Free The Untelling by Tayari Jones Page B

that at first, rummaging through her large purse, looking for keys, although she always rode the bus to class. Now she sat openly, whipping her eyes toward the door when it opened. Rocking in the wood swing, she chipped layers of paint with her airbrushed fingernails. Her pooch of a belly protruded just farther than her apple-sized breasts.
    “Hey,” she said, patting the space on the swing beside her. “Be careful. It’s hot.”
    I eased down and felt the heat through my slacks. I sat next to her, rocking back and forth in the heavy air. From the porch I could see the roof of the Phillis Wheatley YWCA—my family’s destination on the day of the accident. I think that I like being so close to the place where everything changed. It’s a sort of daily explanation of why things are as they are. It’s like keeping a picture of Sir Isaac Newton on your desk to keep from forgetting about the fundamental nature of gravity.
    My mother thinks this is perverse, and allegedly this is why she never comes to visit me. She and I agree that the past is alive and thriving in Southwest Atlanta. Mama believes that the intensity of pain is directly related to proximity. This is why she likes living where she does—close enough to ache but too far to actually bleed. She will never come to my house, and, sometimes, this pleases me. Hermione has never visited either, and this snub breaks my heart. She can’t blame it on my zip code. As far as my sister is concerned, the past has passed. Mama and I need to just move on. At least this is what she says. I find it hard to believe that someone as bright as Hermione would not see what is so obvious. The past is a dark vast lake and we just tread on its delicate skin.
    “What’s wrong, Miss Aria?” Keisha said.
    “Nothing,” I said. “Just hot, that’s all. I can’t believe it’s only the last week of May.”
    “I always pick the worst times to get pregnant,” she pouted.
    “I thought this was your first baby.”
    She shook her head. “I told you I got a little boy. He is in Oklahoma with my aunt. His name is Dante? Remember I told you that?”
    I shook my head. “This is the first time I’m hearing this.”
    She made a smacking sound and crossed her arms over her chest. “See, Miss Aria. You ain’t right. You act like you care about us and everything, but then as soon as people finish talking, poof, you forget whatever we told you.”
    I was pretty sure Keisha had never mentioned another child. My memory wasn’t as good as Rochelle’s, but I would have remembered something like that. I mentally scrolled through our previous conversations. It was hard to keep track of all the confidences she shared. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be so intertwined with a student, but Keisha looped me in with the stories of her life and held me fast.
    She must know how affected I am by secrets, confessions. Before the first week of class was over, she helped me carry my belongings to my car. Before I’d even opened the trunk, she told me that the man who had accused her of credit card fraud was the father of her child.
    “Now, that’s a secret, Miss Aria. He doesn’t even know himself.”
    Secrets flattered me, the idea that someone, even Keisha, would trust me with something so private. She told me something new each week, it seemed, until I began to think of myself as her confidante. When I listened, sometimes I pretended that I was the young girl pouring my heart out to a woman that was not old, but older than me. Wise enough to give decent counsel. When I talked to Keisha, I tried to tell her things that I wished someone had told me. Not that I would have followed any sensible advice. When I was a teenager, I wasn’t interested in things that were good for me. But I think that I would be a happier adult if I could look back on my teen years and remember that there was someone there who cared enough to try and give me a few words by which to live.
    “Keisha, you didn’t tell me about