by Alli Frank
I’m actually looking forward to Golden Boy stopping by. I don’t particularly like a quiet house when my mind has free rein to contemplate all sorts of topics buried deep in my brain. Is gravity really going to take over after forty? Am I prepared to date now that Etta’s leaving for college? How many more years can I tolerate working for Nan? Are there new trends in body hairstyling? Is the Brazilian still popular?
The doorbell buzzes and I take a last quick look around the apartment. It may not be Aunt Viv’s military-standard clean, but I give myself a solid B.
“Wow. You really went out of your way to dress up for me,” Dr. Golden says, giving me a quick bottom-up once-over. I look down at my sweats. Really? He didn’t notice my fabulous outfit at his parent interview, but now he’s become RuPaul on Drag Race?
“I didn’t realize tonight was a formal affair,” I clap back, nodding at Ty’s wool charcoal pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and magenta-and-navy striped tie. Looking at this man, dressed up in a suit so beautiful there is no way he found it on a sale rack, I can’t decide which Golden Boy is hotter: the athlete, the doctor, or the gentleman.
“Oh this old thing?” Ty gives me a mock look of surprise. “I had two hundred fifty cardiologists to impress at a conference today. I was one of the keynote speakers.”
“I imagine that’s a real fashionista crowd.”
“Not a lot of fashion, but a whole lot of heart.”
“I should shut the door on you for that corny-ass joke. Good thing I’m in a generous mood this evening and wouldn’t mind a little company. Come on in.”
Golden Boy fills out his suit as well from the backside as from the front. DANG! That Daniel is one lucky husband. I decide then and there I’ll stretch waaaaaaaay out of my comfort zone this evening and casually ask Dr. Golden if he has any single, straight friends to set me up with. This is a limb I’m not sure I’m ready to step out onto, but it’s not lost on me that I need to put an end to my celibacy streak and I would prefer to do it with someone as handsome as Dr. Golden.
“I brought a few things to help Aunt Viv start building some more muscle mass and flexibility. You know, start small, ten minutes a day, but even that can do wonders for her physical fitness over time. Then, once she’s more fit, we can bump her up to thirty minutes a day, ideally with it happening in the school gym with real exercise equipment. End goal, we get her to an hour of exercise four to five times a week. Low impact, of course, but an hour is what we’re going for.” Ty pulls out a blue TheraBand and two purple five-pound hand weights from his oversized murse. “A wellness company was giving these away at the conference today and I thought maybe Aunt Viv would love them. Gives her a solid place to start building an honest exercise routine.”
“There are a lot of things Aunt Viv would love,” I barely squeak out, I’m laughing so hard, “but exercise equipment is nowhere on, near, or next to that list.” I pick up the TheraBand and pretend I’m about to slingshot it across the room. Dr. Golden lunges to grab it from me and ends up chest bumping my chin. That man smells good even after a long day of talking to medical nerds.
“Come on, you don’t know that, Josie. When Aunt Viv and I talked about diet and exercise at her follow-up appointment she was nodding yes the whole time. She told me she absolutely would change her habits, that she understands why it’s necessary moving forward. She promised.”
I wipe the tears of laughter pooled in the outside corners of my eyes. “She may have been shaking her head yes, but trust me, she was thinking no way, no how. How many seventy-year-old Southern black women do you see lifting weights, doing crunches, and munching fennel? I’ll tell you how many, none. And I’ll tell you why, ’cause it’s hot as hell under a perfectly set wig. Aunt Viv’s not buying into your white doctor voodoo woo-woo medicine. Not today, not ever. In her world there’s nothing gumbo can’t fix. But please, feel free to leave the goodies on the coffee table and I’ll let you know how it all goes down, Boy Scout.” I’m glad Dr. Golden came over tonight, I haven’t had a big belly laugh in a good while. I might have to video Aunt Viv’s reaction to her hand-delivered home gym equipment and send it to Dr. Golden for proof of non-compliance. Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with this . . .
“I think you’re underestimating your aunt Viv. She seems committed to me.”
