“And for me, drawing in energy, good or bad, can affect my heart rhythms. The makeup is like a shield. It helps me block energy. Completely psychosomatic. But it helps.”
“So that’s why you wear it. I get it. I totally get that.”
“Energy still manages to come through. I guide it away from my heart and to my hands.”
“How? How can you do that?”
“I imagine energy as something with form. Like a blue river rushing through my body. And then I imagine my heart and I place a bubble of protection around it while the river of energy flows to my hands. I literally think about that all day long.”
“It works?”
He nods. “It’s why when I touch you, you feel energy surge through your body. Even at my last doctor’s appointment my doctor noticed that while my body temp was normal—98.6—my hands were hot. So he made me hold a thermometer—105 degrees.”
“That’s so cool. You should be on a morning talk show. For real.”
“I’m not a trailblazer or anything. Many yogis and monks have mastered energy manipulation in such a way they can transmute energy and heal sicknesses.”
“And they discovered how to do this through meditation?”
“I believe so. Yes. Would you like to try?”
“What do I do?”
“Okay. There is no right way to meditate. But I’ll show you the way I do it. You can either lie down or sit. I usually get lots of pillows to make myself extra comfortable. The point is to be relaxed so you’re able to clear the mind. In meditation, thinking does not serve you well.”
“Never heard that one before.”
“Would you like some pillows?”
“Sure.”
He taps another panel on the wall and a door opens, revealing a closet of blankets and large, plush pillows. He hands me two. I set one of the pillows on the floor, lay my head back on it and stretch out my legs over the other.
On the screen, the flight over Ireland has taken us to a sandy beach where a stunning rainbow arches across the sky, its magical ribbons of color shimmering against the horizon.
“Now close your eyes.”
I close my eyes.
“And try not to think of anything. Your thoughts are what make you Tiffany Sly. We know all about Tiffany Sly. In meditation, we want to tap into who we are beyond Tiffany Sly. So we remove the thoughts of Tiffany Sly and think of nothing. Then your soul can communicate with your brain. And you will start to get sparks of inspiration. Draw closer to the true God in you and in everyone and everything around you. Perhaps even remember. Buddha remembered. Who is to say we can’t remember, too?”
“You mean past lives?”
“Yes. Now, I’m going to turn the projector off and only play soft music. Keep your eyes closed. Try to push out any and all thoughts.”
Got it. Eyes closed—check. Mind free of thought—hmm.
I wonder why Ireland doesn’t have more black people? Black people would love Ireland.
I can’t believe Marcus is half-white. What are the odds?
Oh, shoot. I’m thinking. Go away, thoughts!
Okay. Clear the mind. Let’s try again. Clear the... Oh, my leg is itching! Shoot.
I reach down and scratch my right leg.
Okay. Back to clearing the mind. Uggh. I have to pee.
Hold it, Tiffany. And shut up, will you? Stop thinking about stuff!
Okay. Think of darkness.
I imagine a big blob of dark.
But wait...isn’t imagining a blob of dark thinking? I’m thinking of darkness and therefore I am thinking.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: You’re the world’s worst meditator!
Oy! And now my leg is itching. Again.
I reach down to scratch it and open one eye. Marcus is sitting beside me with his legs crossed, eyes closed, hands on his knees, not moving a muscle.
Uggh! He’s probably learning how to harness the wind and achieve human flight. No fair! I want to have a clear mind so I can be powerful and tap into my true potential. Like what if I could shoot lasers out of my eyes!
I decide to sit up like Marcus. Perhaps the key to this thing is not lying down. I cross my legs and lay my hands on my knees.
Shoot. My hand is itching. How weird!
I use one hand to scratch the other. I clear my throat.
Now my head itches! My head is always itching. I’m never getting another weave. I’m so uncomfortable.
I tap my head and take a deep breath.
Okay. No more itches. No more scratches.
I think of a black blob again and imagine it oozing down the wall and plopping onto the floor. Gross.
