I did feel a little better knowing Preston would be at the helm. “All right. I’ll call back in a few days to see if you all have any questions.”
“And I’ll put you straight through to voice mail.” He stood firm. “I only want you to work on recovery, okay? I’m serious about this. You’re a valuable part of this team, but you’re no good to us if you’re not well.”
He had a point, but I couldn’t help thinking I wasn’t any good to them sick or well. How could he just divvy up my work—like I didn’t even matter?
“Okay, Preston. I’ll . . . I’ll be in touch later this week.”
“Good deal.”
The same words Josephine used prior to my hospital checkout. “Good deal,” she’d said. Talking to Preston felt like talking to Josephine all over again. Maybe they were both right. Maybe the people at my job really didn’t need me. I mean, if what I pride myself on doing can be doled out without so much as a consultation, maybe my work wasn’t important. Shoot, a computer could probably do my job, the way Preston acted.
And what if I had died? What if I hadn’t made it to the hospital “in the nick of time,” as the doctor had phrased it. I think Lexa would have made her lunch plans before my funeral. Couldn’t blame her, though. All she knew about me was my work record and maybe my birthday because Preston always recognized birthdays. He gave us each gift cards to our favorite venues. Mine had been for Starbucks since I started at NetMarketing Results six years earlier.
This was bad. Really bad. I mean, if my job didn’t need me, who did? Kevin certainly didn’t. And if no one really cared whether or not I lived, what was the point in me living? Could I possibly be here on earth for eighty-five years or so and then . . . nothing? What would they say at my funeral? “Here lies Tori Danielle Henderson. She lived, she worked, she died. That’s it. Y’all can go on to lunch now.”
I started thinking about my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Pope. She died of cancer when I was in eighth grade. Her funeral was standing room only. Her family, friends, and former students had so many positive things to say about how she’d touched their lives. At one point, the officiating minister actually curtailed the commentary line because there wasn’t enough time to hear all of their testimonies about how thoughtful, selfless Mrs. Pope had helped them. “Please consider expressing your thoughts in writing,” the preacher had suggested. But even at the burial grounds, I’d seen people approaching Mrs. Pope’s family members to tell them what a wonderful person she had been.
I tried talking to Kevin about my purpose crisis, but he wasn’t listening. I think I’d scared him with the mere mention of family the previous week. Not the first time I’d approached the topic, but definitely the first time I’d presented it as more than a rogue thought. Nothing like a hospital room full of nothing to illuminate life’s priorities, I suppose.
He left me alone during most of my recovery while he watched basketball at his friends’ apartments. He said what I needed most was probably peace and quiet. Since I didn’t have work or anything else to fill my time, I fell into a bad combination of reality shows and ramen noodles. With no calorie-burning activity, I had to adjust my intake to less than a thousand calories a day if I wanted to avoid gaining weight. Those college years made for a great experiment in how little one can eat and still survive.
As for the television shows, how could I resist? Real life is way more interesting than anything those screenwriters could imagine. I mean, who would have guessed that someone’s mother would suggest her own daughter become a prostitute? And how many dads out there jump for joy when their sons raise fight-winning pit bulls?
The “scientific” channels were my favorite—Hoarding Life, Mites In My Mind, Undiagnosed, and The Intervention. I couldn’t watch them all, so I started recording them, to Kevin’s dismay.
“Is this what you’ve become?” he asked. “You’re turning into a reality-show junkie.”
“Better this than chocolate.” I shrugged.
He agreed. Kevin had a serious problem with fat people. “They’re disgusting,” he’d said on more than one occasion. “I don’t know how they can live with themselves.”
He reminded me of my mother. “You can’t control how tall you are or how long your nose gets, but you can control how much you eat.” She’d said that to me so many times growing up that I almost became anorexic during one of those awkward preteen spells when I packed on eight pounds preceding an upward growth spurt. “Don’t sit down—go run around the block!” she’d say when I got home from school.
