"I heard that was going to be the new song for your next single."
I tried to smile as she slid down on the floor next to me.
"How is he?" I asked, ever hopefully.
"He is still stable but fighting. I can see it. He'll come back to us, just give him some time."
There was a pause. No, it was more like a moment of uneasiness. I could see her questioning herself.
"What is it?" I asked her.
"It's his cancer."
I stared at the wall across from me. A machine was there that I hadn't noticed before. It was filled with medical supplies.
I kept my eyes focused on it. I couldn't look at her. I couldn't see in her eyes what my heart was afraid to hear.
"It will be our next fight. I don't know how to tell you this. I don't even know that I should."
"How many masks do you think are in that machine? How many needles? Hundreds, right?"
Dr. Banner glanced at the machine.
"Jazzmyne, listen to me. Chris' cancer is more advanced than he led you to think."
In my mind, I could see the big blue panic button and I could feel myself slamming down on it.
"Jazzmyne, are you listening to me?"
"Maybe there are close to four hundred. Yeah, that's it, four hundred."
"Jazzmyne!"
I stopped. My body movements were slow as my mind struggled to register.
"You can call me Naya. That's what Chris calls me."
Dr. Banner shook her head and then reached out for my hand.
I stared back at the machine again.
"One, two, three…" I said out loud as I began counting how many stupid rows there were inside the stupid thing.
I felt her give my hand a gentle squeeze.
"What do you mean? Didn't you tell me yourself that it was curable? Didn't you tell me that he would be perfectly okay?"
I stood up.
"I sat in your office that day and you told me these very things. I listened to you very carefully. Did I hear you wrong Dr. Banner?"
She stayed seated on the floor. Her legs crossed.
"Yes, I did, and no you didn't hear me wrong. When Chris came to see me that Monday after you became aware that he had prostate cancer, we decided to run more tests on him before we started the treatments.
"We found a different type of cancer. He didn't want to alarm you. In fact, he made me promise not to say anything. As my patient, he has that right to make such a request and as his doctor, I am bound to honor it."
"Bound? Honor? Why are you speaking to me with military slogans? We are talking about my husband!"
I saw her flinch.
"What other type of cancer did you find?"
Outside my face was calm, but inside I was trembling so much that I could hear my knees shaking. I was trying, but struggling, to find some control. Searching for a brief moment of sanity, a place where this conversation didn't exist.
I couldn't find one.
Instead, all I heard was the pain that echoed through my mind as she said:
"Chris has stage four lung cancer. It appears that he had already known, even before he came to see me. I'm not sure why we didn't catch it earlier, or why he refused to mention it in the first place."
I saw her mouth moving but my heart and mind had already left.
"Naya, did you hear me?"
"Naya?"
Dr. Banner moved quickly.
I stopped breathing.
Dear life,
He knew that I wouldn’t have thirty more years of him. But tonight even as I lay here with tears soaking the floor, I would give thirty seconds just to feel his touch again.
I am terrified of a future without him. Is there a color that can describe how I feel right now? I want to take every one of them, every single color and throw them up against the wall just to see what happens.
There is no color that can stop my heart breaking. No color that can elevate my tears, and no color that can stop my pain. For the first time in my life, I have no color at all, for they were all created the day I met him.
Why didn’t he tell me life?
Wasn’t I strong enough?
I am.
I am strong my love.
Can you hear me?
Can you hear me love?
I am your superwoman. See my cape?
It’s got your name inscribed upon my chest.
You’re fight inside me.
Take hold of my strength.
I will pull you up.
I will carry you through the wind.
It’s you and me baby, against the enemy.
Against the ugliness of it all.
I’ve got my shield.
I’m standing by your side.
Don’t worry baby, take my strength.
Grab my hand.
I will pull you up.
I will carry you through the wind.
Feel that?
That is my strength.
I will give it to you.
I will shower you with every drop that I have.
Whatever you need baby, I got it.
I will pull you up.
I will carry you through the wind.
I am your superwoman. See my cape?
It’s got your name inscribed upon my chest.
I am strong enough.
Naya glanced up again at the painting on the wall, and then she curled herself up into a ball and allowed her tears to rock her to sleep.
Chapter 2
"I'm okay in my skin. I'm okay with asking the man that I love to marry me. It doesn't mean that I'm taking the lead, it just means that I'm leading him to me forever."
Leading Him to Me
“So you're her daughter?"
"That's what I hear."
"How does that feel?"
"How does what feel?"
"How does it feel to be the long-lost daughter of the great Jazzmyne?"
