I Almost Forgot About You

by Terry McMillan

  “No problem, Dr. Young. You must be busy this evening. No more patients, I hope!” And he chortles as he hands me the bag and his little pad with my credit-card receipt. I add the tip, and he says thank you twice and “Have a good night, and don’t forget to lock,” as he points to the door. I do. And although I usually eat in our tiny lunchroom, I’m so wired right now that the smell of my salt-and-pepper prawns and beef chow fun and garlic spinach is making me nauseous.

  I dash back to my office and sit down but jump back up and run to the kitchen and grab a big cup from the cabinet and then a container of vanilla-bean gelato and blood-orange sorbet from the tiny freezer, dig out two medium-size scoops of each, but this time I tiptoe back to my office, sit down with grace, and click on his photograph as I slowly push my chair backward. Which takes me directly to his Facebook page, and there he is, bigger than life on my screen: an older but still-handsome-and-sexy-as-hell version of the young Abraham. I truly don’t know what to do, so of course I call Ms. Ghostbusters.

  “He’s on Facebook!”

  “You can only be talking about Abraham,” Wanda says.

  “He looks healthy and hot, and he sent me a goddamn message!”

  “Well, what else?”

  “I don’t know. He gave me his phone number and asked me to call him!”

  “Then why in the hell are you calling me?”

  “Because I haven’t looked at his page or whatever they call it, to see who he is now.”

  “Well, you’re talking to the wrong person. Try it and see. And don’t call me back. Nelson’s half pill is about to kick in.”

  As I eat my frozen sex, I look at Abraham’s eyes and melt. The whites are still creamy and show no signs of hard drinking and drugging or worrying or lack of sleep. His skin still looks like dark brown satin. He has not gotten rid of his Afro, though it’s now about two inches high and mixed with gray. And those lips—Lord have mercy—still thick and smooth and looking as if they haven’t been bored. For a split second, I think I smell the Aramis he always wore.

  I look to the left of the screen and click on his profile to see what he’s chosen to reveal to the world. He studied at UC Davis: Horticulture. Master’s: Cornell, agronomy. Work: Horticultural biologist. (What in the world does that mean?) Lives: Lafayette, Louisiana. Relationship Status: Ask. (I don’t know if I want to. Or, if I should.) There are no photos. Nothing about his family or life events. Nothing under Contact and other basic information. Just the facts.

  “So, Abraham,” I say to him, “looks like you finished what you started. Good for you. Good for you.”

  And then I sit there and wait for him to jump through the screen or something just to say, “It’s okay. Relax. I’m still the same guy.” But he’s not moving. I know this is silly and ridiculous, but after all these months of my hoping to find him, he’s found me, and I have no idea what to say to him. And what an idiot he is for putting his phone number on the Internet. I hope he’s not still smoking reefer. I take a deep breath and exhale it slowly, then dial his number.

  He answers on the first ring. “Hello.”

  That voice. He still owns it.

  “Hello, Abraham,” I say, trying not to moan.

  “Well, well, well. Long time not hearing your voice, Dr. Georgia Young, unless you lied on Facebook about what you do. How are you, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart? Don’t. Please. Don’t.

  “I’m fine,” I think I say, but nothing comes out.

  “Georgia?”

  I clear my throat. “Sorry, Abraham, I think I might be coming down with something. How are you?”

  “I’m good. I’m in San Francisco.”

  I try to swallow the lump that just moved into my throat.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I try to get back here two or three times a year, since my mom’s up here. She’s in the hospital. Her kidneys aren’t holding up, even with dialysis. But she claims she’s feeling good. She lies.”

  “I’m glad to hear she’s still with us. And that you’re still a good son. How long are you in town for?”

  “Five or six more days. Why do you want to know?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “So tell me, are you a married woman or a divorced one?”

  “Didn’t you look me up on Facebook?”

  “I’m new to Facebook, but to answer your question: yes. And to be honest, you were the first person I searched for. But all it said was you’re an optometrist and absolutely nothing about your personal life.”

  “And that’s on purpose, just for stalkers like you. Anyway, I’m divorced. Twice.”

  “That would make two of us, then. Kids?”

  “Grown.”

  “How many?”

  “Two. Daughters. One grown. One almost. College dropout.”

  “So how are you after all these years? In one word.”

  “I need to think about that.”

  “Okay. Make it two words.”

  “Reinventing myself.”

  “What was wrong with your old self?”

  “Anyway, how about you, Abraham?”

  “I’m good. So where are you right now?”

  “In my office.”

  “Which is where?”

  “The Embarcadero.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to have dinner with friends.”

  I do not know why I just lied. Yes I do, because I’m nervous as hell and can’t believe I’m even hearing Abraham’s voice after all these years.

  “Cancel it.”

  “What?”

  “Cancel it. Tell them one of your old boyfriends is in town and that we’ve got a lot of catching up to do, because you broke his heart when he was hoping you would be his wife one day, and you need to see him to make up for it. How’s that?”

  “Okay,” is all I can utter.

