by Linda Verji
“That’s good.” There was a long pause during which none of them spoke but the unspoken recriminations hung between them. Like a noose, their knot tightened with every silent, loaded minute until Erica wanted to scream at him to say something. Finally he did. “How is your business?”
She gritted the words between her teeth. “Fine.”
“Strippers & Heels, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Oh, here we go again. Here comes the judgment. She’d always been a disappointment to him. She had no doubt that her choice of business venture and its name would be a disappointment too.
But no judgment came. Instead her father said, “That’s good. I’m glad it’s doing well.”
Another long pause, then her father cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask you what you were doing for Thanksgiving. Your mother really wants you to come home.”
Ah, of course. He was doing this because Sandra had forced him after she couldn’t persuade Erica to come on her own. Classic Malcolm Young. Sandra said ‘jump’ and he asked ‘how high’.
“She didn’t ask me to call,” Malcolm startled Erica with his perceptiveness. “I’m calling because I want you to come home too.” His voice softened until she only barely heard his next words. “I’ve missed you, Yakker.”
It was the nickname that did it. Tears crowded at the back of her throat threatening to spill if she even dared to speak. So she didn’t.
“Erica?” Her father called out. When she didn’t answer, he sighed heavily into the phone. “Think about it, okay?”
He waited for her to say something more but she didn’t. Finally after several minutes of strained silence, he gave up and ended the call. Yet still Erica kept the phone to her ear. It was Reggie who finally peeled it from her seemingly frozen fingers, set it back on the coffee table and pressed her head back to his shoulder.
Erica was wound as tight as a spring. It would only take one loose coil for her to pop off. That hearing her father’s voice was enough to turn her into this kind of mess irritated her, but her reaction was as instinctive as it was uncontrollable.
Anger, shock, excitement, confusion, disbelief merged and mingled inside her. Each emotion jostled for space at the top of the pyramid and creating a lethal cocktail liable to explode if not handled with kid gloves. Erica’s fingers fisted as she took deep gulps of calming air.
It helped that Reggie was holding her. She expected him to ask for answers about the phone call. He didn’t ask. He only held. His warm silent strength was like a wall that had her back, keeping her from falling into whatever abyss lay behind.
When she could finally breathe again, she found herself telling him without being prompted. “He used to call me Yakker because he said I was his little curveball.” She chuckled. “He expected a boy but got a crazy little girl instead. He didn’t say it like it was a bad thing though. He always said it like he was proud about getting me and not some boring boy.”
From there her words poured out like an unchecked stream. It wasn’t a new story. Boy meets girl. Declarations of love are exchanged. Boy marries girl. They get a child called Erica. Boy gets bored of girl and finds a mistress.
Only that’s when the story took a tragic turn.
Unable to bear the infidelity, Erica’s mother had committed suicide when her little girl was two years old. One would expect that the guilt would’ve deterred Malcolm and Sandra. But a year later they got married and moved to a place where they didn’t have to bear accusing eyes.
“I didn’t even know Sandra’s wasn’t my mother until I was fifteen.” Erica chuckled, but the short sound was laced with bitterness. “One of my real mom’s relatives sent me an email kindly informing me of the ‘story’…”
Her words drifted off as she recalled the effect that email had had on her relationship with her parents. It’d destroyed it irreparably. She couldn’t believe that they’d do that to another human being let alone her mother.
“They tried to excuse it, saying they were in love and that someday I’d understand.” She crossed her arms against her chest, holding herself tight. “I still don’t understand.”
She’d called them every spiteful name under the sun and her behavior had bordered on insane. They couldn’t deal with her and they’d retreated leaving her to wade through her hurt feeling and into Jesse arms. Reggie’s arms tightened around her when she told him about the baby she’d lost. “I’m sorry.”
A sense of rightness filled her. In his arms was where she belonged. In his arms she was safe. With him, she could share who she really was, not the perfect person everyone thought she was. She confessed, “I wanted to be sad that I’d lost the baby but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be pregnant with Jesse’s child and be tied to him for the rest of my life. Does that make me a bad person?”
She kept her head bowed, afraid to look up and see the judgment in his eyes.
“No. You’re not a bad person.” He leaned his forehead on her temple as he laced their fingers together. “You were just a teenager going through shit.”
She was glad when Reggie didn’t go Dr. Phil on her about her parents like he was wont to do. The last thing she needed was him telling her that they were only human too and had made their mistakes. That she’d been holding on to this grudge for too long and it was time to forgive. She didn’t want to forgive them. They’d killed her mother.
“Now he wants me to go to Thanksgiving and pretend like we’re all a happy family,” she comments, vitriol spilling out of every word she spat. She suddenly sat up in Reggie’s lap and whirled to face him. “If your mother invited you to Thanksgiving with her would you go?”
Reggie drew a deep breath and released it before he said quietly, “My mother would never make that much of an effort.”
Oh yeah! Dr. Phil was still in the house.
This was a really bad idea.
She had no idea how she’d even come up with it. Oh, wait! She remembered how she’d come up with it. It was the quiet reproof in Reggie’s eyes urging her to make things right that had forced her in this position. Damn it! The man didn’t even have to talk and he could still pull out the best in her (albeit kicking and screaming). She pinched him.
