Though LaTonya no longer talked about joining her sister in heaven, I was still concerned. According to the Millers, LaTonya had always been the gregarious one, but I would never have been able to tell it. Since the fire, she’d become an introvert, taking on the personality of her sister.
I had never even seen her smile.
At first, my goal had been to save her life. Now I wanted to help her get her life back. Not exactly to where it used to be, but I had to help her find a new normal that included her laughing and playing and loving school again.
I pressed, “Don’t you want to see your friends in school?”
“I don’t want any friends.”
I felt LaTonya’s pain right now. I wasn’t sure that there would ever be another woman in life I’d trust enough to call a friend.
But still I had to ask LaTonya, “Why don’t you want any friends?”
She looked at me. “I just want LaTrisha.”
“But you know . . .” I paused to see what LaTonya would say.
“LaTrisha’s in heaven.”
I waited for her to say more, but she said nothing. She’d put a period on that sentence, which was a good thing.
I moved away from the talk of school and looked down at her picture. “That’s a big sun,” I said.
“LaTrisha liked the sun.”
“What about you?”
“I like the sun, too.” Then she stopped and admired her work. “Can I take this home with me?”
“Of course.”
“I want to put this on LaTrisha’s side of our room.”
“That sounds great.”
I’d told the Millers to keep LaTrisha’s bed in place and to let LaTonya talk about her sister as much as she wanted. My hope was to get LaTonya to the day when she was ready to live with just her sister’s memory.
After fifty minutes, I turned her over to her parents, confirmed her appointment for tomorrow, and returned to my office, and in just minutes, loneliness descended upon me.
I’d felt it all along, from last night to this morning. From the moment that Jamal had walked out, loneliness had been hovering like a vulture, waiting to swoop down and come in for the kill.
The plan was for me to gather my purse and briefcase and head home. But for what? The vulture would be larger there, the pain would be greater. So I sat behind my desk, closed my eyes, and wondered about the days ahead.
My life was really going to be different now. I’d loved Jamal for so long, I could hardly remember the time before him. But now I’d once again be alone. I could handle that—at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
My cell phone vibrated on my desk and I didn’t even have to reach for it to know that it was another call, or another message, or another text, from Jamal. He’d left so many messages last night that I’d had to clear out my voice mail this morning, though I hadn’t listened to a single one.
Picking up my cell, I clicked on the text message icon and nine popped up from Jamal. The messages were all the same: I love you. I miss you. I’m so sorry.
I deleted them, then tossed my phone back onto my desk.
“It was never supposed to be like this,” I said aloud.
All that was supposed to be waiting for me in life was happiness. That’s what Jamal had promised, and not just with his words. From the moment we’d kissed on the beach’s edge in Maui, my heart had been filled with joy, though it had come at such a high, high price. A high price that I’d been so willing to pay . . .
August 29, 2003
It was just a little more than two years ago when Jamal had knocked me out with that kiss as we sat on those rocks in Maui. We had sat there and just kissed, soft kisses, gentle kisses, love kisses—what I would call, from that day forward, Jamal kisses.
The sun was long gone by the time we broke away. For at least an hour after that, I leaned back in Jamal’s arms while we listened to the music of the ocean as the surf crashed on the rocks. It had been so dark when we’d finally decided to go inside that Jamal had to carry me down.
From that point on, we were Emily and Jamal, though we made no announcement. Not that any was necessary; it showed in the way we were.
At breakfast the next morning, while Jamal and Chauncey chatted at the waffle station, Miriam and I stood in front of the omelet chef.
“The last time I saw you, you and Jamal were like brother and sister. And now it looked like he was gonna cry when you walked away from him. What a difference a day makes.”
My face was filled with my grin, but all I did was shrug.
“Oh, so you think you’re gonna get away with not saying anything? You’re gonna tell me something.”
“A woman never kisses and tells.”
“So there was a kiss!” Miriam exclaimed. “I knew it! I knew it!”
I laughed, but told her nothing more. Not that I had to. For the rest of the weekend, Jamal and I behaved like we were the ones on our honeymoon, and I would’ve cried when the weekend ended if Jamal and I weren’t headed back to LA together. Back in the city, our lives and our love continued. I was in school, and Jamal was working a schedule as an EMT that was just as demanding.
No matter what, though, we spent as much time together as we could. Sometimes I took stacks of books to his apartment in Ladera Heights and studied while I lay across his lap. Or he’d come to my place and we’d rent movies.
Of course, like everything else, we had the same favorite movie.
Love Story.
It was no surprise that I loved that movie, but it was a little bit shocking that a guy would admit to it.
“Ryan O’Neal was no punk,” Jamal explained to me. “And I want to love my woman the way he loved his. And you know what?” he asked, as he kissed my neck. “I already do.”
Jamal’s words, his kisses, his embraces, always made me swoon.
So now, two years into our relationship, it was time for the love of my life to meet the people who had loved me all my life. The only thing was, I had tricked Jamal, just a little. I hadn’t told him the truth until we’d stepped off the plane at Jackson-Evers International Airport.
“Wait a minute! Your parents don’t know we’re coming?”
