Wouldn’t Change a Thing

by Stacy Campbell

  My home is a management company’s dream: hardwood floors, fresh paint, a new roof, stained-glass windows, and exotic tile. Nothing says 1930 meets 2007 like modern upgrades. After five unsuccessful attempts to find a renter, I struck gold with an Atlanta Art Institute student. After a credit check and three separate creep-ups on her current apartment, I presented Giovanna with a lease. I think of her as I enter the building. This is where I first met her.

  My hope is no one notices me as I dart in and out. I’m down to five to-dos on my party checklist for tonight. I can’t stop trembling, and my stomach is in knots over the party. How many people will show after reading the article? How will Lamonte react when someone brings up my mother?

  Phillip, the doorman at my office building, opens the door for me and tips his hat, but averts his eyes, a first for him. I speed up, hoping to get this done and get out of the building ASAP.

  I place a picture of Clay, Russell, and me in Cancun in a large box on my office chair. This will be one of the photos I place on the family portraits display at the Blue Willow Inn this evening. I gather up a few more items and check a few emails before leaving the office. I suspended work emails on my phone because I disconnect when I leave this place. Lamonte taught me how to unwind, kick up my feet once I step away from computer drafts. I log on and the first email I read takes my breath away.

  Dear Ms. Williamson:

  Due to recent findings, we regret to inform you that your donation to Daughters Alone will be returned to you within the week. Furthermore, your invitation as keynote speaker at our annual empowerment series has been rescinded. We cannot expose the girls to someone whose idea of motherhood is tainted and shrouded in lies. The girls looked up to you and even went out of their way to comfort you after learning your mother died in a plane crash when you were their age. We appreciate the time you’ve given the girls thus far—workshops, career day, tour of your firm—but the revelation that your mother is alive and well, albeit in horrific circumstances, makes it impossible to continue the mentorship agreement we have with you. I wish you well in your future endeavors.

  Dr. Erin Crawford, CEO, Daughters Alone

  I stare at the screen. Of all the work I’ve done in the community, mentoring with Daughters Alone has been the most rewarding. I pick up the phone to call Dr. Crawford and notice the email arrived at six o’clock this morning. She probably read the article after the paperboy tossed it on her porch around four-thirty. She boasted of being a zombie until her morning fix of coffee and the AJC kicked in.

  As I hang the phone up, Kimmie Foster’s face comes to mind. She was most smitten with me when I joined the girls for the Orange Hat Tea at Restaurant Eugene. I didn’t get the orange hat reference until Dr. Crawford said orange represented the sunset, a new start. The girls, all left motherless by death, drugs, or abandonment, needed encouragement, hope for a better day. Kimmie sat next to me at the tea wearing a cream-colored Sunday-go-to-meeting suit that hung off her thin frame. I knew I’d purchase her new outfits with Dr. Crawford’s permission. She pulled at the coffee-colored stockings that resembled elephant wrinkles and crossed and uncrossed her skinny legs. She tried to hide her scuffed, cream-colored shoes by keeping her feet planted under the table. She was silent during the tour of my office, but at the tea, she leaned in to me and said, “You’re lucky your mama died. She couldn’t help it. My mama didn’t want me and I don’t think my aunt does either.”

  I sipped sweet tea, remembering Dr. Crawford told me Kimmie’s mother couldn’t handle child-rearing responsibilities and walked out. “Kimmie, she has to get herself together. I’m sure she’ll be back when she’s ready.”

  “How did your mother die?”

  Until Kimmie asked, I never offered specifics. I sipped again and said, “She died in a plane crash when I was nine.”

  Kimmie’s eyes locked with mine. “I’m sorry, Ms. Toni. I’m sure she’s in a better place.”

  The sad memory of Kimmie’s eyes jolt me back to my emails. A string of emails from prospective clients inform me next month’s meetings are canceled. All of them. They read the same. “Due to unforeseen circumstances.” “Decided to go in a different direction.” “Found a comparable price with another firm.” The last one started with the words “integrity” and “character.” I shut the messages down because I can’t deal with this now.

