I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “It’s not healthy to go this long without love, Georgia.”

  “Well, I can’t put a For Sale sign on me, now, can I?”

  “You need to do something about it.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “No you’re not. But heck, maybe I’m wrong. Some women forget all about love when they haven’t felt it in a long time, and I believe they’re called spinsters. Is that what you’re aiming for?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Then you need to let somebody know what you want.”

  “Come again, Ann Landers?”

  “Times have changed. You’ll be as gray as me if you sit around waiting for your prince to pick you out of a lineup and sweep you off your feet. Men are stupid, you know. And they can’t see for looking. How do you think I snagged your daddy and now Grover?”

  “I didn’t know you had those kinds of skills.”

  “Seriously, Georgia. There is nothing wrong with asking a man out. All he can say is no or that he’s not interested. It won’t be the end of the world. Men are used to rejection, but it doesn’t stop them from asking. Learn from them.”

  She walks over and kisses me on the forehead, then gives me a big hug.

  “Are you going to Michael’s wedding?”

  “He told you he intended to ask me?”

  “He divorced you, not me. Yes. I hope you go. I always liked him, even though I know he hurt you. But you survived, because you’re strong and smart. You need some joy in your life, Georgia.”

  “And you think I’m going to find it at Michael’s wedding?”

  “If you can be happy for him, that would be a yes. Now, get out of here. Grover’s taking me to Victoria’s Secret! Just kidding. J.C. Penney is having a sale on everything. And now that I’ve got all this extra cash, I want to spend some of it. Call me when you get home.”

  “Before you say no, just say yes,” Wanda insists. “Hold that thought. Nelson’s calling to ask a silly question he already knows the answer to.”

  I’m in downtown Oakland driving around Lake Merritt looking for a new BBQ place that’s supposed to be close to where I get my hair done when I get it done. I don’t know why they call this a lake when it’s really a lagoon. And a gorgeous, heart-shaped one that’s almost three and a half miles in circumference, smack dab in the middle of Oakland. I used to jog around it when I was in grad school. Berkeley’s only a ten-minute drive from here. And right now the sun is setting and the water’s surface looks like orange glass. I pass joggers and bicyclists and am once again overcome by yet another staggering sense of how-lazy-I-am shame. There’s no valid reason I shouldn’t be doing some form of exercise. People much older than me are doing yoga. I’m five pounds away from being fat, and I don’t want to be fat, but I also know that since menopause has come and gone, it’s been harder to lose weight. My long list of excuses is plentiful, but at some point reality is just reality. I finally get why it’s so hard for drug addicts to kick their habit even when they want to. So from this day forward, I’m not going to keep using the same lame-ass excuses for not taking care of myself. And that’s final.

  “Georgia, you still there?”

  “Yes. But the answer to your question is no,” I say, and start laughing. “Are we talking about another blind date?”

  “You’re the one who’s blind, sweetheart. Anyway, I’ve seen pictures of him, and he’s right up your clichéd alley: tall, dark, and handsome.”

  “You and Nelson should let me check your eyes again, because your vision is clearly distorted based on all the other sex symbols you’ve tried to throw at me.”

  “You need to stop thinking you still look like a Playboy Bunny, because the last time I saw you, your days of stopping traffic are long gone, Miss Thang. So shut up.”

  “Some of them still slow down because they like thick chicks, so you shut up,” I say, being more sarcastic than anything. “Anyway, what’s this one’s name, and what’s wrong with him?”

  “His name is Richard Cardoza.”

  “Is he Puerto Rican or Cuban or what?”

  “Why? Do you have something against either? But to answer your question, he’s Puerto Rican.”

  “Well, if he looks anything like Ricky Martin, I’ll pick him up at the airport. So tell me his story.”

  “You’re just too cynical, and I wish you’d stop, Georgia.”

  “Okay. But you know how many times I’ve been through this, Wanda? You have no idea how much energy it takes and what it feels like to be in my shoes, going on blind dates at my age, hoping I’m going to meet someone wonderful, and it never goes anywhere. It’s exhausting.”

