The Dawn of Nia

by Lauren Cherelle

  23

  I SPEND THE FIRST PART of Valentine’s Day at work and the latter with Tasha. We meet at a new downtown sports bar to debrief over wings and margaritas, raising our glasses to life’s pleasures in spite of bad dates, failed relationships, and some-timing lovers. After the toast, Tasha says, “So what did you get her?”

  “Not a damn thing. I haven’t seen her in three days.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  I sip my margarita.

  “Was our toast in vain?” Tasha asks. “Why aren’t you making the most of the situation?”

  “Who said I should?”

  “I don’t understand you. You’re at the starting blocks, but you don’t want to sprint.” A simple analogy from a high school track star. “I’m starting to believe you self-sabotage.”

  “Look!” I respond, raising my voice over the rowdy men across from us. “I’m not a hopeless romantic like you.”

  “You were before Kay—” She waits until the men kill their game cheers. “Kayla and those other bad seeds messed you up. But that’s okay. I’m gonna get you on the right path.”

  “I appreciate the optimism, but I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

  The following night, I need a hefty dose of Tasha’s hopefulness when Deidra returns to home base. I’m at the microwave heating leftovers when she steps in the kitchen. She’s holding a different purse and a shopping bag. Apparently, she comes back to change clothes and do whatever else while I’m at work and then leaves before I make it home.

  “Where you been?”

  She tilts her head at my demanding tone.

  “You fucking somebody else?” I ask.

  “Not yet. Since we’re being nosy, what else have you told Jacoby about me?”

  “That you have really nice breasts and perfect oral rhythm.”

  “What’s with the attitude?”

  I slam the fork in my hand onto the counter. “I’m trying to understand why you think it’s okay to sleep in my bed one night and then disappear for three.”

  “It’s okay because you let me. If you want things to change, you’ll act accordingly. Until that happens, I will babysit my sister’s kids and spend as much time as I please with my family and whomever I choose. They have defined roles.”

  The microwave beeps but I don’t remove my Chinese takeout. “You want a role? How about a label? Your ass is shifty! I won’t formalize anything with a woman who’s hiding shit. And don’t tell me you’re not ’cause I see it in your eyes.”

  “You’re right,” she says, cool, calm, and collected as usual. “I am. But for good reason.”

  “Old secrets and new relationships can’t be companions.”

  “When you get serious with me, I’ll open up to you.”

  “So we’re gonna build a foundation on quid pro quo?”

  “No, our foundation was built on deception. Remember?”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s water under the bridge. I agreed to not hold your marriage against you, and you agreed to wipe my slate clean.”

  “I have, but I’m unclear about my role. Am I a boarder? A friend with extreme benefits? I can’t decide if you asked me to stay in Memphis for the sex or because you don’t like to be alone at night. We don’t do anything outside of these four walls. I only exist in your world, here. I’m a real-life blow-up doll that you pull out at your convenience. And that’s partly why Jacoby outright disrespects me.”

  “He would do that regardless.”

  “It’s unacceptable.”

  “You want me to put him in his place?”

  “I can do that myself.”

  “Then what’s your point?”

  “The point is you want fringe benefits in lieu of a formally accepted position.”

  “You haven’t worked in years. What the hell do you know about fringes?”

  Her insistence has gotten under my skin. I want clarity on our status, too, but I’m irritated that she faults me for her disappearing acts. I open the microwave as she pulls a red gift box from the shopping bag and tosses it on the counter. She holds her tongue and leaves.

  I ignore the box and eat alone, unsure what to do next. Maybe it’s time to give Deidra an eviction notice— to put our meeting, the sex, the concealment and revelation, the Will, and our living together behind me. If the bullshit I experienced with Kayla is a genetic flaw, who’s to say Deidra doesn’t carry the same trait?

  I lock myself in my bedroom to watch TV while deciding a course of action. After two hours of reality TV, I haven’t reached a decision. I pick up my phone to text my closest cousin and friends for direction.

