Love T.K.O.

by Pamela Yaye

  A Hispanic man in spandex shorts jogged up the block. “Good morning,” he greeted, as he passed by.

  Yasmin returned his smile. He was an early riser. Like Rashawn. On cool, breezy mornings like this, Rashawn would forgo his run and bike instead. Sighing deeply, she stared up at the cloudless sky. It was hard not having him around. She occupied her evenings with work but the more hours she put in at the office, the emptier she felt. Her free time should be spent with Rashawn, not poring over old case files and medical journals. He was always invading her thoughts, but what Yasmin missed most was hearing his voice.

  Last Thursday when he hadn’t shown up for the Men of Initiative program, she had slipped out of the room and called him. He hadn’t answered, but that hadn’t stopped her from calling again. Every night before bed, she phoned and left a message on his answering machine. Hearing his voice softened the sting of their breakup and made her feel close to him. Yasmin wanted Rashawn to know that she was thinking about him. And she was. In the morning when she ate breakfast, at night when she read Bedtime Stories for Lovers and whenever an Anthony Hamilton song came on the radio. Rashawn had been such an integral part of her life that not seeing him made her miserable. Imani and Katherine saw to it that she had things to do, but trips to the mall couldn’t replace him. Who was she going to vent to? Who was going to massage her feet at the end of a long day? And most importantly, who would she share her hopes, dream and fears with?

  Lifting her arms above her head, she stretched her tight, underworked muscles. Since their breakup, she had dissected every word of their argument, piece by piece. Were his accusations founded? Was she preoccupied with death? But after reviewing the facts, Yasmin realized she had every reason to be afraid.

  Rashawn was risking his health, all for the sake of fame and fortune. She didn’t care what his team said. He had no business fighting Garcia or anyone else. Extensive research into head injuries had uncovered shocking findings. Internal bleeding wasn’t often found in healthy twenty-seven-year-olds, but it was a common occurrence among athletes. And a boxer was five times more likely to suffer a cerebral concussion than any other athlete. Their relationship was over, but that didn’t mean Yasmin had stopped worrying about him. In recent weeks, her anger had cooled. Loneliness had set in and despite her efforts to keep it at bay, she couldn’t shake the feeling. Friends and family commented on how well she was coping with the breakup, but it was all a façade. Every night she sat by the phone, willing it to ring. And on several occasions, she’d hopped into the car and driven by his house. When she saw his Mustang in the driveway, she sighed with relief; when it wasn’t there, thoughts of him being with another woman harassed her mind.

  Yasmin rounded the corner. One more block to go. The residents in Hillsborough were ready to start the day. Students stood in line for the bus, stay-at-home moms pushed strollers and canine lovers walked their pets. A bearded man stood at the bus stop kissing with an Asian woman half his age. The couple groped each other like a pair of horny teenagers. Shaking her head, she considered her eight-month relationship with Rashawn. A therapist and a tough-as-steel boxer? Who would have thought? They were an unlikely pair, joined together by past hurts and disappointments. Yasmin wanted to be a partner in his world, his confidante, his sounding board, someone he could go to when everyone else failed. She had a successful practice, a loving family and friends, but life was richer and fuller with Rashawn by her side. He was her lover, her king, her everything. If only he had listened to her. If only he cared enough about her, enough to—Yasmin killed the thought. No more fretting over Rashawn. He had made his choice and she would respect it, no matter how much it hurt.

  “Have you put on weight?” Ms. Ohaji queried, as her daughter came in through the back door. “Your skirt is so tight I can see your panty line.”

  “Hi, Mom. It’s good to see you,” Yasmin said dryly. She took off her blazer and draped it behind the chair. “Please don’t start in on me about my weight. I’ve had a rough day and the last thing I need is more unsolicited advice.”

  “Well, someone has to warn you about the dangers of being overweight. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t tell you the truth? Not a very good one.”

  “I’ve gained a few pounds, big deal.”

