“From me it does. I don’t know about your parents.”
“I’ll deal with them.”
“And what are you going to tell them now?”
“Nothing different really. They’ll just have to accept the fact that this is my life, that I’m a man and I’m doing what I want to do. And that’s it.”
“Is there a chance they could cause you to change your mind?”
“I doubt it,” he says. “I’ll be walking through that gate at San Francisco airport on the thirtieth of September.”
“That’s five whole weeks away, Winston. What’s a girl to do?”
“What’s a man to do?”
“You could always take up embroidering or knitting or sewing or quilting.”
“Look, Miss America, I’ll talk to you again soon.”
“Bye, Winston,” I say.
“Love you,” he croons.
“And I love you too, Winston,” I say, and I say it loud and clear.
IT IS LABOR Day weekend. Quincy and I are driving up to Lake Tahoe for five days. What I’m really doing is killing time, counting the weeks and days left until Winston gets here, but it is also an opportunity for me to spend some quality time with my son alone with no distractions before he begins a new life as a junior high school student.
Phoenix, the dog, farts in the back of the truck all the way up and I am tempted to give him some Pepto-Bismol tablets. I know he will eat them because he is stupid and will eat anything you give him. Vanessa begged us to let Dr. Dre come to a week-long slumber party being thrown by their cat Milo, so we acquiesced, but only under the condition that the two kitties slept in separate beds. The Big Plan is to go Jet Skiing, fishing, rafting, anything we can do in, on or near the water.
Day one. “Do you want to go Jet Skiing today, Quincy?”
“Not really, Mom. I just want to sleep in.”
“Okay.”
He sleeps in. It is noon.
“Do you want to go anywhere, Quincy?”
“Not really. Can we just rent some videos?”
“Sure.”
We rent some videos. I go to the grocery store. I buy some food. I cook some of it. We eat it. We go to sleep.
Day two. A repeat of day one.
Day three. Winston does not call. I gave him the number last week and he said he would call on Saturday and today is Sunday. I am not calling him. I cannot call him. We are too close to the beginning. I jog with the dog at six thousand feet and today the altitude is making me a little short of breath but I keep going. There are two-hundred-foot evergreens everywhere and the air is thin and crisp and I can see snow on the top of quite a few mountains. I love it up here. I feel healthy up here.
Quincy and I sit out on the deck and read for hours at a stretch. It is the most peaceful time he and I have spent together in at least two years. I used to lie on his bed for an hour before bedtime or on a Saturday afternoon and read to him and then when he graduated to books with chapters sometimes he read. I’d look over at him, at his entire body, which appeared to have grown in the last few minutes; his lips moved and his eyes danced and darted across the page and I’d think: My son can read; he can comprehend things, he is making discoveries and he will soon have even more opinions about the world. Sometimes when he felt me watching, smiling, he stopped reading and looked at me and maybe winked or grinned because he knew exactly why I was beaming and I’d lie there and imagine how much longer we had to do this, lie on his bed side by side and read aloud, my arms rubbing against his cotton pajamas. And how many more times would I be able to ask him if he’d like a lift and he’d automatically put his book down and move down to my feet which I lifted and pressed flat against his chest and took his hands and lifted him into the air above me where he laughed and we did this over and over. At other times we’d just put on a Beethoven CD that Quincy liked and we’d read our respective books and eat popcorn and he’d drink raspberry Snapple and I’d drink kiwi strawberry.
Right now he’s reading book number gazillion of R. L. Stine’s “Goosebumps” series which is fine with me because he has previously finished Congo by Michael Crichton and The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley and Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor. Back in June the school sent a list of twenty-six books, from which Quincy was supposed to choose four to read over the summer. Of course I bought all the books and he promised me that he would have them read by Christmas. Don’t do it for me, I told him, do it for yourself. I’ve done sixth grade and it was good.
We take a nap. We go to the health food store, where I buy yet another bathing product because it is natural and smells good. We eat Mexican food for dinner and my stomach feels weird but we lock the dog in the garage, leaving a window cracked, and we drive to Reno where I win $225 playing the dollar slots while Quincy plays Killer Instinct upstairs in the arcade for two whole hours and then I drive home and we fall asleep and there was no phone call from Winston.
Day four. It is Labor Day and I wake up with sharp pains in my side and my stomach is bloated and I feel nauseous. I call Vanessa to ask her advice since she works in a hospital and is used to pain and suffering in the larger sense.
“How do you know if you have cancer?” I ask her.
“What kind of cancer?”
“Any kind?”
“Well, if you have lung cancer you get short of breath and you’re coughing all the time and there’s a tightness in your chest. Why, are you feeling like this?”
“No.”
“Well, then there’s prostate cancer.”
“I don’t need to hear about that one,” I say.
“Well, with breast cancer you have a lump in your breast of course,” and I grab one but figure this couldn’t be the kind I have because I had a mammogram earlier this summer and it was negative.
