by Xyla Turner
I almost looked at it, before I realized she was joking and trying to lighten the mood. It has always been hard to read sarcasm or get jokes.
“Portia, I am on a schedule and…” I began to tell her.
“I am here, Duncan.” She stared at me while I remained seated, and she was still standing.
“Yes, you are here,” I replied. “Thank you for having lunch with me.”
It was then that she took a seat across from me in the booth. Once she sorted her bag, Portia faced me and looked me in the eye.
“You look good. Well rested,” she complimented me.
“Thank you,” I acknowledged her comment. “I think it’s my probationary secretary.”
“Probationary?” she inquired.
“Yes, I have put this one on a two-week probation period to see if she can handle my needs.
One of her eyebrows rose with my comment, but she nodded and took a sip of the water with the melted ice in a sweating glass because it had been sitting there for thirty minutes.
“That sounds like a smart idea,” she finally replied. “How is work coming along?”
This was a safe question, I knew. Trent said she might go that route and keep things about work, mine and hers. I did not want to talk about work, but about her and us.
“Work is okay.” I answered, but quickly followed up with, “I miss you.”
This caught her, and at that moment, I wished I knew how to read faces better or even minds. Her head turned down to look at the menu, and I reached for her hands that were resting on the table. This action had those big brown eyes back on me.
“Duncan,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
“I miss you,” I repeated because I couldn’t answer her question.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, and then she said, “I miss you, too.”
At this, I let her hands go, but not before I squeezed them even harder.
“What would you like to eat?” I asked her. “The lobster is excellent.”
Like last time, she ordered what I suggested, and we talked about work, her job and mine, then we discussed her survey results. I asked why curlers were necessary to have with a wig. It turned into quite an informative lunch. By the time I reached for the bill, it was one o’clock on the dot. “I’ve got to head back, Duncan, but thank you so much for lunch. I’m going to have the ‘itis’ now.” She laughed, giving me a quick glimpse into one of my favorite things to see in the world.
“What is the itis?” I asked.
She chuckled and answered, “According to Urban Dictionary dot com, it is the feeling you get after you eat a large amount of food and soon become really tired.”
“Have dinner with me on Saturday.” This request blurted out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
Her lips quirked to the side, then she said, “I’m sorry, I can’t. One, we are only supposed to do lunch, and two, I am going out of town this weekend.”
Out of town?
“Where?” I asked, since this news was a shock to me.
“Virginia,” she replied. “I’m going to see my mother.”
“You do not have a good relationship with her, correct?” I asked.
“That is accurate,” she said. “Some things came up to the surface for me when that situation went down with you and me, and I wanted to explore it a bit more.”
This was an interesting turn of events. Though I did not understand it, one could presume that she did.
“I can accompany you on this trip,” I added, so she could have assistance if necessary.
Her brown eyes widened as she looked at me again, in what I might assume was wonder.
“Why would you do that?” she asked, almost immediately.
“I know you have a contentious relationship with your mother and really loved your father because he took care of you.” Reminding her that I remembered. “He is no longer here, so I am offering to take care of you in his stead.”
Her eyes darted to the side and then they caught mine again, but they were bright. Almost as if the woman was going to be emotional.
“I appreciate that, Duncan,” Portia said while clearing her throat. “I do, but this may be something I need to do on my own.”
“You do not have to, Portia,” I told her. “I am here for you and will make this trip with you, and then we can have our dinner.”
“Thank you, Duncan.” She smiled but did not confirm. Her throat cleared before announcing. “Well, thank you again for lunch, I will be in touch.”
“Yes, you will,” I confirmed this as a fact.
I paid the bill and went back to the Hart Building to find Trent. If Portia had a bad relationship with her mother, I wanted to know what I could do, and make a point to be there. This is where she needed me if her father was no longer around. He was her protector against his wife, but with him being gone, she still needed someone. This is what I surmised would be the best way to provide my help. She worked extremely hard, was a District Manager, and a great best friend to Bernadette. This is where Portia’s support ended, and I planned to rectify that situation.
Ninety-six hours, fifty-minutes and twenty seconds to go.
Chapter Eleven
Portia
Lunch with Duncan was somewhat unexpected, since my plan was blown to shit. The goal was to go in there, talk about work, his and mine, and keep the conversation light. But then he goes and gets serious on me. I was sitting there like, dammit. He blew my whole spot up with his, “I miss you.”
Fuck.
I missed him too, and this was rare. No, it was nonexistent. Nope, it had never happened. I dropped men, like I dropped pennies. They are not to be retrieved, no matter if they are on the ground, somewhere in the couch, or in a fountain. I do not care where they are. I will not be the person coming to retrieve them. Ever.
Missing this man and all his quirkiness was huge. The sex was off the charts, and the man kept me on my toes. I liked that. It was more than him being different; he put me first. That is what threw me off about him saying that since my father was no longer here, he’d go with me.
