I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

“A what?”

  “He owns a farm. He grows soybeans and rice and sweet potatoes and fights in Congress for black farmers. And he lives outside of New Orleans.”

  “You sure that’s all he grows?”

  “Let me say this. It was cathartic for both of us.”

  “Well, that’s just great. And pretty fucking boring. I’m very disappointed that nothing came out of this. Not even a single orgasm. What a waste.”

  —

  Estelle had to go and have another girl, and Frankie had a boy three weeks later. I understand that the twins aren’t crazy about Dove. In fact, they said they wish she’d fly away. With those two she-devils running around, Dove’s going to have to be one cool baby sister.

  I volunteered to take a few days off to help Estelle, but she insisted it wasn’t necessary. I asked her how Justin was adjusting to his new daughter, and she just said that Justin’s making all kinds of adjustments and asked me to give her a few weeks to get settled into more mothering, so what else could I say?

  Levi, my grandson, looks about thirty when I lay eyes on him. Even though he’s black, he looks Chinese, but he smells new. His eyes are tiny black marbles.

  I’ve been holding him in his mint green blanket for a half hour, and he’s just fallen asleep. I like the way Levi feels in my arms, so I don’t put him in his crib. Frankie’s decided to take advantage of my grandparenting presence and has beelined it to Target to buy a few things and get a Starbucks.

  I look around their Hansel-and-Gretel house and can’t imagine how they pass each other without bumping.

  OMG! This little boy is snoring!

  I try not to laugh as I push myself up from this crunchy rattan chair, but it takes another attempt before I’m standing. Levi isn’t fazed as I walk into his parents’ room and put him in his crib. There’s about six inches between his bed and theirs. This room is the size of my walk-in closet, but—like mother, like daughter—it’s full of color. The walls are turquoise, but the ceiling is pale orange. They painted the door goldenrod, which doesn’t make much sense to me, but then again I don’t have to live in this tiny box they call home.

  I shouldn’t judge.

  While he sleeps, I go into the kitchen to get something to drink and see what looks like a pile of typewritten papers on the cute little IKEA table. It’s one of Frankie’s stories. It has no title. As soon as I start reading, I realize it’s written in the voice of an elderly woman who has magical powers and can make pain evaporate in those who don’t deserve it. This is my daughter. I’m only up to page ten when I hear her pull up, and I quickly straighten the stack as neatly as it was and go sit in the living room.

  I hope she changes her major again.

  Hunter was right.

  I open the front door for her. “You need help?”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “Are you sure? You shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy yet, Frankie.”

  “These Pampers are weightless, and so is my latte. How’s my little man doing?”

  “He’s fine. Frankie?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I read some of your wonderful story, and I wasn’t snooping, but I just want you to know how impressed I am, and if what I read is any indication of how good you are, please don’t stop.”

  Her eyes open wide, almost in disbelief. But then she sees the sincerity in mine and relaxes.

  “That means so much to me, Mom,” she says, and gives me a strong hug.

  I head into their room to check on the little man, and those sparkling black eyes are wide open, and I swear he’s smiling at me. I’m pretty sure sweet Levi already knows who his grandma is.

  —

  “I’m afraid I’m not the bearer of good news,” Marina says at the close of business, which seems to be the only chance we get to talk about anything. I should’ve known that something was up, because for the first time in almost five years she’s not wearing black.

  “Come on in and have a seat,” I say, since my door isn’t closed. I lean back in my chair and want to cross my arms, but it might make me look like I’m upset, which I’m not. I knew that this day was coming. I’m just surprised it’s taken so long.

  “I’m moving to New York,” she says as she eases into the chair in front of my desk, sliding it back to make room so those long legs don’t bump into it.

  “This sounds like good news to me.”

  “I need a change. Haven’t you ever felt like that, Doc?”

  “I think I have.”

  “I mean, seriously. When every day feels the same and the needle just doesn’t move?”

  “It’s the reason I’ve been divorced twice.”

  “I heard that,” she says.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “About to pop that cork now.”

  She goes over to my hidden refrigerator and whips out a bottle of something good.

  “Yes, I believe in product replacement,” she says, laughing. “Sometimes after everybody’s gone, I’ve sat in here and blasted Pandora and only leave the lighting on in the cabinets, and I’ll be honest, I’ve had sex with a few boyfriends in the lunchroom, on the floor behind the reception counter, and even in the exam-room chairs—which is fabulous, I might add.”

  “And you think this shocks me?” I ask, amused.

  She runs to the lunchroom and comes back with two plastic glasses, even though I have real ones in the cabinet. She pops the cork and pours us both a full glass of sauvignon blanc.

  “You’ve got good taste in wine, Doc.”

  “Glad you approve, Miss Thang,” I say, and try to get the smirk off my face but then decide I want her to see it. I take a very long swallow, then cross my legs as if I’m waiting for her to tell me the real reasons she’s ready to leave the Bay Area. “So I want to know what you’re going to do in New York, which is even more expensive than San Francisco, but I’m not asking to be discouraging so don’t take it that way.”

