by Cydney Rax
“Hey, Indy,” my voice dragged.
Silence.
“Indy?” I said in irritation, not in the mood to play around even with my friend.
“Not Indy, me, Mom.”
My knees buckled.
“Lauren?” I laughed, and put my hand over my heart. “Lauren? Where are— How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
I threw back my head and gasped, sucked in a large amount of breath, and gasped again.
“What are you doing over at . . . at Indira’s?”
“Mom, you think I’m dumb enough to live with both Brad and Aaron?”
I laughed and laughed, like an exhausted woman who’d just given birth after twenty hours of labor.
“Ahhh, my baby. You’ve been with—with Indira all this time?”
“All this time.”
I threw down the phone and flung myself on my knees, not having any words, but raising my hands to the heavens.
EVERY NIGHT THAT WEEK, I TALKED to my daughter. She was still moody, didn’t really say much, but at least she allowed me to talk, let me ramble like an idiot, without hanging up in my face.
Derrick, who was just as shocked about Lauren being at Indira’s, felt it was best that she stay there for a while. At first I disagreed, but eventually relented. I wanted what was best for everyone involved, and decided to take things one day at a time.
TWO WEEKS LATER.
Lauren, Derrick, and I entered the two-thousand-seat sanctuary of Solomon’s Temple. My hands were sweating so much I had to wipe them on my dress. The music was thumping, the choir was harmonizing, and the entire atmosphere was drenched with high-spirited worship and praise music. It had been a whole year since I’d last been there. I shivered, feeling as if I’d been swallowed up into another world.
When we walked down the sloped center aisle, I couldn’t believe how many members smiled and waved, or came up and gave me warm hugs. “How you doing, Sister Davenport? We’ve missed you.” I was embarrassed, shocked, and thrilled all at once, and was unable to mumble one suitable word. I just received the embraces with a grateful smile and remained in awe at the transformation in process. I was happy. I was home. And it amazed me to learn how things can happen in your life that make you stop going to church, but then something happens that makes you go back.
By the end of the service, I felt so invigorated, so lifted with hope. I raised my head high, not because I felt arrogant, but because I felt I had as much right to be there as anyone else; that even though I had numerous flaws and didn’t feel equal to the other devoted church members, God loved me enough to work with me, in the middle of my mess, just as I was. And when we passed by the administrative offices, I couldn’t help noticing the banner:
SOLOMON’S TEMPLE PRESENTS
The 2nd Annual Mother-Daughter Retreat
THEME: NEW BEGINNINGS
Register Now for This Empowering
Four-Day Weekend That Will Change Your Life
APRIL 6–9
Cost: $225.00 Mothers—$185.00 Daughters
RETREAT MOTTO: Thinking beyond where
you are will bring you out from where you are.
I stood and stared at the banner for a long time. Looked at the hordes of women who were lining up to complete the registration and make payments. Looked at my daughter, who stood next to her dad with a stony expression on her face. I motioned to Lauren and we walked a ways down the hall, found a bench, and took a seat.
“So, I’ve been doing a little bit of thinking about this retreat stuff. Have you?”
“Not really,” she replied, and folded rigid arms across her breasts.
“Okay, Lauren. I won’t pressure you.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Look, Lauren, if you think I’m still involved with Aaron, don’t bother. I haven’t talked to him in almost three weeks.”
The hardness of her eyes, forehead, and jaw softened. And even though I could surmise she was probably relieved that Aaron and I hadn’t talked, a flicker of disappointment was still etched on her face. Her bottom lip trembled and her folded arms collapsed to her sides.
“Oh, Mommm.”
I grunted and clasped my daughter in my arms, rocking her like she was a three-year-old, even though I knew she’d never be that innocent again. If I acted fast enough, maybe I could prevent what had happened between me and my own mom; maybe I could regain my daughter by letting go of what I’d tried so hard to hold on to.
Sitting close to her, I moaned and buried my face in her hair and released the words that had been inside of me longer than I wanted to admit.
