Nothing Has Ever Felt Like This

by Mary B. Morrison

  Shifting in her seat, Mandy’s pivotal movement interrupted Fancy’s thoughts.

  Love. Love. Right. “I love myself,” or so Fancy thought but had begun to wonder. What was a woman worth? What was she worth? To herself? Society?

  A little girl who’d grown up poor. Fancy was overweight. Misunderstood. Rejected by her classmates and abandoned by a drunken mom whom Fancy seldom called mother and never addressed as Mommy, Fancy had grown up alone and lonely. Caroline wasn’t an alcoholic but her intoxicated selection of men influenced Fancy’s decision to love the money not the man, and with time, Fancy’s preferred men were Benjamin, Grant, Jackson, and occasionally Hamilton but never Washington. Sniffling, briefly holding her breath, Fancy refused to cry. No more tears. The next tears Fancy would shed for Caroline would be on Caroline’s grave. Maybe.

  After she retrieved a tissue from the decorated box on the glass end table, Fancy’s lips parted again, but before she continued speaking Mandy deliberately articulated, “If you love yourself, Fancy, then why do you keep hurting yourself? Disappointing yourself? Rejecting yourself? Disrespecting yourself?”

  That’s enough! Fancy’s sniffling escalated. Not this again, Miss Goodie “I got my own money don’t need a man” Two-Shoes, you need to back the fuck up!

  Truth was, Fancy detested being vulnerable and Mandy was probing into a part of her heart that Fancy had sealed since childhood. Sad, but no one ever taught Fancy or showed her, so she didn’t know how to love. Not even herself.

  Mandy paused then added, “Neglecting yourself? Depriving yourself? Fancy, you’ve been coming to me for therapy since your senior year of high school, almost five years, and you still have the same unresolved issues you had during our very first session. If you don’t show improvement by the end of this year, I’m going to have to refer you to someone else because we can’t continue on like this.”

  The chill of Mandy’s words traveled down Fancy’s spine and underneath her thighs. The leather was warm but suddenly Fancy felt cold again. Numb. Trembling, staring at the floral wallpaper, Fancy focused on the usual unaligned row of gardenias. When was Mandy going to redecorate her office? When would Fancy get her life together?

  “Huuuhhh.” Exhaling, Fancy said, “I don’t hurt myself,” then shouted in defense, “Others hurt me! Byron! Harry! Adam!” The only man that had never harmed Fancy was her best friend Desmond. The nerve of this never-had-to-pay-a-dime-for-college shrink ditching me. I don’t need her validation. I pay Mandy; Mandy doesn’t pay me.

  Interrupting Fancy’s mental monologue, Mandy countered, “Same difference.”

  Bucking her eyes, Fancy’s eyebrows moved closer together. “Same difference?” Fancy repeated hugging her chill bumps, and then said, “Whoa. You act as though I’m responsible for controlling other people’s actions.” Fancy’s French manicured nails meandered from her elbows to her shoulders then curled under her biceps. The hairs on her forearms penetrated her sweater, causing her arms to itch.

  Quietly Mandy retrieved her pad then scribbled before calmly responding, “Not at all. But what you do control, Fancy, are your reactions. So why do you allow others to continuously hurt you?”

  “I don’t!” was all Fancy thought of and said, while her brain searched for a more intelligent response. The pupils of her eyes vanished, hiding behind insecure eyelids and false eyelashes concealing Fancy’s tears. Smothering her fears. Fancy’s lips quivered then tightened. Between sniffles, oxygen and carbon monoxide rapidly exchanged places inside her lungs, causing her breasts to rise and fall under her pink cotton-candy lace bra.

  Just because Fancy didn’t know which of the four men she’d slept with had fathered her aborted baby didn’t make her the whore that her girlfriend’s fiancé Tyronne had labeled her. Fancy selected her rich sponsors very carefully. Eventually SaVoy would realize Tyronne didn’t love her as much as he wanted to use SaVoy’s father’s commercial space to start his business. Clearly SaVoy was perfect for Tyronne but was Tyronne good for SaVoy? Time would tell. Fancy’s session wasn’t about Tyronne or SaVoy so Fancy took a deep breath and refocused again. And who cared that Fancy’s mother had never, not even once, told Fancy, “I love you”? Fancy wasn’t an insensitive person incapable of showing her true feelings.

  Quickly Fancy asked, “What’s your definition of love?”

