Forgive Me

by Stacy Campbell

  The processional started. Lake, Lasheera, Tawatha, Jamilah, Zion, and Roberta beamed with pride as the students walked into the stadium. Roberta pointed out Aunjanue to the family. They’d made a pact to be quiet and not embarrass her.

  The program became a blur to Lasheera. Filled with thoughts of the day they’d taken guardianship of Aunjanue, she enjoyed the movie playing in her head about Aunjanue. The dreams she had after her siblings died. The first time Belinda Rosewood coaxed her out of the house for cookies, lemonade, and a movie. The first birthday party she had with the neighborhood children who insisted they spend the night to make sure she was okay. Caleb coming by to check on her. Her first date with Roger. Aunjanue and Zion horse playing. It all unraveled in real time, moments blissful and painful.

  “Here she comes,” Jamilah whispered in her ear.

  “Aunjanue Maria Gipson” said Principal Gordon. Aunjanue walked across the stage, shook Principal Gordon’s hand, received her diploma, and flipped her tassel to the left side.

  The family stood, holding up a sign that read, “Congratulations, Aunjanue! We’re so proud of you!”

  She looked in the audience and found her family. She waved to them and smiled. She took her seat and pinched herself. She found Tarsha and Roger on their designated rows and waved to them. The sign her family held caught her eye again. She’d dreamt of this moment for years, when her family would be reunited. Cordial. Loving. One.

  If you want to discover what set events in motion, be sure to pick up

  Dream Girl Awakened

  BY Stacy Campbell

  AVAILABLE FROM STREBOR BOOKS

  [1]

  Owed to Myself

  May 21, 2008

  Aruba propped up the girls in a Miracle C-cup, checked the smooth, waxed bikini line in her thong, and released her shoulder-length hair from a barrette, proud she’d made an appointment at Aveda Fredericks to iron out her leonine mane of curls earlier in the day. Just as she slipped on her dress, Jeremiah called from the door, “Mommy, you smell good.”

  As she turned, she stopped mid-smile at the sight of Jeremiah perched atop James’s shoulders.

  “Yeah, Mah-mee, I haven’t seen you this beautiful since—well, you’re always beautiful. Are you trying to make me jealous?” asked James, hoping to elicit a smile. “Where you going looking so good?” James was careful not to offend her. He needed to get back in her corner, back into her accommodating thighs.

  “Just a company function. Won’t be out too late. One of us has to work in the morning. May I have five more minutes to get dressed? Please.”

  James walked out the door with Jeremiah blowing kisses at Aruba. She balled her fists at James’s back. Ten years and this is the best I can do. Ten years of hanging my hopes on this man’s dreams. Ten years of supporting him and he won’t even keep a decent job. Was I that dumb in 1998 thinking James was the best I could do? It all ends tonight. Definitely! I have one year to accomplish my goal, to make things better for myself and my son. Mind-blowing sex can’t make up for all I’ve endured with this man.

  She shook her head in disgust as her mind drifted back two weeks. That Wednesday, James ambled into the great room, parked himself on the sectional, and sprinted into his usual discourse on the job market, the Edomites—his term for the oppressors—and how he never got a chance to shine. He grabbed a 40-ounce from the fridge and proclaimed, “Edomites always tryna keep a brotha down!”

  She glared at him as he jumped up, then paced back and forth in the living room, his steel-toed boots leaving small tracks in the carpet.

  “I’m glad I walked off that fucking site. Ain’t no way in hell I’ma settle for fifteen dollars an hour under those conditions.”

  “You did what?” she shouted. She counted the cost of his latest job loss, then grew angrier. She knew she’d have some explaining to do since her Uncle Walstine had put in a good word for James at Hinton and Conyers Construction.

  “You know how those Edomites do. Segregating us to the high, roofing positions while they let the young bloods, the young white bloods do the painting and drywalling.”

  She counted to ten, then remembered Jeremiah was still at Angels in Halos, near Indianapolis. “Maybe I’ll discuss this when I get our child from day care!”