“Oh, she’s definitely committed to you. That woman’s got a mad teenage love crush on you, Golden Boy, that’s for sure.”
“The woman’s got good taste in men, what can I say. And don’t underestimate the power of love. She may be running with me on Chrissy Field before you know it.”
“She don’t love you that much,” I assure Ty. I’m definitely sending his cocky self a video of Aunt Viv passing by her gifted home gym, paying it no mind.
“Speaking of love, what about you? I’m assuming no husband if you and Etta live with Aunt Viv. Do you have a fiancé or boyfriend or something?” Dr. Golden is looking around the room like I might be hiding a lover in the drapes.
“You assume right.” Ohhhhh, here goes nothing. I’m stepping into the deep end. “I do a lot of things well, but my history shows dating is not one of them. And, um, you remember my friend, Lola? From the hospital?”
“Yeah.” Ty is looking confused. I’m not sure I’m wading into this conversation quite right so screw it, I’m diving right in.
“Lola thought maybe you might know of a single doctor, or, I guess, really any colleague or friend you could set me up with.” Now it’s out there. And the world didn’t end. I cringe in mock pain waiting for the answer.
“Why do you look like you’re smelling expired milk?” I relax my face and open my eyes as my body temperature rises in embarrassment. I don’t care how brave this is, it’s beyond humiliating.
“I’m cringing that at my age my love life is so pathetic that I’m asking my aunt’s cardiologist if he knows anyone he can set me up with. Since Michael, that’s my ex, it’s been me, Etta, and Aunt Viv—and our tight threesome has been enough. But Etta will be off to college in six months and Aunt Viv is getting older and her recent heart attack and . . .” What were tears of laughter two minutes ago morph into rolling tears of fear out of nowhere. Or really from somewhere buried deep where I haven’t been willing to go since I first saw Aunt Viv in the hospital bed. I’m pretty sure Dr. Golden is getting ready to run for the door.
“I think these tears call for alcohol. Can I check your fridge?”
“I don’t really feel like a drink, thanks though.” I push the heels of my hands against my eyes and breathe deep as I plop down on the couch.
“Okay, but is it alright if I grab one? Two hundred fifty cardiologists and one hot mess of a woman is a lot for a guy to take on in one day. Give me two gulps and then we’re going to get down to business talking about your future.”
“Help yourself.” While Dr. Golden’s getting a beer I try to wipe my raccoon eyes off on my sweater. Turns out my mascara is waterproof. Score one for Revlon.
“Who’s Michael?” is the first question Ty asks after downing half a beer in one gulp.
“I’m in tears because my aunt Viv could drop dead any moment, leaving me alone in this world—or at least alone in California—and you want the dirt on my ex-boyfriend? Good thing you didn’t become a shrink, your priorities are whack.”
“Josie.” Golden Boy sets his beer down on the side table, unbuttons his suit jacket, and sits down next to me on the couch. He picks up my hands and examines them for a moment before speaking. “Aunt Viv is not dropping dead. If I have anything to say about it the only thing she’ll be dropping is about twenty to twenty-five pounds.”
“She’ll definitely be dead before she does that. Tough to lose weight when you fry everything in lard and soak your Cheerios in buttermilk.”
“As Viv’s cardiologist, I really wish I didn’t just hear you say that.” Ty puts his hands over his ears and shakes his head
. “Seriously though, Josie, why are you so worried that your aunt Viv is going to die? You see her every day. She’s back at work, back to doing things with her friends.” The genuine concern on Dr. Golden’s face is reassuring. It seems he actually wants to help me sort through my tangled emotions.
“It’s just, well, I already lost one mother when I was four. You would think twenty-six years later I would be strong enough to lose another, but I don’t think I am. I’m not ready.”
“Wait, I thought you were almost forty?”
“Okay fine, I’m not ready to lose another mother thirty-six years later, but who’s counting, genius.”
“Apparently you are, backward by ten.” Ty chuckles and picks up his beer for another swig. “So your mom died when you were four and Aunt Viv raised you?”