  Clayton Kenneth Myles’s life rule number one states, “Get through tough situations with a smile and a fierce poker face; you can collapse with tears and a bowl of Mayfield Butter Pecan ice cream later.” Clayton Kenneth Myles’s life rule number two states, “We are superheroes with the following letters on our chests: CLD. Cry. Lie. Deny. Pick one that bests suits the jam you’re in.” I’ll have to use rule number one tonight. It’s the only way I’ll be able to face our friends and my future in-laws.

  At least I have Lamonte’s love and commitment. I’ve saved money over the years and can weather a financial storm if I can’t get new clients. Instead of a week for a honeymoon, Lamonte and I scheduled a month off to get adjusted to being husband and wife. I can count on him to comfort me until the wedding. He is my rock, the one person I’ve grown to depend on over the years.

  I gather a few more items from my office and head to the lobby. I slightly trip on the newly buffed flooring and the contents of my purse scatter on the floor. I kneel, stuff the items back in my purse, and stop when I see my mother’s photo. Willa surprised her in this shot, caught her off guard when she wasn’t taking her meds. The wild look in her eyes reminds me of the times she anesthetized her pain with heart-wrenching soul tunes. Bill Withers was her Thorazine. Marvin Gaye was her Prolixin. Natalie Cole was her Haldol.

  She stares back at me, the spitting image of her mother, Rose. I adjust my face with a smile so the pain doesn’t show. As I exit the building, Philip, eyes still downcast, bids me farewell. I wave to him. I turn once more, hoping our eyes meet as they always do. He gives me a sympathetic nod. A few spaces from the building, I find a bench, whip out Mama’s photo, and look at her half-smile, the one she flashed when she wasn’t medicated.

  Chapter 3

  My most prominent memory of my mother’s psychotic breaks is one that happened at the Hatcher Square Mall in Milledgeville, Georgia. We stood near the wishing well water fountain filled with pennies. I’d just thrown in two pennies and prayed to the mental illness gods. I begged them to stop the voices my mother heard at three in the morning. She argued back and forth, assuring them she was a good person and a suitable parent. She scratched at her arms and scalp some mornings, pulling plugs of hair or making zigzag lines in her skin. Their accusations were many; she defended herself against each one.

  Near the fountain, she ripped open a pack of Kools she had hidden in her pants pocket and lit one. She looked at each passerby and asked me, “Don’t you hear that bitch talking to me?”

  I turned to see if a woman had tried to get our attention.

  My mother popped the collar of her starched white shirt. “She’s got one more time to call me out my name.”

  A security guard approached us. “Is everything okay here?” He pulled a radio from its holder on his wide belt.

  She gave him a vicious once-over. She pointed her finger at him and beckoned him to come closer. “What do you think? I know you hear her too.”

  Nervous, I chimed in, “Officer, everything is fine. We’re going to Strawberry Suds and Dreams.”

  I guided her away from the fountain, upset that I’d left the house alone with her and without her medication. We were supposed to get perfume and then chicken breast sandwiches from Chicken Delite once we returned home. Only Aunt Mavis could calm her down in these instances. This episode had carried over from last night and I needed a way to get her out of this mall. Mama pointed to Strawberry Suds and Dreams before I could direct her attention to the exit.

  We walked into the store as she muttered curses to the invisible woman stalking her. She lifted her hands, dropped them, and said through cl
enched teeth, “I ain’t doing it!” As cool as you please, her attention shifted to Hannah, a perky salesgirl pitching soaps and lotions at infomercial speed. Pink and red mister in hand, she moved toward us with a reserved smile.

  “Hi, would you like to try our strawberry mist? Today’s special is buy two, get one free.”

  Mama extended her left wrist to the young lady, whose pitch quickened with her interest. “It’s a light mist and part of the Strawberry Suds and Dreams Relaxation Collection.” She tossed shoulder-length curls to the left.

  Mama ran her wrist under her nose. She shook her head, then insisted we leave. “I told you I don’t have a gun!” she shouted.

  Hannah inched away from us to the register. She picked up the telephone and asked security to come to the store. I pulled Mama’s arm toward the store exit. Hannah’s call would trigger the worst in my mother and we had to leave. She dashed my hopes when she dropped to the floor, Indian-style, and beat the floor with her fists.