  I write: I’m stuck between a rock and hard place with Deidra. What should I do?

  Tasha replies: Does she want to be with you? Try her out. Nothing wrong with a trial run.

  Ebony: Be patient.

  Shonda: Use lube.

  I delete her text. She never takes my concerns seriously.

  Jacoby is last to reply: Kick her wack ass out!

  I opt for Tasha and Jacoby’s advice. I’ll talk to Deidra to determine where we stand. If we have a fruitless conversation, I’ll kick her out.

  There’s a hint of light at the bottom of the guestroom door, so I know Deidra is home. But I can’t knock before opening the gift box she left me. It would be a slap in her face to ignore the gift and start our talk on bad footing.

  I untie the white ribbon and remove the top of the gift box. The box contains two Mason jars. I lift a jar and cringe at the contents. My second reaction is laughter. A pickled pig’s foot floats inside of it. I place the pink, fleshy foot in the box and pull out the second Mason jar. I tip it left and right to study the brownish, powdery matter inside. I untwist the lid and sniff. The scent of dirt tickles my nose. Red dirt. I’m flattered that her gift connects to our first phone conversation.

  Deidra doesn’t seem upset when she opens the bedroom door for me. I expected her to be standoffish, but she welcomes me inside without hesitation. She clears shuffled newspaper pages from the bed to sit with me.

  “Thanks for the gift. It was very thoughtful.”

  “It’s not much. I just wanted to make you laugh.”

  This moment will turn extremely awkward if Deidra expects me to spring a V-day gift on her. “I didn’t get you anything,” I say to squash expectation.

  “I know.”

  I’ve heard this tone from her before. Sometimes, she speaks like she has extrasensory perception. At least she isn’t disappointed. “If you don’t mind, we need to put some things on the table. I really need to know why you’re here. Because it’s free?”

  “I’m here to transition in peace and because I like who you are. You’re a giving person, and I like that your actions speak louder than your words. You can’t help but to be yourself and I like transparency. Don’t underestimate yourself, though. It’s not a becoming characteristic.”

  “What am I underestimating?”

  “Your position in this half-assed, sham relationship.”

  “Well you’ve been living here and in this half-assed relationship for almost three months. What are you waiting on?”

  “I haven’t put things on hold for you. I’m not waiting to see when you’ll come around. In the meantime, I’m here. You can choose to know me beyond your bed if you want.”

  “Honestly, I want more if you do. I’m willing to try. That means getting to know you. It’s my fault I don’t know more about you by now. Do you feel like you know anything about me?”

  She smiles. “Small things. You eat breakfast before work once in a blue moon. You mix clean and dirty dishes in your dishwasher. You balance your temper like you’re on a tight rope. There are no pictures of you anywhere because you don’t like to take them. You love specialty bath soaps. You don’t like to be approached from behind. You rarely check your mail. You could sleep through a bull run. You prefer pads to tampons. And you’re married to Dr. Pepper.”

  Damn. “You definitely pay attentio
n.”

  “I try. What about me?”

  Aside from my intimate understanding of the nooks and crannies of her body, I only know one peculiarity about her. “You’re addicted to the local news, like a soap-opera type of addiction. You almost chewed me out when I walked in front of the TV the other day.”

  “Mmm.” She blinks a few times, probably disappointed with my brevity. “I also know you were in a relationship with Kayla.”

  I drop my eyes. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about that.”

  “I guess bad timing is a habit. Lucky for you, I don’t care. Clean slate, right?”

  I shake my head with appreciation. “It’s cool that you make an effort to notice my quirks, but do you know how much I cared about and miss your mother?”

  “Pat was…” She exhales.

  “Don’t censor yourself.”

  “If any amount of hate exists inside me, it’s there because of Pat. You can share your love for her with anyone but me.”

  Her bitterness bothers me, but what can I say or do? For now, I have to respect this boundary.

