The Meltdown

by L. Divine

  I might as well get something to drink while I’m here. I open the stainless-steel mega refrigerator, eyeing the collection of cold beverages lining the door. At Mama’s house, they only have family-sized containers of milk and Sunny Delight. I can buy whatever groceries I can afford at my mom’s house, and so far other than water, Kool-Aid is my best friend. But at Chance’s crib, there are single servings of the good stuff: cranberry juice, ginger ale, and raspberry lemonade—my favorite.

  “Jayd. It’s always a pleasure to see you, love,” Mrs. Carmichael says, entering the massive Spanish-style kitchen and scaring the hell out of me. I thought Chance’s parents weren’t home. His mom must’ve snuck in on the sly.

  “Hello, Mrs. Carmichael,” I say, returning the hug she’s got me engulfed in. I claim my drink and close the door. Mrs. Carmichael’s been trying to get me back in her home ever since we had dinner a couple of months ago, when she let it be known that she knew all about my gift of sight.

  “Oh, please, stop with all that ‘Mrs. Carmichael’ stuff. Just, call me Lindsay.”

  “I can’t do that without feeling like I’m disrespecting my elders,” I say, swallowing the cool lemonade. I needed that.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Jayd. It’s rare to meet a girl with Southern manners. I like that,” Mrs. Carmichael says, obviously still hopeful that her son and I will take our friendship to the next level, but that’ll never happen. Like Nigel, Chance and I are the best of friends for life—nothing more. Why can’t she and Nellie both get that through their thick skulls? The kitchen phone rings, interrupting our chat and allowing me to make my escape. All I wanted was something to drink, not a full-blown conversation.

  “Yes, this is the home of Lindsay and David Carmichael,” Mrs. Carmichael says, looking concerned at the voice on the other end of the receiver. She reaches her hand out, holding on to my wrist, momentarily preventing my disappearing act. Damn, she’s quick. Mrs. Carmichael finishes her conversation and returns the phone to its wall charger, looking shocked.

  “That was Chance’s grandfather,” she says, releasing her hold on me. “He wants Chance to spend the summer with him in Atlanta, and apparently Chance already accepted his invitation without ever mentioning it to me.” Mrs. Car-michael looks like she’s going to pass out she’s so disturbed by the news. “He just wanted to clear it with me first and to have Chance call him back to make the final arrangements.”

  I know part of her wants to forget to give her son the message, but she can’t risk violating Chance’s trust again. “That’s not so bad, is it?” I ask, unable to walk away from a suffering person no matter how bad I want to go back to the den and hang with my friends. Why do I always get caught up in other folks’ drama?

  “You don’t understand, Jayd,” Mrs. Carmichael yells, now showing her true drunken colors. I can smell the expensive liquor all over her. “I’m losing my son. He’s already calling himself Chase instead of the befitting name I gave him, and now he’s going to spend the summer in Atlanta instead of traveling with me like he usually does. What am I going to do without my baby?” She breaks down in ugly sobs, holding her chest like her heart’s going to fall out if she lets go. I can’t take this for too much longer without spiritually intervening on one of my best friend’s behalf. Helping Chance’s mother is also helping him, and she’s begging for my assistance.

  “Mrs. Carmichael, Chance isn’t a baby anymore,” I say, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, trying my best to comfort her. “He’s almost a grown man.”

  “I know that, Jayd,” she says, taking a paper towel from the stand on the marble counter and blowing her nose. “That’s why this time is so important. We don’t have many summers left. And his father’s barely been home since Chance found out about his birth family,” she says angrily. “I’m sure his secretary is more than pleased with our family meltdown.”

  And that’s what I call too much information. I think Mrs. Carmichael would be better off without her arrogant husband, but we’re not homegirls, and I have no right to give anyone relationship advice.

  “I need your help.”

  “What do you think I can do to help your situation? Chance won’t listen to anyone right now because he’s so confused.”

  Mrs. Carmichael’s tears return full force, causing her bloodshot blue eyes to become even more red. She can’t force her son to do anything he doesn’t want to, especially not when it comes to Chance exploring his true identity.