“If you had other kinds you’d just have pain and maybe some blood and stuff. Why are you asking me about this?”
“Because I’ve been having stomach pains since yesterday and I feel weird, like I’m pregnant or something.”
“Get real, Stella.”
“There’s no way I could be pregnant. I mean first of all I had my period in August and plus we used condoms.”
“So if it’s still bothering you when you get home, make an appointment to see your doctor and get it checked out.”
“I think I will.”
“So what are you guys doing today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Jet Skiing.”
“Well, have fun. You know what you’ve probably got?”
“What?”
“Gas.”
“I would know if I had gas, Vanessa.”
“You’re excited about Winston coming and everything and you might just be stressing.”
“Okay, if it turns out that I’ve got some kind of terminal disease and I’m going to be dead before Winston even gets here, I’ll have you to thank for helping me get early detection.”
“Bye, Stella. Call me back later if you think you’re not going to live, okay? I just want you to know I’ve got first dibs on the BMW.”
I hang up.
“Mom, is any member of our family lactose intolerant?”
“What?”
“Is anybody in our family lactose intolerant?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I was just wondering.”
He is lying on the couch now. “Quincy, I’m going to go down to the emergency room for a minute because I’ve got these pains in my stomach and I just want to get it checked out.”
“Mom, are you sick?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Want me to go with you? I’ll go with you,” he says and sits up.
“No, Quin, stay here. I won’t be long. It’s probably nothing.”
“You sure?”
I nod and nod and nod until he buys it.
• • • •
I’ve been in here now for three hours. It is a holiday, they say, and it is busy. I see a guy come in w
ho is bleeding from his eardrum and then a young mother has had an epileptic seizure while she was home alone with her brand-new baby and her mom is holding it now and there are at least four I-can’t-look boating-related accidents where folks are coming in on stretchers and there is too much blood and this doesn’t even include the heart attack victims so I just sort of lie here and read one magazine after another and wait for the results of some kind of tests they took almost two hours ago.
When the paisley curtain finally slides over the metal bar and I see Dr. Kildare appear in a light blue gown and he says hello while looking down at my chart, I feel like I need to put my hand over my heart to keep it in place, but I manage a meek hello and he says, “So you’re not pregnant and all your blood work is just great.”
“You mean you didn’t see any signs of cancer?”
He looks up at me and smiles. “Afraid not. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Nothing unusual at all shows up, but I’ll be happy to send these results down to your own doctor. Let me ask you something,” he says, looking down at the chart. “Ms. Payne, have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
“Who isn’t?”
“I mean have you been under any extra or added stress?”
“The truth?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you count the fact that I was recently fired from my job and that I’ve fallen in love with a Jamaican man who is young enough to be my son and he’s supposed to be coming to visit me in three weeks even though I haven’t heard from him in a week now and one of my sisters is giving me a real hard time about the whole notion and my other sister is all for it and the fact that I’m trying to figure out if I’m a fool and how I’m going to spend the rest of my life, I guess you could say I’m under a little extra stress, yeah.”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Strong?”
“Very.”
“How many cups?”
“Three.”
“Make it one.”
“A day?”
“Sometimes coffee can be really acidic. But you know what this sounds like to me?”
“An ulcer?”
He chuckles. “No. Anxiety. Plain old nerves. Try lowering your coffee intake, blowing out more air than you take in and getting plenty of exercise.”
“I do get plenty of exercise.”
“Have you ever tried yoga?”
“Yoga?” All I’m thinking is that gee whiz I’m not dying thank you Lord but when I hear yoga being offered as a prescription instead of say Vicodin, I know I’m in California.
“Yes, yoga,” he says.
“Nope. Don’t do yoga.”
“Then maybe you’ll just have to wait and see like the rest of us.”
“That’s it?”
“Aren’t you glad this is it?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say and I am glad I’m not dying but this waiting is excruciating and feels unhealthy.
• • • •
When I pull into the driveway Quincy and Phoenix are kicking it on the deck again. Quincy jumps up and runs over to the railing. “Are you okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine,” I yell out the window.
“Winston called,” he says.
“He did?”
“Yep.”
“What did he say?”
“Hi.”
“Where did you tell him I went?”
“To the hospital.”
“Why’d you tell him that?”
“Because it’s where you went?”
“Did you tell him why?”
“I told him you had a pain in your stomach.”
“Is he going to call back?”
“He wants you to call him.”
“Okay,” I say.
When I get upstairs I dial his number and the first thing he says is, “Stella, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Winston. I just had a few little pains in my stomach and it turned out to be indigestion and anxiety.”
“Nervous about my coming there?”
“Of course I’m nervous about your coming here, if you’re still coming.”
“Oh, I’ll be there, Stella. You sure you’re all right, now?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, look, duty calls and I just wanted to touch base with you, make sure you haven’t changed your mind about seeing me.”
