Resentments are quiet, evil things—snails in a vegetable garden. They chew away at your heart and you never realize that you’re the mean old lady who never smiles and yells at kids to stay off her lawn.
“When you’re young,” I said, “you think you’ll have at least fifty more years with this person. That you’ll both die quiet deaths at ninety-eight. Some people do, I guess. Not everyone, obviously.”
He gazed at me with brown eyes darkened by death memories. “For a long time, I couldn’t move past that void. Actually, I kept falling in that void and when I was there, I wondered if God ever existed. That scared me.
“But then, I realized what a wonderful time she and I had together. She’d hate to know I was shutting myself up in the house. That missing her was making me miss life.”
“How do you miss her and still function, though?” I asked. “It feels like a betrayal.”
Jake shrugged. “You do small things, I guess. Make it a point to laugh at least twice a day. Go out for drinks with your friends once every couple of weeks… I’ll always love her but that love doesn’t shackle me. It’s not this prison that keeps me from the world.”
He offered me a small smile. “Love is like big country. Endless, unpredictable wilderness. You have some rough times, but then, you stumble on unexpected beauty and you wonder if anyone else has ever stood in that same spot…” He chuckled, then shrugged again. “I never felt that way with Dana, and she knew it and that’s why we didn’t work out.”
“Our wedding anniversary’s on Saturday,” I said. “We would’ve made twelve years.” Tears stung my eyes as I took his hand, needing that human contact again. “I wasn’t ready, you know? It was so abrupt and… No good-byes. No nothing. That was it. He was gone. And it feels like years have passed since that day, and each time I fall asleep, I wake up and wonder, where is he? Is he working late again? And then I remember…”
All around us, people laughed and talked. The espresso machine hissed as it steamed
milk.
“It’s hard being alone in this city,” I said, tearing at a napkin. “Everyone’s so carefree and sexy… Like the folks here.”
Jake cast his eyes around the room. “I see scared, confused people hiding behind designer clothes and tattoos.”
I considered the young faces around me.
Since Truman’s death, I had marveled at the well-groomed homes in my neighborhood. I had envied the living going on behind those beautiful doors. Attractive Angelenos with shiny cars, wearing crisp, fresh clothes. They had it all.
But once upon a time, someone had looked at me, too, the way I now studied my neighbors. Someone in the world had thought I lived a pain-free, fabulous life with my man in our gorgeous home. They didn’t know about our betrayals and inattentions, about that gorgeous house with its mysterious drafts and creepy rumbles. They didn’t know that I lay awake at night, tired and sleepy but unable to rest, pondering whether my dead husband was actually dead and haunting me while prescription drugs coursed through my veins like blood.
No one’s grass is greener. Just different shades of brown.
Not that my life was a complete wreck. Not that my situation was comparable to those women suddenly widowed with three kids and no money. But I had planned. I wasn’t supposed to be punished anymore because other than that one time with Jake, and a secret here and there, I had colored inside Life’s lines.
I had planned.
58
Jake and I trekked back up the hill in silence. Streetlamps buzzed as fog crept up the sides of the canyon. The moist night air smelled of sweet earth, wild sage and lavender. Up ahead, my front porch glowed with golden light, and this time, I didn’t feel so awful not seeing Truman standing there, waiting for my return.
At the front door, I offered Jake my hand. “Thanks for this.”
“Can we see each other again?” he asked. “We can go someplace without skateboards, iPods and Chihuahuas in sweaters. Dinner wherever you want.”
I smiled. “I’d like that. My couch is about to file a restraining order against me.”
He squeezed my hand before letting go. “I’ll call you later.” As he strolled down the flagstone pathway, he turned back to say, “If you need to talk before then, remember that I’m here, okay? As a friend.” He blew me a kiss, then jogged up the hill.
Seconds away from closing my eyes, I realized that I had forgotten to take my dose of Xanax. I turned over on the couch, not planning to leave the warmth of my quilt, and watched the opening credits of Seinfeld. Before the first commercial break, I had already fallen asleep.
59
This time, a ringing telephone, and not a nightmare, startled me from sleep. On the television screen, a young Black woman ran off the stage because the no-good now performing an elaborate dance with a white handkerchief was not the daddy. Chiantay’s Fifth Visit: Who’s My Baby’s Daddy? Maury Povitch followed the uncertain whore backstage. “We’ll find little DeVaughndre’s daddy no matter how many shows it takes,” he assured her.
