“Exactly!” Shannon says. She looks at her mother, expecting her to refute us.
Deidra only smiles and says, “It’s your choice.” Then she leaves to push the kids on the swings.
Now I have a chance to ask Shannon some of the questions floating in my head. “How does it feel to have a young mother?” I begin.
She chuckles and releases the cell phone from her hand. “It’s cool. Sometimes we like the same songs, same clothes. But sometimes I wish she was ten years older.”
“You want more of a generational gap?”
“Yeah. Are you close to your mom?”
“I was when I was younger. When I got older, our differences pushed us apart.”
“I can’t wait until I’m older so she’ll stop being so anal. She needs to chill sometimes.”
“What?” How can she overlook Deidra’s easy-going disposition or the traits that make her a lover and friend? It’s just like a teenager to not see beyond the role of mother. “My mom was strict. Your mom is low key.”
She laughs. “When?”
“Give it a few years. You’ll understand her better. So, do you really wanna come to Memphis? I know it’s October and you’ve got time to decide, but you don’t wanna go to college with your friends?”
“They’re staying in the DMV. I wanna do something different. If I get into school here, I’m packing up and leaving. Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
“Do you want kids?” she asks.
That’s a question I didn’t expect. “Yeah, one day.”
“With my mom?”
“It’s possible,” I say to spare her feelings.
Shannon stares at me, as if she needs a moment to sense my thoughts. I feel just as uncomfortable whenever her mother probes me with lingering stares. She glances at her mother and says, “She really likes you. I’ve never seen her look at my dad the way she looks at you.”
I exhale. Why are the words from Juanita and Shannon’s mouths so dissimilar? My emotions slip again, though this time they’re sliding toward regret. I regret that I allowed Juanita to rile me. And I hate that I can’t fit into Shannon’s shoes to imagine longevity with Deidra. Her sister and daughter— two people that know her intimately— are toying with my feelings.
I keep my composure, but I have to address these strained feelings tomorrow.
~ * ~
Although Deidra dropped Shannon off at the airport just before noon, she waits until I leave work to return home. She’s inside less than two minutes and has already kicked off her shoes and pulled me to the couch for my undivided attention as she shares her thoughts about Shannon’s visit and possible move. “And why in the world did you encourage her to skydive?”
“Why’d you move to Memphis?”
She withdraws from my arm. “We’ve talked about this.”
“You said you needed change. From what?”
“I was unhappy.”
I sigh. “Deidra, I have very little patience for vagueness right now. I know how much you love Shannon. I’ve seen that love with my own eyes. So I need to understand why you’re not with her right now.”
“Are you saying I’m a bad mother? I feel guilty enough being away from her. I don’t need you beating me up about it. I do that every single day on my own.”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant. What happened that was so bad that you’d be apart from her?”
“You don’t care about why I left. You only want to hear about my mistakes. I’m not stupid, Nia. I can only imagine what Juanita has managed to tell you. Yes, I’ve done some unspeakable things, but that’s in my past. Leave it there.”
I shake my head. I desperately wanted her to deny everything. I hoped that she would tell me that Juanita’s words were nothing but intimidation and straight-up bullshit.
“I don’t trust you,” I admit, calmly. If I allow my actions to mirror my emotions this will turn into an argument. “You want me to have this unyielding faith in you that you don’t deserve. I’m not going to give you the chance to wrong me. You don’t deserve the chance to wrong me.” My words dishearten her. She won’t look in my eyes anymore.
“Where is this coming from?” she asks.
Coming from? Has she forgotten about the secrets? Her ambiguous sexuality? Her alleged promiscuity? “Are you genuinely attracted to who I am, or is this relationship convenient?”
At eight months into this relationship, I’ve reached the point where I have to open my heart and move forward, or protect myself and pull away, avoiding disappointment and bitterness. I hate struggling with this— especially given my twenty-ninth birthday is a week away. I should be gearing up to celebrate, not feeling like this.
She doesn’t answer. She stands up and steps away from me. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s struggling. When she crosses her arms, I’m sure she’s wondering whether or not this relationship is worth fighting for. Maybe she’s hopeful. If not, she’ll keep her back to me and walk away, letting me have this short-lived race.
I rise from the couch and wait a few more seconds. The least I can do is give her a moment to decide.
She turns around and approaches me, staring me squarely in the eyes. “You’re scared of loving me. You’re using my past as an excuse to walk away because you won’t let go of your own.”
“Let go of what? This is about protecting the rest of me I have left to give.” I’ve experienced too much selfishness and bad communication and too many ulterior motives. It isn’t until this moment— standing midway between the living room and the pathway leading to my refuge upstairs— that I acknowledge that I don’t trust Deidra to be any different from those in past relationships. “Things are good now, but what about later?” I won’t go down that road again.
“What have I done to hurt you? How is recounting every mistake I’ve made going to help you? I had a life before you, Nia. Why is it your job to make me pay for the choices I made last year or the year before that one? How do things that had nothing to do with you affect us?”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. It’s too late to renege on what I’ve already done. I’ve pushed her far away. We haven’t exchanged many words, but what I’ve said is enough for her to know that we’ve reached our last terminal; enough that she grabs her purse from the dining room table and walks out the garage door.