"I don't know, I guess I'm still trying to find the answer to that question myself."
Jake placed four spoons of sugar in his coffee.
Simone watched him carefully.
"Well let's get this over with," she said. "What do you want to know?"
The tape recorder lay on the table. As Simone stared at it, she saw him scribbling some things down on his notepad. She hated this, hated that she even agreed to talk to him.
The things we do for love.
"I want to know about you."
"There isn't much to tell there."
"Sure there is. A month ago you found out that you are the daughter of one of the most famous Jazz singers in the world. You met your fraternal twin brother at a club for the first time; you discovered that your Grandfather is one sick puppy, and that the woman who raised you isn't really your mother. I'd say that there is a lot to know about you."
There was no response.
Jake tried to smile. He knew that she was uncomfortable. She kept tapping her fork on the table and shifting in her seat. As he sat in the chair across from her, he couldn't get over how much she looked like Jazzmyne. The hazel brown hair was not as thick; it was slightly darker and longer. The eyes were deeper, greener, and her skin was brighter. In fact, if he put his hand next to hers, he couldn't tell the difference.
There was something else about her that caught his attention—like her mother; she had a certain sparkle in her eyes. He watched the way she moved her lips when she spoke. Gracefulness covered them.
She's engaged to be married to your friend in a few months. Don't forget that man. Jake said to himself.
"Hello. Earth is down here." Simone spoke up.
"Sorry, I guess I got side tracked there for a minute. I was just thinking about how much you look like her."
"So I've been told."
"Wait, you two still haven't met?"
"No. Not yet."
"Why not, may I ask?"
"You don't beat around the bush do you?"
"Sorry, I guess I'm just surprised to hear
that. I got the impression from Carl that the reunion had already taken place. Why then, did you agree to meet with me?"
"I really don't know. You're a friend of Carl's and he told me how important this book is to you."
"It's important to her as well."
"Really?"
"Really. This book is about her life. She has been through a lot. More than any woman, or child for that matter, should ever have to endure."
"You and your brother Jonathan are a huge part of her life, even the woman that raised you—from what I hear."
He saw her flinch.
"I mean your other mother."
He knew it was too soon to bring that up so he quickly tried to change the subject.
"Have you and your brother had a chance to talk?"
Simone didn't answer.
Jake reached down and clicked the tape recorder off. He thought he caught a glimpse of a tear in the corner of her eyes.
"There is a lot of hatred between them, isn't there?" He waited for her to respond.
Simone stared out the window, watching people pass by the little coffee shop they were sitting in.
"From what I can tell, it's not hatred but pain."
Jake leaned forward as if to say that she had his full attention.
"Since the night we met for the first time at The Clue, Jonathan and I have spoken once or twice over the phone. He too, is going through a lot right now."
"I know. I heard about the accident. How is Jazzmyne's husband?"
Simone looked down at the table. She began tapping the table again with her fork."He's fighting, is all I can say. He's fighting hard."
Jake started to twirl a piece of his hair.
Simone watched him.
"Have Jazzmyne and Monà spoken to each other yet?"
"Not sure how that is any of your business."
"It's not and then it is. After all, I am writing a book on her life. I think readers would want to know how that worked out for her."
Simone glared at him.
"Readers would want to know or you want to know?"
Jake decided not to respond.
"Look," she said. "I don't mean to be rude but can we just get this over with?"
Jake looked down at his coffee cup. Man this is not going well. I need to find a different way to do this.
He took a sip of his cold coffee.
Silence sat in as they both stared out the window.
"Do you want to go for a walk?"
"Why?"
"I could use a change of scenery."
She hesitated.
"Okay."
Jake paid the waitress and watched as Simone moved slowly out of her chair and toward the door. They had been sitting in the coffee shop for over an hour and so far he had nothing.
The wind was refreshing as it played upon their skin. The sun, however, didn't appear to be interested in simply playing upon their skin, no, it seemed to focus intensely on it.
Jake reached into his pocket and produced a pair of sunglasses.
"You seem to know a lot about her."
"You mean Jazzmyne, your mother?"
"I mean Naya."
"I don't have the sort of relationship that warrants calling her that. To me, she will always be Jazzmyne the full of flavor, R&B and Jazz singer who blows the hearts and minds of all those who listen to her."
"Wow, you really are a fan."
"I guess you could call me that."
"So then why are you trying to destroy her?"
They both stopped.
The sun, it seemed, took the opportunity to focus harder on each of them.
"Is that how you see it?"
