I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “Isn’t he funny?”

  I nod.

  “You need to hurry up and get yourself on over to the center, Georgia. It’ll only take you five minutes to walk. Grover and I are taking the long way.”

  —

  Unlike young folks, the elderly show up on time to a party. The place is already full, with well over a hundred sparkling senior citizens and some middle-agers who must be the children of my mother’s friends. Folks who grew up and probably still live in Bakersfield. I couldn’t breathe here, which is one reason I fled for the crisp, cool air in the Bay Area.

  I wave when I spot my daughters and new son-in-law seated at the table that has the number 1 perched on top of a metal rod sticking out through a cluster of black and white balloons, and I make my way over. Frankie and Hunter drove down with Estelle, who has given Hunter four out of five stars and told me they’re also staying at a three-star hotel. Thank God she left the twins at home with a stranger, a.k.a. their father, because according to Estelle, Justin’s been MIA a lot lately and doesn’t seem to like being interrogated. Estelle has even fessed up by telling me she thinks he might be cheating on her, but when she confronted him, Justin vehemently denied it.

  The deejay, who must be in his late sixties, is testing his speakers. His hair is slicked back and stops at his neck. He’s wearing a tuxedo. I can’t wait to hear what he’s going to play and see who’s going to dance, because there’s a fair share of people in wheelchairs, but even most of them look like they’re ready to party.

  I bend down and kiss my daughters. Estelle is wearing black and Frankie white. “You both look gorgeous,” I say.

  “Thank you, Mamacita,” Estelle says without standing, and she reaches up to kiss me back. God, does she look like a female version of her dad when he was young. She’s wearing a dress I gave her for Christmas a few years ago. A silk scarf is wrapped around her neck like clouds.

  “Hi, Mom,” Hunter says, pretty dapper in a black suit and a white shirt. “You look very nice,” he says to me.

  “Thank you. And you clean up well!”

  He grins wide.

  “So, Mom,” Frankie says, “you’re looking pretty sexy—and I’ll take that dress off your hands when you get tired of it. You ready to get down?”

  “Yes I am. I’ll just pretend this is Studio 54.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “This is sweet,” Estelle says, glancing around at all the elderly folks who look like they’re thrilled to be all dressed up, ready to drink punch and eat some cake. Grover took care of the catering. There’s ham and fried chicken, collard greens, potato salad and corn bread, and not a drop of anything to drink with a percentage symbol on the bottle. (Of course I brought the mac and cheese I promised, and it’s sitting in a deep dish in my mother’s fridge with a bow on top of the aluminum foil.)

  “Has anybody heard a peep out of Dolly? She should be here by now, you’d think,” I say to the girls.

  “She’s not coming,” Estelle says, trying not to laugh.

  “And why not?”

  “She’s sick.”

  “What kind of illness is it this time?” I ask.

  “Grandma said she’s got shingles and hates having to miss the party.”

  Two tall men who are Grover clones walk over to our table and stop. This is obviously a generational party.

  “Hello,” the one who has to be closer in age to me says. He bends down to shake my hand, and all I can think of is that he sure smells good and is not too bad on the eyes, but I stop myself.

  “Hello,” we all say to both of them.

  “I’m Grover Jr., and this is my son, Grover III,” he says, and smiles.

  “I’m Georgia, and these are my toddlers, Estelle,” I say—and she nods, and then I turn—“and this is Frankie, who was going to be named after her dad had his name been Frank. And this is my brilliant new son-in-law, Hunter.”

  We’re all laughing when in walk the birthday girl and the future groom arm in arm. “Isn’t She Lovely” starts playing, and I swear that if Miss Early weren’t my mother, I’d be cracking up, but she is my mother and she does look lovely and happy.

  Everybody stands up and applauds, but then Mr. Grover releases her and lets my mother waltz out into the middle of the room, under the black-and-white crepe bouquet hanging from the chandelier, and she waves to everybody and then blows us a kiss like she’s on a float in a parade. Grover follows her out to the dance floor, gives her a twirl, and then walks over to their very own table.

  “Those two are something, aren’t they?” Grover Jr. asks, but he’s not really asking.

  I smile and nod yes, as do the girls. His son isn’t feeling any of this and is obviously here out of respect, and a few minutes later, after he excuses himself to go to the restroom and comes back with a sudden mood change, he looks like he could stay all night.

  My mother is surrounded by well-wishers as she comes off the dance floor, and then we sit as our dinner starts being served. Lou Rawls’s “See You When I Get There” comes on, and I apparently am pantomiming the lyrics, which is when Grover Jr. blurts out, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  He chuckles as my daughters settle into these uncomfortable folding chairs, hoping to hear something juicy. This would make three of us. Hunter’s just digging the old-school music.

  “Middle school: Mrs. Hill’s science class and Mr. O’Connor, music. You liked dissecting, but you couldn’t carry a note.”

  That’s funny to everybody. Including me.

  “I need more details.”

