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"I'm not a star yet, Daddy. I've got to do it well," I said.

"You will. What good news," Daddy said. "Something good to bring home to your momma."

"Daddy," I said as he gathered his things for us to leave. "Do you think since this is a special occasion that Philip Cutler could pick me up and take me to the concert?"

Daddy stopped in his tracks. His smile evaporated slowly and his eyes darkened for a moment and grew small. As I stared at him, hoping, a little warmth crept back into his gaze.

"Well, I don't know, honey. I . . . we'll see."

When we got home, Momma was lying in bed awake, one eye on Fern, who sat on a blanket on the floor playing with her toys. The late afternoon sunlight played peekaboo with some lazy clouds, but Momma had the shades drawn so even when the sun peeped out, it didn't drop any warm, happy rays into the room. When I entered, Momma sat up slowly and with great effort.

She had obviously not brought a brush to her hair all day. The strands hung down randomly on the sides and some curled up and spiraled about on top. She used to wash her hair almost every day, so that it had gleamed like black silk.

"A woman's hair is her crowning jewel," she had told me many times. Whenever she had been too tired to brush her hair herself, she always asked me to do it.

Momma never needed much makeup. She always had a smooth complexion with pink lips. Her eyes sparkled like polished black onyx. I wanted so much to look like her and thought it was unfair of nature to have skipped a generation while most other children looked exactly like their parents.

Before she became sickly, Momma would stand perfectly straight and walk with her shoulders back, as proud as the mythical Indian princess Daddy always compared her to. She moved gracefully, swiftly, passing through the day like a streak of ebony paint stroked through a milk-white canvas. Now she sat hunched over, her head down, her arms resting limply on her legs, and she looked at me with sad, glassy eyes, the onyx dulled, the silk hair turned into a rough cotton, her complexion faded, pale, and her lips nearly colorless. Her cheekbones were far more prominent and her collarbone looked as if it would pop right through her thin layer of skin.

Before I could say anything about Philip, Fern reached up for me and started to cry my name.

"Where's your daddy and Jimmy?" Momma asked, looking behind me.

"They went to pick up some groceries. Daddy thought I should come right in to help you with Fern."

"I'm glad," she said, fighting for a deep breath. "The baby tired me out today."

"It's not just the baby, Momma," I chastised gently.

"It's coming along, Dawn," she replied. "Could you get me a glass of water, honey? My lips feel parched." I went out with Fern and got Momma her water. Then I handed her the glass and watched as she drank. Her Adam's apple bobbed like a float on a fishing line.

"For months you've been promising you would go to a real doctor and not rely on backwoods medicines and such if you didn't get better quickly. Well, you're not getting better that fast, and you're not living up to your promise." I hated speaking to her so firmly, but thought I had to now.

"It's just one of them stubborn coughs. I had a cousin back in Georgia who had a cold for nearly a year before it upped and left her."

"Well, she suffered for a year for no reason," I insisted. "Just like you're suffering, Momma."

"All right, all right. You're getting worse than Grandma Longchamp. Why, when I was pregnant with Jimmy, she wouldn't let up on me a minute. Everything I did was wrong. It was a relief giving birth, just so I could get her off my back."

"Grandma Longchamp? But, Momma, I thought you gave birth to Jimmy at a farmhouse on the road."

"What? Oh, yeah, I did. I meant until I left the farm."

"But didn't you and Daddy leave right after you got married?"

"Not exactly right after. Soon after. Quit questioning me so closely, Dawn. I'm not thinking straight just yet," she snapped. It wasn't like her to be so short with me, but I imagined it was because of her illness.

I thought I should change the topic. I didn't want to make her unhappy while she was still suffering so.

"Guess what, Momma?" I said, bouncing Fern in my arms, "I'm going to sing the solo at the concert," I said proudly.

"Why, bless my soul. Bless my soul." She pressed her palms against her chest. Even when she wasn't coughing, she seemed to have trouble breathing every once h a while, especially when something caught her by surprise or she moved too quickly. "Ain't that wonderful. I knew you'd show those rich folks they ain't no better than you. Come here so I can give you a real hug," she said.

I put little Fern down on the bed, and Momma and I embraced. Her thin arms held me to her as tightly as she could, and I could feel her ribs through her shift dress.

"Momma," I said, the tears filling my eyes. "You've lost so much weight, much more than I realized."

"Not so much and I shoulda lost a few pounds here and there. It'll come back on faster than you can shake a stick, you'll see. One thing about women my age, when they wanna gain weight, they just gotta smell food. Sometimes just looking at it will add a pound here and there," she joked. She kissed me on the cheek. "Congratulations, Dawn honey. Did you tell your daddy?"