Unrequited

by Tia Sirrah

  "Yeah?"

  "Why didn't she tell me?"

  Aunt Casey tightened her long straight ponytail and adjusted the bracelets on her wrists. "She said she called you last month when she received the diagnosis. But she couldn't bring herself to telling you, because she sensed you were going through something—something dark, and she didn't want to add to your stress."

  "Fuck," I muttered. She called me the day after Fatima had ended things between us. I only half-listened to her before making up an excuse to get off the phone.

  "I know my sister hurt you, and because of it, you two aren't that close. But you're here now. And you two get this time to right all wrongs and get the closure that you need."

  "Closure," I repeated as I looked down at my shoes. "How much time are they giving her?"

  Aunt Casey's face immediately reddened, and her gray eyes brimmed with unshed tears. "One month. Maybe two."

  I pulled Aunt Casey into a hug as she started to cry. "It'll be okay," I lied. Resting my chin atop of her head, I held her tightly as her shoulders shook from her cries.

  ∞∞∞

  I STOOD AT THE threshold of the double French doors, completely immobile, staring at my mother, as she stared out at the ocean. Swaddled in blankets, she sat out on her balcony in a reclined chair.

  "Are you going to stand there and gawk, or are you going to come over here and give your mama a kiss?" She asked over her shoulder.

  I could do this. I could be strong for her. I had to. I could fall apart later, but not in her presence. "Hey, mom." I walked over to her and knelt beside her. "I got here as soon as I could."

  Her skin was ghastly pale, and her body looked almost skeletal underneath the thin blankets. She wore a silk scarf around her head, and around her neck, she wore the strand of pearls I'd gifted her nearly ten years ago. Despite her fragile appearance, her gray eyes were still clear and bright, and her hands were warm when they clasped mine, reassuring me that we still had time. How much time? I had no idea. But I wasn't leaving her. And I was going to do everything in my power to ensure that she didn't leave me. Not yet. Please, God. Not yet.

  "If it took me getting sick for you to call me 'mom' and not 'mother' I'd say this cancer sentence has its perks."

  I found nothing humorous in her statement. "That's not funny," I said, shaking my head. "Seriously, mom. Your joke sucks."

  "I'm still getting the hang of cancer humor."

  "Keep working at it," I said, before kissing the backs of her hands.

  "Cut me some slack. I was never the funny one. That was always your Aunt Casey," she said, with a reminiscent smile on her face. "That little sister of mine has always been a handful and has had a wicked sense of humor ever since we were kids. Daddy used to say she was the reason he turned gray before his time," she laughed before starting to cough. The coughing didn't cease but only seemed to exacerbate, causing me to frantically reach for the box of Kleenex on the floor and hold a tissue up to her mouth. After a few more excruciating seconds, her coughing spell died down, and she shooed my hand away. "I'm sorry, Dear Heart, that I didn't tell you sooner. I just thought I had more time," she rasped.

  "It's okay. I'm here now, and I'm not leaving you." I lay my head in her lap and let her run her delicate fingers through my hair.

  I'd always been too busy for her. I now regretted every missed vacation. Every rushed phone call. Every text that I sent her when I should have called. "Mom, I’m sorry."

  "That's my line." I heard the smile in her voice.

  "You don't owe me an apology."

  "I owe you so much more than that, Dear Heart." Her voice was now unsteady and clogged with tears.

  "Mom, please don't cry." I lifted my head from her lap and reached out to wipe her teardrops with my hands. "I love you. You know that."

  "I know."

  "And I forgive you." And I honestly did. Even though I didn't agree with her decision to send me away when I was a boy, I understood it. When my father left us, it nearly shattered her. I now knew first hand what it felt like to lose the one person you thought you were put on this earth to love and to be loved by.

  Over the years, my mother tried to make up for lost time. But when she finally came around, I had already built a fortress around my heart, guarding it against ever being hurt like that again.

  "I love you, Dear Heart."

  "I love you, too, mom." This time she wiped the tears from my eyes.

  "Save your tears, son. I'm not dead yet."

