Dream Girl Awakened

by Stacy Campbell

She also knew if she ever had children, it would be with one man. The name Gipson was on their birth certificates, but Aunjanue deduced who their fathers were by physical traits. Each man left a little of himself with the children. Her father, Bobby Whitlow, left her with his dark-brown complexion and fiery attitude. He was the only man who stood his ground and put Tawatha in her place during arguments. Aaron Briggs, Grant’s father, left behind freckles, an overbite, and the start of towering height. At ten years old, Grant was already five-eight. Melvin Spanger, Sims’s father, left behind a lazy eye and a love for reading. Aunjanue kissed Sims’s lazy eye when he was small and told him how special he was and that she envied his unique eye. At nine, he felt gluing his eyes to books would keep others’ attention from his left eye. Nathan Porter, S’n’c’r’ty’s father, left behind spunk, laughter, and his short stature. He seemed to be so busy laughing, writing poems, and planning on being the next Walter Mosley that he didn’t have time to come around in the daylight. He convinced Tawatha to take the vowels from Sincerity’s name because it would make her popular, unique. Aunjanue decided there would only be one man for her if she ever had kids.

  “Onnie, we have bacon bits,” said Grant, interrupting her train of thought.

  “Thanks. We can pull those out just before dinner.”

  Aunjanue set the table for five. She loved the pub-style dinette set Grandpa J.B. picked out. In addition to eight chairs, he purchased a bench for the table. S’n’c’r’ty loved dining at the bench. Tarsha’s mother, an interior designer, gave them a gorgeous set of teal and brown accent pieces which Aunjanue placed on the table in the design similar to the layout in Tarsha’s house. She’d learned so much from Tarsha’s mother about how a house should look just by observing her work. Aunjanue set S’n’c’r’ty’s place at the bench, adding her Dora the Explorer dishes.

  “Onnie, the spaghetti strings are ready. I’m too little to pour that hot water out and drain them.”

  “Too little or too lazy?”

  S’n’c’r’ty giggled at Aunjanue’s question. “You know I can’t pour out the water.”

  Aunjanue grabbed a dishrag and swatted S’n’c’r’ty’s behind. “Lil bit, get the square pan out and program the oven like I showed you. We bake the spaghetti for thirty minutes, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Aunjanue finished her homework at school, so she could help her brothers and sister at home. She’d grown afraid of Tawatha’s bizarre behavior and wanted to make sure she shielded the kids from her moods. Her latest obsession was a man named James. She’d never seen the man, but she heard Tawatha calling him throughout the evenings. When Aunjanue and her siblings went to bed, she listened as Tawatha dialed his number several times. Sometimes she’d leave messages. Other times, she’d hang up repeatedly. The men her mother dated normally came around, got to know them a little better. This man was elusive. Aunjanue wondered how a wedding would take place if the potential stepfather never came around. Tawatha had purchased several Brides magazines. She cut glossy ads of dresses from the magazines and started a wedding project file that sat next to her bed on the nightstand. A representative from David’s Bridal had left a message for Tawatha on Tuesday confirming an upcoming appointment to view new arrivals in the shop.

  “The oven beeped, Onnie. We can put the spaghetti in now,” said S’n’c’r’ty.

  Aunjanue mixed the strings, sauce, and beef in the baking dish and slid the pan in the oven. Thirty minutes was more than enough time to check everyone’s homework, make sure they washed up for dinner, and iron their outfits for the following day. She would insert days-of-the-week tags she had made and laminated at school, so they wouldn’t get confused when they selected clothes each morning. It was Aunjanue’s assignment to wash and iron their clothes for the upcoming week. She closed the oven and headed toward the laundry room. Tawatha startled her when she came through the front door.

  “Hi, Momma. You’re home early.”

  “Did James call today?”

  “No, Momma, he didn’t call.”

  Dejected, Tawatha tossed her purse on the sofa and headed to her bedroom without speaking to the other children. She slammed the door, knocking down an African print hanging on the wall at the entrance of her bedroom. Grant and S’n’c’r’ty huddled near Aunjanue.

  “What’s wrong with Momma?” asked S’n’c’r’ty.