  I look into Mrs. Carmichael’s eyes, wishing I could ease her pain. I can at least cool her mind, hopefully calming her down and allowing her to think clearly about the situation. I jump into Mrs. Carmichael’s mind, feeling the hurt she’s not so quietly bearing. I truly feel sorry for her. I can see her regret for not being able to have her own children, and I wish I could heal her womb, but that’s not why I’m in her head this evening. I can also see her memories of going to Mama back in New Orleans for help getting pregnant, which Mama did assist with successfully. But Mrs. Carmichael lost three babies in one year, and Mr. Carmichael kept her from trying again, forcing her to cease contact with Mama. Eventually, she had to have a full hysterectomy, and that was the end of her trying. She’s always resented her husband for that.

  “Your grandmother was my only hope of salvation, and my husband was the one who destroyed everything,” Mrs. Carmichael murmurs, further explaining the memory we’re sharing. I focus on her eyes, drying her tears and calming her down. With all of this heat, she’s liable to try and kill Mr. Carmichael if he walked through the door within the next two minutes, and I can’t have that on my conscience. Instead of her head becoming cool, mine does. My brain freeze is crippling me like Esmeralda’s eyes do.

  “Oh shit,” I say, rubbing my temples and trying to hold on to the vision for as long as I can. Mrs. Carmichael’s carrying a lot of pain, and I want to help, but not at my own expense. I look down, ending the sorrowful vision quest, but the discomfort in my head doesn’t leave so easily.

  “Hey, Mrs. C,” Jeremy says, coming into the kitchen and causing us both to jump. “Jayd, we’d better get going. It’s getting late and I still have to pack,” Jeremy says, reminding me once again of his impending departure.

  “Okay, baby,” I say, shaking my head clear. I’ve decided to stop fighting the inevitable and enjoy our last night together. And I have to give him the special bracelet I made for him to wear for protection during his travels. It’ll also keep me on his mind and the broads at bay.

  “Jayd, please don’t leave yet. I need a favor from you,” Mrs. Carmichael says, again staring into my tired eyes. I look down, avoiding her look until I can get my own shit under control. It’s been easier to unlock my eyes once I’m inside someone’s mind, but not without some level of uneasiness, always. I wish I could have done the same thing when Mickey was in labor. I’ll never forget sharing that pain as long as I live.

  “Good. You shouldn’t,” my mom says, all up in my business. “It’s the best birth control I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Mom, can I help you?” I say, still avoiding Mrs. Carmichael’s glance. Jeremy looks from Chance’s mom and back to me, wondering what’s really going on. I’ll fill him in later. Right now I have to get out of this uncomfortable space.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, little girl,” my mom says. “She’s made a request, and you have to honor it. You’ve been all up in that lady’s head and that makes her a client.”

  “Are you serious?” I say. I smile at Jeremy and glance at the watch on his arm. It’s already after seven. If we don’t leave soon, we won’t have any time to ourselves. This special spirit session will have to wait.

  “Very serious, Jayd. Had you followed my directions and told Mama about your little souvenir, this wouldn’t be your sacrifice to make. But Mama left you in charge, and I’m here to help you. So, get to it. I don’t have all day.”

  “Jeremy, can you give us a minute?” I say, holding my baby’s hand and rubbing his gray knuckle
s. I didn’t think white folks got ashy like we do, but dry is dry, and my man could use some lotion.

  “Okay. I’ll check the movie times at the dollar theater,” Jeremy says, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing it gently before leaving us ladies alone.

  “Thank you, Jeremy,” Mrs. Carmichael says, smiling for the first time this evening. “Jayd, I wanted to tell you about my history with your family sooner, but I figured you’d eventually see it for yourself and I was right: you did.” Mrs. Carmichael takes my hand, happy I’ve agreed to help. I can feel my mom’s presence focus in my thoughts and then into our client’s head. What am I getting myself into?

  “The business of healing, also known as your destiny,” my mom says, answering my unspoken question. “Now, ask her what she wants.”

  “What is it that I can do for you, Mrs. Carmichael?” I ask while reentering her mind.

