The Million Dollar Demise

by RM Johnson

  Nate looked up at the television screen.

  “Oh, this is a funny part.”

  Playing on the screen was a DVD he and Monica had watched at least half a dozen times when they were married. It was hilarious. Nate had brought it from the house. He needed to try to laugh in spite of everything.

  “Remember this, babe?” Nate said, looking to Monica, praying that she would just wake up at that moment, as he prayed every time he looked at her.

  But she wouldn’t, not then, not ever, a voice inside his head told him.

  “Shut up!” Nate told himself.

  The negative thoughts came every now and again, but he had always found the strength to push them back. But with each day that passed, it was becoming harder and harder.

  He laid his head on Monica’s bed, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her fingers. He closed his eyes, wanting to do nothing but just lay there with his wife forever. Then Nate felt a movement. It was a twitch from Monica’s hand. Nate bolted straight up in his chair, his eyes wide open.

  “Baby!” he said, shocked. “Are you waking up?”

  He saw her hand twitch again, this time more forcefully.

  Nate ran to the door, threw it open, leaned out of it, and yelled to the first person he saw, “Get a doctor! Hurry! I think my wife is waking up!”

  He hurried back into the room, a huge smile on his face, but was met with something that tore that smile away. Monica’s whole body was jerking, shaking violently in bed, the monitors beside her screaming.

  Nate ran to her side, grabbed her hand. There was a white foam oozing from her mouth.

  “Someone!” Nate yelled, still clutching tight to Monica’s hand, not knowing what else to do, not wanting to leave her side. “Anyone! My wife is having a seizure!”

  A doctor, a tall, pale man, ran in, a short nurse behind him. When they saw Monica flailing about in bed, the doctor ordered Nate away from her side. He turned to the nurse. “Get a crash cart in here, stat! Call a code blue.”

  Another nurse raced into the room, followed by someone pushing a crash cart.

  The second nurse, a thin woman with freckles, said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to step out.”

  She was trying to pull a curtain across one half of the room.

  “But that’s my wife,” Nate said, hearing the doctor order ten cc’s of epinephrine.

  “What’s he doing? What’s going on?” Nate was frantic.

  “Sir, you have to leave the room. Please!” The nurse said, pushing him toward the door. “If you want us to save her, you have to leave!”

  Half an hour later, Nate was allowed back into Monica’s room. He stood on one side of her bed; the tall doctor, whose name was Dr. Paulson, stood on the other.

  “We had to connect her to a respirator,” the doctor said sadly.

  This was another machine that had been pushed into the room. A tube came from it that snaked down Monica’s throat. The machine was loud. It pushed air into her lungs, and Nate stood there staring in anguish as he saw her chest inflate and deflate.

  “Why did you have to do this to her?”

  “She was having trouble breathing on her own. I don’t think we’ll have to have her on for long, but we’ll see.”

  Nate didn’t want to ask the question, but forced himself.

  “Does this mean she’s worse? Does this mean she’ll die?”

  Dr. Paulson looked at Nate and said, quite frankly, “Yes, her condition has declined some. But that doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t wake up and be just fine.”

  “But the chances of that are worse?” Nate said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  47

  Lewis stood on the porch of the very small house Eva lived in. It was ten-fifteen P.M. She had given Lewis her cell phone number when they had met for lunch, and told him to call her if he ever needed to talk. Tonight he had done that. It had been nine-thirty at night when he had called.

  “I’m sorry for it being so late, but I really need to talk to you.”

  “It’s fine. What’s on your mind?” Eva said.

  “No. In person. Can I come by?”

  There was silence.

  Finally, Eva said, “I have a four-year-old daughter. She’s asleep, and to tell the truth, Lewis, I don’t know you that well.”

  “I don’t wanna come in. Just come outside your door. Please, Eva,” Lewis begged. “Just ten minutes. I got the test results back, and I just need to talk.”

  The front door opened. Eva stepped out wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Lewis stood there, his arms at his sides, his eyes red, looking as though he were on the verge of tears.

  “Lewis, it’s going to be alright,” Eva said.

  That moment, a tear ran down Lewis’s cheek, then another. Eva stepped closer to Lewis, opened her arms.

  Lewis threw himself into her, saying, “She’s not mine. She’s not mine.”

  “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Eva said, holding Lewis tight.

  After ten minutes, Eva and Lewis sat on the porch steps.

  Lewis wiped away his tears and said, “She was all I had. Her mother died, then the woman that I thought I was going to marry left me for her ex-husband. I been out of work so many times … but Layla was always there. I was a loser at everything else, but I always thought I was a good father. Now I’m not even that.”

  “You are still that,” Eva said, sitting very close to Lewis. “Just because you aren’t her biological father doesn’t mean you aren’t her father. Nothing’s changed.”

  “I have no rights,” Lewis said angrily. “That man has Layla, and he doesn’t have to give her back to me.”

  “But you said he would, right?”

  “Yeah. There’s something I have to do for him. If that works out, I get Layla back,” Lewis said. “So if that happens, what can I do? Adopt her?”