I suck at this! Oh, no! There’s that feeling again in the pit of my stomach. The knot is forming. What if Xavior’s my dad? Will I move to his house? Does he have a house?
Gummy Bears.
Ice cream sundaes.
Snow days.
Warm hugs.
Happy thoughts aren’t working! Uh-oh. I’m itching all over. What do I have, chicken pox or something?
Thump-thump, thump-thump: Meditation will end you!
I stand.
Marcus looks up at me, his white face piercing through the darkness in the room. “Everything okay?”
“I’m getting anxiety. I have to stop. I need my medication.” I shake out my legs and arms.
“We can stop.” Marcus stands. “Quieting the mind—it’s tough. It was your first time. It takes people years and years to master meditation. Others might see results right away. Everyone is different.”
“How long did it take you?” I place my finger on my neck to check my pulse. My cheeks are trembling.
“Years. But a master, I am not.” He grabs our pillows from off the floor. “We’ll try this again. Maybe once a week or something like that. Even five minutes a day is useful. May even help with your anxiety. Will you let me help you?”
“Of course, Marcus.”
He turns the lights back up. “There are so many things I would like to teach you. Things that could help you when you’re ready to stop taking your medication. Space clearing, unplugging from group consciousness, calling back your energy—”
“Whoa. For now, let’s stick with getting me to stop scratching during meditation.”
We move toward the door. I tug on Marcus’s hoodie as he grabs the doorknob. “Hey, wait.”
He turns. “Yes?”
“If I have to leave here I will miss you so much.” I lurch forward and hug him, not even caring that his white makeup is probably all over my face and London’s Clueless outfit. A little white makeup never hurt nobody.
“Thank you for being my friend, Tiffany,” he whispers.
“Thank you for being mine.”
* * *
“On your mark...get set...go!” Nevaeh starts the timer.
Jo and Monique take off through the bounce-house obstacle course in the epically large backyard; at least twenty of Marcus’s relatives cheer them on as they move through small spaces, climb inflatable ladders, swing on ropes and dodge plastic tubing. Monique is petite, brown-skinned, with hair in French braids pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head.
The two finally fall down a pair of high slides and race the rest of the way. Jo crosses the finish line first with Monique crashing into her at the end. The two fall over into a heap of laughter and limbs. Jo wraps one arm around Monique and raises the other in victory.
Nevaeh clicks the button on the timer. “One minute...twenty-two seconds! That’s the new record! No way!”
“I won!” Jo cries.
I notice Marcus and Kevyn having a deep discussion. Kevyn looks over at me and winks flirtatiously. Marcus looks over at me and shakes his head and mouths the word No.
I laugh.
Another g
roup of Marcus’s older cousins excitedly play some kind of card game at a table. Adults mingle in the pool. I lean back on the lawn chair next to Nevaeh, soaking it all in. Maybe the sun is not so bad. Sorry I’ve been so hard on you, sun, I think. Shielding my eyes as I gaze up at it.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: Are you crazy? People go blind from looking directly at the sun!
A girl comes out onto the patio. She’s probably my age. Hair shaved on one side. Dressed in a one-piece bathing suit. “Auntie Jo!” she says. “A man named Stone is at the front door.”
Jo beams. “Really?” She glances at me and Nevaeh on the lawn chair. “Maybe he had a change of heart, too. I’m so happy he’s here.”
Before I have a chance to tell her I wasn’t actually allowed to come here, she moves through the patio doors. Shoot! I jump up and follow close behind, dragging Nevaeh with me.
Anthony is standing in the kitchen, arms folded across his chest, looking worn out and exhausted. “Tiffany and Nevaeh, get in the car. Now.”
Like a trained monkey, Nevaeh moves quickly across the kitchen floor, past her dad, and disappears around the corner. A second passes and I hear the front door close.
“Whoa. What’s going on?” Jo asks, and I see Marcus step through the patio doors. “We took good care of them. The party’s just getting started. Why they gotta leave?”
