Full Figured 9

by Carl Weber

  “Last night?” I yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I shrieked. “Why are you just now calling me?” Here I’d been sitting out on the patio by the pool—even though it was still down for the season—in my North Face fleece outfit like everything was just fine, all while my stepfather was on his deathbed.

  My mom paused, swallowing her tears. “It was touch and go for a moment. So much was going on that I didn’t have time to call you.” She went on to explain the events of the night before. “They did emergency surgery He’s in intensive care now. I just got home a few minutes ago.”

  “Mom, are you okay?” I asked, hearing the strain in her voice.

  “I’m exhausted,” she said. “I haven’t slept a wink since the ambulance took him away. I’m going to try to take a nap while he’s in recovery.”

  I heard the fear in her tone, something I almost never witnessed from my mother. My mom was a beast. A lioness. I’d watched her work hard to provide for us pre-Victor. She was always so sure, confident, and fearless. To hear her sounding almost . . . weak . . . Oh, I knew without a doubt that I needed to get my ass home so that I could be there for her.

  “Oh my God. I’m coming home to be with you right away,” I said, gathering up all my things and stuffing them into my nail polish storage case. Suddenly, a part of me was overcome with excitement. In the words of Biggie Smalls, I was going back to Cali!

  Now don’t get me wrong. I really was worried about Victor’s well-being. My stepfather had been a good dude to my brother and me over the past eight years. He was a stand-up guy, and I couldn’t wait to get there to see him. My mom had already said things were touch and go, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if Victor passed and I wasn’t there to say my good-byes. Then there was my mom, who needed me there to help her be strong. But truth be told, I had been dying to get back home for other reasons.

  It was so boring out here on Long Island. I never could figure out what the big deal about the whole “weekend in the Hamptons” was about, or why people spent money to travel here. There was never anything to do if you asked me. The people seemed so uppity, acting like life was good all the time. As a matter of fact, they stayed so high off of life itself, I couldn’t find one single person who needed that extra boost in life, if you know what I mean.

  This was made clear the first time I tried to go out and see if I could find someone selling ice, AKA crystal meth. Talk about a lost cause. I wasted hours befriending kids my age and dirty old men, and I still came up dry. I could live without the stuff definitely. I just used it because I wanted to, not because I needed it, but it had been frustrating as hell knowing that if I did want a hit, I was shit out of luck. But it looked as though my luck had just changed. Now, all I wanted to do was get back to Cali so I could buy what I needed and get white-girl wasted.

  Before heading into the house, I stopped at the door and prepared to put on the best performance of my life. I really was feeling bad about Victor, but I had to lay it on thick if I was going to convince my father to let me cut my time with him short to go see about my stepfather.

  I worked up some tears before I rushed into the house in hysterics, crying about how Victor was about to die and I needed to get home.

  “Your dad’s at work,” my stepmother said, putting her arms around me in an attempt to calm me down. “But you go ahead and start packing, honey. I’ll talk to your father and tell him what’s going on.”

  When she planted a kiss on my forehead, I couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across my lips. White chicks were so easy to manipulate sometimes. Now, a sista from the streets who’s always on top of her game never would have fallen for that shit, at least not that quickly. That was the difference between my moms and Sky, my dad’s current wife. Dad had gone black with my mom, but despite popular opinion, he never went back. Hell, my dad was what some would consider to be a pretty boy. He could pull women of all races and nationalities. . . and he had.

  After wiping the smile off of my face for getting one over on Sky and then all the tears I’d deliberately worked up just to work her, I went to my room and immediately started to pack my suitcase. It was my goal to leave before my dad got back home from work. The last thing I wanted him to do was try to talk me into staying. This girl was not packing her bags to go on a guilt trip. I was not trying to let him make me feel bad by reminding me how I lived with Victor all year long and he only had this little bit of time with me, blah blah blah. Later for all that. I was on a mission. Besides, I was not ready to deal with the fake, phony lies from my dear old daddy. Yeah, I might have been staying under the same roof as him during spring break, but I could barely stand to stay in the same room with him.

