The Dawn of Nia

by Lauren Cherelle

  Hell, do I have a choice? In a way, I understand her motive. Pat’s bedroom is the most difficult to clear. She charged me with the toughest area because I knew Pat for the least amount of years. I don’t have the standing to resist. Before parting ways, Caroline instructs us to create three piles: a donation pile, a sister pile, and a stuff-you-want pile.

  I don’t want anything but the artsy, aqua-colored bracelet Pat wore almost daily. She told me the bracelet was “just a habit.” Her understatement amplifies my sadness. In having her bracelet, a part of her will always be with me.

  I search high and low, combing through every drawer, pulling everything from under Pat’s bed. I rest on the floor to admire her hidden treasures. I start with the jewelry box that’s filled with colorful seashells taped to airline stubs, and move to the shoebox stuffed with weathered handwritten letters dated between ’88 and ’90. I read the pages, noticing distinctions in the handwriting among the heartfelt messages and racy poetry from boyfriends. The doodled hearts and flowers in the margins make me think about the conversation Pat and I had a few months back.

  “I was in love once,” Pat said. “I mean real love. Not that desperate shit. I’m talking about transformative love. Love where consequences didn’t exist. The type of love where all voices— except his— fell on deaf ears. His name was James. And girl, I would’ve married him in a heartbeat.”

  She reclined in her wicker chair, her body exhausted from the short walk from the living room to the patio. She slowly sipped the chai tea I prepared for her. Her hands trembled, but she didn’t spill an ounce of it.

  “That was a long time ago,” she added with a smile. “It’s your turn now.”

  “You want me to be in love?” I asked.

  “Not just in love. I want you to know it.”

  I remember looking up at a clouded, crescent moon, trying to make sense of her words. “You mean fall in love?”

  Pat pointed at me. “That’s it! You act like your feet are covered in concrete, but I really want you to experience how good it feels when you’re on the way to knowing love. The falling. I want you to be hit with the moment you know that you will love. ‘I’m in love’ is a destination. I want you to experience all the good stuff that happens before you get there.”

  She gazed over to make sure I was listening. I can still see the pit fire dancing in her eyes. I can still feel the satisfaction in her face slaughtering my spirit. She wanted me to find the love she had once, but I couldn’t care less about my status with Cupid, then or now. Didn’t Pat see that I was heartbroken, or how I could barely look at her face without tears attempting to hijack my eyes? I had to force myself to focus on the ruffled neckline of her nightgown or the aqua bracelet hugging her wrist. Anywhere except her face.

  “That’s easier said than done,” I told her and pulled my blanket tighter.

  “Well…” I’ll never forget the way her breath curled into the chilly night air. “If you won’t do it for yourself, Nia, know love for me.”

  Love? I throw the letters in the shoebox and fight my tears. I’m mad about the loss of her love and madder about the growing donation and sister piles next to me. My stuff-you-want pile is empty. I get off the floor to keep looking and sorting.

  I hope Pat cleared out any unmentionables before her health took a turn for the worse. I can’t bear to run across something phallic or anything that vibrates. It was one thing when we talked about self-pleasure. It’s a whole different animal to see her intimate products in person.

  Eventually, I open the closet door to pull her clothes from the racks and built-in drawers. “Why didn’t you answer my calls, young lady?” Caroline asks. She steps in the closet and inspects my progress.

  “I needed a little time.”

  I ignored calls and texts for two days after the funeral because seclusion was comforting. But now, I need more time. I’m struggling to balance my grief as I remove Pat’s clothes. Certain blouses and pairs of shoes invoke specific moments of happiness with Pat I can never experience again.

  “You know you’re part of this family,” Caroline says.

  Really? I stop myself from saying, “Then why didn’t I know about your niece before the funeral?” I need to handle one emotional load at a time. Plus, I feel betrayed by Pat for not telling me she had a birth child. Everybody else in the family kept her secret, too. As long as I don’t verbalize any resentment, I can keep my feelings at bay. I throw an armful of clothes into a box and listen as Caroline admonishes me.

