by Meta Smith
“Bentley! Come on bro. Let’s get out of here,” Sparks said, jostling his drunken brother. Bentley grumbled and farted, then threw up on the car- pet in front of him.
“I’m not cleaning that up,” Lisette said. “And I don’t mean to be a bitch but I don’t have time for your family reunion. I’ve got to get home to my kid.”
“I’m so sorry, Lisette,” Sparks said, handing Lisette a handful of hun- dred dollar bills. “I really appreciate your discretion. I’ve got it from here.” “Speaking of discretion, look, I’m gonna keep it real. I can’t promise you that his discretion is assured tonight. We’ve got security cameras all over the VIP. He was in here with Ivory and she’s a real hustler. Anything for the right price, you feel me? And your brother’s pockets are empty. Ain’t no telling what they did in here, but whatever it was, it’s on camera, and you don’t want that footage to get into the wrong hands,” Lisette re-
vealed.
“Shit,” Sparks grumbled.
“Go holler at the owner. I’m sure he’s willing to work with you,” Li-
sette said. “He lives for shit like this.” “Thanks Lisette,” Sparks said.
“Goodnight Sparks,” Lisette said. “Oh yeah, and another thing.” “What’s that?”
“Try and keep him out of here okay? I can’t promise that I’ll always be able to look out for him and I know for a fact multiple people, male and female, are plotting on him. It’s best that he stay out the club, you know?” Sparks nodded. He reluctantly left Bentley in the puddle of his own sick and went to confront the manager. $10,000 later Sparks had the secu- rity camera video of Bentley getting sucked and fucked in every way imag- inable by Ivory, plus footage of him snorting coke, popping pills, drinking and smoking weed and getting sick. Sparks immediately destroyed the tape. Then he took his brother home. If he was lucky he’d catch an hour or
two of sleep before business called. The methodic beep of the machines that monitored Dez’s heartrate and pulse was drowned out by the sound of soft gospel music. Next to the machinery, in a bed swathed with silk sheets lay Desiree Mirabella Torres Jackson, otherwise known by her stage name Dez. Dez had been in a coma for nearly a month with little change after being shot by a sniper’s bullet in LA. Her initial prognosis after the shooting had been hopeful, but as the days went by the doctor’s predictions began to grow bleaker.
Once her condition had stablilized, Dez had been airlifted to Miami and housed in an upscale rehab center where she now laid, receiving the best in around-the-clock medical care. Due to Dez’s immense fame, the lo- cation had become public, but she had guards stationed 24/7 to safeguard her privacy, courtesy of her label, Titanium Records.
A woman with a close cropped pixie cut and no make-up fiddled with the curtains that draped the windows of the rehabilitation center until the perfect amount of light filtered into the room. The woman’s look was a far cry from the over-the-top weave and beat face that she used to wear when she and Desiree were strippers at some of Miami’s raunchiest clubs. The woman, Ginger, was Dez’s best friend who unbeknownst to her, had taken Desiree in when she was just a teenager and had schooled her in the ways of exploiting rich and famous men for cash and status. Ginger had since become a born again Christian and evangelist, and was engaged to be married, her lascivious days as Miami’s hottest stripper long behind her.
Ginger looked over at Dez who seemed to glow beneath the rays of
the golden hour sun that beamed across her bed. Even though she’s un- conscious, Dez is still as beautiful as ever, Ginger thought.
Ginger visited Dez every day, talking to her, massaging her, doing her hair and nails, praying for her. She had the utmost faith that Dez would wake up. All she needed was the right pull to release her from the grips of the coma. She’d tried everything she could think of, from music to conver- sation to a prayer circle who anointed Dez with oil and laid hands on her for 7 hours non-stop. None of it worked. But that didn’t dim Ginger’s hope that her friend would overcome this obstacle.
