Choose Me

by Xenia Ruiz

  “This is true. Do you need her?”

  I thought about that. Did I need her like I needed air, water, and food to live? The logical answer would be “no.” But the idealistic, personal response would be yes, God, yes, I need her. “I do,” I answered.

  “Fast and pray, my brother, fast and pray.”

  One of the things I had learned at the men’s conference was that prayer is a dialogue, not a monologue. One has to initiate a conversation with God, one on One, not only asking, but waiting for His response. Prayers are best answered through total sacrifice, and abstaining from a basic necessity such as food is one way to achieve spiritual sustenance. Not eating had been part of my cancer period, but loss of appetite and self-denial were two very different things.

  For a week prior to Jade and Akil’s wedding, I fasted and prayed, drinking only water and Gatorade. It wasn’t too hard turning down lunch with Derek since he was used to my funky appetite, but not eating at the wedding was tricky. I was looking peaked and my family was getting suspicious. One by one, they tried to force me to eat. I had to use my pain medication as an excuse for not eating. Akil, the only one who knew what I was contemplating, stuck to his guns and didn’t break our confidence.

  Before proposing to Eva, I thought of our past conversations about marriage. Our dialogues were always brief, a comment here and there, or in the heat of an argument. Back then, her adamant assertions against remarriage seemed out of competition, to one-up me. We had never really had a serious discussion about the matter. Although I had never been married, I knew marriage was difficult, which was why many people, myself included, delayed the ritual. Experience was not the only teacher; sometimes learning from the examples of others, like my parents’ and my sister’s, worked wonders. I remembered the night I had suggested out of anger that we tie the knot and Eva almost chopped my head off. I just knew there was no way her reluctance toward marriage was stronger than mine, or even the worst commitment-phobic man. Most women want to get married, don’t they? I tried to rationalize. Most women are afraid of being alone, aren’t they? I knew those assumptions came from years of cultural conditioning. And then the obvious answer came to me: Eva was not, and had never been, “most women.”

  It was hard to believe that housework and the name change were her biggest concerns about marriage. Maybe she didn’t want to be stuck with a sickly man, which was understandable since it was not my intention to be a burden to anyone.

  Perhaps she was afraid I would be unfaithful like her ex-husband and her ex-fiancé. And how could I convince her that I would never cheat on her because I knew what it was like, and I never wanted her to feel that way.

  I thought back on the image I had always had of my future wife, how I thought I would know the woman I was going to marry at first sight. I didn’t have that intuition with Eva in the beginning; that sentiment came later. Or how it had always been my intention to marry a Black woman. Even if Eva wasn’t “Black” in the ethnic sense of the word, she had the qualities of the Black women I had known all my life: my grandmother, my aunts, my mother and sister. She was resilient and a fighter, a survivor; the kind of woman who held on to her principles no matter what. If she had been Asian, White, or whatever, I would’ve felt the same way. I fell in love with Eva for who she was, not what she was.

  What I couldn’t understand was, now that I was “Mr. Righteous” personified, the kind of man she had initially wanted, why was her decision difficult? I had come to God of my own accord; she had been the secondary reason.

  These were the words that came to me during my fasting prayers, in my discourse with God: all my thoughts, my fears. Prior to my rebirth I would have thought I was losing my mind, but now I knew it was part of an ongoing dialogue with God.

  For eight days after the wedding, and Eva’s ambiguous answer to my proposal, I waited for her call. Every time the phone rang, I thought it was her. I felt like the goofy ostracized boy waiting for the call from the pretty popular girl, a call that would never come. I felt like a chump. Sitting at home, I wondered if Eva was really “thinking” about her decision or if she already knew what her answer was going to be. No, she wouldn’t play games at this late stage. Not after what she had been through, after what I had been through. I didn’t know many things but that much I knew. A part of me was prepared for the possibility that she would turn me down because she had been a challenge from day one, high maintenance. So why had I expected her response to a marriage proposal to be any different?

  One evening, after returning from movie night with Justin and Ricky, the phone was ringing as I walked in. I didn’t bother to check the caller ID and went straight to the shower. The phone rang on two more occasions as I was relaxing and reading on the balcony and, reluctantly, I got up to check the number. Recognizing Jade and Akil’s new phone number in Oak Park, I picked up.

  “Have you asked her yet?” Akil asked. “I can’t keep lying to my wife. And your mom, she’s something else. She won’t let up. They think you’re sick again and you’re keeping it to yourself.”

  I started to lie but I found myself telling him the truth. “Yeah, I did.”

  There was silence as he waited for details and I waited for further questions. In the interim, I walked into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator even though I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. The inside of the fridge looked like the store floor models, spick and span and empty except for some Gatorade, two eggs, and an apple.

  Finally, picking up on the silence on my end, Akil said questionably, “She said ‘no’?”

  “She didn’t say yes.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that, brother.”

  “She said she’d think about it.”

  “Maybe she’ll say ‘yes’ after she thinks about it.”

  “I don’t know.” I reached for the apple. “At this point, I really don’t care, brother.”

