A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  After I finish, I put the plate in the sink and get a can of ginger ale and take it back to the bedroom. Shanice done turned her back away from me, thank the Lord. I take a few swigs and lay on back down. My chest is still tight, and I ain't feeling no better. Shit. I ain't in the mood for this. Not tonight. I reach over and take a puff off my inhaler and lay on back down. And wait. It ain't helping. I know I should call 911, but if I lay here for a few more minutes, maybe it might let up. Sometimes it do. You just never know. I feel like turning on the TV, but that might wake Shanice up, and I don't wanna do that when she gotta get up and go to school. Wait a minute. No she don't. Tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe if I turn it down real low she won't hear it. I pick up the remote control and some old movie is on, something I almost remember but I can't put my finger on right now. I need something to take my mind off my chest. It ain't working. Shit. My throat is closing up and I can't hardly get no air. Shit. I push Shanice as hard as I can and say as loud as I can, "Call 911."

  But it came out like a whisper. She rolls over, wipes the sleep outta her eyes, and when she see me looking like I'm gasping for air, she screams, "Granny!"

  I grab her arm so hard I know it must hurt but it's the only way I can say, "Call," again, and this time she jumps over me and dial 911 and I hear her yelling: "My granny is having an asthma attack, please send an ambulance right now to 4807 Bledsoe Avenue! It's a light-blue house! Hurry up, please!"

  Seem like I feel a little relief. "It's okay, Shanice," I say, fanning myself with my hand. "I just need to sit up and try to be still. They'll be here in a minute and it'll be all right. It's gon' be all right." I sit all the way up and fall forward, 'cause it's the only way it helps you feel like you can breathe easier. Sweat is starting to run down my face and my nightgown is getting sticky. I wish I could take it off.

  "Granny, you want me to get your machine under the bed? Want me to get it out for you?"

  I cough so hard that all this mucus comes up and when I try to sit up it feels like my neck and chest and ribs is being pulled like rubber bands. I don't wanna scare my granddaughter, but my chest is hurting again. Now my nostrils is flaring out, 'cause when I try to inhale ain't hardly no air coming in. I open my mouth and try to take little sips, 'cause it's all I can do. But now it feels like somebody got a straw down my throat blowing a tiny tunnel of air. This ain't enough. I'm trying not to move, trying not to cry, but now I'm scared. Please hurry up and get here. Please, God, let 'em hurry up and get here. Be still, Viola. Keep your big ass still. One. Two. Three. Buckle my shoe. Four. Five. Six. Shut the door. Seven. Eight. Nine. Pick up sticks.

  I hear the sirens coming up the block and I close my eyes and wait to hear that loud knock on the front door and I say thank you Jesus to myself. Poor Shanice, she been standing in that doorway watching me and watching the front door, then she disappears and I hear her open it.

  "Where's your grandmother, honey?"

  "In there!" Poor thang. She don't need to be here. She don't need to see me like this. Somebody get her outta here. Please. Two paramedics come through the door and I hear the sound of the gurney popping open and then one comes over to me with his bag and look at me sitting here with my head down in my lap, rocking. "How you doing, ma'am?" this one say grabbing that thing out his bag and clipping it to the end of my finger.

  I nod my head up and down and say, "I'm fine."

  "That's good. Don't worry, we're gonna get you fixed right up here."

  I try to grab onto the sheets and at the same time he tries to open my gown up and I grab his hand and he press that cold thing against my chest and say, "Try to calm down for a second, ma'am. I need you to take a deep breath for me."

  But I can't.

  "Come on. Let's try once more."

  I try again, but don't know if I do it or not.

  "I've got wheezing in all fields!" he says.

  I hear the other guy say, "Her respiratory rate is over 33. Can you try to relax, ma'am? We need you to slow your breathing down."

  If I could I would, don't he know that? But I can't. Just hurry up and give me something! Look at my eyes, goddamnit!

  "I'm gonna put you 011 some oxygen now and this should help you breathe easier," he says. The next thing I know that mask is covering my nose and mouth and for a minute I feel relieved.

  "Her number's still low. Get the albuterol," one says, and then I hear Loretta's voice.

