The explosion with the Robot may be the perfect distraction tactic for me to disappear for real. I killed my Twitter account and Facebook fan pages just before coming back here to Montreal. I’ve gone back to reading the newspaper—albeit the Montreal Gazette—and rereading classics and favorites in my parents’ library. Like right now I’m reading Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, because . . . well, yeah. Next up is Lord of the Flies. You see the theme.
My father’s liver is an asshole. The man’s been in and out of the hospital since Boxing Day and they still can’t tell him with any real certainty what’s wrong. He’s managing the pain, he claims, with the drugs that they dole out to him in buckets, but I think he’s sneaking sips of his own liquid therapy when my mother’s out at church. She still lives on her side, but spends a lot of time on his playing cards and dominoes with him. He’s weak most days and prefers to sit in his tiny office “organizing affairs,” he said. I found a low rum bottle in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet in there. There was also a small stash of blue movies (as he would call them). I pretended I didn’t see either thing. He’s been really kind to me about this Millhause-Steig stuff and the Fatima story. “Don’t bother yuh head with all that commesse,” he said, when I gave him the full scoop on the swindle and drama. “Them people real sometimeish—and wicked on top of that too, ent? You shoulda tell them to kiss yuh ass.” We laughed for a good twenty minutes after he said that. My father is not one for slack talk, but on those rare times he does drop the good-Trini-Catholic-boy veil, it is fucking fantastic.
Didn’t bother telling Mum about the whole double-cross, not in any detail. Things have definitely defrosted with her lately, but it’s not all sugar cakes and sunshine. Not even close. There’s still a gulf there, with only a flimsy straw bridge across, and neither one of us trusts the thing enough to lay a foot on it. And lately her focus is on running circles with these doctors and church, in that order. Bothering with me and my simple drama, there’s no space for it.
“You know your mother is happy to have you here,” my father says. She had just left us alone in his office after delivering his special lunch before heading out to some church thing, again.
“I don’t know about all that, Dad. It’s good that I’m here with you, keep you company. That helps her.”
“See, that’s part of your problem. You play yourself small. You matter to her and to me too, of course, but you’ve always been her heart. You should know that, you know. You’re her heart.”
“Wait, are you seeing the white light, boss? Why are you talking to me like this?”
“It’s my fault too. I shoulda been talking to you like this a long time ago. I shoulda been talking to you like this from the start. All of you deserve to hear me talk like this from the start.”
His droopy tone wipes away my smile. “Dad, don’t upset yourself. It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. I send you out into the world like this. Them people at that magazine, let them stay there. They teef yuh stories, but them can’t steal yuh core, the meat of who you are, Bathsheba. They can’t take that, unless you allow them to.”
Of all the parables and life lesson-y things that he’s laid out for me over these last couple weeks, hearing my own dad tell me I play myself small felt like a driving punch to the gut.
He’s been feeling better, but not bounced back, so I’m heading to New York today. I have to sort through the rubble of things I left behind, figure out if I can still afford that apartment without Millhause money. Tyson said I can stay with him if things go salty with the rental company that took over the building after Mr. Bernhardt passed away last month. I’ve been going Luddite, steering clear of e-mails and smartphones and all things of blinking, buzzing brightness. Tyson actually calls the house, asks my mother for me and everything. It’s strange, but I like it. Makes me feel like I’m fourteen all over again.
Tyson didn’t react how I thought he would to my truth-telling letter. He was even better. “May, this is not living,” he said before I could finish my “hey.” It was one of the last calls I took before boarding my flight to Montreal and turning the phone off for good. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about at first; I couldn’t imagine that my letter had reached him that fast. But it had and Tyson was ready for me, ready to set me straight.
“This thing you’ve been doing, carrying all that heavy and all that sad and guilt and shame, that’s not living. That’s not living life. That’s just surviving it. You need to let all that go. Forgive yourself. Get free, because you’re here, May, and you are needed.” It broke me down and everything inside that had been propping me up for the past several months just collapsed on itself. I cried on that flight like a lost child. The older woman sitting near me leaned over and slipped a thin pack of tissues into the bend in my arm. I nodded in thanks, because that’s all I had. By the time that we landed, my face was a red, streaked, puffy dumpling. The cabdriver barely wanted to look my way to ask where we were heading.
I gave the driver Miles’s address. It just spilled out of my mouth that way. Plus, there’s no one else here for me, no other old school friend to pop in on. Not anymore. I threw salt over all of that, everyone from high school, long ago. It was too hard; too much pity and pretense. When we pulled up to Miles’s place, it took me a solid two minutes to get out of the car. The poor cabdriver didn’t know what to say to move me along and stayed frozen in his seat. After I finally got it together and got out of the car, the driver skated off like he was being chased.
Miles was home, but not for long. He was leaving for NoCal again in an hour. His internet company is in the process of going public. Something I should know more about since he mentioned the big news during one of our Fresh Prince of Bel-Air mini-marathon and make-outs. I wasn’t really listening or watching (it was an episode with new Aunt Viv, and I’m partial to the original). I should have paid attention to a lot of things that night, because I could’ve remembered that we were actually on the outs before taking the damn cab to his house.
