by Vera Roberts
I walk over to the window and silently stand next to it as I study the outside view. Neat rows of manicured grass stare back at me as the hot Pasadena sun beats down on them. The other Ferguson women are fanning themselves off and sharing the latest socialite gossip that would probably bore me if I entertained them.
I’m welcomed into the family fold but I feel strangely alone, like I don’t belong.
It’s not a race thing. No one has mentioned my skin color or make snide comments about me being black. It’s a class thing and I’m very much aware of where I came from to who I currently am. I grew up rich, but I didn’t have a maid or a chef. My parents worked very hard to provide a good life for me and my sister.
But the Fergusons…this is a different tax bracket type of wealthy. Ian always had a maid, butler, and chauffeur. In fact, a maid comes by his home twice a week to clean it, though he prefers driving.
He’s never shopped in a mall and had Neiman Marcus and Geary’s credit accounts since he turned 18.
I, on the other hand, grew up in Baldwin Hills. We didn’t have a maid or a chauffeur. We lived in a very nice area of Los Angeles, and I could name some childhood friends who grew up to become rappers or athletes.
But let’s not get it twisted – if anyone was washing my funky underwear, it was me, not my mama.
I let out a sigh thinking about her. Every holiday is tough and it really doesn’t get any easier. Now that I’m effectively estranged from Sam, the holidays are even lonelier. I glance down at the ginormous diamond on my finger and I can’t help but to think I’m about to get married to the man of my dreams, have the wedding of my dreams, and I’m alone.
Don’t get me wrong; I love Adrienne and she’ll be my sister for life, but she can’t replace our mother. My mother was the one that taught me about boys from a young age, telling me to never ‘give it away to just anyone.’ She taught me about life, encouraging me to travel when I was young and childless.
She taught me about everything I needed to know about finding my way and becoming a woman. And I just only hope I’m a fraction of the woman she was.
I finally sit down on the expensive furniture I probably shouldn’t be sitting on, and I’m sure I’ll be scolded at by one of the Fergusons when they find out. I don’t even care anymore. The tears are in free-fall mode and I can’t stop them. Each time I wipe them away, more fall to replace them. I’m sure my makeup is smeared and my eyes are probably weed smoker red.
I just really miss my Mommy.
My shoulders shudder and I can barely breathe. I’ve shed numerous tears over my mother in the past years and it doesn’t get any easier. Every holiday is a stark reminder there’s a key member missing from our family. I can only talk to the sky for so long, visit her gravesite so much, and it just doesn’t get any fucking easier.
There’s a huge hole in my heart and she’ll never see her future grandchildren. She’ll never help me shop for the perfect wedding dress. We’ll never get into nonsensical arguments about Jordan almonds and why I can’t sit Aunt Gloria next to Fertile Myrtle Angie.
She’ll never help me prepare for my baby shower, nor would she ever be in the delivery room when I’m going through agony delivering Ian’s child. She won’t be there when our baby does arrive, with a proud smile on her face, telling me, ‘You did it!’
My mother is gone.
“Domi?”
Hearing Gerald call my name reminded me where I am and who’s around. I quickly stand up and try in vain to wipe the tears off my face and hope my eyes are somewhat presentable before I turn around. Just as I stand up and try to rush out of the room with a muffled ‘I’m sorry’, he stops me.
“Hey, hey…” He grabs my arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m not sure if you’re the right person to talk about this?” My words come out in harsh breaths as I’m trying to regain my composure.
“Try me,” he leads me back to the room and sit down the same expensive furniture I was on, “what’s going on?”
“I just really miss my mom right now,” I swallow, “that’s all.”
“No, that isn’t all,” Gerald removes a silk handkerchief from his pocket and hands it over to me, “I know how it feels. My mum died when I was still in high school. Ian had already left for college. He was barely a semester into his freshman year and was down for winter break when the accident happened.” He shakes his head. “I can still remember the emotions of that night. Playing with my friends, only to receive news I needed to come home right away. There wasn’t a hospital stay because she died on impact. I’m thankful she didn’t suffer but that’s it.”