  “Oh, stop whining, would you? Have you ever thought maybe it might be you who has unresolved issues? You’re not Miss Perfect, you know.”

  “I know I’m not perfect, and I’m trying to own up to some of my shortcomings, which is one of the reasons I wanted to look into the men from my past to see if maybe they saw then what I’m just learning now or if I inherited some of my unnamed issues from them. So cut me some fucking slack, would you?”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m on your side, baby. But anyhoo, Richard is an interesting and decent man, and that’s all I have to say. Google him when you get home. And by the way, we’re having a few friends over for dinner to welcome him on his impending move to the Bay Area. He’s an old colleague of Nelson’s.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “See what I mean? I wish I could slap you through this phone. It’s next Saturday. Usual time. And wear something that proves you put some thought into it. Bye.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up, Wanda! I need to talk to you—or a priest.”

  “Is it about a child, an ex-husband, an ex-lover, or a house?”

  “Maybe all of the above. How close are you to Lakeshore?”

  “Why?”

  “I was looking for that new BBQ place, but I’ve changed my mind, and now I don’t know where I want to eat.”

  “I can’t believe you’re turning down barbecue! Meet me at the Sushi House on Grand. See you in ten and order me some sake. Please.”

  I’m proud of myself for turning down tender, succulent barbecued ribs with candied yams and potato salad, collard greens and corn bread, and probably peach cobbler to go. Nope. I’m having raw fish instead.

  When I stop at the light, it’s starting to rain, and I look over at the Grand Lake Theatre, my favorite art deco place to watch a movie. On top of it, the gigantic GRAND LAKE neon sign is lit up, because it’s Friday. The lights stay on until the last show on Sunday. I’m glad some things that are old haven’t been replaced.

  I’m lucky and snag a parking spot right in front of the restaurant. I don’t bother getting my umbrella, since my hair is synthetic and I’m wearing a trench coat. It was close to seventy degrees a couple of hours ago, but I’m sure the temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees. This is one of the things I appreciate about living in the Bay Area. You don’t burn up. You learn to dress in layers or keep a sweater or a jacket in your backseat at all times. This is the beginning of the rainy season, which you live for if you’re a skier, because three short hours north you’ll be seven thousand feet up and can get out of your car and make a snow angel.

  When I walk in, it’s quiet and serene, and of course they’re playing Japanese music that always sounds as if the singer is in pain. The waitress bows after I tell her that there will be two of us and no, I don’t want to sit on the floor, because if I did, I probably couldn’t get up.

  I order a carafe of sake and pull my chopsticks out of the paper wrapper. As I’m looking over the menu, I hear a man’s voice say, “Georgia Young?”

  When I look up, I see a tall, somewhat good-looking black man in a black suit and wearing a nice pair of black-framed glasses. He looks vaguely familiar, but when I’m caught off guard like this, I’m off guard, so I just say, “Yes,” with some skepticism.

  “You don’t remember
me, do you?”

  “I’m trying. But forgive me.”

  I hate it when people ask me that. I just played this guessing game with Grover Jr. I’m getting too old to remember everybody I used to know or once met, especially patients. I pretend like I’m trying to remember him. But what I’m really doing is praying I never fucked him back in the day when I drank too much. No. Because whoever he is, I know he’s not on my list.

  “I’m James Harvey. We were at UCSF together. You dated an old friend of mine for about two weeks before you slept with me.”

  I’m trying not to laugh out of pure embarrassment, but I can hardly speak.

  Then he starts laughing. “I’m just kidding,” he says. “We didn’t go to any college together. Do you remember breaking your ankle at Vail, when we were both members of the black ski club?”

  “Yes, I do. But I was pushed.”

  “Maybe you were, but it was me who picked you up and stayed with you until the ski patrol came. How’s that leg doing?”

  Now I remember. Michael didn’t want to go. He thought skiing was too bourgeois, even though he golfed—and this was probably before Tiger was in kindergarten. “Well, I’m able to put a little more weight on it.”