  If I’d been smarter when I was younger, it would’ve been—or should’ve been—obvious that breakups are inevitable. Soft ones, which are rare, mean you don’t hate each other when you call it quits. You both know you’ve given it your best or worst and wish the other person well but be gone. Yet what if you broke his heart? What if you sent him off and he disappears on a cable car and you don’t see him again for thirty-four years? I don’t know if I was really in love with Abraham, although I have to admit I have never quite managed to reach that plateau since. Close. But how do you compare degrees of love? Even though it does seem to happen in different temperatures. Abraham created a furnace in me, and his power scared me, because at first I just thought he was a tall, black, fine, multiple-orgasmic-inducing, marijuana-smoking man who probably didn’t have a future, and before I fell all the way into every inch of his heart—or I should say let him fall inside mine—I opted out. He wanted to marry me?

  Right now he’s about fifteen minutes away. I’ve agreed to meet him here at the office because it’s the furthest we can get from even thinking about touching, not that I’m thinking anything like that. Liar. No matter what, he will never see the inside of my house nor a hotel room with me in it. I would probably break his back were he to find his way inside me, because I would probably never want to stop moving. I don’t look anywhere close to what I used to look like, and all that most men want is a centerfold anyway. This is one more thing that bothers me about most men, and especially black men: they don’t get fat. They also don’t seem to age the same way we do. They don’t have babies. They don’t have C-sections, and I’ve never seen a man with stretch marks. Well, that’s not completely true, because my daddy got fat, and Ma said he had more stretch marks than she did later on. Oh, who cares? I’m not taking my clothes off or having sex with a man I haven’t seen in thirty-four years.

  But then I think about that. Why the hell not?

  You can smell the Chinese food, so I spray Febreze, which doesn’t quite cut it, so I shove it back into the bag it came in and grab a plastic one from under the sink and tie the ties
so tight it makes my fingers red. I dash down the hall to our private restroom and get a can of neutralizing spray and blast it from the front door, around the reception area on back past the exam rooms, and into my office. I inhale, but I don’t know what nothing smells like.

  I go back to the restroom and brush my teeth and floss and put on a thin layer of pancake makeup along with a little blush, but not enough to make him think I just put it on, and I wipe off and then replenish my red matte lipstick, which I add a thin coat of gloss on top of, and rake my fingers through my hair, look in my purse and get out my favorite hand cream and rub it on my neck and arms. Thank God I wore a black knit, and just when I run back to my office to put the long jacket on, the phone rings. It’s him. He’s probably changed his mind. I deflate.

  “Hello, Abraham.”

  “Georgia, I’m so sorry to have to do this, but can we get a rain check? My mom is having a hard time this evening. One of the reasons I came home this time was to make sure she gets in-home care, since my trifling siblings aren’t helping.”

  “No problem, Abraham. I’m really sorry to hear this. But you do what you need to do.”

  “I might end up staying longer,” he says. “Will you be in town all this week?”

  “Yes I will. How old is your mother?”

  “Eighty-six.”

  “Mine’s eighty-two.”

  “And how’s she doing?”

  “She’s engaged.”

  He chuckles.

  “That just made my day. Let me ask you what might be an inappropriate question at an inappropriate time, but would you ever consider remarrying?”

  “Only if I were sure it would be the last time.”

  “Nice to hear. I’ll be in touch in a day or so, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine. Take care of your mother.”

  Whew.

  I wipe the perspiration from my brow and put my head down on my desk. Then get up and go dig my Chinese food out of the trash. I don’t bother to read my fortunes.

  —

  “To hell with all the other ones, girl, just marry Abraham and be done with it.”

  “I’m going to look for my dress first thing in the morning, Wanda.”

  “Please fuck him, Georgia. For old times’ sake if for nothing else. You’ve been on that petrified list too long, and you know you could use a good lube job—although I wonder if your engine will even start.”

  “I think I’d like to kick things off with an old-fashioned blow job.”

  “You sure you remember how?”

  “Some things you don’t forget, Wanda. Anyway. Seriously. I’m not thinking about sex.”

  “Then something is wrong with you. I thought you take hormones.”

  “I do. Low doses.”

  “Then run and buy something to make it easier for him to slide inside that tunnel.”

  “He could be happily married.”

  “So what? Is she here with him?”

  “I don’t know, but I could get myself in a lot of trouble if I have sex with him and like it half as much as I used to.”

  “Oh, girl, please. Just be a middle-aged woman who hasn’t had any in years! Take it any way you can get it.”

  “You’re sounding more and more like Violet.”

  “I’m just messing with you, Georgia, but don’t be such an old lady. Men do this shit all the time.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Get it whenever with whomever they can. We can learn from them, and especially you about now.”

  “I’m just excited about seeing him after all these years. I think I’d be happy just to hug him.”

  “Hug him? He’s a goddamn man, not your long-lost son.”

  —

  I’m too wired to fall asleep, so I take a Tylenol PM. Detective Goren’s voice wakes me up. I don’t find him sexy anymore. He’s too predictable. I know he’s going to solve the murder after he humiliates the hell out of the perpetrator. I grab the remote and press the button that allows you to see the programs you record as a series. I delete the five episodes waiting to be watched and then press that button twice to stop recording the series. I’m tired of crime. And I’m tired of being entertained. I turn the television off.