“Tiffany and Nevaeh did not have permission to be here,” Anthony explains. “I am taking them back home.”
“Tiffany? Is that true?” Jo asks. “You told me your dad said it was okay.”
“I really wanted to come, so I lied. I’m sorry.”
Monique steps inside. “Everything okay here?”
“No,” Anthony bellows. “Everything is not okay. Tiffany came here without getting permission from me. You both should have contacted me to see if it was all right. That was negligent on your part.”
“That’s a big word for a Saturday afternoon, Anthony.” Monique moves to stand beside Jo. “Let’s not make this a bigger deal than it is. Nobody got hurt. The girls were with family here.”
“You are not their family,” he snaps. “And your lifestyle could have a negative...” Anthony stops cold, shifts uncomfortably.
Jo crosses her arms across her chest. “Don’t stop. Cat’s outta the bag. Might as well let it all out. That’s what this is all about, huh, Dr. Stone? Our lifestyle? We don’t pass all your religious requirements? I’m ‘bad’ because the person I choose to love and spend my life with doesn’t have a penis? Where’s the logic in that?”
Anthony gasps. “Jo, please watch your language around children.”
Jo huffs. “Anthony Stone. Penis is not a bad word. And this is my house. I’ll say whatever I want. Penis. There. Said it again.”
“Jehovah God,” Anthony exclaims. “I really think it would be best if you kept your distance from my girls. And your son, too. I don’t want him associating with my daughters.”
Jo steps forward, seething. “We have put up with your self-righteous, holier-than-thou bullshit for years now and we’ve tried our hardest to show you the love of God even though, in return, you’ve shown us nothing but contempt. And what have we ever done to you except be kind neighbors? You wanna look at my son and treat him like he’s some kind of leper? Order your girls not to speak to him? And then you get all dressed up on Sunday mornings and take your family to church like a damn hypocrite. Let me tell you one thing.” She puts her hand on her hip and points her finger directly at Anthony. “One day, we are all going to stand before God and be held accountable for our actions. I feel good about who I am and what I’ve done while I’ve been living. Jesus knows I have. Can you say the same? I am proud as hell to be Jo McKinney. And my wife and I have raised our son to be an upstanding young man who excels at pretty much everything he does in spite of the hand that he’s been dealt. I am a grown-ass woman and he’s a grown-ass man and I refuse to stand here and let you, of all people, a man who I believe hasn’t raised a damn cat, tell me what to do with my son! Tiffany is welcome over here anytime, you understand me? Anytime. Now, you get the hell out of my house. How’s that for watching my language?”
She turns and storms through the patio doors with Monique at her heels. Marcus and I exchange sad looks before he turns and exits, as well, leaving Anthony and me alone in the kitchen.
“Anthony,” I start. “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s go. Now.”
“I have to grab my things upstairs.”
“Make it quick.”
* * *
We ride to Malibu in the most uncomfortable silence since the creation of uncomfortable silences. I grip the car seat and stare out the window at the lines on the freeway, Anthony grips the steering wheel and stares straight ahead, and Nevaeh just seems utterly confused as to what’s going on and is dead silent. Probably a first for her.
When we finally pull up to the Malibu town house, the garage door slides open and we all breathe a sigh of relief. Time out. Now we get to go back to our corners. Rest and recuperate for the next round of Sly versus Stone.
“Nevaeh. Bath and bed.”
“Yes, sir.” She quickly exits the car.
“Tiffany, I don’t have words for what you did. You had Margaret in hysterics. You’re grounded. I have your guitar in our room and it’ll stay with me for the next month. No phone, either. Hand it over.”
I give it to him. “Do you know why the McKinneys have family barbecues all the time?”
He doesn’t respond. Only continues gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead.
“Marcus has a heart condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. He’s already died once. He could die again...this time for good. They do it to celebrate his life. Because they don’t know when it’ll happen. His death.”