  “Big deal? Do you know the health risks linked to obesity?”

  Sitting down on a stool at the eating bar, she patted back a yawn. “Mom, please don’t start. I can’t take another one of your lectures.”

  “I don’t know why you struggle with your weight. I weigh less than I did on my wedding day and I’ve had three kids,” she pointed out, a trace of self-satisfaction in her voice. “None of the women in our family are heavy and you shouldn’t be either.”

  Yasmin helped herself to the bowl of almonds. “Well, you’ll be happy to know I started a new diet and exercise program last week.”

  “What you need to do is put down the snacks and pick up some weights.” Ms. Ohaji reached out and cupped her daughter’s chin. “You have bags under your eyes and your skin is dry. Start taking those multivitamins I bought you. They’ll help bring your color back.”

  “Mom, I’m fine and so is my color.”

  “No it’s not. You look sick.” Her face wrinkled with concern. “Maybe you’re coming down with the flu or something. You should stop in the walk-in clinic on your way home.”

  Yawning, she stretched her hands lazily over her head. “No need. I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday.”

  “You need to get more sleep,” Ms. Ohaji advised in a stern voice. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned since you sat down and you just got here!”

  “Mom, you worry too much.” Anxious to change the subject, she said, “Where’s Dad? Is he working late again?”

  “The last time I saw your father he was sprawled out on the couch watching the Fight Network.” Ms. Ohaji examined her daughter. “Speaking of sports, have you spoken to Rashawn?”

  “No, and I don’t plan to.”

  “I think you should give that young man another chance.”

  Yasmin’s mouth sagged. “You do?”

  “Did he cheat on you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever push you around or call you names?”

  “Never.”

  Ms. Ohaji wore a triumphant smile. “Then your relationship is salvageable!”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, your generation is experiencing a man shortage. Everyone’s talking about it. Ebony, Essence and Upscale magazines all did articles on the subject, and Oprah devoted an entire show to the matter. Single, career-oriented women are having a terrible time finding suitable mates.”

  Feigning surprise, Yasmin smacked her cheeks. “Say it ain’t so! Poor ole me. What will I do without a man to take care of me?”

  Scowling, Ms. Ohaji eyeballed her eldest daughter. “You won’t be laughing when you’re forty-five and everyone around you is happily married. It’s a very serious issue, Yasmin. One you shouldn’t take lightly.” Her tone softened. “Give some thought to what I said. You don’t want to wake up one morning and realize you let a second chance at true love pass you by.”

  Ms. Ohaji turned to the stove, leaving Yasmin alone with her thoughts. Her mother was right. She had thought about marrying Rashawn and even dreamt about it, too. The idea of spending the rest of her life living with him and loving him was an exciting prospect. They embraced the same family values and spiritual beliefs, shared common interests and loved each other completely. But Yasmin couldn’t sit back and watch him get hurt, year after year, fight after fight. It wasn’t fair to her, and he wasn’t prepared to leave boxing. It was his dream, his passion, his life. How could she ask him to give up doing what he loved? Yasmin understood her mother’s concern, but she didn’t share her opinion. If she couldn’t have Rashawn, she didn’t want anybody.

  Eli ambled into the kitchen. “I’m starving,” he announced, sticking his hand into the pot and
plucking out a chicken breast. “How are the baked beans coming along?” he asked, biting into the meat.

  “Get out of here and don’t come back!” Ms. Ohaji ordered, shielding the pot with her hands. “That’s your third piece. By the time you’re finished sampling, there will be nothing left.”

  Chuckling, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey, Sis. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. I just stopped by to see what you guys are up to. How’s school?”

  Eli groaned. “Insane. I have more assignments than I can handle.”

  Yasmin laughed. “Welcome to the real world, little brother.”

  “It’s not all bad.” He finished the meat and tossed the bone into the garbage. “I’ve decided to join Pi Kappa Sigma. They’re the hottest frat on campus and they really know how to get down.”

