by Cydney Rax
19
* * *
Dani
There’ve only been two times in my life that I’ve wanted to kill myself. The first was when I was a nineteen-year-old college student. It was a Friday night and I was invited to a frat party. These types of parties went on all the time. We’d see flyers about the event at the University Center on the UH campus. Me and my girls would get dolled up and head out. We danced till it was so hot our clothes fastened to our skin. And we’d gulp beer past one in the morning, then ask around about the after-party. This one time, some guy I never heard of was having a get-together at his home in Third Ward. Since that wasn’t too far from campus, we girls thought, Cool, let’s close down the night by making this one last stop.
It was me, my roommate Samone, and our friend Nikki. Nikki claimed she knew the guy, had been to his place before. We went, partied, and drank till our tongues were silly and satisfied, and I ended up in the arms of a guy I never formally met—a handsome but short, hyperactive dude I’d seen around campus who flirted and called me “cutie.” Hype took me by the hand and led me to the privacy of a darkened room. It felt weird to press my lips against the mouth of someone I barely knew, but the heat was on, so we kept the heat going. I didn’t orgasm, and I don’t know if Hype did or not. The only good thing is that he wore a condom. But the worst thing was to return to campus on Monday and experience hearing a noisy cafeteria grow quiet as a golf course when I entered. All these guys, my classmates, were smiling and giving me knowing looks. It seemed like a hundred pairs of eyes monitored me while I was walking and grasping my tray of food, searching for a seat. When I passed by the table with the guy who saw me naked that weekend, I heard laughter, saw fingers pointing. I blinked several times, wanting to eradicate these heartless fools from my vision, but their stares and judgmental smirks kept hanging around. That’s the first time I’d been called a whore, obviously, and I didn’t enjoy how that felt. I wondered if those loose-tongued people ever stopped to think that I was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s grandchild.
Even though I didn’t own a gun, I wanted to find one, then find the hyper guy with the big mouth, press the steel between his eyes, pull the trigger, and take my pain away. I wanted to torture the man who only cared about me as long as he could hit it and run. Then for him to go tell what happened, as if I fucked myself by myself and he had no part in it at all…or maybe his part didn’t matter as much as mine. I never understood how guys could hound, beg, and promise, then kiss and gleefully, stupidly, loudly tell. These guys make themselves the heroes of sexual conquests, and the woman is the clueless, stained villain.
Unable to see clearly, I got sick of the cafeteria’s laughter and whispers. I abandoned my tray of untouched meat loaf at an empty table. I ran to my dorm and searched around until I was holding a bottle of my roommate’s white pills. I didn’t think about it, I just started popping them. One, two, three, four…I quit when I got to five. I slumped to the floor of the bathroom, leaned my head against the hard wall, with the plastic bottle clutched in my hand—a bottle with the power to terminate my life. Even though at first I yearned to end my life, I hoped my efforts wouldn’t succeed. I figured that if I tried to kill myself because someone said something vicious about me, then I was weak and deserved to die. But I knew better. I knew there was no way I’d let people like that steal my breath away. If I made a mistake, okay, I’ve blown it, but why should I go before my time, before I find out if there’s more to Danielle than the mistakes she’s been proven to make? Fortunately, Samone soon came home. She screamed when she saw me, then made me stick a finger down my throat, and remained by my side until I could pull myself together.
But today, when Neil hangs up on me and I tremble and stomp and scream at the air, and fling a glass against the wall and watch it shatter into dozens of pieces, I’m taken back to that day in college, revisiting the pain, hurt, humiliation, and lowliness tugging against my spirit, the haunting whispers that declared, You are a worthless fool. Today I am tempted to find another bottle of pills, but before that temptation takes root, my inner strength counsels me, “No, don’t do that. His ugly words can’t take your breath away. You’re worth more than what someone else thinks about you, good or bad.” And I listen and I agree…and I listen and I agree. I listen until my heart is persuaded to do something different. I pay attention and say yes to something positive instead of agreeing to beat myself up and take the pathetic way out. I don’t want to live inside the pain anymore, the pain that says I’m not worth the dirt underneath my feet. I tell myself I am worth something. And even if I haven’t any means by which to prove my worth, I know the end of my life will not consist of someone stumbling upon my cold, soulless body sprawled on the apartment floor. No way. No way.
Besides, that would be so unfair to my son. It’s no secret I’m not the best mother in the world, but I’m not the worst, either. I realize I could do much better than what I’ve been doing, but Brax knows me and accepts me the way I am. He knows I’m Mama even if he can’t yet form the word. I can tell by the way he pats, smiles, and strokes my cheeks. And I’m sure of his unconditional love when his toothless grin brightens his face every time I enter a room.
I have to get myself together for the sake of Brax. I want him to know me, to be with me long enough to remember me, to always know he has a place in my genuine but confused heart. I want him to know that even when I mess up big-time, we still have each other, I’m still his mama. So let me shake the fear within, begin again, and do something I should’ve done months ago. It’s something I’ve half-heartedly thought of, but maybe I should try to put my whole heart into it.
