I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “Did he put something in your drink?” she asks as she comes back and sets a tray on the table. “Don’t tell me you slept with the son of a bitch, Georgia. But if you did, how was it?”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “So what if she did, Violet? It’s her damn business, and we could say a whole lot about some of the aliens you’ve crawled under.”

  “So what’d you do with the anger?”

  “I left it there.”

  “Left it where?” Violet asks.

  “At the restaurant,” Wanda says.

  “You mean you had dinner with him?” Violet asks now that this story sounds like it’s getting interesting.

  “I did.”

  “I don’t know how you do that, but you should market the shit,” Violet says.

  “I don’t need any details,” Wanda says, looking pleased.

  “I’ll just say this. I’m glad I loved him. Glad I married him. But also glad I divorced him.”

  “Where in the hell are you hiding the violins, Georgia?” Violet asks after downing what looks like a double shot.

  “Why don’t you shut up and wrap something,” Wanda says, and hands her a black-and-white photograph of me at eight months old, which is what’s written on the back. I was not a cute baby, and why they tinted my lips pink I’ll never know.

  “Did he happen to mention his young Asian girlfriend?”

  “She’s his daughter, Violet.”

  “Okay. Oh, she’s the love child. I get it.”

  “Are we done with this conversation?” I look at them like I’m at a tennis match. I love them to death, but sometimes I don’t want to hear the truth. Sometimes I want them to lie. Or just agree with me. Or be neutral, though that would be asking too much. But since we’re BFFs, I suppose I’m stuck with them.

  “Well, just because you’ve decided to let bygones be bygones, that doesn’t mean I have to like his ass. The only reason I spoke to him at the party was I was trying to be civilized.”

  “People make mistakes,” I say.

  “Mistakes can be corrected. Most men know exactly what they’re doing before they do it. And that’s called intent.”

  “Okay, let’s skip the subject for real,” I say.

  When we hear the beginning of a song I recognize as Lady Gaga, we know it’s Velvet calling her mama. Violet yanks her phone out of her purse, frowns, and says to us, “Lord, what does this child want now?”

  Wanda and I know Velvet always wants something.

  “What can I do for you?” she asks, listening and nodding her head as she walks around the room in those stupid stilettos.

  She so thinks she’s still thirty. She presses Off and throws the phone back inside her purse.

  “I don’t even want to know,” I say.

  “Me either,” Wanda says.

  And out she goes. We are so used to this kind of drama that we aren’t even moved.

  “So,” Wanda says, “this idea is turning out to be healthy. I’m glad. I always liked Michael.”

  She picks up two pieces of the packing paper and starts wrapping it around my mother and father celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

  “And please don’t ask me who’s next, because I’ve got quite a few other things on my mind. I think my daughter and her husband are having major financial problems.”

  “A lot of people are, Georgia.”

  “True, but I think Estelle and Justin might be brand-new casualties on that foreclosure list, too.”

  “But Justin’s a frigging designer at Hewlett-Packard! What kind of money problems could a Silicon Valley–employed Stanford grad be having?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Scarlett and Gabby.”

  “Holy shit. They are smart. Why haven’t you asked Estelle about this?”

  “I don’t want to embarrass her.”

  “Oh, so if they’re about to be homeless, you’ll discuss it then? Come on, Georgia. Sometimes you need to act like you came from Bakersfield.”

  “I’m thinking about how best to bring it up.”

  “Just tell her those big-mouthed twins spilled the beans, and then she can either enslave them or be glad you’re able to help them.”

  We wrap and tape in silence for a few minutes.

  “This may not be the best time to tell you this, Georgia, but Nelson and I are thinking of buying a condo in Palm Springs and possibly retiring there.”

  “What! Why?”

  “Nelson’s arthritis will be better in a dry climate.”

  “I never knew he had arthritis.”

  “I’m lying. We just like it there, and we’re tired of this cold weather, and plus we both want to golf anytime we want to.”

  “You’ll burn up down there.”

  “We’re black. We can take the heat.”

  “Well, you two might be the only black faces you see for days at a time, because there’s nothing but gay men and rich white people down there, and most of them are Republicans.”

  “Ask me if I care.”

  “Do you care?”

  “No, I do not. I like gay men who don’t hate women, and I don’t mind being around rich white people, because there’s plenty of them in the Bay Area, and I know how to ignore Republicans.”

  “Seems like everybody’s moving, huh?”

  “So what if your house sells really fast? Where in the world would you move?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to have some idea.”

  “Costa Rica.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Dubai.”

  She cuts her eyes at me. “What about New York?”

  “I just told Percy that’s where I wanted to live to piss him off because I could tell he’s a die-hard San Franciscan. But as much as I love New York, I feel too old to live there. And I’d only be able to afford a studio apartment, which would probably be more than my mortgage. I’ll visit. Plus, I love sleeping in hotels.”

  “Miami?”

  “Florida is boring. Too many accents, and half of them you can’t understand or they can’t understand you. I hate that humidity, and I’ve got beaches and sunshine right here, and let’s not forget those hurricanes. No thank you.”