  “Probably had a hard day at work,” offered Aunjanue. The less the others knew about this new man, the better. She was in no mood to explain another man. Leave that to Tawatha this time around. “Grant, tell Sims to come in, so we can finish our homework. S’n’c’r’ty, go get the workbook I brought you from school. We’re going over the Spanish vocabulary again.”

  “But, Onnie, I don’t want to.”

  “How are you going to communicate with Blanca if you don’t speak Spanish?” Aunjanue reasoned.

  S’n’c’r’ty poked her bottom lip out, went to her room, and brought the workbook to the desk in the living room. They completed their homework in silence as the scent of spaghetti flowed through the house.

  “Onnie, I’m hungry. Can we eat now?” S’n’c’r’ty asked.

  “Go wash up, so we can eat, everybody.”

  As they washed up, Aunjanue snatched a serving tray from the side of the refrigerator. She pulled Tawatha’s favorite platter from the cabinet. She piled Tawatha’s plate with spaghetti, taking care to sprinkle the food with parmesan cheese. She fixed a salad, dousing it with Italian dressing and bacon bits. She scooped two garlic bread sticks from the cookie sheet and put them on the plate as well. Tawatha had sworn off desserts, so she left the caramel cake in the fridge. She stepped lightly toward Tawatha’s room, then rapped gently on the door.

  “Momma, it’s time to eat.”

  Nothing.

  “Momma, I fixed your plate. May I come in?”

  Still nothing.

  Aunjanue tiptoed in Tawatha’s room and placed the tray near the bed. Tawatha stared out the window just as she had the last four nights. Aunjanue didn’t know how to reach her, find out what was going on in her head. She simply wanted Tawatha to say something. She definitely didn’t want to wake up again in the morning and throw away uneaten food. Nor did she want Tawatha to spend all night dialing the phone, hanging up, and repeating the name “James.”

  [16]

  Somebody’s Got a Secret

  “So, you talking or do I have to wrestle it out of you?” asked Bria.

  “Wrestle what out of me?” Aruba grew nervous with Bria’s inquisition.

  Bria blocked the entry to Aruba’s office, twiddled her fingers on Aruba’s nameplate.

  “You never schedule mornings off unless you’re taking Jeremiah to the doctor or working from home. The glow of your skin is saying so much more than a pediatric visit.”

  “Would you move, Bria? I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

  “Not until you spill the beans. Where were you? How can I make Sidney do this for me?”

  “If you must know, I had personal business to take care of, then I went to the post office to handle some things for my territory. Check out these certified mailing receipts if you must. By the way, what does your husband, Sidney, have to do with my morning off?”

  Bria opened the door to Aruba’s office, watching her smirk melt to speechlessness. Aruba scanned six dozen roses of various hues spread throughout the office.

  “James must have spent a fortune on these flowers. I told you to have a little faith and he’d get back on his feet. If I weren’t a busybody in recovery, I would have swiped those note cards.”

  “Thank God for deliverance,” said Aruba.

  “He sent you a gift as well. I’ve heard of afternoon delights, but early morning?”

  “Yeah, yeah, get out of my business. Don’t think I forgot about Sidney sending a limo to the office four months ago and whisking you away to South Beach, then to Taiwan just because.”

  “It was our wedding anniversary.”

 
“Let’s not mention your ‘just because’ bling-bling that shows up on your wrists, or ears, or—”

  “Okay, I get you.”

  “You think you’re the only woman who deserves goodies, a little affection?”

  “I never said that. I’m happy that James is handling his business, that’s all.”

  “Don’t stand in my doorway, get back to work. Stop taunting me.”

  “Open one card and I promise I’ll leave.”

  “If you leave, I’ll share them all with you later.”

  “You’re lucky I’ve got a lot to do. Don’t leave those cards unattended.”

  Aruba laughed as Bria returned to her office. Fate always lurked in the shadows of life; reconnecting with Bria was no exception. Aruba shopped at Castleton Square Mall that snowy day six years ago when Bria approached her. Neither knew they’d relocated to the Midwest, since they’d lost touch after graduating from college. At step shows, parties, and various social functions around Atlanta, they ran into each other, waxed poetic about their childhoods. Although Bria attended Emory University, they shared common birthplaces. Bria’s family moved from Harlem to Atlanta when she was three. Bria spent her summers in Harlem, though. Each year, neighbors anticipated the reunion of chocolate and vanilla, pet names everyone gave them because of their closeness and hues. The girls played together, since Bria’s grandmother’s house was across the street from Aruba’s parents. They ran to the ice cream truck, spied on Mrs. Ransom with her male friends, and carved their initials in at least five trees in Harlem.

