heard the dissent and started regretting her decision.
“She got some nerves!”
“That skank, that whore, she deserves a beat down!”
The voices of angry relatives and friends rang in her head, and Sheryl glanced at the door, wanting so badly to change her mind. Maybe she could go outside and explain her side of the story. Tell family and friends who no longer wanted to speak to her about all the pain raging inside of her. She felt like running away from it all, but Sheryl had to face up. There was a force stronger than any she could resist and it swept her in through the doors, and passed the angry rants behind mean stares greeting her.
Inside the small hall was set up like the inside of a small church. There were rows of benches on either side. Sheryl’s presence caused tension to crackle like electricity in a lightning storm. Holding her breath, Sheryl Street stood in the eye of the controversy and felt her stomach muscles tightening.
Open chatter dogged her every move. She glanced without staring back and bit her lips. She released a heavy sigh while holding on to her emotions. Sheryl felt like breaking down and crying while making her way through the throngs of mourners. They turned their heads in the direction of the altar when she got close.
On top of the altar, two red urns filled with ashes sat on a stand filled surrounded by burning candles. The urns contained the remnants of her enigmatic adopted sisters Candace and Claire Osorio. Sheryl stared for a beat when she saw the photos on the wall behind. Her tears flowed easily. She cried looking at video footage of the sisters playing basketball. Sheryl’s conscience fell on her like a ton of bricks. She was directly involved in their deaths. Sheryl felt sorry for having come back. Still she had to face Mimmy, the woman who had raised all three of them. There were women here who used to greet her with hugs, now openly scoffed at her.
“Murdering cop, she really got some nerve showing her face round here after killing her own sisters,” one woman in the tightest black dress said.
“But they weren’t no flesh and blood,” another noted.
“Mimmy raised them all didn’t she?”
“Boy, Mimmy’s coming soon. She’s bound to kick that tight-butt bitch outta here,” another suggested.
Their men stealing sips of liquor from a flask, stared at her backside, accentuated in a tight, dark Armani pantsuit. Lecherous stares from men whose wives and girlfriends despised her, greeted Sheryl with guarded pleasantries.
“I know you had to do what you had to do,” one older man said, letting his eyes rove over her body before continuing. “Especially with you being the law and all,” he smiled tastelessly, leering at her breasts.
Sheryl Street eyed him uneasily, pursing her lips while assuaging the urge she felt to deck him. She managed to hold back the impulse and nodded politely. Others in the crowded church grimaced walking by Street. They looked her up and down, cutting their eyes when they realized who she was. Sheryl walked down an aisle that appeared longer because of the tension. She wanted to pay her respects, but felt thick walls of resentment slowly closing in on her.
While waiting on a queue to get a closer look at pictures of the Osorio sisters, open whispers spilled around her. Sheryl felt sympathy for what she overheard in her quietness. She stared at the pictures of the girls. Closing her eyes and saying a silent prayer, Sheryl became caught up in a moment. It transferred her back to the time she first met Mimmy and her daughters. Sheryl was ten years old.
She had been living in an immigrant neighborhood in Opa Locka, on the outskirts of Miami, with her mother, Carmen, a Cuban immigrant. Her mother’s boyfriend, Gilbert, would visit frequently and sometimes stay over. He was Haitian. Carmen was dependent on prescription drugs for her survival due to a bipolar condition. Often her mother would visit the local clinic and return at the end of the day with her prescriptions. One such day, Sheryl bade her mother goodbye and left for school. She knew her mother would be at the clinic all day and wouldn’t be back until later that day.
That evening Sheryl waited patiently for her mother to come back from the clinic. She had hurried home from school and had not eaten. It was almost ten in the evening and her mother wasn’t around. The following morning Sheryl awoke in a frantic mess. She had been unable to sleep very well through the night, and had forgotten to eat.
Even thought she was hungry and tired, Sheryl dragged herself to school. She raced home with anticipation beating in her heart. That evening Sheryl went to bed feeling depressed. The next day she still had not heard from her mother, and she still had not returned from the health clinic. After couple more days with no words or messages, Sheryl felt that her mother would never come back.
Gilbert eventually came by and she quizzed him about her mother’s whereabouts. He provided her with no real answers. He was upset that she had his girlfriend had left without telling him, but he was irritated that he had to stay with her daughter. Gilbert guessed that she was at a friend’s home, but Sheryl didn’t seem to know exactly which relative’s home she would be living in. Sheryl remembered her mother threatening that she may have to survive without her. Her mother may have really wanted to leave but Sheryl never took her seriously. Gilbert, from his guesses never took her words seriously either. Now they both realized it was more than idle chat.
Sheryl and Gilbert knew they were waiting in vain, but eventually developed a step-family relationship. Sheryl never knew her natural father. Gilbert told her he lived a short distance away from Opa Locka in the town of Little Havana. She stayed with her stepfather until, claiming he could no longer care for her. He brought Sheryl to live with Mimmy, his sister, in Washington Heights, New York City.
Sheryl was thirteen and puberty had already set in. Mimmy helped her a lot in understanding what she was going through in her maturing young girl cycle. In this respect, Gilbert was right to bring her to his sister. Mimmy was kind to her when she was most in need of it.
Without even a goodbye, Gilbert went back to Florida. Sheryl was left with Mimmy and tried to fit herself into a two bedroom apartment with two self-centered daughters and their drunken father. Candace and Claire were young and pretty and hated sharing their room with Sheryl. They got away with everything and often blamed anything that had gone wrong on the newcomer. The sisters always stuck together against her.
Sheryl replaced her dark shades and turned to walk back. She saw Mimmy coming toward her and stayed frozen in place. She had thought about what she would say and gone over the routine over and over in her head. Sheryl saw the older woman’s heavy make-up. It did nothing to hide the pain and exhaustion wearing her down. Sheryl stopped to let her by but Mimmy held her ground and didn’t budge. For what seemed like an eternity, the large woman’s cold stare shot mercilessly through Sheryl like laser beams, tearing up her insides, and leaving her twisted in knots.
“I’m so sorry this had to happen…” Sheryl offered. Her emotions spilled over and her voice trailed.
After an eternity, Mimmy hobbled by without saying anything. Sheryl watched the familiar limp as Mimmy sauntered away. The woman who had raised her since she was ten and taught her to be the best at whatever she wanted to be turned her back on her. Sheryl watched Mimmy’s gait. The robust woman had lost a step or two. It came from spending all those years being a nanny, and taking care of white kids on the upper west side. It was also that she had lost something special. Her two daughters had been her reason for living.
Mimmy was a Haitian immigrant who had married a man, Carlito Rafael Osorio from Santiago in the Dominican Republic. The family
