Back to Life

by Danielle Allen

  Emily’s hushed whisper barely came through the phone, “The trial begins soon. That’s why I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. It starts June 17th.”

  “In five weeks?!” I gasped. I felt a panic attack coming on.

  “According to the paper, new evidence is supposed to convince the parole board that he has paid his debt to society for his role or some bullshit like that. It’s a reach to say the least, but…” Emily said quietly. After a beat, she continued pleadingly, “It’s been ten years Sahara. If there’s ever a time for you to come back to Thomasville, it’s for this hearing.”

  Guilt rained down on me and I knew if I didn’t go, I’d just be adding another layer of remorse laden nightmares. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to. “I’ll be there,” I responded almost inaudibly.

  Emily seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. I, on the other hand, felt like I was on the brink of hyperventilating so I concluded the phone call. Scooting down until I was flat against the bed, I took long, deep, calming breaths. Inhale 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… Exhale 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, I thought as I focused on the breathing exercise I borrowed from the 5 week, 1 credit hour yoga class I took as a summer elective as a junior. Even if I never mastered any of the poses, I will forever be thankful my breathing exercises.

  Chapter 3

  Waking from a fitful nap, I looked at the clock in alarm. 6:00pm! After my morning conversation with Emily, I watched a few movies and must have passed out because an hour had gone by. I jumped out of bed with my cell phone in hand. Clicking on the weather channel application, I checked the temperature. Early May in Maryland has resulted in lovely mid-70 days and nice mid-50s nights. Trying to think of what I wanted to wear, I jumped into the shower to wake myself up. Once out, I had come up with the perfect outfit for the night. I pulled on a hunter green jersey knit sundress. The scoop neck dress paired with an extra-long, black leather-and-studs wrap around belt gave the dress an edge. I stepped into my black studded Christian Louboutin ankle cuff sandals.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, as usual, I looked better than I felt. I recognized the importance of projecting a pulled together image. It makes it harder for people to realize that you are broken inside. I brush and gel the sides of my hair up and away from my face. I use decorative combs to hold my thick, tightly coiled curls in place. I put in silver hoops and smeared a berry tinted gloss over my full lips. Satisfied with my look, I grabbed my oversized black leather Michael Kors handbag and a plum lightweight sweater and hurried downstairs.

  I caught a taxi to the new soul food restaurant, Jimmy’s, on the outskirts of the downtown. I received an email alert about the grand opening and open mic night at Jimmy’s and I knew it was just what I needed. I’m on mailing lists for many different art and culture magazines and blogs. Having no friends in Richland, I spent a lot of time alone. But I always found something to do, something to see, something to experience. I couldn’t let my mind remain idle. Whenever I didn’t have anything to do, my thoughts inexplicably find their way back to that night. So over the years, I’ve become the opposite of idle. I’ve dedicated my free time to searching for the beauty in life. Searching for the beauty in things kept me holding on. Museums, restaurants, galleries, plays, concerts, movies, fashion… Anything I could find beauty in, I sought out. Being alone all of the time is a lonely way to live, but experiencing all of the beauty I could allowed me to continue existing.

  The taxi pulled up to a brick building toward the end of Main Street. The two story brick structure was beautiful. White uplights highlighted the building’s unique 1st floor windows and the black cursive Jimmy’s scrawled across the space above the windows. The large front doors opened up to a waiting room of sorts. A pretty Hispanic woman with short hair and a huge smile welcomed me and another couple as we entered through the front door. She sat behind a large dark wood podium and asked if we had reservations. I motioned for the couple to go ahead as I took in the “welcome area” as the sign to the right of the hostess. There were two doors with opaque glass leading to two different types of entertainment. The door to the right led to the upscale soul food restaurant. The door to the left was a staircase that led to the 2nd floor lounge. A third door was nestled between the two and although it had opaque glass, it had a keypad lock on the door and a swipe card access. Artwork was arranged strategically throughout welcome area. Each piece of art depicted a musician in various venues and in various states of dress. The common theme was the instrument. It was cleaver and I found myself smiling.

