The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “So why no dinner?”

  “Where’s Sage?”

  “At a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese for the daughter of one of my girlfriends and afterward she’s having eight three-year-olds sleep over. She’s crazy. But I’m letting her be crazy. So why no dinner, Mom?”

  I collapse on the futon and feel my neck snap because it’s much lower than it looks. I’ll be glad when she buys some real furniture one day. “Spencer claims he forgot and I’m sure he told you about going to some stupid basketball game, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. But what has that got to do with anything?”

  “The whole point, Sabrina, was to eat together. It was sort of my way of saying it was nice to see him, brief though it turned out to be. Even still.”

  “So you didn’t cook, or what’s the deal?”

  “I’m not cooking.”

  “He hurt your feelings, then, huh?”

  “He’s not the only one.”

  “What’s Daddy done now?”

  “Did he tell you he’s going to Costa Rica with Frank for four weeks?”

  She sits down on two pillows and crosses her legs in that lotus position. How she can do this being three-and-a-half months pregnant, I don’t know. “Why is he going to Costa Rica and with Frank of all people?”

  “Because he wants to leave me temporarily so that he can get his head together while he’s going through some kind of emotional turmoil that perhaps the young woman he’s sleeping with isn’t able to help clear up.”

  “Whoa. Hold up. Stop right there, Mom. You are serious, too, I can see that. Another woman? Are you shitting me?”

  “No, I’m not shitting you.”

  “You mean he’s like having an affair?”

  “I think that’s what they call them.”

  “What would a young woman want with Dad?”

  “I can tell you one thing she’s not getting.”

  “Stop it, Mom. I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Well, it’s real.”

  “What is his problem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wait a minute. Hold up here. How do you leave someone temporarily?”

  “Well, he said he’s bored with his job and apparently with me, too, and he’s going down there to some kind of resort that’s also a spa and a retreat or something he said so he can rejuvenate himself and be new and improved when he gets back.”

  “How do you feel about all this?”

  “I might not be there when he gets back, Sabrina.”

  “What? But where would you go, Mom?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What about Grandma?”

  “Arthurine is your dad’s problem. He’s trying to make her my responsibility but I’m not falling for it this time.”

  “Well, maybe he just needs this time to get his head straight if he’s been stressing. It does happen, Mom.”

  “I know. But what about me, Sabrina? Huh? Lovey’s going through something that might be hard on all of us, but chances are I’m the one who’s going to have to handle it. My mother is losing her faculties, Sabrina. Joy swears she’s on the road to recovery, but I’m not real sure she’s got it in her. I’m bored and lonely. And I’m confused. Half the time I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

  I’m crying like a little kid, and this is when my daughter gets up and hugs me as if I am. “It’s okay, Mom. You’ve got a right to feel stressed.”

  “I’m just the caretaker. The wife. The cook. The recliner Leon chills out in. I’m tired of it and yet I can’t help but admit that I’m scared to change.”

  “Do it anyway, Mom. Why not? You did send in your portfolio and those applications, right?”

  I nod, while drying my eyes.

  “That’s a big step in the right direction. You know what you might want to try?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Yoga.”

  “I already know the benefits of yoga, Sabrina. You don’t have to do a hard sell. When I’m ready to be calm, I’ll do it.”

  “There’s also a Chinese doctor and herbalist I want you to see, and a book I want you to read. I bought it just for you.”

  I sink back into this futon that seems to be more comfortable now than when I first fell into it. “Will this transform my life, too?”

  “Don’t be so sarcastic, Mom. I’ll say this. In China, they don’t even have a word for menopause. Those women don’t suffer through it the way we do in Western culture.”

  “Is it the rice?”

  “I’ll tell you what I read. The more stress you’re under, the more symptoms you have. This is supposed to be the last great opportunity you and every woman going through this will ever have to prepare your mind, your body, and your spirit to have a long healthy life. This should be the time in your life to flourish in all kinds of ways.”

  “I’m trying,” I say.

  “Well, think of this time like you’re going on a long car trip across the desert and this is the only chance you’re going to have to make sure your car is tuned properly, that it’s full of gas and that you’ve gotten enough rest to drive. But if you’re stressed or pissed or unhappy, you won’t make it through the desert. If you want to get to wherever it is you think you want to go, you have to be willing to change everything you do that stops you.”

  “Give me some examples.”

  “You don’t exercise.”

  “True.”

  “You could stand to change your eating habits.”

  “True.”

  “You could stand to do something different with your hair.”

  “I like my hair the way it is.”

  “It’s boring, Mom. Go nappy.”

  “Are you leaving out anything?”

  “You might have to tell Daddy bye-bye. There you have it.”

  I look at my beautiful, healthy, pregnant, and smart daughter. “Thank you for saying this. But tell me something, Sabrina, are you happy?”

  This seems to catch her off guard. “Yes, I am. We have our ups and downs like everybody else, but for the most part, we’re on the same wavelength.”

  “Then why are you the one postponing getting your degree and moving to another continent, basically to accommodate him?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Would he do it for you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then why doesn’t he?”

  “Because I never asked him.”

  “But I thought you were so gung ho about getting your master’s.”