  “Aruba, baby, I forgot about Jerry. Lemme go—”

  “Forget it, James! I’ll deal with you when I get back.”

  Aruba grabbed her keys, stormed out the house, and rushed to the center. As she weaved in and out of traffic on I-465, she tallied the twenty-five-dollar-per-minute late fee steadily accruing. Just as she approached the Allisonville Road exit, Mrs. Timmons, the day care director, rang her cell.

  “Is everything okay, Aruba? Big meeting today?”

  “Yes,” she lied, hoping to stay in Mrs. Timmons’s good graces. “I’ve been traveling my region, training for State Farm nonstop. Things have been hectic at the office.”

  “Not to worry, Aruba. I’m here with Jeremiah and he’s playing with Lyric Austin. They’re having a blast.”

  Aruba sighed, unsure of how she’d atone for yet another lie told to cover for James. Before she could exhale with relief, Uncle Walstine’s name and number flashed on her caller ID. “Mrs. Timmons, I’m around the corner. See you soon.” Better get this over now. She swapped from Mrs. Timmons to her uncle.

  “Unk, how’s it going?”

  “You know damn well how it’s going! Works-when-he-feels-like-it James just ruined my good name at Hinton and Conyers. I had two more good prospects lined up and he goes in there ranting and raving about the Edomites—and Hinton and Conyers are black folks!”

  “Unk, I had no idea—”

  “Save it. We told you that boy was no good when you brought him around. ’Bout the best thing you got outta that union was Jeremiah!”

  “That’s not fair, Uncle Walstine. I’ve been try—”

  “Trying. Working like a dog to take care of that…” Walstine paused. “I’m just saying, baby girl, I’m tired of seeing you work so hard. You need to be in a relationship where you complement, not supplement.”

  “Thank you. I understand how you feel and I’m so sorry about what happened. I’ll talk to James about it. I promise.”

  With that, they said good-byes. Aruba retrieved Jeremiah, went home, and chose to say only hello and good-bye to James for the next two weeks. His romantic overtures; yellow, long-stemmed roses; and candlelight, homemade dinners were met with no enthusiasm. The more she looked at James, the more she thought of Winston. She knew she couldn’t give James the silent treatment tonight. She had to weave her web, lay a foundation for the new life she and Jeremiah would soon come to know.

  Aruba decided tonight was perfect to take what she deserved—her friend Victoria’s husband. After all, Victoria whined about Winston morning, noon, and night. Aruba mimicked Victoria’s complaints as she applied makeup to her soft cheeks, compliments of an organic honey-almond facial.

  “Aruba, Winston’s never home.”

  “We’ve moved three times in four years with his practice and I’m tired.”

  “He only gives me a three-thousand-dollar allowance each month.”

  “You wouldn’t understand unless you’ve walked a mile in my Manolos, Rube.”

  Aruba grunted at that statement and double-checked the night’s game plan sprawled across the bed: MapQuest directions to the conference center where Winston would conduct a presentation on cardiovascular breakthroughs; Winston’s favorite CDs—Glenn Jones’s Forever: Timeless R&B Classics, Boney James’s Shine, and Charles Hilton Brown’s Owed To Myself—she had heard wafting from his home office; the last pay stub from James’s fifth job in seven months; Winston’s favorite perfume, Flowerbomb; photos of her son, Jeremiah, and Winston’s daughter, Nicolette, at a Mocha Moms outing. Tonight she had bigger salmon to marinate and pan sear. In one swoop she tossed the plan in her oversized bag and threw on a trench coat. She exhaled deeply when James and Jeremiah reentered the room.
<
br />   “I wanna come, Mommy,” said Jeremiah. Aruba marveled at her three-year-old’s obsession with following her.

  “Mommy and Daddy will take you to Great Times this weekend. Okay?”

  Jeremiah wiggled from James’s shoulders as he reached for Aruba’s arms. “Mommy and Daddy gonna talk this weekend?”

  Embarrassed that her child had noticed the distance between them, Aruba hugged him, and said, “Yes, we’re gonna have lots of fun. Pinkie promise.”

