis filled with taxis and overpriced tourist traps. More skyscrapers and fewer silos.

We know, Z. Unsavory Avery and I are messing with you, Dad said, dusting off my childhood nickname. His hand was a slow smear of warmth across Mom’s back, and her shoulders melted under his lanky fingers. I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to the window as Bardell, Georgia, unenthusiastically introduced itself.

At a red light, Mom studied her manicured nails against the steering wheel. An elderly woman in a sagging lawn chair on the corner motioned to the bulging basket of peaches by her feet and yelled something, but I couldn’t understand her over the roar of the car’s air-conditioning. Dad smiled his awkward white-dad smile and shook his head, and I sank against the leather back seat. All of our shoulders relaxed when the light flickered green and Mom cruised down Main Street.

It’s so different, Mom muttered. Everything’s so different.

Downtown Bardell unfolded all at once. The library, post office, pharmacy, and fire station were contained to one essential block. Across the street, a group of older white men in sun-faded denim leaned against the wall of a one-stop shop. The drooping banner above the entrance promised amazing deals on everything from cell phones to guns to wedding dresses in bright red letters, as if the convenience was something to be admired. The bar next door had a Confederate flag proudly draped in the window. My family said nothing. I could only stare at Mom’s tight coils and wonder how in the world this place created her.

Holy mural, Dad said. We slowed at a stop sign in front of an imposing brick building that towered over the street like a castle. A three-story-tall mural of a pale woman with a gleaming halo graced the side, staring serenely like the Mona Lisa.

That’s the Draper Hotel, Mom replied. The three of us watched as a trio of slim women in matching yellow yoga pants slipped through the revolving front door.

Looks fancy, I said, and Mom hummed.

As we continued down the street, Mom muttered like a confused tour guide about gas stations long gone and snorted at a chic bistro with a sign claiming to have the best fried chicken in town. At the next stop sign, she switched off the GPS, and I silently lost hope that maybe, perhaps, somehow we weren’t in the right place.

It’s so different, she repeated, followed by vague, clipped stories about how Mrs. Robinson used to live over there and that clothing store used to be a pharmacy called Easy Does It Drugs. She kept skirting over the real reason we were in Bardell, the one that had hovered over our family like a rain-heavy cloud for the past month.

It’d been five weeks since the wrinkled letter slid through the mail slot of our Shaw Victorian row house that quiet July morning. Saturday mornings had always been a bonding time for me and Mom. We’d wake up early, pick up bagels and fresh flowers, and hurry home to slip back into our sweatpants. For hours, she’d grade papers or work on grant applications, the clacking of her keyboard our only music. I’d run SAT prep questions or study successful college essays while the coffeepot slowly emptied between us.

But that Saturday morning was different. I could still see Mom clutching the letter, her slender brown fingers curling over the return address. The peeling American flag stamp on the envelope waved as she read it over and over.

That morning, Mom retreated to her bedroom before finishing her bagel. She didn’t emerge until the late afternoon when the coffee was cold and stale and forgotten. At the time, she didn’t tell us who the letter was from. She didn’t elaborate on the cancer, didn’t explain why now. She simply leaned against our granite kitchen island, the sharp scent of gardenias hanging heavy around us, and said, I need to go home.

And somehow, I turned into we, and now the three of us crossed over the murky Bardell River, heading deeper into the city’s east side. We ended up in a neighborhood filled with scruffy houses and slumped trailers with tangles of weeds sprouting along their walkways. Old people lounged on front porches, fanning the August humidity away and staring curiously at our BMW. Bardell felt suffocatingly small, the complete opposite of DC. If I sank any lower, I’d be on the floor.

Home sweet home, Mom said as she turned onto Sweetness Lane. The irony of the name wasn’t lost on any of us as we crept down the pothole-riddled street and stopped in front of a weathered brown house. In the cracked driveway sat a faded indigo hatchback with missing hubcaps that looked like it hadn’t transported anybody anywhere in a very long time. Mom cut the engine.

Ready?