  “What about Arizona?”

  “Do I look like I would want to live in a desert?”

  “Denver?”

  “Can’t breathe there. That altitude kills me. And it’s boring as hell unless you’re into nature. Nature scares me. I don’t understand the point of hiking, and I can’t remember how to ski.”

  “Seattle is nice.”

  “I’d need to be on antidepressants. That rain is romantic and refreshing for a few days, but not nonstop week after week. Granted, it’s full of smart, educated people, and they’ve got the best coffee, but so does the Bay Area.”

  “Would it occur to you to just stay right here?”

  “Maybe. But to be honest, I don’t think I want to be more than driving distance from my mother and my grandkids.”

  I look around at all the taped boxes. We’ve made a lot of progress.

  “My work here is done,” Wanda announces.

  I thank her with hugs, but at the front door she does an about-face. “Wait!”

  “What now?”

  “Two things. You want to stay in the guesthouse or with us while this place is being staged?”

  “No. But thanks for the offer, honey.”

  “I know you’re not thinking of staying in a hotel for two or three weeks.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I do know I want to do something I haven’t done before and maybe go somewhere I haven’t been.”

  She looks at me like she’s worried, and I push her out the door.

  —

  The rain wakes me up. And then people talking. It sounds like a conductor on a train. I must’ve fallen asleep on the remote’s Pause button and now apparently rolled over on Play. I sit up. Juli
e Delpy and Ethan Hawke are sitting across the aisle from each other on a train. He’s American. She’s French. They’re both young and smart. I saw this film when it came out in 1995, and decided to watch it last night for reasons I do not know. It’s called Before Sunrise. I do know. I love implausible romantic movies that become plausible. This one felt more like a peek into the souls of two characters who got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to share their thoughts and opinions and they had nothing to lose and it was just a train ride but as they talked it started becoming clearer and clearer that both of them were discovering themselves at the same time they were discovering each other. It was not the typical boy-meets-girl-and-they-fall-in-love love story. It’s a very talky movie, although I appreciated the things they talked about, but what fascinated me even more was the train ride itself. The whir of it speeding over those tracks. What they saw out the window. What they missed. The medley of colors. Those open fields. Horses. Cows. Sheep. And homes, farms, buildings. Even a city here and there.

  I rewind the film to the point when Ethan tells Julie he’s been riding this train for two weeks and doesn’t exactly know where he’s going. But at least he’s moving. Right now I’m right there with him. I grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting on the nightstand and then chase it down with a sip of lukewarm ginger ale, and I say aloud, “How frigging cool would that be?” A long train ride? Why not? I can afford to take the time off. I could ride up to Vancouver and maybe across Canada all the way over to Toronto and then down to New York and hang out with Frankie and fly back home. I could buy one of those passes that lets you get on and off in different cities. I could get one of those sleeper cars! I could read. I could wonder. I could relax. I could even think about my future on a blank screen until it comes into focus. I wouldn’t be hoping to pick up an Ethan Hawke. That was a movie. I’d be starring in my own. I pull the duvet up under my chin, decide to get in touch with a good travel agent, press Off on the remote, and then close my eyes.

  All aboard.

  —

  The rain finally stopped. But before I can brush my teeth, the phone rings. Without looking at the caller ID, I know who it is. “Good morning, First Lady of Bakersfield.” This is often how I greet my mother.

  “I wish I could be Michelle Obama for a few weeks!”

  “Well, it’s certainly one for the history books all right. So how was the cruise?”

  “Duller than a cheap steak knife. I was so sick of being around old people I didn’t know what to do. That was my last cruise. Traveling with folks who don’t want to do anything but pray can drive you crazy. God can hear your prayers on land and at sea. Plus, they acted like if they touched a slot machine, they were going straight to hell. They should’ve stayed home if they didn’t want to have any fun. Anyway, I was calling to tell you I don’t feel like rushing up there anytime soon, and it doesn’t feel like I’m about to go blind, and when will they be finished with the remodel?”

  “The what?”

  “Isn’t the house being remodeled, or did you just make that up because you didn’t want Dolly and Sons staying there?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “We can wait until it’s finished.”

  “But I don’t know how long it might take.”

  “Do you have to move out of your house while they do it?”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “So is anything exciting going on in your life?”

  “Well, yes. You’ll never guess what I’m thinking of doing.”

  “I’m too old to guess, Georgia, and it’s too early to play guessing games.”

  “Taking a train ride.”

  “I like trains. Where to?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “That’s the same as nowhere. Be more specific, please.”

  “Vancouver,” I blurt out, surprising myself.

  “So is this like some kind of an adventure?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly how I’d describe it.”

  “Can I come with you? I could use an adventure.”

  “Not this time, Ma.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Are you going with somebody?”

  “No.”

  “You shouldn’t travel on a train by yourself. People get killed on trains.”

  “Only in the movies, Ma.”

  “This is why you need a husband.”

