Felicia Pearson - Grace After Midnight: A Memoir

Copyright 2007 by Felicia Pearson

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Hachette Book Group

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First eBook Edition: November 2007

ISBN: 978-0-446-50098-2

Also by David Ritz

BIOGRAPHY

Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye

Faith in Time: The Life of Jimmy Scott

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Brother Ray (with Ray Charles)

Inside My Life (with Smokey Robinson)

The Rhythm and the Blues (with Jerry Wexler)

Rage to Survive (with Etta James)

Blues All Around Me (with B. B. King)

Guide to Life (with Sinbad)

From These Roots (with Aretha Franklin)

The Brothers (with the Neville Brothers)

Reach (with Laila Ali)

Guillaume (with Robert Guillaume)

Howling at the Moon (with Walter Yetnikoff)

Elvis by the Presleys (editor)

Messengers: Portraits of African American Ministers

What I Know for Sure (with Tavis Smiley)

Rickles Book (with Don Rickles)

NOVELS

Search for Happiness

The Man Who Brought the Dodgers Back to Brooklyn

Dreams

Blue Notes Under a Green Felt Hat

Barbells and Saxophones

Family Blood

Passion Flowers

Sanctified Blues (with Mable John)

Stay Out of the Kitchen (with Mable John)

THIS BOOK IS FOR ARNOLD LONLY,
THE MAN I CALL UNCLE
R.I.P.

I m not making excuses, and Im not feeling sorry for myself. Dont expect you to feel sorry for me either.

Just want to tell my story while its fresh.

Just want to make sure other people know my story, especially the kids on the streets and the kids working the corners.

Just want to let them know that you can get over without killing people and selling packs.

I did all that. Fact is, I was still doing it up till a couple of years ago.

Then something happened.

This book is about what happened.

I was born in Baltimore twenty-seven years ago, and then I diedtwice. I died both times because my mother was filled with drugs and so was I. Crack babies are messed-up babies, and, according to what the doctors were saying, I didnt have a prayer.

But they brought me back from deaths door. Someone or something keeps bringing me back from deaths door.

I dont understand it, but maybe writing this book will help me see who I was and who I became.

Sometimes I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine myself back then:

A little-bitty baby small enough to fit into the palm of the doctors hand, no bigger than a puppy or kitten; a baby who has to be fed with an eye dropper cause her mouth is too small for the nipple of a bottle; a baby born cross-eyed due to the drugs running through her system.

A baby born to die.

But that same doomed-to-die baby finds a way to live.

How?

Why?

Sure wasnt because of Mama. Mama was Loretta Chase. The woman may have wanted meI cant know that for surebut I do know that she couldnt care for me. Later I learned that Mother was the kind of lady that always kept a drug dealer around to fill her needs. She could do that because she had a pretty face, long wavy hair, and a fine figure. Men flocked to her. My daddy ran from heror she chased him off. I never did get the story.

I didnt get a lot of the stories about my real parents. Theyre ghost figures in my childhood. I saw them in my dreams when I was a little girl. Sometimes they creep back into my dreams now that Im a grown woman, but theyre always covered in mystery.

The mystery was heavy because as soon as I was born I was put into a foster home owned by two people who had a row house in the toughest neighborhood in East Baltimore. Their names were Cora and Levi Pearson and their place was on East Oliver Street, three doors off the corner of North Montford. Thats where I grew up. Oliver and Montford is where it all happened.

When I arrived the Pearsons were already in their early sixties. Sweet folk. They took care of me, but I still wanted my mama. And when I heard that Mama was calling for me, I got happy all over. I wanted to see her.

All little girls wanna see their mothers. All girls need their mothers. The earliest dreams I can remember are dreams of my mother. Id see her standing there before me, holding out her arms, hugging me tight, putting me to bed and tucking me in.

Youre my precious baby, shed say.

Id smile at her, close my eyes, and fall asleep inside my dream.

M y memories of Mamas visits are like dreams.

During the first two visits we were at the park. I remember clouds and rain, I remember a dark sky, wet grass, and plastic slides in the playground. I remember Mrs. Simms, the white social worker, who held my hand until, from behind a tree, a woman appeared. The woman was beautiful. She ran to me with her arms wide open. I didnt move. I didnt know what to do.

Its your mother, said Mrs. Simms. Go to your mother.

I let the woman embrace me. She smelled of cigarettes and perfume. Tears ran down her cheek. I didnt know why she was crying. She held me tight and said words I dont remember. I imagine that she said she loved me. We walked for a while. She, Mrs. Simms, and I went to a candy store where I got a soda and a little bag of M & Ms.

You and your mother look just alike, Mrs. Simms said.

I loved hearing those words because I knew my mother looked like a lady in a magazine.

The rain stoppedI cant remember if this was the first visit or the secondand children were in the park. My mother said something about my pigtails. As a little girl, my hair was done up in little pigtails.

If you let your hair grow out, she said, itll look like mine.

She let me touch her wavy hair.

Can I bring her to my house? Can I be alone with my daughter? she asked Mrs. Simms.

Mrs. Simms said, Maybe. Maybe next time.

Next time came soon. The night before I was too excited to sleep.

What would my mothers house look like? I was sure itd be pretty because she was pretty. I was sure itd be big. The house on Oliver Street had three floors and three bedrooms, but I knew my mothers house would be bigger. The house on Oliver Street had all sorts of people living theregrandchildren and cousins to Mr. and Mrs. Pearson. But I was my mothers only child. I wouldnt have to share the house with anyone but my mother. Maybe I could live with her forever.

I always hated dresses, but I wore one to visit my mother because I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to look like my mother. My dress, lavender and embroidered with white lace, was brand new. My foster mama had bought it for me to wear to church.

My excitement built as Mrs. Simms drove me to my mothers. But when we arrived, I was sure she had made a mistake. It wasnt a house at all, but a tiny one-room apartment with a small kitchen, and a couch that opened up into a bed. The room was messy and didnt smell good. This couldnt be where my mom lived. But it was.

When Mrs. Simms left us, my mother sat down on the edge of the bed. Something was wrong. She was crying and shaking. I didnt know why. She didnt hug and kiss me like she had in the park. She didnt even look at me. I just stood there.