Disappearing Acts

by Terry McMillan

  * * *

  I thought I heard a loud thud.

  I turned over to put my arms around Zora, but she wasn’t there. Then I heard shit falling, and I sat up and opened my eyes. She was on the damn floor, jerking and carrying on, like she couldn’t help it. “What the fuck is going on?” I asked, but when she didn’t answer me, I jumped up to see if maybe she was just having a bad dream.

  But this wasn’t no damn dream. I went to grab her but couldn’t hold her still. She was stronger than me. What the fuck is going on? “Zora! Zora!” But now she was drooling, and her body was flipping back and forth like a fish that just been caught. I didn’t wanna step on her, and I didn’t want her to hurt herself, so I started pushing some of this shit out the way—these goddamn plants and the dresser. When I turned around, this time I mustered up every drop of strength I had and tried to pin her hands and arms to the floor. Then she just collapsed—stopped moving altogether—and I felt her body go limp. “Zora?” But she didn’t make a sound. Her eyes was closed, and I shook her real hard, when it occurred to me that maybe that was a stupid thing to do. Then she started breathing real hard, and that’s when I saw the blood on the floor. I let go of her arms, and she curled up like a snail. “Zora baby?” But she still didn’t answer me. I searched her whole body, until I saw that the blood was coming from her fingers. My poor baby. I picked her up and put her in the bed and pulled the covers up over her. Then I ran to the bathroom and got a cold, wet washcloth. “Zora?” But she was still out cold. I put my hand on her heart to make sure she was still alive. Shit, I was scared. I didn’t want nothing to happen to my baby. Nothing. When I felt her heart beating, I ain’t never felt so relieved in my life. I wiped the sweat from her face and cleaned off her mouth. Then I threw the rag on the floor and sat there just looking at her, waiting for something to happen. Just when I had decided to call a ambulance, she moved. “Zora? Baby?” But her eyes still didn’t open. I pulled her body up against mine anyway, and put my arms around her and squeezed that woman so tight I had to loosen my hold so she could get some air. I started rocking her and couldn’t stop—I mean, I really couldn’t stop. The next thing I knew, the sun was coming up, and I was still rocking. Finally, I felt her head, and her temperature felt normal. I laid her back down and put my arms around her. “It’s okay, baby,” I said, and kissed all two hundred of them braids on her head, and kept rocking. “Don’t worry, baby,” I whispered in her ear. “Whatever this is, Daddy’s here.”

  11

  I didn’t want to wake up.

  I was aching all over and afraid to move. I know I hit the floor last night, but that’s all I remember. I wanted to move my hand to see if Franklin was still there, but I was afraid to do that too. What if he wasn’t? I scared him to death, I just know it. If I hadn’t drunk that disgusting scotch, this probably never would’ve happened. But since I hadn’t been on any medication, I figured one little drink wouldn’t hurt. Now I know that shit doesn’t make a bit of difference. And just when I thought they were gone. It’s been four whole years. Shit. And I blew it because of a few ounces of damn scotch? How stupid can I be?

  I decided to take my chances. So I slid my left hand across the sheet, and sure enough, it was cold and empty. I should’ve told you a long time ago, Franklin. It never would’ve gotten to this point. If you knew how I felt right now—the way a light-skinned person who’s been passing for years and has finally been found out might feel: exposed, and terrified of what I stand to lose. I can’t even lie my way out of this.

  “How you feeling this morning?” he asked.

  My heart started thumping so hard it hurt. I looked up anyway, and Franklin was standing over me in front of the bed. His eyes were bloodshot, which meant he’d probably been up all night, worrying about me. I swear, I wanted to fly over his head and out of the room—or just disappear altogether. I didn’t know what to say, really, but he was waiting for a response, and I had to give him one. “Fine,” I mumbled.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, and I had to scoot over to make room. My fingers were sore and swollen, but I felt like sticking ’em in my mouth and chewing.

  “How long this been going on, Zora?”

  I bit my lip until it stung. “It started when I was twelve.”

  “So why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Why do you think, Franklin?” Tears started forming in my eyes, and I couldn’t stop ’em.

  “Look, baby,” he said, and started wiping my face dry with a corner of the sheet. “In the beginning, I told you about all my bullshit, and I asked if you was holding any cards under the table, and what did you say?”

  “I said no.” My voice cracked between the n and the o.

  “Don’t cry, baby. It ain’t that bad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Why couldn’t you just tell me the truth?”

  “Because. A lot of people act differently toward you once they know.”

  “We ain’t talking about ‘a lot of people’ here.”

  “Okay. So I was afraid I might lose you if I told you so soon.”

  “You mean you didn’t think I cared about you enough to be able to handle this?”

  “At the time, I wasn’t sure, Franklin.” I looked up at him. His eyes were a warm black. “And I’m not sure how you’re taking it now.”

  “Well, let me put it this way: Where am I?”

  “Sitting on the bed next to me.”

  “Then that should tell you something, baby. You had me scared to death, and if I’da known what the deal was, I’da known exactly what to do. Besides,” he said, and started rubbing his hands up and down my braids, “there’s a whole lotta worse things that could be wrong with you.”

