“Jane!” And when that didn’t work. “Luuuuuceeeeeeee!”
I wasn’t so pregnant that I couldn’t be fast. My center of gravity may have shifted, but my gait hadn’t been significantly altered. I pushed through the crowd shouting, “I’m a doctor.”
Yeah. Well. I did have a doctorate! And I had dealt with psychotics.
Rocky must have seen me coming. He grabbed my arm and maneuvered me through the masses to Sister Lou. Two or three men held her down.
“Get this crowd to back up.”
Goliath and Jolly Green made themselves useful by frightening all but the media back. I certainly didn’t feel up to being a television personality again, but I had to do what I had to do.
I dropped to my knees in front of Lou, who was fighting wildly. “Hold her,” I said to the impromptu orderlies.
I got close enough for Lou to hear me over the hullabaloo. “Sister Lou. It’s Amanda. Remember when you helped me? Remember when you cast that interracial-dating-and-adultery demon out of me?”
She kept fighting. Didn’t respond.
“Lou, I’m Amanda. You helped me. Now I want to help you.”
Her hair had fallen out of the bun she held it in. Her skirt had hiked up her thighs. I tugged at it. “I want you to listen to me, Louella. You have to stop fighting, because no one wants you to hurt yourself.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She howled in pain.
“Honey, I know you wanted to help Zeekie, but he’s with Jesus, and that’s a good place for him. He’s not in any pain. He’s probably playing with my little girl.”
She began to rock back and forth.
“Will you let me help you, Louella?”
She didn’t speak, just rocked back and forth.
I scooted closer. Someone shouted, “Hey, isn’t that devil-vomit girl?”
I ignored them. I motioned for the men to keep holding her, and I gently placed my arms around Lou. I had never heard such mournful cries. I held her like I would a child. She cried and cried in my arms.
I didn’t feel like a psychologist. I felt like what I imagined a mother must feel, a little helpless, trying to be strong when I just wanted to sit on the floor and cry with her—right in front of Zeekie’s casket.
The family proceeded to close the lid. The soft thump and Zekia’s resultant gut-wrenching cries felt like a stab to my heart. The knowledge that no one on Earth would see his beautiful little face again plunged me so deeply into grief that I didn’t know if I’d ever see my way out.
I’d lost the professional distance I desperately needed to cling to. No matter that I’d only met him once, he seemed to be a part of me. Inside me.
Jazz had tried to keep me from this. Pregnant. Emotional. And crazy. At a baby’s funeral—a recipe for disaster. I kept holding Lou, rocking with her, trying not to break down. My clinical skills abandoned me. All I could think about was Sasha. I did what my mother taught me.
I sang “All the Pretty Little Horses” softly to Sister Lou until the ambulance came. I accompanied her to the University of Michigan Psychiatric Emergency department. The staff knew me from times when I’d come in with an inmate from the jail. They let me stay with her, and I ended up staying several hours.
By five in the evening I called a cab to go home. I wasn’t in a hurry to deal with an angry husband.
I wondered if he’d be willing, despite his anger, to scrape me off the floor, because that’s exactly where I was.
chapter seventeen
I DIDN’T HAVE to put my key in the door. Mr. Intuition whipped it open just like he had the night he’d broken into my apartment and ordered Chinese. That time he’d gone to the door and yanked it open, leaving a deliveryman standing, mouth agape, with his fist poised in the air, ready to knock.
I expected him to be angry, but he wasn’t.
He pulled me into a hug and kissed my forehead. He pulled away from me enough to look into my face. “How do you feel?”
“I think you’re going to need that scraper you talked about.”
He shook his head, but not in disgust. It looked more like pity. He bent and planted a kiss in my braids. I got teary again.
“I’m so tired, Jazzy.”
“I know. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Can’t you eat a teeny-weeny meal, for me?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll let you slide this time. How ’bout a nice hot shower?”