He leans his head back against the car seat and rubs his temples. I wait for a few moments but he has no reply. Not even a Gee whiz, I’m so sorry to hear that.
“You’re such a trip.”
“Excuse me?” he replies.
“You just are. The way you talk to Margaret. The way you parent Pumpkin. All the weird rules.”
“Are we about to start arguing again?”
“Definitely not.” I push open the car door.
“Tiffany,” Anthony says.
I pause.
“I like foreign films. They focus more on plot rather than all the fancy stuff like American films.”
“Huh?”
He wrings his hands together like a nervous tween. “You said we were supposed to be getting to know one another. You said you couldn’t imagine your mom loving a guy like me. So I thought you should know I like foreign films. Imani did, too. We used to find random ones at the library and watch them together. I loved how she could see the beauty in life even when it looked so ugly. She had this amazing capacity to love.”
Thump-thump, thump-thump: He’s talking to you. Like...really talking.
I clear my throat and say timidly, “Um, which one is your favorite? Foreign films, I mean.”
“I feel like picking a favorite is insulting all the others. So many of them are amazing. I don’t know. Probably Cinema Paradiso.”
“I’ve never seen that one. Why is it your favorite?”
“Watch it. You will have a straight view into my soul.”
I’m not sure why, but his words make my eyes well with tears. I twist my body around so he can’t see. I suppose Anthony took the body movement to mean I was done talking and heading into the house because he quickly says, “Plans haven’t changed, Tiffany. We leave for the airport at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow. You understand, right?”
I deflate. How could he force another flight on me when he knows how I feel? And here I thought we were getting to know one another. “Whatever you say.”
I exit the car and slam the door shut. Soaring through the air
in another tin can with wings? If they weren’t already dead I could freakin’ kill the Wright brothers.
20
“Breathe, Tiffany. Breathe.” Nevaeh laughs.
“I’m not breathing?”
“Not enough. You’re gonna die if you don’t breathe.”
The plane rumbles and I grab on to her leg. “I’m scared.”
“It’s turbulence.” Nevaeh takes a giant bite from a granola bar and chews loudly, talking with her mouth full. “A little turbulence is superduper normal.”
“Totes,” Heaven adds from the tan leather seat across from us. “Besides, if the plane crashes, we’d pass out before we made impact with the ground.”
“Good point, sis,” Nevaeh replies. “And then ka-boom. It would all be over.”
“Seriously, you guys?” I say.
“Nevaeh?” Heaven scolds. “Stop. You’re scaring Tiffany.”
“You’re the one who said we’d pass out before we made impact with the ground.” Nevaeh takes another giant bite of her granola bar.
“I know, but you said ka-boom.” Heaven grimaces. “It was the ka-boom that scared her.”
“Wanna get off plane. Go outside!” Pumpkin’s squirming to get away from Margaret and thrashing around. In fact, Pumpkin’s contributing to a good percentage of my anxiety. She’s been an absolute terror for the past half hour.
“Pumpkin, sit down,” Margaret says with calm authority, and Pumpkin starts to wail. Her big blue eyes pour out crocodile tears as she yanks at her massive mound of curly hair.
Anthony reaches into Margaret’s purse and grabs a binky. He gives it to Pumpkin, who gleefully pops it into her mouth and sits quietly for the first time since the flight began.
Margaret frowns. “A pacifier? You say only at night.”
Anthony holds his hands out for Pumpkin. She squeals with delight, slides off Margaret’s lap and jumps into Anthony’s arms. Margaret looks more than a little stunned.
“What are we supposed to do, right?” Anthony wraps his arms around Pumpkin and kisses her on the cheek. “We’re thirty thousand feet in the air. She needs to stay seated? She gets a binky.”
Anthony and I look at each other across the aisle of the small private jet. His eyebrows are raised. Eyes hopeful. I could be mistaken, but it’s almost as if he’s looking...for my approval?
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 22