“Kind of. My mom left me at Aunt Viv’s front door and I haven’t seen her since. She could be dead or she could be very much alive.”
“Must have been something big for a mother to leave a beautiful child like you and trust someone else to raise her. I can’t imagine.” Golden Boy actually looks pained as he pictures a little girl left behind by her mother. He’s probably thinking about Gracie and finding it unimaginable that he or Daniel would or could ever do that to her. There’s something about how open he is to my history that I launch into details only three people in my world know.
“Well, since you’re going all therapist on me, I actually don’t know why my mother left me.” I don’t want to look Ty in the eye, so I start scratching at some gunk on his suit pant leg with my index finger.
“Your aunt Viv never told you?” Ty lifts my chin up with his thumb, so I have to look at him when I answer.
“Aunt Viv has never been willing to talk about it with me and over time I’ve gotten too scared to ask. It must have been something awful if Aunt Viv won’t talk about it ’cause that woman will talk about anything. After all these years it’s become the taboo topic in our family. Even Etta knows not to bring it up. Now it’s a three-generation Bordelon secret.” My body feels tired and heavy and I wish I could crawl over and curl up in Ty’s lap. I have enough self-awareness to know that that’s taking the doctor/patient’s closest relative relationship too far, even for the Golden cardiologist.
“Secrets are exhausting to keep. Particularly family secrets,” Ty says, looking like he’s all too familiar with this topic. I wonder if it took him years to come out to his family. If maybe, even though he’s a handsome, successful, kind doctor, his parents still struggle with his sexuality.
Ty’s phone beeps in his pocket as if it knows I am ready for the attention to shift off me.
“Ugh, that’s Daniel. I’m sorry to do this to you. I’d love to stay for a second beer, but I have to get going. It’s my turn to pick up Gracie at gymnastics, or what I like to call the world’s most expensive cartwheel.” Ty stands and puts out his hand to pull me up. Just like at lunch in the Presidio, his hands feel warm and strong, like if he wraps them around you everything will be alright. I understand why Aunt Viv has put her faith in him as her doctor. “Oh, I almost forgot.” In three large steps with his long legs he reaches into his bag and grabs the dumbbells and lines them up perfectly on the coffee table, laying the TheraBand over the top.
“Do you want to date a doctor?” Ty stops halfway to the door to ask. “I mean, they’re kind of an egotistical, pain-in-the-butt, know-it-all bunch. And you’re right, they got no swag.”
“Sure, I guess I would. Hadn’t really thought that deeply about it, but why not? Free medical advice.” I can tell Ty is trying to brighten the mood before he leaves me alone in my apartment, so I follow his lead.
“Okay then, I’ll see what I can do. I might know someone. He won’t be as great as I am, but I promise he won’t be sloppy seconds, either. Tell Aunt Viv I said hello and to get to work pumping iron.” I can’t help but wish my future blind doctor date will be just like Golden Boy.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell her. And I can assure you she will ignore me. But, so you know, your professional effort is filed away and appreciated. By both of us.”
“I’ll start with appreciation and in a few months you two will be fully idol worshiping me, you’ll see.”
“Noted. Now get out of here before Gracie is the last Simone Biles wannabe to be picked up at the gym.” I shove Dr. Golden out the door, knowing how stressed Etta gets when she is the last girl standing at ballet.
I hear knocking at the door and quickly scan the room to see if Ty has forgotten anything before I open it. “Yes?”
“Next time, I want to hear about Michael. Don’t think you glossed right over that topic without me noticing.” Gays love gossip.
EIGHTEEN
My day has passed in relative ease: no stressing parents or demanding Nan. But it’s all about to go downhill fast because the sand has run through the hourglass: I have to tell Aunt Viv about the party. I decide to tell her the faux good news at the apartment. If I tell her at school, she may get home before me and change the locks. If I do it at home at least I’m assured a roof over my head for another night.