  Truth be told, I couldn’t stand my father ever since he got married to Sky. She was cool, but keeping it one hunnid, her being a white chick probably had less to do with her being a pushover than her age did.

  Sky was only in her early twenties, but she looked like she was still in high school. Then there was the boob job my dad got her for her birthday, and the ass job for Christmas. One year I came down for spring break and both her chest and ass were as flat as the diving board out at the pool. The year after that, I came back and could set my soda bottle in her cleavage. And that butt! I could set my whole nail polish kit on her ass and do my nails without anything falling off. She’d already had a nice body, one that could make an older man such as my pops spend all kinds of money on her ass—literally.

  Anyhow, my father, who had turned forty-nine on his last few birthdays, tried to act young in his new marriage. Sky even got that fool taking tennis lessons. He had the nerve to text me a selfie of him and Sky playing doubles with another couple. My dad sending selfies. Ha! How embarrassing.

  My dad told everyone the two of them had met through work, but I knew better. With a name like Sky, I was willing to bet that he’d met her at some rinky-dink strip club while away on business. With Sky being from Texas, no one could really poke holes in his story, but game recognizes game, so my mother knew the story was probably bullshit. After all, he made up the same kind of story about how he met my mom, when she was really just the housekeeper in a hotel he stayed at.

  I would never tell my dad what I really thought about him and wifey though. I acted like an innocent little Miss Goody Two-shoes around him, because I didn’t want to give him any reason to cut off his monthly child support. But after the first couple days of being here in New York with him, I got so sick of pretending to be this perfect little California girl. I believe my dad even thought I was still a virgin. What a crock of shit! But I had to give myself a pat on the back. The City of Angels had taught me how to be what people wanted me to be. After all, wasn’t everybody in Hollywood an actor?

  I was just a girl trying to fit in—and fitting in was pretty easy for me. I was able to do what Blacks call “pass.” Depending on how I wore my hair, in its natural kinky loop curls or flat-ironed bone straight, or how much I’d tanned or hadn’t, I could pass for either black or white. Bitch was like a chameleon for sure. I was a little thick on top of it all, so it made me appear older than I was. One day I’d drop a few pounds, but for now, the weight came in handy. It had helped me really look like I was twenty-one on that fake ID I’d managed to get.

  Speaking of the ID, that thing had gotten me into so many places it wasn’t even funny. They have clubs in Hollywood that all types of stars and young people hang out at, and I was always right there in the scene. Thank goodness my mom wasn’t into TMZ, Instagram, Twitter, or any of that stuff. Lord knows how many incriminating photos she might have spotted me in.

  I couldn’t help myself from overindulging and getting caught up sometimes. Heck, what teenager wouldn’t want to be in the clubs every night if they were spotting people like Justin Bieber, Selena Gomez, and Taylor Swift? I swear on everything I even saw Willow Smith trying to stay incognito in the VIP section one time. I’d learned to fit in and roll with the best of them, and I was fiendin’ to get back to the
scene.

  Sky called the airline for me and helped me change my return flight. She explained to them how ill my stepfather was and how I had to get back home, and of course, I turned on the waterworks in the background. Brendon decided to stay for the rest of spring vacation, but sent his well wishes that Victor would recover. Not only did big brother want to maximize his time with our father, but I think he had a little sidepiece he was knocking off back in the Big Apple. So, I was headed home alone.

  Within ten minutes of calling the airline, Sky was racing me to the airport for a flight that was scheduled to leave New York in three hours. With the city traffic, my nerves were on edge, hoping we’d make it in time. There was a God, because even after I got all checked in, I still had an entire hour before boarding. I texted the entire time, putting the word out to my peeps that Queen B was on her way back to home sweet home. That meant it was going to be turn-up time for sure.