  “I’m not! Do you know where I’ve been living all these years?”

  “With your parents?”

  She nods.

  “It’s embarrassing, but I’ve had the freedom to come and go as I please, and I’ve managed to save up a bundle. I’ve got a cousin in New York who lives on Roosevelt Island, and I’m going to try to find a job in fashion. It’s always been my passion. I’ve been taking merchandising and fashion-design classes at the Academy of Art on weekends and evenings, so I’m bringing something with me.”

  “Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to think I had another agenda. Like some fine man I know.”

  “You thought Mercury was fine?”

  “Hell to the yeah.”

  “I’m glad you’ve had an agenda, because I know you had so much more going for you, Marina. I’m thrilled you’re finally taking a risk on yourself.”

  “Give me an example of a big one you took. Wait, hold that thought,” she says, and jumps up to head over to the fridge. “You don’t mind today, do you? Since we’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

  “Drink whatever you want to. I can put you in a cab if you get too buzzed.”

  On that note she refills her glass, and I gulp the rest of mine down and hold it out. She pours, sits back down, and puts her elbows on my desk. All ears.

  “This is about you, Marina.”

  “Okay, forget about the risk bullshit. How do you make changes when you get old— My bad, again, Doc. I meant ‘older.’ Forgive?”

  “Forgiven. But let me just say this. When you get older, you have the understanding that it would be stupid to change what’s been working for you, but sometimes you come to your senses and realize you’re not happy, you’re bored and lonely, you haven’t been laid in years, and on top of all this you admit that your profession is dull and unfulfilling and you just decide you’re going to break up the monotony and sell your big-ass home and you’re going to take some classes in anything that excites you and you’re also going
to sell your interest in your practice and then figure out what the hell you’re going to do next.”

  “No shit?” And she holds her hand up to give me a high five. “How many years?”

  “How many years what?”

  “Since you’ve been laid.”

  I count four fingers.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

  I now realize I’m almost drunk and should never have admitted to that and especially to a thirty-year-old, sexually active, attractive, six-foot-tall Japanese woman! But: too late.

  “I wish I were. But you don’t die. It only feels like you’re dying. Which is why I’m about to become a whore!”

  And we both slap the desk too hard with our palms, and we’re not that drunk because it stings both of us, and we can’t stop laughing. But then we do. And a kind of sadness suddenly takes the laughter’s place.

  “So does this mean you’re seriously planning to leave optometry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. This is one boring fucking profession.”

  “It is.”

  “When?”

  “Next year, hopefully.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Paint stuff. Make stuff. Turn tricks.”

  “Ha! What kind of stuff would you paint and make?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Paint something cool, but please don’t make any curtains or shit like that!”

  “I won’t.”

  “So since this probably is going to be like our last hurrah, can I ask you something that might sound corny, since you’re old and full of wisdom?”

  I’m just going to go ahead and be old this evening. “Nothing is corny, Marina.”

  “Okay. So. What do you wish you’d done differently when you were young?”

  “Whoa. Wow. Why?”

  “I just want to know, when I get old—I mean older—if I’ll have like a long fucking list of regrets. I don’t know why I can’t stop swearing, and I hope I’m not pissing you off.”

  I shake my head. “Well, I think we have regrets at every age. But can you be a little more specific?”

  “No, I can’t. Just say whatever comes out, Doc.”

  “I need a minute to think about that.”

  “Hold that thought! I need to pee. I mean go to the bathroom.”

  “Wait! I hope you’re giving us at least a two-week notice.”

  “Try three months from now. I’m Japanese. I plan my life in advance. Plus, I wouldn’t stick you and Dr. L.”

  And she dashes off.

  I don’t know if I can answer her question right now. I’m feeling a little tipsy myself, but I take another sip anyway. This is fun. And she’s back! Marina must pee like a bird.

  She flops down in the chair and leans on her elbows and stares those glassy eyes into mine. “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t know. I wish I’d read more so I’d know more.”

  “Are you fucking serious? That’s the first thing that comes into your head? Come on, Doc, rattle ’em off like you’ve got Tourette’s or something—and I mean no offense to anybody with Tourette’s, God.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have majored in biology and would not have gone to optometry school. I would’ve traveled more, and I still intend to, and I’d probably live in a foreign country for a while and maybe have tried dating outside my race and learned to speak French and Italian and maybe not married my second husband.”

  “Have you ever dated anybody besides black guys, Doc?”

  “Nope.”

  “They’re no different from the rest of them. Trust me. I’ve fucked just about every ethnicity known to mankind.”

  “I did have sex with a white guy when I was in college.”

  “And?”

  “He was pretty good. But I was worried what would happen if I liked him.”

  “Duh. This is America. You’re too old-school. I date anybody I find interesting. I don’t believe in discriminating.”

  “Duh yourself. That was like the 1970s, and the world was a mess.”

  “Okay, I’m getting tired or maybe a little drunk, but what would you have chosen to do had you not gone the whole seeing-is-believing route?”

  I want to answer, but I don’t think I have it in me to explain another thing.

