by Jane Igharo
“Azere.”
I’ve stopped barfing, and he’s stopped banging.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Rafael. You should get going. I’ll call you later.”
“When you return from mowing your mother’s lawn?”
“Yeah. I have to. It’s how I help her out.” I didn’t give up the chore when I moved out because my mother couldn’t do it, and Efe was too much of a princess to attempt yard work.
“Azere, how far away does your mother live?”
“Not far. She’s in Etobicoke.”
“What’s her address?”
“Fifteen Baneberry Crescent. Wait.” I shake my head slightly. “Why are you asking?”
“No reason,” he says.
“Um . . . okay. Then I guess we’ll talk later. I’ll call you when I get back. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I listen to the sounds that follow his compliance—feet stomping to the bedroom, clothes scuffling over body parts, and the front door creaking shut. He’s gone, and I wilt on the cold tiles and fall asleep.
When my eyes open, I don’t care to check how much time has passed. I go to bed and curl under the duvet. On the verge of another nap, my phone vibrates. After seeing the caller ID, I consider not answering before finally accepting the call.
“Good morning, Mommy,” I say into the phone.
“Good morning?” She isn’t exchanging greetings. Her tone is sarcastic. “Azere, it’s one in the afternoon.”
How long was I out?
“Azere, I’ve been calling you for over an hour.”
“I’m sorry. I was asleep.”
“You promised to cut the grass and rather than keeping your promise, you slept in and sent someone instead. What kind of nonsense is this?”
“Sent someone? Mom, what are you talking about?”
“Azere, there is a white man cutting my grass. He said you sent him.”
“What?” I sit up and press the phone closer to my ear. Maybe I heard wrong. “Mom, what did you just say?”
“Zere, are you deaf? I said a white man is currently cutting my grass.”
“Who? Who is he? What’s his name?”
“Um . . . um . . .” She takes far too long to answer, and I tick with impatience. “Rafael.”
No. No. No. This can’t be happening.
“Azere—”
“Mom, don’t talk to him. Please, please, don’t talk to him,” I say, leaping out of bed and sprinting to the bathroom. “I’m on my way. Okay? I’m coming.”
I end the call and turn on the showerhead. Cold water turns hot, and I enter the bathtub for a quick rinse. I’m not going to my mom’s house smelling like barf and sex, especially since the man who sexed me up is there, doing and saying who knows what.
Christina warned me about this. Everything is going to blow up in your face. Those were her exact words.
And she was right.
chapter
21
Driving up to my mother’s house, I see Rafael in a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He’s snapping garden scissors over the shrubs that line the walkway, trimming any outgrown leaf threatening their round structure. The scene is surreal.
I pull into the driveway and park. He’s fixated on his unassigned task and doesn’t notice me staring through the car window. I’m livid. I have every right to be. He took steps he shouldn’t have without my consent. For crying out loud, the man is at my mom’s house, grooming her lawn with precise focus like it’s his livelihood.
Why is he doing this, working under the searing May sun, performing a task that wasn’t assigned to him, a task that seems beneath his elegant exterior?
Though, right now, he doesn’t look so elegant. His windswept hair dangles above the strip of sweat that lines his brow. His white T-shirt, drenched with perspiration, has turned transparent and is sticking to his chest. Even though I’m pissed, I find myself biting my lip and lusting a little. It’s hard not to, but the question still remains: Why is he doing this? I step out of the car and approach him, ready for an answer.
“Rafael.” I stand in front of the shrub he’s trimming, and his eyes lift and meet mine. “What the hell, man?” It’s uncharacteristically hot for late May. Only seconds out of the air-conditioned car and my skin is already going damp from the heat. I ignore the icky unpleasantness and focus on my interrogation. “What do you think you’re doing?” My voice isn’t angry, but it’s curt and peeved.
“Azere.” He inspects my face, and his expression hardens. “You should be resting. What are you doing here?” he says irately, as if I’m the one guilty of an offense.
“Excuse me. What am I doing here?” Aghast, I release a breathy explosion of jumbled words. “This . . . this . . . um . . . ugh . . . is my mom’s house. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m mowing the lawn. Well, I’m done now.” He looks at the cut grass, and my gaze follows his.
Okay. I’ll admit it. He’s done a superb job. Clean, straight stripes align the short grass—a style I have never been able to achieve. It’s a good job, but it still does not excuse his behavior.
“Rafael.” My voice is gentle now; there’s no hint of irritation. “Why did you do this?”
“You were sick.” He drops the garden scissors on the grass and dusts his hands over his jeans. “You couldn’t do it, so—”
“So you drove over to do it yourself. And that’s why you asked for my mom’s address.” Unbelievable. “Rafael, do you realize how crazy this is? Not to mention inappropriate, weird, extremely creepy, and—”
“Okay,” he says, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Okay. You’re right. I overstepped. I’m sorry.” He thrusts his fingers through his hair, making each wavy lock fall backward.