“How do you deal with it?” I ask through harsh breaths.
Gerald shrugs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The best way I can. Every so often, I get a sharp, unbearable pain in my chest because I think of what she’d missed. Right now, she’ll be in the kitchen with Ian, probably scolding him about how needs to eat more fish pie to fatten up.” He chuckles and I smile. “She would’ve loved Emma to death. There’s a lot of mum in Emma. I think that was part of the reason why I was drawn to her. It was as if mum handpicked her.” He turns to me. “She would’ve adored you as well. There’s a lot of mum in you, too.”
“Oh?” The news surprises me. I always had the feeling Lula Jean and I were worlds different. “How?”
“You’re both very headstrong and quite stubborn,” he softly chuckles, “but you two have two of the biggest hearts I can imagine. Mum loved music and was always playing it. She would’ve gotten a kick out of you pole dancing.”
“She wouldn’t have been ashamed or disappointed in me or Ian?” I cautiously ask.
“Nah, mum wasn’t the judgmental type. Her attitude was as long as you were good to her, she was good to you. She didn’t care what went on behind closed doors. She didn’t have time for any of that.” Gerald shakes his head and folds his arms. “She was far too busy with her friends, her charities, and acquiring more art. That was her focus.”
“Sounds like Ian,” I blow my nose.
“Ian and mum were best friends. I was close with her, too, but she and Ian had a special bond. She didn’t approve of Naomi but she supported Ian because she loved him. I imagine she would’ve been quite pleased the marriage didn’t go through.”
“Even if she was the cause of it?” I ask.
“You had to know mum to understand she had a very twisted sense of humor.” Gerald turns to me and offers a polite grin. “Tell me about Regina Kimbrough.”
I slightly chuckle through the salty tears. “What is it you want to know? She was my mom.”
“I know she was an art collector but what else about her?” Gerald nods. “What did she like? What did she hate? How would you describe her?”
“Regina Kimbrough,” I let out another sigh and stare up at the ceiling, “she was…amazing. She was never into technology and struggled to keep up with everything. She would hate all of the social media nowadays. She barely kept up with her phone.” A slight chuckle escaped me. “My mother had me young, she was barely out of high school when she had Adrienne, but she had an old spirit about her. She loved old-school soul and I think she and Ian would’ve bonded on that. She was always listening to the Ohio Players, Teddy Pendergrass, the Commodores, and the Isley Brothers. That’s all I heard. I can remember one time I woke up from some good sleep to Al Green blasting in the living room. She was cleaning. She always put on Al Green to clean. I will forever associate “Love & Happiness” with Pine-Sol.” I smiled and Gerald joined me.
“She sounded like an amazing person,” he adds.
“She was,” I nod, “she was the most incredible woman on earth. I find myself talking to her but it helps. Sometimes I don’t know who else to talk to.”
“I talk to mum all of the time,” Gerald hesitates before he continues, “so does Ian.”
The news surprises me. Ian hasn’t opened too much about his mother and it’s a subject I don’t push, giv
en everything that has occurred. “He does?”
“He’s not very open about it and I don’t expect him to be. Our mum’s death really hit him hard, and I suspect a lot harder he wants to admit. We’re both very close to our parents but mum always gave him life advice. Believe it or not, Ian was incredibly shy growing up and barely spoke. Mum’s death forced him to become more outgoing because he became the family representative. Once I married Emma, he gladly gave her that role so he could re-focus on his studies. Graduated from King’s College in business and went to cookery school shortly afterwards. It’s why he’s so brilliant at what he does. He knows about food and business; both are something not a lot of restaurateurs know.”
It explains why Ian never has money in just one pot but several. Diversify your assets. Michael and his long, blonde Madonna ponytail comes into focus and I shake my head to relieve the sight. “And you?” I sniffle. “How did your mum’s death affect you?”