We fell out over foolishness; some spilled milk that spread across the kitchen table and soon covered every other nearby surface. I was leaving for New York like I am now, but it was pre-implosion and I was so focused on my own shit with the honor-killing story. Miles said something about hanging out with me in New York since he’d be there around the same time I was, and told me not to worry because even though he’d be around my ’hood, he wouldn’t assume that he could stay with me, and that there’s no pressure and that he just wants to meet my people, and how cool it would be to hang. Of course, I briskly changed the subject with little elegance or tact, and off he went down You’re Ashamed of Me Boulevard. There was no stopping him, either. It started with some nonsense about class and Caribbean blacks snubbing African-Americans. And ended when he brought up his leg. His motherfucking missing leg. That’s when I gave him the high hat. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not that: so hopeless and vain that the man’s missing limb would render him a shameful hide-away.
The whole awful thing came crashing into my brain the minute he answered the door. He looked surprised and confused, but not angry. Then he noticed my soggy face and his awkward stiff-arm vanished.
“Hey. You all right?”
I nodded.
“You sure? You look . . .”
“I know. I was upset about—”
“Is it your dad?” He reached for my arm.
“No. Well, yes, he’s back in the hospital. That’s why I’m here. I mean, that’s not why I’m here-here at your place. It’s just—I, uh. It’s—”
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. Come in.” Miles took my bag and ushered me inside. It was dark and a little chilled. “I’m—man, shit. This is crap timing, but I’m getting ready to bounce. I thought you were my boy Justin. He’s taking me to the airport. I . . . I don’t know what to do for you right now. I can’t miss this flight. Meetings on the other side, you know? I can’t even switch it to a later flight.”
“I know.
I don’t want you to. I should get going too. The hospital.” I backed up into the door and stumbled over his suitcase.
“Best, slow down. What’s up? I mean, you came here—”
“I—I . . . I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was upset on the plane and . . . I guess I wanted to apologize to you, get right with you.”
He melted a little and let the goofy grin loose. “Done. Now, how can I help you get right with yourself? Do you want a ride to the hospital? Justin’s mad cool; it’ll be no bigs for him to swing by there before the airport.”
“No. Thanks, I’m okay. I should go. My mother’s probably watching the door for me right now.”
He rubbed my shoulder and back. “Okay. Why don’t you hit me later tonight. Let me know what’s what with your dad and stuff. Let me know you’re all right too.”
“I will.”
“You sure I can’t do anything?”
Take me with you. I was tempted to say it, even as a halfway joke. Instead I told him I was all good. We hugged good-bye, but it was different, tempered with something; distrust, maybe. I let it go. There was no more room in my brain to hold onto anything else.
I didn’t call Miles later on that night. We haven’t once spoken since then. I’ve thought about him, though, like right now as I’m sliding into this cab, again, to go to the airport, again. This cabbie, a middle-aged Jamaican man, is friendly and happy to see me. He calls me dawta when I get in and told me there’s something very upful about me. His name is Robert Campbell. He told me to call him by his nickname, Skinny (short for Skinny Man, on account of his being the precise opposite of slim), but I prefer going the respectful route and stick with Mr. Campbell. He talks his face off for the whole ride and it’s fine. Hearing all his chat ’bout the bodderation at work, especially the facety ooman in dispatch who has him ready to flex off on his own, jus’ now—it’s like hearing an oldie-but-goodie on the radio.
I left Mr. Campbell’s pristine, white Ford Crown Victoria smiling, warmed from the inside, until I sat down here in the business lounge and spotted some guy reading Hudson magazine. There was Fatima on the cover looking groomed, glowing, and thoughtful in black and white, posed next to the large words:
THE SIN ISSUE
How One Woman Cheated Death
and Forgave the Man Who Tried to Kill Her
Christ. I’m staring at this thing appalled, like it just leaped across the row of seats and smacked me in the face. It hurts. It physically hurts. I only stopped cursing in my sleep about that colossal bullshit a few nights ago, and now here it is back to haunt my daydreams. It’s not fair and it’ll never be all right. Part of me—fine—every part of me, down to the bottom of my boots, wants to walk over there and ask that man for a quick look at his magazine. What if they took my byline off? Worse, what if they reduced me to some additional reporting by tiny-font fuckery?
Kiss my ass. They can kiss my ass. Let them stay there. No time for their wicked, nothing lives. I refuse to play myself small. My moment is on its way.
I’m pulling out all my new mantras courtesy of Bertram Lightburn and trying to act like they are making an ounce of difference. I need a drink. Wait—a complimentary one. Honestly, if there’s a better reason to have an airport lounge pass, I haven’t heard it.
Even sipping on this stingy gin and tonic (it’s basically crushed slush), I’m still staring over there at the man reading Hudson. I need another one of these drinks and a phone call home. Hearing my dad’s voice might help me breathe through this.
Who am I kidding? All the pep talks in the world won’t shake this. I don’t need anyone else trying to pick me up off the floor. I don’t even need this drink or the Fatima story or absolution from the Singhs. What I need, what’s going to really save me is simple: It’s him. I need him. I need him with me if I want to play this game the right way and live this life. And I need to tell him.