I loved baths, but he was sensitive enough to not mention soaking in a tub when we’d just laid Zeekie to rest. I didn’t know when I’d want to take a bath again.
I slid my boots off. I hadn’t taken my coat or purse when I went with the ambulance. Jazz hadn’t questioned me as I left with the paramedics. I knew he’d collect my things and bring them home.
He didn’t yell at me for getting involved or being gone for hours or risking my personal safety by dealing with what he’d call “a nutjob.” He’d become a beta male, at least for now.
Jazz led me by the hand into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and checked the water for a comfortable temperature. He had a fluffy towel waiting for me. And fresh flowers. Not that the house didn’t already look like a botanical garden with the flowers from my overnight stay in the hospital.
We faced each other as he unbuttoned my blouse, unzipped my skirt, and removed both. Then my slip and everything else.
He walked me to the shower and urged me to get in.
“When I hear the water go off I’ll bring you your spa bathrobe.”
“I don’t have a spa bathrobe.”
“You have one now.”
He gave me the Colgate smile, and I marveled at the wonder of this man.
“Thank you, Jazz.”
“No problem.”
I stepped into the shower and let the hot water soothe me. It didn’t offer the womb-like environment of soaking in a bathtub, but the cold air and the chilly hospital waiting room had nearly numbed me, and I welcomed the relief the shower offered. He’d gotten new soap for me, in my favorite lavender scent. I almost expected him to join me.
I turned off the water, and just as he’d said, he had a brand-new white spa-quality bathrobe waiting for me. I didn’t even bother with the towel. “Come to Mama,” I said.
“Me or the bathrobe?” he teased.
“Both of you.”
He helped me into the robe, and we strolled back to our bedroom. A week ago it was my bedroom, and I hadn’t known I was pregnant. Hadn’t seen Jazz in weeks. The changes delighted, frightened, and disoriented me all at once.
He’d changed the bedding. We now had a new comforter—a colorful Indian-inspired pattern with little plastic mirrors sewn to the surface—and new soft Egyptian-cotton sheets in red. He’d placed one of his mother’s paintings of a man and woman embracing on the wall above the headboard of my bed—our bed! The man was fair-skinned like Jazz, the woman, while not peanut-butter-colored like Jazz insisted I was, was darker than her lover. Red roses rested in a vase on my night table. I loved it all.
I sat on the bed. “This is all so beautiful. I thought you’d be mad at me.”
“I am mad at you, love. I’m always mad at you.”
“Do you still hate me?”
He nodded. “I hate you very much.”
“‘Hate’ is a strong word.”
“My feelings for you are very strong.”
I lay down on the bed and cuddled with one of the new paisley throw pillows. “Stay with me. I need you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You need rest.”
“I want us to make love.”
He startled. “Jane! What’s gotten into you?”
“You do realize I could give you a very naughty response.”
He blushed. “It’s too early. You just got out of the hospital.”
“I feel fine.” I reached for his thigh. “Please.”
He looked away from me. Thought for a few moments. “Are you sure you’re okay? We won
’t hurt the babies?”
“I don’t think so, Jazzy.”
He looked nervous. Shy. I didn’t know what to think. This is Mr. Naughty himself and now…I withdrew my hand.
His head hung down.
My tummy did a flip, and it wasn’t the babies moving. I willed the tears of humiliation stinging my eyes not to fall.
“I guess I’m emotional.” I spoke with the forced enthusiasm of a person trying to save face. I turned my body away from him. “Just forget I asked.”
He touched my shoulder. “No!” He’d said it louder than he needed to. Spoke more softly, “No, I’m just…I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
He squeezed my arm, leaned over, and kissed my cheek, then headed to the bathroom.
I heard the water go on as my eyelids tried to blink away the heaviness threatening to overtake me. I fell asleep waiting for Jazz to come to me.