  Eva sighed heavily. “Adoption is a process. Are you working?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have your own place?”

  Lewis shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but no one would let you adopt a child under those circumstances. You have to have a stable household, a steady income.”

  “Then what would happen to her in the meantime?”

  “She would go into foster care.”

  “Then I could be a foster parent. I could get her that way,” Lewis said.

  “You couldn’t. The same rules apply. You have to be working. You have to have a place of your own where the child can live.”

  “Then what the fuck’s the use?” Lewis said, shooting up from the steps, kicking the one he had just stood from.

  Eva looked up at him, unshaken. “You don’t have those things now, but you can get them. I wanna help you. There’s a records clerk position that hasn’t even been posted yet. I’m sure I can get you an interview, put a word in for you. I’m in good with the person that hires there.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Lewis said, somewhat upbeat.

  “You ever been convicted of a crime?”

  “Not convicted.”

  “You got your high school diploma?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I can do that for you.”

  Lewis took Eva’s hand, pulling her from the steps.

  “Thank you,” he said, then gave her a hug.

  “It’s not necessarily the lawful thing to do, and I’m probably the last person that should be telling you to do this. But when you finally get Layla back, just keep her. Don’t tell the city or try to adopt her or foster her or anything. Wait till you have that stable home and income, then look into it. You should have no problem at that point, especially since you’ve been caring for her all her life.”

  48

  The next day, Daphanie sat in the abortion clinic with several other women. Some of them were as old as Daphanie, others looked as young as fifteen or sixteen and sat with their mothers. One girl cradled a teddy bear in her arms.

  “Are you sure you wanna go
through with this?” Brownie asked.

  She was sitting beside Daphanie, holding her hand, sympathy all over her face.

  “If I wasn’t sure, would we be here?” Daphanie said.

  They had been waiting for only half an hour. Women were being called in relatively quickly, and Daphanie figured she should be next.

  “So you aren’t scared?” Brownie said.

  “I’m thirty-seven years old, and this is my first abortion,” Daphanie whispered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Then don’t do it.”

  “Stop it! Alright?” Daphanie said, shaking her hand loose from Brownie’s.

  Daphanie felt a woman’s eyes on her. Daphanie turned and gave the woman an evil look till she turned away.

  “I’m just saying, there has to be a reason, just one, not to do this.”

  Why in the hell had she even brought Brownie? But if Daphanie really thought about it, the reason she was getting the abortion wasn’t because she didn’t want the child. She did want to have a baby. She just knew it would ruin her already very slim chance of getting Nate back. She wasn’t willing to risk that. Yes, it was shallow and cold as hell. To sacrifice an unborn child for the chance of getting a man. But what else could she do?

  As she sat there watching Brownie shaking her head in disgust, Daphanie would’ve loved to explain to her best friend that if there was any way that she could keep the baby and still make a play at getting Nate back she would, but— Then, like a kick to the head, the idea struck Daphanie. Hey eyes brightened as she saw the idea develop fully in her mind.

  A door opened at the far end of the waiting room. A woman wearing a scrub top and glasses poked her head out and read from a clipboard.

  “Daphanie C.”

  Daphanie didn’t even hear the woman.

  “Daphanie C.,” the woman called again, looking around the room.

  “Daphanie,” Brownie whispered out of the side of her mouth. “They’re calling you.”

  “Oh,” Daphanie said, as if just awakening. She looked over at the woman, grabbed her purse, and stood. She took Brownie’s hand. “C’mon.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Daphanie walked Brownie through the waiting room, over to the woman with the clipboard, and with a smile politely said to the woman, “I’m sorry. I won’t be doing this. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Brownie squeezed Daphanie’s hand tight, smiled, and said, “You go, girl,” as they walked out the abortion clinic doors.

  49

  Freddy walked slowly through the aisles of the local Walmart. He wore dark sunglasses and a red baseball cap he had dug out of the trunk of his car.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me where you keep hair clippers?” Freddy asked a very young-looking woman in a blue Walmart vest who was popping bubble gum.

  “Aisle six,” she said, then walked away.

  But after she left, Freddy felt that she didn’t just walk away, but gave him a long look, actually tried to see who he was through his dark glasses. He followed her down the aisle and around a corner of the store, wondering if she was going to some back office to call the police, alert them that she had found the Chicago shooter. He stopped when he saw the woman step behind the electronics counter and start gossiping with an even younger-looking girlfriend. Calm your ass down, Freddy told himself. He walked over to aisle six. He saw a variety of hair clippers packaged in boxes.

  A white woman pushing a round-headed baby in a stroller walked past Freddy. He turned his shoulder, trying not to be seen. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it wasn’t true, he was certain everyone was looking at him.

  Half an hour ago, sitting on Joni’s sofa, watching MSNBC, Freddy had seen a mug shot of himself on the screen. He’d lunged forward, snatched the remote off the coffee table, and thumbed down the volume before his name was announced. Joni was upstairs putting Nathaniel down for a nap. He didn’t need her knowing about this yet.