“You were sick, Zere. I did it so you wouldn’t have to—so you could rest.” His stare drops to the grass. “I really didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries. I guess I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
The grand gesture is one of the most pivotal scenes in romantic movies. It’s a moment meant to accomplish one or all of three things: prove one’s love, earn a lover’s forgiveness, or win back a lover’s affection. There are many variations of grand gestures—the last-minute race to the airport where the hero stops the heroine’s departure, the big song number where the hero serenades his love interest, or the public apology followed by a heartfelt declaration of love.
In the movie Brown Sugar, the grand gesture occurs when Dre calls the radio during Sidney’s broadcast and publicly admits he’s in love with her. His exact words: “Sidney, I have loved you from the first time I laid eyes on you. And I love you still. You’re my air.”
In my complex story, there isn’t a sentimental speech. There’s just a man grooming my mother’s lawn. It’s a simple act—understated in every sense, and yet, I am floored. This man labored in the smothering heat so I would be spared any discomfort. Someone watching might not understand the significance of this gesture or see how grand it truly is. I, though, see it clearly.
“Rafael.” I touch his cheek, and his beard stubble prickles my palm. “Look at me.” He obeys, and I reward him with a smile. “I stand by what I said before. This is crazy. But it’s also thoughtful. Very thoughtful. Thank you.”
He smiles, and remorse leaves his eyes. “How are you feeling?” He takes my hand that’s on his cheek and presses it to his lips, kissing each pointy knuckle.
It occurs to me that my mother could be near. I should step away from Rafael, but then he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into him, and I forget the threat. “I’m feeling better,” I tell him. “Just a little tired.”
“In that case, let me take you home and put you to bed. And when you’re rested . . .” His lips brush the shell of my ear as he whispers something in a foreign la
nguage.
“Wow.” I look up at him, marveling. “I didn’t know you speak Spanish. What did you say?”
He translates, and after comprehending, I wilt over his chest, weak from his words. Though, when the front door squeaks open, I regain both my bearings and my wits and jerk away from him. And in that exact moment, my mother walks through the door and comes down the porch steps.
“Azere, you finally decided to show up,” she says, balancing a glass of water on a stainless platter.
“Um . . . yeah.” I clear my throat while eyeing her and Rafael. “Good afternoon, Mom.”
She doesn’t return the greeting. She walks to Rafael and presents the platter to him. When we spoke on the phone, she was upset about the white man who was cutting her grass. Now, she’s serving him.
What changed her mind?
“Look at the great job you did.” My mother smiles, admiring the neat lawn. “You are amazing.”
“Thank you.” Rafael takes the cup, and his fingers smear the drops of moisture dotted on the glass.
“Azere has been cutting this grass for years, and she has never done it like this. Look at those straight lines. Beautiful.”
I roll my eyes, and I’m grateful she doesn’t notice. “Well, he’s done now. He should get going.”
“Going?” My mother looks at me—shocked and confused— as if I’ve sprouted a second head. “Going where?”
“I don’t know. To his house?”
“No, he’s staying.” She turns to Rafael. “Right? Because Jacob is expecting you in the backyard.”
“Jacob’s here?” I blurt.
“Yes o. With your uncle. They are barbecuing. Rafael is going to join them.”
My eyes bulge. “What?”
“Azere.” My mother studies me. “Are you okay?”
When I nod, she doesn’t probe further.
“Well, I have something on the stove.” She turns and walks toward the house. “Rafael, we’ll talk about your fee later!”
“Fee? Rafael, what’s she talking about?”
“Your mom thinks I’m a landscaper.” He takes a sip of water. “She wants to hire me for the summer.” He laughs, but I don’t find the humor in the situation. “And so does your uncle.”
“You met him too? You met my family?”
“Yeah. Wonderful people. Very hospitable. Especially your mother.”
Yeah, until she finds out who you are and what you mean to me.
“Rafael.” My breaths quicken, coming through my mouth in short, shuddery explosions. “You have to leave. Right now.”
“Why?”
“Because—” As I’m about to offer an explanation, Jacob makes a sudden appearance and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Hey, cuz. How you doing?”
“Great. Just great.” I fake happiness with a tight-lipped smile. “Didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Yep. Just firing up the grill. I see you’ve met Rafael, the only landscaper I know who drives an LC 500.” He turns to the car that’s parked on the curb and smacks Rafael’s shoulder like they’re buddies. “We still going on that drive later?”
“Absolutely,” Rafael answers. “Just say when.”
They slap their hands together, then bump fists.
I watch their interaction utterly perplexed. What the hell is going on? Are they friends now? When did this happen?
“So you still coming to the back?” Jacob asks. “I’ve already got the grill going.”
“Um . . .” Rafael looks at me, seeking permission.
“Unfortunately, he—”
“Azere!” Again, I’m interrupted. This time by Jason Carter, the kid I used to babysit. He swaggers toward me, his pants hanging a little below his waist. “Hey, sexy.” He ignores the grown men in my company and gawks at me, licking his thin, chapped lips. “I smelled barbecue, saw my girl, and knew it was gonna be a good day. How about some sugar, babe?” He leans into me with puckered lips.
“Boy, what is wrong with you?” my cousin says, smacking Jason’s head.
“Hey!” He glowers at Jacob and rubs the spot where he’s been hit. “Can’t a man show his woman some love?”
