Heaven Right Here

by Lutishia Lovely

  “Why, what happened?”

  “He’s about to turn a sistah out. He eats the va-jay-jay like it’s his last meal.”

  “You’re so silly.”

  “I ain’t lying! Before he left, he sucked my nub so hard it swelled up like a grape. I had to walk gaplegged for two days!”

  Stacy burst out laughing. “Girl, you know you’re a fool!”

  “And that’s why you love my crazy ass. Now meet me over at Aunt Kizzy’s. Now I’m in the mood to suck on something—like a rib!”

  Stacy laughed again as she headed down Slauson Avenue to the 90 freeway. She did love Stacy’s crazy butt. Not just because she’d put a smile on her face, but because she had sense enough to know the terms vegetarian and soul food didn’t belong in the same sentence!

  40

  Don’t Get Played

  Stacy walked over to the mirror where Hope was holding a black silk mini up to her body.

  “That’s cute.”

  “It is, huh? I think I’ll try it on.”

  Stacy continued browsing while Hope went into the dressing room. Stacy didn’t know what she’d be doing for the holidays, but whatever it was, she wanted to look good. She casually reached into her purse when her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Stacy Gray, please.”

  “This is Stacy.”

  “Stacy, this is Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. We’re calling because your test results are in. Could you come in this afternoon?”

  The results are back already? Stacy’s heartbeat raced. “Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”

  “No, ma’am. You’ll need to come in. Will three o’clock be okay?”

  Stacy agreed and hung up. She was too stunned to think. Why had the tests come back so fast? And why did she need to go in to get the results? This did not sound good, and that was what she told Hope when Hope twirled out of the dressing room.

  “Don’t go assuming the worst,” Hope said. “They rarely deliver any kind of news over the phone anymore. Continue to believe and remember God answers prayer.” Hope looked at her watch. It was a little before two o’clock. “Wait for me while I change.”

  “I think I need to head on over there.”

  “Not by yourself you don’t. Just wait until I get changed. I’m going with you. We’ll come back for your car later.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Hope and Stacy sat in the hospital waiting room. Conversation had been limited on the drive over, and now that they were at the hospital, it had ceased entirely. Both women busied themselves by turning magazine pages neither was reading. Hope prayed silently, Stacy too.

  At barely five minutes past three, Stacy’s name was called. She stopped and looked at Hope briefly before following the nurse behind the door. As she walked into the office, she tried to gauge the results by the nurse’s actions. It was the one who’d been there when she’d had the biopsy, but she didn’t seem to be as open and friendly this time. Didn’t she talk more the last time I was here? And why won’t she look me in the eye?

  “Do you know my results?”

  The nurse gave Stacy a small smile. “The doctor will be in shortly. He’ll explain everything.” And then she left.

  When the door opened about five minutes later, Stacy looked up into the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. The doctor was younger than she’d imagined he’d be, and he was Black, which also surprised her. His smile was warm and genuine as he stretched out his hand.

  “Hello, Ms. Gray, I’m Dr. Livingston.”

  “Hello.”

  He sat down and opened her chart. “How are you today?”

  “I’m okay. Just anxious to hear the results, that’s all.”

  “I totally understand,” he said in a voice like syrup—soft and warm.

  Stacy’s eyes went from his bespectacled brown eyes to his tapered nose, which was lightly sprinkled with freckles. His light-skinned complexion had a red tint, and his curly hair was naturally brown. His look was more nerd than handsome, but his calm bedside manner was reassuring.

  “Ms. Gray, we’re very glad you took it upon yourself to come in and that you had been performing self-examinations regularly. Most people run into trouble because they come in too late.”

  The door opened and the nurse returned to the room. Dr. Livingston continued. “Malignant cells were found in the tissue samples you submitted, but we’re confident …”

  Stacy heard nothing past the word malignant. Why in the hell did he keep talking? She knew what that meant. She had cancer!

  “I have cancer?” she interrupted. “Oh, my God, do I have cancer?”

  “Please, Ms. Gray, try to stay calm. Because you came in when you did, we see you making a full and complete recovery.”

  “Recovering from what?” Stacy was becoming more upset. “Am I going to lose my breast?”

  “Please, Ms. Gray, this is understandably upsetting, but I assure you, you will be fine.”

  “Excuse me, doctor, but she came with a friend.” The nurse turned to Stacy. “Would you like for your friend to come in here for support?”

  Stacy nodded.

  Hope’s prayers faltered as she followed the nurse through the hallway to where Stacy was. If they were calling her to come back, she thought, it couldn’t be good. This thought was confirmed as she stepped into the room.

  “… and so with this procedure, you’re home the same day. Recovery is normally rapid, and, most importantly, based on your concerns, the breast remains largely intact.” The doctor turned to Hope. “Hello, you must be Hope.”

  Hope stepped forward to shake his hand. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s quite an appropriate name for your friend, Ms. Gray. I’m Dr. Livingston.”

  They were at the hospital another half hour as the doctor answered more of Stacy’s questions and paperwork was done, scheduling her surgery for a week from today. The doctor wanted to get in and get the cancerous tissues removed as soon as possible. Stacy didn’t want a delay either; the quicker she had the surgery, the quicker this nightmare could be over.