  * * *

  On the ninth day, an early Saturday morning, she called. I was ready to be sarcastic, to tell her it only took God six days to create the world, a bigger feat than the decision to get married.

  “Hey, babe,” she said.

  Her voice caught me unprepared and I didn’t answer right away. “’Sup?” I then said, unintentionally adopting Justin’s customary greeting.

  “Can you meet me at the café?”

  “I’m not in the mood for coffee right now.” I was amazed at how cold I could still be, how quickly I could digress in spite of my renewed spirit. But after all the waiting, I was feeling mean and unsociable. The former me would have begun doubting my conversion but the reborn me was well aware that I was allowing the enemy to get the best of me. I was beginning to learn that being saved didn’t mean you are perfect, but a constant work-in-progress.

  “Please,” she said. “It’s on me.”

  Her voice sounded like a little girl’s, begging for the latest televised toy during the holiday season. But still, I hesitated, stalling because I was nonetheless feeling slightly insignificant. “If you’re going to say ‘no,’ I’d rather you spare me the humiliation and tell me now.”

  “Adam.”

  Even before I consented, I knew I was going to meet her wherever, whenever she said.

  By the time I got to the café, I was sweating profusely from the hot, muggy weather and because the air-conditioning was broken in my car. When I walked up to the door, there was a sign that said “Closed for Inventory.” But the door was unlocked. The place was dark and deserted, strange because even early in the morning, there were always customers. There was no one at the counter, no one browsing in the aisles or sitting at the tables, and Caswanna and Hassan were nowhere in sight. Directly in front of the stage was one table with a rose-shaped candleholder that was lit. The place was bare aside from the classic votive candles and the stool that the performers used. To make my temperament worse, the air-conditioning was off. Something wasn’t right.

  “Hello?” I called out, standing in the doorway wondering if I was walking into a rob
bery or something. Then I thought, if there was a robbery in progress, then Caswanna and Hassan could be hurt. Or Eva. My street-smart instincts kicked into overdrive as my eyes searched frantically for a weapon.

  “Caswanna! Hassan!” I yelled, grabbing the nearest candle-holder. It was made of pewter and weighed a good three pounds, and could probably knock a person out, provided I could get close enough and he wasn’t carrying a gun. “Eva—”

  And then from stage left she appeared, wearing Simone’s orange blouse, scarf, and flared jeans—the outfit she wore when we first met for coffee, our “non-date.” Her hair was responding to the discontinuation of relaxers so that her natural kinky-curl was coming through and tumbling from the scarf in a crowning glory. She walked onto the stage very slowly, like a bride or like she didn’t know what to expect, carrying a bouquet of flowers like it was a baby. They were orchids, long-stemmed and overwhelming, filling the expanse of both her arms. I began to relax as everything started making sense.

  Secretly, I was impressed with her ability to get Caswanna and Hassan to close the coffeehouse for us. I wished I had thought of it. Nevertheless, I kept a straight face, still unsure of her intent. Was she preparing to let me down easy, the offering of flowers to soften the blow—a requiem for a dead man? Or could she be making a big production out of saying “yes”? Either way, I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. I knew it was juvenile but after waiting eight days, I wasn’t feeling very mature.

  Assuming that I was supposed to sit at the reserved table, I took my time walking to the front, slumping into the chair.

  She leaned against the stool, not quite sitting, and cleared her throat a couple of times. I wondered what I was in for: a poem, a song, an apology.

  “I never told you this but when my boys were shot, I made a vow to God that I would never let another man come before Him,” she started, then cleared her throat again.

  “I thought the shooting was punishment for going to bed with you. But I know God’s not vengeful. I know He allows things to happen in order to test our faith, to make us see that He is supreme. It was something I believed easily enough until it happened to me.

  “After you proposed, I had some reservations. Some of them had to do with the reality of being a wife, not wanting to change my name again, all those superficial things. So I went to Pastor Zeke. He made me see that I was letting the enemy steal my joy, get the victory when I should have been happy. He said I was looking at marriage in its worldly context instead of the covenant that it was meant to be. I also talked to Maya since she’s been through so much in her marriage. They both told me I needed to ask God for direction.

  “Part of me was afraid of getting married again because of my first marriage. But I know you’re not Anthony; you’re nothing like him. You have a good heart, you’re a good man; I’ve always known that. I saw it in the way you’re with Jade, Kia, and Daelen, and your mom. But the problem was you weren’t a man of God, and now you are. Anthony and I didn’t have God in our marriage. If we get married, we’ll be one step ahead because we have God. And even if we get married, it won’t be perfect because nothing is perfect. I know there’re going to be good and bad times. I know there are things I’ll—we’ll both have to compromise on.”

  I listened intently, my hands folded on the candlestick I had grabbed as a weapon, dissecting her words into affirmative and negative. Most of what she was saying was all good, but my attention focused on her repetitive statement, “if we get married.” Was she saying she wasn’t ready? Or that it might not happen?

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you at the beach, but you caught me by surprise,” she continued. “I’m sorry for making you wait, but I had to wait on God’s answer. Before, when I asked Him for direction, if you were the man for me, I didn’t wait. I heard the answer I wanted to hear. I thought I had waited for a man long enough so He couldn’t say ‘no.’ I’ve always believed God answered prayers in His own time, whether in our favor or not.