  “Oh, to hell with it, Doc. But I’ll bet you a pair of Prada sunglasses you’da made a terrible talk-show host.”

  And we both laugh. She chugs the remaining three ounces of her wine and almost misses the desk when she plops it down. Now I know why she got plastic.

  “You still here?” the same pizza kid says when I open the door.

  He not only appears to be two or three inches taller but also has what looks like a fuzzy mustache and a dirty chin.

  “You still delivering pizzas?” I ask lightheartedly.

  “Yep. But I’m in school full-time now. Going to Laney College. You moving? I’ve seen that For Sale sign in your front yard for months, and I was thinking of stopping by just to say hi and give you some free breadsticks. How you doing, Dr. Young?”

  “I’m doing fine. And it sounds like you’re doing well, Free.”

  “You remembered my name?”

  “How could I not?”

  “Did you stop eating pizza, or you stopped liking ours?”

  “No, I just haven’t been in the mood.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you. I ain’t—I mean, haven’t got a tip like the one you gave me since then. Hey! Did you get robbed or something?”

  “No, I had to put most of my stuff in storage.”

  “Why?”

  “To make the house more appealing to buyers.”

  “You mean to white folks. You don’t even gotta say it. It’s ugly, no offense. This sure wouldn’t make me wanna buy this crib. It look just like the rest of these houses I deliver pizza to. Except for the ladies next door. Their crib is ultra-cool. Anyhow, I liked yours the way it was. Did you do this?”

  “No. Someone else did.”

  “I hope you didn’t have to pay ’em.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you pay somebody to make it as hip as it was before?”

  “No.”

  “Then you got skills, Dr. Young. Where you trying to move to, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Don’t know yet, Free.”

  “What you mean, you don’t know? You too old not to know where you going—no offense. Even I know where I wanna go, so I know you gotta have some idea.”

  “I’m just not sure what I’m going to do next.”

  “Well, at least you got options. Some folks don’t. This pizza’s on the house for you being so nice to me last time.”

  “No, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. And hurry up and eat it, ’cause these pizzas are nasty when they get lukewarm, and forget about microwaving it unless you put a half cup of water in there, or your teeth’ll get stuck in the crust. You’d be SOL if you had dentures!” And he cracks up.

  “Thanks, Free,” I say.

  “You’re welcome. And guess what? Eighteen months I’ma be able to transfer up to Sac State, which is where my daddy live. Anyway, Dr. Young, I hope your crib sell fast and you figure out where to go.”

  “I will. And good luck in college, Free.”

  “Luck is for fools. I’m working my tail off, ’cause one day I wanna have more than one option, like you. Can I give you a hug?”

  “Sure,” I say, and he squeezes me like he hasn’t been hugged in a very long time.

  Which would make two of us.

  —

  I only eat two slices, because it’s greasy and doesn’t taste like pizza. In fact, it makes my throat feel thick. I crush the box with the remaining pizza in it and push it inside the metal trash can. I surprise myself by scouring inside the fridge and finding some salad fixings and make one, and I’m shocked it’s not only tasty but filling. I grab a bottle of sparkling wat
er and put on my brand-new pink-and-black dalmatian pajamas and go sit in front of my computer. I Google every course and degree program offered in the Bay Area that deals with every type of designing imaginable, and as I carefully read every single description, it becomes crystal clear to me that I want to make things folks will appreciate touching or find cool or interesting and maybe even useful. I want to make things that are one of a kind. Things you might not find in a conventional furniture store. And I don’t want it to function as furniture. In fact, I’m hoping it might be considered art.

  I feel ten pounds lighter.

  My house phone rings and makes me jump. I was enjoying this carefree zone I was in, and who interrupts the flow of it? My mother, who else? “Hi, Ma. What are you doing calling me at nine o’clock at night? Where’s your fiancé?”

  “You mean husband,” she says, chortling.

  “Okay, so you eloped?”

  “I guess you could say that. Since Grover is just starting to get around good, we went downtown to the courthouse. But we’re legal.”

  “Well. Congratulations. What’s your new last name?”

  “If you think for one minute I’m changing my last name after fifty-three years, think again, sister. It’s Young, and I’ll always be Young. Grover’s last name is Green. And don’t say anything smart.”

  I try not to laugh when I hear it in my head but I blurt it out. “Grover Green. Green Grover.”

  “Anyway, he certainly is a nice addition to my life.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it, Ma. Really.”

  “Now I don’t have to worry about dying alone.”

  “Please don’t say that!”

  “His son thought you were nice, too.”

  “He was interesting enough, but I’m not interested.”

  “Anyway, Grover just told me yesterday that Grover Jr.’s wife left him for a man almost half her age.”

  “Wow. I thought he was happy.”

  “He was. But now he’s not. So what were you doing when I called?”

  “Looking for my future on the Internet.”

  “Good luck. They say you can find just about anything on there. Bye-bye, baby.”

  I make the love sound.

  My phone rings again and scares the hell out of me. I’m tempted not to pick up, but when I look down and see that it’s Michael, I go ahead and answer. Talk about not being able to get rid of the past. “Is the wedding off?” I ask jokingly.