  “I am, but it can wait a year or two.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’ve always wanted to see London.”

  “Then why can’t you just buy a ticket and go for a vacation?”

  “Mom, why is this bothering you so much all of a sudden?”

  “It’s not sudden. I’ll just say it. You remind me of myself twenty-two years ago when I put getting my master’s on hold to marry your father and because I was pregnant with you. The next thing I know, here come the twins. And your daddy wanted me to stay home and be a hands-on kind of mother, which I didn’t mind doing, but fast-forward the film, Sabrina, and here I am. I don’t want this to happen to you. Looks like you’re already on your way.”

  “There’s sacrifice in every relationship, Mom, and somebody’s gotta make it.”

  “But why does it always have to be us?”

  “It’s my choice. Just like you chose to raise us. I’m going to come back in two years and my husband will be able to afford to take care of his family while I…”

  “Your what? I beg to differ with you, baby, but he is not your husband.”

  “He feels like my husband.”

  “But he isn’t.”

  “Anyway, I’m going to get my master’s in education and I’m going to focus on improving literacy in our communities and I’m going to help change the way public education avoids the issue. And I’ll do it with
my child in tow if I have to.”

  “Two children in tow.”

  “Sage is my daughter, even if I didn’t give birth to her. You probably feel the same about Aunt Joy. I’m blessed, Mom. And please don’t worry. I’m not going to give up my dreams or my plans for Nevil or any man. He’s on my side.”

  I get up and head for the door. “Look, I didn’t mean to come over here and upset your world. I’m sorry.” I give her a hug.

  “It’s quite all right. Let Daddy do his thing, and you start doing yours. Watch and see. Half the things that drive you crazy will cease to even move you.” She hands me the yoga brochure, gives me that doctor’s business card, and then gives me the bag with the book in it, which of course I do not open for weeks.

  Chapter 20

  Leon is off to his party, but left behind the brochure for his resort on the kitchen counter. It’s a picturesque place to say the least. There are no phones in the individual bungalows. Messages can only be left at the front desk. There is golf. The spa looks like it couldn’t possibly be real. I see what is apparently a hot waterfall gushing from nowhere and people standing under it. A rain forest or jungle surrounds half of this hilltop compound. Crashing waves from an emerald green sea seal off the lower side. I wish I could jump inside these photographs for just a few hours.

  At least twenty different kinds of “workshops” are offered at this place and Leon has circled the ones I suppose he’s planning to take or maybe he did this just to impress me: “Managing Your Stress, Your Heart, and Your Life” (this one lasts seven days); “Rekindling the Spirit” (five days): for those who no longer find their careers rewarding. This course offers suggestions and guidance on how to consider starting new ones; “Accepting Life’s Transitions” (five days): this one’s got my name all over it. It’s hard to believe he’s circled these last two: “Essential Peacemaking: Women and Men” (seven days) and “Not Quite Paradise: How to Turn a Troubled Marriage Around” (seven days).

  Wait a minute. I see one that makes me wonder why he and Frank didn’t think to consider inviting Joyce and me: “Exploring the Power of the Midlife Journey: A Women’s Retreat” (five days). As big as this place looks, we wouldn’t have even had to see them. Oh, who cares? It’s not like I would’ve gone anyway. And Lord knows I would not have wanted to get stuck in a room with motormouth Joyce who last I heard had gotten her stomach stapled and had lost a hundred and thirty pounds. As far as I can tell, I’m already on the Journey. I’m just trying to find a more reliable mode of travel.

  I spend most of the evening reading over the MFA course descriptions again and literally get chill bumps at the thought of being able to take any of these classes. I’m not even sure when they’re going to let me know that I’m not getting accepted. It doesn’t matter, because I can still take classes without being enrolled in a degree program. Thank God. In fact, I’ve already decided to take another one over the summer—something more than the beading class—regardless of what happens. I’ve narrowed it down to three to choose from: metal arts/jewelry, welded and fabricated sculpture, or neon/illuminated sculpture.

  Leon gets home around midnight. I pretend to be asleep. He smells like wine again. I’m sweating so much that I kick the comforter off of me. I wake up an hour later freezing and pull it back. At five a.m. Leon gets up. I don’t. Not even when Spencer and Brianna come in to say good-bye. They bend down to kiss and hug me. In fact, Spencer doesn’t even ask what happened to all the food. Not even the bread pudding. He does mention that the Lakers won by eighteen points. That Kobe and Shaq were awesome. That the after-party was off the hook.

  I go to church with Arthurine. It’s a good sermon. She holds my hand on the way out. We have brunch in Jack London Square, which is on the water. We watch the sailboats and yachts cruise by. I tell Arthurine that I need to go the bookstore and I’ll drop her off at home first. But of course she wants to go, too. But I might be a while. She says she’s in a browsing mood. I look down at her beige pumps. I can see where her bunions are forcing the leather to crack. What about when your feet start hurting and I’m not ready to go? They have chairs in that café. I’ll sit and wait. I do not feel like arguing with her.