  My phone rang and my dad’s name popped up on my screen, interrupting me in the middle of one of my texts.

  “Yeah, Dad,” I answered, sounding annoyed at first, but then realizing that wasn’t the role I was supposed to be playing. “Sorry to sound so bothered. It’s just that Mom’s been calling me every five minutes to see if I was on my way home yet. She’s so torn up. Now I’m not only worried about Victor, but I’m worried about her as well.” Even though my dad couldn’t see my face, I wore a grim and exasperated expression to match my tone. Damn, I was good!

  “I’m going to miss you, baby girl. Have a safe flight,” were the last words my dad said to me before he hung up the phone. I knew my dad wouldn’t really miss me. That was just the proper thing for a father to say to his daughter. I mean, I guess he liked having me around for a few weeks to visit, but we didn’t have a tight bond or anything. Trust me, I’d seen a real daddy-daughter relationship with Victor and Jamela. Therefore, I knew a fake one when it was smacking me in the face.

  After boarding the plane, I sent out one last tweet before the captain told everyone to turn off their electronic devices: Home sweet home #CaliHereICome #IrunLA

  That’s right. The boss bitch was on her way back!

  When my Delta plane landed at LAX, I pulled out my phone to call my connect from the airport. We made arrangements to meet up so I could get my weed and my ice. Before you get the wrong idea, yes, I was going to the hospital first. After all, I didn’t know if my stepfather would be alert, and I didn’t want to risk visiting him with a buzz. I just wanted to get all my ducks in a row so that as soon as I left Victor I could enjoy my high with my girls.

  Lately I thought Victor was getting suspicious of my recreational drug use. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t have a clue. She was not one to bite her tongue, so if she thought for a minute that her “perfect” daughter used drugs, she would have flipped. No, I worked hard to perfect my image so that she still thought I was a California angel. To make sure my charade stayed intact, I rented a car from Enterprise. After all, what would I look like having my mother drop me off when I went to cop a fix later?

  With my fake ID and the emergency credit card Victor had given me on my sixteenth birthday, I was in a rented sedan and headed to the hospital within forty-five minutes. I was definitely glad to be back on home turf, but the moment I stepped into the hospital, my entire demeanor shifted. Seeing all the sick people waiting around to be checked by a doctor, or taking walks through the corridors in their hospital gowns, reminded of exactly why I was here: Victor. Worry suddenly came over me.

  I hadn’t heard from my mother since before I got on the plane in New York. Was no news good news . . . or bad? Suddenly I felt guilty for not checking in with Mom as soon as I got my bags after the flight. I’d been so caught up in making sure I had what I needed to get my mind right that something bad could have happened to Victor in the interim and I wouldn’t even know it. I immediately picked up my pace and raced over to the elevator.

  Looking at the hospital map above the elevator buttons, I saw that the ICU was on the second floor, so I pushed the button to go up, jumping in as soon as the doors opened. As they began to close, I could see an older lady hobbling to the elevator with her walker.

  “Please hold that—”

  I’d already put my finger on the CLOSE DOOR button before she could finish her request. Sorry, old lady. She was moving way too slow, and my anxiety was about to get the best of me. I needed to see about Victor.

  Even though I only had to go one floor up, it felt like the longest elevator ride ever. What if something had happened and I’d already missed out on the chance to say good-bye to Victor?

  When the elevator arrived on the second floor, I couldn’t wait for those slow-ass doors. I squeezed through them before they had a chance to fully open, and I went straight to the nurse’s station.

  “Victor Long. My father,” I said, out of breath. “I’m here to see my father, Victor Long.”

  The nurse looked at me, then turned to click a few buttons on her computer, then looked up at me again. “You said you’re his daughter?” she asked in a way that had me suddenly irritated as hell. “But his daughter is already in there with him.”

  “I’m his stepdaughter. My mother, his wife, is Glendora Long,” I explained, although what I really wanted to do was tell her to mind her own damn business. I had as much right to be there as that pain in the ass Jamela.