  I bowed my head in her lap and shut my eyes. Dead. Yet. Those words uttered from her lips made me sick with dread.

  She cradled my chin between her frail fingers and lifted my head to meet her gaze. "Come sit with me. You have fifteen minutes to ask me all the questions you want regarding my prognosis. But after that, I just want to sit here with you and watch the sunset."

  I let out a heavy sigh. "Deal," I said as I rose from my knees and took the seat beside her. For the next fifteen minutes, she patiently answered the many questions I had regarding her prognosis, and explained to me, in detail, her final wishes and the reason for her refusal of treatment. In the morning, I planned to meet with her hospice nurses and doctors. I would take a leave of absence from my firm and transfer my current caseload to the other partners.

  No matter my mother's mistakes, no matter my mistakes, Aunt Casey was right. I was here now. And I vowed to make the most of the time we had left.

  Chapter 33

  FATIMA

  I WATCHED FROM THE sofa, the people I loved and the people they loved, all dancing, laughing, eating, and mingling. Thanksgiving for the McKays and the Dumonts was a grand affair. Distant relatives, grandparents, play cousins, real cousins, and a bunch of kids I didn't know, filled every square inch of Aunt Helena and Uncle Norris's kitchen, dining room, family room, and rooftop deck. The smell of candied yams, fried turkey, ham, fried fish, jambalaya, oxtails, fried okra, collard greens, green beans, cornbread dressing, fruit salad, green salad, and a table full of deserts and libations made an intoxicating aroma that traveled throughout the house and down the block.

  Although the location alternated every year between my dad's house and this one, the tradition remained the same. First, hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, while the women added the finishing touches on food, and Uncle Norris fried the turkey. The kids were sent upstairs to the loft. The adults mingled in the family room. And the fellas usually gathered in the man-den to watch football. Once dinner was ready, which was generally about an hour past schedule, we would all congregate in the dining room, where additional tables and chairs were placed to accommodate everyone. After dinner and dessert, there was dancing. The stuck up pretenses that most of my family held would slowly disappear as the alcohol flowed and the sun went down. It would start out as a full family affair, where young and old alike would shimmy down soul train lines, do the electric slide, and the cupid shuffle. Then the youngins, as Grandma Ester called them, would retire back to the den, and the adults would crank up the rhythm and blues albums and groove the night away.

  This is where I found myself at the end of the night. Sitting in the corner of the family room, watching couples cuddle on sofas, or slow dance under the low lights, to love songs that made my soul cry. Novalee, who looked like she was about to pop, sat beside Conner, who spoon-fed her ambrosia salad while sneaking kisses and whispering things in her ear that made her blush bright red. Aunt Helena and Uncle Norris slow danced, along with my dad and his new girlfriend, Tammy, and a few other couples, to Otis Redding's I've Been Loving You Too Long.

  I smiled through the pain as I watched the happy, loving couples. They all seemed to be living their best lives, as they expressed their love unapologetically. Novalee and Conner had gone through hell and back, fought demons, exposed secrets, and faced their fears. Aunt Helena and Uncle Norris had experienced the heartache of three miscarriages and battled with Novalee's crazy ass biological mother for years. My father, who had given up on love after having his heart
crushed by an affair and death, was now dating a co-worker, who was also a widower. Through the good and bad times, they all had each other. And here I was, lonely and broken, longing for the man I walked away from. Like the song said, it felt like I'd loved Quentin all my life. I didn't know how to stop. I didn't want to stop. I refused to stop.

  Excusing myself from the living room, I made my way to the rooftop deck, which was empty, due to the chilly night air and the light sprinkles of rain. Lifting my head to the sky, I closed my eyes and let the cold trickles of rain pepper my face. Visions of Quentin's gorgeous face illuminated behind my eyelids. His full mouth. His warm eyes. His strong jaw. His sun-kissed hair. Fifty-one days without him already felt like a lifetime. And the thought of spending an actual lifetime apart sent a chill down my spine and a sort of hopelessness that chocked my very air. Every tall suit-clad man that I passed in the street reminded me of Quentin. Every time my phone vibrated with a text, I prayed it was from him. But he never called. Not even after I unblocked his number weeks ago. And all those men in their fancy suits were never my Quentin.