“You can’t get here fast enough,” I say.
“If I could, I would,” he says.
“That’s a Seal song,” I say.
“I know, you sent it to me, remember, and it’s the only CD you played when we met and I’m not crazy about him but I play it because it reminds me of you.”
“Everything reminds me of you,” I say and kiss the phone.
“I don’t want any more reminders,” he says.
“I feel the same way, Win-ston.”
“I want you to know something, Stella.”
“Know what, Winston?”
“When I come there, I really want to see how deeply we can take this.”
I get a lump in my throat so hard I can hardly swallow.
“What do you mean, Winston?”
“I mean I have never really felt this way about anybody before and I feel so clear and light inside and I just want to see how far we can take this. I want to show you how good I can love you. You know what I’m saying?”
Whew. “I think I do, Winston.”
“It’s just that—how can I say this?—it’s just that it feels like when we’re together there is something going on between us that has to do with more than love, you know, it’s sort of like we have a similar intuition about things and I just want you to know that I’m open to exploring wherever this takes us. Does that sound weird?”
“Not at all, Winston. Not at all. I think we can work on this,” I say.
“I’m serious, Stella.”
“I’m serious too, Winston.”
“I’m not coming there to play house or play games or to hang out at the disco every night.”
“I thought you wanted to go to the disco.”
“It would be nice but I dance enough here at the resort, and don’t you have to be twenty-one there to get into clubs?”
“Yes, but you’re twenty-one, so don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not twenty-one.”
“What?”
“I told you I’ll be twenty-one on my next birthday.”
“And when is that?”
“Next month.”
“Lord Lord Lord,” I say.
He begins to laugh. “Don’t tell me. I’m too young for you.”
“Shut up, Winston. It just means we’ll be boogieing to the beat in the family room.”
“Doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m coming there to be with you, not all of dancing America. So is everything looking okay?”
“I bought you a toothbrush.”
“You did?”
“Yep. It’s plaid. Do you like plaid?”
“Not really, but if you bought it for me, I will like it.”
“And what side of the bed do you want?”
“Left,” he says.
“I like the left.”
“How about top?”
“That sounds good,” I say. “I’ll be trying to figure out the best way to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible up there, how’s that sound?”
“Sounds real good, Stella. Now I better go before I have no job to come back to.”
We hang up in our usual way and I sit down on the rug and when the dog comes over and sits on my right foot I am really surprised to hear myself whine, “Win-ston, don’t you think you would like to do a little chefing here in America?”
“DON’T BRING HIM over here,” Angela is saying.
“Don’t you worry your little heart out any,” I say into the portable phone that I’m shouldering from one room to another, expecting at any moment now to hang u
p.
“Are you sure he’s got a round-trip ticket?”
“The only thing I am sure of is this, Angela. You need to take a big chill pill because all the stress and grief you seem to be experiencing over my happiness is going right through your bloodstream and straight into your amniotic sac and if your babies come out hyperactive, suffer from attention deficit disorder and are both evil as all hell—like those kids you always see who throw temper tantrums in public—you will only have yourself to blame.”
“So where’s he going to sleep?”
“In the garage with Phoenix or maybe I’ll clean out the guesthouse and lock him in there until I need him for sex.”
“And how does Quincy feel about his coming?”
“Quincy is excited.”
“He’s probably just saying that.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. We’ll see, Angela. Won’t we? Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a ton of errands to run.”
“There you go spending up all your money and he hasn’t even gotten here yet.”
“But whose money is it?”
“That’s not the point. And speaking of money, what is going on with your job situation?”
“How many times do I have to tell you?”
“You haven’t really told me anything.”
“I’m not going back to work. At least not in the corporate sense of the word.”
“And what is it you propose to do to make a living?”
“I think I’ll sell pussy! Bye, Angela. And do me and your babies a big favor: stop watching so much daytime television and talk shows in particular because the people who host them don’t know what the hell they’re talking about and you sound like a talk show prodigy and my suggestion to you is this: get a fucking life, Angela, and stop passing judgment on people who aren’t afraid to improvise, who aren’t living by a prescription that doesn’t fit your Little Miss Muffet image, because if you don’t you’re going to end up the mother of your husband’s children who spent their wonder years at home making curtains baking cookies and carpooling and then at fifty you’ll be trying to remember what else you used to do before the kids before the husband and why didn’t I ever use my fucking degree. You’ll be trying to remember what dreams you had that you put on ice when you are forced to go back out into the real world and look for a job or a lost career because your husband will have gotten bored with your dull ass a long time ago and he’ll have gone out and gotten himself a newer more improved woman who reminds him of the way you used to be before you put that ‘sold’ tag on him and you will be angry and bitter and distraught and clueless because you weren’t paying attention and, Angela, you will cry your heart out when you pull your lemon bars out of the oven and wonder where the fucking yellow went.”
How Stella Got Her Groove Back Page 29
