The Dawn of Nia

by Lauren Cherelle

  By the time she declines, I’m in the kitchen. I take advantage of the next minute to regroup. I return and sit closer to her, hoping the friendlier proximity will kill her suspicion.

  “Did you really ask me to come over so we could talk? We could’ve talked on the phone.”

  In other words, ‘you’re not worthy of my presence without sex.’ I can’t remember a time when anyone, male or female, only regarded me as a bedroom accessory. I take a sip of water to drown my irritation. After a moment, I place the glass aside and address her. “I would love to take you to my bedroom, but we need to talk.”

  “About?”

  “About a lot of things! Some things more than others right now.”

  “We could’ve talked weeks ago. You could’ve asked for last name, inquired about my sexual history, showed interest in my zodiac sign. You cared about one thing. So why does anything else matter now?”

  Clearly, from her point of view, I’m a routine booty call and shouldn’t have a problem maintaining the status quo. But even if I could magically erase my association with Pat, it wouldn’t change my underlying values. I would pump the brakes on the bump and grind to demand substance. The fact that she doesn’t share an ounce of the same attitude provokes my anger. I wanted to handle this tactfully, but I don’t care about her feelings now. “Obviously, I don’t have a problem fucking you. I have a problem with why I’m fucking you.”

  She tilts her head.

  “I wanted to get to know you,” I add, “but in the process I got lost in you.”

  She gives me another cross-examining look. “There’s no need to beat around the bush with me.”

  “Good!” I reach over and grab the funeral program from between the magazines. I hold the front page nice and high to guarantee she sees Pat’s glowing smile. “I was at the funeral. Jacoby was there, too.”

  Finally, I’ve shed the weight of this secret, but her response unnerves me. She stares at the folded pages in my hand, suspended in thought. I try to wait patiently as she connects the dots, but the wait prods my nerves and I have to speak. I turn the page to the obituary and read aloud the portion that contains my first and last name.

  Deidra shifts her weight. “How long did you know her?”

  The question reinforces the invisible thread connecting the three of us. “Almost seven years, and she didn’t mention you once.”

  Deidra grabs her purse from the couch and heads to the front door. I race behind her and force the door shut just before she can leave.

  “Can we talk about this?” I ask.

  She could have pushed my hand off the doorknob, except she pivots to face me. “Open the door,” she orders.

  When I pull the door open, the chilly breeze smothers the heated air in the foyer. She steps away from me and stands in the doorframe, pulling on her jacket.

  “For what it’s worth,” I say, “I didn’t mean to deceive you. I just didn’t know what to say.”

  “How about ‘hello, my name is Nia. I was a friend of Patricia Carter. I remember seeing you at her funeral.’ That’s the first thing any decent person would say.”

  I exhale. “Deidra, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  She glares at me like ‘I’m sorry’ is the meanest thing she’s ever heard. “Fuck you! You and your apology can go to hell along with my sorry-ass mother.”

  In the blink of an eye, I press my hand against her chest and shove her out the door. Her lips are moving, but my anger is deafening. My skin stings as her fingernails sink into my wrist.

  The next thing I know, I’m standing inside, alone, and the door is closed. But I don’t remember closing it.

  My throat burns. My heart races. I can’t latch on to my spinning thoughts. My rushing rage is unbearable. I lean against the door and sink to my feet.

  I feel a little more present on the hard floor, but I have to escape the frantic energy in this space. I hear a vehicle driving away as I approach the stairs. With each step, my breathing settles and my thoughts decelerate.

  By the time I reach my bedroom, I gain a slice of control over my emotions. I sit on the bench at the foot of my bed and clench my aching wrist. The jolts of pain help clear my thoughts. I’m starting to recall what happened.

  Deidra’s words and her complete disrespect of Pat infuriated me. I can’t remember the moment I reacted with force, but I do remember Deidra defending herself. I remember the warmth of her chest on my palm. When I shoved her, she tripped on her dress. Maybe. Maybe she slid off the first step. The confrontation happened so fast I can’t recall whether she fell to the ground.

