by Tiana Laveen
Okay, that’s not her. That woman is in her fifties. That’s not her, either, or at least, I don’t think so. Wait a minute, this might be her.
Up-and-coming singer shot and killed. What? Hang on, that date coincides with when I had my surgery. Oh my God.
Fifteen minutes later, Emily’s face was soaked with tears. She’d read of the untimely death of a woman who, according to the articles she’d dug up, was already a local legend, even at the tender age of thirty. She kept reading through the tears, the blurred sight. Two more diet sodas and a decaf coffee later, well into the wee hours of the morning, she was still scrolling through photos of the gorgeous lady, played a YouTube video of her singing, and sobbed uncontrollably throughout the entire performance. Not an emotional person by nature, Emily was certain she was now losing her mind.
She hadn’t even noticed that the record had been skipping. Getting to her feet, she made her way over and cut the album off. She leaned against her wall, ankles crossed and eyes closed.
Her curiosity was piqued. This was it. There was no going back.
I want to know everything about you, Brooke, and I mean everything. I know you are within me. I can feel you. I’m so confused, this sounds so crazy, but I feel like if I look into your life, everything will be all right.
Emily blinked back tears as she reflected on her conversation with Dr. Giannopoulos. For one, she’d been startled that her donor was Black. She had assumed the woman had been White—perhaps the wife of some baseball player or an attorney who’d perished after a car crash. None of what she’d envisioned about her donor was true. The lady who had literally given her her heart embodied so many traits that Emily didn’t care for or struggled with.
Art, creativity, nonconformity.
She made her way back over to her computer and after a bit of intrusive digging, found out her last known address. She had no idea what she’d do with the information, but she knew she wished to see it, walk past the building, take a step where Brooke had moved her feet, lived her life. Emily quickly sent herself a text message with the details of the address then fell fast asleep on the couch.
There were no dreams of white caskets and drums—only white noise that played within her brain, and the throb of her beating heart.
Chapter Seven
White Privilege
Cameron and Opium passed Peas ’N Pickles restaurant as they enjoyed an afternoon walk.
“Opium, I’m hungry as hell. I skipped lunch, was too busy working on the computer today. Damn. Let’s go back home. Maybe I’ll stop and pick up some spaghetti or something like that along the way.” Opium barked and began to walk a bit faster, too. “Don’t go getting all excited.” Cameron chortled. “I bet you want a little something too, but I’m not sharing my food with you, Opium. You’ve got your own and it costs a lick.”
He put his earbuds in and played Ella Mai’s, “Shot Clock.” The sound of the music vibrated through him as he paused every now and again, allowing Opium to do his business or sniff a pole that was of great interest.
“Opium, we got food at home. I just remembered that leftover pizza. Guess I’ll smash that tonight, along with that piece of carrot cake I picked up a couple days ago from Hannah’s birthday party. Who the hell has a carrot birthday cake? Hannah, that’s who.” He grinned at that.
As he drew within seeing distance of his apartment, he noticed a woman standing in front of his building, her hands in her black swing coat pockets. The hem of the garment blew in the draught, as did her long, straight, blonde hair that was parted down the middle. Her feet were encased in red high heels below matching, form-fitting pants. The shit looked mad expensive.
She crossed her arms, but kept her eyes on the windows, as if waiting for someone important to poke their head out and wave her inside.
“’Sup,” he said, startling her as he removed his earbuds and jammed them in his pocket. He laughed when she jumped, hand on chest, then smiled. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You need some help or something?”
The woman studied him for a while, never answering his question. Perhaps she was surprised he didn’t say anything out of place, off-putting. “You okay?” he asked.
Opium begun to sniff the woman’s shoes and jerk on the leash, trying to get at her. “What are you doing? Opium, stop it.” The dog pulled hard, straining to break free, whining and jumping at her, flipping the hell out. He didn’t seem agitated but more amused…excited. She took a few steps back, confusion on her face. At least she wasn’t afraid. Opium let out a series of deep barks. “Sorry. He never does this.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Beautiful dog, by the way. That was a nice greeting.” She smiled big and wide.