  “Excuse me ma’am! Are you waiting for your party or would you like to go ahead to your destination?” the hostess asked with a Spanish accent.

  I turned back toward her, still smiling. “I actually don’t know where I’m going. I’m here for dinner and open mic. Is that upstairs in the lounge or down here in the restaurant?” I asked.

  “Well, good question! I would assume upstairs but you are the first one to ask that tonight so let me make sure. Most people have come in for the restaurant. But there are a few groups of people who mentioned they planned on going to the lounge after dinner. I haven’t allowed anyone upstairs yet. I can see if they are ready to accept guests in the lounge if you would like. Save you some time,” the hostess explained. I nodded in response when she glanced at me while flipping through the reservation book. She didn’t find what she was looking for so she picked up the brown vintage rotary phone. “Hi Mr. Barker! It’s Marie in the Welcome Room. I have a young lady requesting information regarding open mic… Yes… Yes. No sir. Thanks!” Hanging up the phone, Marie smiled brightly. “Just as I suspected, it is upstairs! Mr. Barker is on his way down the elevator. He said he’d provide you with additional information. After that, you are free to take the stairs or the elevator—your choice.” Before I could respond to her rapid fire delivery of information, the elevator dinged. “Thank you!” I smiled at her and turned toward the dinging elevator.

  The door slid open and my breath caught in my chest when my eyes locked on him. Good looking didn’t quiet do him justice. Wearing tailored slacks with a matching grey vest, he looked polished and pulled together. His white button up shirt looked neat, clean and fresh, fitting his upper body exquisitely. His outfit was accented with an undone black bowtie, black belt, and black shoes. The sleeves of his button up were rolled up and showcased the all black Movado watch on his wrist. He literally took my breath away.

  “Sahara,” he breathed. His eyes stayed on mine and warmth spread through my body. He took long, powerful steps toward me.

  Taken aback by my physical reaction to him, I regained my composure and nonchalantly replied, “Hello Tyree.”

  Seemingly undaunted by my cool response or maybe noticing how I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, he quickly responded, “Call me Ty.”

  “Okay…Ty…I was told you were the one to see regarding open mic night,” I switched my handbag to my other arm and gave him a pointed look.

  “I am definitely the one to see,” he said smiling playfully. His smile illuminated his face and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling back. I rolled my eyes and he laughed. “Open Mic Night will be held in the lounge upstairs once a month. There will be a different source of entertainment most days. The restaurant is through those doors. The executive chef is an artist. Man, the things he can do to classic dishes will blow your mind,” Tyree explained as he held the elevator door open for me. I walked in and could feel his gaze travel up my body as I walked past him. The sensation made my brown skin flush. I turned as he entered the elevator and we were uncomfortably close. I took a step back.

  “That’s cool. How long have you worked here?” I inquired, making polite conversation. I mean, he’s my neighbor after all.

  “Since the beginning,” he stated as the elevator doors glided open. “After you.”

  I walked out of the elevator and stopped in my tracks, taking in the exposed brick. Soft white uplights lined the brick walls. Large panels of white fabric hung from the ceiling in
waves from one end of the space to the other. The pictures on the wall were similar to the pictures down in the welcome area. Large scale photos of musicians highlighting their instruments decorated the walls in black frames. Directly in front of the elevator, an expansive bar with an oversized mirror highlighting the rows of alcoholic beverages greeted us. Black couches were intermittently spread throughout the back of the space—perfect for group outings. Black bar top tables were perfectly arranged along the walls from front to back with two bar chairs at each table. A few smaller black tables of four were on either side of the bar. The stage area was elevated three feet off the ground and had a spotlight shining on unmanned DJ equipment and a lone microphone stand. But the dance floor, THAT was breathtaking. The panels on the dance floor lit up and glowed in a soft white. “Wow,” I murmured, taking in the beauty. Now this is impressive, I thought to myself as I scanned the room again.