  We go our separate ways once we get inside. I ask the clerk at the information counter where the art section is. Could I be more specific? Books on jewelry design and working with metal and clay and everything in between. He points toward the back of the store. Are there any books that might give me some insight into the business side of selling and marketing fine art and crafts? He points to the same area. I take out my water bottle and sit on the floor for more than an hour, going through book after book.

  I’ve made most of my stuff by imagining it looking a certain way, and through plain old trial and error. But I am awestruck by how much beauty can be squeezed into a book. On the cover of one is a woven basket made of cocobolo wood. I put this on what is the beginning of a pile. On top of it I place another in which fifty artists share their techniques on how they “introduce” color to metal. I just love the “introduce” thing. One cobalt blue and orange object looks like a giant snail: just one example of new ways of glazing ceramic art. Copper and pewter satin roses cluster around a hat. I could learn how to make hats, not just decorate them. But I don’t want to make them, so I put this one back. I keep the ones on wire magic and fiber art and finally, quilting like I’ve never seen in my life. I am so excited. I feel like a child who’s been allowed to pick out anything they want in the store. For good measure, I add to the pile a book that tells how to sell and market whatever you make with your hands.

  The clerk offers to carry them because they’re too heavy, and we spot Arthurine in the café. She’s drinking tea and nibbling on a giant cookie. I motion to her and she limps over. Says her feet swelled up from sitting here waiting for me for so long. I just cannot apologize.

  I refuse to watch Leon pack, so I drop Arthurine off and head for the mall where I spend hundreds of dollars on colorful workout clothes that I don’t bother to try on. I pray that the Ls are big enough or at least don’t shrink before I do. The salesgirl asks if I’m starting a brand-new program or just gearing up for summer. I tell her it’s an old program but with a whole new approach. She wants to know what the name of it is. I tell her it’s called exercise. She laughs. Asks me if I’ve ever thought of trying yoga. Funny you should ask.

  Across the aisle is an entire carousel of nothing but Arthurine’s nylon paisley jogging suits, but I cannot bring myself to walk over there. Instead, I go downstairs to the Savvy Department and pick out three very nice peach, lemon, and mint green 100 percent cotton outfits with matching pants, T-shirt, and sweater. I pull the pants diagonally to make sure there’s at least 5 percent Lycra in them. There is. I buy them for Arthurine because she really needs to update her look and she’ll look vibrant in these colors. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  It’s around eight when I get home. Leon’s been waiting for me. Wants to know if I’ll drive him to the airport. No. I can’t. Why not? Because I don’t want to. But you always take me to the airport when I’m gone for longer than a weekend. Get a ride with Frank. But his wife is taking him. Yours isn’t, I say. Call a cab. Which is what he does.

  Just as I’m leaving for work, I hear the phone ringing but I don’t feel like going back inside to answer it. I wonder if it’s Leon. While I wait a few more seconds before dialing my voice mail, the cell vibrates in my hand. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Marilyn. What time is it there?”

  “Close to nine.” I have nothing to follow this up with, so I wait to see what he has to say.

  “Well, we made it.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “It’s really quite breathtaking.”

  “You knew that before you left, Leon.”

  “I know. But it’s different once you get here.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Anyway, how are things there?”

  “Everything is fine.”
>
  “Well, look, I just wanted you to know I made it here safely.”

  “I thought you might be dead and calling me anyway.”

  “Marilyn,” he sighs.

  “What?”

  “How’s Mother?”

  “She’s packing.”

  “Packing for what?”

  “She’s going to Reno for the weekend with Prezelle and a whole busload of senior citizens.”

  “And where’s she staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, would you at least find out?”

  “She’s sixty-eight years old, Leon. She’s a big girl.”

  “That’s not the point. Is she sharing a room with someone? It better not be that old fella.”

  “It’s none of my business or yours.”

  “For Christ sakes, Marilyn. You’ve certainly become apathetic these past few weeks.”

  “I’m just numb, Leon.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. To try and thaw out.”

  “Do they have microwaves over there?”

  “Look, I just wanted you to know I’m here. Our schedule is going to be jam-packed and pretty hectic, so you might not hear from me until I’m on my way home.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “To be honest, they encourage us not to communicate with our loved ones or our jobs at all.”

  “Say no more.”

  “Seriously, Marilyn. I told you there are no phones in our cottages, didn’t I?”

  “I read the brochure, Leon.”

  “Good. Then you’re aware that the only way to reach me is by leaving a message at the front desk.”

  “I know that.”

  “And only in case of an emergency.”

  “No problem. And I hope that you and Frank are able to get as enlightened as you possibly can.”

  “Me, too. I’ve gotta go. The first session starts in two minutes. I still love you, Marilyn.”

  “What? I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up,” I say and hang up. “I don’t like the way you love me,” I say to the dead phone and then dial the voice mail. It’s Dr. Merijohn. He says that Lovey’s blood tests look good, but as he suspected, her cholesterol is too high: 290. He’s going to increase the dose of her medication but begs me to help her change her eating habits. He’s already sent the test results and copies of her medical history to Dr. Richardson, who’s looking forward to seeing Lovey in a few weeks. If for whatever reason I’m not able to go with her he asks that it be another responsible family member. I’m praying for it.