Cameron swallowed as he took notice of her lips, the bottom one a tad fuller, painted red, then her eyes, and her mouth once again. Something about the sound of her voice was soothing, like a lullaby.
“Yeah, so uh, everything okay? You know someone who lives here?”
The woman kept staring. After long moments, she lifted her chin and smiled—but a smile marinated in sadness.
“No. Well, perhaps. You know what? The architecture of these apartments and the condos in this area are amazing. Truly lovely.”
“Yeah, they’re nice, right? I stay here. The rent is high as hell, but worth it.” He offered a half smile.
“You’re right. It’s definitely worth it. If you can swing it, it’s a great investment, too. You’re in walking distance from practically everything you need, and the neighborhood is safe, too. Great places to eat, parks, you name it. Amazing schools from what I hear.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Are you a real estate agent or somethin’? Is the owner selling the building?”
“Me?” She pointed to herself. “Oh, no, no. I was just uh…taking a walk is all and stopped to admire the place.”
“Oh, all right, well…I’ll let you get back to admiring.” He cracked a smile before making his way around her and up the steps. He paused, turned around, and the lady was still standing there, staring up into the windows as if they held the answers to all of her life’s questions. “There’s probably a spot comin’ up for rent soon. Maybe you can sublet it.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Really? I thought there were no vacancies.”
“There aren’t, but I’m thinking about moving. I imagine probably in the next few months.”
“Moving? Someone will snap this spot up in a flash.”
“Yeah, probably.” He wrapped the leash around his wrist and led Opium back down a few steps, toward the White woman with the long, blonde hair that blew in the wind.
“This place is nice. If nothing else, I could see renting it out,” she said.
“Hey, you got a card or something? If I decide to let it go, I could give you a call.” The woman pulled out a card from her red leather purse and handed it to him. He looked down at it and read it aloud.
“Emily Windsor—Chief Financial Analyst for the Windsor Financial Group, Rockefeller Center. Damn. Nice. You’re a financial analyst, huh?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yeah.”
They were quiet for a spell, just looking at one another.
“Shit, I could use some tips, Emily. I mean, I have a financial advisor, but I don’t know if I am getting the proper bang for my buck, if you know what I mean. I have investments too, things I want protected.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I own a specialized club. The 6th Dimension.”
“A nightclub?”
“Not quite. We cater more toward the art scene. I try to transcend and educate while entertaining, not a shake your ass type of place. I bring in poets, we have wine and art nights and we have some serious slam talent.” She nodded in understanding. “We serve tapas, too. I’ve got some amazing staff. We’re known for our great drinks and singers, for the aesthetics. Local and national artists come to perform. Had Saul Williams just last week. He’s the GOAT. Ever heard of Saul Williams?”<
br />
“No. Sorry.”
“Well, he’s dope.”
“He’s a goat?”
He couldn’t help but crack up. “It’s just a figure of speech, means he’s incredible. Anyway, we have a lot of interpretive dancing, performing. It’s chill, you know?”
“Chill?” Her lips curled upward. “I like how you say that. Well, good for you. Sounds like a really interesting place. Is business going well?”
“Extremely.” He pointed to the building behind him. “It’s the only way that I could ever afford to stay in a place like this. Bills aren’t my worry right now. But uh, I have a lot of memories here. Some I may need to let go of…most of them are good memories, but not even good memories are always good, if you know what I mean. I have to do it for my own sanity.”
For some reason, he was enjoying the banter with this broad. It wasn’t amounting to much, just typical chitchat with a little zing, but he enjoyed the twinkle in her eye, her energy, her vibe. Cameron could talk to all sorts of people and find a commonality, a thread, though he had to admit, talking to glamorous, swanky White women wasn’t his typical thing. Nevertheless, he liked the way she spoke, the way her voice wrapped around the words, regardless of how proper she spoke and how stiff she appeared, as if her muscles were locked up. She was well put together. He could tell she put a lot of thought, time, and energy into her appearance. She looked rich without being bitchy. It was nice. He dug it.
