And so I made up my mind and trusted my heart would follow. Sitting alone on a hard bench, in a dank hallway of the courthouse, where Shaun would soon be called for his appearance before the judge, I pulled out my phone. As I searched for the right words, I looked up to see two Black teenagers, hands and feet in chains, shuffling down the hall, escorted by a grim-faced white guard. One of them had his head hung so low it was almost at ninety degrees; the other held his head high, though his eyes were a void. If I had been waffling before, something about the scene, this boy’s dead eyes, cemented my decision. My fingers flew across the screen before I could stop myself.
Something came up today and I’m not going to make it this weekend. And I don’t think I can do this, Corey. We’re not right for each other. I’m sorry.
* * *
It’s hard to read Corey’s expression now. Partly because I avoided looking directly at him as I unspooled this story.
I finally turn toward him, and his face is contorted with confusion. “So I still don’t understand. Why couldn’t you tell me all of this then? Why did you just ghost me?”
This is the part that’s hard to explain, why I didn’t want to tell Corey the truth, how I was overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment and I let it control me. I didn’t want to become some sort of stereotype in his eyes, to give him any reason to look down on me or my family. I thought of Corey telling his own parents—with their matching Range Rovers, their annual ski trips to Sun Valley—that my brother was in jail, the judgments and assumptions they would make. How they might even be proud of me for “rising above her circumstances.” For “getting out of the hood.”
The fact that the two of us would never truly be on equal playing fields or share the same experiences had seemed insurmountable. Maybe I was afraid to give the benefit of the doubt, to give someone the leeway to do the right thing. Exactly as Jenny called me out in the car at the hospital. It was easier not to give Corey the benefit of the doubt, not to trust that he would be able to understand, not to give him the chance to create an irreparable breech by saying the wrong thing if we tackled tricky subjects. That fear of being disappointed, or dismissed, was real—and crippling. As with Jenny, there was the worry that talking would be futile and somehow make things worse instead of better. But Jen, or Corey for that matter, had never given me reason to believe they wouldn’t understand, or at least try to understand.
“It’s just hard, Corey… to talk about some of this stuff, like how to explain my experience in the world in a way you’d understand. It scared me that you would be capable because we’re so different. And also, I didn’t want you to think badly of my family,” I mutter. All of my muscles clench with the effort of keeping my emotions, my tears, reined in.
“I would never do that, Rye. Honestly, it kills me that you didn’t think you could tell me any of this. And I would hate to think it was something I said or did to make you feel that way. Because I want you to be able to talk to me about anything… about everything. That’s the only way any relationship works. But especially between us… we’d have to be able and willing to lay it out, even if it’s uncomfortable. That includes me. I admit, I probably shied away from stuff too, but…” He trails off as if he’s trying to summon more words and then changes his mind and decides to let his body say the rest. First his hand is around my shoulders, then he’s pulling me closer. His arm is heavy on my back, a satisfying weight pressing me hard against him, holding me there. I have no choice in the matter; my body relaxes despite itself, though I don’t cry. There’s another kind of release. A year’s worth of regret and anguish and guilt falling away. And in its place a revelation about how wrong I was, how hasty and even cruel it was to disappear. I tried to hide from my feelings. I tried to pretend I was in control, which was laughable, only it wasn’t funny at all. When you know better, you do better. Gigi had a pillow on her lounger with that saying.
“I’m so, so sorry, Corey. I should have called you and told you. I should have trusted you. You deserved better than that. Our relationship deserved more than that.” I say it all into the fabric of his shirt. It’s easier than looking him in the eye.
“It’s okay… well, it’s not. I did deserve better than a text message, after three years.”
“I know, I really am sorry.” I say it again, as if repeating the words will make them any more true.
“Hey, look at me,” he says.
I lay a hand on his chest and push myself up so I can look at him. His face is close to mine. I can see the slight chip in his bottom front tooth. “I loved you, Rye.”
