More to Life

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  I screamed, though no sound came out of me as Eric hit his head on an antique table, then slumped over like he was dead.

  “Eric!” Mama screamed. She found her strength and scrambled from the floor.

  But before she could take more than a few steps, Daddy reached back and backslapped Mama with the same force that he’d used on Eric. “Sit down!” he shouted as he knocked Mama back to the floor.

  “Mommy.”

  Until I heard my sister’s voice, I’d been frozen. But now, I tried to reach out and grab Jada before she sped by me and ran into their bedroom.

  “Mommy,” Jada cried again, “are you all right?” She clutched Mama’s neck.

  “Baby,” Mama cried, trying to push Jada away. “Just go. Go back to your room.” But as she tried to ease Jada away, my sister held on tighter.

  Then Daddy grabbed Jada’s neck. “Get back to your room!” He lifted her into the air.

  Jada screamed, her arms and legs flailed. “Mommy! Mommy!”

  “Shut up!” Daddy struggled to get his belt off with one hand. “I’ll teach your little behind to mind!”

  “Mommy,” Jada screamed louder than I’d ever heard anyone ever scream.

  “Gerald, please,” Mama cried, “you’re hurting our baby.”

  Mama struggled to move, though it seemed her legs were too weak. She stretched her arms toward Jada, and all I could do was cry.

  I couldn’t count the number of times I’d seen Daddy out of control in one of his alcohol-driven rages. But even though I was sixteen and had seen more than Eric and Jada, this was by far the worst. I was so scared. Mama had been beaten so bad, she couldn’t move, Daddy had Jada hanging in the air by her neck . . . and I glanced down at Eric. I wanted to see if my brother was dead; he sure looked like it. But still, I stood, unable to move.

  “Gerald, let her go!”

  My eyes had been on Eric, but when I heard Mama’s voice, I turned to her. She sounded so different, a bit stronger now. My mouth opened wide and my eyes bulged in horror.

  What was Mama doing?

  “Gerald, let her go!” Mama repeated, her voice even a little stronger now. She wavered a bit before she stood, everything on her shaking. Her face was smeared with her blood and tears as she pointed the small black pistol right at Daddy. “Don’t make me shoot you. Put my baby down.”

  Daddy dropped Jada onto the floor like she was a rag doll and then, he threw up his hands before he took a step toward her. “Has everybody in this house lost their minds?”

  “Baby, don’t.” Mama’s brown eyes softened as she pleaded with Daddy. She backed up but kept the gun pointed straight at his chest. “I don’t want to use this. I just want you to go get some sleep.”

  “You pull a gun on me,” he said moving toward her. He sounded as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. “And then you tell me you don’t want to use it?” He only stopped moving when he was standing right in front of her face.

  I cried out again, but like before, nothing came out of me. The screams stayed inside.

  “Go ahead, shoot me.” He laughed as he placed his chest to the gun’s barrel.

  Tears rolled down Mama’s face as she held the gun as firmly as she could. “Just go.”

  Daddy laughed again, but then I breathed when he pivoted and took steps away. He was still chuckling, but my hope was that he would just keep walking, go into the living room, fall down on the sofa, and sleep until morning.

  But then suddenly, he whipped around, knocked the gun out of Mama’s hand, and pushed her to the floor. In a motion that didn’t seem possible since he was so drunk, he grabbed the gun with one hand and Mama’s hair with the other. When he pressed the gun to Mama’s head, I screamed, and this time,

  I heard the sound.

  “Okay, Superwoman, who’s bad now?” He laughed.

  Tears slid down Mama’s cheeks and I watched the man I had loved so much hold my mother’s life in his hands.

  My eyes were riveted on my parents. That was why I didn’t see Jada push herself from the floor. That was why I didn’t have a chance to scream out and stop her. That was why Jada raced toward Mama without anyone really seeing her until it was too late.

  “Noooooooo,” my sister screamed as she threw herself against our parents.