  They became reacquainted at the mall; their old friendship was cemented when Bria called Aruba crying at the sight of bleeding patients and the smell of antiseptic cleaner in the hospital. Aruba ribbed Bria, the registered nurse, about her career choice. She called a few friends in HR and got Bria on at State Farm. She enjoyed outings with Bria; her husband, Sidney; their friend Renae; and her husband, Darnell. As much as she loved Bria, she couldn’t share Winston with her. She’d know about him when the time was right. She was fine with Bria thinking things were good with James.

  Aruba sniffed the deep burgundy, yellow, pink, coral, lavender, and white roses. She opened the cards attached to each dozen, radiating at the single word each card contained. Magnificent. Brilliant. Captivating. Bewitching. Sweet. Caring.

  She gushed as she ripped open the gift bag. The bag contained a fragrant envelope emitting the scent Winston wore earlier. She read the invitation.

  Mr. Winston Faulk requests the honor of your presence in Chicago for drinks, dinner, and a night of entertainment at the House of Blues. To RSVP or for more details, please email me at unchainmyheart@yahoo.com.

  Aruba turned to her computer to respond to Winston when Bria stuck her head in the door. “Did you forget the interviews?”

  “Interviews? Today?”

  “Oh, you don’t need an assistant anymore? I’m just glad they’re letting us choose our own people this time. I didn’t care for the last guy they stuck me with. All he did was surf the net, eat, and tell me what wasn’t in his job description. You’re lucky. I did the last three interviews. You can have the last one.”

  Bria placed the résumé-filled manila folder on Aruba’s desk. “I had some pretty impressive candidates. All of the candidates are overqualified if you ask me. I think your person, though, was handpicked. You be the judge of the qualifications.”

  Aruba was in no mood to interview anyone. Her mind raced with thoughts of what she’d wear to Chicago, what lie she’d tell James. How good her poker face would be with Victoria. She leafed through the folder, glanced at the résumé, then walked to the lobby to get the candidate. She mentally shopped her closet for outfits for the special occasion, hoping just the right thing would make Winston consider spending a lifetime with a woman who appreciated him. As she reached the young woman watching Dr. Phil, she looked over the résumé once more.

  “Ms. Lasheera Atkins, follow me.”

  [17]

  Your Office Hours are 9 to 5

  Lasheera fidgeted with the charm bracelet Tawatha and Jamilah had purchased for her interview. She jumped when the elegant woman beckoned her.

  “Hi, I’m Aruba Dixon and I’ll be interviewing you for the Administrative Two position.”

  “I’m Lasheera . . . oh, you know my name. Nice to meet you,” Lasheera said as she stood to shake Aruba’s hand.

  “My office is this way.”

  Lasheera walked behind Aruba, past a long corridor of offices. She wondered if John Coffey felt this way, walking the Green Mile. The double cheeseburger she had wolfed down at McDonald’s churned in her stomach. She felt nauseated and wondered where the hints and tips provided by her job coach disappeared. The one thing Lasheera remembered Brenda, her job coach, saying was to be candid but not too honest. Brenda said a good interviewer’s job was to make a candidate comfortable enough to reveal unsavory work habits. The questions she’d rehearsed came and went. She wondered why she’d let her attorney, Mike Requeno, talk her into working in an office setting. The other options were culinary arts or corrections. She feared salmonella outbreaks and was too vulnerable to be around prisoners. She could see herself giving some handsome D-blocked brother the key to escape if he said the right words to her.

