Dream Girl Awakened

by Stacy Campbell

  Aruba quickly gathered her things as Winston stood to help her.

  “Aruba, talk to me. What happened?”

  “James was in an accident. He’s at Methodist Hospital.”

  “Come on. I’ll drive you there.”

  [6]

  The Doctor Will See You Now

  Aruba and Winston approached the nurse’s station as Winston held her close. He wanted to assure her everything would be fine, even if he wasn’t sure himself.

  “Hi, I need to know . . .”

  “Dr. Faulk, is everything all right?” The nurse, Susan Bills, perked up. She adjusted her stethoscope and stood, leaning close to him.

  “A patient, James Dixon, was brought here earlier. We need—”

  “The accident. Oh yes,” said Susan, interrupting him again. She skittered from the desk to the chagrin of waiting patients, motioned for Winston and Aruba to follow her, then punched her passcode to admit them to the ER.

  They stepped in stride with Susan and listened to her prattling a mile a minute. “Talk about lucky, Dr. Faulk. Somebody upstairs was dishing out a double dose of grace and mercy tonight. James and that lady, Taniqua or something, were so blessed they didn’t sustain any life-threatening injuries. I mean, with what she was doing and all, she’s—”

  “What lady?” Aruba stiffened.

  “Oh, I guess it was his girlfriend or something.”

  “What about the baby? Where’s Jeremiah?”

  “It was just the two of them.” Susan, now aware of how she’d thrown standard procedures by the wayside at the sight of Winston Faulk asked, “Is he a relative or patient, Dr. Faulk?”

  “He—”

  “He’s my husband,” Aruba said, interrupting Winston and steaming with each breath she took.

  Susan conferred with another nurse about James’s whereabouts, unaware he’d been admitted to a room shortly before Winston and Aruba’s arrival.

  “Susan, it’s okay. Just take us to the room,” said Winston.

  Embarrassed, Susan pressed the button for the elevator. They rode to the third floor in silence. When they entered room 312, James’s legs were elevated and he crouched forward to rub the bandages wrapped around his head. Susan exited the room without a word or a backward glance.

  “James, where the hell is Jeremiah?” Aruba hissed. “And who were you riding with?”

  “Why are you here with Winston? Did you have to call him to come with you?”

  “Answer the question!”

  James fell back on the pillow. “See, I just ran out for a minute to take Donnie’s sister home, and there was an accident. I just left him alone for a little while.”

  “You mean to tell me our son is home alone, right now, and you—”

  “Aruba, go home. I’ll stick around and talk to James. Just get to Jeremiah now.” Winston rubbed her shoulder before she turned to leave.

  Aruba mouthed thanks to Winston and stormed out of the room. Now a twinge of guilt hit her as she thought of how James had left Jeremiah alone. What if he’d fallen down the steps? What if he’d eaten something he shouldn’t have? What if big-mouth Susan had blabbed that a child was involved? And who the hell is Donnie? She calmed herself, tried to breathe. It made no sense for her to lose it now. Not when she was so close to escaping the hell she called a marriage.

  “Look, Doc, me and my family don’t need your help.” James grew angrier as he took in Winston’s dapper appearance from head to toe.

  “Oh, is that right? Your wife runs out of gas, hears from a nurse you’re with another woman, and your son is home alone. But you don’t need anyone?”

  “Look, nig—” James paused. “I mean, Winston, you don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a big misunderstanding.”

  “Is your unemployment a misunderstanding? Is your inability to take care of your family a misunderstanding?”

  Unaccustomed to hitting below the belt, Winston stopped. He knew he’d revealed too much and hoped Aruba wouldn’t pay for his concern with James’s heavy-handed love.

  “What I do with my family is my business. I takes care of mine, dawg.”

  Winston’s fists balled at this statement. James reminded him so much of his Uncle Sheldon. Before him was a man like his uncle. One with promise, intellect, someone who could make a positive contribution to society. If only he had direction and guidance. Uncle Sheldon proved to be the family tragedy. Got a law degree, but never practiced. Received a Ph.D., but got dizzy at the thought of sticking around to gain tenure. Concocted, invented, and sought patents for at least two thingamajigs, but didn’t have the heart to see them through. He even had committed suicide in grand fashion by leaping to his death during the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, falling near the NBC commentators. The family’s three words about Sheldon were always, What a waste.

