A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  "Okay, then. Hold on and I'll put Sylvia back on to set it up, and I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

  "Wait! But what about today?"

  "Are you in that much pain?"

  "Yes I am."

  "Have you tried Tylenol or Advil?"

  "They don't work."

  "I'll call in six Vicodin. That should get you through until tomorrow, and we'll see if we can't get you fixed up. Take care, Paris. Here's Sylvia."

  After scheduling the appointment, I know full well I'm not going to see him tomorrow, because there's nothing wrong with my tooth. The kind of pain I'm feeling doesn't ache or throb. In fact, I think I'm finally starting to catch on that it's not pain at all. I want to be distracted. I want not to care what happens one way or another. I want things not to bother me. I would like to be more nonchalant, less emotionally charged up. The problem is, a lot of things bother me that I wish didn't. Things I can't control. When I take one or two pain pills, it helps me pull back, hand the reins over to the gods in charge.

  Fortunately and unfortunately, I happen to care whether or not my son is going to be a father at seventeen. I care whether or not my mother is going to be happy living in her new condo, alone, without Daddy there to irk her, but with her new teeth, driving her new car. I know that's not going to be enough. Even though I'm pissed at Daddy for what he's done and how he left, I'm worried about him, too. I'm worried that this young chick is using him, and what'll happen when she's through with him. I don't want to see him hurt either. Don't want to see him kicked to the curb. He doesn't deserve that. Not at his age. He's worked too hard for too long. All of us know that Mama shut him out a long time ago. We all saw it. But what can you do to fix your parents' lives when yours isn't perfect?

  I'm lonely. I admit it. But it's not something you want to go around broadcasting-don't want to share it with the world-especially your family- world. It's embarrassing, really, to be lonely. It makes you feel inadequate in some way. Like you don't measure up in this area of your life. It doesn't even seem to matter that I'm successful, because I feel like a failure as a woman, and I hate feeling like this. I know it doesn't make any sense, and I've tried to trick myself into believing that it's okay to be lonely, that it's not the end of the world, that I'll survive, but it still makes me feel like I'm lacking in something. Missing out on what other people have. In some ways, it even seems like a form of punishment, except I can't figure out what crimes I've committed.

  This is just one more reason on the list I can think of as to why I've been taking so many of these stupid pills. They're no panacea, I know that, but they have helped me not think about how long it's been since I've been kissed and held. They help me forget all about passion. I honestly wish that my son's love was enough to sustain me. Wish my work was enough, but obviously they're not. And until I can come up with better, smarter solutions, this is just a temporary thing.

  "Hi, Ma," Dingus says, coming through the door with the mail. He bends over and kisses me on the cheek and drops the pile on the kitchen island, then lets his backpack crash to the floor. He goes through each envelope, magazine, and catalogue and pulls out what apparently are eight or nine more letters from colleges. I think he's up to about eighty of them now. He keeps them in shoe boxes under his bed.

  "Hi," I say, not budging from the stool I'm still swiveling on.

  As usual, he opens the refrigerator to see what he doesn't want, closes it, then changes his mind and grabs the gallon carton of orange juice and goes into the pantry to find a bag of cookies or chips-it doesn't matter-and comes out and heads toward the hallway. But before he reaches the doorway, I say, "Hold it!"

  He stops dead in his tracks. "Yes, Mother Hubbard," he says, turning to face me.

  "Would you look and see if there's a fax in there?"

  He disappears and immediately returns, holding it between his teeth. "It looks like directions," he says.

  "Thanks. Now sit," I say, taking the paper from his mouth.

  "But I've got tons of homework and I need to clean my room."

  "I said sit. Your room was dirty yesterday, it can wait. And homework isn't that important."

  "What?"

  I knew this would get his attention. "I want to know what's going on with you and Meagan."

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

  "I overheard something on the phone a while ago that didn't sound like it was about nothing."

  "Oh, you mean about her maybe being pregnant?"

  "That would be it."

  "She made it up."

  "What do you mean, 'made it up'?"

  "She was faking. Scheming. Trying to run a game on me."