  “As soon as I get off this phone, I’m going on Amazon and see if I can find one in the men’s department.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. What made you decide to do this all of a sudden?”

  “I’m selling my house.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just say that instead of beating around the doggone bush? It took you long enough. I don’t know how you’ve lived on three floors all by yourself since Frankie left for college, and you know once they leave, they don’t come back. Get yourself a condo in San Francisco close to Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “Ma?”

  “Did it sound like I hung up? I’m still here.”

  “I’m also planning to sell my share of the practice.”

  “Me and your dad never understood why you chose that field. Not exactly a thrill a minute, but it was respectable. And do what?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well, you’re never too old for change. Did I tell you I’m going to be starting a cooking class?”

  “No you didn’t. What kind of food?”

  “Who cares? It’s free, and it’s right here in my complex. You should go back to college and learn how to do something that’s interesting. And this time make sure it’s something fun. Love you, dear.”

  “I love you more.”

  “That’s not true, or you’d invite me on your train ride.”

  “Bye, Ma.”

  Smooches this time.

  Is that the doorbell? I look over at the clock. It’s almost midnight. I’m a little scared, because whoever it is, they’re pressing that bell over and over like it’s some kind of an emergency. I put on my robe, tiptoe across the room, and crack one of the shutters just enough to see a yellow cab in the driveway. All I know is that whoever it is chose me to rescue them, so I run out to the front door and pull on the handle hard enough that I almost lose my balance, and standing there like she’s just been evicted is my daughter, Frankie, in tears.

  “Frankie? Baby, what’s wrong? Has something terrible happened? Are you okay?” I grasp her by the shoulders to make sure she’s not hurt and then lift her chin up so I can see her face and what’s in her eyes. I can’t tell what, but something has happened, or she wouldn’t have just shown up like this.

  “Mom, moving to New York and going to NYU were the two biggest mistakes of my life, and it’s taken two whole years for me to realize I don’t care about the theory and history of cinema, and I’m confused about what the real purpose of my life is, and I also broke up with Hunter because he cheated on me and the girl is pregnant, so I just needed to get as far away from them and him as possible, so I decided to come home to get my head together. And I need a hug.”

  And then she collapses in my arms. I squeeze her hard and am relieved it’s not a life-or-death situation even though it feels like one to her. She looks homeless in her fake brown velvet coat and scruffy purple boots. But she’s my daughter and a casualty of love and confusion because she’s changed her mind about her future. Like mother, like daughter.

  “It’s going to be okay, Frankie. I promise you.”

  “I hear that a lot on television. Which is why I don’t believe it.”

  “Why’s the taxi still sitting out there?”

  Her tears suddenly evaporate. “Oh. Mom. Could you please let me borrow a credit card to pay for it? I’m over my limit, but I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”

  Did she just say “as soon as I get a job”?

  I then feel her rocking my left shoulder back and forth. “Mom!” I look down and see one, two, three pink-and-black gi
raffe suitcases, a navy blue duffel, and one, two, three, four boxes. So she really means it. She has come back home without as much as a phone call.

  She turns and holds up her index finger to the driver and shakes it like she’s got a nervous tic. I reach inside my purse and hand her the American Express.

  “Thanks,” she says, and runs out to the taxi.

  I start pulling the luggage inside as she dashes right back. “He doesn’t take American Express. Visa, MasterCard, or Discover.” Her big eyes are onyx, her hair a kinky black halo. Her lips are thick and heart-shaped, and her teeth—thanks to braces, and she better be wearing that damn retainer at night—are bright, white, and straight. I hand her the Visa. She forges my signature and seconds later darts back and wipes the sweat beads from her brow. She then starts kicking the boxes into the entry as I try and fail to pick up the duffel. When all her possessions are inside, I walk over to the stairwell, sit down, rest my elbow on my knee, put my chin in my palm, and just look at her.

  “You’re not pregnant, are you, Frankie?”

  “I wouldn’t ever. Children are so overrated.”

  “So why didn’t you call first to give me a heads-up that you were coming?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to talk me out of it, Mom. You’re such a pragmatist.”

  “You don’t know me as well as you think you do, sweetie. If you want to drop out of college, why would I try to stop you?”

  “Do I detect sarcasm? Anyway, I dropped out of NYU, not college in general. I just have to figure some stuff out.”

  The house is dark. She doesn’t bother turning on the lights but disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a Corona and proceeds to guzzle close to half the bottle.

  “Mom, would you mind terribly if I just went up to my room and crashed? I’m wiped out. It’s tomorrow for me. I’ll bring all my stuff up in the morning if that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, and she walks over and hugs me and runs up the stairs. Moments later I hear the shower. She has not noticed anything out of the ordinary. And I’m glad, because it’s tomorrow here, too.

  —

  In the morning I hear a tap-tap on my door.

  “Whoever it is, come on in.”

  Frankie walks in wearing an NYU T-shirt and looking baffled. “Good morning, Mom,” she says, then gives me a hug and collapses at the foot of my bed. “Are you painting?”