We’ve got a half hour before they begin boarding. Even if I have to start it now and finish the rest when we land in New York, I have to call him right now and tell him that he’s it. He’s the answer. He’s what matters.
Voice mail. Of course.
No patience for his message, I press the star key and just leap . . .
“Hey. It’s me. Don’t delete me. Please. Just, please, listen. I know it’s all fucked-up between us right now. I know my part in it is huge. I was reckless, stupid, and, yes, out-of-this-world selfish. All of the above, I cop to it. But the thing is, there’s more here, with us. There’s more to us then a bunch of bad choices and being afraid. I know we can be better. So much better than we were. A million times better. And we can be better together. But I know what you’re thinking and it’s true. I’ve said it so much, it’s like this wobbly piece of wood that I’ve built my entire adult life on: I don’t need you to save me. I don’t want you to save me. You know what? It’s not even about being saved. I don’t need you to save me. I just need you. I need you, because . . . I love you. I know it’s fast and sudden, but if you’re still listening—Jesus, are you? This message is a total screed and I’m sorry—but there’s so much more, so much I should be saying, but not like this. Look, I’ll be at my place in New York for a few days then back home to Montreal. But if you can, if you want to, come meet me and we can talk it out. Just come meet me tomorrow night. I’ll text you where—safe turf, promise.... Bye.”
My heart’s beating a little faster now. But it’s that exhilarated quicken that brings with it adrenaline and mettle and the sturdy belief that you can do anything; it’s all possible because you’re ready, willing to reach to the outstretched hand and grab it and never let go, no matter what tugs at you. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for him to love me and take care of me and never let me go.
Hudson-reader guy is gone, but he left the magazine behind on the seat. I’m going to take that as a sign to do the same damn thing.
CHAPTER 27
The words tumble out the minute we sit down. “Susie, can I tell you the truth?”
“Always.”
“I almost cancelled on you. I picked up the phone twice and dialed all but one digit, both times.”
“Well, I’m glad you went through with it. I wanted to see your face for this,” she says, and refills her goblet with sparkling water.
“That’s what I mean. I didn’t think I could really face you. Jesus, I still don’t think I can. If these tables weren’t so tight, I’d probably bolt before the entrees get here.”
I miss hearing Susie laugh like that. It truly is contagious, all loud and throaty. She looks great, ever calm and pleasant. Her hair is longer, curlier, wilder, and she looks rested and happy. Maybe after a few more months away from Millhause-Steig I’ll be gorgeous and chill too.
“Why are you dreading face time with me so much?” Susie is picking through her salad for every last piece of crisp bacon. She frowns when it’s clear there’s nothing but greens left.
“Because it means facing up to all of it. Looking everything in the eye—it’s not fun. I’m embarrassed. I feel like I disappointed you, betrayed all the confidence and good intentions you held for me. And it makes me sad and I don’t want to cry in front of you . . . or into this bisque.”
“Honey, I’m not any of those things. I don’t think any of that shit about you. So you made some choices. That’s what we do. We make choices. Everything comes down to that. How many of these people sitting in here right now haven’t made a choice between doing the ambitious, slightly dangerous thing and sitting on the couch watching someone else do it instead? You went for a story—a good fuckin’ story—because you believed in it. You took action and actions have reactions. So we deal with those too, as they come.”
“But getting axed like that . . . You didn’t see the way JK looked at me. The waters are so muddy now. And you vouched me.”
“Oh, please. Kessler will get over it. Many have done much worse and they’re still in her good books. Etched in there, actually. Trust me, you have nothing to fee
l bad about. You need to get over it. You took one or two missteps, Best. Minor ones. But now you know better. Now you’re moving forward and you know better.”
She’s so certain I want to believe her. I want to believe it’s that easy and that truly falling from grace in this town is nearly impossible. I want to imagine looking back on this whole thing as a speck, the slimmest slice of what mattered. But that’s not where my brain is, and I don’t know when I’ll get there. Even when I unplug the speakers in my head blaring all the vile things I have to say about myself, and it’s supposed to be quiet, I can hear the echoes, the whispering telling me—assuring me—that I will not bounce back. This moment will count. It matters. People will remember.
Looking at her across from me, painted several coats thick in her brightest expectations, I don’t know how to just dismiss her and all her wishful thinking.
The waiter arrives with our steaming dishes and warns me, with bulging eyes and panicky drama, that my plate is extremely hot and I Must. Not. Touch. It. Susie and I trade eye rolls as he leaves, but I hope he comes back a few times. I’m not clear where this convo is going, and who doesn’t appreciate a little wacky-waiter skit to help keep things light?
“Did you read it? I mean, did you read what I sent?”
“Oh, I read it. I read it when you sent it to me right then. Woke up in the middle of the night to read it again. I also read the mag versions. Hudson, of course did the better turn, but Kessler and her people did a good job too. Some of the pictures were . . . well, you know what speaks to the James gal.”
“I feel like an asshole even asking this, but is my byline—”
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