A Day Late and a Dollar Short

by Terry McMillan

  "Does the name Meagan ring a bell?"

  "She doesn't count."

  "I don't see why not. But that's beside the point. I thought Jade was a nice girl."

  "She is a nice girl. I love her. And just because she slept with me doesn't make her a slut."

  "Did you hear me call her a slut?"

  "No, but you're implying it by your tone."

  "Don't tell me what my tone implies. And don't try to put words in my mouth either. Where's my purse?"

  "Right in front of you, Ma."

  When I pick it up, that's when I remember that what I'm looking for isn't in it. Which means I have nothing to rescue me from this bullshit going on in front me. Nothing. I'm waiting for the Smart Side of Me to step up to the plate and deal with this, but she must be dozing or something, because, the next thing I know, I hear myself say, "I forgot my wallet at the store. We have to finish this conversation when I get back."

  "I can go get it for you."

  "No! I'll get it myself," I say, and fly out the door. Before I even know it, I'm back in the parking lot. With the engine running, I turn my brights on and try to look nonchalant as I search the pavement for white pills. I don't see any. This is impossible, because I just tossed them out here! I walk around in circles and then stand in the spot where I parked before and try to imagine every possible direction they could've rolled in, and that's when I notice that parts of the pavement are wet. The sprinkler system has been watering these fucking little trees, and when I go over and stand next to one, I finally see something white. I bend down and with one fingernail, scoop up what is now apparently a pile of gooey white paste. I can't. I won't. And I don't.

  When I get home, Dingus is in his room. I knock on his door and don't wait for him to tell me to come in. I sit down on the edge of his bed. It's hot in here. Very hot. "Talk to me," I say.

  "I don't know what to say, except she's pregnant."

  "And? When is she going to get the abortion?"

  "Who said anything about an abortion?"

  I know he didn't just say what I thought he said. "Have you gone and lost your fucking mind, boy?"

  "Ma, please don't swear at me. I don't like it. And you promised you would never use that word and you just used it."

  "Fuck you, Dingus!"

  He puts his head in his hands and covers his ears. "Look, Ma. I messed up. We messed up. But I'm willing to accept responsibility for this."

  "So-does this mean that you just want to throw away your chances for a scholarship and forfeit college because of a girl?"

  "No."

  "You mean you're not planning on making me proud by becoming a high-school dropout? I mean, it's what we've worked so hard for, isn't it, Dingus?"

  "Who said anything about not going to college? And I wouldn't dream of dropping out of school."

  "Are you going to take Jade and the baby with you?"

  "If I have to, yes."

  "This is sweet. What about her parents? How do they feel about this? I betcha her father won't have to search for a topic for this Sunday's sermon, you think?"

  "They don't know yet."

  I slap him upside his head so hard it stings my hand. "Oh, but they will. And you're going over there first thing tomorrow morning to tell them."

  "Ma, will you come with me?"

  "Not this time, buddy. You're on your own. Wait. I forgot. Ask your father for advice, since you two are so chummy-chummy these days."

  "I don't know if I trust his judgment all that much."

  "Really? And why is that?"

  "He's kind of phony and too hung up on his image."

  "Surprise, surprise. Well, whatever you and your in-laws decide to do, I'll just go along with the program. Especially since you and the missus already have it all figured out. Good night."

  "Ma, don't leave! I don't know what to say to her mother, and especially her dad. Help me out here."

  "You should've thought about that when you didn't slide that condom on. Sleep tight, Dingus."

  I slam the door behind me. I'd like to strangle his stupid ass right now. Like to knock every single one of those trophies off" the shelves and throw them out the window so they land in the trash, because I wonder if he'll be reminded where he was headed while he's changing Pampers, searching through the classifieds for a job that pays more than minimum wage, and trying to watch Monday Night Football all at the same time?

  In the morning, I'm surprised I don't have the shakes like alcoholics get when they can't get a drink. But I don't. When I check to make sure Dingus is up, he's already gone. I decide to do exacdy what I'd planned to do today, before I found out I might be a grandmother. And I'll do it without pills.