Loved. Loved. The past tense makes me feel like I’ve been turned inside out. I’m raw to the world and it’s my own fault. I’d done an excellent job of convincing myself that Corey would never be right for me, not for the long term. Because our relationship doesn’t make sense, on paper at least. On paper, I don’t end up with the white guy, especially considering how consumed I’ve been these last few months (or a lifetime, really) with all the ways race oozes its sticky tentacles into every relationship, every interaction, every intention. It’s damn near blown up my relationship with my best friend. But here I am, my cheek on this pale chest, realizing that Corey may well be a white man, but he’s no more “wrong” or “wrong for me” as a best friend or a life partner than Jen is. I’d talked myself out of loving him because I had an expectation of what my life should look like, who I should be with had clouded my vision of who I wanted to be with. There are no easy choices, no safe choices, you can’t plan your way to happiness. So even though it goes against everything I’ve ever told myself about how my life should look, and it won’t be easy or uncomplicated, I know it’s what I want, who I want. So there’s only one thing to do.
I close the two inches between Corey’s face and mine. I kiss him. It’s not enough. I’m not close enough. I climb on top of him and arrange myself so that as many parts of me are touching as many parts of him as possible.
We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, to the fresh sheets I put on the bed this morning, just in case. Within seconds, Corey is shimmying out of his dark jeans and I have the familiar shock of his pale penis and blond pubic hair. Before Corey, I somehow thought all of them were the same color, so his bright pink dick took me by surprise. Right now, it may be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And while I used to love our drawn-out foreplay, I don’t want or need any of that. I’m desperate for him to be inside me as quickly as possible. I want to give myself over to him completely, until we both can’t take it anymore, and that’s exactly what happens. It’s been too long since I’ve had this feeling, a euphoric release and total surrender that I only ever experience during sex or at certain points in running, consumed not by thoughts or worries or anything at all, except the purest of pleasure. It’s bliss.
Corey looks up at me, flushed with pleasure when we’re done. “So yeah, wow.” He traces a lazy finger around the edge of the black lace bra I carefully selected—again, just in case.
“Like old times.” I smile down at him, wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.
We take a minute to rearrange ourselves on the couch so that I am lying on top of him. Our breathing slows, starts to match breath for breath. I wait for Corey to say something and sense he’s waiting for the same. Now what?
There’s a lot of things I want in this moment: Corey to stay over (I don’t even care that his hideously loud snoring will keep me up all night); for him to wake me by burying his face between my legs like he used to; or for him to wear my pink bathrobe in the morning while I make us eggs. All the fears, the doubts—they’re still there, and I could let myself give in to them and convince myself all over again that it’s too much, that it would be too hard, it’s too late. Or, or, or. It’s funny that I’m acting like I have a choice at all. This, whatever it is, is happening.
Through the panel of windows, I watch fluffy white flakes flutter through the ink-black air. As I work up the nerve to say what needs to be said, I hear
the most beautiful sound.
Do it, baby girl. Show him your heart. Gigi is back.
Chapter Sixteen JEN
Dear Tamara,
I don’t know if you’ll read this letter, and maybe it’s selfish or wrong for me to reach out to you, but I had to try.
There’s nothing I can do to take away your pain, but I want you to know how badly I feel for your loss, how I think about your son every single day, how I will regret what I did for the rest of my life.
I have a son now too. His name is Chase and he’s six weeks old today. Becoming a father has changed me, made me a better man. I think about this little person all the time. I’ll do anything I can to keep him safe, to protect him. I’d die for him. And I don’t know what I would do if anyone ever took him away from me.
I can’t make excuses for what happened in those five seconds, but I want to own up to what I did. You deserve that. You deserve your son back; I wish I could give that to you, but I can’t. One day I will have to tell my own boy what I did. I’ll have to tell him so that he understands the power we all have to harm other people even when we don’t mean to.