  It felt like a slow split second. That’s how much time passed between Jada’s scream, the sound of the gun, and the splatter of Mama’s blood . . . all over Jada’s face . . .

  “Helllllo! ! !”

  Jada’s voice snapped me from the worst memory of my life.

  “Oh, what? What did you say?” I asked my sister as I blinked myself back to the conversation and struggled not to cry.

  “Where did you go?” Jada asked.

  “Nowhere. I’m right here.” I took slow, deep breaths. It had been years since I’d relived that memory. Years since I had replayed the moment that stole all of our innocence.

  “No, you’re not. I kept calling your name—you didn’t hear me?”

  “Sorry. I was just lost in thought.”

  “Obviously,” Jada replied. “So what in the world is going on? First, you tell me that you’ve stayed in the Dominican Republic, and now you’re drifting away in thought. What’s up with you?”

  “By your questions I guess that Charles didn’t call you.”

  “No.” I heard the frown in her voice. “Why would your husband call me?”

  I sighed. Charles knew that I was close to Jada, so I’d wondered if he’d called her to make sense of what I was doing.

  “Aja, what’s going on?”

  I’d never burdened my sister with any of my problems before. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel comfortable. It was that Jada had suffered so much after that night. So much that she had shut down completely, finding a safe place within her mind to survive. She refused to speak and was getting worse with our aunt, who she’d been sent off to live with. She ended up being institutionalized for a while. There were days when I wondered if my sister would ever recover from being right there when our mother died at our father’s hands, so close that the last of the blood that pumped through our mother’s veins ended up on her.

  But she had found a way out, through a relationship with our father before he died eight years ago. He served thirteen years in prison before being released for good behavior. Thirteen years for our mother’s thirty-eight years of life. I’d hated him for that. But at Charles’s urging, I had made peace with him because he’d saved Jada.

  So there was no way that I ever wanted to do anything that could take Jada away from the happiness that she’d found.

  She said, “Are you going to answer me? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying, though I had little hope, to steer my sister away from this discussion.

  “Aja, this is an international call and I don’t want to spend minutes going back and forth. I can hear it in your voice, so please just tell me what’s going on?”

  Pushing myself from the bed, I sauntered through the room, back to the balcony. When I inhaled, this felt like my own safe place. I closed my eyes and savored the light breeze that grazed my face. “I don’t know,” I said, finally answering my sister with the truth. “I’m just going through some things, feeling kind of down.”

  “During your birthday celebration? This is a happy time.”

  “It should be, right? But I just have had a funk I can’t seem to shake. I’m trying, though. I’m reflecting on some things.” I hesitated before I added, “I don’t think I’m happy.”

  Then I braced myself for Jada’s chastisement, expecting her to tell me my thoughts were crazy, just ridiculous when my life was perfect.

  She said, “Then you need to get to happy.”

  Tears welled in my eyes and I pressed my hand against my heart. “Oh my God, Jada. You’re the first person to say that to me; the first to understand what I’ve been trying to say.”

  “Are you painting? You know that’s freeing
for you.”

  “Not yet, but you know I brought my supplies to the DR,” I said.

  She laughed. “Of course you did. Do you remember how you used to sit up under Mama when she used to paint?”

  That brought the nostalgia back. But this time, it was happy memories.

  “Of course, I remember. I’m surprised that you do,” I said. That’s where I first developed my love of creating on canvas, watching my mother. I could sit at her feet for hours watching her paint. She’d bought me my first watercolor set and set me up on an easel next to hers. By the time Jada came along, Mama and I were painting together. I would start the picture and she would finish it. It was our mommy-and-me time, and I relished every moment of it.

  And then Daddy had lost his job and Mama lost her joy. Daddy would rant about how “painting didn’t pay the bills” and “we couldn’t afford that stupid hobby.” It wasn’t long before Mama abandoned painting altogether. Our once beloved mommy-and-me activity had become just me—and I did it more and more as a way to escape the violence that set up permanent shop in our home.

