“All my stuff is here. All my friends are here. You can’t expect me to just up and leave,” Karlie screamed.
“Who is this?” Tiffany asked. “And what have you done with my precious, agreeable daughter?”
“I’m still me, Mom,” Karlie countered. She dropped her voice a few notches as the waterworks began. “I know you’re dying . . . and I am trying to deal with that.” Karlie hiccupped. “But now we have to move? It’s just too much.”
Tiffany took her daughter’s hands and led her to the very couch where she had spilled the news about her impending death.
“I hate this couch,” Karlie cried.
“I’ll get rid of it,” Tiffany promised. “Karlie, I know it is a lot to uproot you from everything you hold dear, especially now. But . . . I have to, Karlie. You have to get to know your . . . your father.”
“My father?” Karlie’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I don’t even know him, Mom. I only know that his name is Thomas Knightly, and he never comes around, and I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve actually spoken to him.”
Tiffany felt guilt swarm around her belly at the half-truths she had fed her daughter over the years. She continued gently, “You still have to get to know your father, because I won’t be around much longer, and I have to make sure you’re okay.” That was the truth, she told herself.
Karlie leaned in until her head rested on her mother’s lap. Tiffany smoothed her curls and wiped the tears with the edge of her shirt.
“Life is just so unfair,” Karlie moaned. “I don’t want to lose you, Mommy.” Karlie reverted to calling Tiffany “Mommy” when she was truly upset. “Why did this happen?”
“I don’t know,” Tiffany whispered and gently stroked her daughter’s hair. “I don’t know what else to do, Karlie. That’s why I am selling everything and moving to my old home in Hempstead.”
Karlie sat up. Her face was red and splotchy from crying. “Paula and Lorna are not going to believe this.” Paula Style and Lorna Persimmon were Karlie’s best friends from childhood.
Tiffany knew they were not going to take Karlie’s departure well. She sighed. “I’m sorry, honey. Truly sorry.”
“I know, but this sucks.”
“How about a shopping spree?”
Karlie perked up. “Shopping?”
“Yeah.” Tiffany had thrown out that ace to change the mood. “Invite Paula and Lorna, and I will give you carte blanche with my card. You guys can have the ultimate girls’ night out. No limits.”
“Seriously? Mom, you are the best.” Karlie rushed out to call her friends and make some plans to hit the road for a shopping spree. Lorna had her license and drove a Range Rover, so Tiffany wasn’t overly concerned.
Tiffany smiled but knew she had manipulated her daughter’s cooperation with bribery. It left a slightly bad taste in her mouth. But she knew this was only the first of many briberies to come.
It was mid-September before Tiffany and Karlie finally made the move. True to form, Winona had turned most of Tiffany’s assets into cold, hard cash, the majority of which now sat in a trust fund for Karlie. Some Tiffany would spend as she pleased, some she had already donated to several charities, and the rest would be for Karlie’s father. He would receive a significant sum for Karlie’s care. Tiffany had decided against selling her L.A. mansion, so instead she left Winona as the trustee for its upkeep until Karlie was capable of taking over its care.
Before she knew it, Tiffany was driving from the airport back to her childhood home in the brand-new red Escalade Winona had purchased for her. She slowly parked in front of the house and turned the ignition off. “Here we are,” Tiffany said with a bright tone she did not feel. She pointed past Karlie to the house.
“This is where you grew up, Mommy?” Karlie asked, making conversation as she undid her seat belt. She looked out her window at the house. “It’s nice,” she said in a polite but noncommittal tone.
“Yes, it is,” Tiffany answered, wryly noting the significant lack of enthusiasm. “I know it’s a far cry from what you’re used to, but hopefully, you’ll find it charming.” With that, Tiffany opened her door, and Karlie proceeded to do the same. Tiffany walked around the car to where Karlie stood waiting with some apprehension.
Holding hands, the two of them walked up the stairs to the entrance.