  I'm going to walk that reservoir in Lafayette, which is about three miles around, I don't care how long it takes. I'm going to a place to detoxify my body. A year ago, one of my clients gave me a gift certificate for a week at a luxury spa in Arizona that they swear is like ordering room service for the soul. They go twice a year to regroup, to clean out their bodies and minds, but mosdy to prevent what they call "major burnout." I've read the brochure at least a hundred times but never felt like I deserved or earned th e r ight to blow off an entire week doing nothing. But, then again, I've never felt a need to learn how to manage the pressures of daily living until now. Never thought I could get any real benefits doing yoga or tai chi or even meditation. Never knew I needed to be still. Never knew I didn't know how. I've never even heard of the term "mindful" before, but I like the idea of living in the present instead of always projecting and stressing about tomorrow or next year. And the thought of having my body polished and scrubbed and wrapped in seaweed or soaking in a tub of hot water with 109 jets going, sounds almost too good to be true. I would certainly be willing to try a deep-tissue or hot-stone or cranial-sacral massage.

  And of course I've never thought anyone knew me better than I did. So why would I need anything to promote "self-discovery"? What's left to discover? Wait a minute. Charlotte accused me of being a control freak. And maybe she's right. She basically said I was a manipulator, which I disagree with, but I do know how to get what I want. She said I'm bossy. And I can be. That I think I'm always right. Not true. I can admit when I'm wrong. That I feel I'm the only one who can get things done. I do not. In all honesty, by the rime I explain the shit and wait to see if it's done right and in a timely manner, half the time I could've done it faster and better myself. That's just the way it is. But maybe I get on other peoples nerves, too. And not just hers. I'd also like to learn how not to care so much. So-the Smart Me understands that it wouldn't hurt to find out why the Vulnerable- Scared-Lonely-Has-to-Be-Perfect-at-Everything Side of Me has been hiding with the swallow of every pill. I do want to return to my senses. I want to feel a sense of balance. I want to not have to be everything to everybody, and I also want to forgive myself for not being perfect. I just wonder if any of this stuff can really happen at a place like this. We'll see.

  When I hear a tap tap tap on my door, I'm wondering what Dingus is doing back so soon. It's only nine-thirty. "Come in."

  He's wearing his school colors: purple and gold. He walks over and kisses my forehead. "Are you feeling any better this morning?" he asks.

  "As a matter of fact, I'm not."

  "I'm totally sorry, Ma. I couldn't sleep, so I went over there early."

  "So what happened?"

  "Her parents are pissed at both of us. They asked Jade if she was ready to be a mother."

  "And what did she say?"

  "She said no, but it's a price she's willing to pay for making a mistake."

  "And what'd you say when they asked if you were ready to be a father, which I'm sure they did?"

  "Her dad did. I basically said the same thing."

  "And?"

  "And we talked about our college plans, our goals and stuff, like once we're out in the real world, and . . ."

  "And what?"

  "She's not having it."

  "You mean to tel
l me that a preacher's daughter is going to have an abortion?"

  "Yes."

  "How is that possible?"

  "Because her parents said that times have changed. And, plus, they said Jade has plans. She's got a three-point-eight-seven GPA."

  "So do you, dummy!"

  "I know. And she's been getting scholarship offers. She's a very good writer. And wants to major in journalism."

  "Did you tell them what you want to do besides play football?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "I told them I'm planning to go to med school. That I'm majoring in biology and chemistry."

  "Thank you very much. What else?"

  "Well, they asked us, if we could do this all over, would we do it differ- endy, and we both said yes. And they asked if we wanted another chance, and of course we both said yes again."

  "And that's it?"

  "Yep. But I have to pay for it."

  "You certainly should."

  "That, plus we both promised to go to these teenage church groups to talk to them about the dangers of having unprotected sex. Once a week for the next nine months."

  "Good. Do you still plan 011 dating this girl?"

  "1 think we're going to chill for a little while."

  "And you're sure about this?"

  "Ma, I know I messed up big-time. I was major scared, and then, when you made me deal with this by myself, it became crystal-clear just how much was at stake. So-don't even worry about this anymore. And thank you." He turns to leave.