“Nope!” I said. “I wanted to surprise them.”
“Em, in what country do you think it’s a good idea to be walking into your house with a black dude without telling your parents first?”
“Oh, please,” I said, waving my hand at Jamal’s words. “My parents know all about you.”
“Yeah?” He looked at me sideways.
This time I nodded, because I couldn’t keep lying out loud. I felt bad not telling the whole truth, but I couldn’t let him know that I was a little nervous about my parents, which is why they hadn’t met him yet. They didn’t know about Jamal, at least not in the important ways . . . like the fact that he was black. And I’d shortened his name to Jay whenever I referred to him.
I really had wanted to tell my parents everything about the man I loved, but I just wasn’t sure about the way they would react. In their world, everyone had their place. Not that they were really prejudiced, at least not in the white-sheet, hood-wearing kind of way. If you asked them, they’d tell you they loved “the blacks.” To them, Nellie, the woman who really raised me, was part of our family. And one of my father’s favorite charities was the United Negro College Fund because he felt everyone should have the chance for a college education—just not at Ole Miss.
It was because of these beliefs that I knew a telephone call would never do. The best way to present Jamal was face-to-face. Once my parents met him, shook his hand, looked into his eyes, talked to him, they would see what I saw—perfection personified. And then they would love Jamal, too.
“So,” Jamal began when he got behind the wheel of the rental car that we picked up at the airport, “do you actually live in Jackson or in some suburb?”
I shook my head. “No, we live in Jackson.” When he looked at me out of the corner of his eye, I added
, “I mean, we don’t live in downtown, but we live in Jackson.”
He grinned, took my hand, and kissed it. Then, with one hand, he steered and I directed him to my childhood home.
Twenty-five minutes later, when we drove up to the double wrought-iron gates, Jamal’s eyes widened. “Whoa! Your house is somewhere behind all of this?”
“Stop it.” I hit his hand playfully, though I did know that the grounds were grand. I keyed in the code that opened the gates and then Jamal and I began the drive up the mile-long winding driveway.
“Where the hell are we?” Jamal asked.
“What?” I said, not wanting Jamal to think about this as any big deal. “I told you that I grew up in a big house.”
“Okay, but there are big houses and then there’re plantations.” He paused. “This was once a plantation, wasn’t it?”
I shrugged, as if I didn’t know, as if I didn’t care. I didn’t care, but I did know. I would never tell Jamal, but I knew my family’s history back for at least ten generations. This had been a major plantation, and my male ancestors had fought hard in the Civil War to preserve the institution that had made the Harringtons wealthy.
My family was a long way from that time, though. Those days had nothing to do with me and even less to do with Jamal.
By the time we parked the car in the circular driveway, Jamal was shaking his head. He looked up at my three-story home and I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or intimidated.
“I don’t have a good feeling,” he mumbled as he pulled my suitcase out of the trunk.
I waited for him to get his bag, but he just stood there. “What are you doing? Get yours out, too,” I said.
He shook his head. “Maybe I should stay at a hotel somewhere. I could even stay at my grandmother’s house.”
“Your grandmother’s is over an hour away and you don’t like your cousin, remember?” I told him, referring to a younger relative who was living in the home that Jamal now owned.
“Oh, yeah.” He grinned and I breathed. At least he was only kidding.
I trotted up the steps ahead of Jamal and then used my key to let myself in.
“Surprise!” I said the moment I stepped into the rotunda.
Just a few seconds later, I heard soft steps clicking against the floor. “Miss Emily, is that you?” It was Nellie, dressed as always in her navy-and-white uniform, who rushed out first to greet me, and I wrapped my arms around the woman who was like a grandmother to me.
We had barely said our hellos when my mother sauntered in from the parlor. She walked slowly because a proper Southern lady never got caught up in excitement. But I could tell that my mother was happy to see me.
“Emily, what are you doing here?” Nellie stepped aside and now I was in my mother’s arms. I had to bend over to get my hug from her; I’d clearly gotten my height from my father.
My mother said, “I’m so glad to see you, sweetheart. Why didn’t you tell us that you were coming?” Her Southern drawl was so thick to me now that I’d been away from home for more than seven years.
“I wanted to surprise you,” I said.
“What’s all of this ruckus?”
I grinned as my father strolled down the circular staircase looking like the leading man in Gone with the Wind Revisited, with his smoking jacket and his pipe in his hand. “Daddy!” I met him at the bottom of the steps. I loved, loved, loved my mother. But everyone knew I was a daddy’s girl. I kissed my father over and over on his cheek. “I’m so happy to see you.”
That’s when I heard the cough behind me. “Oh, my goodness.” I turned to Jamal.
But before I could say anything, my mother said to Jamal, “Just leave her bags right there.” And then, to my father, she said, “Honey, I don’t have any spare change. Do you have a twenty or two you can give this nice young man? He’s been so patient.”
“Oh, no, Mom,” I said, knowing that my face was probably fire-red. “He’s not my driver.” I took Jamal’s hand. “This is Jamal.”
My mother, father, and Nellie stood with blank stares.
My mother spoke first. “Jamal?”