  “How are you doing?” Hope asked again as they drove into the mall parking lot. “You sure you don’t want to spend the night at my place and pick up your car tomorrow?”

  “Thanks, Hope, but no, I think I’m all right. I’m going to go by my mother’s, and then I really need to be with my son tonight.”

  “I understand,” Hope said, but she really didn’t. She only wished she knew what it was like to be comforted by your child. “Well, if you need anything, call me.”

  Stacy called Darius on her way to her mother’s and told him she’d pick up little D on her way home. The normally reserved Mrs. Gray offered sympathy and compassion and assured her little girl that everything would be all right. At her mother’s insistence, the two brothers who were in town came over and lent their support. They made her feel so special. She knew if either one of them could have, they would have taken the cancer themselves, as well as the radiation treatments Dr. Livingston had said would follow the surgery. She floated on their cloud of love as she left her mother’s and picked up her son.

  She didn’t tell Darius Sr. After she left, she wondered why she wouldn’t tell the father of her child what was going on. She really didn’t know. Maybe, she thought, I don’t want his pity. Maybe I don’t want him to know I’m suffering. I always want him to see me as the perfect woman.

  But little Darius and his unconditional love gave her the balm she needed. When she got home, she fed and bathed him and put him to bed. It was as though he knew something was wrong, because he kept cooing, saying “Mama” and smiling. She stared into his little chocolate eyes, and at one point she could have sworn she could feel the love flowing from his heart to hers. And, tucking him in, she knew she’d live. There was no way God would give her little Darius and then take her away from him.

  Stacy went to bed but was too keyed up to sleep. She looked through her DVD collection and then remembered a book she’d recently pur
chased by a new author, Zuri Day. It was called Lies Lovers Tell, and it sounded like just the type of escapist reading she needed to forget her own troubles by delving into someone else’s. She fixed a cup of hot chocolate, fluffed up her pillows, and had just begun reading the first chapter when her cell phone rang.

  Stacy looked at the number and almost didn’t answer. But then, on second thought, she punched the TALK button. “Yeah, Tony, what do you want?”

  “Dang, girl. What kind of greeting is that?”

  “An honest one. What’s up?”

  “Wow. Can’t a brothah call just to check on a friend?”

  “I guess so,” Stacy replied without enthusiasm. She regretted that she’d changed her mind and answered the phone.

  “Well, it’s obvious you don’t feel like talking,” Tony said. “I just thought I saw you at the hospital today and called to see if you were okay.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right.”

  “So that was you at the hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re okay.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You might be, Stacy, but you sure don’t sound like it. I guess you don’t want to talk about it, though, so … I’ll hollah later.”

  “Wait a minute, Tony. Don’t hang up.” Stacy took a deep breath and continued. “You’re right. I’m not okay. I found a lump in my breast a couple weeks ago and got the results today. I have can”—No! Don’t claim it!—“the tissue was malignant.”

  “Stacy, I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  “Me too.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Tony spoke again. “Who’s there with you?”

  “My son.”

  “Who else? I mean, who’s there to comfort you?”

  “God is my comfort and my refuge. His unconditional love shines through in the love of my son.”

  “Wow, that’s beautiful, Stacy. You’re a strong woman. And I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, I just know at times like this it’s nice to have someone around.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because cancer is how I almost lost my mom. So I can tell you from personal experience to be encouraged. With God, you will get through this. My mother kept telling me that while she was going through her illness, and there were times I thought we’d lost her. But she kept telling me the earth had no sorrow that heaven couldn’t heal.”

  “Hmmm. Did she go through radiation and chemotherapy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it hard?”

  “She never complained, but it couldn’t have been easy. But if I were you, I’d try not to focus too much on the negative aspects of your situation. What happens for one person might be different for another. Try to keep positive; that’s what I’d do.”

  “Tony Johnson, when did you get to be so smart?”

  They talked a bit more, about Tony’s family, his returning to the NFL, and his getting his knee X-rayed—the reason he had been at the hospital. Just as they were saying their good-byes, Tony switched the subject yet again.

  “So you’re still seeing Darius?”

  “I’m not seeing anybody. The only connection he and I have is our son.”

  “Oh, so you brought your son to his party? That’s why you were there Thanksgiving weekend?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get in a sistah’s business.”

  “What, am I out of bounds?”

  “I don’t know, are you trying for a touchdown or a field goal?”

  “Let’s just say I’m on your team, and players look after each other.”

  “Oh, so you’re a player, is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, I’m a cautious brothah, making sure I don’t get played.”

  41

  Why I’m Here

  Dr. Elliott Whitmore’s West Hollywood office was vastly different than the waiting room at Cedars-Sinai. Instead of stark white walls and fluorescent lights, this room was decorated in warm earth tones of brown, tan, and cream with punctuations of bright orange and vivid blue from pillows and wall art. Low lighting with an amber glow came from two colorful Tiffany lamps flanking a dark wood credenza. A gurgling fountain of a goddess or guru provided serenity, while a large white candle burning on the credenza emitted a faint, floral odor. A Middle Eastern–sounding instrument played in the background, and a plaque directly in Hope’s eyesight read THOUGHTS BECOME THINGS.