You and Avery go ahead, Dad said. I’ll grab some bags.

I unbuckled my seat belt and reluctantly followed Mom. Sweat dripped down my bare neck, and I wiped it away in disgust. I was tempted to strip off my jeans and run through the misty spray of the sprinkler next door but swallowed the urge with a grin. I could already hear Kelsi telling me a public indecency charge wouldn’t look good on my Georgetown application.

House looks the same, Mom said. Do you remember it, Avery baby?

We climbed the splintered steps to the front porch. A dingy white rocking chair and a hanging swing—both in desperate need of a paint job—were frozen in the muggy heat. I took it all in, trying to conjure decade-old memories of the last time I was here. There was nothing but haze and Christmas lights.

Not really, I said.

Mom rang the doorbell and started fiddling with her dangly earrings, her signature nervous tic. I guess it has been a while, she said quietly.

After a full minute went by with no answer, Mom knocked on the barred screen door, angling her palm so her nails didn’t clip the rusted metal. Dad dragged a couple of suitcases down the sidewalk, his shoulder-length brown hair already damp with sweat.

Don’t tell me she’s already dead, he said. We just got here.

Mom glared. Can you please refrain from making jokes about my elderly mother right now? She continued to rattle the screen door, and I hid my smile by wandering over to the large picture window with a missing shutter. Through the cracked blinds, I made out a plaid sofa, wood-paneled walls, and a stack of newspapers piled high on a tasseled ottoman. But no Mama Letty.

I’m calling the cops. She really could be dead, Mom said, pulling her phone from her leather handbag. Before she could dial, a booming voice echoed from the blue house next door.

Zora? I’ll be damned!

A Black woman with long braids made her way across the lawn. Dad and I glanced at each other, then at Mom, expecting some kind of introduction, but her mouth stayed clamped shut as the stranger joined us on the porch.

Can’t say hi? the woman asked. Your family don’t speak?

Dad glanced at Mom, but she was frozen. He stuck his hand out. Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Anderson, Zora’s husband.

Finally, something flickered in Mom’s eyes. Carole … hi. I almost didn’t recognize you with the braids.

Gave up them perms a long time ago. The woman’s gaze trailed Mom’s chiffon sundress. Nice to see you got my letter. How many years since you been home? Fifteen? Sixteen?

Not that long, Mom said swiftly. She clapped her hand over my shoulder and thrust me forward like a carnival prize. Carole, you remember my daughter, Avery?

Hi, I said.

She was a little thing the last time y’all were here. Carole’s gaze lingered on my lip piercing, and my cheeks burned. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision I gifted myself in June, after Kelsi and Hikari vetoed me shaving my head. Think about how it’ll look, they urged, although I had and it was exactly why I wanted to do it. The tiny metal hoop was supposed to be a compromise, but Hikari and Kelsi had regarded it with as much disdain as Carole was serving now. It looks trashy, Kelsi had said with a disappointed frown. Now, I ran my tongue over the metal and stared at the dirt peeking between the porch slats.

Carole moved on from her examination, asking Mom again if she was sure it hadn’t been fifteen years since her last visit, surely it had to have been. Mom grinned and grunted, smiling in relief when Carole turned her attention to wondering why her daughter hadn’t come out to say hi.

Teenagers. Always on that damn phone. Carole sighed. "Simone Josephine Cole!"

The screen door of the blue house flew open and a short, curvy girl with shoulder-length locs and a bright tie-dyed shirt emerged. I’m coming! she yelled, yanking out a pair of earphones.

I don’t know who you talking to in that tone, Carole chided as Simone joined us on the porch. Have you lost your mind?

Simone sighed. No, ma’am.

You probably don’t remember Ms. Zora since she ain’t been home in about fifteen years. She Letty’s girl. Y’all, this my youngest, Simone.

Simone shook Mom’s hand. Nice to meet you slash see you again. Her warm voice sounded like honey dripping off the comb. She shook Dad’s hand before sliding her palm in mine. Like her mother, her gaze lingered on my lip piercing, and I heard Kelsi’s voice again, calling it trashy.