32
WHEN DEIDRA FIRST LEFT, I wasn’t sad or upset, and I didn’t take my romantic misfortune out on coworkers or patients. However, it’s day four and my confidence is wearing off. I don’t like coming home to an empty condo. I don’t like the TV or iPod keeping me company. I don’t like sleeping alone or cooking or self-pleasuring again. Loneliness is beginning to settle in the middle of my chest. And it’s dense and inescapable.
After work, I stop by the gas station and spend twenty-three dollars on chips, candy, and soda. I drive home for a weekend of junk food and tear-jerk movies. I make sure my cell phone, laptop, and tablet are turned off and left on the kitchen counter. I head upstairs, preparing to ignore all incoming communication— just as I did after Pat’s funeral. Then I climb in bed and open my first bag of salt and sour chips.
The hibernation is going well until my doorbell starts ringing over and over again. Sixty seconds later, the shrieking ding-dong induces a headache. I storm out of bed to scold whomever is interrupting my solitary weekend. It’s Saturday, so I won’t be surprised to see a pair of religious fanatics at the door.
As soon as I unlock and crack the front door open, Tasha pushes her way inside. “Why didn’t you come to breakfast?” She examines me from head to toe. Her eyes pause on my frizzy hair; on my oversized tee shirt; on the crumbs on my chest. “You look a mess.”
I feel a mess. I sit on the couch to relieve my lazy feet. My junk food orgy provides little energy.
Tasha sits by my side and says, “You need to get some Folgers in your cup and answer me.”
“Is it a crime to stay home?”
“It is when
you’re AWOL. Where’s Deidra?”
“Did you come over here for her or me?”
“Both of y’all. Neither one of y’all answering the phone. What’s going on?”
How diplomatic of Deidra to ignore calls from my friend. “Don’t contact her again. We broke up.”
Her eyes widen. “Why’d you break up with her?”
“Who said she didn’t break up with me?”
“You’re the idiot,” she says and punches me in the shoulder.
I grab my shoulder to soothe the throbbing pain.
“She cares about you,” she adds.
“Tasha, what the fuck do you know?”
She raises her fist but my reflexes are too slow to guard against her punching me in the same sore spot. I brace my tender shoulder and gasp from the rush of pain. She needs to learn how to keep her damn hands to herself when upset. “If you hit me again, I—”
“You’ll what?” she yells. She leans closer, daring me to punch back.
I stare at the window, lending us a quiet moment to calm down a bit.
“What are you waiting on?” she asks. “The perfect woman? If you are, stop! It ain’t gone happen. You need to get out your head and into your heart and realize that Deidra will love the hell out of you. That’s the type of perfection you need, dumb ass.”
I close my eyes, too sluggish to respond.
“You know I’m right,” she says. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve had some heart-to-hearts with Deidra. She’s a good person who ended up doing the wrong things for the right reasons. And… I told her to hold off on telling you some things.”
I hear the hint of apology in her voice, but I don’t care. “And why in the world would you do that?”
“Because she has to deal with the consequences of her actions. Not you. Those are her fuck-ups. You don’t know how to start from today and move into tomorrow. You’re always worried about yesterday. Even when yesterday don’t have a damn thing to do with you.”
She crosses her arms and waits for my response, but this sugar slump has me too fatigued to refute what she said.
Tasha sighs. “I wish I could muster up all this good advice and find me a good one.” She opens her arms. “Come here.”
I slide closer and wrap my arms above her shrinking waist. The consoling hug and strengthening words inspire me to say, “You’re a good friend.”
“Wonderful friend.”
I release her and laugh.
“Ooh, Lord,” she says and pinches her nose. “You really need some deodorant.” She stands and moves away from me. “Go upstairs and take a bath, and when you get out, call Deidra. I already talked some sense into Jacoby, so we’ll shoot for breakfast next Saturday.”
After Tasha leaves, I go upstairs to clean my room. I grab shoes and scrubs off the floor and vacuum crumbs from the bed before making it. I iron an outfit for today and scrubs for Monday. Then I light a candle and descend into the bathtub. The green apple aroma and warm soapy water help me clear my thoughts and consider my haunting faults.
As much as Tasha’s chastising irked me, I know she’s right. I also know she was holding back. She didn’t mention how I’m rarely optimistic and how I blame other folks for the relationship I want but don’t have, or like Deidra said, how I won’t let go of bad experiences. Now that I think about it, I don’t understand what ‘let go’ means. Admit my fears? Accept the past? Live in the moment? Trust Deidra? Realize Deidra is not Kayla? Whatever the meaning, I’m tired of dating and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanies it.
By the time the murky bath water is too cool for comfort, I’ve stared at the tiles long enough to decide that let go means ‘do not repeat past actions,’ which really means stepping outside of my comfort zone.
Like Tasha said, I’m not the forgive-and-forget type. That’s how I’ve always been. I was a kid who had to write my letters correctly the first time. If I made a mistake, I didn’t flip my pencil over to erase it. I balled up the paper and grabbed another wide-ruled sheet to start again. I didn’t correct the error. I was a teenager who ended a friendship if a girl looked at my boyfriend too long. I didn’t wait for an explanation or apology. I’m a woman who dates with a three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy. Once they’re out, I hold on to their transgressions.