  I only know, for sure, that she’s gone and my worst-case scenario came to fruition.

  12

  AFTER TWO DAYS, I still feel bad about what happened. I can’t stop thinking about how I lost control with Deidra. My mind keeps rewinding to old confrontations, like during high school. During high school, my sometimes feisty temperament landed me in scuffles and in-school suspension. I thought I got my temper under control during college. I had fun, slept around on occasion, kept my grade-point average sky high, befriended Jacoby and then Pat, and received my degree within a reasonable time frame. My peer interactions didn’t sour until a year after graduation. That was the year I met Kayla at Pat’s birthday dinner. She brought out the worst in my emotional management. Ever since we broke up, I’ve struggled to find the middle road again. The incident with Deidra confirms I’m traveling too far from the median.

  I release the bulb on the blood pressure meter and remove the cuff from the patient’s arm. The frail woman has spent the last four minutes sharing her woe-is-me life story. Some aspects were jaw dropping, but I’m not in a chatting mood. I have my own troubles to worry about today. I respectfully wait until she ends a story about her most recent arrest before leaving her bed in search of the attending cardiologist.

  I find him in the break room rummaging through the nurse’s snack cabinet. “Doctor Moreti, Ms. Reid’s blood pressure is low.”

  He drops a snack cake into his dingy coat pocket and returns the other to not appear greedy. “Hold her meds and repeat the BP in two hours.”

  I grab my cell phone and coat and sneak out of the department. I have thirty-seven minutes before my next round of monitoring. I go outside to the memorial garden. My workplace getaway. I sit on a cold iron bench facing the road to watch the passing cars and foot traffic.

  The rush of traffic carries my thoughts and chills away. I’m frozen in time until a familiar voice calls me from behind. “You wanna get something to eat?”

  I don’t look back or say anything in response. I just rise to my feet and wait on Jacoby to lead the way. I don’t have an appetite, but I can’t skip the chance to make amends with my friend. He hasn’t contacted me in days, which means he’s still ticked off about the incident at Tasha’s house party. He must be over it now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be going with him to the cafeteria for lunch.

  Jacoby selects the usual: a Coke and plain chips. He insists on buying me flavored water. Then he complains about work and remarks about every somewhat attractive person that walks by our table. He shares a long gaze and wink with one female passerby. There are more random stares before he dives into the latest Methodist East gossip. He has dirt on several nurses and techs in the hospital. His criticism of a particular nurse in the Emergency department prompts me to drop the small talk for more important topics. “Kayla called me twice yesterday.”

  “About what?”

  I shrug.

  “Maybe she found out you’re banging her cousin,” he says.

  “If that was the case, she would do more damage than call. And I was sleeping with her cousin.” I rub my forehead. “That’s over and done with.”

  The last words out of my mouth trigger a wave of disappointment. I feel I wasn’t given a fair opportunity with Deidra, like I was bamboozled by coincidence. I can’t shake the feeling that fate intended to conquer coincidence— that something meaningful should have matured from my
brush with her, even if that something is a short, friendly conversation every now and then. Instead, I altered our path.

  “Hey,” Jacoby says, pulling my attention to the space between us. “You look like there’s something wrong with it being over. She was cute, you fucked her, it was fun, now move on.”

  I shake my head in disagreement. It’s always so simple for Jacoby. Romantic quests are a dime a dozen in his world— an equitable price for something that has little worth in his view.

  “Listen,” he says. “That Love Jones, till death do us part, Cliff and Claire shit doesn’t exist. What people think is happiness is only a façade. They’re chasing the idea of happiness. Name one couple that’s really happy, one couple that can teach you how to achieve bliss.”

  I lean back, crossing my arms. My parents have been married for thirty-one years, but I’d never mimic their union.

  “See, you can’t,” he goes on. “In reality, people are only looking for that one person that will allow them to use them as much as they use them. And as long as they don’t abuse that use, they’re happy. Then they sit back and call it love.”