  Mandy sat up straighter, watched Fancy, and then silently peeped over the top rim of her gold-framed eyeglasses. Why did Mandy bother wearing those stupid glasses if she only periodically glimpsed through the lenses? Mandy’s reddish bronze lipstick surrounded her perfect white teeth. Crossing her short legs, Mandy’s coffee-colored boot immaculately shone against her wool taupe pants. Why Fancy zeroed in on one shoe she didn’t know. Perhaps she continued staring toward the floor to avoid contact with Mandy’s piercing brown eyes.

  Uncrossing her legs, Mandy took a few steps then sat on the sofa next to Fancy. With Mandy’s thigh grazing Fancy’s, the warmth of Mandy’s palms caressed Fancy’s hands. Fancy gazed at Mandy’s degree hanging on the wall between her bookcases.

  “Look at me, Fancy. Love is defined for self. I cannot give you a description or write you a script or prescription for love. Some people have a passion for material things like the expensive designer clothes you always wear and the Mercedes you drive. My gosh, look at you. Pink leather low-rise pants. Matching boots. A snow white cashmere sweater. You’re the most physically fit person I know. A top-notch flowing hair weave. Magnificent lashes. Radiant skin. Impeccable facial features. Five-carat princess-cut diamonds in your navel and in each ear.”

  Mandy fingered Fancy’s earlobes lightly, holding her face in her palms. Normally, Fancy wouldn’t permit anyone to touch her face unless she knew they’d recently showered or washed their hands but Fancy’s body was motionless. Lifeless. Hopelessly, Fancy attempted to avoid Mandy’s intrusive eyes.

  “Other people value beliefs or causes like justice and equality. Fancy, you are so gorgeous. On the outside. If a positive change in your life is to come, personal growth has to come not from you but through you. Let your inner beauty outshine your physical attributes because faith and determination will carry you during your hardest times. And heaven forbid if you become disfigured. Listen, if you don’t know where to begin your definition of love, think about this: who or what are you willing to die for?”

  “That’s it!” Leaping up on her five-inch spiked heels, Fancy grabbed her mink, her purse, and screamed, “You are crazy! Why I continue to pay you is beyond me. I think you need to see a shrink your damn self.” Fancy pointed toward Mandy’s pale, turning feverish red, forehead. “Fancy Taylor is not willing to die for anyone or anything!”

  Honestly, Mandy was too close to Fancy physically and emotionally. Once more, Fancy was afraid to examine her true feelings. When Fancy swallowed, the lump of sadness in her throat choked her vocal chords. Fancy’s eyelids fluttered, washing away the saline tears threatening to detach the glue securing her fifty-dollar lashes.

  Mandy politely whispered, “That’s because you’ve never truly found love. This is our last session. Good-bye, Fancy.”

  “Bitch!” Snatching the round brass knob, Mandy’s door flung back with equal intensity, ripping a hole in Fancy’s new sweater. Covering her bra with her hand, Fancy yelled, “You’re not better than me! You’re not! You’re not! You are not!” Leaving Mandy’s office, she stumped and stumbled down two flights of gray cement stairs in the damp, dimly lit hallway. Opening the heavy metal door, Fancy exited onto University Avenue. Bending, hugging her stomach, Fancy gasped gobs of fresh air. Jaywalking with her heels clicking atop the black asphalt, Fancy ignored the red flashing “don’t walk” sign, crossed University, and remotely unlocked her car.

  “Merry Christmas,” said the homeless woman, still perched on a bench outside a café.

  Opening her car door, Fancy yelled, “Shut up! Crazy lady!”

  Why was she now brushing a matted wig when she already had a cheap uncombed
synthetic hairpiece propped lopsided on her tilted head? Fancy sat in her car angrily starring at the homeless woman. Tears poured, ruining her mascara and clothes. Fancy didn’t care. About her clothes. Herself. Or the homeless woman who stared back while constantly grooming her wig. Gradually her tattered image, draped in a frail, dingy gray cardigan sweater that should’ve been white, vanished between the layers of fog invading Fancy’s windows.

  Maybe this time Fancy should really check out of life so her unhappiness would end. What was her purpose in life anyway? Fancy had no siblings, a horrible mother, and no idea who her father was. Caroline’s parents were deceased. Who’d miss Fancy? Who’d care? The salty drops flowed faster, racing into her mouth.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Squinting, dabbing underneath her eyes with her sleeve, Fancy couldn’t recognize the face through her cloudy windows. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested. Go away.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Fancy, you okay? Let down the window.”