“Ow,” Reggie protested rubbing his upper arm. “Why’d you do that?”
Ignoring him, Erica directed the cabdriver, “Turn left at that intersection. Then take the first right corner. It’s the third house onthe right.”
She rubbed her palms together to warm her freezing palms. The cold biting at her blood had nothing to do with Atlanta’s chilly temperatures. It had everything to do with the fact that she was back home. Even while thinking of places to franchise Strippers & Heels, Atlanta had never been on her list. It was the last place she wanted to be.
Sensing her disquiet, Reggie drew her closer and hugged her to the side of his body. “It’s going to work out okay.”
“That’s what you say,” she muttered. Despite her grouchy mood, she was glad he was here with her. He’d sacrificed Thanksgiving with his own family to be with her and she was more than grateful for it. Resolving to show it, she leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“Like I could’ve refused,” he teased. His eyes strayed beyond her to stare outside the window. His jaw fell open. “Okay, wow! You guys really do it big.”
She followed his gaze to the rows of house, most if not all, decorated with Thanksgiving fanfare. Pumpkins and gourds were everywhere; lining the walkways, sitting on the doorsteps, hanging from the roof. With darkness already setting in, faux fruit lamps lit up the street lending it an air of fanfare.
“People take their Thanksgiving seriously around here,” Erica managed, even though her stomach was churning as the cabdriver slowed down in front of her house.
Nothing had changed about her childhood home. It was still a Mediterranean-style mustard yellow one-storey house with a cross gabled roof so that each portion of the house had its own triangular gabled roof. Surrounding it was a lo
w yellow wall topped by an ornate, black, wrought iron fence, separating it from the other houses flanking it. Like everyone else, her parents had gone all out with the color orange. The front of the house and lawn were a cornucopia of gourds, pumpkins, plastic corn, apples and flowers.
Struggling not to let her nerves get the best of her, she followed Reggie and the cabdriver to the back of the cab.
“I got you,” Reggie dismissed when she reached for her suitcase. At loss of what to do with her hands, she folded them over her chest and tucked them under her armpits as she watched Reggie hoist his bag over his shoulder, grab the handle of her suitcase with the same hand then tip the cabbie.
After waving off the cabbie, they made their way to the house. As if he knew that she needed a little bolstering, Reggie reached for her hand with his free one. His palm warmed hers and eased a bit of her tension. The gate was unlocked so pushing it open, they made their way up the walkway.
Her stomach bubbled with butterflies with each step they took and memories crowded in. Of being pushed by her father on the swing-set that now sat abandoned at the corner of the house. Of giggling madly as she and Sandra ducked between sprays of the sprinklers spread across the well manicured lawn. Of helping her father wash the red Buick parked in the open garage door. And of those delicious smells…
The scents hit her senses as they neared the house; butter, chives, fluffy whipped cream, baked goods. Erica’s stomach grumbled in approval reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since morning. The delectable aromas wafted from the open windows and even before she reached between the pinecone wreath to ring the doorbell, her mouth was watering.
Her father opened the door.
Time had aged Malcolm Young – yet it hadn’t. He was still the lean man with a hawkish nose and high yellow complexion, the result of his mixed race heritage. However, his once midnight-black hair was now salted with grey. Worry lines now haunted his forehead as did the bags under his eyes.
His lips widened in what should’ve been a welcoming smile but came out looking more like a pained grimace as he said, “Erica. You’re here.”
If she didn’t know her father so well, Erica would’ve thought him unwelcoming but Malcolm had never been one to let his emotions overcome him. Returning his smile with a brief twist of her own lips, she said, “Hi Dad.” When his eyes strayed past her to Reggie, she introduced, “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Reggie. Reggie, this is my dad.”
As soon as she introduced Reggie, even the little warmth her father seemed to have, froze. His eyes turned frozen with disapproval as he gave Reggie a cold once-over. It was the same look he used to give her boyfriends when she was younger. Erica wanted to scream.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Young.” Reggie smiled and either oblivious to or ignoring the frost emanating from Erica’s dad in heavy waves, he reached forward to shake hands with Malcolm.
The pump of hands was so brief, Erica was sure she’d taken shorter breaths. Before she could berate her father however, he called out towards the kitchen, “Sandra, Brooklyn, come see who’s at the door,”
For a moment Erica thought she’d heard wrong. Then her eyes met Reggie’s and saw the identical shock reflected in them.
Yup, she’d heard right.
CHAPTER 21
“Malcolm,” A woman who was as round and short as Malcolm was lean and tall, came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron labeled ‘America’s Most Wanted Cook’. She started, “Who’s at the door-” but her words came to a grinding halt as did her feet when she saw her daughter. “Erica.”
Sandra’s eyes widened, her bottom lip started to tremble and she pressed her hand to her ample bosom. Erica mentally sighed knowing exactly what was coming next. True to dramatic form, Sandra burst into tears as she rushed towards them, “Oh my baby. You came.”