  Irritated by his confusing logic, I ask, “So what exactly were you trying to achieve with me?”

  He leans forward. “Why are you bringing that up?”

  I’ve never mentioned our three-month stint down lover’s lane about five years ago, which, in Jacoby eyes, was destined to crash and burn anyway. Eventually, we did hit a wall, and then it took us several months to undo a web of sporadic cheating, explosive fights, and hard feelings. After mending our damaged friendship, I made a pact with Jacoby to bury the episode six feet deep. Then, I did myself a favor. I shed the weight of my confined upbringing and professed I was 99.9% lesbian. He’s the last man I slept with.

  “Shit, you’re the one trying to school me,” I say. “I’m my greatest reference.” I regret the day we decided to turn one drunken night of sex into a relationship. It was a rash decision, a mistake we should’ve never taken out of context. “You’re the last person I need advising me on the choices I make regarding women.”

  Jacoby has some nerve! I’m supposed to take advice from a womanizer— the same man who claims he never loved me but always reacts like a scorned lover. This Negro had no problem when Deidra was a one-night stand in overdrive. But as soon as I show the faintest interest in shifting gears, there he sits in the passenger seat, trying to steer my journey.

  “That has nothing to do with this,” he argues.

  “That has everything to do with this! You’ve never had anything positive to say about the women I’ve been with since that.”

  “You a lie. I said Kayla was cute… Deidra too.”

  “Right. I guess that’s why you tried to secure the panties just before Chuck E. Cheese’s.”

  He looks away and forces his lips to not curl into a smile. “That was nothing.”

  I’m annoyed with his indifference. “That shit wasn’t cool. You can live for the pursuit of ass, but I take my interactions with people seriously.”

  “Is it that time of the month?”

  I exhale. He never wants to deal with shit when he’s the problem. I really want to curse him out and purge my frustrations, embarrassing him in front of this crowd of people. But my anger tank is empty. I stand up, kick my chair under the table, and then return to my department.

  “How was lunch, Nia?” a coworker asks.

  I roll my eyes and pass by her computer station without a word. My silence could lead to coworkers whispering behind my back and accusing me of being an angry Black woman— one more thing I don’t need right now.

  Just before I place my phone into my locker, public enemy number one calls again. This is her third call in two days. If I don’t respond to Kayla soon, she’ll send an avalanche of texts and emails. God forbid she rings my doorbell again.

  I need at least another twenty-four hours to sulk before I return her call, enough time to clear my plate before she loads it with her bullshit.

  13

  CALLING IN SICK is the smartest decision I’ve made this month. I’m sure my supervisor can hear the faintness of my cough and clarity of my voice, but she prefers an absent Nia to an irritable one. I end the call with her, toss my purse over my shoulder, and head out the door.

  I have an extensive to-do list to complete today, starting with a car wash. After that I’ll get a pedicure and stop by Macy’s for a pair of jeans. After those tasks I’ll shop for groceries because my refrigerator is like Antarctica: cold and deserted.

  Four hours later those tasks are completed and I’m in my car again to fulfill task five: parents. I haven’t seen Mama or Daddy in nearly a month, which is partially my fault. Every time Mama offers to stop by my place I make up an excuse to postpone. She keeps nagging, so I have to pay her a visit.

  I like Daddy a little more than Mama, but he isn’t home. “You just missed him. He went fishing with your uncle,” Mama explains, “over in Arkansas.”

  I hope he’s actually in the neighboring state fishing for food, not women. Years ago, everyone knew Daddy had a side piece. Mama quit her HR job my freshmen year of high school to stay home and play the good wife to keep him home. It didn’t work. Two years later, a woman rang our doorbell with a hump in her belly. Six months after that, Daddy presented Mama with a document disproving paternity. By the time he begged his way back into the house, I was living in a dorm room.