I’ll tell him because I want him to be better than me, to do better than me.
I became a cop so I could help people, not hurt them, and I fell short. And even though I’ll never work as a police officer again, I hope I can still find a way to help people, to do some good.
I don’t know if you want to hear this. My wife says as a mother this is what she would want to know. I held Justin’s hand while we waited for the ambulance. He told me his name and I told him to hang on. He asked for you and I said you were on your way.
I don’t want you to think that I believe there’s anything I can say or do to make this right. There’s not, I know that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I only want you to know that I will carry your son’s memory and do the best I can with my own life to honor his.
Kevin Murphy
The letter lies there on the kitchen table, tucked beneath a vase of fresh deli daisies. The words slant across the page in Kevin’s best penmanship, the cursive the nuns taught him at St. Francis. He had debated typing it.
“No. That’s too formal. Typing it wouldn’t be right,” he said, to himself more than to me.
Each time he messed up he started over with a fresh piece of paper, the discarded attempts crumbled and scattered like little rocks across the floor. Until finally, he had a version he was happy with—then it sat right here on the table for two days, while Kevin decided what, if anything, to do with it. Neither of us has touched it, by some sort of unspoken agreement.
I don’t want it to be the first thing Riley sees when she gets here. It’s just Riley, I remind myself.
My kitchen’s a wreck and I regret I didn’t clean up more. There are half-packed boxes everywhere, adding to the chaos. I make a half-hearted attempt to wipe up spilled breast milk from the table with my bare hand, throw some odds and ends cluttering the counter into a box, along with the letter, laid carefully on top before I close the flaps.
The bread sizzles in the frying pan on the stove. I add more butter, brown sugar, and the bacon bits. I had to go to three different stores to find them. I flip each slice one last time, then turn the heat to low and cover the pan.
When the doorbell rings, I start to holler to come on in, then look down at Chase, strapped to me in the BabyBjörn, and think better of it. He’s not asleep, but he’s not exactly awake either. I cross through the living room and fling open the door. There’s a burst of air that carries the faintest hint of an early spring.
Fred makes a mad dash to greet our visitor. I can barely see Riley over the giant baby stroller she’s struggling to push around the dog and up the one step of our porch. With its dual cup holders and cozy detachable bassinet, it’s the opposite of the stained and rickety hand-me-down of Annie and Matt’s that we’ve been using since Chase came home from the hospital.
I stand there a little dumbstruck.
“It was on your registry.” Riley says it so casually, like it’s a rattle and not a $500 stroller, the nicest item on the list. “I bought it months ago. When you first posted it.”
We manage to wrestle it into the tiny foyer. “It’s incredible. Thank you.”
I want to hug Riley hello, except the stroller stands between us, a barrier, and by the time she maneuvers around it in the narrow hallway, the moment has passed. Instead of reaching for me, she peeks at Chase in the carrier. “Is he asleep?”
“Sort of. I need to feed him pretty soon. I should also feed Fred. I just remembered that. Nothing makes you forget that you have a dog like having a baby.”
Riley trails behind me to the kitchen and I see her take in the mess—all the boxes.
“What’s all this?”
“Surprise?” That was stupid, but I’m nervous to see Riley and tell her my news. “We’re… we’re moving. I wanted to tell you in person.”
Riley looks around for a place to sit and I rush over. “Here, here, let me get that.” All of the kitchen chairs are filled with various junk, a string of Christmas lights, piles of old tax returns. I grab everything and push it into a pile on top of the table. “Sit, sit.” I gesture to the chair as if it’s a throne.
“Where are you going?” She sags into the wooden chair.
“Jacksonville.”
“Jacksonville! As in Florida?”
“Yeah, birthplace of Burger King!”
“Jen… this is serious. I can’t believe it. You’re leaving? Just like that?”
