The Deadline. KiKi Swinson

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      2

      STREET TIES

      It had been three days since my meeting with Christian and my story prospects so far had been nothing more than an old lady getting her purse snatched and a hit-and-run driver that caused a three-car pile-up on Virginia Beach Boulevard. I’d gotten pictures of the fire that resulted from the accident, but unless someone’s charred remains were in the photos, I knew Christian would snub them.

      I was at the end of my rope. I couldn’t think anymore. I decided I needed to go see my mother. She always knew how to comfort me, whether it was with her good cooking or sound advice. I didn’t always get to have that mother-daughter relationship with her, so we were kind of making up for lost time over these past few years that she’d been drug free.

      * * *

      I shook my head to rid it of the memories of the past. I had worked hard to forgive my mother for the things we’d gone through. I had moved on from the hurt and anger, but on days like this, when I was super stressed-out, those memories still came back. I tried not to hold it against her, but sometimes indirectly I blamed her whenever I was hurting or stressed. I guess you could say it was just a bad cycle of thoughts.

      I put my car in park, breathed out the breath I’d been holding when I was remembering the bad times, and put on a smile. I needed my mother right now. No sense in dwelling in the past. I rushed up to the door and knocked. Too full of energy, I tried the knob before she could get to the door and it was open.

      “Hey, baby girl,” my mother sang as soon as I crossed the doorway into the house. She rushed over with stretched-out arms for a hug. My mother still looked good for her age. She was curvaceous like me, and although I’d taken after my father with my hazel eyes and sandy brown hair, I had my mother’s shape. We both stood five-five and had Coke-bottle shapes—flat stomachs, small waists, and nice round hips. My mother was gorgeous back in her day. The drugs had taken a bit of a toll on her looks, but not as bad as some other addicts I’d seen in my lifetime. I was just glad she’d made it out on the other side.

      “Hey, Mama!” I returned the greeting and walked into her embrace. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, appreciating the love. She smelled like warm cocoa butter as usual. That was a secret she’d passed down—cocoa butter to keep the skin looking young. The smell made me feel nostalgic and loved.

      “Okay . . . what’s wrong? You know I can sense it as soon as I touch you,” my mother said, her tone serious as she pulled away from me so she could look at me. I could see the concern in her eyes. “You and Kyle have that twin bond and can feel each other’s pain, but I have that special bond with both of y’all. I know every time something is not right with either one of you.” She continued looking me over hard, as if she would be able to tell what was bothering me by sight.

      I sighed loudly. My mother had been saying that same thing all of our lives. She always told us that her bond and her ability to feel what we felt when we were happy, sad, hurting, or in distress was how she knew we were in danger the day my father was murdered. That was how she’d busted in with the cops and saved us in the nick of time. I sighed again and flopped down on her couch. I leaned my head back and stared up at the ceiling in silence for a few minutes. I had to gather my thoughts on how I was going to talk about how I was feeling. I was stuck between looking weak and helpless (something I hated to portray), or just being honest so I could get shit off my chest.

      “C’mon, I’m waiting to hear what is going on,” my mother pressed, not giving up. “And you know I am not going to stop, so you might as well just tell me. I don’t take no for an answer when it comes to my children being in distress.”

      I sat back up and shook my head. There was no fighting my mother on this, because I would be fighting a losing battle with her.

      “It’s this job,” I groaned, swiping my hands over my face. I was exhausted just bringing up the topic.

      “I thought you loved the job,” my mother questioned, sitting next to me on the couch.

      “I do . . . I mean, I did . . . It’s just that . . .” I didn’t even know what I was trying to say. My brain was muddled with the pressures of nabbing the perfect breaking-news story. All I could think about was Christian’s threats and her nasty ways. It was a lot to process and to talk about all at once. I was silently wishing I’d chosen to go to Starbucks, instead of coming to see my mother. I wasn’t a talker like this. I’d failed at therapy for years because of it. I was a suffer-in-silence person who just made shit happen in my life. This was difficult. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s just a lot,” I finally said, dreading to reiterate what had gone on back at the office today.

      “Calm down and talk to me, baby girl,” my mother comforted, stroking my hair. It was a little weird whenever she had these big displays of affection. I was still getting used to our new and building relationship. Sometimes my mother overcompensated because of her guilt from the past, but this was one time I was appreciative of her efforts.

      I blew out a windstorm of breath and eased the tension in my neck and shoulders. I turned slightly so I was facing my mother. I guess I wanted her to see the distress in my eyes. I guess I wanted her to know I needed her, but was too set in my ways to ask for her comfort.

      “Okay, how can I explain it so that you understand how bad it is?” I asked the question, but wasn’t expecting an answer.

      “The best way to say it is, my boss, Christian, is a bitch. That’s first,” I spat with a bit more venom than my mother was probably used to hearing from one of her kids.

      “Watch your language,” she said immediately. Then she softened a bit. “Go ahead, I give you a pass because you seem very stressed-out.”

      I shook my head a little. This lady forgets I am grown. I am twenty-seven years old and can cuss whenever I like. I didn’t say that, though. Once a mother, always a mother.

      “Anyway, Christian, the Devil in disguise, has loaded me down with the task of getting a breaking-news story that will blow our ratings through the roof. She wants some exclusive that no other station in the area or in the nation, for that matter, will have first. She has made it clear that it is the only way I will ever accomplish my dream of becoming an on-air СКАЧАТЬ