by Tiana Laveen
“When did—when did I have an infection?” Emily asked, confused.
“That was last week, about five or six days ago, I believe.”
“Last week?” She ran her hand along her arm, feeling the hairs rising all along. She’d lost complete track of space and time. So unlike her.
“So, how did everything go? I can leave real soon, right?”
“So far, your body is not rejecting the transplant and your graft is healing well. No problems with your kidneys, either, but that isn’t out of the question yet, so the doctor wants to keep monitoring you for a while. You’re being watched closely, no worries. You did really well. Despite that, you are looking at another week at least.”
“Another week? Are you crazy? I have a big client coming and I’m behind on work. We could be losing millions of dollars if I don’t get out of here soon. At the very least, I need to be able to work from home. I can’t get anything done here with all of this noise and constant invasion of privacy. This is unacceptable. And what about my pain? I need something for this. I feel like someone stabbed me in the chest. I can’t believe this. I cannot freaking believe this shit.”
After a brief hesitation, the nurse took a step toward her and placed her hands into the pockets of her scrub jacket. She tilted her head to the side, looking a bit condescending, sarcastic—with that plastic grin and those doe-like eyes.
“I tell you what, Ms. Windsor, let me call the doctor and he can—”
“No, screw that. I need out of here and I need some medicine and I need it now. This is fucking ridiculous. You should be fired. You are completely inept. Hell, you didn’t even offer me a damn aspirin.” The nurse’s eyes practically doubled in size. “Why can’t you do your job, and what’s with the bad attitude and crazy facial expressions?”
“Attitude?” The nurse raised a brow and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “The only person with a bad attitude right now, Ms. Windsor, is you. Offering you an aspirin would not help, and considering how you’ve been behaving, you would have had something to say about that, too. All I am trying to do is explain to you that—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Emily rolled her eyes and sucked her dry tongue that felt thick and swollen like layers of sandpaper. The flavor along her palate was abominable, as if she’d not had a drop of water in days. “Why do you need help to do your job? You people are so damn worthless. Jesus. You’re lazy. You never want to help anyone if it interrupts you watching the latest Oprah or Real Housewives show, playing games on your phone, or maybe chatting it up with your third baby daddy.”
“Uh, you know what?” The nurse laughed dismally. “I am going to have to leave before I say something I regret. They don’t pay me enough for this shit.” Shaking her head, she headed to the door to exit.
“Come back here. I am a paying patient. I have—” Suddenly, a pain like she’d never known seized her. She jeered forward and grabbed the hospital railing, shaking from head to toe. Liquid pooled in her mouth, then poured out, as if she were spitting up all over herself. One of the machines she was hooked up to began to show strange graphs, lines moving frantically up and down, as her body tremored in the most violent of ways. A loud bell began to ring, echoing through the room, making her ears hurt. Seconds later, all she could hear was scrambling, feet pounding the floor, and voices all around her.
Lie back. Can you hear us? Emily…Emily…Emily…
She gasped for air as she looked into a sky of earth-toned faces, all of them various shades of the human rainbow. Their eyes were much the same, ranging from inky black to icy blue.
Her heart beat hard, fast, and heavy within her. She’d never felt anything like that in her life. It was a foreign spirit, a rocking spirit. A beat that was forceful and commanding, one that demanded she not whisper another word.
Something had grabbed her from within and snapped her into submission.
Flashes of light came before her, as if someone was taking a photo, one after another.
Am I being taken back into surgery? She screamed when she looked to her right and saw a white casket with a spread of deep, red roses paired with a silky silver sash.
“IT’S FOR ME, ISNT IT? OH GOD. I’M DEAD. I’M DEAD.”
“She’s hallucinating,” someone yelled out.
Blackness surrounded her…
But the beating heart kept thumping so loudly, she could hear it in her eardrums like percussion. It sounded like music, a well-tuned band with the best acoustics in town. She could hear singing, the most beautiful voice, deep yet feminine and haunting, foreign and familiar at the same time. She couldn’t understand the words but somehow, she knew the lyrics well.