  “I was the only eighth-grader on the junior varsity basketball team.”

  I don’t want to, but I decide to give him a long, hard look, and all I see is the handsome man he’s turned into and the shoulders he must have inherited from his father, not to mention his Barry White baritone. He’s not wearing a wedding band, but not to worry, since he’s soon going to be my stepbrother.

  “I didn’t like basketball back then,” I say. “What other reasons would make you memorable?”

  “I kissed you once.”

  Everybody’s eyes light up, and his son gives him a high five. My daughters both look at each other and then at me and then at Grover and back at each other. Everybody’s wearing a smirk. Hunter goes to get us all more punch.

  “I have never kissed you in my life because I didn’t kiss any guys until high school.”

  “Did you kiss girls before then?” his son blurts out, his eyes now dreamy.

  His dad places his hand on top of Grover III’s. “Watch yourself, son.”

  “I didn’t mean it the way it came out, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “No harm done.”

  And this is when the party starts.

  We eat dinner. OD on punch. The kids watch these seniors dance to songs by Barry White and Sam Cooke and Al Green and Nancy Wilson and Aretha, and when Gladys Knight’s “Midnight Train to Georgia” comes on, before I can think about shaking my head, Grover Jr. gets up and walks around to my chair and holds out his hand and says, “We have to dance on that song, or how will we ever forgive ourselves? May I?”

  And I get up from my chair to dance with my new brother.

  —

  We sing the traditional birthday song and clap as Ma blows out the 8 and the 2 and a tiny white candle to grow on. She cries when she opens the scrapbooks that I finally had digitized and presses her hands softly on top of them and then pats them. Of course there are boxes and boxes of See’s candy that I pray she doesn’t eat. At least five Lee Child thrillers, because she says she loves Jack Reacher. And cash, because she’s told everybody she couldn’t be bothered with gift cards. Grover gives her a small diamond ring that she holds up before putting her hand on her chest.

  The party is supposed to be over at ten, but my daughters and Hunter leave about nine thirty, because Estelle says she needs to be on the road by six the next morning. Ma and the e
lder Grover are over by the door saying their good-byes, and I’ve been sitting here trying not to fall in love with Grover Jr. every time he smiles, which has been a lot, and I’m surprised when my breasts start throbbing after he tells me he lives in New York and was a stockbroker for almost thirty years but took early retirement because he was simply burned out.

  “How’d you know you were burned out?”

  “Well, maybe burned out isn’t entirely accurate. I was tired of thinking about money. I was tired of being driven by it. Tired of worrying about it. But especially tired of losing it.”

  “So does that mean you don’t have any?” I ask in a tone meant to produce another smile, and it does.

  I hope this doesn’t constitute flirting, but if it does, I’m certainly not doing it on purpose. At least I don’t think I am.

  “I’m not as dumb as I might look,” he says. “I still invest, but now I’m trying to find a new road to travel on. How about you? My dad told me you’re an optometrist.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, that’s a respectable profession and probably low on the stress Richter scale.”

  “True almost to a fault. I’m not burned out, just bored and hoping to try my hand at something else next year.”

  “Try your hand at what?”

  “That is the question I’m hoping to find the answer to.”

  “Well, if you had your druthers, what would you rather be doing?”

  “I don’t know what makes sense.”

  “Why does it have to make sense?”

  “Well, I’m not rich. I can’t just decide to start doing watercolor. What about you, Grover?”

  “I’ll admit it. I’m confused as hell about what to do next with my life, but I know I’ve still got time to find it.”

  “That’s a healthy attitude.”

  “I don’t have much of a choice, because I’m not ready for a rocking chair. Like father, like son!”

  I laugh at that one.

  “Seriously, do you have any hobbies?”

  “Nothing I do on a regular basis.”

  “I didn’t ask you that, did I?”

  “Isn’t that what a hobby is?”

  “Not in my dictionary. I’m talking about something you do that you get a lot of pleasure from when you’re doing it. And not sex.”

  We both laugh at that one.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  He slides that rickety white chair a little farther away from the table. We’re both noticing how few people are left and the small crowd gathered around our parents by the exit door. “Okay, while you think about it, I’ll go first.”

  “I’m all ears,” I say.

  He taps his fingertips a few times on the table. Smiles. And suddenly stops. “Back in the day, I used to love coaching youngsters in basketball every Saturday morning without fail. But then I was in a bad car accident and broke my femur and tibia and didn’t know if I’d lose my leg. As you can see, I didn’t, but I just haven’t gotten back to those kids.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Too preoccupied with my own problems, and I suppose I’ve just become entirely too damn lackadaisical.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  He waves his hand as if to blow me off.

  “So think for a minute about something you used to do or wish you could do more of if you had the time or took the time that you’d get a major charge out of if you didn’t have to worry about money.”

  “Who doesn’t have to worry about money?”

  “Okay. Pretend for a moment that you don’t.”

  “Then it would definitely be painting furniture and making pillows and some kind of decorating.”