  “So you like,” Tyree said. His relieved tone made me break my stare away from the lounge and look at him.

  “Of course!” I exclaimed unable to keep the wonder out of my voice. Taking a few steps further into the lounge, I continued, “This place is absolutely beautiful. I can always tell when places are going to jump and this will jump. It’s stylish and urbane and very cool. All without overselling or overstating it. I’m already sold!”

  “Good! Now that is the type of review we are looking for!” Tyree laughed. “Where would you like to sit? And how many people are in your party?”

  I squared my shoulders, looked him dead in his eyes and replied, “I’m here alone. I just came to enjoy a good meal and an open mic night.” With my eyes, I dared him to pity me or my friendless state. It never ceases to amaze me that people are shocked that people actually do things by themselves, I thought with a huff.

  “Sometimes it’s best to experience art by yourself so you can get lost in it and fully appreciate it,” Tyree remarked returning my penetrating gaze.

  Not expecting his response, I was at a loss for words for the second time with him. We stood there looking at each other, unmoving for 30 agonizing seconds. The dinging of the elevator released us from the trance and we both looked to see who was exiting. A tall pale man with blonde hair and wire rimmed glasses hustled to where we stood. His brown suit and salmon colored shirt looked unpolished next to the tailored excellence that was Tyree’s outfit.

  “Mr. Barker, I need to speak with you. Do you have a minute?” the man looked from me to Tyree. Allowing the two of them some privacy, I attempted to back away when I felt a strong hand on the small of my back, guiding me back to the little triangle we had formed.

  “Milton, this is my friend Sahara. Sahara, this is my restaurant manager, Milton,” Tyree said to the man in the suit.

  “It’s great to meet you, Sahara,” Milton extended his hand and I shook his hand.

  “It’s great to meet you as well, Milton,” I responded, smiling politely.

  “Now what’s on your mind, Milton?” Tyree asked the man with his hand still firmly placed on my lower back. Making excuses for why I allowed his hand to remain on the small of my back, I thought to myself, I don’t want to remove his hand and embarrass him in front of his coworker. In truth, I liked the feeling of it.

  The last time I allowed someone to touch me freely like that was when I attempted to have a boyfriend when I first moved to Richland. I thought the distraction would be good for me. When I was in school, I had classes, school work, and work to occupy my time. I entertained the occasional hookup with a steady acquaintance with benefits. After graduation, I just had work and Miller Security encouraged employees leave the premises and actually have a life outside of work. So I thought a nice guy could fill that void—enter Jacob. Unfortunately, it ended up being more problems than it was worth. And I take full responsibility for it. Jacob didn’t understand why I never opened up to him and he said that I was emotionally void. He had no idea how accurate his assessment was—and of course, I never told him, because that would involve me opening up about my feelings. Jacob wasn’t Emanuel. And once I realized I’d probably never feel what I felt with Emanuel again, I gave up on relationships. The other two Richland guys I’d been with over the years only served one purpose and one purpose only.

  Something Milton said yanked me out of my own head, “…ultimately, it is your decision. You manage her and I don’t. But I can’t accommodate those with reservations if Marie doesn’t understand that she can’t promise to “squeeze” people in. She has the reservation list. She has the seating chart. She shouldn’t be putting us in this bind,” Milton concluded incredulously.

  “How is everything now? Are all of the guests taken care of?” Tyree’s voice was low and contemplative, but his body had so much control. He sounded pensive and thoughtful in his words, but the way he moved, the way he stood held authority. Not to mention, the way Milton and Marie reacted to him was interesting to say the least.

  “Yes of course. I told her to not take anyone else regardless of a reservation until I spoke with you.”

  “Well I will talk to her in a few minutes. Thank you for coming to me, Milton.” Removing his hand from the small of my back, he shook hands with the restaurant manager.

  “Thank you sir,” Milton said to Tyree. With a smile thrown in my direction, he hustled back to the elevator.

