He said, "Please, Kendall. Please, let's try."
I said, "Why…why Sabrina? Why my sister?"
I had to do what I always did when I tortured myself with that memory. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to push all of that to the back of my mind.
But the memory was never far enough away. It stayed close enough to come back. Especially at Christmas when my father summoned me. For this talk.
It was only because I loved and respected him that I came when he called.
Pushing open the car door, I inhaled a deep breath of courage, then trotted up the three steps before I put my key in the front door. Before I turned the lock, I said a quick prayer asking God to make this short because I knew it wasn't going to be sweet.
"Daddy!" I yelled out the moment I stepped inside. "I'm here."
The sound of Michael Jackson's pre-teen voice played through the speakers in the living room.
Santa Claus is coming to town….
I laughed out loud at the song that brought back so many memories. What was going on? I paused right at the door as I took in the sight in front of me with wonder. I'd just been here on Tuesday, but in the four days since we'd had our regular weekly dinner together, my father had turned his home into "Christmas Present."
From the time we were little kids, Dad always tried to get the biggest tree with the brightest lights. But this year, he'd done even more. Besides the six-foot tree that stood in front of the bay window, garland was draped across the four walls of the living room, and he'd even hung red felt stockings on the fireplace exactly the way he used to do when we were kids.
But it was the mistletoe swinging above the entryway between the living room and the kitchen that made me laugh out loud. Who had my dad been kissing? Now, I had a few questions for him, but whatever was going on, I wasn't going to be mad. Whatever it was that was making him fill his house with all of this cheer was all right with me.
"Baby girl? Is that you?"
My father had the kind of voice that I could listen to all night—whether he was talking or singing, it was always melodic. It always made me smile.
But then, I heard the slow, soft shuffles of his slippers sliding along the parquet hallway floor, and my smile faded quickly. He didn't move the way he used to, and the sound made me remember that my father was truly getting older.
When he appeared at the edge of the living room, I tried not to frown. Now, I'd just seen my father on Tuesday, and though I thought he'd lost a little weight then, I could really see it now. It was the way his bathrobe hung from his frame--like it was a size too big. And his shoulders were a little hunched over. That wasn't like him; he always stood so tall, so proud.
But I wasn't going to let him see any of my concern. "Hey, Daddy."
"Baby girl." First in the way he called me that and then in the way he hugged me, I had no doubt that my father truly loved me.
When my arms tightened around him, I could really feel his thinness. How much weight had he lost? And why was I just noticing that? Stepping back from his embrace, I asked, "How you doing, Daddy?"
He smiled, nodded. "I'm good."
"You seem like you've lost a little weight." I did my best to keep my concern out of my voice. "It must be all the working out you've been doing." I chuckled a little just to keep it light. But I really did want to know what was going on.
"Yeah, you know I love that elliptical thing that you got for me. I try to do it every day." He motioned toward the sofa. "Let's sit down."
I followed behind him and tried to do a measurement in my mind. My father was six-three, but right now, he didn't look close to six feet. Was he shrinking?
"I'm thinking maybe you're working out too much," I said. "Maybe you don't need to do it every day. You might need a day of rest."
He shook his head. "I don't have time to slow down, honey," he said as he sat in the chair across from me. "I'm an old man; I gotta do as much as I can right now."
I waved my hand like his words didn't mean anything. "You're not hardly old. Seventy-one is the new fifty-one."
That made him laugh out loud. "Well somebody needs to tell these old bones 'cause they don't know that they're twenty years younger."
"Whatever, you're not old!" I said it like those words were a demand. I wanted him to believe what I was telling him.
"How you doin', baby girl?" he asked, changing the subject. "Business good?"
"Yeah." This was a question that he asked me every time we got together.
And then he said, "Kendall," in that special way that meant that some serious business was about to be discussed. In that moment, I remembered—because I had surely forgotten—why my father had summoned me here.
Remembering now made me tense up, made me press my hands into my lap and try to hide the way my fingers had curled into fists.
"It's almost Christmas," my father said as if that were a news flash. "And then came the punch line. "I want us all to have Christmas dinner together this year."
It was amazing to me that my father's words hadn't changed since 2007. But then, I never changed my word either. "No!" That was it. That was simple. That's the way it was.
It was like my father didn't hear my “No!” He said, "You know how you've had dreams and gone after them your whole life, baby girl?" He stopped, turned and focused his eyes on the photos that crowded the mantel.
My father had just changed up the script, and that made me frown. This wasn't part of our normal talk.
He said, "Well, I have dreams, too," and turned back to face me. "This year, my greatest dream is that we all sit down at the table right there," he paused and pointed to the dining room table behind him, "and have Christmas dinner."
I pressed my lips together. I was really proud of myself; I'd gotten so much better at swallowing the first words that came to my mind—at least with my father. Six years ago, when he had invited me to that first dinner after Anthony and Sabrina's betrayal, I had jumped up and down, wailing the whole time. I shouted, I screamed, and then I stomped out of the house, completely insulted that my father had asked me to break bread with the likes of my sister.