“I know, I know. It all happened so fast. We went to visit last week. Kevin’s got a cousin who bought us two tickets with his airline miles. At first we just left so Kevin could have some space to think about the deal, but while we were there the cousin offered him a job—at his landscaping business. And it just… it makes sense. To get out of here.”
“Wow, okay. It’s a lot. I’m trying to process.”
“I know, me too.” Moving almost a thousand miles away from the only place we’ve ever lived is not what I imagined for our future, but nothing has been what I imagined.
We were walking on the beach when Kevin finally made his decision about the deal.
“I’m going to do it, Jen,” he said. “I’m not going to put you and Chase through any more hell.”
“You’re sure?” I said.
“I’m sure. You don’t deserve it and, besides, it wouldn’t be right. I can’t get on that stand and say that I feared for my life.” He wrung his hands, working his knuckles into loud cracks. “Maybe I did in the moment. Maybe I want to believe that I did. But it’s still no excuse. I… reacted. And I can’t look that boy’s mother in the eye and say that I feared for my life. This is what I deserve—worse, probably—but at least this.”
We both stared at the foamy waves that lapped our toes. I could only hope something good comes of this, not for our family, but for the system, as Riley called it. The DA said she wanted to make Kevin an example. Well, now he is one, an example of someone who accepts consequences, who breaks the silence. More people need to. I get that now. Maybe it’ll make a difference. Maybe it’s some small silver lining.
Kevin called Brice to tell him his decision, and then he passed out for twenty-four hours straight. I hovered by the bed, watching him, worried out of my mind that we’d entered another terrible phase, that Kevin’s plan was to sleep (or drink) his way through the rest of his life and that I’d regret my decision to stand by him no matter what. But then he woke up, and the color was back in his face; he stood up straighter, as if a weight had been lifted. Our second night in Florida, we laid with our limbs twisted together like we used to do when we were first dating, only this time Chase was nestled between us. Kevin held on to our son’s tiny fist with his own meaty hands. “We made a person, Jaybird. I can’t believe it.” He smiled then, a barely there smile. Any trace of happiness still feels like an indulgence, something we shouldn’t get to have after everything that’s happened. How m
uch is he entitled to after what he did? The guilt follows us everywhere like a shadow. And sometimes, when we’re happy, when we dare to smile, or delight in our child, or feel optimistic about the future, that shadow reminds us to be humble. And grateful for mercy.
“I want him to respect me,” Kevin said. “To look up to me, but I’ll never be able to change what happened.”
“No, no, you won’t,” I replied simply. I could only offer my husband the truth, my unconditional love, and the fact that I had stayed.
He paused before he said what we had both been thinking. “What if we lived here?”
We both knew staying in Philly would be impossible now that he’s testifying at Cameron’s trial in a few months. We’re already pariahs among people we thought were family, and members of our actual family too. Ramirez won’t speak to Kevin. No one on the force will either. And despite Cookie’s best efforts, Frank and Matt are a cold wall of silence. And then there’s the fact that no one in Philly will hire the guy who shot the kid. Down in Florida, Kevin has the chance to work. Our financial situation has gone from bad to bleak to impossible, and we still don’t know if we’re going to be personally sued; it’s like waiting for the results of a test to see if you have a horrible disease. There’s nothing we can do except hope for the best. But in the meantime, we have food, and Chase has clothes, even if they’re almost all Archie’s hand-me-downs, and with the security deposit on this place and Kevin’s last paycheck, we’ll be able to cover our first month’s rent in Jacksonville, and that’s what I focus on: our immediate needs are met. It made it easy to decide what to do with that $10,000 check from the Order of Kings: that money was never mine or Kevin’s to keep. When I cashed it, I did it at one of those dodgy check-cash places where they take 10 percent and don’t need to know your name. I got a $5,000 money order and sent it anonymously to Strawberry Mansion High School with instructions to start a scholarship fund in Justin’s name. I made out a check to Riley with the rest, right there in my wallet.
We Are Not Like Them Page 30