  The nurse retrieved a file and then flipped through it. “Brail?” she said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes, but it’s pronounced Bree-elle,” I corrected her with plenty of attitude.

  “Sure.” She dropped the file on the desk, giving me attitude right back. “Your father is in room 212,” she told me, pointing down the hall without bothering to look at me. I was so happy to hear that he was still alive that I didn’t even bother to call her out on her rudeness.

  Everything was going by me in a blur as I made my way to room 212. The numbers were taking their sweet time getting higher—something I wished I could be doing at that moment. Finally I stood in front of a plaque that read 212, with Victor Long’s name underneath it. Like all the other rooms in the ICU, this one had no door, but there was a curtain around the bed to give a patient some privacy. I stood in the hallway and took a moment to catch my breath. You would have thought I’d just run in a marathon. Definitely made me rethink keeping this weight on. Maybe it was time to get rid of the baby fat.

  As I stood outside the curtain I could hear Jamela’s voice.

  “Daddy, please don’t die. I won’t have any reason to live if you’re not here.” I peeked around the curtain and saw her on her knees at her father’s bedside, holding his hand. “I don’t have anybody on this earth who cares about me but you, Daddy. You can’t leave me. You just can’t.”

  She looked so pitiful, and her words almost made me feel a little bit of regret. I hated to admit it, but I hadn’t been the best stepsister to Jamela. When she said those words about not having anybody on earth who cared about her, I kind of understood why she felt that way.

  When we first moved into Victor and Jamela’s home, I was so happy. Having a big sister was awesome, and she was so generous to me. I’d be so excited whenever my mom brought in another box, saying, “Jamela just cleaned out her stuff and said you can have all these things.”

  It wasn’t no junk either. Jamela had some nice stuff. Some of it I knew for sure she hadn’t outgrown, but I figured she was just totally into being a big sister and wanted to make me happy. I got so caught up in stuff, a trait I definitely inherited from my mother, that I never took the time to tell her how much I appreciated her welcoming me with open arms and treating me like I was her very own blood sister. I know if the tables were turned, I wouldn’t have given her half the stuff she gave me, if anything at all. In spite of the distance that had grown between us over the years, I knew Jamela had a good heart, which was why hearing her feel so alone made me feel that much worse.

  I stood there for a few more moments listening to her cry
and pray over Victor.

  “God, I really need you to heal my father,” she prayed. “I need him as much as he needs me. I’m his princess. I’m his daddy’s girl.”

  Immediately, a frown covered my face and envy covered my heart. Just that quickly I was reminded of why I never did voice to Jamela how much I appreciated her when we first moved in. See, it hadn’t taken long for Jamela to show her true colors and make it clear that while she might share clothes, she wasn’t interested in sharing her daddy. She always wanted to be alone with him and have what she called daddy-daughter time. It started to make me feel left out, and before long my appreciation turned to resentment. No matter how much Victor tried not to show any favoritism and to turn us into one big, happy family, Jamela would demand louder that he spend time alone with her.

  It didn’t help my attitude to know how my mother felt about Jamela. Once, in passing, I overheard her talking to one of her friends on the phone about it. “I swear that fucking brat wants to spend so much time alone with him so she can try to get rid of me and my kids,” she said.

  I remember laughing under my breath because I’d heard my mother curse, but deep down, it scared me. What if Victor really did decide to get rid of us? My own father called me once in a while, but we barely had a relationship, so I couldn’t stand the thought of losing Victor, the only real father figure I’d ever known. So, underneath it all, who could blame me for being jealous?

  After witnessing what a true father and daughter relationship was supposed to look like, I did try to create that with my own father. For two whole months I called him every single day. After that, I purposely stopped just to see if he would miss me and call to check on me. It never happened. That’s when I had to accept the fact that my father was nothing more than a spring break father and probably always would be. Victor had been more of a father to me in these last few years than my father had been my entire life.