Tiffany inserted the key in the lock, feeling hopeful. She was not disappointed when she stepped inside. Both she and Karlie gushed and prattled on at their surroundings. The designer had outdone herself, for the place was impeccable and immaculate. The furnishings complimented the structure and the colors of the house. Tiffany liked the overall ambiance immensely. In short, the house was now absolutely nothing like the place where she had grown up. The house exuded so much warmth that Tiffany knew that she could finally call it home.
“I guess it’s okay, Mom,” Karlie admitted. “But our home in L.A. is five times the size of this one.”
Tiffany decided to ignore that comment and led Karlie upstairs to her room.
“I love it.” Karlie spontaneously hugged her mom upon entering her room. “It’s not as big as my other room, but it is cozy.” The room’s decor featured purple and pink hues, along with carefully selected pieces of Hello Kitty memorabilia, which Karlie adored. She saw a plush life-size Hello Kitty couch, and she lunged into it. “This couch is off the chain.”
“High praises. I’m glad your room passed inspection.”
Tiffany left Karlie basking in her new quarters and went down the hall to her room. This would do for her. Both of their bags had been sent ahead, had arrived, and had been unpacked, so there wasn’t much to do.
Tiffany sat on the bed and sighed. She hoped coming back here was the best move. Tiffany spotted a photo. She went closer and saw that it was one of her holding one of the three Grammys that she had won a lifetime ago.
Karlie would inherit those treasures and other paraphernalia from her singing career over ten years ago. That was one decision she had made with the other obligatory preparations that came with dying. Winona had them in safekeeping, as Tiffany could not see bringing them here.
Tiffany overheard Karlie’s giggling and loud chatter from her phone conversation. “Karlie, keep it down, or at least shut your door. I can hear your yammering all the way down here,” Tiffany hollered, but smiled when she heard the lock click. She marveled at how kids adapted so much easier in a case like this. Once she had gotten over her initial rant, Karlie had been a trouper.
Tiffany looked out the window. She thought of Myra—her best friend in the entire world way back when—and Neil’s wife.
A few doors down, Neil sat in his study, deep in thought. He was thinking about Tiffany and how they had become friends—well, actually they were closer than most friends were. Their friendship had been forged sixteen years ago, on one of the worse nights of his life—the night right after prom. Neil leaned his head back into the chair. If he closed his eyes, he could picture and remember everything about that night.
His parents had broken the news that they were getting a divorce. Evidently, they had judiciously waited a month after his graduating before breaking his heart. His father was packed and ready to go like an expectant mother.
A hot, muggy July night meant the mosquitoes were out in full force. Neil swatted at the annoying pests but refused to go home for the bug spray. “They’re eating me alive.” He walked the short blocks to Myra’s house. She was in one of her moods, and after a heated exchange, he left before telling her his devastating news.
He was walking past Tiffany’s house when he spotted her sitting underneath the big tree in the backyard. Neil ignored the heavy squeak of her gate and went to see what she was doing. Neil was surprised to see her in tears.
It took some doing, but Tiffany finally confessed, “I’m pregnant.”
“Whoa.” Neil dropped beside her. He had no inkling that Thomas had even gotten past first base. The rumor was that they broke up after prom, b
ut he was the only likely candidate. “Does Thomas know? And didn’t you two break up?”
“Yes and no. I did break up with him, but I went out with him to . . . you know.” Tiffany gulped. “And, no, I haven’t told him about the pregnancy.”
“But you have to. If it were me, I would want to know.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
Dumbfounded, Neil held her in his arms.
Her own face tear-streaked, Tiffany noticed Neil’s face and asked, “Have you been crying?”
“My parents are getting divorced—yes, divorced—and my dad is moving tonight, as we speak,” Neil cried.
Tiffany offered him some of the tissues from the almost empty box and listened as he poured out the pain of his heart. Maybe it was because he had opened up to her, but Tiffany revealed her deepest secret. “Neil, I don’t know who the father is.”
“What?” Neil’s eyes bulged, and he looked at Tiffany.