  He doesn’t react. I really need to stop being so self-deprecating.

  “Do you still ski?” he asks.

  “Nope. Gave it up years ago.”

  “Well, I’ve seen you around over the years, with one or two husbands, but I didn’t have the guts to say anything. Some men are insecure about other men knowing their wives in past lives.”

  “Well, they’re both casualties, or maybe I should say I’m a casualty. But oh, here comes my good friend who I’m meeting here. Do you have a card?”

  “I do. I know you’re an optometrist. I’ve wanted you to check my eyesight, just didn’t have the nerve. But seeing you now tells me this may not have been accidental.”

  “You might be right,” I say. But what else can I say?

  I look down at his card. He’s a cardiologist. In private practice. Did everybody in our age group go to law school and medical school or what? I want to meet a plumber or an electrician or a contractor. A man who does normal stuff for a living. Even still, I can’t help but notice there’s no ring on James’s left hand.

  “Hello there,” Wanda says, sizing him up before she takes off her red rain poncho, the one I find embarrassing. “I’m Wanda, Georgia’s best friend and confidante. I should know you, but I don’t. Are you a relative or an interested party?”

  I grab her by the arm.

  James is laughing.

  I’m not.

  “I’m not a relative, that much I’m sure of. We’re old acquaintances, but I’m hoping to get reacquainted if at all possible.”

  He looks down at me. If I were white, I’d be blushing.

  “Would you like to join us?” Wanda asks.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. You see that young man over there looking bored? He’s my son. He’s a college dropout. Biology wasn’t his thing. But we’re here to celebrate, because he’s also a pretty good pianist and just got accepted to the Berklee College of Music.”

  “Hot damn,” I say, and then, “I’m sorry. I meant to say that’s wonderful.”

  “Congratulations to your son,” Wanda says, trying to sound dignified for a change.

  He smiles and winks. “At any rate, would you mind if I gave you a call sometime in the near future?” He pats those long cardiologist fingers on his black lapels and smiles. “I’m harmless.”

  “No, she doesn’t mind,” Wanda says, and I kick her under the table. “May I have your card, too?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, and gives it to her.

  She is not even close to being slick.

  “That would be nice,” I finally say to him. “Do you live here in Oakland?”

  “I do. Piedmont.”

  “With your family?” Wanda blurts out.

  I kick her again.

  “He’s my family,” he says, and smiles. “Enjoy your sake and sushi.”

  “Wait, one last very personal question,” I ask. “Who makes your glasses?”

  He chuckles.

  “I have no idea. They’re twenty-nine-dollar readers I buy online and then have my prescription put in. Good?”

  “Smart,” I say as he heads over to sit with his son.

  “Damn, so is he a blast from the past you never told me about, or is picking up strangers your new middle-aged move? Regardless, he’s not so bad on the eyes, I must say.”

  “Shut up, Wanda. He’s not my type. Anyway, I met him years ago but didn’t remember.”

  “We’ve been through this before. But I don’t think you know what your type is, and you need to forget it whatever it is, since there’s no line of any type trying to get all up inside your castle, sweetheart.”

  “And throw that ugly poncho away, would you?”

  And after a couple more sake shots and no sushi, she says, “Maybe you’ll have two men fighting over you. Okay. So anyway. I’ll just tell you. Richard’s a nonpracticing accountant and a practicing divorce attorney who lives in L.A. but is relocating up here.”

  “Oh, Lord, not another fucking overachiever. Is he from L.A.? Because if he is, I’m not interested.”

  “What a bitch you can be. But to answer your question: no. He grew up in New York, but his family lives in San Francisco.”

  “Then be honest. What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s lonely, just like you.”

  “Fuck you, Wanda.”

  “No, I’m doing okay in that department. Nelson’s on that little blue pill. You’re the one who could use a magic wand.”

