Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  “Never that.”

  Z shook his head.

  “You were always the one trying to get me to do different shit. Dinner with L.A. Reid. Going skiing. Eating sushi. Wearing shoes instead of Timberlands. All kinds of shit. But a poetry class is too much?” Z shook his head. “And everybody says I’m changing.”

  “I support you! It’s great,” said Jake. “But a poetry class? Not for me.”

  There was a lull in the conversation; both men pretended to send text messages. Without looking up from his phone, Z spoke.

  “How you dealing with . . . everything?”

  “I’m chilling,” said Jake.

  In two sentences, the two friends had done all the co-mourning they could do for Kipenzi. Two women would still be hugging each other, rocking back and forth at the gravesite. For the last year, Z and Jake had asked basic questions once a month and expected the same answers each time.

  “Yo, Jake,” Z said, his eyes still on his phone. “If I wasn’t in Anguilla in rehab, Kipenzi would still be alive. We might as well put that out there.”

  Jake froze. With his eyes on the floor, he took in what Z was saying and thought about how to react.

  “It was just her time,” Jake said. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “It was my fault,” said Z.

  Jake was silent, praying that Z would take the hint and shut up. What was talking about it going to do?

  “I’m on my fourth step in recovery,” Z said. “I have to take a moral inventory of who I am and what I’ve done wrong when I was using. Knowing Kipenzi was on her way to see me when she died . . .”

  “Yo, I know you’re on the Russell Simmons chanting trip now,” Jake spat. “Drinking your wheat grass and folding your body into a pretzel and writing poetry in Central Park. Good for you. But you go that way with that.”

  The engineer felt the tension in the room and rose to leave.

  “Stay right there,” Jake said. “I’m going back in.”

  Jake slipped into the booth and put on his headphones. He saw Z leaving the studio. And on the video cameras he could see that he’d left the building completely.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Jake said into the mic. “Z has left the building.”

  The engineer played back that one sentence, adjusting the speed to make it sound faster and then slower. He put it on a loop and the room filled with the sound of Jake’s voice saying “Z has left the building,” in his own voice, a Barry White version, an Alvin and the Chipmunks version, and everything in between.

  Jake smiled. It was amazing how one offhand sentence could be turned into a hook, a beat, a lyric, a song.

  He took a breath and recited, in one take, the lyrics he’d been writing in his head while talking to Z just ten minutes before. The hook came to him immediately:

  Recovering now. But acting funny style.

  When he was done, he lumbered out of the studio and pulled on his jacket.

  “Thanks, Paul,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I just sent you the track,” Paul said.

  “No hard copies.”

  “No hard copies,” Paul said.

  In his car, on his way back to the penthouse he once shared with his wife, Jake listened to the song “Z Has Left the Building” on repeat. This was his version of therapy. This was his way to cry it out. This was how he dealt with it all. He did blame Z. But not just for Kipenzi’s death. He blamed him for everything. He blamed him for missing tour dates and album releases when he was still getting high and for treating Beth like crap and having Kipenzi stuck picking up the pieces.

  Z had been a drain on Jake for years. And then suddenly, he wasn’t. He was a productive member of society, working at a soup kitchen every week, and not using the word nigga in his rhymes. They had started out in the game together. But Z had been sidelined by his drug use, while Jake’s career took off both as an artist and as an executive. Jake knew he should be proud of Z now that he was getting his life back on track. But he wasn’t.

  It was something about the fact that his transformation came on the heels of what happened to Kipenzi. Why did he have to get better after Kipenzi was dead?

  Recovering now / But acting funny style

  Recovering now / But acting funny style

  Jake hummed along to the hook he’d created all the way to the parking garage beneath the penthouse. When he pulled up to the valet, he held up a finger to the attendant, asking him to wait.

  He pushed a few buttons on the dashboard of his car. The song was deleted. Forever. Like a journal entry or a blog post, Jake needed to get his thoughts out. But unlike most forms of expression, Jake often deleted his most cathartic rhymes. The one he recorded after Kipenzi’s plane went down still haunted him. It was the best writing he’d ever done. It was hard to delete. But he did. He reached inside his glove compartment, pulled out a half-empty bottle of Crown Royal, and drained it, tossing the empty bottle back into the compartment.

  On the private elevator, Jake closed his eyes, feeling the car move up the shaft quickly. The lyrics to the song felt far away. But the hook stayed on repeat in his mind.

  Recovering now / But acting funny style

  Recovering now / But acting funny style

  At home, Jake slipped into his favorite chair in the living room and took out his cell.

  “Peter Luger Steakhouse, this is Anna speaking. How can I help you?”

  Jake cleared his throat and sat up in the chair.

  “Um. Yeah. Is Lily on duty tonight?”

  “No, she’s not. Can I leave a message for her?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Jake turned off his phone and hummed the hook to the song he’d recorded while he flipped through the channels on the wall-mounted television. Ian stuck his head in the doorway.

  Ian had been his wife’s assistant for ten years. Jake had never liked him. But after the accident, they needed each other, for reasons both spoken and unspoken.

