I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “You have never lied, girl.”

  —

  Before I left for work, Frankie sent me a text and said they’d be here by six. I had only two patients, so I took the afternoon off. I went to Neiman’s and Nordstrom’s and then Saks and back to Nordstrom’s to find something flattering and pretty to wear to Ma’s birthday bash. That killed a couple of hours.

  I’m now in my home office ordering a few books I hope to read in this century. I look out the window at a doe and her fawn. Wonder if they’ll have dating issues one day. They dart up the hill. I turn my attention to my love list, which is in the same exact place I left it, but I’m not in the mood to search for any men right now. Maybe it would be better if I weren’t here when Frankie and Hunter arrive. Give them a chance to loosen up, get comfortable, and decide how or what they’re going to tell me. I hope it’s that they’re moving back to New York and that Frankie’s changing her major to, say, hell, whatever inspires her. Something where her personality might find a way to surface. Or maybe Hunter will decide to spend the summer here, get a job, and then by Labor Day they’ll drive to New York for the thrill of it. Hunter will get there just in time for his classes, and Frankie will call from the road and say, “Guess what, Mom? I know how I want to spend the rest of my life.” I’ll listen with open ears, and no matter what she says, I’ll applaud her like I did when she was a little girl, when she got accepted at NYU, when she decided to major in media studies in her sophomore year even though I never quite understood the allure or the point.

  I change my mind about having dinner out and decide to run to Whole Foods, because a home-cooked meal could help ease the tension regardless of what kind of news they’re going to share. You’d think they’d’ve come to some kind of amicable terms after being holed up an entire week together. But they’re young. You never know. I wonder if Hunter’s a vegetarian. I’ll get seafood. I’d love to stir-fry my Latin-spiced prawns, but what if he’s allergic? Or Jewish? I’ll decide when I get there. Which is my favorite way to cook anyway—see what appeals and then improvise. I leave a note on the floor just inside the front door: Hope you guys are hungry. Gone to Whole Foods. Making dinner. No meat. No shellfish. Back shortly!!

  —

  I decide on Chilean sea bass because I love the meaty texture and the fatty content that absorbs whatever spices or sauces I use. Asparagus: stir-fried with minced garlic, crystallized ginger, and Korean soy sauce. Fingerling red, purple, and Yukon Gold potatoes rolled in olive oil and rosemary: baked. Spring greens with my sneaky homemade basil vinaigrette dressing. I buy some sourdough, but I’m not touching it. I buy crème brûlée and an assortment of those little French cookies—I forget what they’re called. I’m not even going to sniff them.

  It’s almost seven, and I’m in the kitchen with everything spread out on the island watching Rachel Maddow sign off on MSNBC when I hear the door open. “Mom, we’re here! Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen!” I yell, pressing the lettuce spinner, scrambling to turn off the water that’s running over the potatoes and the asparagus, and sliding the wok to the back eye.

  “You beat us here! Great note!” Frankie says as I hear them kick off their shoes and head down the hall. Just as I’m about to wipe my seasoned fingers on my yellow apron, standing in the doorway is my daughter and a chocolate brown Hunter! I’m trying not to act surprised he’s black, but of course I wasn’t expecting him to be, so I just say, “Hello there, Hunter! I’ve heard so much about you! Welcome!”

  I stand on my toes to give him a hug, and then I give Frankie one, too. With his wild, unkempt Afro, he reminds me of someone, but I can’t think of who it is. He’s handsome in an offbeat kind of way.

  After we break apart, I realize they’re holding hands like those wedding-cake figurines, which is when I glance down and see what looks like a pull tab from a beer can on her left ring finger.

  “It’s very nice to finally meet you, Dr. Young.”

  “Hunter, I think it’s safe to call her Mom now!” And Frankie holds out her left hand to display what is definitely a faux wedding band.

  I almost want to collapse, but it’s not worth it, so instead I just say, “Well, congratulations to you young newlyweds. The parents are always the last to know, I suppose.”

  “We were definitely in the moment, Dr. Young—I mean, Mom. We drove to Reno, and the only way I could get Frankie to understand how much I really love her and how sorry I was for my error of bad judgment was to make a lasting commitment. So this is my fault, not hers.”

  “Fault?” Frankie says, turning to him. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I know what you mean, Hunter. And it’s fine. Children are good at surprising parents, but you two are adults, so I’m sure you’ve got everything figured out, especially about your next move. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “Mom, are you making dinner for us? That’s so sweet of you! My mom’s an amazing cook,” she says to Hunter.

  Hunter turns his attention to me. “I can already tell. Thank you, Dr. Young. Mom.”

  “So, to answer your question, Mom, we have and we haven’t narrowed down our next move,” Frankie says, looking gorgeous, happy, and sixteen.

  “Well, Hunter, I’m sure Frankie has told you what’s going on with the house, so you two won’t be able to honeymoon here,” I hear myself say, and immediately regret saying it.

  “Oh, no, Dr. Young—Mom—we wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

  “Can you give me an example of just a portion of one of your carefully thought-out plans?” I look at the daughter I would like to put in time-out for about a year.