Tiffany told him about Clifford. “You need to tell the police,” Neil urged. “I will go with you.”
“No. It’s been, like, forever already,” Tiffany said. “No one will believe me, anyway. My own mother doesn’t believe me. I just want to get out of here.”
“Well, is the baby his?” Neil inquired.
“No,” Tiffany said, passionately denying the possibility. But second-guessing herself, she added, “well, I don’t know whose it is, but I refuse to accept that this baby is Clifford’s. Neil, please don’t hate me, but I slept with Thomas and . . . three other boys.”
“Three? I feel very inexperienced compared to you now. Wow. Do I know them?”
“You know two of them, Pierce and Darnell from the football team. And the other one, Ryan, is actually a college student I met at a club.”
“You went to a club?” This was so unlike Tiffany. Neil was out of his element. He wondered if this was how sexual abuse could affect the victims.
Tiffany hung her head in shame. “Yeah, I bribed my way in, partied, got drunk, I think, and I ended up going with this guy, Ryan. I’ve never done anything like that before. I think I was just trying to erase all thoughts of Clifford inside me. Neil, my mother blamed me. I slept with those boys to get back at her. She said I was a whore, so I decided to prove her right.”
“But how is that getting back at her? You’re damaging yourself, Tiffany. You’re too beautiful and too special to let any of these boys use you like that. Plus, weren’t you worried about diseases?” Neil pleaded. “You need to put that pain and hurt to better use.”
“I felt lucky, ou know, like I wouldn’t catch anything, and that was dumb, I know. I just wasn’t thinking. And the only thing that helped besides that was singing.”
“You sing?”
“Yes,” Tiffany said.
Neil urged her to sing for him. After much urging, Tiffany complied. When she was done, he said, “That’s what you need to be doing. You need to be singing. You also need to tell Thomas the truth.”
“No.”
Neil urged her to confess and tell the truth but was unable to sway her mind. Instead, Tiffany somehow persuaded Thomas to marry her; then they both took off for L.A. That had been her curtain call following one crazy summer.
Now Tiffany had come full circle and was about to stir up some serious sugar.
Older and wiser, Neil wished he had reported Clifford and confronted Merle on Tiffany’s behalf. But he had been a kid himself. What had he known about dealing with a victim of sexual abuse?
Neil also had another weapon. He had God. Neil had given his life to the Lord seven years ago, and he had come to rely on God’s guidance and strength. He got on his knees. “Lord, You are in charge of the world, and nothing happens without Your consent. I place Tiffany before You, Lord. I ask, Heavenly Father, that You will place her on the right path. I pray that You will help her settle her affairs and that the truth will now free her. But, Father, I also pray that You will draw her closer to You and that she will discover Your healing and Your divine love. I ask these mercies in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Chapter Eight
She needed to stop doing this, Myra Jameson told herself. She stood at the mirror with a pillow shoved under her housedress. Imagining, pretending, she carried Neil’s child, but she just could not help hoping. A dreamy smile filled her face, making her appear somewhat ethereal. Try as she might to understand and accept the Lord’s will, Myra yearned for children, whom she had yet to bear.
“Why, God? Why?” Myra tortuously whispered the words aloud. Her face reflected savage pain. Speaking in hushed tones, she shook her head. “I just can’t understand it.”
Of course, as usual, there was no response. Ugh. Disgusted with God and His deafening silence, Myra curled her fists and, in a move reminiscent of ardent club goers, pumped her hands in the air as she looked up at the ceiling. “Why won’t you give me a child? So many other people out there are throwing their babies away. Why won’t you give me one when you know I deserve it?”
Like a child engaged in a temper tantrum, she slapped her tummy. “Right here, God, right here.”
Spent and sweaty, Myra clutched her stomach and fell to her knees. Her round-shaped face quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. Angrily, she swiped at them, refusing to cry anymore. She was not going to cry. “I’m so tired of praying and asking, Lord, so tired.” She pressed both her lips together as she sought to bring her torment under wraps.