  “Look, man, I’m not judging you. I just think you have a beautiful family and they need you, James.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Just ’cause I can’t give my family what you can, doesn’t mean I don’t love ’em.”

  “I apologize for being rude. I barged in here making accusations and I was way out of line. I’ve got to get home to my family. Call me if you need anything.”

  Winston placed his business card on the table near a pitcher of water and exited the room. He wasn’t sure what had happened earlier, but he had to strengthen his resolve. Aruba had awakened feelings he didn’t know he had. It was best to let them rest.

  Aruba’s heart raced as she climbed the stairs. The house was silent. She held her breath as she opened the door to Jeremiah’s room. He was asleep. The soothing sounds of Baby Mozart’s sleep rhythms lulled him. The track had been cued to repeat the tune. As much as she hated James’s behavior, he’d do something small that calmed her nerves from time to time. Jeremiah could sleep through a train wreck with those sounds. Still, she knew it was time for them to move on with their lives.

  [7]

  Glamour Doll

  Victoria sat in the media room upstairs, leafing through Heywood-Wakefield Blond: Depression to ’50’s. Summer was upon her and it was time to redecorate the Brown County cabin. Each year, Victoria found it necessary to decorate it for the tourists who frequented the cabin. She made a note to contact the web administrator at Brown County Log Cabins to feature the new items she planned to purchase. She wanted to please travelers paying five hundred dollars per night. After watching TCM’s tribute to Dorothy Dandridge, she thought this year would be great to add pieces from Heywood-Wakefield’s Trophy and Dakar lines. She visualized Dorothy and Harry Belafonte sitting out back on the deck, grilling corn and steaks while singing their nights and days away. Beautiful and classic. Just like me, she thought as she circled the items she’d purchase and jotted the prices on a small pad on the coffee table. Victoria paused, gazed at herself in the mirror, and smiled. She was ten years Winston’s junior and basked in the compliment that she actually looked twenty years younger. Thanks to a personal trainer, Pilates, and an aversion for the fatback, collard greens, and meaty pork chops her aunt had rescued her from when she was six, she kept her petite, size-4 frame, a perfect 36-24-36. At thirty-three, she was the spitting image of her aunt, Marguerite Mason, an actress whose claim to fame was a familiar face in lots of eighties movies as well as a video dancer and primary performer with the Isley Brothers. Victoria weighed herself daily, made Alva, her nanny, stock the refrigerator with blueberries, yogurt, and fish, and kept photos of herself throughout the house as a reminder of how beautiful God made her. The stretch marks from Nicolette were the only hiccup in her life, and she’d arranged a visit with a cosmetic surgeon to alleviate that nonsense.

  “Shopping for the cabin, I see,” said Winston. He sat next to her on the sofa, undid his tie, and leaned over to kiss her. Victoria pulled away.

  She didn’t hear Winston pull into the garage or climb the steps off the kitchen. She pursed her lips at the sight of him. “Hey, I’m deep in thought here. Announce yourself the next time.” Victo
ria flipped a few more pages, then turned to Winston. “There goes my concentration. I’ll have to get back to this later.” She tossed the book aside, her brows knitted in a see-what-you-made-me-do “V.”

  “I can make it better if you let me.” Winston winked, hoping Victoria was more frisky than frigid tonight.

  “Is sex all you think about? Is that all I am to you?”

  Winston chose not to respond to that one. If that were the case, the ink wouldn’t have dried on their marriage certificate before he bedded one of the halo-effect cuties that invented illnesses to get next to him. “Tori, I wasn’t talking about—”

  “Well, what did you mean?” she snapped.

  “Tori, I love you. I had an experience tonight that reminded me how blessed we are.”

  “Oh, did some dropout from Haughville decide he or she would go back to school because they see how accomplished you are?”

  Victoria thought Winston’s community involvement was cute at the beginning of their marriage, but now she was tired of it. The calls from high schools around Indianapolis for him to speak, the luncheons where he served as guest of honor, always bringing home trophies and awards, and the donations he rained on every civic organization known to mankind wearied her. Why couldn’t they just be alone, enjoy his success and his money on a smaller scale? Why did she have to share him with everyone? She was content being home with Alva, Nicolette, and shopping. Now he was gearing up to tell another story about some downtrodden soul who would struggle to get a GED in hopes of being like him.

