by Nicole Falls
Natalie was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride home and didn't linger once we got back to my house. She said she'd call me later and hopped into her ride swiftly, leaving me alone with my thoughts and this thick ass envelope. Just as I was about to open it, my phone buzzed. I picked it up from the table, immediately smiling once I saw who'd messaged me.
How'd everything go today? Just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you and that that tear pact goes both ways. : - ) - Ms. No Name
Emerson...she had a knack for perfect timing.
You got a spare moment? Mind if I call?
Instead of a text reply, I was rewarded with her beautiful face popping up on my screen. I'd been a total creep and took an off guard shot of her that day at breakfast in Nebraska, just in case we parted ways never to see each other again. I wanted something to remember her by. I quickly swiped to answer the call.
“Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself,” she replied, “Figured I'd initiate the call this time.”
We'd texted damn near daily and had spoken on the phone a handful of times, but I'd always been the one calling and checking in on her. Our phone conversations rarely were about anything that held any merit, mainly just us shooting the breeze about random topics. Every now and then via text, however, we got a little deep, and she knew that today was going to be a tough one for multiple reasons. Despite telling myself I didn't want to try to get into anything serious right now, there was something about Emerson that just made me want to get close to her. A damn shame nothing beyond friendship could come of it though, for two reasons—distance and beyond commenting on my appearance that one time, she didn't seem to be feeling the kid much.
“Oh, am I moving up on the Emerson NoLastName scale of importance outchea? Let me find out...”
“Uh oh, there's the big head appearing again. Relax, man.” Emerson giggled, before quickly sobering, “For real though, how are you holding up?”
“I'm maintaining. Nat was a lil shook, gotta go check in on her a bit later.”
“That the truth or the sweep, my feelings under the rug Roosevelt answer?”
“Now who's Dr. Philling who?” I teased, deflecting.
“Turnabout is fair play, Mr. Ashe, now answer the question.”
I told Emerson about MaDear's plea for my parents and me to come together and get over our differences, but also let her know about my father's behavior and my mother's lack of a damn backbone. Crocodile tears or not, I knew that today was likely the last time I'd see Roosevelt the Second or Alice unless I was the one who initiated contact. And the chances of that happening? Well, let's just say I had a higher chance of being struck by lightning while doing the watusi on top of the Eiffel Tower. It broke my heart not to be able to fulfill one of my grandmother's last requests of me, but that rift between my donors and I had gone untended too long to be repaired. I was good though; I had a Nat and a handful of friends that were as close as kin.
“It can't be easy though, Roosevelt? You don't think you'll give it one last try?”
“How about when you and your pops bury the hatchet, I'll snuff the beef between my folks and me.”
Emerson grew quiet for a moment, then quickly excused herself from the line, not giving me a chance to say anything before I heard the tell-tale tone of the ending of a call. Too far, asshole, I scolded myself knowing that her relationship with her dad was just as sore a subject as mine with my parents was. I was tired of folks telling me what I needed to do to repair that relationship and hoped Emerson would just be a sympathetic ear. I mean if anyone understood my situation, she definitely did. And she definitely didn't deserve me being an asshole because I didn't want to accept that both she and MaDear were right. Almost immediately I tried calling Emerson back to apologize, but she sent me straight to voicemail. I sent a couple of texts that went unanswered as well, despite me knowing she read them because I turned on read receipts.
“Is your prison pen pal girlfriend still ignoring you?” Natalie asked as she walked through the door in place of a greeting.
“Don’t be a dick, babe,” Kiersten said, coming in behind her carrying a covered dish.
“Fuck off, Brat. Hey, Kiki that wouldn’t happen to be—”
“Yep, pineapple coconut cake,” she interrupted, “Nat mentioned you were in your feelings a little bit, so I figured it was the least I could do.”
