My Week with Him by Joya Goffney

Author:Joya Goffney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

@nik_nik_nikki23: Don’t worry, I’m bringing my A game. There’s no way I’m messing up this opportunity. I need this.

Monday

6:52 a.m.

Grandma Bobbie used to live in Cactus, too—apparently down the street from us. But after Grandpa died, she moved back to Dallas.

I have very little knowledge of the situation, but it’s my understanding that she was happy when Grandpa died. I mean, this all happened before I was born, so I’ve never experienced her living in Cactus, nor did I get to meet Grandpa, but I think she finally felt free when he died. I think he was a monster to her.

Mama never talks about him, and when Bobbie did, she would always call him He, or Williams (our last name), or “That Man.” I only ever learned that his name was Charles by looking at the backs of old photos yellowing in Bobbie’s back rooms. Charles, 1966.

I’ve heard here and there about how controlling he was. About how Bobbie wanted to go to college, but he wouldn’t let her. About how she wanted to get a job, but he wanted her to stay in the home. She was a homemaker for much of their marriage, until he couldn’t work anymore. Bobbie had to step in and work at the meat factory. The fact that she was going to college when I was starting elementary school had always been weird to me, but now with context, I think I get it.

Every time we went to Bobbie’s, she’d ask me and Vae what our dreams were. Like, she assumed we had revised them since the last time she saw us. Vae’s dreams always changed. Doctor, lawyer—typical high-dollar shit. Mine was always to be a singer.

And every year, Bobbie would insist that I perform a set for her. Bobbie and Vae would sit on the couch as my audience. Mama always found something to do outside—pick greens out of the garden, wash a load of clothes, clean out the junk house, prune the overgrown bamboo stalks lining the left side of Bobbie’s yard. Once I finished singing, she’d find her way back inside, always sour. “I don’t know why you encourage this impossible dream of hers.”

And Bobbie would say, “Don’t you dare stifle this baby’s dreams.”

I would smile. I would feel safe, because Mama couldn’t do shit to me with Bobbie around. I could dream at Bobbie’s house. I could sing and dance and hope. . . .

Guess that’s why I found myself driving to Dallas instead of California after I left Mal’s party Friday night.

Wait . . . Unless you find me first.

Suddenly, I sit up in bed, in the dark of my room. “Vae.”

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