  “So when was the last time you did any of them?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “I just asked.”

  “Suffice it to say it’s been a while. I’ve got a lot going on in my life.”

  “And this makes you unique?”

  “If I had all the time in the world and could do any or all of these things or even discover new things to create, I would, but I can’t make a living doing any of them.”

  “You don’t know that, now, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I’m also in my prime and speeding right on through it.”

  He just shakes his head at that.

  “It sounds like we should both go to one of those places in Santa Fe with Deepak or on one of those Eat, Pray, Love excursions until we find ourselves.”

  I snicker.

  “Are you two going to sit here all night?” Ma says when she and the elder Grover come to the table hand in hand. “The party’s over, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Maybe not for everybody, Early. Did you have a good time, son?”

  He nods a yes.

  “Did you remember him, Miss Georgia?” his dad asks.

  “No, she did not,” Grover Jr. blurts out.

  “Well, if she’s anything like her mother, you have to give her a good reason not to forget you. Good night, you two.”

  “Good night, and happy birthday again, Ma,” I say. “And I’ll see you later.” As I stand up to kiss her, she gives me a Really? look.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.”

  And our parents waltz outside.

  “Are you staying with your father?”

  “There’s not enough room in his place for two big men.”

  I can’t even comment.

  “I’m staying at the Four Points. Are you staying with your mom?”

  “Nope. I’m at the Four Points, too.”

  “Great! You feel like having a drink?”

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “Isn’t there something illegal and unethical and immoral about this? I mean, aren’t you about to be my brother or something?”

  He gets up from his chair and walks over and pulls mine out. When I stand up, my knees feel shaky. I am too damn old for this, and I know it. I haven’t felt slutty in years, and yet it feels so good. I don’t know if I remember how to have sex with a real man, and I certainly can’t let him see me with the lights on. As I turn around and this hunk of a man hands me my black clutch, I realize I don’t even think there’s enough space between my thick thighs to let anything slide in there. But I’ll give it the college try.

  “I just asked if you’d like to have a drink. Where’s your mind, young lady?”

  “Young?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  I follow him to the hotel, and we have a drink, and I must sound like I have Tourette’s, because I just can’t seem to shut up. He must be able to tell what’s been going through my mind when he says, “Relax, Georgia. I don’t want anything from you except friendship. I’m a happily married man. Your mother is marrying my dad, so we’re almost family.”

  WTF?

  I close up like a clam.

  But this isn’t Grover’s fault. How was he supposed to know I’m a hard-up, horny woman who hasn’t sat next to a man at a bar in years?

  I turn down the second drink and tell him that I’m exhausted but how nice it was meeting my soon-to-be stepbrother.

  “Same here,” he says, and walks me to the elevator. “So I guess I’ll see you at the wedding?”

  I get on the elevator, smile, and wave good night.

  Welcome to the goddamn family.

  And I push 10.

  —

  “So what do you think about your soon-to-be stepdad?” Ma asks as I drink a parting cup of coffee. She’s having mac and cheese for breakfast. “This is so good I might have to hide it from Grover!”

  “He seems very nice. And I can tell he cares a great deal for you, Ma.”

  “Cares? Are you crazy? He loves me. And the feeling is mutual. He makes me tingle. In fact—and please don’t laugh—he makes me feel seventy!”

  I smile and giggle for her, with her.

  “Well, I just feel much better knowing you’re not going to be living alone anymore.”<
br />
  “What are you talking about? Grover’s not moving in here, and I’m certainly not going to be living in his unit. We like visiting each other.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “We’re close enough.”

  “I see. Well, if it’s not getting too personal, do you two ever have sleepovers?”

  “If you’re asking if we have sex, the answer is ‘As close to it as we can get.’ I just enjoy the warmth of his body next to mine. I like it when he gives me a kiss. That’s all I need. Does that answer your question, missy?”

  “Yes, it does. On another subject, his son was very nice, and I had no idea we were in middle school together.”

  “He’s a good man. Too bad he’s snagged. We could’ve made this a double wedding! That would’ve been fun.”

  “Okey-dokey, Ma. I’m going to have to get on the highway.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  Right then I realized I didn’t have anything pressing at home, I’m just used to saying it. “I might go look at houses.”

  “You haven’t sold yours yet, so what’s the hurry?”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at houses, and I figured I might as well get some idea what money can buy.”

  “Do you not watch 60 Minutes or read the paper? Don’t you know how long you could be sitting on your house, especially in that bracket?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Why would you want to buy another stupid house when it’s only you?”

  “I said I was starting to look. And I might not be by myself by the time I move.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re dating?”

  “I’ve had a few here and there.”

  “Stop lying, Georgia. Not only don’t you look like you haven’t been on a date, but tell me this: When was the last time you had sex, missy?”

  “That is none of your business, Ma.”

  “How many years?”

  “What makes you think it’s been years?”

  “Because you’ve got that unsatisfied look, and you’ve had it about four years. I’ve been counting.”