“Baby, there’s something I have—I have to tell you, and it’s hard for me to say this, but . . . I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong, Lauren. I know this, I know I hurt you, and I’m . . . I am so very sorry.”
The reprimands and ugly looks I’d expected didn’t come. Instead I felt my daughter trembling and convulsing as if she were fighting against some invisible force. She looked in my eyes, her legs, arms, and torso vibrating. With each jerk of her body, it seemed she was releasing a buried emotion. I gripped my arms around her, pressing her against me, transferring her burdens, and welcoming them inside my soul. We said nothing for the longest, and my ears belonged to her, if she would have me.
After what felt like a long tired day, and with her head now resting against my chest, I heard Lauren whisper:
“Me too, Mommy. I—I—I’m . . . sorry too.” I couldn’t believe she’d said that, and I wanted to scream. We rocked and held each other for so long it seemed like one long and awful experience had turned into a brand-new day—just like that.
Lauren 36
“Acceptance is one of the first steps toward healing,” announced Miss Debbie, our unit’s counselor. Miss Debbie, a voluptuous yet holy-looking woman, sat in the circle just like the rest of us: ten women with ten daughters ranging in age from thirteen to nineteen. I looked around the classroom, hoping we’d not have to say anything or make any confessions.
Miss Debbie held Mom’s complete attention. Mom was holding on to my hand so tight I thought my bones would splinter.
“As we discussed last night, many of you are here not really by choice but by divine appointment. You are here because you’re ready for a change; you’re seeking a new beginning for your lives. And that new beginning is going to come again by . . .”
“Acceptance,” we said in unison, as Miss Debbie pointed at the word written in bold letters on the presentation board.
“If you are not yet able to accept a situation that’s come up in your life—a job loss, a death, a separation, or a divorce—the healing process will be delayed. Now I don’t mean that you should force yourself to accept a situation before you’re ready, but be willing to acknowledge the reality of where you are, because that’s what you’re going to have to do to make that first crucial step.”
“Okay, now who in this group needs to acknowledge something that’s been difficult to face up till now?”
Half the women raised their hands. Mom’s hand continued to clutch mine.
“I see. I guess only some of y’all have problems, the rest of you must be gliding through life, huh?”
That remark brought a few chuckles and shifting of tired legs.
Miss Debbie gave an example of what she’s had to accept: because of cancer, she’d lost a lot of hair and had had to resort to wearing wigs and hairpieces.
“So you see, not every black woman is gung-ho about buying fake hair, but like comedienne Margo Hickman says, ‘If you can’t grow it, sew it.’ ”
“I can sew. Pass me some needle and thread,” someone yelled, while the rest of the group laughed.
“Okay, I know there’s someone else out here that has a situation that they’ve been unable to face. Maybe it’s something so painful that it’s hard to talk about. Is there anybody in the house today?” Miss Debbie asked.
Most of the women murmured “Yes” or waved their hands.
&
nbsp; I saw Mom raise her hand and stand up. I was surprised when I heard her clear her throat.
“I’ve had trouble f-facing something that’s bothered me in my life.”
“You wanna talk about it, sweetie? Only if you want to,” Miss Debbie said with a warm smile.
Mom sighed. Glanced at me. Looked at the women sitting in the circle.
“Yeah, I do. My problem is . . . I’ve had trouble accepting that I haven’t been the best mother that I can be to my only child, my daughter who’s here with me. For the past few months, I chose to live life in a way that, that, that hurt her,” I rubbed Mom’s hand, “and hurt me and other people, too, and I—I . . . well, sometimes it’s hard to admit there are things about myself that I hate, but I’m trying . . . I’m trying,” Mom screeched, pushing the words out of her mouth and her soul with a tortured vengeance. She gasped, closed her eyes, sat back down, and covered her face with her hands.
“SINCE YOU GUYS ARE OUT OF MCFLURRIES, may I get a rain check?”