  Moving in slow motion, Fancy’s palm smeared a circle. She pressed the automatic button to lower the window. Her guardian angel, Desmond Brown. Her only true male friend. Desmond must’ve been a sign from God that Fancy’s time to die wasn’t today because, otherwise, why was Desmond here in another moment of her despair?

  “You okay. We still going out tonight?” Desmond asked, flashing his white teeth between full chocolate lips.

  Fancy whispered, “No, I’m not okay. What kind of question is that? And I don’t know if I want to go anywhere tonight. I need to be alone.”

  Playfully, Desmond stuck his untamed afro inside Fancy’s window. “Oh, damn.” His smile faded. “You’re crying. I’m sorry. Unlock the door and let me in.”

  Desmond must’ve recently left his barber at Lazarus Hair Studio over on Martin Luther King, Jr. Way because Desmond’s hair lining and shapely goatee was freshly trimmed. Whenever Desmond’s stylist washed his hair he massaged from the scalp then teased the edges to create an uncombed image.

  Hurrying to the passenger side, Desmond sat quietly. Fancy turned on the defroster as Desmond squeezed then held her hand. Desmond’s touch wasn’t at all like Mandy’s. Fancy felt comfortable with Desmond. His cold masculine fingers stroked her cheeks. Drying her tears, Desmond avoided touching Fancy’s lashes.

  “What’s wrong, baby? Please stop crying.” Desmond tried closing the torn gap in Fancy’s sweater, touching her breast several times.

  Covering his hand Fancy said, “It’s okay, it’s ruined just like me.” Fancy sobbed. “You’re leaving me here in Oakland to go to law school in Atlanta. My shrink just fired me. I’m broke. I have no job. This is a fucked-up way to start a New Year. I try so hard, Dez, to be happy. I really do.” Salty tears saturated her drying mascara once more, this time creating new stains. “I don’t want to go back to Byron but Byron will pay my bills if I do. And the new guy I met New Year’s Eve, Darius, you remember?” Fancy reminisced about how she’d meet Darius at church and how that same night Darius had begged her to stay with him, then continued, “Oh, um, the one who gave me a ride home in his limo when I gave you the keys to that broken-down ride you’d given me. Anyway, I don’t know Darius well enough to have him sponsor me.”

  Clenching the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, Desmond patted Fancy’s shoulder, then said, “Fancy, you’ve broken my heart countless times, including right now. You always overlook me. Degrade me. I’m a man but I have feelings, too. You know I’ll always care for you. Your quest for material things is what makes you unhappy. Why can’t you love me for me? You should be moving to Atlanta with me as my wife. It’s my last night in town, and I’m spending it with you, not my woman, Carlita. She’s taking me to the airport tomorrow but the woman I love is you. I’ve never felt good enough nor rich enough to be your man. I don’t have expensive things to offer you. At least not yet. But, Fancy, you don’t need a man to take care of you. You’re beautiful and you’re smart. You can support yourself. Besides, what happened to all that money Byron gave you?”

  Desmond acknowledged what Fancy already knew and had recently heard from Mandy about her good looks. Fancy’s forehead wrinkled. “Paid me, thank you. For the work I’d done for his company, thank you. I’m telling you, Dez, I have bad luck. The same week those checks cleared my account, the IRS and the state stole all except five thousand dollars.”

  Laughing, Desmond shook his head, and said, “Well, did you pay your taxes?”

  “No, but that’s not my point. How am I supposed to maintain my lifestyle off of a few grand when I spend that kind of money in one shopping spree?”

  “What happened to those real estate classes you charged to Harry’s credit card before he fired you?”

  Although Fancy realized Desmond’s intentions were to help, Desmond had seriously agitated her. “I wasn’t fired. I quit.”

  “Quit. Fired. That’s not my point. You already have your salesperson’s license. Can you still take the broker classes? Start your own firm.”

  Turning the key in her ignition to off, Fancy had hoped the windows would fog again so that vagabond woman would stop staring into the car. “I don’t know. Besides, I can’t start a business with no money. “

  “Take one step at a time. Let’s go find out about the classes. I’ll drive.”

  Any reason was a good one to leave. Post-holiday shoppers roamed Shattuck Avenue with shopping bags in tow. Desmond held Fancy’s hand with one hand and the steering wheel with the other.