  “On my way out for the night, sir,” said Ian. “Anything I can do for you?”

  Jake sat up. “One thing. Can you send some flowers to Peter Luger’s Steakhouse in Brooklyn? Lilies. Only lilies.”

  Ian took out a notepad and a pen.

  “Of course. To whom?”

  “Have the card made out to Lily. Don’t sign it.”

  Ian nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  Jake shook his head. When he heard the door close behind Ian, Jake got up and took a long shower. For the entire time, he thought about Lily and the flower tucked just so behind her ear.

  Lily leaned over the vase on her kitchen counter and continued to arrange and rearrange the flowers. She plucked one flower out and then stuck it a few inches back and turned the whole container around.

  “Are you nervous?” Corinne asked, her head inside Lily’s refrigerator.

  “No.”

  “I can’t tell,” Corinne said, using a soda bottle to point to the vase. “You’ve been organizing that bouquet for twenty minutes.”

  Lily stepped back from the counter.

  “They’re beautiful, right?”

  Corinne nodded, draining the soda and burping out loud.

  “Still no idea who’s been sending them?”

  Lily shook her head and avoided Corinne’s eyes. If she looked at Corinne while she was lying, her friend would know right away. In reality, as soon as the delivery guy had walked into the restaurant that first time, Lily knew the flowers were for her and she knew they were from Jake. And every day that the flowers had arrived since then, she knew. She would have bet her very life on it. The card attached to the flowers was never signed. Clearly, he wanted her to know he was thinking about her, but he didn’t want her to be sure it was him. God forbid, he actually admit that he liked her. That would make him way too vulnerable. Lily smiled. The idea that he was thinking of her made her feel tingly and short of breath. Sometimes, when she glanced at the flowers as she made her w
ay around her tiny apartment, she would let her mind wander. She imagined sitting next to him in a park, her legs propped up in his lap, while he—

  “I said it’s time to go,” said Corinne, waving her hand in Lily’s face. “Are you awake over there?”

  “Of course, I am,” said Lily. “Let me just grab my coat.”

  As always, Corinne went to the living room window and looked outside just as they were about to leave.

  “All clear?” Lily asked.

  Corinne held up a finger. She stuck her head out of the window and turned to look both ways. The pesky teenage boys who hung outside the building weren’t at their posts yet.

  “Clear. Let’s go.”

  Off the train and in the city, Lily and Corinne walked briskly up Seventh Avenue. They stopped to check out the vendors hawking limp Valentine’s Day trinkets on the corners as they made their way up the street. They turned onto a side street and ran up the steps to the medical building.

  “What would be worse?” Corinne asked. “Getting a stuffed animal from a street vendor for Valentine’s Day or getting nothing at all?”

  “Getting nothing because your man forgot? Or getting nothing because you don’t have a man?”

  “Because he forgot.”

  “I’d forgive him.”

  Corinne laughed.

  “You say that now because you don’t have a man. But the moment you land one, you’ll be pissed off that he’s not strewing a path to your tub with rose petals.”

  In the lobby of the building, Lily pressed for the elevator and then leaned against the wall.

  “Do you really think I care about Valentine’s Day gifts?”

  Corinne hugged Lily. “You’re going to be okay.”

  “You think so?”

  “I have no doubts.”

  “And one day I’ll have a man I can be pissed off at?”

  “You will curse him out on a daily basis.”

  Lily and Corinne went to the doctor’s suite on the top floor.

  “You can go inside the first room on your right,” said the nurse, pointing down the hallway.

  Lily gave her bag to Corinne, who sat down in the reception area. She hesitated and looked at Corinne. Her friend gave her a stern look that said buck up. Lily exhaled and smiled. Corinne nodded.

  Lily made her way to the examination room and sat down gingerly on the table. With her hands folded tightly in her lap, she closed her eyes and tried to be patient. This wasn’t her first follow-up visit. The surgery had taken place a year ago. But for some reason, this time she was nervous.

  “How are you?” said the doctor, bounding into the room after a few long minutes. He gave Lily a bright, fake smile that lasted for two seconds.

  “I feel good,” she said.

  “Are you taking all the medications you’ve been prescribed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s see how you’re doing. Take off everything. Put on this robe, open at the front, and lie down. I’ll be back.”

  Lily slowly peeled off her clothes, keeping her eyes closed in case she got a glimpse of her reflection in the shiny cabinets lining the walls. When she was fully naked, she instinctively put her hand between her legs. And as always, since the surgery, her heart leaped.

  She climbed back on the table, her body shaking from sheer nervousness. She held her robe together tightly. She couldn’t put her finger on why she was so terrified this time. She knew Dr. Alexander well and fully trusted him. He’d seen her naked at least a dozen times in the past year. And she’d never shaken like a leaf before a follow-up visit. Lily suspected it was somehow related to the flowers sitting on her kitchen counter and the man she knew had sent them. If he could see where she was right now . . .

  When the doctor came back in, he stood with his back to her, entering data on a computer.

  “Any pain?” the doctor asked.