  We’re quiet and staring in opposite directions until she says, “What do you want from me?”

  The question incites a wave of memories and an emotion that scares the shit out of me. It’s a raw feeling, like I’m missing several pieces of armor. Because she’s honest with me I return the courtesy. “I had a friend in seventh grade who lived next door to me. I had a little crush on her mother, Mrs. Gina. My dad was always out and about sleeping around, and I couldn’t stand being around my mama during those times. So I was more than happy whenever I got invited over.

  “This one night, after my friend fell asleep, I decided to sneak out the house to check on my mom. I was always scared she would hurt herself or something. I had to go through the living room to get to the front door, but Mrs. Gina and her husband were on the couch. I dropped to the floor to spy on my crush. She was lying in his arms, talking and laughing. And they were holding hands and rubbing each other. I’d never seen a couple touch like that. You know, with love.

  “I crawled away and got back in bed where I was supposed to be. Mrs. Gina peeped in and saw me watching TV. She walked over, pinched my cheek, and called me a night owl. I’ve been waiting for my own Mrs. Gina since that night.”

  Deidra considers my answer before speaking. “I’ve learned that a relationship is no greater than what you put into it.”

  I appreciate the insight but wonder whether she will hold herself to the same counsel she’s giving me. To find out, I ask, “What did you fail to put into the relationship with your husband?”

  She chuckles. “I got a big fat F on good judgment, which led to some mistakes. And I wasn’t honest. I shouldn’t have married him, but I didn’t have the courage to stand up for myself back then. I let society and crappy experiences shape my reality. Those experiences made me doubt the world and most of all myself, just like you.”

  “You think I doubt myself?”

  Her gaze intensifies. “If you want your Mrs. Gina, you have to become her. You would’ve changed years ago if you believed she actually existed.”

  I stand from the bed. I’ve heard enough about me. “Is there anything highly important I should know about you before I go?”

  “Of course. But in due time.”

  Satisfied with our conversation, I leave for my room. I lie in the dark and stare out the window, replaying my talk with Deidra. These thoughts force me to catalog my wants along with my worries.

  It’s hard to separate my jumbled feelings, but one feeling emerges. I want to know what it’s like to evolve with Deidra. I want to make this the last night I sleep in my bed alone or single.

  24

  JUST WHEN I BELIEVE we’ve turned a new leaf, Deidra withdraws again. Yesterday, she left to watch Juanita’s kids, so maybe she decided to spend the night with them. I didn’t hear from her this morning, though. And now I’m home from work and still no word from her. I could contact Deidra, but I don’t want to feel like I’m chasing her.

  I’ll give her a one-day pass, but if her absence presses into a forty-eight-hour period, my patience will roll into anger. Irritation chips at my tolerance the more I think about it. Reading, television, snacking— nothing eases my impatience, which mounts with each passing hour. I’ll give Deidra one more hour to walk through the door or contact me.

  Time passes quickly as I text, iron, and bathe. I marvel at the power of a sixty-minute time limitation when I exit the bathroom to a ringing phone. She has finally decided to call me. I clench the bath towel at my chest like it’s shielding my anger. I answer and wait for her to speak. She owes me an explanation.

  “Sorry it took so long for me to call. I’m just getting a chance to stop and think.”

  I hold the phone.

  “Are you there?” she asks.

  “You forgot how to text?”

  She sighs. “You’re right. Again, I’m sorry… I didn’t know I’d have to fly to Virginia last night.”

  For what reason would she go to Virginia other than her husband? What’s next out of her mouth? ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be with you. Thank you for everything. I hope you find someone special and have a wonderful life together.’

  “I thought you weren’t going back to him,” I say.

  “I’m not here for him.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, but it’s not what you think.”

  “Then why would you see him?” I’m eager for the justification— ready for her to defend why she fled to Virginia for a man she allegedly doesn’t love.

  “Because my daughter was rushed to the emergency room.”