His kisses awakened me. I had to touch his hair, tangle my hands in his rough brown curls. I drank in his scent…
Wait. That wasn’t his scent. Part of my brain remained in a sleepy-headed fog, but the smell had triggered a vague olfactory memory. A bad one. But this was Jazz. My eyes fluttered open. Jazz was kissing me. My hands were still in his hair. The smell was liquor seeping out of his pores.
I glanced at the clock. I’d slept for hours, and Jazz had clearly imbibed more than his share, once again.
“Jazz?” I said slowly. Trying to process what was going on between us.
But he didn’t stop kissing. And I couldn’t stop wanting him.
My mind went to war with my body, went to some dark memory of my father’s drunken affection—nothing inappropriate. He didn’t molest me or any such thing. He’s what one would call a “happy drunk.” But when my mother would see him in that altered state, she’d lacerate him. Sometimes for hours. I’d listen in my bedroom to her crush his spirit. The more she trashed him, the more he drank. The only time they got along was when they went into the bedroom and locked the door behind them. Like Jazz and me?
Oh God.
A woman always rues the day she turns into her mother. My constant stream of acrid thoughts, calling women who annoyed or threatened me cows and heifers, my flair for the dramatic when I was not onstage—all those things I attributed to Sasha’s influence. But I’d married an alcoholic. All the warnings she’d given me. All the awful stories she told me to poison me against my dad. The fear of imbibing alcohol that made me mostly a teetotaler. My psychology degrees. All of it rushed to my mind.
But not my body.
The smell of alcohol on him sickened me, while my husband’s touch thrilled me. I never asked him to stop.
I wanted him anyway, and hated myself for it.
I threw up. It’s a little difficult to explain, after being so passionate with Jazz, but his essence of Jack Daniel’s finally got the better of me. I came back to the bed, and he’d gone into the living room. He’d poured himself another drink and turned on the television loud enough to annoy me.
I wanted to say something to him, but I’d been blindsided by the thought that instead of pouncing on me when I first approached him, he’d hemmed and hawed and had to get drunk before he could bring himself to touch me.
We kid sometimes that we hate each other, but in that blistering moment of reflection, when I believed with all my heart he couldn’t stand to make love with me without medicating himself, I truly did hate him. Or was it myself I hated?
He didn’t look thrilled with me, either.
I turned to go back to bed alone. He could get his own blanket and pillow. Or not.
I closed my bedroom door and locked it, even though I knew he could get in with minimal effort. A vicious headache throbbed at my temples and I put a pillow over my head. Shoot. Maybe I could suffocate myself with my pillow.
Who was I kidding? While I felt bad enough to die, I had no intention of doing so. I wanted to see my babies!
Instead, I let the pillow muffle the sound of me crying myself to sleep.
I made morning prayer a simple affair: “Help.”
It didn’t surprise me that I woke before Jazz. I showered and put on a simple dropped-waist dress. I’d gotten it at the art fair last year, and it had a funky African-inspired pattern painted on the front. Most of my pants had gotten too tight at the waist. Not even two months along, and Maggie had called it right: I needed maternity clothes.
The thought of it saddened me. Sometimes, as much as I reveled in it, I wondered if I was really pregnant or just coming down with a virus. I couldn’t feel them move yet. I felt their presence, and they’d certainly changed my body, but I longed for the day I could feel their kicks.
I went into the bathroom and closed the door so I could look at myself in the full-length mirror behind the door. I turned sideways to look at my baby bump. I put my hands on it.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
As soon as my thanks slipped out of my mouth, that still, small inward voice whispered to me, Thank me for Jazz.
I sighed. Grumbled. Surrendered. “Thank you for Jazz. Help me not to throttle him.”
I waited for my rebuke. It didn’t come.
“Okay. Now you’ve got me self-rebuking. I’m sorry. Please help me to see that, like many adult children of alcoholics, I’m simply reacting to an incident that triggered memories of some traumatic events that…”
I took a deep breath. Then another. Slipped a ponytail holder off my wrist and gathered my braids into a ponytail. I really loved the long hair, even if it was extensions. I should have let my hair grow like Sasha said.