  “I just remember how utterly crazy you would get whenever anyone interrupted you guys,” Jada said.

  That made me laugh. If you wanted to see me go ballistic, try interrupting my mommy-and-me painting time. “Because once you and Eric came along, I barely got any time with Mama, so I didn’t want the two of you to come intruding,” I said.

  My sister laughed with me, then grew quiet. “In the bad times, you know, with Daddy, you used to say painting freed your mind. That it gave you clarity on the life you wanted to build.”

  I responded with silence. During that time, painting had become therapeutic. That’s when I first decided I was going to have a perfect husband, a perfect life. Completely different from what I had then. That’s what I used to draw.

  “So, maybe you just need to lose yourself in the canvas again and it can bring you some clarity,” Jada added.

  My baby sister understood me. That warmed my heart.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I need to paint.” I thought about being able to freely create without someone interrupting me to do something, find something, or deal with some crisis. That thought made me smile. “Maybe that will help me. I’m trying to figure out why I have this hole in my heart.”

  “Look, there are a couple of things I know. I may have never been married, though Von has some issues with that,” she said, referring to her French boyfriend. “But I know this: We are designed to love and be loved. To love what we do and be able to boldly say we are living our best life. And if you’re not walking in your happiness every day, you need to change the path.”

  Even though tears rolled from my eyes, her words brought a smile to my face. “When did my little sister become so wise?”

  “When she chose to come out of the darkness and live in the light, when she decided life was worth living to the fullest,” she said, causing more tears to fall. “I’m all about being happy. I know we make better decisions in our lives when we’re happy. We’re healthier, we’ll live longer. That’s what I want for you. I want you to search so that you can get to your happy, sissy,” she said. “And the whole time, I’ll not only support you but I’ll be praying for you, too.”

  I was so thankful for my sister and her words. She was right. Now all I had to do was figure out how to get to my happy the way she told me to do.

  Chapter 8

  My eyes fluttered open and after a moment, I stretched, welcoming the new morning. I rolled over, facing the window. I hadn’t closed the curtains last night. My room faced the ocean; no one could see inside. So I’d been awakened by the warmth of the tropical sun and the brightness of the cloudless sky.

  There was nothing but contentment in my sigh. For the first time in a long time, I’d had a peaceful night’s sleep. That wasn’t something that came easy to me.

  Over the years, memories of the night my mother died had eased, but I still had so many restless nights. My mind was always in overdrive on something I needed to do for the kids, Charles, or work. I don’t know if I kept so busy just because that was the life that I’d become accustomed to, or if I was trying to block out the memories.

  “Stop suppressing the memories, Aja. Embrace them and you will heal.”

  That was what the therapist I’d seen right after Anika was born had told me. It was that advice that had helped me forgive my father. Well, that and Jada had begged me, telling me that our father hadn’t been in his right mind that night. At one point, when we were dating, Charles had even convinced me to go visit him in jail. Of course, that visit didn’t go too well. But Jada had been right that once sober, my father had been devastated at what he’d done. Although he spent years in prison, my father tried to make amends with me and Jada. It wasn’t until just before his death that I uttered the words I never thought I would say to him, “I forgive you.”

  That forgiveness had been so freeing for me. I had to thank my sister, but I also owed Charles for that. My husband had encouraged me in what Jada had been begging me to do. Charles was the one who’d taught me the true meaning of forgiveness and had helped me let go of the pain. Now I could only hope my husband would forgive me for what my heart was telling me to do. I hadn’t verbalized it, not even to myself yet. But it was my baby sister’s wisdom that had me thinking—how was I going to get to my happy?

  Pushing myself from the bed, I stretched once again before I stood in front of the window. No matter what I ultimately decided to do, I needed this time and this new day.