Aunt Dottie, however, disagreed vehemently with thinness. When I talked to her about losing weight after the baby, she’d said, “Don’t nobody want a bone except a dog.” The years I lived with her in Bayford warped my sense of the word “healthy,” I think. In Bayford, healthy means chubby. In Houston (and apparently the rest of America), healthy meant skinny. I’d tried to explain the height-weight chart to Aunt Dottie, especially when the doctor told her she might want to cut back on fried foods, but she still didn’t agree with me. “I ain’t studyin’ that doctor. I eat everything in moderation with thanksgiving. All this worryin’ y’all tryin’ to make me do will kill me before the fatback does,” she argued.
She carried on as usual and made me eat my words when her doctor died of a heart attack that next year. He was only fifty-six. “Two years younger than me,” she’d pointed out as she signed the card for his family. “Tomorrow ain’t promised to nobody, fried chicken or not.”
The more I thought about Aunt Dottie, the more I missed her. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple of months. Truth be told, Aunt Dottie was hard to catch up with. Between running her store and volunteering at the church, she kept pretty busy. I’d call her on birthdays and holidays, of course, and we’d pick right up where we left off. If I caught her at the right time, we’d talk for hours. She’d always ask about my parents and I’d always reply, “I haven’t talked to them lately,” which translated: I hadn’t talked to them at all. There’s nothing to say to people who don’t want you in their lives anymore.
Aunt Dottie would tell me the latest news in Bayford—who got married, who had a baby, who was going off to college. I’d tell her about my work.
“How’s Kevin?” she’d ask, even though I knew she wasn’t too crazy about him.
“He’s fine,” I’d say as I mentioned whatever city he happened to be visiting. Seems like Kevin was always gone somewhere when I had my lengthy talks with Aunt Dottie.
She’d sigh. “Well, I hope he knows what a good woman he’s got in you, and I hope you know it, too.” Aunt Dottie didn’t think Kevin was a good man because he hadn’t made an honest woman out of me. I’d heard her talk enough in the corner store about this one or that one shacking up and how men don’t buy the cow when they can get the milk for free. “I tell you, it’s not so much wrong as it is sad. When are we ever going to figure out that when we do things God’s way, it always turns out better, quicker, and easier?”
I knew where Aunt Dottie stood on cohabitation. She didn’t have to say anything to me about it. Condemnation and guilt weren’t Aunt Dottie’s style. She’d sooner smother me in love than beat me over the head with a fire and brimstone sermon. That was the good thing about Aunt Dottie—she granted all this free, unconditional love, and I certainly needed some love right about then.
Aunt Dottie’s number was forever seared into my brain. She said she’d had the same phone number for more than fifty years and wasn’t planning on changing it. So one can imagine my horror and surprise when a child’s voice answered, “Hello.”
I double-checked my phone’s screen to be sure I’d dialed the correct number. “Hello, is this Dorothy James’s residence?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.” I ended the call with great peace, but confusion quickly followed. I had dialed the right number. Where was Aunt Dottie?
I called again, this time determined to speak to an adult. The child answered again, “Hellllllooooo,” with anno
yance in his or her voice.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Dorothy James. This is 5-5-5-7-3-2-1, correct?”
“Yep, but nobody lives here ’cept me and Aunt Dottie,” the child informed me between heavy breaths.
I laughed to myself. I forgot—everyone in Bayford called Miss Dorothy James Aunt Dottie whether she was blood kin or not. “May I speak to Aunt Dottie, then?”
“She’s not here. She’s in the hospital.”
“What?!” I tapped the television’s mute button and sat up quickly, thankful that the sting in my side had fully dissipated by then.
“Uh huh. She might be back by tomorrow or maybe not till next week or something ’cause the doctor might make her stay ’cause she got good insurance.”
In the background, a woman’s shrill tone called, “Who’s that on the phone?” Had to be Joenetta. Something must be wrong for Joenetta to be in Aunt Dottie’s house unattended. And who was this running-off-at-the-mouth child claiming to live with Aunt Dottie?