  This is a relief, but something's still not right about this whole thing. I have a sour taste in my mouth. "Okay, so, Mr. Sex Machine, she 'faked it' this time, but what about the next time you decide to get on top of her without a goddamn condom? What if it's when you're about to head off to Stanford or UCLA or US-fucking-C! Do you think she'll fake it then?"

  "Ma, settle down. It's okay. I'm not seeing her at all anymore. Bet."

  "Bet, my ass. Don't be so stupid, Dingus. Girls do this shit every day of the week. Back in the seventies and eighties . . ." And then he gets that "here-we-go-again" look on his face, but I really don't care. "Look, this is the little game pretty girls played who didn't have a future of their own mapped out. They'd get these jocks who were headed for the NBA or the NFL or the major leagues all strung out and so grateful to have them as trophies that they'd marry them, and these girls would be set up for life. The point I'm trying to make here Dingus is this: love who you want to and I don't care what color she is really, but know that the ones who don't have at least a two-point-seven grade point average-and aren't thrilled about the idea of going to college-are the girls who usually have an agenda. They want to marry up and they want to marry well. But when and if they ever divorce you, it's pretty much bankruptcy for you. So you won't have too much left to offer the next wife and new batch of kids. It'll be a struggle, even though you might be making millions. Get the picture?"

  "I get it, Ma! Dag. I get it! Why don't you take a chill pill?"

  "I have taken a chill pill," I say, not meaning to.

  "Can I say something here to defend myself?" he asks, walking over and patting me on the head.

  "I'm listening," I say, trying to duck away from his hand.

  He gets a big grin on his face. I wish his daddy could see him now. "Okay. I'm not being as irresponsible as you think, Ma. I did use protection, and I was told that there had been an accident but now I know exactly what time it is, so no worries. She thinks she's clever, but do not fear, Mother Dear, I will not be throwing away my future over some girl, regardless of what color she is. Comprende?"

  "Comprende," I say, feeling relieved as hell. "What ever happened to Jade? If you don't mind my asking."

  "We're cool."

  "What does that mean, Dingus?"

  "It means I like her, Ma."

  "Why doesn't she ever come visit?"

  "Why should she, when I see her at school?"

  "I mean to watch a movie, or for dinner, or something. Do you ever take her anywhere? I mean, do you guys ever go on a date?"

  "We go to the movies once in a while."

  "Take the girl on a date, Dingus. Spend some of your allowance on her."

  "Okay! But can we please quit now?" he yells.

  "Okay!" I yell back.

  "She's my date for junior prom."

  "Hallelujah."

  "Anything else while I'm standing here?"

  "Actually, there is. I have to run out to see a client in Hillsborough so you can order a pizza or something. But-remember when I canceled my London trip when Granny got sick?"

  "Yep."

  "It was rescheduled, and I'm going over sometime in early June."

  "I wish I could go with you."

  "Why can't you?"

  "Ma. Spring training leads to summer training, plus I'll have a job, remember?
"

  "Yeah yeah yeah. I'm trying."

  "Any parting words?"

  "Yes. Get out of my face and make sure that room is clean by the time I get back. Or else."

  "Yeah yeah yeah. I'm shaking all over," he says in the good-spirited way I love.

  It's four-thirty. Rush hour. What the hell am I doing on the 680 Freeway at this time of day? Oh hell! I'm stuck trailing behind some hippie driving a lime-green Volkswagen bug with that Westphalia thing on top, which I have never figured out what the hell it's for anyway, and of course they're driving below the speed limit and I can't change lanes. Other drivers are just whizzing by us, like the two of us are in some kind of tailgating party. How stupid could I be to have scheduled this meeting at this hour on a weekday? I feel myself grinding my teeth, and I hate it when I do this. I reach down for my purse, but when I look inside that orange plastic bottle, only two pills are rattling in the bottom of it. Shit. I'm somewhat surprised when I feel myself panic over this but then I immediately feel a sense of relief knowing that I have six more waiting for me at the pharmacy. But wait a minute: only six? Those'll get me through one whole day, but what about the next day? The pharmacy closes at nine, but, hell, I'm a long way from home and I don't know if I can wrap this up in two hours or not. I'm going to have to. Simple as that. Or-I could call and ask Dingus to pick it up for me, but I don't know if he has any money or not. Shit. Why didn't I think of this before?