But even though those emotions still rumbled inside of me, I kept my rage to myself.
Make no mistake, though, the years hadn't softened my heart. Every single time my father brought up Christmas, it made me think of the two people that I had once loved the most, but who now topped my enemies list.
But what woman wouldn't feel bad about: One—her sister sleeping with her husband. Two—her husband then leaving her. And three—her husband then marrying her sister.
Not that it had completely happened that way. I mean, Anthony did apologize and beg and apologize some more. He begged me to come back. He kept explaining that it had only happened one time. I kept telling him that one time was my threshold.
"I really want this," my father pushed through my thoughts. "We're a family, Kendall. No matter what. You, me…Sabrina and Anthony."
I exhaled. Their names passed through my mind but never passed through my lips. And it was just as hard to hear them out loud. But my father had just spoken them, and I was still alive. The dagger that I felt in my heart every time I heard my sister's name hadn't twisted and taken my life away from me.
"And," my father kept talking, "of course, you could bring anyone with you that you want."
Now, my father knew that I wasn't seeing a soul. All of my time was invested in my business; that was my life. Plus after what had happened with Anthony…and even what had gone down with my mother and father, a good relationship wasn't part of my DNA.
I shook my head, and though I smiled, my father got my message.
He released a small sigh. "I know how much you've been hurt, baby girl," he said, going right back to my pain. "I know how awful it was then, and I know the years haven't done much to soften your heart. But it's my dream. My dream…" He left it at that.
On the drive over, I had planned all the words that I was going to say. The same wo
rds that would break his heart all over again. "Daddy, you know, I appreciate and understand everything that you're saying…." Then I pushed out my final words on this subject, "But, I'm sorry, you're going to have to give me a little more time."
My dad nodded as if those were exactly the words he expected. "Time," he whispered. "A little more time."
He made me frown again. This was the second time that my dad had deviated from our normal conversation. This was the point in the conversation when he was supposed to tell me that it was time to let it go so that I could heal. He was supposed to remind me how Sabrina and Anthony had tried to do right, and how even after I set our divorce in motion, the two had stayed away from each other. He was supposed to convince me that my sister and my ex-husband had given it a heroic try, but the two really were destined to be together.
But my father didn't say any of those things. Something was different. Something felt wrong.
When he stood and moved to the ottoman right in front of me, I knew for sure that something was up. By the time he reached for my hands, my heart was pounding.
"This is not just about Christmas, baby girl," he said, looking straight into my eyes without even blinking.
"What's going on?"
"I don't want to drag this out, so…" He inhaled as if he needed extra air to keep going. "I want us to have Christmas together because of what you said. Because of time…and I don't know how much time I have left."
That was when the pace of my heart steadied, and I laughed, relieved. For a moment, I thought something was really wrong, but my dad was just being dramatic—though, that was not like him. "Oh, Daddy." I swatted the air like I was shooing his words away. "You're fine. You'll probably outlive me."
He chuckled, though there was more bitter than sweet in the sound. He squeezed my hands, tighter now. "I have lived a mighty good life."
Okay, my heart started pumping again, because now his words, his tone sounded like a eulogy.
"Daddy…"
"Whew! This is harder for me to say than I thought." He looked down, then back up again. "I'm dying, Kendall. The doctors tell me that I don't have long to live."
Between the time my dad's words left his lips and reached my ears, something had happened. Because surely, the words were jumbled. That was the only explanation I had for hearing, “I don't have long to live.”
He couldn't have said that because those words could never be true. There was no way that I could live the rest of my life without my father when I'd already been cheated out of years with my mother.
"Kendall?" my father called me.
I tried to open my mouth to question my dad, ask him what in the heavens was he talking about. But there was something wrong—my lips wouldn't move.
"Baby girl, say something, please!"
I wanted to speak because there were a million questions I wanted to ask and a million assurances that I wanted to give.
And then there was the big thing that I really wanted to say. I wanted to demand that my father not die because I'd never be able to breathe without him.
"Say something," my father told me again.
I wanted to obey him, I really did. But my tongue became thick, and my lips were paralyzed. So I did the only thing that I could do.
I burst into tears. And I cried, while through the speakers, Mary J. Blige sang, And have yourself a merry little Christmas now….
That was my all-time favorite Christmas song by one of my all-time favorite singers. But I would never want to hear that song again. Not ever.
Chapter 3
Asia Ingrum
I leaned back in the massage chair and lifted both of my feet into the air.
“Do you like it, Ms. Asia?”
I shifted my toes to the left, then the right. The gold polish that was sprinkled with glitter made my toenails glisten as if they were covered with diamonds. Oh, this was all the way good; my feet looked like they were worth a hundred thousand dollars—each.
"I love this, Susie," I said to the nail technician who was always on call for me. All I had to do was press her number in my cell and—bam! In ten minutes flat, she'd be there. "Just fab. Perfect for Christmas."
Susie Wu gathered her supplies, rinsed the tools in the sink that I had installed in this room, and then placed them into the sterilization chamber. "Okay," Susie said when she finished, "so I'll see you next week?"
