It's Not All Downhill From Here

by Terry McMillan

  “I’m surprised to hear this,” I said.

  “Well, if you could give me his or her name, I’d be happy to forward the records.”

  “No! Don’t! To be honest, I haven’t actually decided on one.”

  “Just a second, Mrs. Curry, the doctor’s just here at the desk.”

  Before I could say, “I don’t want to speak to her,” I heard her say, “Well, hello, Mrs. Curry. I’ve been worried about you and hope you’re doing well.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Alexopolous. I’ve just been so busy I haven’t managed to find an endocrinologist yet.”

  “Are you still angry at me?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. I just wanted you to know that I only have your best interests at heart.”

  “I know.”

  “So have you been testing yourself?”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “How are your numbers?”

  “Good. Wait. No, that’s not completely true. I haven’t been checking them on a regular basis.”

  “I appreciate your honesty. How about you go have your blood work done? Let’s see how you’re doing, and then we can sit down and discuss a realistic plan; and I’ll do my best not to chastise you. Please know that it’s your health that’s important to me, even though it would be nice if you liked me a little.”

  That made me feel bad.

  “Okay, I can do that. I’m only just finally getting used to the idea that my husband is not ever coming home.”

  “You don’t have to explain. I lost my husband a year ago, which is one reason I probably come across as a bit harsh in trying to convince my patients to take better care of their health.”

  “I’m glad you understand, and I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll go down to Quest Diagnostics as soon as you send them the request.”

  “The request I sent after you came in is still there. Nothing to eat or drink…”

  “I remember.”

  I was there when the doors opened the next morning.

  * * *

  —

  When my phone rang at five forty-five in the morning, I answered assuming and hoping it was Jalecia, since I still hadn’t heard a peep from her.

  “Grandma, Jonas and I wanted you to know we are the proud parents of Pretty and Handsome, and as soon as they put on a few more pounds we will be welcoming them home to our new apartment with their very own bedroom. We really can’t thank you enough for asking Uncle Kwame to move into our one-bedroom instead of his two-bedroom!”

  “Congratulations, Cinna! To you and Jonas! How much did they weigh?”

  “Handsome weighed in at four pounds and Ms. Pretty at the bantam weight of three pounds eight ounces. But they’re both otherwise pretty healthy. We could not be happier. How are you?”

  “Good. Better now that I’ve got this good news. Let me know when I can come see them.”

  “Not sure just when they’ll be home, although I come home tomorrow. But I’ll be living in this hospital. I am not leaving our babies longer than I have to.”

  “Have you told your mom?”

  “Yes. She looked and sounded better than I’ve seen her in years.”

  “You mean you actually saw her?”

  “Yes. She came to the hospital, which made me feel so good. I almost didn’t recognize her because she cut her dreads off, if you can believe it. The court ordered her to go to AA at her appearance and she’s actually been going. Hallelujah. Anyway, I have to run. Love you. And tell all of my great-aunties the good news! Can’t wait for you to meet your great-grands!”

  I hung up, and realized my feelings were hurt that Jalecia hadn’t bothered to reach out to me, especially since she’d been doing so well. I would just keep praying for her, especially that her sobriety lasts. I’m not sure how powerful my prayers have been lately, though. I’d also prayed that maybe Cinnamon and Jonas would come to their senses and give those babies human names instead of adjectives. Oy vey, as Lucky likes to say even though she’s not Jewish.

  * * *

  —

  Later that day, my phone screen lit up with a man who looked just like my second husband the day I married him.

  “Hi, Mom!” Jackson said. His skin was the color of Lipton tea and the glint in his eyes made it clear that he was happy.

  “Hello there, Jackson. What a nice surprise. I look a mess! You should call first to let me know you’re going to FaceTime so I can at least put some makeup on! How are you, son?”

  “You look fine, Ma! I’m fine! How are you? I feel like I can never catch you.”

  “I’m better.”

  “That’s great. I don’t want to pressure you, but you mentioned you were thinking about visiting last time we talked, and I wanted to call to say Aiko and I really hope you decide to come over here to spend some quality time with us and the girls. Maybe you could take ten days off of your busy schedule? I’ve been working like a slave. Wait—bad analogy. Anyway, I’ve been operating at an extremely high stress level because I just got a new gig at a major tech company here and I’m doing all of their photography, but anyway that’s neither here nor there. Aiko wants to finally meet you in person, Ma.”

  “That makes two of us, Jackson.”

  Carl and I were all set to attend their wedding, but Ma fell and broke her hip and had to be hospitalized so we couldn’t go.

  “Well, we’d really love for you to visit. How are you for real, Ma?”

  “I’m adjusting. And I’m now a great-grandmother.”

  “Cinnamon?”

  “She had twins, too. A boy and a girl. Please don’t ask me their names. How are your daughters? And Aiko?”