  As I stood on the deck with my head tilted back to the sky, I wondered what Quentin was doing at this exact moment. When I casually asked Conner earlier during dinner about Quentin's whereabouts, he told me that Quentin was in Hawaii spending time with his mother. I wondered if he was thinking of me like I was of him. Did he lay in bed at night and think of an alternative reality where we were together? Did memories of us run through his mind like a movie reel? Sitting under the old Douglas Fir tree at camp. Our first kiss. Our blood oath. The first time we had sex. Lying on my roof, looking up at the stars. Sitting cross-legged across from one another on a tabletop. Taking long drives through the country while listening to our favorite songs. Making love in the cargo bed of his truck. Making out until our lips were chapped and swollen.

  Our story—this incredible love story, was just that—it was ours. It didn't belong to my father. Or to his father. Or to my mother. Their fate wasn't our fate. Their sins were not our sins. And although their tragedy bled into our lives, it didn't have to shape our destiny.

  Pulling out my phone, with trembling fingers, I pressed the call button for Quentin's cell. But before the ring sounded in my ear, I disconnected the call and decided to send a text message instead.

  Fatima, 9:35 p.m.

  I'd Still Say Yes

  I stared at my phone for a few moments before pocketing it and heading back inside to join the rest of my family.

  Quentin's text came through three hours later, waking me up from a light slumber.

  Quentin, 12:47 a.m.

  ?

  A smile stretched across my face, and I sat up in bed, hoping he would download the Klymaxx song and listen to it.

  Quentin, 1:05 a.m.

  Your Guardian Angel

  Fatima, 1:06 a.m.

  ?

  I googled Your Guardian Angel by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus and downloaded it immediately to my music app. With my phone to my chest, I lay back in my bed and closed my eyes, letting the melodic sounds seep into me. With every verse of the song, warmth and hope filled my chest, and teardrops pooled at the corners of my eyes.

  Fatima, 1:15 a.m.

  Circle of trust?

  Quentin, 1:17 a.m.

  Circle of trust

  Fatima, 1:17 a.m.

  I miss you. I want us to try again.

  I stared at the phone for ten minutes straight, praying for those tiny dots to swim across my screen. Seconds passed. Minutes passed. After an hour had passed, I clutched the phone to my broken heart and cried myself to sleep.

  Chapter 34

  FATIMA

  I USUALLY LOVED THE sound of rain. It was always calming and therapeutic. But today, and throughout the stormy night before, it only stirred within me a nagging anxiety as the torrential rain beat against the windows of my home. I stared out of my kitchen window at the empty street and the depressing gray sky, which only added to my glumness. Sounds of thunder, whistling wind, and the constant tapping of rain, lulled me into deep contemplation as I sipped on my steaming cup of coffee. I couldn't get Quentin out of my head, which wasn't anything new. But this morning and last night, unlike all other days, my longing was replaced with an indescribable worry.

  Seeking a distraction, I focused my attention on the muted morning news displayed on my television. That's when I saw the headline floating at the bottom of the screen during the weather report. Adeline Belcourt-James dead at 51.

  My coffee cup slipped from my hands and crashed onto the floor. Scalding hot liquid and broken shards of porcelain laid at my bare feet, and I dazedly took a few steps back from the mess. The headline disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and I prayed to God that my mind was playing tricks on me. Reaching for my phone, I promptly googled Adeline Belcourt-James with trembling fingers. The first article that appeared nearly knocked the wind out of me.

  We mourn the loss of American royalty, our very own Adeline Belcourt-James. The beloved granddaughter of President Wescott Belcourt and First Lady Ruth Belcourt stole our hearts with her passion for life and her innate goodness towards humanity. Adeline took her last breath, surrounded by loved ones, after a battle with lung cancer. She leaves to cherish in her memory, her son, Quentin James V, grandmother, First Lady Ruth Belcourt, sister, Casey Striner-Wells, and a host of family and friends who loved her dearly. The Belcourt and James family would like to thank everyone for their prayers and condolences during this difficult time. Services will commence in the coming days.