What is happening to me? I’m scared. I’m so scared.
*
Two weeks later
Cameron sat in the hazy apartment filled with sage smoke and incense smolder. He rested his bloodshot eyes on the box filled with Brooke’s coveted song lyric books and photo albums. It was a mere two feet away from him, sitting there like an unwanted child, shy and hated, withdrawn, drawing cold. He shuddered then wrapped the thick, black towel he was sitting on around his waist. Sniffing the air, he let it take him back to a space and place in time where life made sense.
I remember how you’d do it, baby.
It had been Brooke’s ritual. Each and every morning, she’d light sage, incense, and candles. She’d pray, meditate, whisper salutations, then return to the bed where he was undoubtedly either still asleep or playing on his phone. They’d lie down next to each other for a spell, perhaps make love, then shower together while beautiful soul music played, drifting through the open floorplan of their shared space. She’d usually finish last, towel off, wrap her gorgeous thick curls in an old towel or T-shirt to soak up water, slip on the Kimono-style robe he’d gifted to her, and head to their kitchen to prepare their first meal of the day. Some days it was fruit salad—thin-sliced kiwi, big chunks of sweet and juicy strawberries, diced pineapples, wedges of papaya and a handful of green grapes—just as he liked it. Other times it was toast or bagels with a side of quinoa, seasoned slices of ripe avocados, and huge servings of red potatoes and sautéed onions. That was one of his favorites.
He gripped the sheets impossibly tighter and lowered his head. His brain seemed to be throbbing as the torrid memories marched through his skull like ants, carting the images of her around, parading her in his mind’s eye, making him die a little bit more inside.
He blinked back the pain, fought hard and sighed with relief when he realized he’d won the battle. The recollections were tossed aside, the ants flat on their backs, out of the way. Gone.
I can’t keep going through this. I gotta get out of this funk. I can’t function. I still feel like I am trapped inside a nightmare with no way out. I’m in prison. It’s a place I can’t escape.
Running his hand over his wavy black hair he liked to keep short and needed cutting, he thought about how he’d been drinking too much as of late. One night he believed he’d blacked out, something that had never occurred before. He’d been awakened by Opium licking his face and whimpering.
More minutes passed when he sat on that bed, not moving a muscle. His gaze landed on five empty bottles of imported beer and a wineglass lying on its side as if it had fallen but thankfully didn’t break. Had he put it there? His face itched from lack of shaving, snatching him out of his deliberations.
I gotta do something about this beard that’s growing out of control.
He hadn’t had a trim since right before the funeral. He’d been doing the bare minimum—washing his ass, brushing his hair and teeth. He reached across the unmade bed, naked with the exception of a wooden beaded necklace with the colors of the African flag—black, red, and green—and glanced at a small framed picture of him and Brooke that he kept on his nightstand. He played with his hair, twirling several strands between his fingers. It felt good, just like how Brooke used to do it. He looked at the alarm clock and sighed. Her mother, Mrs. Coleman, w
ould be over in an hour, but he couldn’t move from his position, sitting on the edge of the bed they’d shared, frozen in time and space.
He scanned the bedroom and tucked his toes into the rumpled teal and black rug on the floor. The original exposed brick walls, which had been the main selling point of the apartment they’d selected after finally agreeing on a place they both liked, no longer looked the same. Something about it all seemed different, as if invisible, crude graffiti were covering the walls from top to bottom. The furniture looked different, too. The whole place had changed, and yet, everything was just as it had been. The air in the apartment wasn’t nearly as sweet, no longer scented with her essential oils and heavenly perfumes. Things were no longer beautiful, kind, nifty, smart, and soulful. They were ugly, cruel, ordinary, simple-minded, and evil.