"That's the plan, but I'll call you if I need a change before New Year's Eve."
Susie shoved her purse onto her shoulder. "Well, have a merry Christmas."
"Same to you. Go on downstairs, you can let yourself out," I said. "I'm gonna sit here for a few minutes longer and make sure my toenails are really dry." I leaned back and picked up my iPad that had been resting in my lap. But before Susie was even out of the room, my eyes were closed.
This massage chair was not made for doing anything except chill-laxin', and I snuggled into the leather. It wouldn't take much longer for my toes to dry, but there was no reason for me to get up. I didn't have to rush to go anywhere; this was just another day in my extraordinary life.
I pushed a long sigh through my throat. I couldn't be anything but happy; I was in love with my life. I loved my huge condo, I loved my luxury car, and I loved my bank account balance. Not that any of this had come from working a day in my life—well, at least not working the way other people defined work. I stayed beautiful—that was my job.
"Mom!"
The scream made me sit straight up in my chair. "Dang!" I opened my eyes and looked straight into the eyes of my eleven-year-old daughter. Angel may have been a tween, but she was already five-nine, just an inch shorter than me. She was all limbs, long legs and long arms—that part she'd gotten from her father.
She'd started having these major growth spurts when she was just six, and I have to admit, I was really concerned. I mean, I wasn't worried about her height, but what would she look like with those long legs and arms that looked like they could almost drag along the ground when she walked?
But then, my daughter had this face: the best of me and Bobby. She had my almond-shaped, gray eyes and my full lips, and she had her father's thick eyebrows and dimples that were carved deep into her skin.
When I was a child, I knew I was pretty. I mean, all I had to do was look in the mirror—I'm not being conceited; that's just a fact. But here's another fact: Angel was beyond pretty. She was simply gorgeous. There was no other word to describe her.
And that was not just me talking as her mother. By the time Angel was eight years old, every agency from Elite Model Management to IMG and Ford Models was trying to make contact with Bobby Johnson's daughter. Angel had been thrilled because she'd always wanted to be a model. And an actress. And a dancer. And a singer.
I wasn't so happy about Angel pursuing modeling so young. I mean, what about just being a kid? I didn't have that privilege; I wanted her to have the real childhood that I had never had.
But Angel and Bobby had talked me into it, and Angel had signed with Ford Models. That was my concession. Their concession: Angel would only do occasional print and catalog work. I wasn't about to let my young daughter get too caught up.
“Where is the fire?” I asked her.
“Dad wants to speak to you.” Angel held out her smartphone to me.
Now see, I had been feeling good, having a great day. And now my ex wanted to talk? What did Bobby Johnson want?
Not that Bobby and I didn't have a cordial relationship. I was his baby's mama…and because of that, the former all-star forward for the Los Angeles Lakers made sure that all of my needs were met. So beyond this condo, my BMW, and a bank account that came with a financial planner, I had credit cards with statements that were never mailed to my address. All of that alone made me want to be cordial to the man.
But the truth was, while I had loved him from the tips of my toes at one time, I could never forgive him for making the worst mistake of his life.
Every single moment of that morning
was still etched in my mind. That morning when Bobby had come over to the condo so that we could have a special talk. That special morning, six years ago…
I had been giddy and giggling ever since Bobby called me yesterday saying we had to talk. It had been three weeks since I'd last seen him. Bobby may have just retired, but he was on the road. He'd gone back to his home in Dallas for a week, and then he had meetings all over the country, trying to decide his next move. I'd found out on the news (which pissed me off a little) that he was taking a position with ESPN L.A. But now that his professional future was set, I knew he wanted to take care of the personal side of his life.
So I had already figured out what he wanted to talk to me about—we were finally going to be a family: me, Bobby, and our baby girl.
I couldn't wait to see him; I couldn't wait to talk. And so, I made sure that I had dressed the part: a fire-red bra and thong with a matching silk knit kimono. Just as I slipped into my stiletto mules, I heard the beeps from the alarm indicating that the front door had opened.
As I came down the stairs, Bobby waited for me at the bottom, and even though we had been together for ten years, that man still made my heart do that butterfly flutter thang. Everything about that man made me go, "Hmph, hmph, hmph!" From his sculpted chest, to his bowed legs, to the way he held his head, and his lopsided smile. But the best part of him was that face. A face that every camera loved.
"Hey, baby," I whispered, pulling my voice from my throat.
As Bobby's eyes glided over me, I tossed my bone-straight hair over my shoulders and rested my hands on my waist, posing for my man. This was why I worked out; this was why I hardly ate. And this was why I was a perfect size four.
When I thought Bobby'd had his fill, I strutted over and leaned into him. I pressed against him, and I could feel the beat of his heart—and other parts. Then, Bobby did something that he never did…he eased away from me.
That made me chuckle a little. My man wasn't going to waste any time. He wanted to get right to it.
But when Bobby moved toward the living room instead of lifting me and carrying me upstairs to our bedroom, I frowned and followed him.
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