  I pick up the car phone and speed-dial my regular doctor. He's so nice. He reminds me of Dr. Welby. The receptionist answers. "Yes, hi, Lisa, this is Paris Price calling, and I was wondering if I could speak to Dr. Lerner."

  "He's with a parient right now. Is it an emergency, or something that can wait a few minutes?"

  "Sure, I can wait. Should I call him back?"

  "Why don't you do that. Ten minutes would be good."

  "Okay," I say and hang up.

  I look at the clock. It's 4:45. His office closes at five. Traffic is picking up, moving a litde better at least. I'm almost on the 580, but still have to go over the Dumbarton Bridge and then drive another twenty minutes or more. Shit.

  I dial my answering machine to listen to my messages, because I was trying to finish up the final proposal for this meeting and didn't answer the photic all day. "Hello, Paris, this is Frances Moore, and I do so apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you, but I've had a death in the family and have had to fly to Boston, so I won't be able to personally meet you today, but you can feel free to come out and look at the house. Sophia, the housekeeper, will let you in, and you can take your time and look around for as long as you like. I should be back in four or five days and I'll look forward to hearing your thoughts. Goodbye."

  I'm sorry to hear that she has a death in the family, and I sure feel like turning this car around and going home. But of course I'm almost here now, and it would be stupid, because I'll just have to come back anyway. Actually, this is great, because now 1 won't have to talk to her. I can just cruise through the house to get an idea how we can use the space and I'm out of there.

  Message two: "Paris, you there? This is Mom calling. Pick up. She ain't there. Okay, then. Anyway, I just wanted you to know a few things. First of all, my teeth look good but they hurt like hell and the dentist said it was gon' take a few weeks to get 'em adjusted just right, but I look like a million dollars when I smile now. And since it's been so hard for me to chew, I done lost nine whole pounds. If I'da known I could lose weight this way, I'da got me some new teeth a long time ago. Anyway, baby, I get to move in my new place next week. They repainting the whole place even though it don't really need it, and I picked out a different color carpet I like and I need to know if you can do me a big favor and I promise not to ask you for nothing for a long long time, I promise. Can you let me borrow or either just send me two thousand dollars so I can put this dining-room set in layaway at Thomasville that would look so good in my new place, and to pay for the difference in the upgrade for the carpet? If it's asking too much, I will understand. You done done enough for me, but I'm just excited. Love you. Call me as soon as you get this message. And tell my grandson to call me!"

  Mama Mama Mama. She loves her some Thomasville, I swear. Nine pounds? She also loves to exaggerate. I'll have to see this to believe it. I should ask her to take a picture, and I bet she comes up with some kind of excuse. She's too much. But I love her to death. She's having the time of he r l ife right now. Living in a fantasy world, which she and all of us deserve to experience at least once in our lives. So-yes, Mama, you can put your dining-room furniture in layaway and get your upgraded carpet and move into your almost-but-not-quite-new condominium.

  Message three: "Paris, this is your sister, Janelle. Hope you're doing okay. I'm better. Want to talk to you, about George. Among other things. But. I've had him arrested. I know you're not surprised, but call me when you get this message. Oh, and by the way, our brother's in jail again. He goes to court next week for sentencing. He's probably going to get the electric chair. I'm just kidding, and I know I shouldn't be. But, anyway, he shouldn't get more than a year. I'm surprised he hasn't called you. Have you talked to Charlotte lately? She's going through some serious changes. But then again, aren't we all? Call me. Hi to Dingus."

  Wow. Damn. As the World Fucking Turns, again and again and again. I dial Dr. Lerner again, and when the receptionist answers and I tell her it's me, she puts him right on. "Hello, Paris. What can I do for you?"

  "Well, Dr. Lerner, a few days ago I was jogging and I pulled a hamstring and fell on the pavement and I went to the Emergency Room and they checked me out and I was fine but they gave me some medication for the pain and they told me to follow up with my regular doctor, and I'm calling to see if you can give me a refill on the medication because I'm out of it and it's still hurting something fierce."