“Hello?” Joenetta took over the conversation.
“Hi, Joenetta. This is Tori. How are you?”
“Well, well, well,” she cackled, “look what the cat done drug in. How you hear about Aunt Dottie all the way in Houston?”
“I didn’t hear anything. I was just calling to check on her. Why is Aunt Dottie in the hospital?” No need in playing these catch-up games with Joenetta. She’d never liked me and the feeling was mutual.
“She had a mild stroke, they say. I think the doctors are just keeping her in there for the insurance,” she surmised. “I told your Aunt Dottie she ought to walk out, but I guess it’s a bad idea to make your doctor mad at you, especially if he’s white. He just might kill you and cover it up.” She laughed at her own wacked sense of humor.
“When did she have the stroke?”
“A few days ago. She was workin’ at the store and Cassandra said all of a sudden Aunt Dottie was having trouble moving her arm, said she’d had a headache all morning.” She paused. “You remember Cassandra Meyers, don’t you? Dottie hired her over me. Shame when your own sister won’t give you a job. I was one of Dottie’s very first customers, you know that?”
I rolled my eyes and jumped in when Joenetta took a breath. “What’s the prognosis?”
“The what?”
My mind scrambled for a synonymous phrase. “What did the doctor say? Is she going to get better?”
“I know what a pragnesic is, Miss Smartie Pants. I just didn’t hear you the first time,” Joenetta snapped. “They’re going to do a couple more tests. Give it some time. Go to some workout classes.
“You know when Big Daddy had his stroke, they sent him home right away ’cause he didn’t have no money. They sure ain’t doin’ Dottie like that, I tell you.”
“What’s her room number?” No need in asking what hospital Aunt Dottie was in—there was only one within a fifty-mile radius.
“She’s in room one seventeen, but ain’t no use in you calling her. I told you she done had a stroke. You can’t hardly understand a word she’s saying.”
The vision of Aunt Dottie barely able to speak broke my heart. Was she in pain? Did she know what had happened to her? Were there flowers in her room? “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Joenetta sighed heavily and took on a gloomy tone. “Well, if you really want to help, you can send some money.”
I’d never known Aunt Dottie to be in need of money. She’d always lived beneath her means, a practice she taught me well. Joenetta, on the other hand, was a different story. “Money for what?”
“Money to keep this house going. Electricity, groceries, takin’ care of DeAndre.”
“Who’s DeAndre?”
“The one who answered the phone.”
“Okay, but who is he?”
“Ray-Ray’s boy.”
Ray-Ray? Everyone in Bayford had a nickname. Bubba, Pookie, Peaches. I had to ask, “Who’s Ray-Ray?”
“My baby son,” she practically screamed. “Has the city erased your memory?”
I put two and two together. “So DeAndre is your grandson?”
“That’s usually how family trees work.”
I had to know. “Why is Aunt Dottie taking care of someone else’s child?”
Joenetta gave a nasty laugh. “Hmph, that’s the same question I asked when you came to Bayford.”
I didn’t have a comeback for that one. As much as I believed parents should take care of their own children, I didn’t have an excuse for why my own mother had quit the job.
Joenetta clicked her teeth. “So, you gonna send some money or what?”
“Is there anything Aunt Dottie needs?”
“I already told you all the stuff she needs around here. You don’t trust me? Why don’t you come see for yourself.”
No, I certainly didn’t trust Joenetta. I didn’t trust her take on Aunt Dottie’s medical condition, the financials, or this little DeAndre situation. I needed to lay my own eyes on Aunt Dottie, hug her, look into her face and assess her health for myself so I could sleep in peace at night knowing she was okay.
The only way I could rest was to call Joenetta’s bluff. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Chapter 6
Icouldn’t believe I was actually calling in to tell Preston I needed to take off a few more days to go visit my ailing aunt. “No worries, Tori. Family first,” he assured me. “We’ve got things under control here.”