I froze. Hadn’t heard those words in so long, they brought back a flood of memories. He laughed at my startled expression. My shoulders loosened and my nervous laugh joined his.
“Hey, you got a moment?” he asked.
I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to go before I was supposed to punch out, but I called out to my coworker and told her I was leaving a little bit early.
He met me right outside McDonald’s, looking just as I remembered. Calm, happy-go-lucky, with his hands buried deep in his pockets. It was now the beginning of June and a few months since we’d seen one another—a bittersweet realization that things had changed just that fast.
“I was in the neighborhood and was thinking about you. Didn’t know if you’d be here, but thought I’d take that risk.”
“You always were a risk-taker,” I said, even though that wasn’t what I meant.
“You mean I always did stupid things.”
I placed my finger against his lips, gazing at them far longer than what I thought I could ever do again. Like me, he noticed the charge in the air, but averted his eyes and pulled back.
“You guys are always in my thoughts, always.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, and swallowed hard. “You seen my mother lately?”
He smiled and glimpsed at the sky. It was a muggy Houston afternoon, overcast, the sun hidden seemingly out of our grasp. I waited for his answer, expecting a denial or a confession, but he never said a word, just continued gazing at the sky like it held the answer to my question.
“Okayyyy,” I said. “New business: What’s Brad been up to?”
He scoffed. “Don’t know. Last I heard, he might have relocated to Hotlanta.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope . . . we stayed roomies for a month or less after . . . uh, and, well, we’ve been out of touch.”
“I see,” I said, thinking about what never could have been.
“Hey,” he said, face brightening, “how’s old Mr. Hayes?”
“Same ole, same ole. Still doing his thing, except now he’s with Big K.” I giggled.
“Same ole, same ole,” Aaron teased with a wink.
“And how is your father?” I asked.
He stopped laughing. “Well, Lauren, my dad went on to be with the Lord.”
“Oh no,” I said, covering my mouth with my hand.
“No, it’s cool. I’m all right with it. He was suffering so much, and I didn’t like seeing him in all that pain anyhow.”
“That must’ve been awful to watch, Aaron.”
“Awful is not the word. Yeah, it was tough, but we made it through, my mom, my relatives. Yep, his spirit left this earth on the second day of April.”
He looked down at his hands and fiddled with his fingertips. I wanted to touch Aaron, rub his shoulder, anything, but felt too afraid. Like it would be too much, too late.
Aaron looked up, his eyes crinkled. “But you know what? The good thing about it is, a few days before he died, he . . . he talked. Dad had been in a coma for a while, but I actually got to hear him say some words, Lauren,” he said, staring into space. “Anyway, what happened was a trip. As usual, my mom was in the hospital room and she heard my dad trying to say something. I happened to be down the hall, and she came flying out of the room looking like she’d seen the ghost of . . . whoever. And Mom couldn’t even talk, just motioned with her eyes. I ran to the room. My dad’s little body was shrinking in his bed. And I heard his voice weakened by the certainty of death, and he said, ‘Khristian? Khristian. What’s a five-letter word for, for, for . . .’ I barely heard, yet I know I heard him and I was like, ‘Daddy, what did you say?’ And he took a deep breath and tried again. He answered me directly, Lauren,” Aaron exclaimed, and hugged me around my waist, and I didn’t mind him grabbing me like that.
“I always hated to be called Khristian, but you don’t know how it felt to hear my dad call me that . . . I felt it was Dad’s way of saying good-bye . . . him saying something that he knew would catch my attention. And these days I’m the king of crossword puzzles, if you can imagine that.” He smiled.
“That’s good to hear, Aaron.” I smiled back. “At least you got to hear his voice one last time.”
“Yeah, that means everything to me, and, well, I just . . . just had to tell somebody,” he mumbled, and released me.
I nodded my reply.
He stood there for a moment, staring at me but not really looking at me.