  Jeremiah wrapped his left pinkie finger with Aruba’s, and said, “I’m happy. Daddy said you were in an itchy mood.” Jeremiah’s tendency to drop beginning letters saved yet another fight brewing between his parents.

  James, sheepish and remorseful, chimed in, “You know how I get when I’m mad. I’m sorry.”

  Aruba waved him off without acknowledgment and headed to the garage. James and Jeremiah followed her, giggling and singing “Sesame Street.”

  Aruba faced James before she entered her SUV. “How ’bout this tune, James. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me,” Aruba sang and poked her chest.

  James thwacked his forehead, embarrassed he’d forgotten her birthday.

  “I was gonna get you a gift, but you know I’m a little light right now. I’ll get you something soon. I promise.”

  James tried to lighten the mood as she started her vehicle. “Baby, I’m gonna get another job. I promise,” he said, his eyes pleading, sincere.

  She backed out of the garage into the driveway, waving to them both. She blew Jeremiah a quick kiss. Yeah, you’ll need a job when I’m done with you. I owe this to myself.

  [2]

  Ready or Not, Here I Come

  Aruba circled the Marten Hotel parking lot until she spotted Winston’s Range Rover. According to Victoria, Winston wrapped up his speeches like clockwork. The Lilly Conference Center, housed within Marten, was the spot of many lectures and speeches Winston facilitated. He didn’t mingle too long with colleagues and headed home when he wrapped up his talks because he wanted to respect his wife and marriage. Since his scheduled speaking time was seven-fifteen, Aruba anticipated he’d walk out the front door at approximately eight-twenty-two. That gave her enough time to swing around to the Half Price Books entrance, turn on her hazard lights, and wait for Winston to cruise by since she “accidentally” ran out of gas. She’d even taken care to leave her gas can home. No need to make his job easier. She had inroads to make. As she waited in the hotel parking lot, she received a nod from the heavens: raindrops. A few sprinkles multiplied, fell heavier, and relaxed her. I couldn’t have planned this any better.

  She leaned back, queued Glenn Jones in the CD player, and pondered her circumstances. She thought of Jeremiah and how much better off he’d be with Winston as his father. Vacations. A bigger house. Private school. Legitimate playdates and outings with Mocha Moms and the women she’d charmed in Victoria’s neighborhood. As Glenn Jones gave Toni Braxton a run for her money belting out “Another Sad Love Song,” she superimposed herself in Victoria’s role. Aruba whipped out a note pad, scribbling out house rules for her new life: Greet Winston with a hug and a kiss each morning. Treat Alva, our nanny, with the utmost respect. Give Winston head and sex whenever he wants it, not just for procreation. Be frugal with our finances, so we can retire and travel. She continued scribbling, this time pronouncing her new name. Mrs. Winston Faulk. Mrs. Aruba Faulk. Aruba Aneece Faulk. She rolled the titles off her tongue respectively, settling on the first name. Mrs. Winston Faulk sounded sexier, glamorous. A hell of a lot better than Aruba Dixon.

  “Mrs. James Dixon.” She shuddered at the pronunciation of her married name, her pathetic reality. Not that she always felt that way. She still glowed at the memory of meeting James ten years ago. She’d just slit open a box of Cuisinart toasters in JCPenney’s housewares department. She gazed at the towering display rack lacking Foreman Grills, quesadilla makers, and pizza stones. She dragged a stepladder from the corner, climbing up to make room for the just-arrived stock. As she descended the ladder, a rich, baritone voice below called out, “Excuse me, are you Kenya Moore?”

  Aruba sighed at the tired line she received from men and women. It was true. She could be Kenya’s twin. Same banging body. Same hazel-green eyes. Same smile that made men whip out their wallets and spend cash or swipe credit cards after Aruba convinced them their wife, girlfriend, significant other, or boyfriend just had to have the latest gadget in their kitchen. The same smile either stopped women in their tracks while spitting out the refrain bitch, or made them sidle next to her, and say, “My son in the military will be home on leave next week. Can I bring him in to meet you?”