  “Where’s your sensitivity, babe? This is about someone we know.” Winston rubbed her leg, hoping she’d soften and get over herself. “James was in an accident tonight. I was with Aruba at the hospital.”

  “Are you serious? What happened?” Engaged in his words, she moved closer to Winston.

  “Luckily, it was a sideswipe. He was with someone else and left Jeremiah at home. I think you should call Aruba and find out how they’re doing.”

  “Well, that’s typical. I told her a long time ago to get rid of him, but noooo, she’s holding on for dear life to a marriage that’s not worth saving.” She reared back on the couch and continued her ranting. “She’s a pretty enough woman to get a better man than James. I mean, she probably couldn’t get someone like you, but she doesn’t have to struggle the way she does. There’s no way I’d be with a man that broke and out of touch with reality.”

  “Is that so, Tori?”

  Victoria’s damage control efforts kicked in. “What I meant was she’s a hardworking person who deserves more. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “What I understand is that you’ve been staring at Heywood-Wakefield items too long. Go call your friend, Tori.”

  “Okay, Winston. I’ll call in a few minutes.”

  “Nicolette knocked out? Did Alva have a hard time getting her down tonight?”

  “She’s tired. We went shopping today and she had the quaintest bear constructed at Build-A-Bear. She’s been asleep for an hour.”

  Winston left the media room and entered Nicolette’s room, exhausted. He kissed Nicolette’s forehead, acknowledging her as his center, his sanity. The love he had for her surpassed the craziness of life with Victoria. Tori couldn’t be satisfied and he didn’t know how to appease her anymore. She complained about everything. Lately, the nagging took on a life of its own. The house was too small. “I deserve more than seven-thousand square feet.” The cars weren’t new enough. “Every Kobe, 50 Cent, and Shaq can get a Range Rover and a Mercedes. I want a Bentley.” She whined about a new ring. “I know you’re not Kobe, but can I at least have four carats? Harry Winston is calling my name.” His practice wasn’t visible enough. “If Ian Smith can host a show, why don’t you?” Seeing Nicolette made it all worthwhile, reminded him of why he chose to work hard so his family wouldn’t need or want for anything. He watched her napping, her chest rising and falling with soft breaths. He touched her hands and smiled. “Rest, daddy’s girl. I love you.”

  Winston dragged to their bedroom, removed his clothes, and jumped in the shower. He wanted to wash away Victoria’s voice, his discontentment of late, his thoughts of Aruba. He wondered how Aruba was doing, if things had turned out okay with James and their situation. He wondered how he could be there for her more, and what he needed to do to concentrate on his own union.

  [8]

  It’s Generational

  “Momma, I’m just asking you to come get me in the morning! I’ve been in an accident. I’m at Methodist.” Tawatha steadied her cell phone in one hand as she turned to secure the ties on the back of her hospital gown.

  “Honey, it’ll have to be after the kids leave for school. Plus the ‘E’ and the needle on my gas meter are close enough to make a baby.”

  “Is Mr. J.B. there? Can he give you some gas money? Maybe I can sneak outta here tonight.”

  “He’s pulling a double at the foundry. I thought you were out with Lasheera and Jamilah. They can’t bring you home?”

  Tawatha shifted in the small ER bed and fiddled with the admission bracelet on her arm. The night wasn’t supposed to go down like this. She was doleful about not convincing James that she and the kids should move in. She didn’t try to find him in the hospital, but figured he’d been admitted to a room since his business was so successful. His wife is probably in his room rubbing on him and kissing those sexy lips. If only we were married. I know things would be better for me and the kids. She pretended she wasn’t in pain and the aches were nonexistent as not to be admitted to the hospital. No health insurance. She’d been meaning to fill out the paperwork at Hinton and Conyers for insurance, but knew the bimonthly payments of $180 would suck the life out of her anemic paycheck. Her life had become a maze of shuffling her pitiful paycheck, food stamps, and under-the-table jobs that left her unfulfilled and tired. No child support, no contact with her children’s fathers, and no prospects for a new apartment. She still had to think of a lie to tell her mom.