Lord, you know I wouldn’t have written, Carole said, if Letty’s cancer wasn’t eating her away. It’s worse as I ever seen it.

Mom swallowed. Well, that’s why we’re here. But she’s not answering the door.

Carole waved her hand. Poor thing probably taking a nap. She usually lay down around three. She pulled keys from the pocket of her frayed shorts and opened the screen door. Mom fiddled with her earring again.

The stench of old socks and stale grease greeted us in the living room. Simone left to wake Mama Letty, and I took in the piles of notebooks and faded newspapers crowding the ottoman and side tables. Flashes of my first and only visit to Bardell came to me slowly as I made a quiet lap around the room, surveying a stack of wrinkled catalogues on the floor and foggy glasses of water on the coffee table. There was an oversized floral armchair in the corner, and I had vague memories of my small fingers tracing one of the roses and wondering why the furniture was covered in plastic. I remembered a stack of gold-foil-wrapped presents in a pile near the rabbit-eared television. When I looked up and saw Mom’s tear-rimmed eyes, I heard echoes of screams. But it was fleeting and faint, vanishing like a dream dissipating with sunrise.

I should’ve come sooner, Mom said. This is… She bit her lip. Dad and I stepped forward to rub her back, and she shot us grateful smiles.

Bless your heart, Zora. Carole clucked her tongue. You ain’t know how bad it was? After everything?

Mom stayed quiet. A fierce protectiveness burned red-hot in my stomach.

Shame that job of yours keeps you too busy to come home, Carole went on. What is it you do again?

I teach, Mom said, swatting away her three degrees, her Georgetown tenure, her bestselling nonfiction book, and her superstar status as a nationally renowned astrophysicist as if they were yesterday’s weather report. Dr. Zora Anderson enraptured auditoriums full of pensive students and eager journalists full of questions. She was able to make science sound interesting to even the most reluctant learner. She could describe the process of how a stellar black hole was formed and you’d swear you were floating among the stars, watching it happen for yourself. She was not the type of woman to wilt under anyone’s words. Which is why Dad and I gaped when she turned away from Carole’s taunting gaze and started flipping through a creased book of crossword puzzles.

Well, good for you, Carole said. Nice of you to make time to come home.

Those felt like fighting words, so I stepped forward. I’d had enough. But before I could say anything, Simone reappeared.

Look who I woke up, she sang. The warped hardwood floor creaked behind her, followed by a series of low grumbles.

Mama Letty had arrived.

She wore a rumpled pink nightgown and a pair of ratty house slippers that might’ve been white ten years ago. She and Mom shared the same rich mahogany skin and high cheekbones, but Mama Letty’s were more pronounced because of how thin she was. She blinked away crust as her eyes traveled over everyone in the living room. Pissed was the only word to describe her expression.

Hey, Mama. Mom set the crossword book down. She met Mama Letty and wrapped her in the most awkward hug of all time. Mama Letty’s arms hung limply at her sides before she patted Mom on the back twice. Mom peeled away, her face a mixture of hurt and confusion.

Sorry we woke you, Mom said, tenderly giving Mama Letty’s short gray curls a fluff.

Mama Letty waved her hand away. No matter. I’m up now. We locked eyes, and her chilly gaze sent another memory ricocheting back.

I was six. Or five? Was it Christmas when Mom and I visited? Or New Year’s? I only remembered the presents. I had a vision of Mama Letty throwing one of those shiny gold-wrapped boxes against the wall, fast as a shooting star. I heard the echoes of screams again. I saw a vast field of clouds outside of an airplane window.

I know this ain’t Avery, Mama Letty said now. She followed Carole and Simone’s lead and zeroed in on my lip ring. Out here looking like a fish caught on a hook. She a lesbian now, too?

It was a thousand degrees in the living room, but a cold sweat gathered on the nape of my neck. I found the floor again, defenses hardening in my stomach. Any minuscule hope I had of this move being a good thing vanished. Mama Letty was nothing but a rude, grumpy woman. She was nothing like Dad’s late mom, Grandma Jean, who would’ve baked me a cake if I’d come out when she’d been alive.