  “This is plenty,” I said.

  “All you got is epilepsy, right?”

  “All?”

  “Well, having it ain’t the end of the world, is it?”

  “No,” I said, and hearing him say that meant a lot. Now my damn lip was throbbing. Why’d I have to be so stupid and bite it? And why haven’t I had more faith in you, Franklin? Why have I always assumed that my love for you was much stronger than yours was for me?

  “Tell me something, Zora. Did this have anything to do with you not having the baby?”

  “It had something to do with it.”

  “Plus the fact that we ain’t married, right?”

  “That too.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something. By the time spring get here, I’ma be divorced—and that’s a promise.”

  “You mean you still want to marry me?”

  “Don’t ask such a stupid question. One damn seizure ain’t enough to scare me away, baby. It’ll take a whole lot more than this to get rid of me.”

  I put my hand on his thigh and rubbed it. My fingers didn’t feel all that bad now. One of the things I’ve loved about Franklin from the start is how safe he makes me feel. Protected. I’m not even talking about his job situation. I’m talking about my heart. When he puts his arms around me, if the wind was blowing a hundred miles an hour, I wouldn’t know it. No man has ever made me feel like this. And no man has ever set me on fire when he touches me—not the way he can. One thing I’m sure of—when God made him, He should’ve had him cloned. More women need to feel like this.

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How come you ain’t had no seizures since I been here?”

  “Because they stopped four years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But I also stopped taking my medication.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it didn’t stop the seizures the way neurologists claimed it was supposed to. A lot of people like me don’t take their medication for that very reason. All most of it does is dope you up. Sometimes seizures just stop for no apparent reason. And some of us have learned how to manage ’em without the pills.”

  “So why you think it happened now?”

  “I probably sho
uldn’t have drunk that scotch. I don’t know, really. But I didn’t think a drink would hurt.”

  “Correction. You had two big ones.”

  “Anyway, what probably triggered it was coming down from it. It screws up my metabolism.”

  “You think you should start taking your medicine again?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t it help some?”

  “I was on phenobarbital, Franklin. All it did was make me tired. I never had any energy, and it slurred my speech. You’d swear I was drunk if you saw me on that stuff.”

  “So why’d they put you on the shit if it didn’t stop the seizures and did all this other shit?”

  “Because they don’t really know how to stop seizures; all they do is try to control ’em by prescribing pills. They’ve never found anything wrong with my brain. And if you want to know the truth, I’ve always resented taking those damn things. Every time I took one, it was a constant reminder of what I had. I didn’t need any reminders.”

  “Well, you know better than me. So I take it you won’t be doing no more drinking, then, huh?”

  “No way.”

  “Good.” He bent over and kissed me on my lips. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you too—more than you realize.”

  “I’ma fool—tell me anything,” he said, grinning.

  Seeing his dimples again made me feel even better. I sat up and put my arms around his back and squeezed him as tight as I could. I buried my face against his chest and never wanted to move. He felt so good, so warm, so solid, that I kept inhaling the scent of his body until it filled up my heart.

  “Baby, I can’t breathe!” he yelled.

  “Good,” I said, and pulled him down on top of me.

  “Let me move over,” he said, and rolled off of me. He got under the covers with his clothes still on. “Now come here.” I slid over to him until I fit inside the mold he always creates that prevents even air from coming between us. He wrapped his arms around me and held me until my body felt soft. I felt like a woman. I lay there, feeling his heartbeat against my spine. He was warmer than a good sleeping bag. He didn’t try to undress me and didn’t take his clothes off. He just kept caressing me until it not only felt like I didn’t have clothes on, but if I could’ve opened my eyes—or moved, for that matter—I would’ve blown on every single one of those flames.

  * * *

  Franklin was gone when I woke up. I decided to take these damn braids out. With my fingers bandaged, it took nine hours to do it, but my head felt like it was breathing again. I looked wild. My hair had grown about an inch, and was crinkly and sticking straight out.

  “Hey, wild child,” he said, when he walked in. Then he just shook his head. “Couldn’t stand it, huh?”

  “She put ’em in entirely too tight. I was starting to see double.”

  “Well, next time, baby, before you run out and spend all that money, let me braid it.”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you. Just rub it in.”

  “How you feeling?”

  “Fine.” I started walking across the room. I didn’t know if he understood that once you have a seizure, you’re fine afterwards. “Franklin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that, baby?”

  “Please don’t start asking me how I’m feeling all the time, okay?”

  “I just wanna make sure you okay, that’s all.”

  “I know. But I’m not sick. And constantly being asked doesn’t help, you know what I mean?”

  “I get you.”

  “I’m going to the laundromat.”

  “You sure you should be doing that?”

  “Franklin?”

  “I just wanna make sure you all right, baby. Them clothes can wait.”

  “Let me say this and be done with it. You saw how long a seizure lasts, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, afterwards…I hate to use this term, but I’m back to normal. It’s over. Gone. So are all your dirty clothes in the laundry bag?”

  “Did you look under the bed, inside your piano, and in all the closets?”

  “Franklin!”