Dez’s condition hadn’t deteriorated, but there had been no signs of improvement either. But none of that deterred Ginger from believing that Dez would come back, bigger than ever. Dez was the type of woman that bent but didn’t break. They had that in common, the two of them. It had been their unspoken bond, both of them rising above tragedy to overcome the odds.
Dez had survived the premature death of her father when she was only 5 years old, her mother’s drug-induced neglect, a brutal rape and an attempt on her life by her stepfather. She’d risen from a foster home to the grimy strip clubs of Miami to the top of the music charts. She’d even survived being shot and the hemorrhaging that occurred after the bullet that hit her lodged in a nerve near her spine.
Like Dez, Ginger had been the victim of sexual abuse that led to a career in the sex industry. But Ginger’s path veered in the opposite direc- tion of her friend’s, away from stardom and toward heavy drug use and an overdose that led to her religious rebirth. It was because of her unwaver- ing faith in Jesus that Ginger knew that Dez was going to pull through. She had to!
Ginger sat by Dez’s bedside and rubbed some lotion on her hands. “Girl you need to wake up and see how good your nails have been
looking lately. No acrylic, no gel, all-natural. And I took your weave out,” Ginger said. “You need your highlights redone in a major way.”
“Damn. I thought for sure that would get you moving,” Ginger said with a chuckle. Her laughter was interrupted by the ringing of the phone at Dez’s bedside.
“Wonder who that could be?” Ginger asked Dez. She’d gotten so much in the habit of talking to her unconscious friend that it didn’t even feel like she was talking to herself anymore.
Ginger answered the phone.
“Ginger, this is Mr. Benson at the reception desk,” a male voice said on the other end.
“Oh hi, Mr. Benson,” Ginger said cheerfully. “Is anything wrong?” “I’m not sure. There’s a man here that wants to see Dez. He’s adamant
that he’s her family,” Mr. Benson said.
“Throw him out” Ginger said harshly into the receiver. Since Dez’s shooting, so many people, mostly journalists but some overzealous fans as well, had pretended to be friends and relatives to gain access to Dez. Gin- ger, who’d been given power of attorney, made it clear that no one outside of her, Bentley and Sparks would have all-access.
“You know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important, but I’ve got a feeling that this isn’t our run-of-the mill reporter or nutjob. He seems to actually know her,” Mr. Benson replied.
“What makes you so sure?” Ginger asked.
“Call it a hunch. My intuition. I think you should check it out,” Mr.
Benson said.
“I’ll be right there,” Ginger said. She’d struck up a friendship with Mr. Benson, who was a retired cop who couldn’t get law enforcement out of his blood. She knew that if he had a hunch it couldn’t be meritless.
Ginger eyed the middle-aged man dressed in a guyabera shirt and pressed linen pants that Benson had detained at the reception desk wari- ly.
“Who are you, sir?” Ginger asked, getting right down to business. She didn’t have time to waste on bullshit. Dez needed her.
“I’m Dez’s godfather,” the man replied. “Who are you?” “My name is Ginger. And I’m all the family Dez has got.”
“I don’t know who you are but I am her family too and I’ve got to see her. My name is David Lopez. Dez was my neighbor. I took care of her. See, I have proof.” David Lopez thrust a semi-faded Polaroid at Ginger. She examined it carefully. There was Dez, young, skinny and tomboyish, sitting at a table playing dominoes with him. She had a mischievous grin plastered on her face, one hand on a domino and the other hand on a glass of sangria that sat next to Mr. Lopez. It was classic Dez. But Ginger still had her doubts. With Photoshop anything was possible.
“We used to live in the same building, Mr. Lopez explained, realizing that
Ginger wasn’t convinced of his identity. “Her mother, she had some issues after Dez’s father died. Drugs. Depression. It was tough on her be- ing alone and so young with a kid to take care of. Some people can handle that kind of thing, others can’t. She took up with a real piece of shit. He—” Mr. Lopez’s voice cracked and his eyes watered. He swallowed hard and continued. “He hurt little Desi. I couldn’t stop him. So help me God, I wish I had just gotten there five minutes sooner,” Mr. Lopez said with tears in
his eyes, his face full of remorse.