Mama Letty, Dad started, maybe a discussion about Avery’s sexuality isn’t appro—

No one asked your white hippie ass, Mama Letty snapped, not even looking at him.

Always the good sport, Dad ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. We had to be thinking the same thing: No wonder Mom left Bardell as soon as she could.

Mom’s smile wavered. Mama, what has gotten into you?

Oh, I’m sorry, Zora, would you prefer a little dance number to welcome you back? Mama Letty shuffled over to the couch, dust pluming when she sat.

Carole chuckled in the corner, and I glared at her. No one ganged up on my mom. Not so-called family, and especially not people she hadn’t seen in years.

Mom, Dad, did you want to go grab the rest of the bags? I asked. Maybe outside of the scrutinizing gaze of Mama Letty and Carole, I could convince them that maybe this was all a mistake. Clearly, we weren’t wanted.

Make Simone go with you, Mama Letty said. She need to work off all that cornbread.

Simone scoffed and pulled my arm before I could respond. Humidity slapped us in the face when we stepped outside.

Come on, DC, Simone called as she sauntered down the sidewalk. My anger faded slightly when my gaze landed on her thick thighs; they filled every inch of her jean shorts. Of course I followed her.

Um, sorry about that, I said to her back.

Sorry about what?

My grandma. She’s… I searched for the right word, but I couldn’t think of anything that could explain Mama Letty’s rude comments. How do you apologize for someone you don’t even know? In the Anderson family, shit was talked behind backs and closed doors. Mama Letty’s snipes were as wide and outside as the sun. Then again, she wasn’t an Anderson.

She’s what? Simone prodded. Stunningly beautiful? A grumpy old kook? A wolf in a pink nightgown? Take your pick.

I smiled, shook my head. You don’t need to work off any cornbread.

She laughed and it was all dimples. Aw, she was basically telling me she loved me. Don’t mind Mama Letty. My grandmother’s name rolled off her tongue in one languid swoop.

I popped the trunk and hauled a duffel bag out. Simone leaned to grab a suitcase, and our arms accidentally brushed. She jerked away; I tried not to take it personally.

Do you know what school you’ll be at? she asked.

Whichever one requires a uniform. Mom ordered the atrocious red plaid skirt and sad white polo before we left DC.

Nice. You’ll be at Beckwith. The more, the merrier!

More of … what?

She tapped the brown skin of her fist. Black people. African Americans. People of color. Y’all got a better term up in DC?

Shame pinched my chest at the easy way she included me in the tally for Black people. It brought back the horrible, ugly fight that ultimately led to my breakup with Kelsi. I could still see her puckered pink mouth forming the words, You’re barely Black. How I’d carried them for almost two months now, like a set of keys in my back pocket. Trying to brush the memory away, I joked, What is this, 1955?

It’s Beckwith. She said it as if it needed no further explanation and rolled the suitcase down the cracked walkway. I followed, actively ignoring her thighs this time. Instead, I focused on her locs. They were shoulder-length, black with electric-blue tips, and adorned with gold charms and shells. I was staring so hard, I nearly ran into her when she stopped and turned around.

What’s your sun?

My what?

Your astrological sun sign, she said impatiently.

Uhhh … Capricorn?

She hummed. Good to know. Did that hurt?

Did what hurt?

She ran her index finger over her plump bottom lip. The piercing. Did it hurt?

My tongue slid over it self-consciously. Oh. Yeah. I guess. I braced myself for another reaction like Hikari’s and Kelsi’s, but then Simone smiled and told me she liked it. I momentarily forgot I’d been forced to this crappy town to reside with my cranky grandmother who hated everything that moved.

As we set the bags on the porch, Carole stepped outside and told Simone to go finish the dishes.

Simone cast me a sideways glance. See you later?

Apparently.

She started for her house, leaving soft footprints in the wet summer grass.

So, Carole said as we watched Simone head inside, Avery. What you think of Bardell so far? You like it?