  “Don’t feel like you can’t come to me or my sisters just ’cause Pat is gone. We care about you. Okay?”

  I shake my head in agreement.

  “I’ll be back with some tape for these boxes,” she says.

  Moments later, I hear footsteps in the hallway, fully expecting Caroline to walk into the bedroom with tape. I turn to the door to see a copycat of her face staring back at me— her daughter, Kayla.

  “What is it?” I ask and snatch clothes from hangers.

  “I’m here to help,” Kayla says.

  “Find another room. The kitchen is free.” I exit the closet to toss more clothes onto a mounting pile on the floor. “Run, skip, jump, or walk away. I don’t care how you leave, just do it.” I don’t have time for Kayla’s antics, mind games, or pleas for my time or sympathy.

  She stalls before leaving with a grin on her excessively made-up face. Now that Kayla’s here, I need to wrap things up.

  I leave the room to retrieve tape for the boxes I’ve packed. Whatever we didn’t complete today can be postponed until tomorrow. I have the entire week off from work anyway. Loca Tres agree that we should call it a day. I help load each sister’s car to capacity. As they pull out of the driveway, I go inside to get my keys from Pat’s bed. Just before I flip the bedroom light off, Kayla steps in the doorway.

  “Can we talk?” she asks.

  I ignore her and proceed to slide by until she crosses the doorframe.

  “You can’t keep avoiding me.”

  “We don’t have any business, so how am I avoiding you?”

  She sighs. “I can’t keep acting like this shit doesn’t hurt, Nia. I lost you because of my choices, but I didn’t choose to lose my aunt. You know how much Pat meant to me.” She drops her head to suppress the pain, but can’t hold back the tears. “The three of us were close. I don’t understand why we can’t push aside our baggage to be here for each other.” She wipes her eyes before pulling her long, wavy extensions into a ponytail. “The least you can do is look at me.”

  Once again, I stand before Kayla under rare circumstances. Her sincerity is so real that I can’t ignore her tears or the compassion I lack for her loss, too. In an effort to be somewhat of a decent ex-lover, I invite her to sit on the bed with me.

  I can’t stand to look Kayla in the eye, but I listen as she talks. She repeats herself a few times. At first, I don’t mind the long-windedness. “I still can’t believe it… Just two weeks ago we were watching TV with Pat and things were fine.”

  “No, they weren’t,” I finally say.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I do. But, I can’t fight the urge to disagree. “Pat was dying. We were counting down the days. Things were not fine.”

  “Are you saying I’m in denial?”

  I blink.

  “We took her to appointments,” she says, gesturing between us. “We brought her home. We cooked and cleaned for her. We made her comfortable in her last days. You and me!”

  “Look, I’m not trying to upset you.”

  “Then don’t say shit like that… like I’m not aware of things.” She drops her head and sobs.

  I feel bad for her tears and my compulsive need to argue with her, so I hug her. I want Kayla to know that I care. As we hold each other her breathing settles. The familiarity of her embrace comforts me. A tiny part of me doesn’t want to let her go.

  “Why don’t we ever hang out?” Kayla asks, holding me close. “I miss you sometimes.”r />
  “Sometimes?” I laugh and release her to guard my vulnerability. “You know I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  She smiles and takes hold of my hand. “I’m serious. I can’t stand your ass, but I care about you… I always will.”

  My eyes creep up to hers. I’ve avoided her deep brown eyes because they’re a gateway. A gateway to our past. Every time I look in her eyes I’m reminded of our intimacy. Her betrayal. But right now, her gentle gaze doesn’t reflect betrayal. I keep telling myself to snatch my eyes and hand away, but I can’t move. Her touch is too soothing. Since Pat’s funeral, I’ve fooled myself into believing that I don’t need anyone to console me; that being alone and tucked in my bed helps me cope with Pat’s death. Kayla attacks every syllable of those lies as she rubs her soft hands up my arms. Although I’m well aware of whose hands now stroke my back, and whose tongue caresses my neck, I don’t stop her.