  “Then last night, I told God directly, ‘if this is the man I am to marry, then so be it; if not, I’m ready to wait another five years.’ When I woke up, I didn’t think about what my first marriage was like, I didn’t think about cooking and cleaning, I didn’t think about my fears or doubts. I thought about you, about that day in the hospital when you prayed for me. That was my confirmation. With all you had been through, you still thought of me. I do want to marry you. So now I’m asking you, Adam. Do you still want to marry me?”

  I was touched and humbled by her speech, but I couldn’t let her off the hook just yet as my stubborn male ego re-emerged. Slowly, I started clapping unenthusiastically. I saw her face drop as she bit her bottom lip.

  “Nice speech,” I said wryly. “Let me get back to you.”

  She stepped off the stage and walked up to me, looking down at me with those huge brown eyes as I tried to maintain eye contact, but she stared me down. Fierce, I thought.

  “Where’s Hassan and Caswanna?” I asked.

  “In the back, doing inventory.”

  I broke the ice. “Where’s my ring?”

  “You want a ring?” she asked, her face breaking into a smile.

  She laid the flowers in front of me and sat down, sliding her chair closer to mine. I dug through the foliage. “Is the ring in here somewhere?”

  “I’m sorry, Adam.”

  Worn out from the days of waiting and wanting, of feeling hurt, angry, and tense, I finally relaxed, leaning back in my chair as I twirled the candleholder on the table.

  “I wanted to propose to you the old-fashioned way, down on one knee and all that,” I explained. “But I thought that was so passé and I wanted the proposal to be unique. I don’t know what happened. Something told me to propose that day. Maybe it was seeing Jade so happy. Perhaps it was God. I guess when you’re sitting around with all the other little old ladies talking about how your husband proposed, you can tell them how you turned me down—”

  She moved the candlestick out of reach and put her hands over mine to stop my nervous twirling. “I didn’t turn you down. I said—”

  “I wanted my proposal to be memorable,” I persisted. “At the beach, where I first told you ‘I love you’ in Spanish?” I paused. “I even wrote you a poem—”

  “You wrote me a poem?” she asked, perking up like a kid. “Where is it?”

  I tapped my chest to indicate I knew it by heart. She swallowed and whispered, “Recite it.”

  I shook my head, suddenly feeling inhibited. “Too late. You upstaged me.”

  She reached out and brushed back the sweaty, sticky hairs from my forehead. “Recítalo, now.”

  With our elbows on the table, we interlocked hands and looked into each other’s eyes as I recited the poem:

  Dear Eva,

  Who are thee to me?

  let me see

  you are the woman I hoped for

  before you came into my life

  who opened my eyes

  and opened my mind

  time and time again

  Who are thee to me?

  let me see

  you are the woman I wished for

  before my wish came true

  and took over my thoughts

  and helped me see God

  once again

  Who are thee to me?

  let me see

  you are the woman I prayed for

  before my prayers were answered

  the woman I will love

  as I love my own body

  like Christ loved the church

  over and over again

  Who are thee to me?

  You ask?

  You are

  the Eve to my Adam

  whom God made from him

  as I am

  the Adam to your Eve

  made of God’s breath and dust

  You are

  who You are

  the woman I will love

  forever and ever

  until the end of tim
e

  Love, Adam

  Before I could finish, she was pulling away one hand to wipe the silent tears that were sliding down her face. “Thank you. It’s beautiful,” she mumbled, her head lowered as she fumbled for a napkin at the next table. I cupped her face in my hands as she tried to wipe her eyes. Seeing her so emotional moved me and I felt my own eyes clouding over.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “Right. With snot running down my face,” she said, sniffling and laughing at the same time. I kissed her palms, the aroma from the orchids soaked in the veins. “So is that a yes?” she asked.

  “Not until you get down on your knee,” I joked. When she started to slide down to the floor, I pulled her up. “You know, you’re the only woman I’ve ever brought here.”

  “That’s nice. What’s your answer?” she asked, cutting me off.

  I laughed. “How do you say ‘kiss me’ again?”

  She sucked her teeth. “You know how.”

  “Besame, Eva, besame,” I beseeched her.

  But she had already anticipated my move and was leaning over to meet my lips. “We really have to work on expanding your Spanish vocabulary.”

  It was a simple kiss, hesitant and adolescent, our lips barely touching, as if we were afraid of getting carried away, but in its simplicity was a myriad of emotions, desire being the least of them. When we came apart, I expressed my gratitude to the One responsible, “Thank you, God.”

  I smiled at her, and by the look on her face, I could tell she wasn’t finished.

  “What?”

  “Adam, you know, we don’t have to rush into this,” she then said. “Pastor suggested we join the couples’ ministry.” She paused as my smile slowly faded. “For premarital counseling. Maya said it’s helping her marriage. And we’re going to have to be engaged for a while, no?”

  The Spanish “no” didn’t do anything for me this time. “For how long?” I asked sullenly.