I admit I have a serious problem with second chances.
I leave the bathroom and grab my phone to call Deidra. She doesn’t answer but immediately texts: What do you want? It takes twenty minutes of wrangling through texts before she agrees to meet at the McDonald’s near her sister’s house.
I wanted to meet beyond the drive-through for privacy, but Deidra arrived before me. She’s parked at the entrance under a bright light. I park beside her car and flip my headlights off. When I step outside, she unlocks her car doors and I take my place in her passenger seat, causing the cherry air freshener on the rear view mirror to sway a bit. Soft rhythms flow from the speakers.
There’s no reason to postpone so I say, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she demands.
I dismiss her tone. “For not giving us a chance to talk and work things out.”
She turns the radio off. “The truth is for Judgment Day. Until then, there’s more than one side to every story. Some people have a bad habit of adding extra players, drama, and bullshit. So whenever you want my version, come to me. Comprende?”
I nod.
“Do you have anything else to say?” she asks.
“I’m tired of this.”
She looks at me for specifics.
“I’m tired of the fallout,” I explain. “A good time here, a little hope there, then the shit hits the fan. A good three months here, the fan. An okay seven months there, the fan. I ended us before it got to that point.”
“So, why am I here?”
“Because I want this time to be different. I can be different.”
“What am I supposed to do the next time you place an arbitrary expiration on our relationship?”
“Punch me in the arm,” I suggest and laugh.
Her sharp look curbs my laughter.
We take our eyes off each other and I stare beyond the restaurant windows, noticing all the commotion inside, but never settling on anything particular.
After a long moment, one that allows me to consider all the words that influenced my twenty-four hours of self-loathing, she turns to me. “Can you deal with me? Everything I am? Everything I’ve done? If not, be mature enough to say it. I’ve already done the until-time-drives-us-apart thing and the until-you-make-a-big-enough-mistake thing. I need maturity and understanding. But most of all, I need a woman who’s ready.”
She wants to know whether I can pardon her indiscretions and not let the weight of her blemished past contaminate a promising future. Do I recognize that the things that made her wrong yesterday are the same things that will keep her loyal moving forward? Am I ready to accept that my doubts about love have nothing to do with Deidra?
She stops gazing into the franchise and turns to me for an answer.
“Come home.”
“Home?” she asks.
“Home,” I assure her.
33
THE SIZZLE OF MEAT and clink of dishes function as a background melody while I scan the Cherry Street menu. I consider my options, though I always default to the same plate. Jacoby and Tasha kick off breakfast with the usual conversation. What have you done? Where have you been? Who’s pissed you off? The latter leads to a cathartic bitch session with each of us competing for the spotlight until someone steals the moment with a captivating comment.
“My baby was stolen last night,” Jacoby says. He has an uncanny ability of dwindling my life-shattering problems to welcomed boo-boos. I peer out the window for his monstrous SUV. “I know who took it,” he adds, drawing my attention back inside.
“Then it wasn’t stolen,” Tasha says.
“She took it without my permission.”
Tasha and I haven’t met she. We
stopped meeting Jacoby’s bed buddies about two years ago because it’s a waste of time. The women come and go quickly.
“Did you call the police?” I ask.
“She can have it.”
Come again? His prized SUV is a late-model custom edition purchased brand new with good credit and a hefty down payment from a reputable dealership. More importantly, he would never let someone have anything— especially not a vehicle. I know Jacoby is far from innocent, but like a good friend, I lend my support by verbalizing thirty seconds of expletives about she and the “stolen” vehicle. Jacoby isn’t satisfied with the verbal assault until Tasha refers to the thief as “that no-good bitch.” He starts to eat again. We turn our attention to Tasha’s troubles.
She gripes about Sabrina, a friend with benefits not abiding by the rules of friends with benefits. “She called me while I was at work yesterday,” Tasha whispers to sensationalize her news.
“For what?” Jacoby asks.
“Nothing. And the other night she didn’t leave after you know what. I was too tired to make her leave so she slept over. And last night she called to ask if I would go to a concert with her and some friends ’cause they got an extra ticket.”
“She’s out of bounds,” Jacoby states.
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “I thought you wanted something serious.”
“I do, but not with her.”
“Then reel her in,” Jacoby says. “Don’t go to the concert. From here on out, fuck in her bed. And if you really wanna avoid this problem, don’t sleep with old women. Old women always want more.”
Such bad advice. “No,” I speak up. I know Sabrina in passing. She’s sweet, mature— not old— and has lots of potential. Tasha is reluctant to shift gears because Sabrina is a felon. This, however, has no bearing on her profession or lifestyle. “What’s wrong with giving her a chance? She obviously wants more. Go to the concert and hang out with her sometimes. If there’s no chemistry, at least you’ve tried.”
Looks like my words are bouncing around Tasha’s head. She waits a few more seconds and then accepts my advice. Jacoby and I approached from two different angles, but we helped our friend find a happy medium.
The Dawn of Nia Page 15