I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “Nope.”

  “Did I miss something?”

  “You passed right by the sign, honey. It’s under the evergreen.”

  “You mean you’re selling our house?”

  I nod.

  “Why? And where are we going to move? And why didn’t you tell me? What does Stelle think about this?”

  “Hold your little ponies, daughter. I told you this summer I was thinking about putting the house on the market, and I did. It’s too much space for one person.”

  “But I’m here now. That makes two. Please don’t sell it, Mom. I grew up in this house.”

  “Look, Frankie. You just scared the hell out of me by coming home unannounced in the middle of the night, and I apologize if I’m not ready to start changing my plans because you’re changing yours. And you’re not the only one with memories. I’m just tired of living here. Alone.”

  “Wow, this is major.”

  “It is. So you’re only going to be able to stay here for about two or three weeks, but I’ll figure out where to put you up.”

  “Are you serious? You’re kicking me to the curb? Wow. This is too deep for me.”

  “I’m leaving, too.”

  “What? Why? Did someone already buy it?”

  “No. The house is being remodeled, or what’s called ‘staged,’ and no one can be here while they’re doing it. It could take up to three weeks, but even after they finish, the house has to look like a showroom at all times until it sells.”

  “You are serious, then, huh? And BTW, I’ve gotten much neater.” She looks around like she remembers living here. “So where are you going?”

  “On a train ride.”

  “What?”

  “A train ride.”

  “For three whole weeks?”

  “Probably not the entire time.”

  “Then I’ll just go with you.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to go alone, and besides, I’ve already made a reservation and I can’t change it.” I lie.

  “You mean you want to sleep with strangers on a train or something? Come on, Mom. People get killed on trains. Haven’t you read Agatha Christie? This sounds insane to me.”

  “I don’t think I really need to explain any of this to you, Frankie.”

  “Well, that’s true, but I’m your daughter, and I’ve come home lost and confused, distraught and brokenhearted, and all you can say is ‘Hasta la vista’?”

  “I’m not abandoning you, Frankie. I’ll do whatever I can to help you figure some of this out.”

  “So where’re you going on this train ride?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Then how can you buy a ticket if you don’t know where you’re going?”

  She is already getting on my nerves.

  “I’m considering a few options. From here to Vancouver. Toronto. Montreal. Niagara Falls. I don’t know yet. But to answer your question, it’s called a rail pass. College students all over the world do this. I can stop in a city, stay in a hotel for a day or so, then get back on the train.”

  “Wow. This sounds so cool. Maybe I can change your mind, but if not, I can probably stay with Estelle and Justin. Help with those little munchkins.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be doable either.”

  “Are they moving, too?”

  “They’re thinking of downsizing. Speaking of which, have you heard from your dad lately?”

  “No. But I think he’s mad at me. I haven’t written him in a while.”

  “Would it kill you to drop him a line every now and then? He’s still your dad, Frankie, and he was a good one. Just because he did something stupid, that doesn’t mean you have to punish him when he’s already paying for it.”

  She just looks at me as if all this is too much to handle and walks out, not closing the door behind her.

  I hear her in the kitchen. Can smell coffee all the way down here. She’s banging pots and pans to get my attention. I tiptoe across the hardwood floor into my bathroom and gently close the door. I turn the faucet on low so it doesn’t make the small waterfall sound. I brush my teeth, leaning on the sink with my palms. What am I going to do about her? I can’t just kick her to the curb, as she put it. I hear another tap-tap and: “Mom, I made a pot of strong coffee and soft-boiled eggs and toast if you’re up to it.”

  My baby girl. She knows what I like.

  I walk into the kitchen, and there’s my chocolate daughter, her thick hair piled on top of her head into a ponytail that looks like black cauliflower. She’s twirling around slowly on a stool at the island.

  “Did you sleep okay?” I ask.

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Mom. I think I may have made a mistake just dropping in on you this way. I forget that parents have lives, too, that don’t necessarily include us. So. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything,” I say as I pour myself a cup of coffee and pretend I don’t see the cracks in the brown eggshells.

  “What should I do?” she asks.

  “I haven’t had enough time to think about what you should do, Frankie. What do you want to do?”

  She shakes her head from side to side. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I see in my future.”

  “Well, let me say this. I’ll do whatever I can to help you find temporary housing until we both know for sure you’re not going to run back to Hudson after I’ve put my name on a lease.”

  “It’s Hunter. And I’m not running back to him or New York, and that’s real. Thank you for offering to help. Again. I hope one day it’s money well spent. And that you’ll be proud of me.”

  “I’m already proud of you, Frankie, but I just can’t fix every problem you come up against.”

  “I know. Let’s go to Paris and get on the Eurostar and zigzag all over Europe and then come back to a new home!”

  I just look at her. And then, “Are you not listening to me? And do I look like Wells Fargo?”