  “None”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Any secretions?”

  “Some.”

  “It’s been a year,” the doctor said, turning around to face Lily. “How do you feel?”

  Lily took a deep breath and considered the doctor’s question.

  “I feel like a woman.”

  The doctor smiled.

  “Good. Because that’s what you are.”

  The doctor wheeled himself up to Lily on a small stool and carefully put her feet inside the stirrups. Lily’s legs locked up and she started to grit her teeth.

  “You have to relax,” said the doctor. “Take a deep breath.”

  Lily inhaled. And then exhaled. Her legs began to fall open.

  “Mmmmhmmm,” said the doctor. He opened the outer labia of the vagina he’d created from the inverted flap of the penis he’d removed in a three-hour procedure at Mount Sinai Hospital.

  “Everything looks very good,” said the doctor. “You’ve healed beautifully.”

  Lily stared at the ceiling, taking measured breaths.

  “Do you feel sensation in the new clitoris?”

  Lily nodded.

  “Have you had an orgasm?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  The doctor gently closed Lily’s legs and stood up, going over to the sink to wash his hands.

  “Remember, this new vagina is treated by your body as a wound,” said the doctor. “Which means it’s going to continue to try to close up. Are you dilating with the stents?”

  “Yes, every week,” Lily said.

  “This is very important. You must insert the stents once every week for thirty minutes or the opening will start to close up.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think you’re ready to have intercourse?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” Lily said quickly.

  “There’s no rush. Is it because you’re physically not ready or mentally not ready?”

  “Mentally.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “That’s completely normal. Take your time.”

  “What if . . .”

  The doctor looked up from his paperwork.

  “What if what?”

  Lily looked down at the floor.

  “What if I never find someone to . . .”

  “You tell me. What are you going to do if you don’t find someone who will accept you?”

  Lily shrugged, clutching the robe to her body.

  “I don’t know.”

  The doctor looked down at his paperwork.

  “Do you feel like you made the right decision?”

  “I made the only decision,” said Lily. “But it’s still scary.”

  “Understood,” said the doctor. “You can get dressed now. I’d like to see you again in a few months.”

  Lily checked in with the receptionist, made an appointment, and then walked out with Corinne back out to the street, bundling herself up against the cold with a heavy wool scarf. Lily took comfort in the sounds of her stilettos clicking on the cement sidewalk as Corinne chatted away.

  “What’d he say?” Corinne asked.

  “Nothing really.”

  “Can you . . . y’know. Do it?”

  “I told you yes! I could have done it months ago.”

  “So why haven’t you? Don’t you want to give that thing a test drive?”

  Lily laughed out loud and then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Lily said. “At least not for me.”

  “Remember the rules,” Corinne said, her face suddenly stern and serious.

  Lily shook her head and walked a bit faster.

  “Corinne, trust me. I know a lot of women who have done that. But I won’t. I will tell the guy first.”

  “I would not want to have that conversation with anybody.”

  Lily stopped walking and turned to face Corinne.

  “What would you do?” Lily asked. “You have sex with some dude and then he tells you he used to be a woman. You’d freak out, right?”

  “Of course, I would. The problem is if he
told me ahead of time, I would never have sex with him.”

  “Yeah,” Lily said. “I know.”

  The two women stopped on the corner of Fourteenth Street and hugged. Lily took the F train to Delancey Street and then transferred to the J train to Brooklyn. She counted seven guys who let their eyes linger on her for longer than a second. And it wasn’t her body that they stared at. She was bundled up in a heavy coat so they couldn’t see her tiny waist and her 34C breasts. It was her face, the color of lightly creamed coffee and her jet-black eyes that captured them. Lily had been mesmerizing men for as long as she could remember. Long before the surgery, she’d had to keep her distance from men who didn’t know better. (And a few who did know better and just didn’t care.)

  She quickened her step as she walked down Broadway toward the East River. Instinctively, she patted her bag to make sure she had everything. When she got to the restaurant, she slipped to the back to clock in.

  “Mamacita, you’re late. Again,” said Manny.

  Lily pulled off her heels and slipped into a pair of flats. She whipped out her apron and tied it around her waist.

  “Manny, I told you I had a doctor’s appointment today.”

  “It’s always something with you,” Manny said, waving a hand in her direction.

  “Any large parties tonight?”

  Manny passed Lily some papers.

  “Here’s everything you need to know. Engagement party at eight, so be ready.”

  Lily nodded and looked out into the dining room.

  “You look different today,” said Manny, peering at Lily’s face.

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “I don’t know. You pregnant or something?”

  Lily stifled a laugh.

  “I doubt that very seriously.”

  “So what are you always going to the doctor for?”

  “Manny,” Lily said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Mind your business. Please. Thank you.”

  Manny sucked his teeth and walked away.

  “Women,” he muttered under his breath.

  Lily smiled so hard that the sides of her mouth felt like they were going to crack.

  “Indeed, Manny,” she said to him as he walked away. “Women.”

  Ten hours later, Lily stumbled into the break room and sat down hard on the threadbare couch.