  “Well, the master plan is we’re seriously contemplating the benefits of staying here in California to finish getting our degrees, and of course I’ll get a job,” Hunter says.

  “Really?”

  “My parents have agreed to help pay for out-of-state tuition should I decide to get my master’s, which I intend to do, but I just don’t see the urgency right now.”

  “Really?”

  “His parents are the best,” Frankie says.

  Make that two years in time-out.

  “And what about you, missy?”

  “Not sure. I might go to San Francisco State. Maybe enroll in their creative-writing program.”

  “Their what?”

  “Haven’t you read any of her stories, Mom?”

  “What stories? I’ve never heard you say you write anything except term papers. Stories?”

  “And poetry. Why haven’t you shown them to her, Frank?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They’re good. She’ll get published one day, and I’m not just saying this because I love her. I know good writing.”

  “Really?” I say. This is getting better and better by the minute.

  “They’re not polished, Mom.”

  “So what? I’d love to read some, Frankie. And you lied,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “That you were confused about what you like.”

  “Well, I didn’t lie. I just failed to admit it, because I thought it would sound lame.”

  I pop her upside the head. “Like I said, the parents are the last to know.”

  And then they stand there, looking homeless and hopelessly in love.

  “So what about tomorrow and next week?” I ask.

  They just look at each other for an answer that neither of them has.

  “Where’s your stuff, Hunter?”

  “In the car.”

  “Why don’t you go get it?”

  “Really, Mom?” Frankie says.

  “Really.”

  We have a great meal. I learn that Hunter hails from Seattle. His father does something I can’t repeat at Microsoft, and his mother is a painter. He’s an only. I decide to let them stay in the honeymoon suite for the next three weeks because, hell, what are parents for?

  —

  I make sure my door is locked, and I call Wanda.

  “Married? Plea
se don’t tell me she’s pregnant.”

  “Who in the hell knows? They never tell the whole story, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Well, Velvet sure is,” I say.

  “That’s old news. I can keep a secret when I want to. I can’t believe that Hunter is black! Isn’t this just too fucking ironic?”

  “That’s one way to describe it.”

  “Anyway, as an FYI, Nelson and I won’t be able to make it to Mama Early’s birthday bash, because it’s the same day as the fund-raiser we’re having for homeless shelters in West Oakland. But I’ll send her love and a gift card.”

  “You know she loves gift cards. And you know I’ll make a donation.”

  “Of course, and we thank you. But one last thing. If and when you kick your daughter and her new black husband to the curb, they can stay in our guesthouse. And I’m not saying it again.”

  —

  “I’m getting married, Georgia,” Michael calls to tell me. I’m in Bakersfield, helping to decorate the Rec Center for Ma’s party. She’s having a Chippendale’s affair for all her hot senior friends.

  “Is this contagious?” I ask.

  “Are you getting married, too?”

  “No! But Frankie just eloped.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Anyway, so why are you calling to tell me this?”

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Are you in need of a flower girl or something, Michael?”

  He laughs.

  Since I saw him, there hasn’t been a month that’s gone by he hasn’t left me a voice message or a text to say “Hello, how are you? Was just thinking about you.” It’s been only on rare occasions I’ve bothered to acknowledge them, like when I knew it was his birthday and I was hoping just to leave a shout-out, but he picked up before I had a chance to say the M in Michael.

  I sling a strip of black-and-white crepe paper over a rafter. Why folks have color schemes at parties I do not know. What exactly is the point? It’s going to look like a room full of senior penguins, myself included.

  “I would really like if you would come,” he says.

  Before I laugh and say something sarcastic, I realize that Michael is serious as cancer. That’s not a good analogy, but it’s the best I can do standing on the fifth step of this ladder.

  “What on earth for, Michael?”

  “Because I want you to see for yourself that it’s possible to find love later in life.”

  “You mean it’s still possible to be recycled?” I shouldn’t have said that. But I’ve already said it.

  “I thought you’d be happy for me, Georgia.”

  “I am happy for you, Michael.”

  “I thought you said we were friends.”

  “I said we can be friendly, but that didn’t mean you were going to be my BFF, Michael.”

  “I know that. But I thought we’d put some salve on those old wounds, didn’t we?”

  “We did.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. Do I still detect scar tissue?”

  “Not even close. What’s her name?”

  “Sandra.”

  “Well, look, I’m very happy for you, Michael, but I’m in Bakersfield helping to decorate for Ma’s party, and—”

  “I know. Eighty-two years young. I bought her a new pair of glasses.”

  “You did what?”

  “Hold on, little lady. I called her to ask what she’d like, and she’d just come from LensCrafters, so she chose some snazzy sunglasses she’d seen there and texted me a picture of them. They’re nice.”

  “Well, that was very thoughtful of you.”

  “One last question. No, two. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it, Georgia. Is it serious?”

  “Too soon to tell. Look, I’ve really gotta scoot.”

  “Okay. But just so you know. Estelle is coming. And it would be nice if you would, too. Bring your new boyfriend.”

  —

  The soles of my feet are numb from standing on this ladder so long. I climb down and walk around until I feel the tile. I look around this big square room. All this floating crepe paper and plastic everything else is endearing because it’s for my mother.