I take the long route and walk from school through Golden Gate Park to work out how I’m going to open a conversation that I know Aunt Viv is going to immediately shut down. When I gave Etta the keys to the car so she could drive herself and Poppy to dance, she hugged me in the upper school hallway. IN FRONT OF HER FRIENDS. I know this moment of fleeting parental kindness is going to include a stop at Starbucks for Venti Frappuccinos, a quick shopping trip on Union Street, and texting at all the wrong times; it was worth it to get some public affection from Etta after weeks of the cold shoulder and one-word answers as we worked through college applications. I remind Etta not to take her purse into Lululemon and keep her hands out of her pockets. Etta knows what my reminder means without my having to explain it in front of her friends. The art of public propriety is a lesson all black boys and girls are taught at the feet of their parents if their mamas and daddies are worth a grain of salt. Don’t give any shop owner reason to call the police. We may reside in progressive San Francisco, but we live in America and no one is going to go accusing my daughter of shoplifting. I don’t want to have to hurt anybody for their sheer stupidity.
On my walk home, I stop in front of the De Young Museum. With my back to the copper wire tower, the De Young’s signature statement, I stare across the park to the California Academy of Sciences. Aunt Viv and I used to love to take Etta to CAS on the day when admission was free. We would be in line first thing in the morning before the crazy crowds showed up, so we would feel like paying customers who come to the museum and don’t have to jockey for a view. Every time, Etta made a beeline to the aquarium, the animal dioramas, and the planetarium. Aunt Viv and I would stand behind her and speculate what kind of scientist she would one day become: anthropologist, veterinarian, or epidemiologist. In those moments, I knew Aunt Viv used to do this exact same thing with me when I was young. I didn’t fulfill her doctor dreams, but I felt confident Etta would with two strong women behind her, guiding her. When Etta was six it seemed her possibilities were endless. Though we haven’t been to the Academy in years, I still hold on to wanting Etta’s options to stay open. I want to know the scientist housed in that grown dancer’s body still has a fighting chance.
I stop to see if the snack bar is open at Stowe Lake House. For some reason I’m craving a Drumstick ice cream cone, but no such luck—it closes at 5:00. I take this as a sign to get myself home to face Aunt Viv. Maybe she will surprise me and be excited about the party, but I doubt it.
My favorite things about San Francisco are the brightly painted Victorian homes, which are a staple of the city’s neighborhoods street after street. If a house were painted hot pink with lime green and white trim in Seattle or Chicago the neighbors would talk in hushed tones about the tackiness. In San Francisco, passing a turquoise and cranberry two-unit building makes you feel
right at home.
With no ice cream to boost me up for going a few rounds with Aunt Viv, I need late-afternoon caffeine. I hop into one of the zillion coffee shops between the park and my apartment hoping they serve Blue Bottle coffee. That stuff is like rocket fuel to propel you through the worst of what might be comin’ your way. The shop is packed, clumps of twos and threes huddled over laptops, talking at rapid speed, eager to think up, develop, expand, and then take public the newest, latest, and greatest tech company—in three years or less. And they can say it all started in a little coffee shop in the Richmond when they are interviewed by Fast Company magazine. I applaud the optimism that is a hallmark of the San Francisco professional’s mentality, however, the millennial arrogance of thinking that at twenty-eight, post business school, you can take your idea from talk to tech in twenty-four hours or less grates on me. The Bay Area landscape is now littered with teens thinking they’re failures because the business plans they developed in their after-school entrepreneurial clubs couldn’t raise a seed round.
As I climb the front stairs to our second-floor unit I smile at the yellow door, our own contribution to the colorfulness that is San Francisco. It was Etta’s choice. We promised her when she was seven that as soon as she could say “yellow” instead of “lellow” we would paint the door. In second grade when her front teeth corrected, and the pronunciation did, too, the three of us went to Ace Hardware on California Street, got ourselves a can of bumblebee-yellow paint, and went to town on the front door. I still love it.
“Aunt Viv, you home?” I yell, hearing shuffling coming from the back bedroom.
“Folding laundry in my room,” Aunt Viv singsongs back. I can hear Zydeco faintly playing. Fifty years in San Francisco and she still holds fast to the iconic Bayou music of her childhood.