  Vivian, who’d recommended the office, had said Elliott was not a typical therapist. She said he used alternative treatments, read a person’s energy and vibration, and believed that factors such as diet and surroundings largely influenced a person’s mental state. If his waiting room was any indication of how he worked, Hope would have to agree with the first lady.

  Following her episode with Millicent in La Jolla, Hope had called Millicent to apologize again. She had found Millicent to be cordial, reflective, and the possessor of a dry sense of humor—much different than the person she’d expected.

  “Millicent, it’s Hope,” Hope had said.

  “Hope, I’m so glad you called.”

  “You are?”

  “We’re concerned about you. Jack and I.”

  “I expected anger, not concern, and you have every right to be furious. I am truly, very sorry, Millicent. I don’t know what came over me. The person you encountered in that hotel room is not who I am at all.”

  “Look, as someone who could be described as the poster child for losing it, I’m the last one to hold a grudge. And honestly I was too shocked to be angry for long. I knew why I was there and how excited Cy was about surprising you with the house. I didn’t know you two were having problems.”

  Hope had quickly squashed any such notion. “Cy and I are not having problems. I am the one dealing with something right now. It’s personal, and I don’t care to get into it. I just called to apologize and ask your forgiveness.”

  “I forgive you, Hope. And our offer to have you two over for dinner still stands. I think it would be good for all of us to have at least one open, honest conversation. A lot has happened between the four of us, and we’ve never talked about it, not all together. Look, I’m not asking to be your best friend, and at this point I’m not even sure if Cy and Jack will continue being business partners. I’m just saying if you need me, I’m here.”

  Hope’s thoughts were interrupted as the inner office door opened to reveal a man who seemed as unconventional as his office space. He was younger than she’d imagined but probably older than he looked. His long blond hair gave him a boyish air, as did the gold hoop earring and hippie sandals. He wore a tie-dyed dashiki over khaki pants. His twinkling hazel eyes and bright smile put Hope immediately at ease.

  “Hope? Dr. Whitmore, but please call me El. Come right this way.”

  They entered his office where the unconventional decor continued. Instead of a desk and chair—or a couch, as movies portrayed—there was a tan love seat, two brown leather chairs, and a pair of brightly colored beanbags occupying a corner. A low-slung file cabinet braced the far wall, where steam from a boiling kettle wafted toward the ceiling.

  “Would you like some tea? Or water?” El asked.

  Hope hadn’t been able to drink her favorite brew since it had ended up on her husband’s ex-stalker.

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” she answered.

  After offering her the love seat and sitting across from her in one of the chairs, El reached for a yellow notepad and grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket.

  “So, Hope, why don’t you begin by telling me why you think you’re here.”

  Twenty minutes later, Hope felt she had adequately described the series of events that had led to her depression. El had encouraged her to start at the beginning, and she had, beginning with her years-long desire to be married and start a family, her celibacy while she had waited on God to send her mate, Cy’s fairy-tale courtship, their wedding, and the past two years during which they’d tried unsuccessfully to get p
regnant.

  “What are your doctors saying? The medical doctors?”

  “Different specialists say different things. I have a tilted uterus, which makes conception more difficult, but all the doctors agree both me and my husband are capable of making a baby.”

  “Tell me about the symptoms you believe are a result of being depressed.”

  “Dr. Whitmore—excuse me, El—I’ve always been an upbeat person, the one whose glass is half full. But lately I’ve been moody, easy to snap at people, and can cry at the drop of a hat. Becoming pregnant has become an obsession. And then there was an episode last week where, in a fit of anger, I doused a woman with a pitcher of tea!”

  “Well … was she thirsty?”

  It took a moment for Hope to realize El was joking. “After I finished with her,” Hope replied, “she was simply wet.”

  “Tell me about this woman and your relationship with her.”

  Hope gave the doctor an abbreviated version of their strained relationship. “Even though I forgave her,” Hope concluded, “I obviously am still hanging on to anger and resentment. But I’ve never been violent to anyone in my life, not even as a kid. This is starting to affect my marriage. That’s why I’m here.”

  The doctor jotted several notes on the pad and then stroked his chin as he looked thoughtfully at Hope. He closed his eyes for a moment and then placed the pad and pen on the ottoman in front of him.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to have my assistant run a series of tests to determine your blood work, hormone and sugar levels, and your blood pressure. It’s a bit unorthodox, but I’m sure Vivian told you I’m not a typical therapist. I believe in a holistic approach to mental treatment, and once these tests are performed, I’ll have a better idea of what type of treatment will work best for you. I’ll send Amy right in.”

  Dr. Whitmore’s assistant was friendly and efficient. After she’d administered the tests, she told Hope to “sit tight” in the doctor’s office while the results were obtained.

  About fifteen minutes later, El returned to his office. He carried a long computer printout with what Hope assumed was a workup of all that was wrong with her.