  As I head over to my hotel to get dressed, I realize I can’t believe not only that Michael is getting married again but that he actually invited me. Of course I have no intention of going to his wedding. Once was enough.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet my fiancé,” Ma says to me. We’re in her condo. I’m helping her decide which black dress to wear, the one with short sleeves that she bought at the Lane Bryant outlet store or the one with the balloon sleeves that she got at Macy’s. They both go to the floor. She also insisted on wearing a tiara over her frosted gray wig.

  “You did just say ‘fiancé,’ didn’t you, Ma?”

  I swear to God, she’s blushing like a teenager. Her cheeks look like scoops of chocolate ice cream.

  “You are talking about Grover, I assume?”

  “Now, who else would I be talking about? I’m a one-man woman.”

  “I thought you said he was your boyfriend?”

  “He was. But we’ve evolved into something much deeper.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since we did, that’s when.”

  “I’m confused. Since you what?”

  “Fell in love! Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “How can you get married at eighty-two, Ma?”

  “You know, for you to be so smart, you ask a lot of stupid questions.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, Ma. I’m sorry.”

  “Let me say this to get it out of the way. You can fall in love at any age, but you have to be willing to give your heart permission to let the love in. I hope you get to feel it again one day. Now, zip this dress up.” As she sucks her belly in and holds her breath while I pull, I’m also thinking that I hope I feel love again, too. I step back. I don’t like the puffy sleeves. She looks like a fairy godmother, but she’s my mother, so I’m going to keep my mouth shut and let her decide how she wants to look.

  “So where is Grover?”

  “He’ll be here in a half hour to drive me over to the center.”

  “But you can see it out your window.”

  “He’s a gentleman.”

  “How long have you known Grover, Ma?”

  “Fifty-two years.”

  “What? Well, where’s Grover been hiding all this time?”

  “Alaska. He worked on the pipeline, and he stayed over there until he got arthritis, and at seventy-six he’s retired.”

  “Does he have kids?”

  “Three. Two are older than you. They’re from Bakersfield. And before you ask, his wife died of lung cancer ten years ago, even though she never smoked.”

  “That’s been happening a lot, it seems. And he’s only seventy-six?” I say jokingly.

  “Yes, so that makes me some kind of cougar, right?” She cracks up.

  “Did Daddy know him?”

  “Of course he did. They were good friends.”

  “Really? You didn’t fool around on Daddy, did you, Ma?”

  “Of course not. Anyway, we’re getting married in Reno right after Grover recovers from hip-replacement surgery.”

  “You are serious, then, aren’t you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know how comfortable I am about this.”

  “I’m almost a century old, Georgia, so I don’t need your approval. We have a long history and probably a short future, and we’re going to make the most of our forever.”

  I admit I’m quite touched by what she’s just said that I almost want to crumple over.

  Instead I say, “Where does Grover live again?”

  “In the building next door.”

  “And he’s driving over here to pick you up?”

  “I’ve already told you. Some m
en still understand how important etiquette is to a woman.”

  “But why do you have to marry him?”

  “I like the other dress better. Would you please unzip this one for me and stop asking all these stupid questions?”

  “Can you just answer my question?”

  “Because I want to.”

  —

  Turns out Estelle’s already met Grover and approves. Why she never bothered to tell me, I don’t know. She’s also seen her grandmother more than I have in the past eight months. I’m ashamed of myself for postponing visit after visit, and now it may look as if the only reason I’m here is because it’s her birthday. Which is true. And shame on me. I’m acting like she’s always going to be here. I promise to be a better daughter.

  “Knock, knock.”

  I hear a deep but raspy voice coming through the kitchen window.

  Princess Tiana is hiding in her bedroom, waiting to make her grand entrance. “Let him in!” she whispers loudly. “This dress is hot!”

  I walk over to the front door, and there stands my mother’s future husband. Even with his head partly obscured under his derby, through the peephole I can see that Grover is a good-looking, silver-haired giant of a man and he’s wearing a tuxedo! He’s waving and smiling at me in what looks like a set of beautiful dentures. I open the door, and before I can reach out to shake his hand, he takes off his derby and bends down and gives me a hug.

  “Hello, Miss Georgia, very nice to finally make your acquaintance. So is my queen almost ready?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute, Grover!” she yells from around the corner. She must think she’s in a movie or something. I must say I’m enjoying this whole scenario, because in all honesty my mother has more action in her life than I do.

  “I would like to tell you, Miss Georgia, that your mother is in good hands, and I promise to love and protect her until we float to a higher place, which won’t be anytime soon. Until then let’s get this party started!”

  And before I can respond, here comes my mother, living out a much-deserved fantasy in her black taffeta evening gown with the sheer sleeves and her tiara resting gently on top of her wig.

  “Hi, Grover,” she says. Blushing again!

  I look at Grover, whose eyes are lit up like he’s hit the love jackpot. He walks over and takes her by the hand, kisses it, then gives her a soft kiss on her cheek and says, “You look so pretty, Earlene. Happy birthday. Your present is in my pocket, in case you’re wondering. Now, shall we go? My chariot awaits.”