flashquake - Spring 2002 - Nonfiction - Lorene by Helen (Len) Leatherwood

Nonfiction
Second Place

flashquake
Lorene
by Helen (Len) Leatherwood

Lorene is standing over me, big, brown hands on her ample hips. "Len Leatherwood, what are you still doing in that bed, child?"

I wiggle down further in the warm covers, "I'm sick," I croak. I try to look pathetic.

A warm pink palm descends and feels of my forehead. I will my temperature to go up. I don't want to go to school.

Lorene leans down and peers into my eyes. I see her dark eyes behind her silver-rimmed glasses, sharp bird eyes that miss nothing. "Maybe you are a little warm," she says, straightening back up.

Graphic of medicine bottles and a cup of tea, labelled Lorene by Helen Leatherwood

I breathe a deep sigh. I have been given my clearance. Maybe she wants a little company for the day.

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

I am old enough already to know this is a trick question. "No," I lie. "My tummy sort of hurts."

Lorene reaches down and ruffles my curly hair. "Well, go back to sleep then. I'll check on you in a little while." She walks quietly to the door and looks back at me.

I hastily shut my eyes and pretend to already be fast asleep. I hear her cluck her tongue and chuckle as she walks out of my room. I know she knows I'm not sick, but that's okay. She is letting me stay and be with her today. Letting me relax and wait until later when she'll bring chicken noodle soup and crackers up on a tray and sit with me until I finish it.

I love Lorene. She comes Monday through Friday from 8:00 - 2:30 and she never fails to walk in the door right on time. During school I don't get to see her as much. I miss her.

She is everything that my mother is not. She is consistent and predictable, the same every day no matter what. Her eyes light up every time she sees me, and she opens her arms wide and pulls me into a big hug. I can still smell the starch of her white uniform and feel the softness of her breasts on my cheek.

Lorene is tall and dignified, even when she is down on her knees scrubbing the tub. Her dignity is in how good a job she does every day, it is in the complete attention she gives when I talk. And always, she is moving: sweeping, dusting, washing dishes while we talk.

"Philip Sewell has given me a ring," I say later that day. I am in fourth grade. "He wants us to go steady."

Lorene stops long enough to examine the signet ring with a P on the top. "A girl your age going steady?" She resumes her work. "Len Leatherwood, you tell that boy you're too young to be so serious."

I follow her as she moves to the next room. "You think?" I say, worrying already about Philip's hurt feelings.

She sees the wrinkle in my brow and stops and opens her arms. "Come here, child," she says, and I scurry over and am enfolded. I feel totally safe in Lorene's arms. They are rich chocolate brown and smooth as some far away plain in Africa.

"You are such a good girl, so sweet," she says as she pulls me so tight I am smashed against her softness. "He'll understand. He's too young, too."

I am released to follow her on through her daily routine.

The next day at the playground I approach Philip with resolve. "I'm not ready to go steady," I say.

"Okay," he says, then smiles. "But, I still like you."

I am relieved, am glad to see that he has taken the news so well. "I like you, too," I say, then run to play with my girlfriends.

I am glad to have pushed that complication firmly out of my childhood. It is done with Lorene's help. She helps me a lot. Lorene loves me.

I wish Lorene were my mother.