  Aruba steeled herself to face what she knew was an older gentleman. She formed the image in her mind: Dark. Short and stocky. Horn-rimmed glasses. Balding head. Hoodwinked, she turned to find a totally opposite vision: A dreadlocked god who stood at least six feet seven inches tall. He beckoned her to descend the ladder. He was a little too light for her taste, but handsome just the same. As she climbed down, she eyed the blue Nike warm-up suit that hinted of days spent at Gold’s Gym. The white muscle shirt he wore accented six-pack abs. She got lost in those perfect white teeth, those blue-green eyes that danced. Our kids would have gorgeous eyes.

  “What would a former Miss USA be doing in Penney’s?” she asked, unable to mask her attraction to him.

  “I was serious. You look—”

  “Just like Kenya Moore. I get that often.”

  Not one to allow lapses in conversations, James continued, “I’d love to get my hands in your hair sometimes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Everyone wants a stalker, right?” James smiled and handed Aruba a business card. “I’m a barber and stylist and I’m looking for new clients.”

  She eyed the card. “Wow, do you go around hitting on every woman in South Dekalb Mall?”

  “Only the beautiful ones.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Aruba turned to walk away as James grabbed her arm.

  “Just kidding. Let’s try this again. Hi, I’m James Dixon. And you are?”

  She hesitated as he extended his hand. Something about his spirit made her smile. “Aruba Stanton.”

  “Really, I’m here because my moms sent me to get,” he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, “a Black and Decker Steamer. Ever since Mom’s sugar was diagnosed, she’s been steaming food, watching her weight and whatnot.”

  “Good for her. Several of my family members have diabetes and it’s no joke.”

  Aruba moved the ladder aside and directed James toward the steamers. They chatted, exchanged pleasantries, life tidbits. James shared that he was from Atlanta, grew up in the Bankhead area, and had a younger brother, Marvin; an older sister, Teresa; and dreamed of owning a string of beauty salons one day. He knew he’d succeed because black men and women liked to look good. Aruba sweetened the conversation by adding she was from Harlem, Georgia, a junior at Clark-Atlanta University majoring in mathematics, and an only child. The pleasantries continued until a little old lady called out, “Miss, will you help me find a Wilton cake decorating kit?”

  “So may I call you sometimes, Miss Aruba?”

  “How ’bout you give me your number and I’ll call you?”

  “You gonna brush me off like that?” he joked. He asked for the business card again and scribbled a number on the back. “This is my home number and my cell. The number on the front of the card is the shop I work out of.”

  “Leaving no stone unturned, heh? I promise, I’ll call,” said Aruba, holding up the peace sign.

  He watched her guide the older woman leaning on a cane to a different section of the department. Aruba waved one last time.

  The thought of that wave lulled her back to the present. I should have never called him. Glenn Jones crooned, “Where is the Love?” She eyed her watch. Eight seventeen. She crept out of the hotel parking lot, drove down to the entrance of Half Price Books, stopping as she pressed on the hazard lights. She w
aited. Hoped. Wondered if the positioning was right. Whether he’d know it was her. Just as she thought she’d lost her mind, that her life with James had in fact created this lunacy attack, she noticed a shiny black Range Rover pass by, slow up, then cruise backward in her direction.

  Showtime!

  Stacy Campbell is the author of Dream Girl Awakened and Forgive Me. She was born and raised in Sparta, Georgia, where she spent summers on her family’s front porch listening to the animated tales of her older relatives. She lives with her family in Indianapolis, Indiana. You may visit the author: www.stacyloveswriting.com, georgiapeach2814@aol.com, www.facebook.com/stacy.campbell.376, and www.twitter.com/stacycampbell20

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  ALSO BY STACY CAMPBELL

  Dream Girl Awakened

  Strebor Books

  P.O. Box 6505

  Largo, MD 20792

  http://www.streborbooks.com

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2014 by Stacy Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

  ISBN 978-1-59309-458-4

  ISBN 978-1-4516-9670-7 (ebook)

  LCCN 2013948767

  First Strebor Books trade paperback edition February 2014

  Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com

  Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Marion Designs