  “Fraternities were founded to enrich the community, strengthen the brotherhood and develop leadership qualities, not to host weekly parties. And if I’m not mistaken, academic achievement is a top priority.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Eli plopped down on the stool beside her. “I need a favor.”

  “You can’t crash at my place, you can’t borrow my car and I don’t have any money to lend you.”

  “That’s cold, Sis.” He lobbed an arm around her shoulder. “Can you ask Rashawn for some tickets to his match? If I can hook up my frat brothers with front-row seats, they might take it easy on me during pledge week.”

  “Why don’t you call him yourself?”

  “I did. We spoke last week. He asked about you.”

  Yasmin stared at her brother. “He did?”

  “I don’t know why you guys broke up, but I know he still cares about you. Why else would he be asking about you every two minutes?”

  It took all Yasmin had not to interrogate Eli. Her face remained expressionless when she asked, “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know what you were up to, wanted to know if you were seeing anybody, asked if you were still mad at him.” Eyeing his mom, he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I invited him to Mom and Dad’s anniversary party. He said he’d try to be there.”

  Her smile was slow to form. It felt good knowing Rashawn was thinking about her. She wasn’t the only one lamenting their breakup. Apparently he was, too. “Why didn’t you ask for tickets when you talked to him last week?”

  “Because the idea just came to me a few days ago. I’ve tried calling, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of him. But if you call, he’ll answer.”

  Eli’s words circled her head. Rashawn was coming to her parents’ party? It had been a month since they’d broken up and the prospect of seeing him again excited her. Glancing down at her suit, she wondered what Rashawn would think of her loose midsection and flabby thighs. Just because they weren’t together anymore didn’t mean she could let herself go. Yasmin slid off the stool. “I’ve got to go.”

  Covering the pot, Ms. Ohaji glanced over her shoulder. “I thought you were staying for dinner?”

  The sweet-smelling aroma of cornmeal soup filled the kitchen. Yasmin’s mouth watered and her stomach rumbled. Ignoring her hunger, she grabbed her jacket, tossed her purse over her shoulder and pushed open the back door. If she hurried, she could make the seven o’clock step-aerobic class at Bally’s Gym.

  Chapter 24

  Yasmin leafed through her second issue of Women’s Health magazine. After spending an hour in the lab and waiting another twenty minutes before the nurse had called her, she was hungry, tired and anxious to go home.

  Yasmin heard the clack of high heels and then there was a sharp knock on the door. It opened and Dr. Fitz-Simmons swept into the room, her white coat flapping restlessly behind her. She was a slender, fifty-something woman with a short Afro. “Yasmin,” she greeted brightly. “It’s been awhile. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay, and you?”

  “Great. It’s good to see you.” Dr. Fitz-Simmons sat down on the stool. “It looks like congratulations are in order,” she said, smiling. “I must admit I was shocked when I saw your test results.”

  “I—I—I don’t understand.”

  The doctor’s smile fell away. “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “You’re pregnant!”

  Her purse slipped off her lap and crashed onto the floor. “I’m what?”

  “Pregnant. Based on the level of HCG in your blood, I’d guess you were about eight weeks, but we’ll know for sure once I examine you.”

  For a moment, Yasmin thought she was joking. But when Dr. Fitz-Simmons patted her hands sympathetically, she knew the doctor was as serious as the IRS.

  “M-m-my blood work must have been mixed up with someone else’s,” she stammered, her heart pounding in her ears like steel drums.

  Dr. Fitz-Simmons opened the file on her desk. She scanned the documents inside. “Everything matches up. The pregnancy hormone was detected in both your blood and urine, but if it makes you feel better we can run the tests again.”

  “Yes, please do. It’s wrong.” Bending down, she stuffed her wallet, compact and cell phone back into her purse. “I can’t possibly be pregnant. I’ve been in premature ovarian failure for years.”

  “They might be failing, but they’re still working. And they’re obviously functioning better than expected, because you got pregnant without even trying.”