  I sit still in the midst of an out-of-body experience. I see her lifting my shirt and exposing my skin. I hear the rustle of the comforter beneath our bodies. I watch her sit in my lap and pull her dress above her head. I assumed Pat’s home and family were enough to make me feel regular. But this house and their presence didn’t work. I’ve longed for days to feel normal and bury my distress. Pat’s death ripped me into pieces. Lord knows I want to feel whole again. So all I can do is stare at the dresser as Kayla’s kisses subdue my body and this yearning to feel like myself.

  My mental and physical states reunite once she pushes me onto my back. I’m present now, moaning as she pushes her fingers inside me, filling the emptiness I can’t escape. I didn’t know sex was the only behavior potent enough to elicit a natural high capable of numbing my grief.

  The shame of fucking in Pat’s bed, the disgust of feeling I will never do any better than Kayla, the embarrassment of reneging on the no-bullshit attitude I displayed with her less than an hour before— all were a fusion of emotional masochism in exchange for a transient moment of peace.

  3

  I step off the elevator and proceed down the art-filled hallway in search of Maria, one of the hospital’s mental health professionals. Last fall at a co-worker outing we established a solid rapport. Since then, we’ve become hallway friends. She always encourages her colleague-friends to reach out whenever we need “mind, body, or soul help.”

  I sigh with relief when I run into Maria near the Radiology corridor. We chat before I pull her to the side to ask for an “appointment.” With no area for privacy surrounding us, I turn to the wall as familiar faces walk by.

  “You can stop by anytime today,” she offers.

  During my lunch break, I head to Maria’s office, a space large enough for a small desk, two chairs, and a bottle of water. As soon as she closes her office door, I feel self-conscious about sharing my business with someone outside my core group of friends and family.

  “How can I be helpful?” she asks and sits. A hint of a Puerto Rican accent lingers in her voice.

  I focus on the accent to control my emotions. I want my words to answer before my tears. I inhale deeply to force the crying away. “My… my mentor, slash play mother, slash friend died almost two weeks ago from breast cancer.” I exhale deeply, satisfied that I’ve taken the first step to initiate therapy.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Nia. How are you feeling?”

  “Not good. I…” I asked Maria to meet with me to talk about my feelings, but I don’t want to address my feelings right now, especially feelings of fear. The fact that Pat died so young bothers me more now than it did two weeks ago. She was only forty-eight. I’ve read the reports on how breast cancer pops up earlier and more aggressively in African American women. I know it happens to us. But to witness someone I love crumble to a statistic is… unexplainable. I’ve gone to bed for a week fearing death. And I’m starting to think that I’m moving toward paranoia.

  I need to finish my sentence, so I skip those feelings by explaining to Maria how Pat and I met and the significance of our friendship. “I never expected my nursing professor to become a good friend, that I would develop such a fulfilling relationship with her.” I replay what I said. “I’m not saying it was sexual. It was nothing like that. Things got sexual with her niece, though. We were in a relationship for a while, but that got messy… And last week we had sex in Pat’s bed.” Now I feel like Maria’s a preacher and I’m a sinner.

  She examines me and I look away. It seems like five minutes passes before she speaks again. “How do you feel about all that?”

  Feelings, again? I exhale. I don’t want to waste Maria’s time. I have to open up a bit. “Like I’ve fallen off the deep end. This is my first significant death. I’ve never lost someone this close to me.” I stop to reflect and redirect. “And I’ve got to get my shit together.”

  There’s only one colleague at Methodist East Hospital aware that I’m living with my parents: Jacoby. I bite the bullet and explain to Maria that eight months ago I was living the high-life in a four-bedroom house in the ’burbs with Kayla, paying the mortgage and bills, blowing my disposable income and time on her. Unaware that Kayla was plummeting my credit with her shopping addiction while I focused on Pat’s sickness. I also didn’t know she was ruining our relationship with her cravings for “O.P.P.” When I dropped Kayla, I sold the house and everything except my clothes and car. I didn’t want a single item I shared with her. I decided to start over by moving back home with my parents. A hard decision, but I needed time to pay off creditors and save, again, for furnishings and a down payment on a new home. I also needed time to smother myself in the embarrassment of being a single, broke professional. By sleeping night-after-night in my childhood room, I’d teach myself a serious lesson about dating an emotionally and spiritually immature woman.