He threw a glance over his shoulder and stared at her side of the bed. He hadn’t moved her pillow except to brush his face against it and inhale her scent. Her natural aroma was beginning to fade. Another one of life’s betrayals he’d yet to fully accept. On the side of the bed sat her old black slippers, exactly where’d she left them, and her satin magenta sleeping bonnet, the almond oil stain still prominent right in the center of it like some bullseye.
Cameron blinked back tears, balled up a fistful of burgundy silk sheets in his left palm, and closed his eyes, daring himself to fight another round—a war that was going on within himself twenty-four seven, never letting up. He swallowed. Hard.
I can’t keep this up. I don’t want anything to change, but it’s changing without me anyway. I never gave the world permission to move on without her. Don’t you people know Brooke died? Don’t you know my baby is gone? Or is it me? Am I the one that doesn’t know it? Yeah, maybe it’s just me, ’cause I still half expect her to bring her ass through that door, her jean jacket on, beanie on her head, purse on her shoulder. She’d complain about the train being late and tell stories about her microphone shorting out or someone asking to touch her hair.
Opium barked, shaking him out of his thoughts.
He smiled when the big Rottweiler made his way over to him and sat before him, looking dutiful and sad about the eyes. Cameron rubbed on his head.
“I guess I need to get dressed, huh? Can’t just sit here for hours. I showered almost an hour ago. You need to go outside, don’t you?”
The dog barked and leapt up and down. Cameron got to his feet and within ten minutes, he was dressed in a plain white, long-sleeved shirt, loose jeans, and his favorite Nike Air shoes. Opium followed him toward the front door, where he grabbed his black jacket and slid it on, then the leash from the small hanger on the wall. He hooked it onto his furry friend’s collar, then made his way out the door and down the five flights of steps, bypassing the elevator.
“All right, we gotta make this quick. Brooke’s mama is coming over to get some of her things.”
Opium pulled on his leash, eager to reach the treelined sidewalk in Brooklyn’s trendy Dumbo district. A light breeze blew the smells of the world around him, forcing them to blend and merge into something new. Some of the aromas smelled sweet like donuts and candy apples, some were stale and pungent, like a dump truck passing by.
Opium paused by a pole, sniffing it with all of his might before lifting his leg to christen it. Cameron shoved his hand in his pocket and bounced about, trying to dispel the nervous energy that was filling him like a goblet. The sounds around him seemed to amplify, voices carrying in various languages and dialects. Across the street, a bright red Corvette moved around the bend, the driver—a middle-aged White man—focused on the road.
Cameron pulled at Opium’s collar, urging him on up the block.
Nobody understood me like Brooke. We would finish each other’s sentences. She got my sense of humor, understood how my brain worked. She’d listen to me recite my poetry and let me bounce club ideas off her for hours. I trusted this woman with my secrets. She’s taken them to the grave.
He’d taken it for granted. He’d taken their card games for granted, the times they’d played Uno in the middle of their bed with a big bowl of popcorn between them, the TV on mute, the music blasting before the neighbors routinely complained.
He’d taken for granted the arguments they had. How passionate and beautiful she’d look during those heated quarrels. Even when she’d been pissed at him, she still loved him through the hurt and pain, reserving her anger only for the ones that truly had her heart.
He’d taken for granted giving her foot massages after a long day, how he’d always hoped they’d lead to sex, and she’d somehow convince him she never suspected his ulterior motives.
He’d taken for granted the way her long, floral wrap skirts hugged her gorgeous, feminine hips. He’d taken for granted the dip and arch of her neck and the specks of light in her eyes. His own filled with tears at that moment, and his chest felt like a vise around his fast pumping heart. Vision blurred from sudden moisture born of pure anguish, he stopped walking. Pressing his back against a building, he took several deep breaths as his anxiety climbed brand new, frightening heights and threatened to jump.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” he whispered to himself. “I’ve lost people I’ve loved before. Plenty of them. Shit, I’m Black in America. How could I have not? Brooke, you gotta help me, baby. I’m losin’ it. I can’t tell if I’m coming or going. I’ve smoked enough weed this week to paralyze a fuckin’ horse. I’ve drunk enough, since your death, to pickle a million men’s livers. I’m seriously losing my fuckin’ mind.” He ran his hand against his face as Opium sniffed along the cracks of the sidewalk, trying to find something of interest while he waited for his human father to get his shit together. “I can’t do this shit. Everywhere I look, I see you. I hear you. I smell you.”