Rafael is observing with amusement. Again, I don’t see the humor in the situation, especially since I’m focused on the black Mercedes-Benz pulling to the curb. The windows are tinted, but I have an idea who’s inside. My subconscious tells me to take off before this scenario gets more complex. It’s good advice, but I stand stagnant, concentrating on the pavement, watching black Nike sneakers step out of the car and move toward me. I’m not surprised when sturdy arms seize me in an embrace.
Elijah.
His biceps curve against my body, one around my back and the other around my waist. This is how he used to hold me— possessive and secure. Over his shoulder, Jason is scowling as he regards the nearness of Elijah and me. To my right, Rafael is doing the same.
When Elijah’s arms fall from my body, Jacob clears his throat, signaling for his attention. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, disdain heavy in his voice.
As Elijah holds Jacob’s flinty stare, something unspoken transpires between the former friends. Tension rises, making the hot air more unbearable. When Elijah finally gains the good sense to look away, I exhale.
“Azere’s mom invited me,” he says. “She said she’s hosting a family barbecue and wanted me to attend.”
“Well, since you aren’t family, you have no business here. Leave.”
“Look, Jacob. I don’t want any trouble.” There is a humility in Elijah’s tone, a silent plea that makes him appear vulnerable. “I just came to see Azere. That’s all. And if she wants me to leave, she can tell me that herself.” He looks at me. “Zere, what do you want?”
Four pair of eyes—Elijah’s, Rafael’s, Jacob’s, and Jason’s—are on me, all expecting something distinct. This reality is too messy. In need of an escape, I close my eyes, and another version of my reality instantly begins to play out.
I’m in an off-the-shoulder sequin gown. Three men, dressed in tuxedos, stand before me—Jason, Elijah, and Rafael. There’s a red rose in my hand they look eager to possess.
“Who will Azere pick?” Chris Harrison, the host of The Bachelorette, appears. He speaks while strolling toward a camera. “Will she try her luck as a cougar with Jason, the perverted boy next door? Or will she choose Elijah, her first love and the man who took her virginity, then shattered her heart into a million pieces? Or will Azere take a chance at a happily ever after with Rafael, her baby daddy and the non-Nigerian man she vowed never to date? Find out next week on the most dramatic episode in The Bachelorette history.”
Calls of my name pull me out of the reverie. My eyes flutter open, but a sheet of haze curtains my vision. Faces are smudges of colors that spiral. My lightweight head droops. Equilibrium is declining. Arms come around my body, but I’m not sure whose they are. There are voices around me, but they aren’t lucid. There is a world beyond my deteriorating mind, but I am detached from it. Darkness overtakes my consciousness, and I am insensible to colors and senses and life.
chapter
22
My eyes open, and I push past the mist impairing my vision. Soon, faces take form. My mother, my uncle, Efe, and Jacob are standing, observing me. Concern and fear distort their faces, making their brows furrow and their lips shrivel in deep-set frowns.
“Zere.” My mother steps forward, and I recoil from her outstretched hand.
“What’s going on? Where am I?” I take in the setting. White walls, polyester sheets atop the rigid bed I’m lying on, the grip of bandages holding the IV catheter injected in my forearm, and the mild stink of disinfectant. I’m in a hospital. “What happened?”
“Azere, you fainted,” my mom says. “I tried . . . we tried.” She sniffs and sobs. “We couldn’t wa
ke you. I thought . . .”
“Mommy, please don’t cry. I’m okay.” Am I? What about the baby? With my mother’s support, I rise to a sitting position and touch my stomach. “Where’s the doctor? I need to speak to a—”
Before I complete the sentence, a woman in a lab coat enters the room. There’s a clipboard in her hand and a stethoscope around her wrinkled neck.
“Hello, everyone,” she says. “I’m Dr. Lois Clark.” She studies the paper on the clipboard. “Azere Izoduwa.” She looks at me and smiles. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Sure. But first, let’s take this out.” She disconnects the IV catheter injected in my arm and discards it in the waste bin.
“Now. Where were we?” She glances at my family. “Azere, would you prefer us to have some privacy? Maybe they should wait outside.”
“Absolutely not,” my mother snaps. “She is my daughter. We are her family.” She gestures to the squad. “You can speak freely. Isn’t that right, Zere?”
I should say no. I should ask them all to leave and allow the doctor to deliver my news privately, but my mother’s strict stare indicates that isn’t an option. So I exhale and nod, giving the doctor liberty to speak and most likely expose my biggest secret. I’m terrified. After the revelation, everything will change. Nothing will be the same again.
“Okay.” She pulls silver-rimmed glasses from her face, showing the puffy bags beneath her fatigued eyes. “You fainted because your blood sugar levels were extremely low. When was the last time you ate something?”
“Um . . .” I had a salad and some chicken wings for dinner yesterday—a few hours before Rafael came by. Today, I ate nothing to replace the food I puked. “It’s been a while.”
“Well, in your condition that isn’t sensible. You have to—”
“I’m sorry,” my mother interrupts. “In her condition.” She frowns. “What condition?”