  He was still laughing when I left. My orange angora sweater was sticking out through the pile. I could see where the fuzz was stuck together from those mashed potatoes. If I had it in me to hate, his mother would be on the top of my list. I’ve just always assumed that people who hurt other people have usually been hurt so badly themselves that all they know how to do is hurt back. I think she’s in pain. But I wasn’t going to bring her or that incident up again. And like Franklin always says, “It’s history now.”

  * * *

  It started snowing. Everywhere you looked it was white. The air was crisp and clean, and Christmas decorations were being put up all over the city. Franklin was moving all of his stuff into the apartment. He didn’t have that much, but what he did have was so masculine, and so ugly, I had a hard time trying to find places for him to put things. That worktable was one of them. He’d put it in the living room, right next to the dining room table, and pushed it up against the wall.

  “Not there,” I said. “Please, not there, Franklin.”

  “Then where?”

  I looked around the room. When you first come in the door, you can’t see around the corner, where there’s a walk-in closet. So I moved a few plants and said, “Here.”

  “What about my tools and all my wood? You got a hiding place for that too?”

  “Franklin, please.”

  We took my summer clothes from that closet and put ’em into boxes, which we sat against the wall in my music room. There was no way this would feel like my sanctuary now. Franklin put everything else in the front closet. Then there was his stereo—which not only was old but didn’t even work. We had to put that in my music room too, since he didn’t want to throw it away and there wasn’t any room left in the closets. The fish tank was pretty and didn’t bother me at all.

  So now it was official. We lived together.

  * * *

  I can’t lie: I’m getting tired. Tired of asking Franklin about jobs that were supposed to come through but didn’t. So now I’ve decided to just wait for him to come home and tell me if he’s working or not. I don’t inquire about how long it’ll last either, because they never seem to last as long as they’re supposed to. For the past two weeks, he’s been up and out the door before five-thirty in the morning. The doors to A Dream Deferred don’t even open until seven, and it’s only a ten-minute bus ride or a twenty-minute walk from here. Franklin walks. Some mornings, the moon is still in the sky when he leaves.

  I’ve heard him searching through the sock bag until he found just the right ones. I’ve watched him pull out all his thermals until he found the color he wanted. Then he’d try on two or three different pairs of work pants. Sometimes he’d wear all three. And shirts. He vacillated. Should he wear the one with the split elbow or the one with the missing button? I watched him think. The decisions seemed so difficult for him to make.

  To keep him company, I’d often stand in the bathroom doorway and watch him dry off after he showered, without saying a word. He shaved in slow motion. The razor grazed his face, and he took such care in trimming his mustache that while I stood there looking at him, naked from head to toe, I’d think, In so many ways he’s perfect. He was so handsome, his long body so black and strong, that sometimes I had to touch him to make sure he was real.

  I’d make him Wheatena, which he loved, and he’d usually eat two bowlfuls before he left. I’d fill his thermos with steaming black coffee, and his lunchbox with three thick sandwiches full of real meat. He never wanted anything sweet.

  By the time I’d get home from school, he’d be sitting on the couch with his wool hat still on, his boots free of mud, sipping his umpteenth cup of coffee and reading the sports section. I could always tell how long he’d been there, because he reads the paper from back to front. Franklin says h
e likes to know the good news first.

  Today, when I walked in, he was doing the same thing. I said hi and he just grunted. I sat down next to him on the couch and put my arms around him.

  “I don’t want no pity from you, baby. So please, spare me the sympathy, would you?”

  I lifted my arm up and put it in my lap. I don’t know when is a good time to touch him anymore. I’m used to hugging him whenever I feel like it, and now it’s turned into a guessing game. I have to keep asking myself, Is it okay to kiss him now? All I’ve been getting is rejection. He doesn’t kiss me when I get home the way he used to, and even in bed, he hugs the wall instead of me. I hate this not being able to talk to each other, but I wanted to cheer him up some kind of way. “Well, why don’t you go to the gym? You always feel better after you work out,” I said.

  “For what? I ain’t done nothing. So what’s the point in working up a sweat?”

  It’s getting to the point now that I don’t know what to say to him. I think he’s dying a little bit every day, but I swear, I don’t know what to do to make him feel better. I’ve tried to let him know that I’ve got faith in him, that I know we’ll get through this—but he doesn’t buy it.

  “Franklin, I think I understand how humiliated you must feel,” I’ve said.

  “You couldn’t possibly understand, baby,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you ain’t a black man.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, but what has often irked me is that he thinks I have absolutely no concept of what he might be feeling. And on the other hand, he seems to think that this problem is his alone. But it’s not. It’s ours.

  He puffed through five or six Newports, while I sat there pretending to be interested in the news. Eventually, he pulled out a pint of rum from under the couch. I got up and edged my way over to the sink to start dinner. A million words and thoughts were running through my mind, but I couldn’t say ’em because I knew he didn’t feel like hearing ’em. I was grateful when the phone rang.

  “Hi, Daddy! Fine. Yep, I got it. Of course it helped. No. I don’t need any more. I want to, Daddy, but we can’t afford it right now. Really? But you’ve already done so much. He’s right here. Just a minute.”