“I should’ve gone into work today, because I’m driving myself nuts thinking about this stuff,” she muttered. In one rapid fluid movement, Myra jumped to her feet and wrestled the pillow from underneath her blouse. Irate, she threw it on the bed while cursing her stupid, pointless wishful thoughts.
Myra laughed at the irony. Umpteen years ago, she’d anxiously stood before another, similar mirror, praying she was not pregnant. Now she was standing in front of this one, pleading for something that appeared to be impossible.
Leaving the room, she slammed the door with such force that the windows rattled. Myra stomped down the stairs to her kitchen. Blatantly ignoring the strong encouragement to pray or meditate, Myra decided to bake. In her haste, she stumbled down the last two steps and banged her little toe. Instinctively, Myra grabbed her toe and jumped around, trying to keep her balance.
Sadly, she stumbled and her bottom hit the floor. Her toe throbbed so hard, she could feel her heartbeat. Myra squelched her outcry but automatically looked around to see if anybody else had witnessed her little accident. She chuckled at her idiocy because she was alone in the house. Myra instantly sobered, feeling sorry again.
She was alone. Empty.
From where she was standing near the front door, she saw the small table with the Bible and various junk mail. Childishly cutting her eyes at the good book, Myra stomped into the kitchen, limping.
Baking seemed to be doing more to soothe her than the words in her Bible. She did not want to read about waiting or divine providence. Myra wanted a baby—yesterday.
Since she was alone, Myra had no problem transferring her frustration to her pots and pans. Her clamoring vibrated through the whole house.
She opened the cupboard doors. Bang.
She put the tins out. Bang.
She shut the refrigerator door. Bang.
She gathered the items and plopped them on her counter with such force that there was flour dust all over. Her housedress and face were slightly covered.
Whatever. Myra did not care. She would clean it later. It was not as if she had any children to take care of or anything.
Calming down as she mixed and blended the necessary ingredients, Myra baked enough cookies so the neighborhood children could have some. The children were the main reason she stayed in the neighborhood. Their parents were often too busy overdosing on drugs to pay them any real attention. Myra was more than happy to provide a brief escape for the children. Her eyes shone as she thought about their messy mouths and chocolate-covered hands. Then her eyes dimmed at the
old adage. “Those who had them did not want them. Those who wanted them could not have them.” That was life. Well, it was the story of hers, anyway.
Myra hissed, making her displeasure known to God.
The smell of chocolate chip cookies wafted up her nostrils. Her mouth watered. Myra swallowed in anticipation. Washing her hands, then wiping them on her apron, Myra was ready to eat them. She would savor every bite.
To pass the time, Myra drifted into the front parlor and peeped out the windows. Is that a vehicle parked in the driveway of the Petersons’ house? “Nobody has lived in that house for so long. I wonder who finally bought it.” Myra spoke the words aloud, though nobody was there to answer. She figured it was okay to talk to herself—just as long as she didn’t answer. Sometimes the house was too still.
Hearing the timer go off, Myra went to retrieve the cookies from the oven, even while thoughts about her new neighbor filled her mind. She knew exactly what she would do. She would give her neighbor the cookies instead of eating them. Her size fourteen made her look even bigger on her five-foot-three-inch frame.
One well-shaped eyebrow arched in thought, and her lips poked out. She prayed her new neighbor was a working professional. There were a few middle-income families moving on the block, and thankfully, most of the lowlifes were moving out or facing eviction.
Myra knew the better way, but people were not trying to hear about God. Apparently—and she must have missed the memo—God was now out of style. He was not trending right now. Everybody was just all about making a dollar. People were hardly interested in hearing about their soul. Time and time again, they consistently chose the quick buck over getting an education.
When she was a kid, she had made a conscious decision not to cave to the lull of easy money. Although to be fair, Myra reflected, she had the privilege of both her parents, who were saved and Holy Ghost filled. They had made sure that Myra was actively involved with the church since she could walk.
Sing A New Song Page 4