"Yes, that's how I see it. I see you as being just what you are—a man trying to prove to the world that he is more than just 'some empty columnist' who only writes about things that really don't matter much to those who read it."
"This book that you are writing is not for her, it's for you. It's so that you can finally have a 'real' career."
Jake didn't respond.
Simone smiled. She knew she had been right.
He reached out for her hand. She took a step away from him.
"Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that; I was simply trying to get your attention. There is a bench over here that I thought we could sit down on. It has a huge tree over it and it just might provide us some needed shade."
A few minutes later a man with an ice cream trailer came up to them. He had a smile on his face as wide as a day that never seemed to end.
They sat and enjoyed their ice cream. This time the silence had been welcomed.
As Simone watched the people pass by them, she wondered how they would feel if they found out that the only reason they were in this world, was because their mother was raped?
Her eyes caught sight of a woman standing on the bridge looking at the geese in the water, she wondered how the womanmight feel if she found out that the person she had called 'mother' for over thirty years really wasn't.
Lies, she thought to herself. My whole life has been nothing but lies.
Simone hadn't spoken to her mother in a month. It pained her, even now, to contemplate the reality of it. She knew she needed to speak with both of them. The once-upon-a-time mother, and the mother who has never been.
She felt a tear forming on the corner of her right eye and she reached up quickly to catch it before being noticed.
Were the tears out of anger, sadness, or both? She didn't want to know the answer.
Jake watched a father play with his son in the kiddy park directly across from them. He wondered what it would have been like to have a father that took the time to 'play' with you. He seriously doubted that the man he was staring at would ever tell his son that he would never amount to anything "real."
In fact, as Jake watched them, he was confident that the father would never say ugly words to his son like "you will never be anything more than some silly columnist." The more Jake stared at them, the more he became certain that the man he was watching would be proud of his son, no matter what he became, as long as it made him happy.
Jake reached out and grabbed a tiny piece of his hair. His twirled it in-between his fingers out of anger, frustration, and even a speck of sadness.
His thoughts traveled back to the ice cream man. He remembered the big smile upon his face as he gave them the cones of their choice. What was it like to make someone happy?
Does the ice cream man even care what his father thinks of him? Should I care what my father thinks of me? Jake longed to find the answer to that one.
Finally, he turned his attention back to Simone. He knew he was going to have to say two words that rarely came out of his mouth.
She beat him to it.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to say that you're sorry. I know you really meant it."
"I did, but not the way that it came out."
"What, that you think that I'm some sort of career hungry dirt bag just looking to use anybody to get ahead."
They both smiled.
"It did sound like that, didn't it?" Simone asked as she crossed her legs and looked up into the sky. The day she thought was beyond beautiful.
"Yeah it did, but I know that I am not that person. I thought long and hard about my decision to write this book. Yes, I do want people to see that I'm a real writer. Yes, I do want a better career. I want to see my name on the bestsellers list, but most importantly I want to finally hear my father say 'I am proud of you son.' To be honest, that is the real reason why I want to write this book, but there are others. Jazzmyne has a real story. It's a story, which I believe will cross social boundaries, sink deep into hearts, and give women the strength to tell their own story."
"The way I see it, hers is a story of being a survivor. Do you know how many women have gone through life with the ugliness of sexual abuse as a color in their box of life? They still see themselves as victims. Do you know how many have never spoken about it? Woman will listen to h
er and identify with her."
"Here's another hint of honesty for you, I'm glad that I am going to be a part of it. I'm glad she said yes."
Jake smiled. He watched her for a moment.
"Cute, taking lyrics from my song, you know I could sue you for that?"
They both laughed. Finally the wall between them seemed to be coming down.
"Can I ask you a question?" Jake asked. He watched as she uncrossed her legs.
"I thought that's what we were here for."
She was still smiling.
"How did it feel to ask a man to marry you?"
"It was refreshing and a little nerve-wrecking."
"The nerve-wrecking I get, but how was it refreshing?
"For two years it seemed as if neither of us had been willing to put our feelings out there. I knew he was wondering if I loved him and I wanted him to know how much."
"Don't you think he would have asked you eventually? Wouldn't it have been better to wait?"
"What difference does it make, who asks who, as long as it happens?"
Simone looked at a woman reading a newspaper. She looked at the confidence of her smile, the way she sat, and even the way she held the paper.
She noticed one thing—it wasn't about independence. It was about being comfortable in your own skin.
Simone spoke in a clear, simple, and to the point voice.
STRINGS of COLOR Page 2