  “That sounds like a lot to deal with in such a short time frame,” Maria says. “Did Pat’s cancer spark a sense of urgency for you?”

  “It made me think about what I wanted out of life. That’s when I realized I was fooling myself with Kayla. She was crippling me.”

  “You blame Kayla for your current situation?”

  “Hell yeah!” I smile a little, surprised at how comfortable I’ve become with Maria. “But I know it’s not all her fault.”

  I was a bit immature, too. I was in my mid-twenties, spending like I made twice my salary. I partied most weekends, treated myself with too many expensive trips, and purchased too many virgin weaves and handbags. I thought having fun with Kayla was the same as loving her. And her love soaked my ass dry.

  “Besides coping with Pat’s death and being deflated by Kayla, what else is happening with you?”

  “Pat never told me she had a grown-ass daughter,” I blurt out. “She’s like my age. Maybe older.”

  “Wow. Are you mad at Pat for keeping such a big secret?”

  “More confused than mad at this point.”

  Maria nods. “Have you talked to Pat’s family about it?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know if I should.”

  Maria crosses her legs and stares like she’s waiting for me to say something else. “So, you want me to tell you what to do?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “It’s not my job to tell you what to do. I can say there’s nothing wrong with how you feel. You’re grieving. That takes time. Just try to surround yourself with people who care about you. And don’t spend too much time alone because life keeps going. Thoughts can run wild when you spend too much time by yourself. That’s my professional stance.

  “Now, on a personal note, you need to ask some questions because the daughter thing is crazy. And you had sex with an ex. So what? Lots of people have sex with their exes.”

  I tap my fingernails on the arm of her off-balanced chair.

  “I don’t feel like I’m telling you anything you didn’t already know,” Maria says. “Look, there’s no fairy dust. You know your problems and solutions better than me. So I know you’ve got this. Just remem
ber that I’m here if you get stuck and need to process.”

  “Thanks… People pay for this shit?” I tease.

  She smiles. “Good thing I like you.”

  As soon as I leave her office, I decide to take the advice from my free therapy session. I need to stop wallowing in my loss and my missteps with Kayla. I head to the elevator in search of Jacoby— the only person within a ten-mile radius who knows and cares about me. I’m ready to move forward and let the people I care about back into my emotional space. Jacoby will force me to rise from my slump and act like me again.

  4

  I PARK ALONG THE CURB and zigzag my steps through Jacoby’s driveway to miss all the puddles left by heavy August rains. He opens his front door and cuts his eyes. “I should charge you a late fee.”

  I push him aside. It’s too misty outside to stand around with my hair uncovered.

  I get together with my best friends Tasha and Jacoby on most weekends for breakfast. This has been our ritual for two years. It’s a chance to hash out problems, tell secrets, and lend advice without work, family, or relationship interference. We usually rotate between each other’s homes. Lately, I’ve been enjoying our get-togethers at the Cherry Street Diner a little more since I’m out of rotation. I’m starting to get jealous whenever I step into their houses.

  The host is responsible for buying and cooking breakfast, but Jacoby only buys and eats the food. So I help Tasha cook while he slouches on the couch watching a profanity-laced movie and eavesdropping. Most of the cookware in his cabinets originated from Tasha’s kitchen or mine. And if it weren’t for his long-gone, interior decorator ex-girlfriend, he wouldn’t have that nice couch to lounge on or a home suitable enough for Tasha and me to regularly visit. We’re the women who transformed his cheap, black and silver bachelor’s pad into an inviting, mature haven. Once in a while, someone that Jacoby is stringing along with false promises adds an expensive household item to the mix.

  “Can I have this?”