  Her voice raised two octaves, startling shoppers who formed a small circle around her. “You can’t make me kill President Reagan!”

  She bushwhacked the floor until blood trickled from her hands. The same security guard from the fountain broke through the circle of onlookers. He radioed nine-one-one, and a woman in the circle pulled me into her warm embrace. While others whispered, she knelt beside me and said, “I’ll be with you until the ambulance comes. Don’t be scared.”

  “Can you call my Aunt Mavis?”

  “I’ll find a pay phone and call after they take your mother. I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

  She stood with me as paramedics entered the store with a gurney. Mama fought them with all her might, looking past me and my guardian angel. I panicked as a needle appeared and the male paramedic shot my mother’s left arm with precision. She lay still as they hoisted her on the gurney.

  “Where are you taking her?” my guardian angel asked the paramedics.

  “Georgia Mental. What can you tell us about her?” he asked.

  I spoke up. “She hears voices. She didn’t take her meds.”

  “Sounds like skits,” said the female paramedic. I watched them take my mother away. After sifting through her purse for change, my guardian angel found a pay phone and called Aunt Mavis. Her lips were moving, but I heard nothing as people passed us. They pointed at me, pity covering their faces. Minutes later, we were seated at the fountain again.

  “Your Aunt Mavis is on her way from Sparta.”

  I silently rested in her bosom again.

  “I know what you’re going through. I work at Georgia Mental and some of my people are a little touched, too. We don’t talk about it much, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “The world ain’t got sympathy for people that’s different.” She rubbed my back. “You really don’t know me, do you?”

  I shook my head and asked, “You’re from Sparta, too?”

  She considered my question as she touched the sparkling chain looped around her stylish glasses. “I’ll let your Aunt Mavis tell you who I am.”

  Chapter 4

  The June weather is perfect and the engagement party crowd isn’t as thin as I anticipated. I’m surprised so many people are here. Their smiles are tight and their congratulatory hugs limp, but they’re here. Their presence says they have faith we can weather this storm. Lamonte and I greet our guests on the Blue Willow Inn lawn. I look at the stately mansion and marvel at how my vision was transformed perfectly. The staff worked with me and recreated all my design sketches. Gazanias, begonias, and African marigolds are placed throughout the yard and on the steps in hues of red, pink, and gold in Tuscan planters. The Reed Thorne Jazz Band plays our favorite selections on the left side of the wraparound porch. The far end of the lawn is set up for our engagement party games. We zigzag through the maze of waiters and waitresses indulging our guests with champagne, cheese and bacon-stuffed mushrooms, pesto sriracha shrimp and basil bruschetta, fruit, cheeses, and julienned vegetables.

  We shared our second date at The Blue Willow Inn; our first date was at my house putting out a small kitchen fire I started trying to cook Lamonte’s favorite dishes. I doused what was supposed to be smothered chicken and smashed potatoes with my kitchen fire extinguisher. The cream cheese pound cake stuck to the pan because I didn’t realize the pan required Baker’s Joy, and the yeastless rolls refused to rise. The following Saturday, we drove here to Social Circle and Lamonte politely said he didn’t mind cooking, but if our relationship continued, I’d have to master a few staples.

  “You’d better let me see that ring!” a weak voice calls from the right.

  I turn my attention to the cupcake bar. Decked out in matching seersucker suits are Russ and Clay. Russ’s suit is green, Clay’s, blue. Lamonte falls in step with me as I approach them. I bend toward Clay’s wheelchair and he makes a brave attempt to sit up, but falls back and coughs.

  “Careful, Clay,” Russ admonishes and places the oxygen mask on his face.

  Clay takes in a few bursts of oxygen, then removes the mask. “Honey, I wouldn’t have missed this party for all the cocaine in Columbia.”

  “Or all the inside trader secrets from Wall Street,” Russ added.

  The four of us laugh as Clay coughs again. Emphysema halted his teaching career, but his jokes are endless. His vanity made it nearly impossible for us to make him wear the mask instead of the nasal cannula. He swore he was cuter in the cannula and felt the mask obstructed his handsome face.