Kiersten was the best thing to happen to Natalie for a few reasons, but more importantly, the best thing to happen to me because, in addition to being an amazing presence in my sistercousin’s life, she was also an amateur baker always experimenting in the kitchen. Neither she nor Nat were big sweets heads, so I always reaped the benefits of her experimentation. In the six years that they’d been together, Kiki hooked me up with my favorite dessert, the aforementioned pineapple coconut cake, on every birthday. Even going as far as shipping them out to LA once I had moved out there. I grabbed the Pyrex from Kiersten’s hands immediately once she confirmed my suspicion, not even bothering to grab a plate or knife, but a fork to dig right on in.
“Damn bro, she really got you out here. Eating your feelings. What’s next Drake karaoke?”
“Really, Nat? Did I give you this much grief when that stud dumped you in high school, and you spent 36 hours straight listening to “Officially Missing You” by Tamia until MaDear threatened to make you officially miss your ass if she had to hear that song one more time?”
“Wow, really Ro. Wanda meant a lot to me. That was a tough break.”
“You were fourteen, relax.”
“And this chick was just a pen pal that I’m not even sure really exists, honestly. She could be a red herring, your George Glass. A woman with only one name…and Emerson? What kinda black chick is named Emerson?”
“Coming from you that’s rich. You do realize your girlfriend’s name couldn’t be whiter unless it was Rebecca, right?”
“Hey!” Kiersten interjected, “how’d I get dragged into y’alls lil word war? I made you sympathy cake, nigga!”
“Sorry Kiki, sometimes even innocent bystanders get taken out by strays,” I laughed, shoveling another forkful of cake in my mouth, “Wow, I must look really pathetic right now.”
“You do, bro. You really, really do. You gotta boss up. Or recenter your focus. Have you given any more thought to what MaDear said in that letter?”
The little surprise that MaDear mentioned in her last video that was in my package? A handwritten letter in which she entreated me to do two things—the first was to be the first to extend the olive branch to my parents because she knew they wouldn’t be the ones to reconcile, but the second—and honestly, the scarier option—was to finally put my money where my mouth was and record an album. I’d gone out to LA four years ago with a gleam in my eye and a song in my heart. Ever since I was a shorty, I’d been fooling around with different instruments—taught myself how to play guitar and piano. From there I’d plink out melodies and always kept a pen and paper nearby to write songs. After doing a few of my original joints at open mics around the crib, with a couple of em going viral on the gram, an old friend from high school reached out and said I should come out to LA and try to get into the business for real.
Long story short, my plan to take the professional music world by storm didn’t exactly happen, and I fell back on what I was doing in Chicago before I’d left—teaching. If I wasn’t going to pop, then at least I could do something that would leave an indelible mark on the industry in some capacity. I gave vocal and instrumental lessons, with a few of the kids I’d mentored going on to do some pretty dope things including shows on Broadway and a handful of the televised talent shows. MaDear always wanted me to go for it and just record and release my music on my terms, but those rejections from labels left me a lil spooked. She basically forced my hand in death though, she made a deal with a local studio and bought me blocks of time, a producer, and engineer, with one catch. I had to reach out within 90 days of her death, or the contracts would be nu
ll and void, no refunds. So, it was essentially the biggest shit or get off the pot manipulative maneuver because she knew I wouldn’t want her money to go to waste.
“That old lady was conniving as hell, Brat.”
“That’s not an answer to my question, are you ‘bout to get your PJ Morton on or nah? Shit, maybe you need to sing to ya lil pen pal,” Natalie said with a giggle before bursting into song, “This is my sorry forrrrrrr twenty eighteen. Tap into ya inner Ruben Studdard, dawg.”
“Kiki, take ya, girl, home, she’s buggin’.”
“I mean, she does have a point, low key,” Kiki said, “You used to sing the draws off chicks back in the say. Better remix Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” and get your girl back, mayne.”
“The both of you can get out of my house,” I laughed, “Shoo. Now.”
“Boy hush, ain’t nobody going nowhere.”