  "Vy, it's gonna be okay, sweetie. Don't you worry about anything."

  I open my eyes as wide as I can, 'cause it seem like maybe some air might get behind 'em and slide all the way down to my lungs, but it don't work, and when I look at Loretta she know exacdy what I'm saying, 'cause she say, "Don't worry. I won't forget. Now, shush, and relax. Do what they tell you to do, Vy. Come on, sweetie."

  "Granny!" Shanice is crying and I can't take her seeing me like this.

  "Shanice, sweetheart, come on out here and let these nice men help your granny, dear. Come on." Loretta puts her arms around my granddaughter and now my eyes just say thank you and she put her finger over her mouth to tell me to shush-up again, her favorite thing when she think I'm running my mouth too much, and I shake my head real fast to tell her that's what I'm about to do. Is shut up. And be quiet. But thank you for taking my granddaughter outta here. Thank you for being such a good friend, Loretta. I hope she saw all that in my eyes.

  Now something is going down my throat and I know this is that other stuff they try when the first one don't work. "Her blood pressure's hypertensive: 170 over 104; and the pulse is tachycardia 160. And we have ectopy on the heart monitor. Let's watch her for a second. If no change, let's do another albuteral. How you doing, ma'am?"

  All I can do is shake my head back and forth, and I think I got this whole sheet balled up in my hand. It's too hot in here. Can't somebody open a damn window?

  "Ma'am, I'm gonna give you a shot in the arm. But I need you to sit still. And then we're gonna give you an IV and put you on the gurney and we're gonna take you to the hospital, all right? Try to relax and we'll have you there in a few minutes."

  I wish he would stop saying that! How in the hell can I relax when I can't breathe? I feel 'em sticking me with more than one needle but for some reason it don't hurt. Now I feel like I'm about to gag, and, sure enough, here come that spaghetti.

  "Oh, no, she's vomiting!"

  My head is thick and hot and now I know I won't get no more air. Even when I feel that other tube coming down my throat I know this ain't gon' work either. When they pick me up and put me on that gurney and strap me in and prop my head up, something cold slides between my legs. It's usually colder than this. My hands is puffing up. My arms is, too. I'm swelling.

  One fella picks up a litde telephone and says, "Base, this is Rescue 4. I'm in route to your facility. Code 3. My ETA is two minutes. Have a patient with a severe asthma attack. Does not appear to be getting better with the treatment given." And then he hangs up and looks down at me. "Hang in there, ma'am, you're gonna be just fine."

  I know he lying. But it's okay. It really is okay. Ain't no use fighting it no more. As much as I wanna stay and move into my new condo and go on my cruise with Loretta, this feel so much easier to do. It don't take no energy. It don't take no strength. Why'm I feeling so much better all of a sudden? It feel like I don't even need to breathe. Lord, this is nice. This is so nice.

  "She's unconscious. Her heart rate's dropping and she's turning blue."

  I ain't unconscious. And I ain't turning blue either. What island is that over there, Loretta? Is that Jamaica or St. Thomas? Where the hell we at today, girl? Yeah, I'll play a litde bridge, but only after we do some putting. Wait a minute. We home already? Cecil? You in there, baby? I know. I know. I do, I still do. You should know that. But I want you to be happy, especially after all this time. Right now, I'm happy. I don't think I ever been this happy before. I feel good. Just like I did right before I went into labor with Paris. My head is crystal-clear. I feel like I could fly and
float and turn a few flips if I wanted to. Right this minute. I could. I know I could. I feel warm and cool at the same time. Soft. Moist and lush. Like Chicago on a hot afternoon right after a good thunderstorm. Whew. What kind'a medicine they done gave me? Lord, give me some more. Give me as much as you want me to have, 'cause right now, right this very second, it feel like I got everything I need. I don't know why it took me so long to get here. Why I been resisting all these years. When I coulda had this smoothness. This calm. This ease. I can't hardly describe it. I never woulda believed it would feel like this. And it's okay. I like this. I ain't worried about nothing right now. Except my kids. Lord, what they gon' do? Please don't let 'em take this too hard. Please don't let 'em fall apart. Please let 'em remember everything I taught 'em. Let 'em find their places-the place that was carved just for them since they was born. Don't let 'em hurt too much. And especially each other. Let 'em know that the one thing they'll always have is each other. And please let 'em find out what happiness feel like. Let 'em have every drop of my courage, my guts, my strength, 'cause I ain't gon' need none of it no more. Give what I had left to all four of 'em. Help 'em to remember how to backstroke and breaststroke instead of just treading water. And please, whatever y'all do, don't drown and don't let nothing or nobody make you sink to the bottom. Y'all supposed to rise to the top, 'cause that's how I raised you. That's how I raised all four of you. To be good. And then, be even better than that. To yourself. To each other. And to everybody that mean something to you. Don't forget that I loved y'all with every breath in my body, and if I had it to do all over again-all over again-know that each one of y'all could have this last breath, too.