Dear Anya Meadows,
Not long ago you asked me to do something for you. To respect you because you planned on respecting me no matter what has happened in the past. I haven’t done a very good job of respecting you, not when I keep having intimate relations with Neil.
I put down the pen and read my words. My hands are shaking and I’m tempted to tear the paper up into tiny bits. I want to burst into tears, but don’t. Confession may be good for the soul, but isn’t it risky for my safety and welfare? Even if you know the right thing to do, what if you’re not quite ready?
I pick up the phone and dial. When Neil picks up, I feel relieved.
“Hi, Neil.”
He pauses. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me anymore?”
“Actually, I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Anya.”
“For what?”
“Neil, could you please give me her cell number?”
“Dani, why are you tripping?” His voice sounds hoarse.
“Give me her number, please, Neil.”
“For what?”
“I–I need to ask her something.”
“Tell you what. I won’t give you her number, but I can call her for you on the three-way.”
“O–okay.” I give in.
“But will you first tell me what you want to ask her?”
“I’d rather not,” I mumble. “It’s hard enough as it is.”
Neil sighs but clicks over to make the call. My hands are sweating so much I have to wipe them on my slacks.
“Dani, I have Anya on the line. Go ahead.”
“Um, hi, Anya. I, uh, I just wanted to say that I am going to make a real effort to do better than I’ve been doing. It’s not my intention to come between you and your family.”
“What? Dani, have you been drinking?”
I hear a smile in her voice, which surprises me and makes me wish I could smile, too.
“No, ma’am. No drinking. No nothing.”
“Well,” she responds, “I’m not sure what this is all about, but I’ll tell you one thing. What you just told me—I’ll believe it when I see it. Good-bye.” The smile in her voice is gone. And she hangs up.
I wait a day, and call Neil again. After some awkward small talk, I ask him, “What’s going on with us? What is our bottom line?”
&nb
sp; When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Then answer a yes or no question for me.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Can we start again, can you give me another chance? Because in my heart I don’t believe you meant what you said; that you don’t want me calling anymore.”
He laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a yes or a no question.”
I laugh, too, and I know his reply is his way of saying he wants to give me another chance.
All drama ascends to a climax just to come to a stop so it can gear back up again. Two weeks later after our drama subsides, my March birthday arrives, on hump day. It’s sun-drenched in Houston, hitting sixty degrees as early as eight in the morning. I go to work and am surprised but pleased to find huge helium-filled balloons dancing outside my doorway. Inside the office, a huge white envelope with my name scribbled on it is leaning against the framed picture of Braxton. Inside is a beautiful card, fifty bucks, and my coworkers’ birthday greetings.
“Don’t make plans for lunch,” a woman tells me when I pass her in the hallway. Other coworkers are friendly while some offer me their customary aloof vibe.
After falling out for a hot minute, Neil and I made up and are on somewhat regular terms. He calls me thirty minutes before lunch.
“How’s your day going, Dani?”
“So far I’ve received three hundred e-mails, and two hundred ninety-five of them were spam. How’s that for being productive?”
“What about projects?”
“If a project includes zapping two dozen pop-ups, I’ve done quite well.”
“Did you do what I advised you to do?”
“Yes, and it hasn’t done any good. My workload has dwindled drastically. Mr. D has been doing this stupid stuff for going on two weeks. What, is he trying to break my spirit or something?”
“Don’t start me to lying,” Neil says. “I thought if you talked to him, he’d work with you, but it sounds like that isn’t the case.”
“Well, what do you expect from a bastard? Bastards sure are good at being bastards.”
He doesn’t say anything, maybe realizing I need to vent.
“Neil, I dunno. It seems like so much is coming at me. My you-know-what test came out negative and that’s great, but I’m still having some feminine-type problems and will be going back to the doctor this afternoon. I get off at three.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the test was negative?”
“Get that smile out of your voice, okay?” I snap at him, then lighten my tone. “I mean, I was relieved, too, but lately if it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m forced to be strong even when I don’t want to.”
“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Someone’s in my office. I gotta go. Let me know how your appointment goes.”
“Right, sure, no problem.” I hang up, eager to see this day come to an end.
The only good thing about today is I know I look hot. I’m wearing a gray-and-black pinstripe suit with a skirt that comes a few inches above my knees. My black patent pumps click with authority every time I walk down the hall. So when a group of us go to lunch at Pappadeaux’s on the South Loop and I drink two margaritas, I don’t feel guilty.
But when I get back to work around one-thirty, I see a pink envelope on my desk.
“He did it, that bastard.” He promised not to let me go after thirty days, but technically it hasn’t even been thirty days.
A minute later I look up and see two uniformed security guards standing in my doorway. They instruct me to pack all my belongings, and they say they’ll accompany me out the building once I’m done. I slowly stash Brax’s photo, a few potted plants, my Rolodex, some books and magazines in a cardboard box that a guard hands me, and twenty minutes later, when I leave work, I know that the fifty bucks I got as a birthday gift will hardly make a dent.