“Y’all were supposed to come over and help me, not clown me.”
“Who’s to say we can’t do both, right baby?” Natalie asked.
“Right as rain, baby.”
“Y’all can still go.”
“You don’t mean that, bro. You need us.”
I was in a terrible mood, and everyone knew it. Tamia, my little shadow, was mysteriously absent as I stomped around Grace’s house cursing and mumbling to myself. It was stupid to be so riled up by someone so insignificant. Except he isn’t that insignificant, is he? the little voice in my head countered. I was simultaneously annoyed with Roosevelt for being a jerk, but also annoyed with myself for feeling my resolve weakening with each message of apology he sent; especially the cute, non-rhyming remix he did of Ruben Studdard’s “Sorry 2004”. Men who could sing were my kryptonite, and while I knew Roosevelt was a music teacher, I had no idea of the depths of his talent. And the last run in that little video he’d sent me of himself singing almost wholly ruined my resolve. But I was Chuck Parker’s daughter, and if I couldn’t do anything else, I could hold a grudge. It was gonna take more than a pretty face and a multi-octave range for me to get over my feelings being hurt.
“You need to go outside,” Grace said, coming to sit next to me on the couch in the den where I was currently sulking, “Your energy is messing up my house’s natural feng shui, chica.”
I tried to smile at her joke, but it came across my face more like a grimace.
“I’m fine, Grace.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Nay. Your attitude has been oscillating between super sweet and super stank for the past few days. You even got my baby avoiding you because she doesn’t know which Ti-ti she’ll get day by day. Go out by the lake, take a walk, breathe in that fresh Ragston air. Come back refreshed and renewed.”
Maybe Grace was onto something. I hadn’t exercised at all since leaving LA; perhaps I needed to move around to shift my mood and work of some of this stank energy. A few miles of running, my second favorite way of burning off excess energy ratcheted up by stress, wasn’t such a bad idea. I got up from the couch, changed into my Ivy Park leggings and tank, put on my sneakers and hit the pavement. Running in Ragston was a lot different than LA, way fewer hills and more street time since there were long stretches of road where there are no sidewalks. Since Grace and Ted didn’t live too far from the lake, I’d planned on running down near the abandoned Winterbourne Estate around the lake and back to Grace’s. The whole loop was maybe three miles max, so it should be a cakewalk.
I stretched a bit in the front yard, waved to Old Man Robinson who was sitting out on his porch next door then took off down the road. Grace’s house wasn’t far from where I spent most of my time during my youth, at my friend Rocki’s childhood home. The Malone’s house was always a place of respite because Rock’s parents were mad cool and way less uptight than mine; so were our other close friend Charli's. It wasn't that hard to be less conservative than my parents though due to our religious restrictions. There were so many things that were simple parts of childhood that became extinction level events whenever I dared to ask to be able to participate. There were so many times that we reworded an event or celebration in other terms to convince my parents to let me attend.
I sighed thinking of my parents, a big part of why what Roosevelt said to me cut so deeply. Grace had let it slip to mommy that I was in town, and we'd had lunch with her yesterday afternoon. Unlike my dad, my mom respected the choices of her adult children even if they weren't the ones she would have made for us. If she had her way, all of her kids would have stayed in The Truth, what Jehovah's Witnesses call the space in which devout members operate, and all would be well in the world. At lunch, mommy also mentioned that my dad would probably like to see me while I'm in town—a lie, I was almost sure. My dad and I had peacefully coexisted without crossing each other's paths for so long that I was sure he thought he only had one daughter. His deceased son and youngest daughter were nonfactors as far as he was concerned, and I wasn't too pressed to be upset about it.
Shaking off those thoughts, I picked up my pace as got closer to the Winterborne property. As kids, we'd referred to the palatial estate on the property as “winter bones”, a name borne from a childhood town legend we'd been told about the owner being an old woman who collected the bones of children who dared trespass on the property. Drawing closer to the main house on the property, it looked to be in the midst of some sort of renovation or construction, if the coming soon sign near the edge of the property was any indication. I wonder what's happening here; I thought as I got even closer. As far as I knew, the property had been sitting vacant after being designated as a historical landmark.