  In the morning I decide I’m going to walk the reservoir. It may be for the wrong reasons, because it feels like I’m really just killing time hoping to hear from either Abraham or Amen, but I’m praying it’s Abraham today. Right now I don’t care if the house never sells. When I’m almost halfway around, my phone rings. It’s Abraham. I let it ring twice.

  “Are you free for lunch?”

  “I can be. How’s your mother?”

  “Better. All things considered. My sisters are with her. So. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you, Georgia. You sound the same.”

  “You do, too.”

  “Is there someplace you like to have lunch?”

  “Would you mind driving to the East Bay?”

  “Not at all. You live on that side?”

  “I do. Right behind the Claremont.”

  “It’s nice over there. Green. Quiet. Lots of wildlife. So how about lunch, then?”

  “That sounds great. We can meet at the Claremont.”

  “What’s a good time for you?”

  I look at my phone. It’s already eleven.

  “How about one, if that works for you?”

  “I’ll see you then and there.”

  As soon as I hit End, I realize I’d meant to warn him that I don’t look the way I used to look. But as I walk the last mile and a half, I realize I don’t have to apologize for anything.

  When I get home, I pick out something flattering to wear, and when my wig box falls on the floor, as if I’m on autopilot I gather all nine of them in my arms like dirty laundry, walk down to the kitchen, shake out a white trash bag, and toss them all inside. I walk out into the cold air and drop them into the trash bin. On the way back in, I see three wild turkeys on the hillside staring at me.

  “They’re wigs,” I say. “I’m done.”

  —

  He beats me there.

  He’s sitting on a long leather sofa and wearing a burgundy sports coat, a burgundy T-shirt, and jeans, and when he sees me, he stands up like a king and holds his arms out for me to walk inside them. Which I do. In fact, I believe I could sink in deeper if my heartbeat weren’t so loud. “Hello, Abraham,” I say, trying not to sigh. He looks better now than he did thirty-four years ago. He kisses me on both cheeks. I didn’t even know I had two.

  “Georgia.” He does sigh. “Time is on your side, baby. You’re still beautiful,” he says, and I try not to act as if I know he’s lying.

  Baby? Please don’t. Yes. Do.

  “Thank you.”

  “Once more with feeling.”

  “I know I look different.”

  “Like I don’t?”

  “Well, there’s a lot more of me.”

  “And? You say it like it’s a bad thing. We’ve been in the world a half century, so no need to apologize. Look at this,” he says, and he opens his jacket and takes my hand and presses my palm against his stomach. Which is firm. And warm. I pull my hand away like I just got burned.

  “Please.” Now I sigh as well.

  “It’s so nice to see you, Georgia. I can’t believe we’re really standing here together, to be honest.”

  “You?”

  “I mean, have you ever thought about me?”

  “Let’s sit down first.”

  “Answer the question first.”

  “Of course. Every time I read the Bible,” I say, laughing. He takes me by the hand, the way he did years ago, and we follow the waiter to an outdoor table. It’s chilly out here, but I’m too warm inside to put on my jacket. He pulls the chair out for me, and I swear to God a man has never looked so good in a pair of blue jeans, and those legs go on forever. He sits down and looks at me, and I look out at the Bay Bridge.

  “Miss Georgia,” he sighs.

&
nbsp; “Please don’t stare at me, Abraham. You’re making me nervous.”

  “What do you expect me to look at?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re still feisty, I see.”

  They bring our water, and I drink too much at once and start choking. He gets up and comes around to pat my back and then lifts me to a standing position and pulls me inside his arms like I’m a little girl and pats my back some more.

  I could almost cry. “Thank you for saving me,” I say with lightheartedness.

  “If you ever really needed to be, you could count on me.”

  “So why the South?” I ask.

  “Why not?”

  “It wasn’t a rhetorical question, Abraham.”

  “I like the soil down there. I’m a farmer, you know.”

  “You mean a real farmer, like in living on a farm?”

  He nods. “Does that shock you?”

  “Well, yeah. Considering you grew up in San Francisco.”

  “If we all stayed where we were raised, we would never branch out and spread our roots.”

  “Have you spread yours?”

  “Well, I’ve got three sons. One lives in Seattle—he teaches high-school biology. Another one lives in Atlanta—he’s an interior designer, and yes, I’m proud to say he’s gay in case you’re wondering. And the youngest still lives with me. He’s physically challenged, but he’s a big help and, like me, loves to cultivate and grow anything we can eat.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty amazing. What about your wife?”

  “Which one?”

  “I thought you said you’d been divorced twice.”

  “I have. But I’m engaged to a wonderful woman who reminds me of you.”

  Well, so much for that fantasy.

  “I’m flattered.”

  “So what about you? I know you have two daughters and two ex-husbands and you’ve got a thriving optometry practice in San Francisco. Are you involved with anybody?”

  Involved? I try not to cut my eyes at him, because he means well.

  “I was a while ago, but not recently.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know how long it’s been since you’ve been in love or been loved.”