I wasn’t looking for a protector to replace my father. I was not looking for anyone, but if I had to choose someone, it would be the one who made me the center of their universe. That is something my father taught me. In some ways, he could have spoiled me, but I did not take that as anything bad. Just necessary.
The weekend finally came, and I hopped in my car and drove down to Virginia, back to the place where it all began. Once I crossed over Route Sixty-Six, anxiety began to take root, causing me to pull over at a rest stop. After spending more time than I anticipated in the bathroom, I purchased a bottle of ginger ale and continued on my journey. There was no point in turning back because of nerves. This was long overdue.
Dad passed away seven years ago, and I hadn’t seen or spoken to the woman who birthed me since that very day. She was my mother, but we had never really been close. There aren’t many pictures of the two of us or the whole family. There are a ton of pictures with my dad and me. He used to work on the rails, traveling from place to place, and sometimes he would let me travel with him. My being a daddy’s girl was an understatement. I think my mother resented this.
Father never spoke ill of her or even hinted he had a problem. The man was simply a teddy bear, to me. According to my mother, he was a pushover and that is exactly what she did to him. Pushed him. So much, that he died. I blamed her and she knew it, but I needed to deal with this shit now.
No more running.
Or hiding.
Or ignoring.
Or acting like she didn’t exist.
The woman was my mother and while I don’t have to like her or even interact, I would like some closure. It is needed. Duncan’s reaction to me that day had a more visceral effect than I anticipated. His rejection, opened up a wound I thought had been healed. Apparently not.
I left Duncan’s place with a feeling of brokenness, vulnerabi
lity, and with the notion that no man, woman, or child, no goddamn person would make me feel this way again. The problem with that was Duncan. He had purchased a bunch of ethnic hair supplies and practically a pharmacy with everything I ever liked.
The man’s house was stocked with all of my shit, and he even purchased a cover, so I could be comfortable. Clearly, he didn’t mean to make me feel like I was a peon or like he was trying to reject me. Why couldn’t I have given him his time and tried to talk to him later.
Nope, not Portia Lane.
In my head, he was cut all the way off, and I was still feeling like that because, it still fucking hurt. I knew there was something different about him, and I even looked it up, but the agony of that wound felt almost permanent.
I arrived at the mini-mansion my mother insisted my father purchase for her. The lawn was greener than anyone else’s, the angelic statues that line the walkway would make one think Mother Theresa lived there. No one would suspect Satan’s spawn from another dimension could occupy such a space.
Everything was the same, but Dad was not here. My stomach started to rumble, not because of indigestion or hunger. It was pure anxiety, and the shit that used to make me think I would get an ulcer.
Deal with it and face it.
I tried to give myself a pep talk. It was closure and bound to be uncomfortable.
My finger shook as I touched the doorbell, which echoed with angelic sounds that made me think Jesus was coming back. God, this woman was over the top. There was a noise, and I wanted to run back to my car that was inside the cul-de-sac.
“Hello,” my mother sang but paused with her mouth wide open when she saw it was me on the stairs. “Por-tia?”
“Hi mother,” I managed to get out.
If anyone could believe it, the woman looked younger. She was probably using Botox or something, but black did not crack anyway, and the pixie haircut made her look like she was in her late thirties, not fifties. My dad was ten years older than her and thought he was a lucky bastard to land a woman like mom. She was pretty, that was for sure, but, yeah, she was who she was.
“What are you doing here?” she asked after staring at me for what felt like an eternity. “I mean, come in, but I haven’t seen you in years.”
I was about to make a snarky comment about the phone working both ways, but figured the best way to start off the closure conversation should not be with sarcastic jabs.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I told her as she moved out of the way to let me inside the foyer.
Images of abstract art lined the walls until we reached the open living room with the mounted sixty-inch television that I knew she didn’t watch. The furniture was new and expensive as hell with a dark brown leather multimedia set: couch, loveseat, and matching tables. The dining room had a chandelier that appeared to be dripping diamonds over a thick oak table that looked custom made. Her name was engraved on the side.
Yup.
Just came by to get closure.
“Well, you’re timing is not the best. I have company,” she said as she flitted through the room. She stopped in front of the kitchen by the island with a golden-tinted marble countertop. “Can you come back another time?”
My blood was about to start boiling. Literally. I could feel the bubbles bursting under my skin as I tried to take deep breaths. I had not seen the woman in fucking seven years, I was her only child, and she had company. I opened my mouth to tell her where she could go, but the doorbell rang, cutting me off.
“Oh, this must be the day for intrusions.” She flung her right hand out to the side and sashayed her ass to the front door again. “Hello.”
Intrusions?
Bitch.
Her hello was a song, but it was all an act. There was nothing melodic about her cantankerous attitude and dismissive behavior.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I heard her ask again.