  Mama doesn’t like to spend her days ripping and running the streets with Daddy, so she stays home cooking food bound to shorten her life span. The meals seem like a snail-paced suicide, though I hate to think such thoughts about Mama. I hate her loneliness. Pat was a godsend, but Mama’s irreplaceable— regardless of how ignorant or irksome she is sometimes.

  Mama sits on the couch and rubs her aching knees. Her increasing age and weight are nuisances to her joints. She stares at me long and hard before speaking. “You doing okay? It’s been a few months since Pat passed.”

  Her concern surprises me. At the peak of my relationship with Pat I sort of abandoned my mother. Pat knew it. I knew it. Mama knew it, too. But Mama played the loving mother and hid her jealousy.

  “I’m fine,” I answer. We stare at each other.

  “Well… you wanna plate? Everything’s on the stove.”

  Though Mama is the epitome of a Southern cook, I don’t stroll to the kitchen to dive into her cuisine. I want to see what she’s stuffing in her body. I lift the lid from a pot of simmering collard greens with chunks of fatback and peak beneath foil-covered pans with magazine-worthy smothered pork chops, baked to perfection macaroni, and mouth-watering butter rolls. An evenly frosted red velvet cake is next to the spread. I almost miss the creamy mashed potatoes and gravy on the counter.

  Mama enters the kitchen and pulls plastic containers from the cabinet. Days after Pat’s funeral, she filled the same containers with similar trimmings and replenished them for two weeks. I appreciated not having to cook my own meals during that period, though I probably gained a few pounds from her feasts. “Mama, I’m good. I just went grocery shopping.”

  “You better take this food home. We can’t eat all this.”

  “Then why make enough food for a family of six?”

  She huffs like I don’t have any business questioning her.

  I compromise by taking the three containers from her hands. I return two of them to the cabinet and stuff the biggest hunk of cake possible into the third one. Afterward, I accompany Mama to the living room for her daily fix. She’s an old school Young and the Restless junkie. Though she prefers to watch the daytime drama “live,” she had a doctor’s appointment when the show aired this morning. “Thank God for DVR,” she says.

  I watch the absurd soap opera with Mama, thankful that we can fast-forward through the commercials. It doesn’t matter whether we say anything to each other during the breaks. This is quality time for us. Plus, I’m not at work and I’m off my feet. What more could I ask for? After an episode of the c
haotic lives of filthy rich families, I want to wash my eyes with soap. Mama turns to the four o’clock news to bore me even more.

  Fortunately, Daddy rescues me during the late breaking news story. He walks into the living room with a six-pack of Budweiser, home from the quickest fishing trip in history. He showcases his pearly whites and says, “Are my eyes deceiving me?” I stand to hug him. The beer bottles clink as he throws his long arms around me. “You moved out and decided you don’t have to come see me no more? You hiding from me?”

  “Of course not, Daddy.”

  “Oh, you hiding from your Mama,” he teases and grins. “Come outside and have a beer with me.”

  I’m not a fan of Budweiser but make an exception for Daddy. It’s a comfortable mid-November day, okay for outdoor idling. Mama follows us to the screened porch. She can’t miss an opportunity to hang out with her husband and daughter. If my brother were present, the scene would be picture-perfect.

  Daddy reclines on the bench and updates me on his six siblings. He’s brief because his family isn’t enmeshed and dysfunctional like Mama’s. “The family reunion is in Maryland this year,” she says. “You going with us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Joyce,” Daddy says, “she don’t know what she’ll be doing seven months from now. She could be engaged and planning a wedding by then.” He takes a slow swig. “So when you gone find a good woman?”

  “Johnny!” Mama says. She hates when he encourages me.

  “Daddy, I am happily single.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  I stare into the neighbor’s yard assuming this is a rhetorical question until I hear, “I’m listening.”

  “No prospects,” I tell him.

  “Bullshit,” he says.

  “You’re getting aggressive,” Mama says. “You don’t need another beer.”

  He glances at her and pops the cap on his third bottle can. “Why?” His baritone voice holds me prisoner. I won’t break free until he receives a solid reason.