  “Slow down, little girl,” my mom says before we lock onto Mrs. Carmichael’s vision. “Pace yourself, Jayd. It’s not a race.”

  Instead of jumping right in, I ease into her mind, careful not to overdo it. I don’t want to repeat the sensation I felt a few minutes ago. Much like drinking a cold drink too fast, a head freeze comes on suddenly and can’t leave quick enough.

  “That’s it. Sense her true desires, urging her to ask for them out loud so that the power of her request is made clear.”

  I think my mom’s enjoying her powers through me. I witness the formation of Mrs. Carmichael’s thoughts unfold like blankets of various tapestries to voice what she wants without her desires hurting her son. If Chance has any doubts about his mother’s true feelings for him, I can reassure him that she couldn’t love him any more if he were her biological child. And that seems to be all she wants from me: to get through to her son in a way that she can’t.

  “Okay, Jayd. You can see what I see,” my mom says. “Now help her hold on to that vision and work it out.”

  “I just want my baby back,” Mrs. Carmichael says, breaking down in convulsive sobs before I let her completely go, inadvertently absorbing some of her sorrow.

  “Babe, we’ve got to get going if we want to make the show,” Jeremy says, again interrupting our session. “Is everything okay?” he asks, noticing Mrs. Carmichael crying like a baby. I could cry, too, but I’m not shedding any more tears today.

  “Yes, I’m fine, thanks to your girlfriend,” Mrs. Carmichael says, hugging me tightly before heading upstairs with a full bottle of wine. Next time I’ll work on cooling her love of liquor. “Thank you again, Jayd. I hope to see you sooner than later. Good night, Jeremy, and tell your mother to call me once you all arrive at the resort. We won’t be able to make it this year.”

  “All right, Mrs. C,” Jeremy says, holding my hand tightly and wondering what the hell just went down. “Let’s say good-bye and get going, Jayd. I’m done sharing you for the night.” I couldn’t agree more.

  On our way down the hill from Palos Verdes to the pier in Manhattan Beach, we dropped Jeremy’s car off at his house around the corner from Chance’s. There’s no need to take two cars, and with the way my man’s been smoking, I feel safer being the designated driver tonight.

  “So which old movie do you want to see? Avatar’s playing,” I say, hoping he’s as anxious as I am to see the science-fiction thriller for the third time. It has such a great following it’ll probably be out forever.

  “That sounds good,” Jeremy says, leading the way toward the ticket counter. “Where’s the polka necklace I bought you?” Jeremy asks, flicking my gold charm again like he’s picking bird crap off my neck.

  “In a safe place,” I say, fingering my neck and recalling the night Rah presented me with the extravagant birthday gift.

  “Even aliens know you’re supposed to remain faithful to one person, and that includes wearing someone else’s jewelry and using the phone they gave you,” Jeremy says, taking a mental inventory of what possessions of mine he provided and which ones Rah purchased. Jeremy knows he’s winning by a landslide, but this male territorial shit is taking its toll on my man. Love makes us all act strange, but I still don’t think I should have to give up my bling to make my man feel better.

  “And you’re right, little girl,” my mom says, again adding her telepathic two cents. She’s on a roll today. When it comes to boyfriend jewelry, my mom’s the expert on proper protocol. “His insecurities are just that—his. And it’s not your job to make Jeremy feel more secure. He has to deal with that mess on his own.”

  “But as his girlfriend, aren’t I partially obligated to compromise something?” I ask, knowing I’m talking to the wrong woman about compromise. My mom doesn’t believe in giving up shit if she doesn’t absolutely have to.

  “Hell no, Jayd. This isn’t compromise. This is sacrifice and you don’t have to give up a damned thing to make him feel better. Trust me, Jayd. If the shoe were on the other foot, best believe Jeremy wouldn’t be giving up a thing. Heed my words, little girl. The minute you start giving in to his wishes is the exact same moment you begin losing yourself.”

