Free Expired by Evie Rhodes Page B

name.
    â€œI mean it,” he said. He turned his focus on Michael. “Michael, get in touch with Rashod. Tell his dumb ass I wanna see him.”
    Dre stormed across the room, intent on leaving, when Tracie jumped up from the sofa.
    In a pained whisper she said, “Expired. They . . . told me Randi expired. How the hell does one do that, damn it? He’s not a canned good. I mean, he wasn’t . . .” Tracie looked off to a faraway place that only she could see.
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    The vision insinuated itself right in her face, the memory so painful it cut off her breath. It wouldn’t budge. There was no avoiding it. She saw herself when she was younger. She leaned over a man’s broken body. Her eyes roamed the man’s body, stopping when they reached his feet.
    There were no shoes on his feet. And there was no blood on the ground. But there he lay, broken and dead. A scream erupted from her throat, shattering the memory.
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    The pain of Randi’s loss swelled in her heart. Tracie’s eyes swam with unshed tears. “When a woman has a baby, it’s her job to protect him. Do you know what I’m saying?” Michael and Dre exchanged looks.
    Suddenly she saw Rashod sweeping a low bow in front of her and saying, “I also pay my respects to the Destroyer.”
    She blinked away the image, struggling to bring herself back into focus. Dre and Michael exchanged confused looks this time.
    â€œMa,” Dre said.
    â€œMa,” Michael parroted him.
    Tracie didn’t acknowledge them. Instead she began to sing a lullaby “ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby, on a treetop; when the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall . . .’ ”
    Dre ran over to her. He gripped her by her shaking shoulders. “Stop it.”
    Tracie hiccupped. “Randi . . . rock-a-bye, baby . . . Randi . . . rock-a-bye, baby,” she repeated over and over again.
    She was like a scratched record that was stuck in a groove. In a flash she pulled out of Dre’s grip and grabbed the poker from the fireplace, smashing the glass table sitting in front of the sofa. She sent glass raining clear across the room.
    â€œ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby . . . rock-a-bye, baby,’ ” she sang as she smashed the glass to smithereens, hitting the pieces over and over again with the poker.
    Dre and Michael were stunned. They had never before seen their stylish, classy, sophisticated mother out of control. Her eyes looked wild; her hair was disheveled—that definitely never happened—and makeup streamed down her tear-stained face.
    They witnessed her breakdown with pain in their hearts. It was not a pretty sight to behold. They both wished they had not been present to witness such private grief. Dre was about to stop her again, but Michael held him back.
    He shook his head. He knew it was better to let her vent than to stop her. It couldn’t do anybody any good just letting her rage build up inside. Better she got rid of it. Although the sound of her calling Randi’s name in connection with the song she had always sung to them when they were babies and little kids was not only eerie but was causing an internal meltdown inside him.
    Later, after she was settled down, he would cruise the village to get his nerves under control. He would slip into his second life just as a ballerina slipped into her slippers before a performance.
    Tracie continued to sing and bang on the smashed glass with the poker.
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    In his tiny, dark room saturated with the spirit and gifts of Ms. Virginia and the others, Me’s body shook with the raucous voices, which were acting out Tracie’s rage.
    The patchwork quilt floated before his eyes, grabbing him, trying to smother him. He had to fight his way out. He struggled out of the army jacket, to free his biceps. He needed the wisdom of the faces.
    It was the newest of the lot, the spirit of Ms. Virginia, that came to his