  For a moment, I’m relieved her departure wasn’t due to him, but the relief is short-lived. The next moment, ‘daughter’ slams my ear. I hold the phone unsure what to say. The silence is overbearing as bitter thoughts fill my head and spill from my mouth. “It’s kind of ironic I had no idea that Pat had you and now you have a child. What kind of maternal shit is that?” I’m on the verge of spitting bullets with no consideration of the collateral damage. “Is this a joke? A fucked up Carter joke! Why the hell are you just now telling me you’re a mother?”

  “Yes, I kept her from you, but I need you to…”

  I wait for more but she doesn’t speak. I figure she doesn’t want to express vulnerability or ask for sympathy, so I fill the silence. “To what? What else do you want from me? I’d be a damn fool to give you anything else. You’re not worth the baggage.”

  I’d also be a fool to believe that Deidra is still listening to my rant. She ended the call somewhere between ‘worth’ and ‘baggage.’

  25

  SOMETIMES, I EXPERIENCE a short, distinct moment that demands a split-second emotional decision. The moment always feels like this lucid, recurring dream where I’m watching myself, keenly aware of my movements and spatial limitations. In this very moment, I can stop in my tracks and avoid Deidra. After all, she’s here one day, gone for three, and then back again like magic. Except the trick isn’t entertaining.

  I should leave the parking lot and return to work, but what will I tell my coworkers? I’m hiding from the flaky woman that lives with me? I can’t allow personal issues to cross into professional territory. So I step forward, too aware that each step moves me closer to her, too aware of my shoes scraping the asphalt. I stop a few feet away from my car. Deidra is barricading the driver’s side door.

  “I got back this morning. I haven’t been to your house. If you don’t want me there, I won’t come back.” Her voice is soft, as if we’re treading on thin ice. Her crossed arms and bowed head are apologetic. It’s unlike her to not yield a strong presence.

  I drift into my home, observing each room and the objects that occupy them. Every accent of color and piece of furniture has more purpose with Deidra there. She makes the mortgage more meaningful, too. Though I feel silly attributing my desire for her to objects, I’m not ready to admit how much I long for her. A
harsh rebuttal would release the bit of resentment I hold for her absence and secret, except I’ve expended too much energy maintaining a hardened stance. I want to touch her, so I do.

  Within seconds, I’m lost in the sanctuary of her arms, no longer attentive of the people scurrying about the medical district or the rush-hour traffic surrounding us. She tightens her embrace, my chest sinking into hers as she whispers what I want to say: “I missed you.” She loosens her embrace enough to kiss my lips. “I’m sorry.”

  Her sincerity is welcomed, but I’ve already forgiven her. I’m tired of secrets: hers, others, and mine. I’m willing to give her the chance to push the concealments aside and step into the light with me.

  I invite her inside the car and we’re silent for a while, allowing the close proximity to heal our wounds before she explains what happened in Virginia. I knew she was hiding something from me. I never imagined she was hiding a child.

  “She’s sixteen,” Deidra says, transforming my image of a little girl with pigtails to a teen with flowing tresses.

  I fixate my eyes on the windshield but my thoughts rapidly shift. Then a sharp yellow pencil freezes all my thoughts. Deidra is like a heavy-leaded pencil, pressing hard against the world, leaving markings the Carter family could never completely erase— writing lasting impressions that have captured me since the first day I saw her. But she was misplaced and unaccounted for by her mother and maternal family for years. She knows about erasure. So why would she hide her daughter’s existence?

  “Are you okay?” Deidra asks.

  “I don’t know.” I don’t know whether the pencil comparison makes sense anymore. I search for another inanimate object with dual meaning until she touches my arm and distracts me. I look to my right, the first movement I’ve made in five minutes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I find my focal point on the windshield again, except I keep my mind present. “Does anybody know about her?”

  “Are you asking whether or not Pat knew about my daughter? Yeah, they all know about her.”