“Yes, Jamal.” I said his name as if they’d heard it before. “Jamal Taylor, the guy I’ve been seeing.”
“Seeing him do what?” my mother drawled.
I swallowed. My mother was a bright woman, and she knew exactly what I meant. But in order to get past this awkwardness, I had to play her game. So I said, “The man I’ve been dating.”
My parents’ expressions did not change, and even Nellie stared at me like I had lost my mind.
After many long moments, my father turned and walked into the parlor. Without a word, he just walked away from me.
I looked at my mother and pleaded with my eyes for her to fix this. All she said was, “Emily, your father and I need to speak with you.”
That was it? That was her save?
“Okay,” I said and took Jamal’s hand, though he didn’t budge an inch when I tried to follow my parents.
When my mother saw that I was trying to pull Jamal with me, she added, “Privately.” She turned to Nellie. “Can you take Emily’s . . . guest into the kitchen? He may want something to drink. He does look a little parched.”
“No!” I said. There was no way I was going to let my parents disrespect Jamal this way.
But Jamal spoke softly into my ear. “Go on,” he encouraged me. “Talk to your parents. I’ll go with Nellie.”
“No,” I whined. “You’re supposed to be with me.”
“I know. But go and talk to your folks. I’ll be fine.” He squeezed my hand before Nellie led him to the other side of the house.
My mother raised a single eyebrow, but I stomped past her and into the parlor. She followed me, then closed the sliding doors behind us. I wanted to tell her that wasn’t a good idea because the steam that was rising out of me was enough to start a fire, and we might need to get away quickly.
My father stood with his elbow propped up on the mantel as if he was posing for Architectural Digest. When my mother sat on the floral-patterned sofa, my father motioned for me to do the same.
But I didn’t move. I stood in place, folded my arms, tapped my foot, and glared at the people I’d loved my whole life. It was true, I didn’t know what to expect. But I certainly didn’t expect my parents to behave so rudely. I could not remember a time when I had to press down my emotions and work hard to be respectful. I’d never been angry with my parents, so this feeling was foreign to me.
But it was real. I was hurt. And I was pissed. Like I said, I didn’t know what to expect when I brought Jamal home. But I can say that I didn’t expect this.
“Sit down, Emily,” my father said.
“No.”
“I said, sit down.”
“I’m fine where I am.”
He glared at me and I glared right back. It probably would’ve been better to sit down and talk this out, but I couldn’t be rational.
My father gave in first. He nodded, then turned forward so that his whole body faced me.
But before he could say a word, I jumped in. “What was that about? I bring a friend home and both of you treat him like I just met him and picked him up at the bus station or something.”
I was growling, but my parents didn’t seem to notice. “We didn’t know you were coming home,” my father said, softer this time. “We didn’t know you were bringing a friend.”
“I’ve brought friends before and you’ve never acted like this.”
“But you’ve never brought home a colored boy before.” It was my mother’s Southern twang that made those words sound so dirty . . . so racist.
Tears came to my eyes, but not because I was hurt. I was just mad now. “And what does Jamal being . . . black have to do with anything?”
“Daughter, do not act like you have no idea what this is about,” my father said, with the sternness back in his voice.
“I don’t know what this is about,” I said. “Because the thought
of what it may be about makes me sick.”
“Don’t talk to your father that way.” My mother’s tone was as demure as the way she sat, so prim, so proper, with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap.
“I can’t help it because I can’t believe what’s happening,” I said.
“Why not?” my mother questioned. She tilted her head as if she were trying to get a better look at me. “We had this talk before you left home.”
“We didn’t talk. You told me—”
“That the Bible says that everyone is to stay with their own kind,” my mother said, repeating my grandmother’s words.
I steamed.
My father jumped in. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to go to LA.”
My mother drawled, “And don’t forget that basketball thing.” She shook her head. “I always knew that was a bad idea. For a girl to be playing sports.” She shuddered.
My eyes opened wide. Really, I shouldn’t have been so hard on my parents. I mean, didn’t Miriam react the same way at first? And Jamal, too. He’d rejected me because of the color of my skin.
Miriam, Jamal, and I had worked it all out. It never should’ve been an issue with my parents. They should’ve just loved Jamal because I did.
My mother said, “Your friend can stay here tonight because it’s late and we would never turn anyone away.” She paused and glanced at my father. When he gave his permission with a nod, she added, “But tomorrow . . .”
Clearly, my method wasn’t working, so I unfolded my arms and, with a deep breath, sat next to my mother.
“Please don’t do this,” I said. I looked from my mother to my father. “Let us stay here for the weekend so that you can get to know Jamal. Once you talk to him, you’ll see that he’s smart and he’s funny and he’s caring, and it won’t matter if he’s black.”
“Being black or white always matters, Daughter,” my father said.
“But, but . . . what about Nellie? She’s black and she lives here, and she’s here for all of the holidays and you always say she’s like family.”
“We pay her.” Those simple words made me lean away from my mother. Then she made it clear to me. “Do you think she’d be here for anything if we didn’t pay her? Do you think she would attend our parties and talk and laugh with us if she weren’t getting a very good paycheck every two weeks?”
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