This was the first time I’d ever heard his “family first” philosophy. Since when did NetMarketing Resolutions become a family-friendly company? Not that I would know, since I’d never called in due to my child’s fever or my mother-in-law’s surgery. Never had to take off the afternoon for my niece’s awards assembly. But when I thought about it, Preston always encouraged people to take off or do whatever they needed to do for family’s sake. I was probably due some family-related off days, come to think of it. Maybe this would even give the folk at NetMarketing Results a chance to see what a truly valuable team player I was. Preston had said my clients were asking about me. Always a good sign.
Kevin came home from one of his sports nights with the fellas and found me packing. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Bayford. My Aunt Dottie had a stroke. I need to check on her,” I stated coldly while stuffing wrinkle-free fabrics into my largest suitcase.
“Bayford?”
“Yes.” I stopped to look at him. His face was contorted, but not with worry. More like annoyance.
“Who’s Aunt Dottie?”
“Aunt Dottie Lester. The Lesters? I have family there, remember? People who actually care about me.” I couldn’t resist. The no-card, no-flower issue still grated me.
He shook his head. “So what are you trying to say?”
“I’m just saying . . . I can’t depend on you for everything, obviously.”
Shock skittled across his face. “Oh my gosh! I’m like the most dependable person on the face of the planet. I pay almost every bill in this condo, I do everything you ask me to do. What’s the problem?”
I sighed. Kevin was right. He was dependable. But high credit score aside, when I needed him to be there for me, he wasn’t. “Kevin, you have your life. Your work, your friends, and people in your corner who would drop everything if you had a sudden health scare.”
“Babe, I would have come if I could have.” He walked around the bed and stood. “It’s physically impossible to be in Houston and Chicago at the same time. You know that, right?”
“Yes, I know.” He had his point, but he wasn’t getting mine and I didn’t know how to explain it to him because I think sometimes you have to experience a certain predicament to understand where a person is coming from. “I don’t expect you to feel me on this. I just need you to work with me, okay?” I tiptoed to kiss his lips.
He reciprocated, one hand spider-walking down my backside. In the past, I might have fallen for his version of foreplay, but given the circums
tances, this felt more like groping than caressing.
“What am I supposed to do with myself while you’re gone?”
I pushed him away. “The same things you’ve been doing since I came home from the hospital, I guess. Go to your friends’ places. Watch sports. Carry on with your same bachelor’s lifestyle.”
“Is this about getting married?” He was so clueless.
Packing resumed. “No. It’s about being committed.”
“Isn’t that the same thing as marriage?”
“Yes and no. I mean, are you committed to me?” I stopped for a moment to read him.
He stumbled through a few expressions—uncertainty and dismay to be exact. “Yeah, I mean, I love you. We’ve been together all this time.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“What’s your definition of committed?” Kevin crossed his arms.
“Committed means when I need you, you’re there without me asking. You’ll drop everything to help me. And when I’m in the hospital, you send flowers.” Maybe that last part wasn’t quite in Webster’s book, but it was definitely in mine.
“Since when have you ever wanted me to send flowers?”
“I’m not sure when I decided I liked flowers. Kevin, it’s not about the flowers. I just needed to know that somebody cared about me, all right? Is that too much to ask?” Unexpected tears formed in my eyes and fell quickly.
Kevin hugged me again. “Don’t freak out, Tori, dang. I’m sorry. You worry too much. I do care about you. I didn’t know you wanted flowers. I mean, we’re not a touchy-feely couple.” He was right. In fact, I rather prided myself on the notion that I wasn’t the “needy” type. Where Kevin despised obesity, I could not stand needy, whiny, high-drama people who expected the world to stop because they’d gotten a flat tire or missed a flight.
“We’re touchy-feely when we have sex,” I suggested, my words muffled by his shirt pressed against my lips.
He leaned down a bit, grabbed my thighs from behind and hoisted me up onto his waist. “You kind of have to touch and feel in order to participate.” His hungry gaze met mine now. “I’m sorry for whatever I did or didn’t do, okay?”
Someone to Watch Over Me Page 4