  “They’re all fine. But I so want Akina and Akari to meet their grandma before they start to think Aiko’s mom is their only one. And I want to see you, too! It’s been over a year since I’ve been home. It’s too much to leave Aiko alone with the babies and it’s too hard to travel with them. I’m still sorry I couldn’t make it for Carl’s service.”

  “I know. But you’re on the other side of the world. Is it tomorrow over there?”

  “Yes, or I could say it’s yesterday where you are. How is my sister?”

  “She’s fine. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Because she’s been working on making some major changes in her life.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  Why does he have to ask so many questions? I wish I could tell him the truth, but I didn’t feel like ruining the tone of our conversation.

  “Positive ones. But look, sweetie, I have to be at the hairdresser in fifteen minutes. I was just heading out the door when you called.”

  “Oh. Okay, then. But let’s start comparing calendars and see when we can get you over here. Do you think you could find time in the next couple of months? At least by your birthday?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Great, tell all of my pretend aunties I said hello, and I’ll send you the latest pictures of my beautiful girls as soon as I sign off. Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you more.”

  And the screen went blank.

  Japan will be nice. I’ll make myself make the time.

  And did he say birthday? I just had a birthday a few months ago, didn’t I?

  Just then two little brown faces popped onto my screen. Their hair is black and curly, and they look more mixed up than mixed. I always hope they’ll be a lot cuter, but maybe they will be by the time I get there.

  * * *

  —

  I was running late and decided to take the freeway three exits to get to my hair appointment.

  When I heard a police siren and then saw red flashing lights behind me, I was just about to move to the side so they could go a
round me, but I realized it was me they were after. What did I do? I pulled over and stopped. I looked at my watch. I was now fifteen minutes late but Xenobia is usually late, too. I was texting her to let her know what happened when I heard a tapping on the window. I rolled it down.

  “License and registration, please.”

  “Officer, why did you pull me over?”

  “Because you were swerving.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  He glared at me. Tall. Pale. Blue eyes, freckles, and bright red hair. All the signs of a redneck.

  “You were swerving, ma’am. Please, let me have your license and registration, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Oh, you think I might have a gun or something?” I should not have said that, but it should be obvious that I’m an innocent senior citizen he knew was not swerving. And what I am and always will be is black. But I reached inside the glove compartment and got the registration, then plopped my red Dooney & Bourke vinyl handbag in my lap, took my driver’s license out of my wallet, and handed them both to him.

  “Are you the owner of this vehicle?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at my registration, then at my license, then at me, and then at my license again.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, officer. My name is on it, isn’t it?”

  “This does not look like you.”

  “Let me see that.”

  “Keep your hands on the steering wheel, please.”

  He lowered my license so I could see my picture. Damn. I have not bothered to get my picture changed in ten years. I looked good! And young! But I still looked like myself.

  “That is me. A few years ago.”

  “It’s been longer than a few years. I suggest you update this photo and use your blinker when you’re changing lanes.”

  “I always do,” I said.

  He handed me back my documents and I snatched them.

  “Have a good day,” he said without a drop of sincerity and strutted back to his ugly police car just like they do on TV shows.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I said after I rolled up the window. When I went to put my registration back inside the glove compartment, staring at me was a brand-new package of Twizzlers. Without even thinking, I pulled them out, ripped them open, and bit off two or three inches of two stems at the same time. Then I dropped the entire package into my purse and pulled onto the freeway a little faster than I should have.

  * * *

  —

  After I had my hair rinsed a brighter metallic silver, trimmed, and conditioned, I called Kwame to tell him I wasn’t in the mood to have the lunch we’d scheduled to talk about his next steps in life. He pretended to understand. When I got home, I walked straight into my bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, and just looked at my face. It was a sad-looking face. I smiled at myself and I looked worse. The spiderwebs at the corners of my eyes were now creases. Underneath them were brown and puffy half-moons. There were brown freckles on my cheeks and the ridges on both sides of my nose. Did I now have a moustache? I pushed the light on my vanity mirror and turned it around to the magnifying side, which was a huge mistake. I stepped away and took off my running suit: first the jacket, then the top, and then the sweats and even my bra and panties. I stood in front of the floor-length mirror and could not believe my eyes. Who in the hell was that? I did not recognize this body because it wasn’t mine. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually looked at myself naked, but all I could say was, “Who would want to fuck her?” I looked around, embarrassed, as if someone might have heard me. I know I’m not supposed to be thinking about sex or using the word fuck, but what the fuck? It also dawned on me that I hadn’t had sex in more than six months. Young folks don’t think they’ll have these desires when they get old, but we do.

  I remember once when I was staying with Ma after a divorce, I’d hear her, making the sounds I had come to know as sounds of pleasure, and I’d know she had male company. My room, unfortunately, wasn’t far from hers. She was fifty-five then and I thought there was no way she should still be having, or even thinking about, sex. I was embarrassed for her. One night, after the man left, I came right out and asked her, “Ma, what were you doing in there?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “What do you think I was doing in there?”