You haunt me like a ghost. You kiss me good night; then when I wake up I realize our life was all a dream…
I never knew that the last time we made love would be the last time.
I never knew that the last time we danced would be the last time.
I never knew that the last time I heard you sing in our apartment would be the last time I’d hear your voice.
He took another deep breath and heard music in his head. A bomb ass tempo. He began to rock his head back and forth, beat his foot against the pavement.
And yet, that last time was the worst time, and the worst time was poorly designed.
It was like a doorway to Hell being ripped open and me being cast inside.
I can’t dance with flames. It was ocean, I wanted to ride.
I miss the dip of your love and the curve of your kiss.
I miss granting your desires and seducing your greatest wish.
I want a jet-black
blue-black
pitch-black snack.
I want my fuckin’ woman back.
I want to feel the silky universe between your thighs.
I want to see the explosion of colors in your inky eyes.
I want to swallow that day, make it all go away.
I want a blind man to see your heart and your spirit.
I want a deaf man to say, ‘Hush! Her soul? Yeah, I can hear it.’
I want the whole damn world to pause for the cause and take a look.
If you read my first and last chapter, they both are the book of Brooke.
Tears streamed down his face as he recited his impromptu spoken word piece in his mind. Starting the trek back to his apartment, he went over the verses again and again until a sad smile creased his face. Opium stopped in his tracks and launched another investigation. This one led to a russet donation of sorts. After the dog was finished, Cameron removed a plastic bag from his pocket, cleaned up the pungent deposit, and discarded it in a bin. Soon, they reached his building. As he stood outside, he noticed a cab pull up and Brooke’s mother step out. He grinned and waved when she walked, placing one foot in front of the other, as she always reminded him to do while traveling this bullshit he called life. She was a bit early, b
ut that was okay. He figured he could use the company.
“How are you doin’, baby?” she said, her colorful poncho swaying back and forth as she approached.
“It depends on when you ask me, Mama.” He chuckled sadly. “Right now? I’m in a daze. Yeah, just reading the chapters of my life, ya know? So far, I’m not really diggin’ this one. Basically, I gotta believe in something right now that I can’t see. I have to believe in an imperfect God, ’cause a perfect God would never do somethin’ like this to me. Definitely not to you. Nah, that’s just not possible. They say God is love, right? Well I’m not really feelin’ the love right now. I am feelin’ the loss, though. I only feel it when I inhale and then again when I exhale. In other words, I still can’t breathe, and with the way things are going, I’ll need to be on life support.”
Chapter Four
A Change is Going to Come
Wrapping the plush white blanket around her hunched shoulders, Emily rested her feet atop a sage-green pillow. She crossed her ankles and wiggled her dark pink painted toenails. She’d only been home a few days, and yet, things felt odd. Her home looked as if it belonged to someone else, as if it wasn’t her place anymore. Something was off, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it could be. She’d attributed it to her medications giving her foggy brain, but her typical OCD behaviors trumped that, so she kept second-guessing herself.
Had her taste in décor changed so quickly? The high-ceilinged dwelling boasted a breathtaking view, clean lines, and a selection of fine art she’d coveted. Now, however, everything seemed meaningless and cold. She wouldn’t dare admit it, but she had to sleep with the light on, fearing at times that some invisible being was watching her from the shadows, feasting on evil, waiting patiently to attack. No. That wasn’t it. In fact, on second thought, this was no boogeyman theory at all. It was a familiar stranger, if that made one damn bit of sense. Yes. She felt split in two, as if she were watching herself from afar.
I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my damn mind. This can’t be good.