  “It is now believed that Ford has fled the Chicago area. There is a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to this man’s arrest,” the dark-haired news anchor said.

  Freddy clicked off the TV and was up off the sofa. He snatched his keys from the table and hurried upstairs.

  Standing in the doorway to Nathaniel’s room, Freddy said, “I’m going to Walmart. You need anything?”

  His pulse was racing. He tried to sound calm, but he was finding it difficult.

  “You okay?” Joni said, looking up from Nathaniel, who was now sleeping.

  “Yeah. Why you say that?”

  “Just … you look … I don’t know … antsy.”

  “Whatever, girl,” Freddy had said, faking a smile. “Need anything, or not?”

  “I’m cool. See you when you get back.”

  Freddy picked up the cheapest set of clippers now and carried them over to the self-checkout. He wanted as little interaction with people as possible. Snatching the receipt from the dispenser, sticking it in his bag, he carried his purchase toward the store’s exit. Suddenly he froze when he saw a uniformed officer at the door. The large mustached man in the blue uniform glanced at Freddy, then looked away. Freddy was caught. He thought of turning on his heels and sprinting in the opposite direction. But to where? It was his imagination, he tried telling himself. He was paranoid, that was all. The security guard didn’t know who the hell he was.

  Freddy forced himself forward. As he neared the exit and the guard, Freddy felt beads of sweat fall from under the brim of the cap. Five feet away, then two. Freddy took a step past the man toward the exit.

  “One moment, sir,” Freddy heard the guard say to him.

  He never thought it would end this way. Freddy thought of making a run for it. He didn’t see a gun on the man. But what if he had a concealed one? Freddy knew police today don’t hesitate to shoot a black man in the back, especially one wanted for attempted murder. Why would a security guard act any differently?

  Freddy turned, actually stuck both his wrists out to the officer, as if waiting for the cuffs to be slapped on him.

  “I just need to see your receipt, sir,” the guard said, a thin smile on his face.

  After getting home, Freddy locked himself in the small upstairs bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, looking at the hair that had grown long on his head and face. He plugged the clippers in the outlet on the wall and pressed them to his scalp. Looking at himself afterward, his face cleanly shaven, only a shadow of his hair still on his head, he felt he looked like a different man.

  He looked down at all the hair in the basin. He scooped it out, cleaned the bowl, and swept the hair off the floor.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, Freddy decided he would go straight to his room and not say anything to Joni as he passed her bedroom.

  She would probably badger him again about why he fled Chicago, just like she had done the night he had tried to disappear with Nathaniel.

  She had demanded he tell her what was going on.

  “It’s nothing,” Freddy kept saying.

  “Why would you sneak out of here like that? Leave me? Take the boy? Do you know how much he means to me now?”

  “No.”

  “I think I love him,” Joni had said, smearing a tear from her cheek. “I do love him. What did you do in Chicago? Just tell me.”

  “I told you, I’ll tell you when it’s time!” Freddy had yelled, surprised that Nathaniel, still in his arms, did not wake up.

  Freddy had turned and climbed the stairs, determined not to say another word about it.

  Now, as he tried to sneak past Joni’s room, she said, “Hold it. Come back here.”

  She was lying in her bed watching something on TV, wearing gym shorts and a wife-beater. She had caught a passing glimpse of Freddy. He stopped, stepped back to the door, but didn’t walk in.

  “What’s up with the new look, Mr. Clean?”

  Freddy smiled, smoothed a palm over the buzzed crown of his head.

  “Nothing. Just
wanted a new look. No reason.”

  Joni gave Freddy a knowing smile. “I think there’s a reason.” She nodded her head toward the television.

  Freddy took a step into the room to get a look. On the screen now was the same mug shot he’d seen of himself earlier. Joni got out of bed, stood, crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “I think it’s time you tell me your side of the story, ’cause I just heard theirs.”

  50

  That evening around seven-thirty, Daphanie sat outside in her car. She turned to look over her seat at Layla, who was buckled in the car seat.

  After her near-abortion, Daphanie had picked Layla up and they had spent the day together. They had gone to the lakefront and the park and had gotten some ice cream. Daphanie had been hesitant, but she’d even taken Layla to see Lewis again.

  He had been still very distraught about the test results, but had been glad to see Layla all the same.

  “Layla,” Daphanie said now. “Do you remember what I told you?”

  The child nodded.

  “That you didn’t see your daddy today, right? This is the biggest secret in the world, and you’re a top-secret spy, and you can’t tell anybody about you seeing your daddy, especially Uncle Nate, okay?”

  Layla smiled and nodded again. Daphanie got out of the car, opened the back door, and unfastened the belts, pulling Layla out of the car seat. She carried Layla up the walk and the steps, and set her down in front of Nate’s door while she slid her key into the lock. Walking into the house, she saw that Nate was already home. He sat in the living room, the evening newspaper opened across his lap.

  He stood when he saw Layla and Daphanie, and walked over to them. He picked up the child, gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “So how was your day today?”

  “Fine,” Layla said.

  “What did you do?”