Jazmin's Notebook: Chapters 22–24

The phrase “It’s better to give than to receive” usually sticks in my throat. I’ve been on the receiving end too few times for the novelty to wear off, I suppose.

CeCe thinks my Christmas spirit is rather stunted, whereas I think hers is overgrown.

Her warped sense of humor drives her to buy outrageously tacky things such as those fat coils of blindingly green tinsel she insists on draping across our windows—the ones facing the street unfortunately.

Her warped sense of humor drives her to buy outrageously tacky things such as those fat coils of blindingly green tinsel she insists on draping across our windows—the ones facing the street unfortunately.

Her warped sense of humor drives her to buy outrageously tacky things such as those fat coils of blindingly green tinsel she insists on draping across our windows—the ones facing the street unfortunately.

I don’t know why I argue for stenciled snowflakes. I never win.

My mouth wanted to test the theory, but CeCe grabbed her camera and made me wait until she could snap a few pictures of the spread, before the hoards, meaning Destinee and I, descended on the table and picked it clean.

Afterward we cleared the dishes and put the card table away so we’d have room to maneuver.

That’s right, I thought. Take your time. Be your usual meticulous self.

Then she gingerly dug through shredded paper, and balls of cotton, and handfuls of confetti until she came to a third, smaller box.

I fought so hard to keep from laughing, I thought lockjaw was imminent.

By this point I was ready to concede that maybe I did have a slight mean streak in me, but when Destinee got down on hands and knees to feel underneath the furniture for the gift she was afraid she’d lost, CeCe and I burst out laughing and gave up the game.

It was wrapped in gold foil, in a box the size of a doll’s purse. I held my breath while she opened it. Inside was a pearl, set in gold filigree, dangling from a 14-karat chain.

The smell escaping from his room seemed lethal, a
 mix of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic designed to fight off disease, though Death himself might squeeze past the sentries at any time.

The smell escaping from his room seemed lethal, a
 mix of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic designed to fight off disease, though Death himself might squeeze past the sentries at any time.

In three weeks I was an old hand at nonchalantly pushing past the tubes that snaked their way to and from Dad’s broken body.

But the doctors said the brain damage was so extensive that if he lived he would never be the same, and I know he would’ve hated that, so CeCe and I prayed for him to die, which my aunt thought was a blasphemy.

My heart pounded out a mini-marathon inside my chest while I held, and held, and held my breath, my teeth clenched of their own volition, until at last that annoying apparatus started up again, wickedly taunting or blessedly assuring me that Daddy would live to see another day.

My heart pounded out a mini-marathon inside my chest while I held, and held, and held my breath, my teeth clenched of their own volition, until at last that annoying apparatus started up again, wickedly taunting or blessedly assuring me that Daddy would live to see another day.

I actually know what a vacant stare is, and I wish to God I didn’t.

The state mental institution Mom is in resembles a penitentiary, which seems about right.

We passed several patients on the way, one an old gentleman with matted salt-and-pepper hair.

Mom greeted another patient, a plump lady she called Mrs. Ramirez, with flawless skin the color of flan, and eyes like black marbles, rolling over me from head to toe.

I was flabbergasted.

Unfortunately the doctors let Mom out two weeks later, once she convinced them she was lucid.

When it was time to go, CeCe gave her a stack of magazines and paperbacks to read, and I gave her a blank book to write in. I also gave her a hug, this time without any coaxing.

"Okay, smarty,” she said. “Let’s move to Zanzibar. Then you can commute by plane.”

This is progress, though I suspect nosy CeCe will come and go as she pleases, periodically checking my dresser drawers for drugs to be on the safe side.

Evening is finally settling over Amsterdam Avenue. The blues notes escaping The Garden of Eden have risen several decibels in the last half-hour.

Crew is giving the jukebox serious competition, though. He can’t sing a lick, but his sad-sounding baritone can be heard a block away.