“Lauren, would you—can I ask you to do me a huge favor? Will you tell your mom for me? Please? I think she’d want to know.”
I gazed at Aaron, reliving the memories yet at the same time letting them go. No longer wondering what would have happened if I’d had a chance to let him show me what making love was about. The thing I used to dream about and thought should have been mine, well, now it seemed so far gone, so out of reach, that I had no other choice but to release those old feelings from my mind. As I recalled all that we’d been through, for some reason I felt an urge to shed a tear or two.
I pressed my eyes shut, thinking they’d produce moisture, but when I opened them, my eyes weren’t wet at all.
Aaron looked at me intently, his eyes large, his body rigid. I smiled and replied, “Okay, Aaron. Mom and I are supposed to cook dinner together tonight. I guess she still doesn’t trust my cooking—even though she taught me everything I’ve learned.”
“Hey,” he fussed gently, “you never cooked for me. Why was that?”
“You never asked me to cook for you, that’s why.”
“Well, maybe I could get a taste of your culinary skills tonight. Would you guys mind setting a table for three?” He smiled and buried his hands deep in his pockets.
I reeled back and stared at him. Shocked at even considering the prospect of Aaron, Mom, and me being together again. It had been months since we were together last, since that day Brad came over to pick me up and rescue me from the madness.
Mom had made such progress. I mean, she still had her ways, and could be stubborn many days. But now she tried to listen to me more, and she compromised or considered how I felt about things. And I felt very hopeful about how much the retreat had helped us, and didn’t want anything to interfere with that.
Yep, things had changed, and it seemed like it had taken far too long for us to even get to this point.
I looked up and noticed this amused expression on Aaron’s face. He stared at me, then tipped his head toward his car and aimed a finger at Pudgie, who stuck his head and tongue out the window, to savor some fresh air. I assume Aaron thought that gesture would lure me back into a once-forbidden zone, a zone I’d been desperate to abandon.
I gave a tiny smile. Aaron walked away and approached his Legend, readying himself to be my happy little escort.
“Hey, Aaron,” I yelled.
“What up?” he turned around.
“Not going home right now. Sorry.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, what if I just meet you guys
there later tonight? I have no special plans.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled once more.
I lifted my head and smiled, too.
“No, Aaron. I don’t want you coming back to our place. Mom and I are okay. Last April we went to a retreat, a mother-daughter thing, and started the long process of getting healed. We’ve made great improvements, and we don’t need you riding in on your white horse to sparkle up our lives.”
He furrowed his brow and leaned against his car.
“Damn, Lauren. It’s been a while since all that drama-club stuff happened. Hey, I know things probably hurt, but I thought you were over it. I didn’t know you were bitter.”
“Not bitter. Just better. Better off without you in our lives. And neither of us is planning to go back to that place where we were. We’ve moved on and I wish you well in doing the same. So, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta break. ’Bye, Aaron.”
I turned my back and made my way toward the bus stop, made my way toward a new method of thinking, a new beginning.
Reading Group Guide
My Daughter’s Boyfriend
By Cydney Rax
About the Book
My Daughter’s Boyfriend is the story of an impossibly tricky and provocative love triangle. Tracey Davenport was only seventeen when she had her daughter, Lauren, and proudly raised her alone. Now that Lauren is that age herself, Tracey is pleased to see her daughter heeding her advice: Lauren has decided to wait before having sex with Aaron, an older man and her first real boyfriend. But this decision has consequences neither woman could imagine, when in a few chance encounters, sparks fly between Aaron and Tracey. Coming off yet another disappointing relationship, Tracey finds Aaron’s understanding and maturity to be well beyond his years, while Aaron is drawn to Tracey’s womanliness. Eventually, what begins as a harmless flirtation turns into a hot—but secret—love affair. And that’s when things really get complicated.
Told in the alternating voices of the three lovers, My Daughter’s Boyfriend is filled with sharp, lively observations on mothers and daughters, black men and women, and the truth about love and lust.