Gerald folds his hands and a few lines appear across his forehead. “I grew up much sooner than I should’ve,” he admits, “I went from worrying about how to get Baby Spice to write me back to worrying about my dad and brother.” He releases a soft grin and I smile as well. “I just knew she would’ve written me back, too!”
I softly chuckle. “I’m sure you still can write to her.”
“Nah, I’m a bigger fan of my wife than any pop starlet,” he reveals. He looks over at me. “Feeling better now, kiddo?”
“Much, thank you.” I crumble the handkerchief. “I’m sure you don’t want this back so I’ll wash it and give it back to you.”
“Oh keep it. I have plenty at home,” he adds, “besides I think a lady should have carry her finest silk handkerchief where ever she goes. You never know when the mood might call for one,” he winks at me and stands. “Shall we join the others? I’m sure dinner will be starting soon.”
“Sure thing,” I stand with him and straighten out my clothing, “um, one last thing, G.”
“Hmm?”
“I know this might sound silly but I just have to ask,” I begin, “do you hate me because I’m with your brother?”
Gerald shakes his head. It seems the question alone annoyed him. “No, I don’t and I never have. But to be honest…?”
“Yes?”
“Ian often brought home these children he called dates just to get a rise out of me and Father. I know why he likes younger women and it’s not because he wants to control them. You and our mum also have that in common; you two were significantly younger than your partners.”
I probably shouldn’t ask… “How much younger?”
“Ten years,” Gerald replies and my stomach bottoms out. “Dad met mum when she was fresh out of high school, though it was some time before they dated and got married. Probably five years or so.”
The parallels between me and Lula Jean are starting to creep me the fuck out. I feel like I’m trying to keep up with a dead woman, whose Jimmy Choos would be incredibly hard to fill.
“Sometimes I do think you might be too good for my brother,” he softly smiles, “just don’t tell him I said that or he’ll rip us both a new one.”
“I won’t,” I smile.
“One last thing,” Gerald briefly closes the door and leans against it. He softly chews his bottom lip before he continues. “I know what you did for us the other day was huge and it was something you didn’t have to but did. I apologize for tricking you into doing it but it was the only way we could trap the assholes.”
It was the first time I’ve heard Gerald curse and it sounds so polite like he was discussing the weather. “Apology accepted.”
“I took the liberty of transferring the five hundred thousand fee into your bank account so you should be receiving it soon. Father also told me he talked to you about whatever you wanted and the offer still stands. Whatever you want, we’ll get for you.”
Diversify your assets, Domi. Now’s your chance… “There is something I might want but I need to do a bit more research first,” I begin, “however, if I do accept the offer I do have a solid condition.”
“Sure,” Gerald shrugs, “whatever you want.”
What I’m about to say is going to start a chain of events that I’m going to end up regretting a year later but Michael’s words shook me to the core and I have no choice. I need Ian to remember he’s messing with Regina Kimbrough’s daughter and I don’t take any bullshit, no matter how big and beautiful the dick is.
If I was put in potential danger because of some Shakespearean drama between families, I need to be well compensated.
Even if it costs me everything. “I don’t want Ian to know about this.”
Five
Having Thanksgiving at a rich white family’s house is so interesting.
You see, I’m used to paper plates you have to double-stack because your cousin didn’t want to spend the extra money on the good Chinet ones so she got those cheap shits from the 99 cents store; the ones that you have to hold a certain way or the juice from the collard greens will also seep into the cornbread.
I’m used to my plate to look like I hadn’t eaten all damn year because it was piled on with candied yams, baked macaroni and cheese, black eyed peas, a little jambalaya, and oxtails in addition to the turkey and ham I put on there.
I’m used to sitting around living rooms, family rooms, and sometimes even outside in the backyard that were converted into makeshift dining areas with the folding chairs and plastic table coverings.
I’m used to getting our sodas and ice from the same coolers, not worrying about germs or cooties because we’re all kinfolk and that’s how we do.