  And on that note, my mom’s out and we’re in the movie. I hope Jeremy and I can have the type of relationship where trust is never an issue. After all, he’s the one leaving me. I’m the one stuck here with the same people and all the madness thereof. If we can’t have faith in each other, then we have nothing. I for one believe Jeremy and I have something special no matter the distance between us. I just hope he feels the same way.

  It was a bittersweet night, but Jeremy and I managed to finally let go of each other for the next few weeks. He called early this morning to say good-bye again. Our date didn’t end until almost two, and he woke me up at seven, which wasn’t a bad thing. Luckily I had clients booked back-to-back today, starting with my neighbor Shawntrese, to keep me distracted from the pain I’m already experiencing from Jeremy’s absence.

  Jeremy and I made out for as long as we could before finally catching a few hours of sleep. I hate that I have to spend the first several weeks of the summer break without my man. That’s just wrong. It even feels weird being at the coffeehouse without him, but I needed a break from the norm in order to get some reading done.

  I love summertime even with the writing group starting next week. It’s pleasant because of the nice weather and because I don’t have to go to school every day, and I’m making hella ends braiding hair. I’m grateful to be done early enough for some me time. Since Netta’s sisters like running the shop their way, my services aren’t needed as much, nor do I want to be there without my grandmother and godmother having my back. As instructed, I will make sure all the clients’ orders and boxes are filled as well as my other housekeeping duties, which can all be performed in small doses, leaving me more time to chill and study until Netta and Mama return.

  So far, I’m loving my summer reading collection. The first book on my school list is by some white lady writing about black women in the South and a little white girl with bees in her wall. I hope it’s worth the read. We have a new title each week and have to write a three-to-five-page paper on whatever pops into our heads. It’s similar to English class minus the exams. I’m looking forward to sharpening my writing skills. And with Alia, Charlotte, and the other usual AP suspects in attendance, I’m sure there’ll be some healthy debate to keep it interesting.

  With my green tea in hand, I find a spot next to one of the only black girls in the chill space, forcing her to move all the shit she’s got spread across the small corner table we have to share. Her laptop cord is spread across the empty oversized chair, and she’s forced to move that, too, much to her dislike. Too bad. If she wanted to spread out in the living room, she should’ve stayed her ass at home. Finally seated, I settle in for some good reading time, but not before her cell rings, disturbing the serene energy throughout the quaint space.

  “Hello,” she says loudly into her phone.

  It might as well be on speaker as loud as both she and her mother are talking. I can hear their c
onversation, and it’s ruining my concentration. Black people, I tell you.

  I roll my eyes at my neighbor, hoping she gets the message without me having to say anything directly to her. When two sistahs go at it in public, it’s anything but pretty, and I’m really not in the mood to give these white folks in here the pleasure of showing my ass. They would be all too happy to witness what they already think they know about black people going down right in front of them. I’m sure they thought by putting the coffeehouse in the middle of West LA, no black people would frequent the spot, but there are a few of us willing to drive a few miles out of our comfort zones for some peace and a good cup of fancy caffeine. I would have gone to one of the spots Jeremy and I frequent by the beach, but I have to stay out this way to be at Rah’s in a little while and need to conserve all the gas I can.

  I’m still wondering why I agreed to attend Westingle’s grad night with Nigel and Rah. It’s not my school, nor do I have any friends who go there outside of my boys. And with the way I’ve been feeling lately, the last place I want to be if I have another mental meltdown is around a bunch of bougie-ass folks. I’m liable to go off if Nigel’s and Rah’s ex-girlfriends say a word to me. Tasha and Trish roll deep like me and my girls usually do: Where there’s one, the other isn’t far behind. Maybe I can feign illness or something to get out of it. It won’t be too much of a lie since just the thought of those heffas makes me sick to my stomach, but I’m trying to be sweeter these days no matter how difficult it may be. Unfortunately, this chick next to me is really testing my patience.

  “Mama, please. I’m just chilling at the coffeehouse, ain’t doing shit,” the girl says, louder than ever.

  The other patrons eye her, afraid to say something, but I’m not. I’ve had it with being an unwilling witness to her public conversation.

  “Excuse me,” I say, interrupting her in midsentence. “Would you mind toning it down a bit? I’m trying to read.”