  “You’re the manager?” I asked skeptically, one of my arched eyebrows raised.

  Laughing, Tyree said, “I’m the owner.”

  “Ohhhh…So that’s what you meant by you’ve worked here since the beginning,” I said as the earlier bit of information clicked into place. No wonder he was so interested in my reaction to the place. I wonder if I’m the first customer to see it. “Am I your first customer to be up here?” the question slipped from my lips before I could stop it as my eyes swept back around the lounge.

  “Yes,” he stated simply. And he gently guided me by my shoulders to the front of the space, toward the stage.

  “Why?” I asked as I let myself be led to the bar table closest to the stage.

  “I’m going to place you here. Best seat in the house for our live shows. I had the speakers strategically placed here, here, here and here,” Tyree pointed to four spots in the ceiling. “The sound technician I worked with guaranteed that the sound would be perfect.”

  “Why?” I repeated, taking a seat on the bar stool facing the stage.

  “You’re my first Richland friend,” he said with a shrug.

  “Friend?” I repeated with light laugh. “We don’t even know each other!”

  “Your name is Sahara. You live in Libby Lofts. You have a great singing voice. You work out. You like open mic nights. And you obviously have great taste in food and entertainment,” he concluded spreading his arms wide gesturing to the lounge.

  I stifled a giggle and shook my head, “And that information makes us friends?”

  “Absolutely!” he replied with that flawless smile. “Now you mentioned you wanted food earlier. I’m going to have the bartender come take your order while I go handle the beef between Milton and Marie. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He started to walk away and then he turned back toward me, “Speaking of Marie, I’m not sure if she told you but the lounge doors don’t open until 8:30pm. The show starts at 9pm.” I looked at my phone, crap it’s 7:43pm and no one will be up here until 8:30pm. What am I going to do for the next 47 minutes?

  As if reading my thoughts, Tyree declared, “I’ll be back up before your food is here and we’ll have dinner together.” And then he walked off.

  A little smile played at the corners of my mouth as I shook my head. A minute later a bartender brought me a menu. Famished, I ordered chicken and waffles. I sipped my water and took in the art work around the room for the second time. Each photograph toward the front of the lounge received my full and undivided attention. I noticed a smaller photograph behind the DJ booth that I hadn’t seen on my first or second look. Because of the angle of the DJ booth, the picture is hidden
from anyone not sitting at this table. I wanted to get a better look but I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to walk on the stage. Looking at the time on my phone (7:57pm), I figured I had time to grab a quick peek. Getting close to the steps that lead to the stage, I saw the picture more clearly. A forty something man with salt & pepper grey hair wearing a brown suit and a blue shirt sitting beside a little boy with a brown suit and blue shirt on a piano bench. The little boy was looking at the older man and the older man was looking at the camera. The smiles both wore were full of love. My heart ached.

  “That’s my grandfather and I twenty five years ago,” Tyree began, slicing through the ache and pulled my mind away from the heartbreaking thoughts of my past. I turned toward him as he positioned himself beside me; his eyes focused on the photograph. “My grandfather was the best man I’ve ever known and the man I aspire to be. He was an awesome musician and business man. I keep the photograph right there so that when I sit at my table, I can always be reminded of why I did this. I also have the same picture in the restaurant.” His eyes shined with love and admiration for his grandfather. He glanced at me and smiled a sad smile. “He passed away a couple months ago. So I honored him and his spirit by naming this place after him.”

  “I’m sorry you lost someone who you clearly loved so much. I—”

  “Your food is ready when you are sir, ma’am,” the bartender interrupted, placing two steamy plates on the table. The interruption snapped me back to reality. In a moment of sincerity, seeing Tyree so open and vulnerable about his lost loved one. I almost admitted to knowing how he felt. Get it together Sahara, I thought to myself as I looked at the ground. Regaining my composure, I looked Tyree in his eyes and finished my sentence in a completely different way. “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”