At the doctor’s I am trembling and feeling insecure. I wonder what will happen in the future if Brax or I get sick. Maybe Neil can add Brax to his insurance, but what about me?
I leave the doctor’s in a daze. I don’t remember passing by South Braeswood, or Fannin Street, or any other spot I typically notice when driving home.
As soon as I get there, I pick up the phone. It’s times like these I wish I had a long-distance calling card. But I dial the area code 562 and the remaining seven digits.
“Hey, Mama, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” she says, alarmed.
“Can you call me right back please, here at the apartment?”
“Why can’t we just talk now?”
“Please call me, Ma.”
“Okay, okay, give me a minute.”
I hang up and dab my nose with some tissue. I check the time. Audrey probably took Braxton on an outing, and as soon as she gets here, I’ll have to figure out what to tell her.
I kick off my stupid heels and slide my useless two-hundred-dollar suit off my body. I slump on the couch, my hand clutching the portable.
I let the phone ring twice, even though I want to pick up when it rings once.
“What’s the matter, Dani?”
“Ma, how are things going with you?”
I lay back on the couch wondering if I should speak louder or something. “Ma, did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you. I know you didn’t ask me to call you long distance just to talk about me. So what’s going on?”
“I, uh, I’m so scared…” My voice catches.
“Scared of what? What happened, Dani? You want me to fly down there?”
I sit up. “No, no. Well, not yet, anyway. As of today, I–I’m jobless…I believe I’ll get another gig, but right now I’m trying to absorb the shock.”
“How’d you lose your job? Does it have to do with that guy?” Mama’s voice is filled with disappointment, which makes me feel worse.
“Kinda, sorta.”
“Why haven’t you filed for child support? Much money as he makes, you could be getting a good thousand dollars a month to help take care of that baby.”
“Aww, I just don’t want to do that. Neil is very good to Braxton, and takes good care of him on his own. I don’t want to burden him—”
“This is not about that piece of dick, Dani. This is about you and that baby. Now, what’s done is done, and I hope you aren’t still sleeping with him….”
“Nooo, no way. I’ve wised up.” I cross my fingers, close my eyes briefly.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Just don’t panic, okay? Maybe you can draw unemployment, or you could sign up with a temporary agency.”
“Ewww,” I protest. “Heck no, temping is the worst.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong working contract.”
“They always treat you second rate, like they need your ass to do the job yet you don’t belong. I always feel like a piece of toilet paper, and everyone is about to wipe me against their smelly butt.”
“It’s not that bad. And don’t be worried about how the employees act, not when you got bills to pay.”
“I know, I know. Thanks, Ma. I just want another great job,” I told her, one that I won’t blow the second time around. A good lesson can never be learned until a person goes through hell just to find out what not to do.
“Well, I’m listening real well right now,” I say out loud.
“What you say?”
“Nothing, Ma,” I say, my face turning red. “I just need you to walk me through some things. I believe everything will work out. Hey, I’m a great employee—at least I think I am. I just hate when wrenches are thrown. It takes me a while to bounce back and get focused.”
“Dani, someone’s banging on the door, so let me get off this phone. Call me if you need anything.”
I hang up and wince after hearing her words. I feel rotten burdening my mother with my problems, but at the same time I’m glad I even have a mother to talk to. God knows I need someone to talk to. Need someone to hold my hand. And this time around, Neil just isn’t the perfect fit.
20
* * *
“As you know, I am a Christian, and I believe in God and Jesus and all them, but some things about the Bible just puzzle me. Am I the only person who feels that way?”
Reesy and I are sitting next to Riley and Tamika. It took three non-pressured invitations to convince me to visit Riley’s church. I am enjoying the words of Pastor Solomon, who tends to look out at the congregation like he’s personally talking to you.
“Yep, the Bible is a great book, but have you ever wondered about something? Like, Noah and some of those folks living to be five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred years old.” Pastor Solomon scratches his head. “Now, I’m trying to figure out, when Noah turned five hundred, how’d they fit all those candles on that cake? And where did they find a birthday card that said, ‘Happy Five Hundredth Birthday’? I don’t know about you, but those are just some of the things that I sit around and think about. It’s like, you got me straight tripping, Boo.”
I sit back and relax. Reesy squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. When it’s drop-dead quiet she says, “I like this church, Mommy.” I tell her to hush, but you know what? I am totally feeling what my baby is feeling. I squeeze her hand again.
A couple of days later, Neil is sitting at the dinner table. We’ve eaten baked fish and steamed veggies. He’s reading the newspaper and sipping raspberry tea, a drink I’ll make for him but won’t sip myself because of the odd aftertaste.
“Anything good in there?” I say, and turn my back to load the dishwasher with plates and glasses.
“If ‘good’ means war casualties, corporate heads being exposed for criminal acts, and the price of gas skyrocketing, there’s all kinds of good in the paper.”
“I hear ya,” I reply. I rotate the knob on the faucet and begin rinsing some of the dirtier pots.
“Hey Anya, could you please do something for me?”