I’m used to grabbing a slice of sweet potato pie and saving it for later right next to my plate because I know if I were go back for it later, it would be gone and I was going to be hella pissed at myself for not being quick enough and my family for being so damn greedy.
I’m used to kiki-ing with my cousins about the latest happenings on various black gossip blogs, discussing social matters, and hearing my uncles talk about whatever is going as they play a game of bones in the garage.
I’m used to getting my fill of Thanksgiving and then walking down the street on Crenshaw with my cousins as we watch a mild-mannered gentleman politely turn up his car volume as he blasts “Fuck Tha Police” right next to a squad car.
That’s what I’m used to.
Now these fancy white people in their fancy Caucasian home are serving Thanksgiving (okay, do Brits even celebrate this holiday?) on the good plates with the good glasses, they’re discussing the latest gossip from People magazine and I’m sitting here wondering what in the hell just happened?
Everyone has taken their places and a small part of me is looking around to see where are the coolers full of soda that represents every color in the rainbow (let’s not act like you never had grape soda at Thanksgiving now), some Ohio Players in the background in one room, while the other room has either a basketball or football game on.
Instead, I see extra polite manners, people dressed in what I would consider their Sunday best, and is that Beethoven I hear?
Oh Domi…we’re not in Baldwin Hills anymore. We’re beyond the Sunken Place.
We’re knee-deep in a Pumpkin Spice Latte convention.
“Isn’t this so lovely?” Adrienne pulls up a chair beside me and smiles. Amazing how my sister has just about completed the transformation into Stepford Wife without missing a beat. “Oh, just look at this china!” She gently picks up the plate and examines it. “I wonder if it’s bone or porcelain? Hmmm…I think it’s bone.”
“And what the hell?” I mutter under my breath as I turn towards her.
“What?” Adrienne slightly shrugs. “You don’t think it’s bone?”
“What are you doing?” I ask her. “A bitch gets a little money and she suddenly forgets she’s black?”
“No, this bitch gets a little money and realizes she doesn’t want to scare these white ladies at the table who can’t t
ell the difference between Beyoncé and Rihanna because they think all black people look alike and they don’t understand what Black Lives Matter mean because they feel All Lives Matter but they are the most comfortable with an incompetent white man being the president of the United States even if he votes against their interests while they gladly and unashamedly cultural appropriate by saying yassss and Bye, Felicia! even though they probably couldn’t tell you why Craig got fired on his day off.” Adrienne blinks and smiles at me.
I take her lead and examine the plate. “Yeah, you’re right I do think it’s bone.”
“Yeah, I think so as well.” Adrienne nods.
I look around and I don’t see the Ferguson men anymore. They probably escaped in Ian’s Jaguar and left me and Adrienne to fend for ourselves. “Where are the men?”
“Oh, they’re going to bring the dishes out,” Emma chimes in with a slight wobble. She’s not drunk yet but she’s almost there. I have a feeling she can’t stand the atmosphere, neither. “Usually all of the women do it but it’s a big deal since this is Ian’s first Thanksgiving with the family in several years.”
A pang of guilt washes over me. I know how close Ian is with his family, yet he preferred to spend Thanksgiving with mine, despite all of the dysfunction. He’s always made it a point to spend the Christmas holiday with the Fergusons, no matter what.
“Well, maybe now he’s here the food might be better,” their cousin, Oscar Ferguson, replied, as he sipped his cognac. He was a bit older with dark hair and green eyes, and rather tall. He had a pretentious air about him, though I feel that’s more of how he appears to be than what he actually is. Fake Spice. “Because last year’s Thanksgiving was a bit of a disaster.”
Last year at Thanksgiving, I introduced Ian to the Soul Train line. We went down the line to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.” I have a feeling that’s not going to happen tonight. “What happened last year?”
“Oh, dinner started at nine, because somebody didn’t know what the hell she was doing in the kitchen.” Emma casually rolled her head (or did it roll on its own due to the liquor?) towards the stepmother, Elise, who sat near the head of the table.