“I hope I’m not imposing, but what memories do you want to run from? I mean, it seems like things are going well for you.” She cocked her head to the side and appeared to look right through him. As he faltered, trying to find the best way to respond, Opium broke free from his grip and made a mad dash in her direction.
“Shit. Opium, cut it out.” He raced toward the dog and got him back under control, but by that time, it was too late. Opium had jumped high and licked her face. Emily was laughing so loud, it was practically unnerving. She stooped low and ran her hands all over the dog’s fur, hugging and squeezing him like they were the best of friends. Opium was fairly friendly, but not that way with strangers. In fact, he was a growler whenever someone even rang the doorbell, rather protective by nature. His behavior right then was just plain weird.
“Sorry again. I don’t know what’s gotten into him tonight.”
“He’s fine.” She finally got to her feet, but Opium stayed put by her side. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I take it you’re a dog lover.”
“Not really.”
A long pause stretched between them.
“That’s too bad. You’re missing out. My uh, my girlfriend loved dogs. This is her dog, actually. We both lived here. Those are the memories I was talking about earlier. She passed away not too long ago, so I’m just takin’ care of him now all by my lonesome. Single dad,” he joked, forcing the words out, trying to break away from the beginning stages of another funk.
Her smile disappeared within a snap of a finger. Her brows bunched and she pressed her hand against her chest. She took a few steps back, stumbling. “Hey lady, are you okay?”
He grabbed her arm, stopping her from falling and busting her ass, or worse yet, her head on the concrete. He caught her around the waist and they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. His heart began to beat a mile a minute. In those blue eyes was that sparkle again, that twinkle that made him feel warm all over.
“I’m fine. Thank you so much.” She took a few deep breaths and snuck a brief glance at the building, then opened her mouth, hesitating, as if she had so much more to say but had no clue how to start. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Oh, my bad. Yeah, it’s Cameron.” He extended his hand to shake hers. The act felt so formal, when he had the odd sense it shouldn’t have been. “You got some sorta health problem? You seemed to get dizzy all of a sudden. Should I call 911?”
Suddenly, tears began to well up in her eyes.
Okay, this is ridiculous. First Opium is acting a fool, now this. This White lady is fucking crazy. She goes from laughing to crying, almost passes out. Probably schizophrenic or something. Why do I always attract people like this? Oh well, at least it’ll make the night interesting. He chuckled to himself.
“Cameron, I was sick. Actually, I was sick for a very long time, on and off most of my life. I was born with congenital heart disease. I uh…” The tears fell as she looked down at the sidewalk for a moment, then back into his eyes. “I had surgery though, a couple of months ago. And since then, some really, really wild stuff has been going on in my life.” She shifted her gaze to the cars going past as if needing a moment, then faced him again.
“Damn. I’m sorry about that. Are you doing better now though? Did the surgery fix the problems?”
“So far, so good, but I have other issues to deal with now.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know how to quite tell you this, but, I think…I think your girlfriend was my heart donor. I was given her name, found her address, and came out here. I took a walk around the block and came right back to this spot. I just needed to be here, even if only for five minutes.”
Everything got heavy at that moment—his shoes, his shirt, the sky, the sun, and the moon and the stars, too.
The world sat on his shoulders like bricks stacked one on top of another. Before he could speak, before he could turn and run away, before he could even breathe, Emily tugged at her blouse, pulled it down a smidgen and exposed the top part of an angry red scar.
“This is where they cut me.”
He looked at the incision, his chest now heaving up and down. His fist balled up, his hand rose to reach out, to touch, then he stopped short.
“I think you better go.” He grabbed Opium and turned to walk away, his heart beating so damn fast, it hurt.