  “You’re just too frugal, Mom. At some point in your life, you should give yourself permission to splurge.”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  “Speaking of splurging,” she says, getting up and walking over to the door that leads to the garage and coming back with my still-unpainted stool. “What’s this about, Mom? It certainly doesn’t look like your taste, and it doesn’t match anything.”

  “I’m going to paint it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I want to, and it’s called fun, Frankie.”

  “Like the fun you had for about a month making all those pillows? Why’d you stop? Everybody loved them.”

  “We were talking about your lack of direction, not me trying to find one.”

  She looks at me as if I’ve said something wrong. “Last time I checked, you were like a legitimate and successful optometrist, Mom. Duh.”

  “Maybe not for much longer. And don’t ask.”

  “OMG! I wouldn’t dare. I’m already on information overload.”

  —

  Frankie’s doing laps when I get home. She’s also naked. She glides through the dark water like a baby dolphin. I wish she could do enough butterflies and backstrokes to propel her pain and confusion out into the cold air. I don’t remember being heartbroken at twenty-two. I remember being disappointed.

  When I see her climbing up the ladder and getting out of the pool, I’m struck by how beautiful and lean her body is. Her breasts point upward, of course, and are shaped like the round top on my grande nonfat no-whip iced mocha. Did I ever look that good naked?

  She wraps a colorful beach towel around her and rolls and tucks it across her chest. That’s when she sees me through the kitchen window. She waves and walks in through the patio door.

  “Hey, Mom,” she says, and bends over to kiss me on my right cheek. She’s inches taller. “I’m going to miss
that pool. Won’t you?”

  “I’m going to miss a lot of things. How’re you feeling today?”

  “Refreshed. Clearheaded.”

  She sits on a stool at the end of the island and puts both elbows on the counter. “So I spoke to Dad.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “He’s out.”

  “I thought he was supposed to be in there for five years?”

  “It’s been five years,” she says.

  Really? “So where is he?”

  “He lives fifteen minutes from here, right around the corner from Aunt Wanda and Uncle Nelson.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Off Skyline.”

  “So should I be jumping for joy or what?”

  “He’s offered to let me live with him and his wife.”

  “What wife?”

  “Where’ve you been for the last eight years, Mom? He got married way after you guys got divorced.”

  “What do you call ‘way after’?”

  “A year.”

  “Anyhow, I haven’t exactly kept him on my radar all these years, but I don’t like the idea of your even considering living with your ex-convict father and his wife.”

  “It was a white-collar crime, Mom.”

  “Oh, my bad,” I say with intentional hip-hop sarcasm.

  “Just because you don’t like him, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.”

  “I’ve never suggested that you not like him, Frankie. He’s your father. I just thought you hadn’t been in touch with him that much.”

  “Stelle and I figured out a long time ago that it was best not to mention our dads, because when we did, your mood always took a nosedive.”

  “Well, thank you both for sparing me, but you didn’t have to lie.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just withheld the truth. Anyway, he’s picking me up sometime this afternoon so I can meet Allegra and see their home. They have a tiny guesthouse, too, which is where he said I could stay for a while.”

  “Exactly how long has he been out?”

  “Almost a year now.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? And why didn’t you ask if I minded if he came over here?”

  “What’s the big deal? He used to live here, and it used to be his house, too. It’s not like he’s going to start stalking you, Mom.”

  Right now I’m glad I only have two ex-husbands, because they both seem to have been reincarnated and are coming back to haunt me.

  “I don’t want to see him. At least not today.”

  “Oh, so you want him to honk? I thought you were an adult. But my bad!” And she storms past me and runs up the stairs.

  I follow her.

  She slams the door.

  I use the L-shaped key to unlock it and barge in. She has the nerve to put her hands on her hips before she flops down on the foot of her platform bed.

  “Let’s be clear about something, Frankie. You need to understand that in two days you’ve sprung quite a lot on me, and now you’re telling me your dad’s out of prison and you might go live with him and his wife? And what—I’m supposed to feel warm and fuzzy? It’s not always about you, Frankie.”

  “I know that, Mom. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you and getting you so worked up.”

  “It’s what kids do even when they’re twenty-two, I suppose. Anyway, as an FYI, your Aunt Wanda and Uncle Nelson said you’re welcome to stay in their guesthouse if you want to.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not crazy about Aunt Wanda. Wait. That’s not true. I just find her and Uncle Nelson boring as can be, and she’s also nosy. Now, if it were Aunt Violet, I’d sleep in her garage.”

  “Carport. What makes you think you can live under the wing of your estranged father after not having seen him in six years?”

  “What makes you think I haven’t seen him?”

  “So this is one more thing you’ve kept from me.”

  “You divorced him, Mom. I didn’t.”

  “You mean you visited him in prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “When? How? And why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have tried to stop you from seeing him, Frankie. Come on.”