  Chapter 26

  Why Am I Wearing My Mama's Shoes

  I should be ashamed of myself. The phrase "shop till you drop" does not apply to me because I'm still standing. But, then again, this hotel room is small, and not by any stretch of the imagination even close to the standard suite size I'm used to staying in, in the States. But, if this were, say, a typical woman's side of a California walk-in closet (which is pretty much what it feels like), it would probably be close to full. It's wall-to-wall hat- boxes, garment and shopping bags, so many that I actually have to brush my way through a sea of tissue paper just to get to the bathroom.

  How am I going to get all this shit home? I have to save the pretty bags for Mama, because she collects them. She brags (and, from what I gather, sometimes even lies) to her bowling buddies that she's shopped in these stores, but mostly she carries them like an extra purse to draw attention, because not only do they come in such an amazing assortment of colors, but the embossed name screams out that it's not from any store in Vegas.

  I kick one of the hatboxes so that the top flips off. When I see orange, I actually giggle. I can't even remember buying an orange hat, but I don't care right now because I've had so much fun these past five days I can hardly stand it. Everyone's been so gracious and hospitable. They're all ethnically diverse chefs and restaurateurs, and they certainly know how to cook-in every sense of the word. I've eaten East, West, and South African food; East Indian dishes like I've never tasted anywhere; the spiciest, tangiest, most sensuous Jamaican fare ever, and some of the meals were prepared in private homes! I even got a chance to taste authentic Vietnamese food, although over here they call it "Eurasian"-which makes no sense to me, but it was better than any Pan-Pacific food I'd ever had.

  Last night, Bernard, a Grenadian chef, took me to some nightclub where half-dressed men and women danced in cages that hung from the ceiling. The music was thumping and I wore this "slutty" hot-pink dress I bought on Sloane Street with a pair of FM pumps that I know Charlotte would just die for. I danced so hard and long that I finally had to take them off. That was at four o'clock this morning. It felt good dancing like a madwoman. I felt like I was twenty-five again. I need to get out more often. It didn't take me all night to realize that. And I vowed to do just that when I get home. Once a month: go dancing. Even if I have to go by myself!

  As I sit here in this yellow, white, and blue floral room, it feels like I'm waking up from a dream. I've spent a ton of money, done some real damage, but I enjoyed every minute of it. At home, I never splurge. Always trying to do what makes sense. For some reason I don't understand, I didn't feel like holding back.

  I'm also feeling very sexy here, like I should've brought something satin or lacy to sleep in, but of course I didn't. What would be the point? As I kick off these slingbacks, I look around and realize I probably need to buy two more suitcases.

  I got something for everybody. Mama's hat came from Harrods and she's going to love that green bag! I got Daddy some hand-rolled cigars from Covent Garden. Shanice: an outfit from some teenybopper boutique. Right this minute, I can't remember exacdy what I bought Charlotte, Lewis, and Janelle. Dingus gets underwear from Marks & Spencer, and a weird pair of jeans. I wonder what he's doing? Probably with Jason.