Ginger handed him a tissue from the box sitting on top of the recep- tion desk. Mr. Lopez refused and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.
“Mr. Lopez, you don’t have to say any more. I know exactly who you are and I know what you did for her. I know that Dez never told anyone about that time in her life, at least not in great detail. But she told me. She’s been looking for you for a long time,” Ginger explained.
“She has?” Mr. Lopez asked, clearly touched.
“That’s how she got to Miami. She ran away from the foster home and came down here looking for you and your daughter. She never forgot your kindness. I know she considers you family. Of course you can see Dez. I’ll take you to her, Ginger said, placing a comforting hand on top of Mr. Lopez’s. He nodded in gratitude at Ginger.
“Hey, thanks Benson,” Ginger said, nodding toward the security desk. Benson gave a small salute, proud his hunch had turned out to be correct. “Follow me,” Ginger told Mr. Lopez and starting walking down the
corridor toward Dez’s room.
“I still don’t understand. Who are you? Do you work for Dez or some- thing?” Mr. Lopez asked Ginger.
“I’m her big sister,” Ginger explained.
“Carmen didn’t have any other children. Did her father?”
“No. I’m not her real sister. But blood couldn’t make us any closer. When she ran away from the Bronx instead of finding you, she found me instead. I took her in. Eventually she moved on and became a star, but our friendship remained. I’ve been taking care of her ever since the shooting, coming by and spending the day with her, sometimes the night. I talk to her, read to her, let her know that she’s loved and not forgotten. Oh, Mr. Lopez, I really wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstanc- es,” Ginger said.
“I do too. But I’m grateful to know that she hasn’t been alone, that she found a sister like you. How is she doing? The news doesn’t give any de- tails about her condition. My daughter told me she read on the computer that Desiree was here. It was on something called a log.”
Ginger snickered. “You mean a blog, Mr. Lopez.” “Oh yes, that’s it.”
“Well, I keep a tight lid on things. I feel like Dez deserves her privacy as she heals. But now I’m glad that some details got out to the public, oth- erwise you’d have never found her.”
Mr. Lopez nodded.
“Dez isn’t doing too bad. Her condition isn’t getting any worse and she’s been a little responsive lately, but she’s not making the kind of progress that we’re all hoping for. We want her awake and back with us. We’ve tried everything. She’s got the best possible care. Meanwhile I’m hoping God will work a miracle.”
“I feel like he already has. I didn’t think I’d ever see Dez again. I always wondered what happened to her. When she got taken to the foster home, it broke my heart. I wanted to adopt her, to bring her with me here to Florida with my daughter Marisol and give her a good life. I tried but I couldn’t get any information or anything. It was like they treated me like I was some kind of pervert. I would have never hurt her. I loved that little girl,” Mr. Lopez said.
“I know you did, Mr. Lopez. She spoke very highly of you. She ran away from the foster home and came to Miami looking for you and your daughter. She met me instead. She’s had quite a life. I hope she can catch you up herself one day.”
Ginger opened the door to Dez’s room and ushered him inside. Mr. Lopez startled when he saw her hooked up to the machines by her bed- side. He grabbed his chest and choked back a sob.
“Why would someone do this to her? She was such a sweet girl.” “Leilani was a very sick, very jealous woman. Dez’s sudden success
made her snap. She went completely psycho. She just got fixated on Dez and lost it. She hired someone, a trained assassin, to kill Dez. That’s how sick she was! But now, she’s locked up and she’s never getting out,” Gin- ger explained.
Mr. Lopez shook his head.