  “You know what? I’m thinking maybe I should just settle for a loser, or someone who doesn’t have any credentials at all. Or, even better, maybe I should find myself a revolutionary. Someone who believes in something besides himself. Like a cause. Someone who stands for something, sees the need for change, and keeps me up at night because he’s trying to help me figure out the role I can play in changing the world, too.”

  “That would make you Michelle Obama.”

  “In all honesty, I’m probably better off by myself, because when I get on my own fucking nerves, I can just change the channel.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wanda asks.

  “I don’t know, but this sake has more kick than vino.”

  “Alcoholic beverages sure make you lose your inhibitions and say stupid shit like you just did. Let’s order two cappuccinos with an extra shot before we think about getting behind a fucking wheel,” she says.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Do you think we swear too fucking much?”

  “Who the fuck cares? The only time we get to talk this fucking way is when we’re together, right?”

  “That’s so true. Let’s never stop fucking swearing, okay?”

  “Okay!” she yells.

  And we give each other high fives.

  “So when is your stupid dinner party again?”

  “Next Saturday. And please don’t wear that stupid fucking wig. I know you’ve got a head full of thick, nappy hair under there, so why not let the world see it?”

  “Shut up, Wanda. You don’t have to comb it.”

  “Then cut it off! That’s why God made beauty salons.”

  “Any other suggestions?”

  “Yeah. Bake a fucking cake. I don’t care what kind. Wait. Yes I do. Wait. I can’t remember. Damn. Oh, yeah. That black-walnut pound cake. Make that one.”

  I realize I forgot to eat my sushi and only ate the rice with the teriyaki sauce on it and not the salmon. I wave my hand for the waitress, and she glides over to us and clasps her hands like she’s praying. I wonder if she’s this timid in bed.

  “We’ll have two cappuccinos, please, with extra shots.”

  “No more sake?”

  “Do we look like we need more sake?” Wanda asks. Then she turns back to face me. “Hold on a minute, huzzy. I want
to hear about the Niles tragedy and any other juicy stuff you feel like sharing in your slow-motion life. So spill it.”

  “Well, I’ll start with the house.”

  “Oh, hell, I’m getting tired of hearing about your goddamn house. Sell it already! What about those daughters?”

  “They’re both fucking pregnant. Wait. I don’t want to use the F-word on them. They’re both pregnant.”

  “What? Frankie’s only been married ten minutes and her black husband is unemployed, and what’s Estelle trying to prove over there: that eight is enough?”

  “My feelings exactly. And please stop saying Hunter’s black, okay?”

  “Okay. How pregnant are they?”

  “I don’t know. They keep so many secrets and lie about so much stuff that I’ll just wait for them to tell me when the little crumbsnatchers are going to pop out of their ovens.”

  “This is why I’m glad I never had children.”

  “Shut up, Wanda. I wouldn’t trade them for the world, even though they get on my last fucking nerve sometimes.”

  “So what about Niles?”

  “He came to the office.”

  “You’re bullshitting me! And?”

  “I slapped the shit out of him.”

  “You’re not fucking serious, Georgia.”

  “Of course I’m not.”

  I try to skip over the details, but she’s not having it, so we down our coffee and order another one.

  “Well, all I have to say is it’s a good thing you only had two fucking husbands,” and then she hands me the fucking check.

  —

  I pull into Wanda and Nelson’s circular driveway, and it’s even colder up here because their house is on the highest peak. They have a five-bridge view, and I find myself staring out at the heavenly fog rolling in.

  I don’t bother knocking. Nelson spots me before Wanda does. He reminds me of an older Sidney Poitier. His hair is white, even though he’s not even sixty. He’s about an inch or two taller than me, and Wanda is about two or three inches taller than him, without heels, which is why she hardly ever wears them. Nelson, however, could care less if she towers over him.

  “Hi, sugar,” he says after hugging me and kissing me on my forehead. “I thought you might bail on us because you think we’re trying to play matchmaker—and you’d be right. We want you happily hooked up and married, and if the two end up being the same, all the better. Richard should be here in five or ten minutes. Get yourself a drink. Wanda’s going to strip later.”