It looked decidedly less creepy than it had in the past, no doubt a benefit of the facelift that was currently happening. It would be interesting to see what exactly was going to be done with the space, assuming that it had a new owner now. I pivoted direction from the house, heading to the path that bordered the Lake to continue my jog. It was a little warmer than I'd anticipated, so my focus quickly shifted from all of the drama in my personal life to trying to regulate my breathing and maintaining my pace. It was very easy to forget what had you bogged down when you were running, damn near panting, and trying your hardest to not disrupt the construction crews around you by singing along to the ignorant rap tunes that were blaring through your headphones.
About halfway through my run, I stopped for a quick break to recharge my batteries. I hadn't run outside in quite some time and forgot how much more taxing it was than my standard treadmill runs. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to see that I had a couple of notifications—one was a text from Kellee asking if I was completely off the grid since she hadn't heard from me in a few days, the other was from Roosevelt. I quickly replied to Kellee's text, scheduling sometime later in the day for us to have a FaceTime session. I'd kind of isolated myself from all things I associated with California trying to be present in Ragston, and my daily chats with Kellee definitely were a casualty of that.
I put my phone back in my pocket and began running again. I hadn't gotten more than a couple feet before I was knocked to the ground. It happened so quickly that I didn't have time to brace myself and was sprawled out on my back before I knew it.
“Oh shit, my bad! I'm so sorry; I wasn't watching where I was going” a clearly flustered sounding feminine voice said, before offering me a hand up which I gladly clutched.
Once I got to my feet, I was looking into a very familiar face.
“Emerson Parker, is that you?” Charli squeaked, “Girl, give me a hug.”
And before I could protest she was pulling me into one of those super tight, rocking hugs. She pulled back a little, still keeping a grip on my forearms and looking me up and down.
“How have you been girl?” Charli asked, finally backing up and giving me a little space to fully be able to take her in.
She was still pretty as ever, her vibe, based on how she was dressed currently, was definitely decidedly more...hippie than it was back in our day. She looked terrific, with her long curls pulle
d up into a haphazard bun, eyes blazing brightly and flawless, honey-toned skin.
“I've...been...how about you?”
“Girl stressed. Trying to get this darn inn renovated and ready for launch has me losing my mind. I just had to walk away from the site as to not go off on the construction foreman who's driving me up the wall. That's why I literally ran into you, distracted and trying not to blow my top,” Charli laughed.
I joined in her laughter, definitely being able to relate. “Inn?”
“Yeah, girl,” she nodded, “I purchased the Winterborne property and will be opening up a B&B. Lord willing and if I don't kill the this idiot first.”
“Oh wow! That's a heck of an undertaking, Char.”
“You're telling me! I needed the distraction, though. So, here we are. Hey! What are you doing tonight? You should come by my place. Rock's in town, too...and we planned on catching up over a coupla bottles of wine. You gotta come over, and it'll be like the old days—REC Shop Divas reunited!”
“That sounds...yeah, sure. What time?” I asked, wanting to say no, but the earnest enthusiasm that was spread across her face was contagious, and I couldn't help but fall in line.
“I think Rock was said she was coming between seven and eight, so really any time between now and then.”
“Ok, where are you staying these days? At your folks’ place until the inn is finished?”
“Ooh, girl, no! There's a carriage house on the property as well, so that's been my home base during the reno.”
“Nice! You need me to bring anything later?” I asked but was interrupted by Charli's phone ringing.
She looked at the screen, rolled her eyes and slid the button to answer it. Before she acknowledged the person on the other end, she replied to my question, “Nope, just bring yourself and if you don't like wine, your drink of choice. I've gotta take this, but I'll see you later, Em!”