It was then I heard the somber voice, the one that kept me up at night. It belonged to the man I missed so much, and never in my life would I have thought I could need someone so much as I needed him right now. My feet took me to the mouth of the foyer, where I smiled wide, and said, “Mother, he’s with me.”
“Oh.” She looked him up and down in a damn near predatory way. “Okay, then.”
The woman barely moved out of the way for Duncan to get by. His eyes were on me and only me. He made a beeline for me, and right in front of my mother, he squeezed me like I was his most prized possession.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.
My head nodded as the smile was still planted there. He let me go and turned around, where my mother was standing near the door, staring.
“Well, it is very nice to meet you…” She jerked out of her haze and held out her hand for Duncan to take.
At first, he merely looked at it, then he dislodged from my side and shook her hand.
“Duncan Lee Morgan,” he said in a practiced way. “State Senator for Rhode Island, friend and supporter of Portia.”
Oh. That piqued her interest, and it was not the fact that he was my friend, but a State Senator.
“Oh my.” She did the faux laugh thing and clutched her imaginary pearls. “A Senator is in my home, and it’s such a mess. I wish I would have known. I would have cleaned up. Are you hungry? I can whip up a mean meal in just minutes.”
What the fuck?
Duncan looked to me, and I was glaring at the woman.
“Mother, you just told me to come back because you had company, but you can make a meal for Duncan?” I was in awe, and it was not really clear as to why. This woman was the same woman. She had not changed one damn bit, and there was no reason to be surprised.
“Well, he’s a Senator, doing the Lord’s work every day. I mean, you’re in college and still finding your way.” She held out her hand to her side, as if she were weighing the two options. “You understand, dear.”
I scoffed, but Duncan nearly hissed as he pulled me into him, causing my back to collide with his chest.
“Portia is not in school and has been out for exactly six years and seven months. She’s received her Bachelors in Business Marketing and her Master’s in Business Administration. She worked her way up from the stock person, to cashier, to Assistant Manager, to Store Manager, to General Manager and is now the District Manager of the North East District of Brown & Red Boutique. It is a highly coveted position that requires excellent management skills, negotiations, and implied coaching. Despite being in a gentrified location, her region has outsold more expensive regions, and if she keeps on this path, she can own her own chain of stores or work in upper management and make no less than a quarter million dollars a year. She is notoriously late for her social meetings, but is a diligent and hard worker. She is the godmother of Senator Trent Richardson of Louisiana and Bernadette Richardson’s son. I am lucky she tolerates me enough to be her friend, and you haven’t seen her in seven years and will not grant her a couple of hours?”
Holy shit.
Duncan’s arm was wrapped around my chest in a possessive hold, and I was not sure if it was grounding for him or me, but holy shit.
“Duncan,” I said, while twisting my head, so he could see me.
His head was tilted in that way he does when he doesn’t understand something, and he continued to stare at my mother.
“I have company,” she replied in a huff. “One should never come unannounced to another person’s home. It’s not good decorum, and I don’t care how many fancy degrees she has, she still doesn’t and never will have good sense.”
That was it.
It was my turn to scoff.
“You know, mother.” I had to laugh my damn self. “I had good sense on the day of my father’s funeral. I walked out of here and never returned. Here I was attempting to get some sort of closure because, for once, I have a good man, one that adores me like Dad doted on you. He cares for me and does anything I ask, but he hurt me. I felt rejected like I always did with you, and it
opened up a wound I had long forgotten. You can’t help me close it because you’re one big wound yourself. Always have been.”
My mother was definitely on the lighter side of the brown color spectrum with honey blond highlights. However, her face was bright with emotion, and I was not sure if it was anger or sadness.
“You dare to talk to me that way. I will have you know I have always cared about you, but you were always your father’s child. Never mine. You never wanted to do what I wanted to do. Everything was about your father, and I was the third wheel, so I did what I wanted to do. Without either of you.”
She did her classic exhale of breath, accompanied by “umph” and folded her arms over her chest. It was then I saw she was in a robe, a red satin one, and the disgust of her having company almost made me gag.
“I guess I saw what I came to see.” I sighed so deeply, it reached more than my lungs, but helped stop my own internal bleeding.
It reminded me of a saying Bernie told me once: “Hurt people, hurt people.”
I turned with some effort for Duncan to loosen his hold and patted him on the chest.
“Let’s go,” I told him in a low voice.
He nodded, released me, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it hard.
“Mother, my number is still the same. I’ve kept it the same, just in case you wanted to reach out. Dad is no longer here, and I am not sure what your ideal mother-daughter relationship was in your head, but I am still your child, despite the fact that you have constantly rejected me because you believed in my youth, I had done the same to you. I am still your child, and the ball is in your court. Always has been. Have a good life.”
I squeezed Duncan’s hand back, and he led the way out the door. My mother remained where she was, saying nothing as I left.
This time, it wasn’t with the weight of the world on my shoulders, just the tightness of Duncan’s grip.