  I pick up the phone and call home to see if I have any personal messages, since I haven't checked in four whole days. I'm not even going to bother calling my business line, because I don't want to know. Only three messages! At first I feel relieved, and then, immediately, unpopular. Where are my stupid pills? I drag the phone over to the table next to the sofa, open the drawer, move the Bible, and push my hand back until I feel the botde. The name on the prescription is Dingus's. Right before I was leaving to come here, I had exhausted all my "sources" for refills, but I remembered that during spring training Dingus had torn a ligament in his Achilles tendon and then, two weeks later, strained his hip flexor, so his doctor wrote two different prescriptions: an anti-inflammatory for swelling and Vicodin for pain. I took the Vicodin, because Dingus said he didn't like the way it made him feel. I wish I had that problem. There was one refill on it, and after that I called the doctor and told him that Dingus had had a litde setback, that he'd been taking the one medication called Vicodin, and since it seemed to be alleviating his pain, would he mind giving him another refill. And here they are. I take one. I'm afraid if I take two I'll run out while I'm here and then I'll be up shit's creek.

  The first message is a hang-up. And then I hear the sexy voice of the infamous landscaper who disappeared off the face of the earth. This better be good. "Hello, Paris. This is Randall Jamison calling. I know you're probably angry as I don't know what at me and you have every right to be. But, please, hear me out. First, I want to apologize and let you know that this is not how I normally do business. I mean, because you entrusted me with such a large project, I think I owe it to you to be honest and just tell you what's been going on in my life. I've been going through a nasty divorce and custody batde with my wife, who happens to have a huge substance- abuse problem. And to top it off, I just found out that she's been robbing the business blind behind my back. I've been so stressed out that it's taken all my time and energy to get everything straightened out and under control again."

  Beep.

  "It's Randall again. Your machine cut me off. Anyway, Paris, I truly apologize for any inconvenience I've caused you, and I will make it up to you. I promise to finish your yard in the next two months, and I'm willing to do the koi pond at cost. So, if you haven't fired me already, I'll actually be refunding some of your money, and real soon. I have a daughter. She's ten, and I hope 1 end up being her new mother and father, if the courts recognize the situation she's in. Anyway, I've rattled on and on, and it's only because I don't want you to kick me to the curb on a professional level. I can't wait for you to see how beautiful your yard's going to be. I won't disappoint you, I promise. So-I hope to hear from you real soon. But, please, don't be another person calling to cuss me out. Could you just pretend to be my friend and leave me a nice message? Take care, Paris. Bye."

  Holy shit. I press the three button and listen to the entire message again. Wow. A divorce? Whew. And his wife's a substance abuser? Damn. I sit down on the couch and then jump up and open the drapes and look out at Hyde Park. It's raining again. But I don't care. We must'
ve spent at least ten or twelve hours going to different nurseries looking for plants and trees, and I admit that I looked forward to each time. We talked about everything from why we do what we do to what we love about living in the Bay Area. We even debated about why it's not too late for either of us to have another child. He was rather convincing. In a warm, sincere way. I wonder what kind of substance she's been abusing? Or was it more than one? Oh, what difference does it make? And just how long have I been taking Vicodin? Shit. Almost a year.

  Something told me Randall wasn't a flake. Maybe I could stand to trust my instincts more. Even still, I decide to call him when I get back to California, which is only two days from now. It's going to take all the strength I have to wait. I get under the covers, afraid to close my eyes because, if I do, Randall's going to be under this floral comforter waiting for me, and right now I'm not in the mood for pretending. Not when there may be a possibility that I-the Petrified Woman-might actually have a real opportunity to perhaps do more than smell a man up close.

  I wake up starving. I look over at the clock and can't believe it's quarter to ten. For some stupid reason, before brushing my teeth and washing my face like a normal person, I find myself opening the Harrods hatbox. Mama's going to die when she sees this one! I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. This is a tough hat, anyway you look at it: it's black velvet and looks like a tamer version of a Dr. Seuss hat. It's not working for me. Not with this tired hairstyle. This wet and wavy look has played out, and I'm due for a new one so bad I can smell it.

  I open a shoe box and try on a pair of hot-pink, mint-green, and lavender sandals. Mama and Charlotte both would have a stroke if they saw these babies! All three of us have shoe fetishes and even wear the same size. How'd that happen, I wonder?