  “But why?”

  She looked at me as if I had asked her the stupidest question in the world.

  “Hold on a minute, Loretha. Let me ask you a question. Do you have sexual intercourse?”

  I thought I would die hearing her say “sexual intercourse” but I said, “Yes.”

  “And do you enjoy it?”

  “Of course I do, Ma.”

  “Well, so do I. There’s no age limit on it. And FYI, fifty-five is not old, just so you know.”

  “It just seems creepy.”

  “My body is the same as yours, just older. I feel the same pleasure you do, hallelujah. You better hope somebody still wants to touch you when you’re in your fifties and sixties, or even seventies. Now beat it.”

  Now I was forced to admit she was right.

  Carl made me feel sexy and forty for twenty-five years. But since he’s been gone, I hadn’t thought about sex until standing in front of this mirror. But I really didn’t care if I ever had sex again.

  So, I stared at myself and realized I was almost unrecognizable. I was wondering when and how this happened to me, or when did I do this to myself? I know better. And I sell beauty. I was never a ten, but I was definitely a seven-and-a-half and some weekends an eight. Even in my early sixties I was still somewhat attractive, a size twelve or occasionally a fourteen, but now I’m five minutes away from a 2X. I certainly didn’t have these damn mountains and valleys masquerading as skin all over my body. Even my breasts look like brown water balloons someone had squeezed too much of the water out of.

  And my hands: they were starting to look like brown spiderwebs with freeways of green veins leading nowhere. I looked down at my legs. Thank God something on me hadn’t changed in all these years. They still looked good. Still smooth and strong and shaped like I’d been swimming all my life, even though I can’t swim.

  I did not put my clothes back on. For some reason I did not understand, I walked through the house butt naked. When B. B. King looked up at me, I heard myself say, “What? You haven’t seen an overweight, naked old woman before?”

  He looked at me as if to say, Not this old and not this overweight.

  “Not to worry, B.B. Pretty soon there is going to be less of me to see.”

  I walked out the side door and down the steps, grateful my neighbors couldn’t see into the backyard. I opened the gate to the pool and closed it behind me. Then, without even testing the water, I put one foot on the top step and it felt like peppermint on my toes, then I put the other foot in and walked through the turquoise water until I got to five feet. I took a deep breath, went under, and then opened my eyes.

  * * *

  —

  After my dip I decided to bring in the mail since it was one of the things I’d been ignoring after Kwame moved out. The basket by the front door was full. Not of bills, because Carl had set it up so they’re paid automatically from our checking account, but with what mostly looked like junk.

  I pulled the basket over to Carl’s chair, which I have only sat in once since he died. There, I finally said it. He did die. And if he weren’t dead, he would be here. It is hard to stop hoping that one day the person you lost will just show up and say this was just a big mistake. I know I couldn’t possibly be the only one who thinks this.

  I sat down slowly, and the cushion felt warm.

  “Hi, baby,” I whispered, then smiled as I bent over to start going through what looked like months of mail. There were my favorite magazines: AARP, which seems to come almost da
ily; Real Simple, which I look at just for the pictures and never do any of the things they say would make my life, well, simpler; mileage magazines from different airlines, which made me think I could use miles to go to Japan even though I didn’t need to.

  Underneath all of this were two envelopes with Ma’s handwriting on the front. God bless her. I picked up the piles of coupons and the you’ve-been-preapproved-for-a-million-dollar-line-of-credit envelopes and walked slowly toward the kitchen and tossed them all into the recycling bin. Then I poured myself a cold glass of orange juice, which I know I have to stop drinking in the near future because it’s one of a million things diabetics shouldn’t even think about consuming. But hell, I can’t just give up everything at once, even though I haven’t given up much of anything yet.

  I took a quick, delicious sip and opened the first envelope from Ma. I assumed my horoscope or a magazine article would fall out, but inside there were two large, bright pink Post-its. On the first, she had printed: Sell your house. Buy a condo. No, rent an apartment. Travel. See the world while you’re still able.

  On the second: Even though you sell all those beauty products, you know damn well they don’t work. The only thing that will make you look younger is surgery. But who really wants to look younger? Ha ha ha.

  Do I even sell beauty products anymore? I guess I do. I had listed the L.A. store, but took it off the market because I just didn’t have the energy or the time to deal with it. But I will.

  In the other envelope was a yellow Post-it: If and when you cough or sneeze or laugh too hard you wet yourself a little bit, get some of those crinkly underpants and you won’t have to be embarrassed.

  I started laughing so hard and when I felt something trickle inside my undies, it only made me laugh harder.

  “I think I want to be a producer,” Kwame said.