  "Oh, gee. When did this happen?"

  "Four days ago."

  "Was it on the Iron Horse trail, by chance? I've taken a few bad falls along there myself."

  "As a matter of fact, it was."

  "Gotta be careful. So-you saw someone in the ER over here at the Regional Medical Center, did you?"

  "Yes I did, but I can't remember who I saw."

  "It's okay. I know all those guys anyway. But what kind of pain medication did they prescribe for you?"

  "I think it's called Vicodin, and it has an 'E. S.' after it." "Un-huh. You must've taken a pretty hard fall. You have bruising, do you?"

  "Sure do."

  "I'll call in twenty for you. Would that hold you until I can get a look at you in a few days?"

  "I'd like to think so, but, unfortunately, tomorrow I'm going out of town for a week, so maybe we should make it for thirty, just in case?"

  "No problem. How about we just make it for forty, and this way you won't have to worry about having any discomfort?"

  "Thanks, Dr. Lerner."

  "What pharmacy should we call?"

  "Walgreen's in Danville."

  "We'll call it right in. Are you icing it?"

  "I am."

  "That's good. And keep your foot propped up as high as you can, to keep that blood circulating."

  "I'll do that. Thanks, Dr. Lerner, and I'll call you as soon as I get back."

  "Have a good trip," he says.

  As soon as I hang up I feel both relief and shame. Why am I doing this? Lying to my nice doctor to get some pills I don't need? I mean, how long have I been doing this? Think about it, Paris. It's not until now that I realize I've long since driven over the bridge and am actually approaching my exit. As I start to change lanes, someone is honking at me, and when I turn to look, it's some guy in a truck holding up a giant rubber hand that's giving me the finger. I guess I must've cut him off, but I just give him the finger right back. When I get off the freeway, I pull the car over and stop and drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.

  But I can't think. Of anything. And almost as if by rote, I reach inside my purse and dump o
ut my last two pills and open my water bottle and swallow them. I drop my head against the cushion, but this time it seems as if knowing I've paved a way for my immediate comfort, I can perhaps begin to think about when my so-called long-term discomfort first started.

  Last year. Right after I had my breasts lifted and they prescribed Vicodin and I realized that I liked the way it made me feel. That I could think about one thing at a time when I took one. Even then I wasn't in that much pain, nothing a couple of Advil couldn't have remedied, but I remember getting the refill when I didn't need it, and later calling that doctor back and asking for yet another one, and he gave it to me. I did that four times in four weeks. It was right after that, that I had the first of a series of gum surgeries and once again I felt lucky when I was prescribed the same medication.

  Back then, I took one every four hours, just like I was supposed to, but now I do believe that I'm up to six and sometimes eight of these things a day. How and when did this happen? I'm nobody's drug addict, am I? Is this what they mean by getting dependent? No way. No fucking way. I just won't take any more. Period. I can get through a day without a pill. It's not like they cure anything. They haven't fixed anything. Haven't changed anything. Problem solved. I'll just stop taking them and grow up and face the fucking music. I mean, what am I complaining about anyway? I live a good life. I've got lots of money. A nice big home. A good kid. I'm alive. And I'm no drug addict. No fucking way.

  However, I am truly shocked, ashamed, and embarrassed when I realize that I'm weaker than I thought, because, after the housekeeper gives me a tour, and upon reaching the master bedroom, when the doorbell rings and Sophia excuses herself to go downstairs to answer it, I find myself rushing into the master bathroom and opening one of two medicine cabinets that look like shelves in a pharmacy, and I pass right over the Percodan, the Per- cocet, the Darvocet, as well as the antibiotics, Prozac, and Xanax, until I spot two giant bottles of Vicodin. I quickly open one and dump a pile into my palm and then drop them into my jacket pocket. I do the same thing with the other botde and then close the medicine cabinet and walk out into the hallway. When Sophia comes back and asks if there's anything I need, all I can think to say is that a glass of water would be nice.