  “Well, I got in the accident after we left Olive Garden. Sheer and Milah went to Club 7 after we ate to get their dance on, so I bet their phones are either on vibrate or shut off. I’ll just try and get a cab or something.”

  Roberta paused a moment. She had enough time, gas, and money to pick up Tawatha, but she was tired of enabling her. Bet she’s out with somebody’s man or husband. Humph. Letting her stay at the hospital oughta teach her a lesson. Roberta felt guilty for her thoughts because she realized Tawatha was a branch from her whorish tree. Only dumber. Roberta Gipson remembered all the men in Riverside, California that marched in and out of Tawatha’s and Teresa’s lives when they were small. She also rued the fact that prior to the twins, she was hopeful about moving to L.A. and owning a clothing shop, meeting a man with whom she could build a future, and providing a stable and nurturing environment for the children they would have. As one of few black students in her business classes at U.C. Berkeley, she was shunned by whites who resented her intelligence and the ease with which she grasped concepts; she was ostracized by blacks for being too white in her thinking. Whoever heard of a sista wanting to have a productive future, land, a stable life, and spouting that stupid scripture about leaving a legacy for her children and her children’s children? Her life appeared to be moving smoothly until that breezy afternoon in May as she prepared for her advanced economics final. She was seated outside in the quad near the library, wearing Levi’s bellbottoms, a floral peasant top, and leather sandals. She wasn’t afraid of basking her dark skin in the sunlight because her color accented the sheen of her Afro that was meticulously picked out and oiled each day. She fondled her wooden hoop earrings as she read. As her eyes drifted off the page, the sight of a drop-top, cranberry Cadillac convertible with white leather interior and sparkling spoke wheels arrested her. More striking than the car was the butterscotch-complexioned man who emerged from the car and strode across the walkway into the library behind her. Roberta normally associated such cars with hoods and pimps, not one
s passing through the portals of a campus library on a Saturday afternoon. Roberta gathered up her books to go back to her apartment. As she grabbed the last book, she dropped two folders, the contents strewn about by the wind. As she hastened to pick up the papers, a polished, shiny pair of Stacy Adams approached her hands, startling her. She stifled a gasp as Mr. Cadillac stooped next to her, hands held out, with a sheath of papers.

  “I believe these belong to you, Miss,” he said.

  Roberta could not contain the grin spreading across her face. Flustered, she tried to say thank you, but was silent.

  “I’m Shirley Gipson. What’s your name?”

  “A man named Shirley?” was the best response she could muster. Embarrassed, she extended her hand to him. “Roberta. Roberta Lawrence.”

  “Nice to meet you, Roberta. Yes, my mother wanted a girl so badly she named me Shirley. I get a lot of attention and mistaken identity with it.”

  She spied the book Business Policies, Text, and Cases in his hand. “Are you a student here?”

  “I’ve been discharged from the Marines, I’m a part-time student, and next fall I’ll be full-time. This is required reading for September. Never too early to start, right?” Not wanting the moment to end, he added, “Would you like to join me for ice cream?”

  Damn, a fine brother, driving a Caddy, enrolled in school, and reading to prepare himself for the days ahead? Why wouldn’t I say yes?

  “I’m there! Just let me get the rest of my things.”

  They sped away to Farrell’s for vanilla sundaes with chocolate syrup and strawberries. As they swapped stories—his about serving in Vietnam, hers about owning a business—Denise Williams and Johnny Mathis chided them both with the words, “Too Much, Too Little, Too Late.” Roberta would appreciate that omen later.

  Theirs was a whirlwind relationship. Shortly after finishing her finals and graduating, Roberta took time off before starting the job search. They traveled up and down the scenic California coast: San Pedro, Marina, Monterey, Yosemite, Big Sur, and Lake Tahoe. They picnicked at the Presidio; they made love at Half Moon Bay; they visited the wine groves of Napa Valley, and went sailing in the Berkeley Marine. September had come and gone, no job search, no job, no mention of school on Shirley’s part, and the undeniable ache of Roberta’s breasts and two months of missed periods. This couldn’t be happening to her. However, unlike the women in her family who’d gotten pregnant, deferred dreams, and abandoned them, she knew Shirley would right this wrong and marry her. As she dressed to go to Shirley’s apartment to share the news, a knock at the door halted her.