  “What difference does it make now, Mom? He didn’t kill anybody. And he didn’t rob a bank. As far as I’m concerned, he went to prison for his stupidity and arrogance, which doesn’t make him like a dangerous criminal. He’s paid for his mistakes. I wish you would let it go and stop indicting him.”

  “It’s a preexisting condition.”

  “Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a life? I mean, are you seeing anyone?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. I wish you’d find someone. You seem so testy, or maybe you’re just lonely. And I can understand why you don’t want to live in this big house by yourself, I really do.”

  “I’m not selling this house because I’m lonely.”

  She just looks at me. “I really hope it’s not too late for you to find love, Mom.”

  “What would make you think that?”

  “Well, because you’re old. No offense intended.”

  “And what do you call ‘old’?”

  “Over fifty.” She looks at me again as if she might have gone too far.

  “Well, let me say this, Miss Forever Twenty-Two. Love doesn’t have an age limit, and it can find you at any time in your life. It can also just as soon leave you in a ditch. Look what it’s already done to you.”

  “But how do you meet old men, Mom? You don’t go on those dating sites, I hope.”

  “I really don’t feel like having this conversation with you right now, Frankie. But let me also say this. You can be a woman and be happy without a man and without love. Of course your life has more octane when you have someone to share it with. But I am not lonely. Well, that’s a lie. I am lonely, but I’m not miserable. This is just one more reason I’m getting the hell out of this house and why I’m leaving my dull-ass career and taking a train ride and might even go back to school.”

  This time her eyes are bulging, but it’s accompanied by a smile, and then she holds up her right hand so her palm comes near me, and I slap mine against hers.

  “This gives me hope, Mom.”

  “What does?”

  “That changing the direction of my life isn’t crazy if you’re still willing to do it at your age.”

  “I’m not even almost old, Frankie. Now, what time is the ex-meteorologist coming to pick you up, so I can make sure I’m not here?”

  “C’mon, Mom.”

  I put my hands on my hips, look out the window, then back at her.

  “Look. I’m deliriously happy for him, Frankie, and I won’t run and hide. Maybe we could even catch up. Find out what happened during those lost years. Find out how much fun prison was. What time should we expect Father of the Year?”

  “In about an hour,” she says. “I didn’t know you still had so much anger toward him, Mom. That’s sad.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Maybe he can just say hello at the front door.”

  “Lord, no! Now I want to see him. And not to worry. I’ll be the nicest ex-wife he’s ever seen,” I say, and head back downstairs.

  It started in my chair. Niles came in for a complete examination because his vision had suddenly become blurry. I’ve always been professional with patients, even good-looking men who aren’t wearing wedding bands. I had to admit he was handsome in an offbeat kind of way. I assumed he was probably mixed-race, because his nose was broad, his lips full, and his eyes were light brown even though his skin was dark. The color and texture of his hair were contradictory. I wasn’t studying him; I was just noticing who was standing in front of me.

  “Hello, Mr. Boro,” I said, motioning him to “Have a seat.”

  “I would prefer to stand, if you don’t mind,” he said, and then chuckled.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Boro,” I said in my best good-natured-but-professio
nal voice.

  He sat. “Please, call me Niles.”

  I just looked at him as if to ask, Who do you think you are, coming into my office and getting personal? This isn’t a blind date. He smiled and crossed his legs. He was dressed like he’d just stepped off a page from GQ. Even his cuff links had his initials on them: NB. His shoes looked satiny, as if he never walked anywhere they might get dusty. And he smelled like chocolate. He was already a problem.

  “So, Mr. Boro, you’re complaining about eyestrain and blurriness.”

  “That’s an understatement. But it’s my fault, because I haven’t had my eyes checked in two years.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pure laziness. And I don’t trust doctors.”

  I just looked down at him.

  “Only kidding.”

  “So you’re a meteorologist?”

  “I am. But you haven’t seen me on the six-o’clock news.”

  He didn’t stop talking as I performed each of the various tests, and right before I was about to dilate his pupils, he felt compelled to tell me his life story. He was from Boston. His father was Nigerian, his mother Norwegian. He got his master’s from the University of Massachusetts, was divorced after three years of marriage, had a five-year-old son who lived with his mother in the Berkeley Hills. For some reason he felt it important that I knew they parted ways amicably, but I would later find out this was a lie. His son’s name was Homer. Like Homer Simpson.

  I gave him a prescription, told him to pick out a pair of frames and that a tech would fit him.

  “Can you help me choose a frame?”

  “That’s not what I do,” I said.

  And then he looked right through me. “Have you ever dated a patient?”

  This threw me for a loop. “No. Never.”

  “Could I be the first?”

  “I said never.”

  “I’ll make a liar out of you, Dr. Young,” he said with too much confidence. This is when I should’ve known. He’d already put some kind of spell on me, because right after he walked out with his prescription, I heard a sound coming from my chest. It was me: purring.

  He sent me a dozen peonies the next day.

  The note with them said, “I was blind, but thanks to you, now I see.”