  "Wait, I have something to tell you, too."

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, you know how testy and mean I've been lately?"

  "Sort of,"

  "Anyway, Dingus, let me just be honest. A little over a year ago I had some dental work done and then ... I know you know I had my breasts done, don't you?"

  "I kinda noticed, yeah."

  "Anyway, I was prescribed some pain medicadon that at first I took for pain, but later on, whenever I'd get a litde stressed about something, I'd take one, and then two, because they took the edge off and I thought they helped me think clearer. But, well, fast-forward the film and here I am."

  "You mean you got strung out on the medicine?"

  This is a hard one for me to answer, but I say, "Yes."

  "What's the name of it?"

  "Vicodin."

  "I heard of that. I think I have some."

  "Had."

  "Word."

  The next thing I know, tears are rolling down my face, and I don't know how this happened, because I didn't mean to cry, and I don't even know why I'm crying. Yes I do. I'm embarrassed, because I've finally admitted one of my many weaknesses to my son, and it feels weird.

  "Its all right, Ma. You always have so much stuff on your plate, it's understandable how it might get a little tough to deal with sometimes. You don't have to feel bad. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  I just shake my head as he puts his arms around me like I'm his child. "I guess I picked the wrong time to lay my craziness on you. I'm sorry, Ma."

  "Dingus, it could've been next week or next year-this has nothing to do with you. It's me, and how I handle things. I should know better."

  "Come on, Ma. Dag. So you made a mistake. It just proves that you're human like the rest of us. Thank the Lord."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I had my doubts."

  I slap him softly. "Anyway, I'm going to try to go to this place in Arizona where I can do some soul-searching and maybe cleanse my body and mind some, too."

  "Cool. I told you to get some running shoes and hang with me. I guarantee no pill can touch these endorphins."

  "I'll take you up on that, as soon as I master walking."

  "Word up," he says.

  "Word up," I say back.

  As soon as he leaves, I put on a sweatsuit I've always wanted to wear, stop by Forward Motion Sports and buy a good pair of running shoes, and head to Lafayette, where I manage to walk around that reservoir in less than forty minutes. I even perspired. It felt good.

  But. I spoke too soon. All of a sudden I felt hot. And then I started sneezing and then I was freezing. I guess this is what withdrawal feels like.

  I go straight home and get under the covers and wake myself up snoring. It's been fourteen whole hours since I had a pill. I almost want to congratulate myself, but, then, I'm the one who did this to myself in the first place, so it doesn't seem practical or logical to even celebrate on a mental level.

  I sleep for three whole hours, and when I get up, even though I'm excited about my dinner date with Randall, my body has its own agenda. It's screaming for just one pill. I'm feeling agitated, jumpy, and I'm surprised when I find myself ransacking all my desk drawers, old purses, jewelry boxes, sunglass cases, every suit and coat pocket, even the ashtray in my car , where I usually keep two dollars for the bridge toll-all the places I've hidden pills from myself in the past, in hopes of finding them one day by accident, or like now, when all I need is one or two. The Smart Side of Me says, "You're being stupid again! You're acting like these things are some kind of tucking reward or hidden treasure. You better be glad nobody can see you doing this."

  I'm embarrassed, and it feels like I'm being watched. But this is so hard, pretending I don't want one when I do, pretending I'm not craving one when I am. I mean, I know one pill isn't going to change anything. They never do. Everything is exactly the same before I take one as it is after it takes effect. I wish I understood why they make me feel like they're compensation for my good behavior, for not falling apart, for functioning well, being able to connect the dots without anybody's help, for running my world in what looks to be effortless fashion when in fact it often weighs a ton. But, then again, that's part of the game, too, making it look easy when it really isn't.

  A pill is a very small prize for what I do. In fact, the Smart Side of Me knows all this shit but the Dumb Side seems to have the most power. After exhausting my search, and I don't find a single pill, I just say fuck it and take my shower. When I open my bra-and-panty drawer and start moving them around to see if I can find a match-whamo!-a plastic sandwich bag with about twenty pills in it is stuck in the back corner.