  Clay makes slight moves in his chair. He wants to dance, but his body is unwilling. “Is that what I think it is?” He hums in time with the band’s vocalist. It isn’t until Russell matches his humming that I remember the song.

  “Mysterious vibes, that we share. God’s love is in the air. We’d know the Blackbyrds anywhere.”

  As if chasing away a memory, Clay silences Russell with a finger to his lips. He smiles at me. “Hold your ring finger out for me.”

  I place my left hand in his as he turns the ring around, observing every detail as he did my clothes and shoes when I was younger. “Now that is the princess of all princesses. How exquisite.” He faces Lamonte. “Who designed it?”

  “Premier by Divine.”

  “Brother, that’s good taste.”

  “She deserves the best.” Lamonte strokes my back.

  Clay looks up at Russ. “Maybe we’ll get hitched when this backward state changes the laws.”

  “Keep dreaming.”

  Russ gives me his famous head-to-toe sweep. “You are wearing that dress, Toni. Cream is your color, girl! I know you’ll be an even more beautiful bride.”

  I twirl so they both can take in my fitted lace minidress.

  Russ’s attention zooms in on my neck. “You still have the necklace, I see.”

  I touch my cream, sparkly bib necklace and remember his sacrifice. The night of my senior prom, Russ placed Roxanne—his name for the necklace—around my neck as he waited with me for my prom date. Darren Bennett never showed. I later learned Darren’s father said his son “wasn’t going to no sissies’ house to pick up a date.” Russ held me his arms as I cried myself to sleep that night.

  “I only wear it on special occasions.”

  Russ touches my stomach and I readjust my belt. He shudders and removes his hand as it trails the lace.

  “That dress and necklace might be nice, but your hair,” said Clay. I touch my flowing locks and strike a model pose for him. “Design Essentials ain’t nothing but the devil! You held out until college, then you messed up all that pretty hair. I wished you’d stayed natural.”

  “Clayton Kenneth Myles, you know I had more hair than Rapunzel. I couldn’t do anything with it. Besides, Lamonte likes me this way. Don’t you, baby?” Lamonte nods.

  Clay touches the hem of my dress and struggles to speak. “Toni, I’m sorry about the story in the AJC. Maybe it’s a sign that you need to—”

  “No!”

  He tries aga
in. “Did you at least invite Willa to the party?”

  “Her invitation was returned unopened. Can’t say I didn’t try.”

  He takes my cue to drop the subject and rotates his wheelchair a quarter-turn to face the cupcakes. “Chocolate sprinkles, please,” he says over his shoulder to Russ.

  Lamonte, oblivious to our secrets, says, “Let’s go speak to my parents.”

  I look at Russ and Clay again, marveling at their thirty-year union. Clay, thinner, bald, and fifty-three, is running out of seasons. Russ, strapping, confident, and ten years Clay’s senior, continues to be the rock of their relationship. As a sound engineer, he continues to do studio work around Atlanta and lend his expertise to up-and-coming sound afficianados in his basement studio. He mixed sounds with heavy hitters when I was younger, and I loved hearing stories from his concerts. I walk away from them, proud they are my role models.

  Brooklyn Lucille Dunlap is holding court with several of our guests. Lamonte’s father stands off to the side and lets his wife take the lead as usual. He watches as her arms move in stride with her story. “Pick an island, any island in Hawaii, and imagine me enjoying myself so much I fall asleep in the sun. As if I need—” She stops when she sees me. She reaches out to Lamonte without acknowledging me. “Come here, my precious son.”

  Her stature looms as large as her personality. She runs her fingers through her pixie cut and adjusts her cleavage in a black, fitted jumpsuit. This is her affront to my cream-or-white attire request for the ladies. Lamonte holds me closer and she relents.

  Brooklyn clears her throat and motions to a woman standing near her. I recognize the towering woman from Lamonte’s photos. This is his Aunt Karen. Brooklyn and Karen could be mistaken for twins, but everything about Karen screams earthy. She had followed instructions and wears a beautiful, one-shoulder cream dress that stops just below her knees. She sweeps me into a bear hug and almost picks me up.