  “Can you please stop saying that,” Yasmin ordered, bolting upright. “I’m not pregnant.”

  “When was your last period?”

  Squinting, she racked her brain for the answer. Confused thoughts and fears flooded her mind, increasing her anxiety. “I—I can’t remember. I’ve never had a normal menstrual cycle so it’s hard for me to say. But I know I’m not pregnant.”

  “Maybe it will help if I explain. Human chorionic gonadotropin, or HCG, is released into the body by the placenta when you conceive. This hormone is also responsible for causing some of the initial symptoms of pregnancy, such as fatigue, exhaustion and breast tenderness.”

  “But I’m fine. I’ve been feeling a little queasy but…” Her voice drifted into silence as she thought back over the last month. She woke up feeling lethargic, her clothes were snug and she often fell asleep after dinner. But that didn’t mean she was pregnant. She had the flu. At this time of year, everyone was sniffling, coughing and wheezing. It was the change of the season and nothing more. Yasmin burrowed her arms defiantly across her chest. “I have the flu.”

  Dr. Fitz-Simmons wore a knowing smile. “Flu-like symptoms are similar to the early signs of pregnancy. Women often complain of feeling run-down and nauseated during the first trimester. It’s perfectly normal.”

  “I’m not pregnant,” she protested, swiping the magazine up off the floor and stuffing it back into her purse. She made a point of adding, “I’d know if I was pregnant. I’m a doctor, too, you know.”

  “And I’ve been a gynecologist for almost thirty years. I know what I’m doing, Yasmin. You’re pregnant.”

  Rocked by the news, she sat in stunned silence. On the outside, she was composed, but inside she was trembling with fear. She was trying to keep it together. Trying to remain strong. How would it look if she threw herself down on the ground and started bawling? No, that’s not how a therapist behaved. Besides, if the test results were accurate, there would be plenty of time for crying later. After several seconds, she found her voice. “H-How could something like this happen?”

  Dr. Fitz-Simmons chuckled. “I should be the one asking you that question.”

  “B-B-But I’m on the pill. I’ve been on it for years. I’ve never missed a dose. And I used condoms.”

  “You and I both know abstinence is the only form of birth control that is a hundred percent effective. And alcohol, stress and weight gain can reduce the efficiency of the pill. And condoms can break.”

  Yasmin pressed her eyes shut and massaged her temples. “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening,” sh
e repeated, rubbing her fingertips in a circular motion. “The test is wrong. The test is wrong.”

  “You’ll be fine, dear. Women give birth every day. It’s a glorious and wonderful part of a woman’s life. You can do it. You’re a lot stronger than you think.”

  “I can’t have a baby!” Yasmin poured out all of her fears. “I have a clinic to run, I just started a new project at the women’s center and…and Rashawn and I broke up. If I was married it wouldn’t be so bad, but I’m not. I can’t be an unwed mother! What will people say?”

  “Yasmin, I’ve known you and your family for years. Once you get over your shock, you’ll realize just how fortunate you are. Not everyone can get pregnant, you know. Some couples struggle with infertility for years before they conceive. And others never do.” Dr. Fitz-Simmons punctuated her sentence with a smile. “You beat the odds. That’s something to be grateful for.”

  “None of this feels real…It’s like I’m dreaming or something.”

  “It’s real all right. Just be thankful you don’t have morning sickness.”

  A bolt of panic flashed in Yasmin eyes.

  “My daughter’s in her twenties now but I remember my pregnancy like it was yesterday.” Sighing wistfully, she said, “The first time you feel the baby move, you’ll never be the same. It’s an incredible feeling, a mixture of awe, joy and love.”

  Dr. Fitz-Simmons was right; if she was pregnant, she’d be changed forever.

  “Before I send you back to the lab, why don’t I examine you?”

  Yasmin slid onto the examining table and lay down. She lifted up her shirt, embarrassed at the softness of her once firm stomach.