  Tears blurred my vision as I dropped to my knees and began cleaning up the spilled coffee and broken shards of porcelain. My only thoughts were of Quentin. He was in pain, and I wanted nothing more than to be by his side. But due to the uncertainty of our friendship and non-existent relationship, I struggled in knowing my place. So rather than hopping on a plane, like I wanted to do, I decided to send him a text message.

  Fatima, 9:00 a.m.

  I heard about your mother. I'm so sorry for your loss. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask. Seriously, Q. I'm here for you.

  Quentin, 9:02 a.m.

  Thank you

  I watched as more dots swam across my screen, alerting me to another incoming text from him. But the dots eventually disappeared, and the text never came. I now felt ridiculous for agonizing over something so trivial as to why Quentin didn't respond to my text message two weeks ago on Thanksgiving night. None of that mattered in times like these. What he needed was a friend, and I wanted to shoulder his burdens. No matter how implausible that was.

  The next few days went by in a blur. I sent Quentin a few more text messages throughout the week, offering encouragement and support. Most of my messages went unanswered, and the few he did respond to, were short, gracious, and formal, which only made me worry about him even more, and attributed to many sleepless nights.

  ∞∞∞

  CONNER AND NOVALEE CUT their babymoon vacation short and headed back to town in time for the funeral. They offered me a ride to the service and burial, and I happily obliged. It was a miracle that I was able to keep from crying during the service, especially when Quentin stood at the podium and so eloquently eulogized his mother. But as we drove through the gates of the Holy Grace Catholic Cemetery, I stared somberly out of the car window and let my tears flow.

  "I think I’m going to wait in the car," Novalee said, as soon as Conner parked his black Bentley Bentayaga SUV.

  Conner's brows knitted together in concern as he looked over at his very pregnant fiancee. "What's wrong?"

  I leaned forward from the back seat and placed my hand on her shoulder. "You alright?"

  Novalee waved off our concerns with her hand. "I'm fine. My back is aching something serious right now. It's probably from those uncomfortable wooden pews at the church."

  "Buckle up. Let's go," Conner said, starting the engine.

  "What? No." She put her hand on his wrist. "Where are you going?"

&nb
sp; "To the hospital. Remember what the book said? Backaches can be a sign of labor."

  I sat back in my seat. "Conner's right. We should go get you checked out."

  "No," Novalee said firmly. "Quentin needs you guys. Both of you," she said, turning to look back at me. "You two are going to get out of this car right now. I'll be fine."

  Conner looked back at me through the rearview mirror. I shook my head and mouthed the word 'no.'

  "Fatima," she warned, "I saw that."

  I held my hands up in defense.

  "Please, babe. I'll be fine." Novalee ran her hand along Conner's stubbled jaw. It was truly astounding to see his hard, psycho-like scowl soften with just one touch from Novalee. "If anything happens, I'll send you a text. And the hospital is right up the road."

  Conner sighed heavily and leaned into her touch.

  "Give Quentin my love," she said before kissing him on the lips.

  ∞∞∞

  THE BELCOURT MAUSOLEUM WAS a large concrete structure, designed with imposing columns and elaborate arches. A sea of people dressed in black suits, black dresses, and fancy hats stood nearby, around the flower-laden casket of Adeline Belcourt-James. Conner and I took our places near the back. In crowds like these, it paid to be tall, and I was easily able to see the priest who stood at the head of the closed casket and the family who gathered along the side.

  Like lasers, my eyes immediately focused in on Quentin, who stood beside his brother, Victor, and the Senator. All three men were dressed in black suits and dark shirts, with the same somber expression on their striking faces. The women in his family were seated around the coffin, and Quentin's hands rested on the shoulders of his great grandmother, former First Lady Ruth Belcourt. Sitting beside the First Lady was a stunning young woman, who I assumed was Quentin's Aunt Casey, based on the description he once gave me of her. Standing behind her, next to Quentin, were her two gorgeous husbands, both resting a hand on each of her shoulders.