  As I showered, then dressed, I couldn’t believe how content I was this morning. Even as I left the room and wandered down to the hotel’s beachside restaurant, even as conflicted as I was, I felt more at peace than I had in a very long time.

  “How many?” the hostess asked me.

  I paused for a moment, wondering if I’d ever spoken the words I was about to say. “Just one.” And then, as if I needed to say it for myself, I added, “I’m eating alone.”

  The hostess raised her eyebrow, but that was the extent of her judgment. Her lips curved back into her smile as she led me to a table that was probably meant to be an intimate setting for two, but I was grateful for one of the only tables that were right along the open side of the restaurant.

  As I sat, I was greeted by the breeze and wondered if it was too early to have one of those fruity drinks with the little umbrellas.

  “Are you going to have the buffet?” the hostess asked.

  “Hmm . . . I think so.”

  She nodded. “Your waiter will be right with you for your drink order, but you can go ahead and help yourself with the buffet.”

  Within minutes, I had a feast in front of me: two waffles, a cheese and spinach omelet, a platter of fruit . . . and a mimosa. As I ate, I bobbed my head to the salsa beat from the music that piped through the speakers. And I smiled. This was a different type of experience, eating alone. Was this a step toward my happy?

  I shimmied my shoulders just a bit, giggled, and then sat up straight when I heard:

  “Well, if it isn’t my dance partner.”

  Turning to my right, I glanced up to see the Marc Anthony look-alike from the other night.

  “Hi,” I said. My surprise turned my lips up into a smile.

  “You’re even more beautiful in the daylight,” he said. “Mind if I sit?” He pointed to the empty chair across from me.

  No! This is my solitude! My first time ever eating alone in a restaurant! But my protests remained in my mind because I didn’t want to be rude. So I said, “Sure, go ahead and have a seat.” Roxie said that was part of my problem. I was always worried about others—even to my own detriment.

  He sat and then as he scooted his chair closer to the table, he extended his hand toward me. “I’m Don Juan.”

  Don Juan? Really? I wasn’t sure if it was his name or the mimosa that made me giggle. “Come on; is that what your mother named you?”

  He grinned as if he’d heard
that question before. “Sí, señorita.” He leaned in closer to me and lowered his voice. “It was also her favorite liquor.”

  I laughed. “Don Juan, I’m Aja.”

  “Ahh, like the continent?”

  “Yes, but spelled with a ‘j.’ ”

  His dark eyes zoned in on mine as the tip of his tongue grazed his bottom lip. “Aja. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Anyone ever told you that you look like a young Whitney Houston?”

  That was a first. I’d heard Diana Ross before, but never Whitney.

  “No, I haven’t heard that one,” I said. “But it’s been a while since anyone said I looked like a young anything.”

  “Ah, we’re only as young as we feel.” Now he shimmied in his seat. “And the way you moved on that dance floor the other night . . .” He laughed. “Where are your friends? Sleeping in?”

  This time, it was the mimosa that made my lips move before my mind could stop me. “Oh, they returned home.” By the time my mind caught up with my mouth, it was too late and I regretted my words. The last thing I needed to do was let some stranger named Don Juan know that I was alone in the Dominican Republic.

  “Ah,” his eyes got wide, “so you decided to stay?”

  “Yes, I . . . I have . . . a . . . friend. Yes, a friend. I have a friend here,” I lied. “So I’ll spend some extra time here . . . with my friend.”

  “Male or female?”

  “What?” I frowned.

  “Is this friend a male or female?”

  “My,” I began, determined not to fall into his trap again. This time, I was going to think about what I was going to say. “Don’t you have a lot of questions?”

  He gave me a one-shoulder shrug. “You don’t get answers if you don’t ask questions.”

  I nodded, impressed with his candor. I thought for a moment, wondering which way I wanted this to go. “It’s a female friend,” I finally told him.

  He flashed a grin that made me wonder if maybe I should have told him the opposite. “Would you like a male friend?”