It’s okay, I said stiffly. Saying as little as possible around her seemed like the safest option.

It’s been a long time since your mama been home.

My annoyance flared again. Well, we’re just here to help.

Here to help. She rested her hands on her hips. Her fingers were empty of jewelry and full of scars, nails cut to the quick. She walked off with a laugh, mumbling to herself, Here to help. Well, it’s about time.

THE GHOST

THERE WERE APPROXIMATELY fifty people who resided in the sixteen homes that dotted Sweetness Lane, and all of them had heard the joke at one point or another. Out-of-town relatives, visiting friends, and mail carriers would examine the gaping potholes and pale patchwork lawns and homes that seemed to sag into the earth and ask, Sweetness? Where? Residents would laugh or roll their eyes or, if you dared to utter these comments in the presence of Letty June Harding, tell you to shut the fuck up. It didn’t matter what Sweetness Lane looked like. Sweetness Lane was home. And home was always sweet.

Carole Cole had lived on Sweetness Lane since she was Carole Thompson. The blue brick ranch with the dogwood tree in the side yard was the only home she’d ever known. Darryl Cole had grumbled when he moved in after their wedding, complaining that grown men had no business moving into their mother-in-law’s house. He promised one day they’d leave. But since the house was there and Darryl’s funds were not, they stayed. They stayed after their first two babies were born, even though the eight hundred square feet became bloated with toddler screams. They stayed after Martha Thompson passed and left them the home in her will. They stayed even when the third baby took them by surprise. It wasn’t until their three children became two that Darryl finally made good on his promise and left.

Through it all, Carole remained tethered to Sweetness Lane like a life raft. Seasons changed. People came and went. Her youngest daughter braided flower crowns under the dogwood tree. Usually, Carole would gaze upon the lane and think, This is fine. This is good enough. Occasionally, she thought about the girl who used to live next door and wondered what she was up to. Sometimes she thought about writing her. It wasn’t until Letty’s third round of cancer that she finally did.

By the time Carole devised a letter she was proud of, she’d burned through four days and half a notebook. After several weeks with no reply, she’d almost given up hope. On a particularly steamy August afternoon, Carole was sweeping her kitchen and minding her business when a fancy silver car arrived on Sweetness Lane. Fancy cars on this block were not a common occurrence, so Carole stopped mid-sweep. She paid attention. And when a ghost from her childhood emerged from the driver’s side, she nearly dropped her broom.

2.

BY THE TIME I hauled the last bag inside, Mama Letty had retreated to her bedroom. I followed my parents’ voices into the small, sun-drenched kitchen, mind still swimming from Simone’s and Carole’s comments.

Mom was leaning against the chipped tile counter, eyes trained on the peeling yellow diamond wallpaper. Dad sat at a circular Formica table shoved up against the window, drumming his fingers along a glass of water. Above his head was a creepy black cat-shaped clock, hands stuck at midnight.

I didn’t know, Mom said. She scrubbed a hand over her face and took deep, labored breaths. It was the same technique she always used before a big speech, the one she taught me when I was losing sleep over a public speaking assignment in eighth grade: inhale on the one, exhale on the two, continue to ten, lather, rinse, repeat. I cleared my throat, and my parents looked up with fake, stretched smiles.

Hey, Avery baby, Mom said, too chipper. Thanks for grabbing the rest of the bags.

Don’t mention it. I took a step closer. You okay?

She nodded. I haven’t seen your Mama Letty in a while, and it’s hard. I’m sorry.

You don’t have to apologize, I said, but it was no use. She was already composing herself, wiping the emotions from her face like Windex on glass. Soon, she was Dr. Zora Anderson again—calm, collected, close to perfect.

You’re in luck, she said, pulling at one of my spiral curls. You’re getting my old bedroom. Best room in the house. She brushed past me before I could say anything and busied herself with the suitcases in the living room.

I looked at Dad. What’s going on?

What’s going on, Dad said, "is that we lovingly agreed to take the luxurious pull-out couch in the back den to give you some