  I dump them all on top of the bed and watch each white pill roll toward the middle of the purple comforter. I want to put one in my mouth, but I'm afraid if I do that I'll have to do it again in two hours, and then the next two and the next, and then I'd just be right back where I started.

  I decide to play the waiting game. To see just how long I can really go. It's almost seven o'clock, and Randall's not due for another hour. I'm thinking: What am I going to do to kill a whole hour? Can't eat. If I start doing something, won't be able to finish. Could call Janelle, but all she'll want to talk about is her new townhouse or her new job at Elegant Clutter, and since George's daughters testified against him, when she gets her setdement most likely she'll be able to go into partnership with the Orange Blossom lady.

  She'd probably tell me again how she's going to put George's ex-wife's name on the deed to that duplex she's been living in all these years, and how much she and Shanice are getting out of the support group they're going to for incest survivors. And even though I'm happy for them, I just don't think I can be engaged right now. I always do the listening, and this time I need someone to listen to me.

  The miracle of miracles is that I can finally call my brother, who actually has a phone in his own name, but all he wants to talk about these days is his sobriety and how he's started filing patent applications for his many inventions and how he's even getting prototypes made for some of them. He's so excited about being productive that you can't shut him up, except when he switches to the subject of his kid and how he took some of Mama's insurance money and cleared up his back child support. He's been working on the Twelve Steps of AA and even apologized to Donnetta and her husband for hitting him with that mop, and they forgave him and are letting Jamil spend a weekend with Lewis. He's so excited to
be alive and feeling good that I doubt if he'd be able to hear my plea for a receptive ear.

  And last but not least is Charlotte, who actually left me a message a while back explaining that she may or may not be ready to talk to me by Thanksgiving, because she and Al might start going to couples therapy, but first she's thinking about going by herself. She said she can't deal with him and her, me and my bullshit, Mama being gone, her son being gay, and now both daughters bleeding, all at the same time. She said we've still got issues, so I guess I have to wait for her to come around.

  Since I didn't get my hair done like I'd originally planned, I stand in front of the mirror and pull my ponytail on top of my head and twist it into a knot. But the knot is too tight, so I loosen it and make a tornado bun in the same spot. I wonder what Randall and I will talk about over dinner. We're going to Sausalito. I look down at the pills. We might have to cross two long bridges. Maybe one wouldn't hurt. The restaurant will probably be on the water. My head is starring to throb. I'll eat lobster. Maybe I'm getting a headache. I wonder, will he be as interesting with his hands out of dirt? Maybe I just need one. To take the edge off. How much fun will I be like this? 1 want to ask him more about his daughter. Tell him about my son. How does he handle being a parent? Now my temples are throbbing. This feels like a migraine. But I've never had one before. Why now, Paris? What is your problem? My hands are clammy. And then I sneeze. I wonder if I'm catching a cold? Damnit. I can't go out if I'm getting sick. I wouldn't want to give this to him. Stop it, Paris. I know I'm not catching any cold. And my head isn't really hurting either. I want it to hurt. I want to be sick, so I won't have to face the music. And just what music might that be, Paris? Is it blues or jazz or light rock? Is it rap or classical or R&B? What's so hard about facing the fucking music, Paris? Huh?

  I fall back on the bed, and as soon as I do I feel those pills pressing against my damp skin. I roll over and snatch them up by ones, twos, threes, until they're all in my right hand, and then I march into the bathroom and flush every single one of them down the toilet. When I hear the doorbell I feel a sudden surge of energy. In fact, I feel as if I've been given some kind of emotional charge. I press the intercom and tell Randall to come on in, that I'll be right out. As I slide into the pretty peach slip dress I bought in London, for some strange reason I imagine myself telling him the truth about what I'm going through, and by the time I pull the straps on my slingbacks, I'm pretty certain I will. What's the point of starting any relationship with a lie, even if all we end up being is friends? Besides, he was honest with me about his situation, and if the truth doesn't scare him off, and he's still as interesting to me as I am to him, hopefully we'll have a whole lot more to talk about on the ride home and I won't mind how many bridges we have to cross.