  “Everything’s gonna be all right. I’ll do my best to make sure of it before I leave and if you need me, I’ll come back. Even after I graduate law school.” Gazing at Fancy, Desmond said, “I don’t know if you’re going to move to Atlanta or me back to Oakland, but mark my words, Fancy, you are going to be my wife.”

  Fancy hadn’t forgotten about Desmond’s high school sweetheart anxiously awaiting his arrival in Georgia. “What about Trina? You told me she’s still single with no kids.”

  Exiting Hegenberger Road toward the Oakland Airport, Desmond said, “Let me handle Trina. I know where my heart is.”

  Desmond parked in the lot on Edgewater Drive in front of Anthony’s School of Real Estate, wiped Fancy’s face, kissed her lips, and then said, “You’re beautiful. You can do this. This is the beginning of your independence. You said the next person you worked for would be yourself. Now prove it.”

  Desmond was right. Fancy was the only person in control of her destiny. Cracking a half smile, Fancy whispered, “Thanks.”

  Holding Desmond’s hand, Fancy marched into the lobby with a torn sweater and jacked-up makeup. The young man behind the counter frowned and then greeted them. “How may I help you?”

  Fancy’s California ID was one of the most flattering pictures she’d taken. Proudly Fancy handed her driver’s license to the guy, who looked barely twenty-one. “I’m here to confirm my registration for the Real Estate Practice course.”

  Reading her name, the long, lanky guy said, “Fancy Taylor,” and as his fingers clicked against the keyboard, he began to smile. “We were wondering what happened to you. You paid for Legal Aspects, Appraisal, Economics, Finance, Escrow, Loan Brokering and Lending, Property Management, and all of the rest of the electives last year. You do know you only need three electives?”

  “That’s right,” Fancy lied. “I’d like to start today and continue until I get my broker’s license.”

  “The next broker’s session for Finance starts tomorrow night. Do you have a college degree?” he asked constantly tapping on keys.

  Frowning, Fancy replied, “Why, do I need one?”

  “No, it’s just that if you’d already taken the required or elective courses, you’d receive credit. But that’s okay. I’ll get you signed up for tomorrow.”

  Sucking her teeth, Fancy said, “Damn, really? Well, since that’s not an option, I’ll definitely see you tomorrow night.”

  “And since you’ve held your salesperson’s license for nine mo
nths, if you complete the course requirements, you can have a broker’s license nine months from now.”

  “This feels so good. I was meant to be here,” Fancy said, nodding and smiling at Desmond.

  Thankfully Harry’s credit card charges hadn’t been reversed. That was the least that low-down scoundrel should’ve done. After raping her, Harry agreed to pay Fancy a lump sum not to press charges. That bastard deducted the fees for all of her classes and everything else he’d given Fancy, claiming that after all expenses, she owed him money. Yeah, right. So Fancy had assumed, to recoup his deficit, Harry would reverse the charges for her classes.

  Why hadn’t Fancy taken more classes sooner? She could’ve been working on her broker’s license months ago. Probably because the only thing Fancy had mastered was spending other people’s money. She’d never had a real marketable skill, let alone her own business. At one time, Fancy dreaded failure as much as she feared success. What would happen if for once in her life, the real Fancy Taylor lived her dreams? Beginning today, Fancy Taylor was getting paid for working men out of bed instead of under the sheets, starting with Mr. Darius “Wanna Be a Player” Jones. With his millions of dollars, Darius wouldn’t taste Fancy’s pussy until she sold him a mansion. Maybe two.

  The ride back to University Avenue was a blur. Desmond doubled-parked next to his car, kissed Fancy’s lips, and said, “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Before Desmond exited Fancy’s car, Fancy tightly wrapped her arms around his strong shoulders and whispered, “Thanks, Dez. For being my true friend. I love you.” She thought.

  Driving home, Fancy reflected on her session with Mandy. Mandy’s good-bye seemed so definite, as though she felt sorry for Fancy—the way Fancy had felt pity for that homeless woman—like Fancy was incapable of loving someone so deeply that she’d willingly give her life.

  Fancy hated to admit that Mandy was right. As Fancy sat behind the steering wheel of her luxury car, she realized that she wouldn’t voluntarily die for anything or anyone. Including her mother. Especially her mother. Because of all the things in the world that Fancy believed she could accomplish, the one thing she couldn’t do was make her mother love her.