“Why couldn’t this poor girl ever catch a break? She’s been through so much, losing her father at a young age, having a druggie for a mother and a creep for a stepfather, having to go the foster home. It’s not fair. When my daughter told me she was a star I was so proud of her, so happy. She deserved everything good that came her way. I missed her, and I wanted to see her again, to let her know that there were people from the Bronx who still loved her but I didn’t think I’d ever be able to make contact with her. I was okay with that though; I was happy she’d finally made it big. She was always so smart and talented. I knew she would be successful. She didn’t deserve this.”
“I don’t know why bad things happen Mr. Lopez, but Dez is the luck- iest person that I know. She’s more than lucky, she’s blessed. This is all a part of God’s plan for her life and for all of our lives. We have to trust what he’s doing even when we don’t understand it. But he brought you here,
back into her life, for a reason. Please, spend some time with her. I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Ginger said, walking out the room.
Mr. Lopez approached Dez’s bedside slowly. She looked so different, so grown up, but he could still see the glimmers of innocence in her face as she slept.
“Desi, mamíta, it’s me, Mr. Lopez. I’ve come to pay you a visit. I need you to wake up so you can eat a big bowl of sancocho I’m going to make, just for you. And you can drink all the sangria you want. I know you’re still too young but we won’t tell a soul. And then you can do some of your fancy raps for me. I hope I can bachata to your music. That’s really the only new music I like, but Marisol tells me that you’re very good. You’re Domincan. I know it’s music to dance and party to. Ah and speaking of Mari, you have to see her. She’s as big as a house! But she’s got two babies now and they’re perfect. I’m an abuelo. Can you believe it? A young man like me?”
Mr. Lopez chuckled, grasping Dez’s hand and giving it a light squeeze. “Oh Desi. I’m so happy I found you! I just didn’t want to find you like this. Please, mija, wake up. The world, it needs you. It needs someone strong like you to lead others who are not as strong. It’s your purpose. This is why you have been through so much, I do believe. You’ve got to come back for us and for them, all the people you’re going to help. You were always so helpful, so caring. You could have been like the other kids in the neigh- borhood, disrespectful and rude and fast, but you were different. Because you’re special. And so many people love you and need you.”
Dez’s hand twitched and her eyes fluttered, not quite opening. “Ginger!” Mr. Lopez yelled.
Ginger ran in followed by a nurse.
“She grabbed me! And her eyes, they moved! I think something’s hap- pening!” Mr. Lopez said, excitedly.
Ginger sighed.
“Yeah, that’s been happening lately but it’s involuntary. It’s common in coma patients,” Ginger explained.
Dez’s eyelids fluttered more rapidly, then stopped.
“See what I mean. I’m sorry Mr. Lopez. I should have warned you,” Ginger said.
“Ouch! Mr. Lopez yelped. I don’t think this is involuntary. Ginger, she’s grabbing my hand really hard,” Mr. Lopez said as the beeping on Dez’s heart monitor began to get faster.
The nurse checked the monitor, then put her fingers to Dez’s neck and took her pulse. Ginger and Mr. Lopez leaned over Dez’s bedside, ob-
serving her closely.
Dez’s eyelids fluttered for a few seconds then stopped. Then, they opened fully
and she bolted upright in bed, causing everyone to jump at once. One by one, Mr. Lopez, Ginger and the nurse crept closer to Dez’s bedside, surrounding her.
“Oh God! Dez! Can you hear me?” Ginger asked. Dez blinked, rubbed her eyes and squinted at Ginger.
“Gin?” Dez asked.
“Gracias a dios! Desiree! Desi! It’s me, Mr. Lopez!” Mr. Lopez yelled excitedly, crossing himself and kissing a cross that dangled from a thin gold rope chain around his neck.
“Mr. Lopez? It can’t be you. It can’t be! Is it really you? Am I dream- ing?” Dez asked, her catlike eyes filling with tears. Mr. Lopez scooped Desi in his arms and held her tight, rocking her back and forth as she sobbed against his chest.
“I thought you’d forgotten about me,” Dez said, looking up at him. “Never in a million years, mija. Nunca,” he said.