“I didn’t expect to run into you. I didn’t even know anyone was still here.”
“Well, now you do. Bye.”
“I just wanted to see where she lived. I had to see it, because, I don’t know, I can’t explain it, but I needed to lay my eyes on where she slept, ate, and laughed.”
He paused and turned back toward her. His shoulders slumped and stayed that way, no matter how hard he tried to tough the shit out. Too much was happening too soon, too fast.
“See, this is that White entitlement bullshit I can’t fucking stand. You think you can find out about my woman’s death and sacrifice, come over here, and think it’ll be okay? She had a name, damn it. Brooke was amazing. How damn disrespectful. This isn’t a game, something to play with. We’re real, this is my life. I’m not some freak show for you to gawk at. You can’t just pop up like this, you can’t do shit like that. I’m a real fucking person, not a puppet.” He pointed at himself. “It’s all about what you wanted. You didn’t even think about what would happen after you got here, did you? You’ve got what you wanted, now go home. I hope you’re happy.”
“Far from it.” She blinked away tears.
“I just had the first week, since Brooke passed, when I didn’t wake up screaming,” he said through gritted teeth, pointing a finger at her. “This is my first week of not drinking until I can get myself back under control. This is the first week I felt kinda like myself again. The first week I could stand on my own two feet without fallin’ apart. I wouldn’t wish this kinda pain and grief on my worst fucking enemy. And then, here you come, busting outta nowhere, stalking my fuckin’ home. Go away, please. Like, for real. NOW.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Emily clasped her hands together, her pale skin now donning a peachy glow about the forehead and cheeks.
What did I expect her to do? She more than likely didn’t even know she was talking to Brooke’s boyfriend, didn’t know who I was. I still can’t do this shit though, I just can’t. He climbed to the building entrance, away from her, and shoved his key in the front door, ushering Opium inside the shared foyer area.
Before he could get up the
steps to his crib, he heard her yell out, “I am so sorry, Cameron. She makes me sing. She makes me remember. She makes me cry. She makes me dance. It wasn’t my choice. She made me come here. She must’ve known I’d see you. She must’ve known.” And then, she turned and walked away.
Chapter Eight
Eat Your Heart Out
“My donor was Black.” Emily leisurely crossed her legs, forcing her slate-gray, knee-length skirt to slide ever so slightly up her knee. She flipped through the pages of a Vogue magazine, then set her gaze upon her father, who was lounging in his office chair at his home. The room smelled of rich vanilla and tobacco. Dad took a sip of his gin, then set it down, his eyes on her the entire time. Fingers steepled, he began to pivot back and forth in his seat.
Emily looked away, focusing on a model wearing a jade-green swing jacket in the magazine, then turned the page.
“That’s surprising to you, I suppose.”
“Right. But why?” She shrugged before tossing the magazine onto his desk and clasping her hands across her lap. “When Dr. Giannopoulos told me that the woman was Black, I’m going to be honest, Dad, I was disappointed.” Dad cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you find that to be an inappropriate reaction, Dad?”
She squinted and sucked her teeth. Her father glared at her with hooded eyes then nonchalantly shrugged.
“I suppose.”
“What do you mean, ‘I suppose’? She’s dead, gunned down like some animal in the park, and I am still alive because she was a perfect match. I get a death sentence with a soft RIP date and she gets a toe tag, and that’s what I think about?” She tossed up her hands and shook her head. “I’m confused by this. My gut reaction was to be sickened that the organ inside me didn’t belong to a White woman, like me, as if that meant I’m somehow now poisoned.”
“That’s extreme.”
“It’s more than that, it’s horrible; and yet, I still feel that way, and then again, I don’t. Something is going on within me that doesn’t make sense. I have been fighting with myself ever since the surgery, Dad. Literally, on a daily basis, I feel as if I am being pulled into directions I don’t want to go. My life before the surgery was different. I was happy.” She huffed.