The still, small voice decided to be chatty.
Don’t avoid me.
I put my hands behind my neck to massage away the tension. “I know I tried to hide behind intellectualizing. I don’t want us to be like Ma and Daddy. Jazz hurt my feelings. It can’t be wrong to want him to desire me…”
Frustration flushed my cheeks. “Shoot! Don’t make me do this right now. Please.”
I didn’t feel anymore prompts from God.
I went back into the bedroom and pulled a small suitcase out of my closet. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone. Not that all my clothes still fit. I grabbed my favorite shirts and a dressy blouse for work. I’d go shopping for some maternity slacks.
I didn’t cry as I packed. I told myself that I’d be back in a few days. I just needed to clear my head. Zeekie’s death. My pregnancy. Jazz moving in. Last night. All of it swirled around and clashed in my mind like colors in a kaleidoscope. I wanted to rest. To think, that’s all.
When I’d finished, I quietly shuffled through the living room. I didn’t want to wake Jazz. I didn’t have to worry. He wasn’t on the couch anymore. My stomach did a back flip. I’d hoped to slip out and leave him a note. The toilet flushed. I set the suitcase next to the door and went back into the living room, sat on the couch, and waited for him.
He didn’t come out of the bathroom naked, thank the Lord, because it’s possible that I’d not have made it out the door. As it was, the sight of his bare chest made my heart palpitate. He had on a pair of sweatpants, and his white athletic socks slouched at his ankles. When he saw me on the couch, he headed for the kitchen.
“Jazz?”
He stopped, sighed, and turned to me. “Do you think I can have a cup of coffee before we square off and come out fighting?”
When the first thing he said to me in the morning hurt my feelings, I could only guess that the conversation would head south from there.
“Go ahead.”
As if he could read my mind, he addressed my hurt. “I didn’t say that to intentionally hurt you, Bell, but let’s be honest. We’re not going to have a pleasant little chat. I’m taller, stronger, and meaner than you. Let me have a cup of coffee so that I’m not the total jerk I’m capable of being.”
If he put it that way…
Even mean, coffeeless Jazz had a thoughtful side. “Would you like some
thing?”
“No, thank you.”
“Have you eaten, Bell?”
“No.”
“How are you supposed to feed my babies?”
“I’ll eat later.”
“Later? When you leave?”
I slouched into the sofa cushions, exhausted already. “Just get your coffee.”
“No time to feed my children? You must be anxious to get to where you’re going.”
“So you are ready to fight?”
That comment must have knocked the wind out of him. He retreated to the kitchen. I had no idea what I’d say to him. I’d tried to come up with a little speech in my head. Nothing I thought of seemed adequate.
Jazz came back into the living room a few minutes later. He sat down in one of the chairs opposite the sofa. I tried to mask my disappointment that he didn’t sit on the sofa with me.
He took a few sips of coffee. A few more. Went straight for the jugular.
“Why are you leaving me?”
“I’m not leaving you, I—”
He slammed the cup on the coffee table. “You’re dressed, even though you don’t have to go into work, your suitcase is at the door, and you want to”—he crooked his index and middle fingers on both hands in the gesture for quotation marks—“talk.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to”—I repeated his gesture—“talk.” I placed my hands on my lap. “If you keep interrupting me.”
“Look. I’m hung over. I really don’t feel like any crap. You’re leaving me, and I want to know why.”
“Last night—”
He groaned. “Why do we have to have a Cecil B. DeMille epic whenever we sleep together? We’ve done it twice. The first time, I catch you making out with your boyfriend afterward. We do it again, and you pack up to leave me.”
“May I remind you that the first time you were the one who left. After you threw your keys at me and told me to go to hell.”
“I didn’t throw my keys at you. If I had, I wouldn’t have missed.”
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