She wrapped her arms around Erica. Erica wanted to hate to the hug. She wanted to act like she was unaffected by her mother’s familiar scent and the feeling of finally being home. She wanted to roll her eyes, keep her arms to the side of her body and exude calm disdain for her mother’s melodramatic welcome. Instead she found herself curling into her mother’s embrace and easing her arms around the shorter and wider woman.
“Oh, look at me.” Sandra sniffed as she stepped slightly away from Erica. Brushing the collar of Erica’s red peacoat, she said, “Ruining your lovely coat with my crying.”
“It’s okay.” Erica said, uneasily straightening the coat.
“Let me look at you.” Her mother spun her around. “You’ve become so pretty.” Which of course led to another burst of tears!
Erica didn’t know who was more uncomfortable; her or her father who was shifting on his feet uncomfortably beside them. Reggie on the other hand was beaming with his ‘I told you it would be okay’ smile.
“Look at my manners,” Sandra sniffed when she finally emerged from her happy tears. “I haven’t even said hello to your guest.”
“This is Reggie,” Erica introduced. And again the introduction was met with immediate coolness.
“Reggie?” Her mother’s tears seemed to immediately dry up. She gave Reggie a narrow-eyed once over. “Oh.” She gave him another up and down look that would’ve turned a fire into immediate ash. “Well.”
What was going on? Sandra had never been one to ice out people. If anything she was the one who usually thawed out Malcolm urging him to give other people a chance. Why was she giving Reggie the cold shoulder?
Before Erica could ask, Malcolm interrupted. “Let me show where you can put your bags,” he said to Reggie.
“Yes, show him to the guest room, Malcolm.” Sandra directed. Turning to Erica, she said, “Honey, you don’t mind sharing your room with Brooklyn, do you?”
Brooklyn again. So it was not a fluke.
“What is she doing here?” Erica ground through her teeth.
“She’s been staying with us for a couple of days,” Sandra stated unaware of the anger churning beneath her daughter’s nonchalant expression. She called out, “Brooklyn, come say hi to Erica.”
But no Brooklyn came.
“Brooklyn.” Sandra went in search of her but came back from the kitchen with a baffled look in here. “She was just in here a minute ago.”
“Maybe she’s in the backyard?” Malcolm went to check and came back with the same result. “She’s not there.”
For a moment, Erica thought her parents might be imagining things until her mother led her to her old room and pointed out Brooklyn’s suitcase tucked in the closet. Yup! She was definitely around here somewhere. The girl was like a fly that refused to be swatted away.
“Mom, tell me exactly what she told you,” Erica said once they were seated in the large living room.
“Well, she turned up on…” Sandra turned to her husband. “When was it?”
“Last Tuesday,” Malcolm recalled. That was exactly a day after they’d sent her packing from the apartment.
“She said that the father of her baby…” Sandra gave Reggie a pointed look. “…had kicked her out of his house and she had nowhere else to go.”
Both Erica and Reggie’s jaws fell open, but Reggie beat her to the pertinent question, “She said I was the father of the baby?”
Sandra’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over her chest. “So you’re still denying it?”
Erica came to his defense. “Mom, Reggie isn’t the father of Brooklyn’s baby.”
By the time she’d finished explaining the real sequence of events it was her parents who were in shock.
“Oh dear!” Her mother pressed her palm to her chest. “She’s stalking you?”
Erica shrugged. “I guess.”
“We should call the police.” Her father reached for his phone.
“And tell them what?” Erica stopped him. “She hasn’t really done anything against the law.”
“But she killed your fiancé,” Sandra reminded her.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Erica an
swered, even though deep inside she was beginning to suspect that Quin’s death might not have been as much of an accident as it’d looked. “And the police already acquitted her for it.”
“Well, we at least need to get a restraining order so she can’t come near you,” Malcolm said.
“I already did that,” Reggie said. “But we didn’t know where she was to serve it to her.”
Well now they did!
Reggie was glad he’d agreed to come down to Atlanta with Erica. The thought of her being here alone with Brooklyn was enough to set him on edge. Sure he empathized with Brooklyn because of her broken past, but she’d crossed way too many lines for him to want her anywhere near Erica, his sister or him.
“What do you suppose she was thinking when she decided to crash here?” Erica said as she lay sprawled across the bed in the guestroom watching him shake out his clothes out of his duffel bag.
“I honestly don’t know what goes on in her head,” And he didn’t want to know.
“She’s crazy.” Erica was pensive for a moment then chuckled. “My mom wants to burn her clothes in the fireplace.”
He joined in her laughter. “That should certainly liven up the festivities.”
Erica flipped her position on the bed so she was lying on her stomach with her head next to his bag. Her eyes met his in question. “So?”
“So what?”
“So what do you think about my parents?”
Reggie paused in the process of hanging up his shirt. Hmm, that was like asking him if her ass looked fat in those jeans. There was no safe response. Under normal circumstances he would say he liked them, but there was nothing normal about Erica’s relationship with her parents. It was probably a bad idea to be enamored with them. On the other hand he’d seen how happy she’d been to see her mother so going the other way was most likely also a no-no.
He settled for a safe shrug. “They’re okay.”
“Yeah,” Erica agreed then flipped back onto her back to study the patterns on the ceiling.