  She felt inadequate walking behind Aruba. I wonder if someone ridiculed her about her name. Everything about her was refined and chic. Lasheera looked down at the oatmeal-colored suit her girls had selected and wondered if she looked professional. They even sprang for a new hairdo. She felt good about the haircut and had asked the beautician for The Rihanna. She had visited the MAC counter for a consultation and walked away with a new face and a complete palette for the new Lasheera. Her stomach churned again at the thought of having to address the lapses of employment on her résumé. She hadn’t held many jobs because of her addiction, and now she wondered if she could learn a new skill set. The only job she’d held was a six-month stint at Panera Bread which ended when she was a no-call, no-show three days in a row. Up until her disappearance with Lean On Me those three days, she’d done well with the company. She had begged the manager for her job back, but he said if he gave her a second chance, the other employees would be livid.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Atkins.”

  Lasheera sat in a chair across from Aruba’s desk. As Aruba scanned Lasheera’s résumé, Lasheera looked at the photos lining the credenza. She eyed the tall, dreadlocked man on whose lap Aruba sat, smiling. Next to that was a family photo of the beauty king, Aruba, and a handsome little boy whose cheeks Lasheera could kiss for days. Damn, her dude is so fine. How’d she get that lucky?

  Aruba eyed her watch. Twenty minutes for the interview was a waste of her precious time because Lasheera already had the job. When Mike Requeno spoke, the company president listened and complied. Dan Cholly golfed with Mike in the evenings and everyone in the office joked about their bromance. She perused the yellow sticky notes Bria had placed on the résumé per Mike’s conversation. She knew Lasheera was trying to get her life back together and had little job experience. She would be delicate in the questioning process. Looking at the skinny young woman before her, she sought what the makeup, haircut, and suit couldn’t cover. She seemed frail, unsure of herself. She decided to put her at ease, make it an informational interview, since she was going to hire her anyway. She had to get back to Winston and the Chicago trip. Aruba passed a laminated sheet of paper toward Lasheera.

  “Ms. Atkins, these are the essential job functions for the position offered. Please take a look at them and let me know if there is anything on the list you’re unable to perform.”

  “Mrs. Dixon, you can call me ‘Lasheera,’ ” she said, taking the list.

  Lasheera read the list, then passed it back to Aruba.

  “I’m confident I can perform all the tasks listed.”

  “Good. So, Lasheera, of all jobs on the planet, why are you at State Farm?”

  “I want to learn something different. I’m looking for a ne
w career, not just a job. I would like to have a decent income, health insurance for my son, and the possibility of a promotion in the future.” Lasheera recited the prompts from coaching sessions.

  “How much money do you expect to make from this job?”

  “The advertised position is twelve dollars an hour. I think that is a good salary.”

  “How long do you plan to stay with the company?”

  “At least four years. I read about the tuition reimbursement and I want to utilize it for school. I’d like to pursue a degree in marketing or business.”

  “Why should I hire you?”

  Lasheera took in a deep breath. She knew the answer to this question could be interpreted so many ways. She didn’t want to sound too arrogant, but she didn’t want to sound as if she lacked the confidence or ability to perform the job.

  “I’m hardworking, willing to learn new things, and I’ve always respected State Farm as a company.”

  Aruba continued her questions, impressed that Lasheera answered everything. She seemed genuinely enthused about being her assistant. The job was filled with filing, data processing, and a few other duties she’d teach Lasheera in the coming months. She had a good feeling about her and looked forward to getting to know her better. After Lasheera produced a list of questions from her purse about State Farm and the job itself, Aruba knew the interview was a good one. She’d have to call Mike and thank him for sending such a wonderful candidate.

  “Welcome to State Farm, Lasheera. How soon are you available to start?”

  “I can start today if you’d like.”

  Lasheera walked around Aruba’s desk, then hugged her.

  “No, we’ve got to get your paperwork together and there are a few things I need to do before you start,” said Aruba. She wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but felt compelled to embrace Lasheera. “Let me take you around the office, show you where everything is and introduce you to some folks.”

  Lasheera fought hard to contain her grin as she followed Aruba, shaking hands with several people in offices and cubicles. Try as she might, she couldn’t. She’d been unemployed so long that she’d almost given up. She had the thank-you note Brenda had helped her write in her pocket, but she would write a new one for Aruba. She appreciated the opportunity to begin anew and felt a sense of loyalty to the woman who made it possible. The minute she left State Farm, she’d tell Tawatha and Jamilah about the woman responsible for helping her get Zion back.