I smiled, then glanced at the clock.
Minutes before ten o’clock.
Asleep for twelve hours.
I sat up, meeting resistance as I turned my neck. Stiff from sleeping in one position all night. Didn’t mind the pain, though. I had slept for twelve effin’ hours—a modern-day miracle.
I stood and stretched, my mind light, my hands aching to do something. Having coffee with Jake had incited some kind of mental breakthrough.
I ambled to the bathroom without casting an anxious glance at my bed. I took a shower, then considered my reflection in the mirror. No message written in steam.
I pulled on swanky jeans (They still fit!) and my favorite Star Wars T-shirt. No phantom blocked me from my drawer of clean clothes.
I made a small breakfast of toast, eggs and coffee. No strange messages composed on the refrigerator.
After eating, I stood in the middle of the kitchen—a strange place in the daytime. With all that midday sunlight, I saw dried juice staining the grout between the tiles. I discovered grape tomatoes rotting in the back of the refrigerator’s crisper. Old prints of basketball shoes—size 11—dirtied the Mexican tile floors. “I’m living in a hovel.”
I grabbed the tub of bleach and a sponge from beneath the sink. As I scrubbed and wiped, bleach splattered all over my True Religions.
I’ll buy another pair of jeans. Maybe I’ll call Leilani and we’ll make a day out of it.
After cleaning the kitchen, I grabbed a new trash bag and retreated upstairs. I stood before the closed door of Truman’s home office and tried to ignore the Geiger-counter sensation that came with standing so close to this room. I hesitated—didn’t want to do this. Because what would I find as I cleaned? Receipts to romantic dinners with another woman? A hidden box of love letters? Condoms?
My hands balled into fists, my jaw clenched, and I backed away from the door.
You’ll have to do it eventually. Just get it over with.
I took several cleansing breaths, and my hands relaxed and my teeth stopped grinding against each other.
I opened the door, then crept over to his desk.
Found a package of now-stale licorice. An empty can of Red Bull. Dusty computer monitor. Pens. A glossy box—World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade expansion set—remained unopened and ready to install onto the computer. My hands shook as I plucked the can, and then the licorice, from the desk and dropped it into the trash bag. I left the WOW box there even though he’d never open it, even though he’d never reach Level 68. I had teased him about his alter—a warlock-class gnome he had named Omemo. On the night he acquired the Field Marshal’s dreadweave robe, the last piece to complete his epic armor set, he had bragged, “I’m pretty badass now.” I had rolled my eyes, and called him a WOW nerd. He laughed and called me Nerd Princess for loving someone with an alter named Omemo.
A jumble of his climbing gear—ropes, picks, his beaten burgundy backpack—sat in the corner wit
h the FOX Sports boxes and the framed Frazier-Ali poster.
All of that stays put for now.
I opened the blinds to allow more light, then opened the top desk drawer. PostIts, paper clips… A picture of Truman and me making goofy faces as the ocean twinkled behind us. Whale-watching, Santa Barbara, 1999. I closed the drawer, then eased out of the room. No more of that.
Back in the foyer, I sat on the floor and transformed the massive pile of mail into three lesser piles of mail. Junk. Bills to Pay. Mail to Review.
In our master bathroom, I tossed Truman’s shaving kit, his allergy medications, and his deodorant. I kept his toothbrush, hairbrush and his favorite pumice stone. Personal things. DNA things.
I peered beneath the bed. Socks. Cups. Scarves that had slipped off my hair. The ClearBlue Easy pregnancy test I had dropped a hundred years ago. I shook the box—the used sticks rattled inside. We were gonna fly to Barbados. He’d dive, I’d worry. We’d get drunk and make a baby.
I shoved the box into the trash bag.
In our bedroom, I threw open the walk-in closet. My wardrobe and endless parade of shoes occupied the closet’s south side. Truman’s clothes—blacks and khakis—hung on the north. After his last promotion, he had ditched most of his jeans and T-shirts (my favorite: I is a colege stoodent) for business-casual wear from Armani Exchange and ‘grown people’s shoes’ from Cole Haan.
Like the downstairs den and Truman’s office, I had avoided opening the closet that we had shared, preferring to wear clothes found in heaps around the house. No longer.
I stepped over the threshold.
I pulled a blue hatbox from a top shelf and opened it: three paperback relationship books. How to Have a Passionate Marriage. Loving the Man You’re With. Boosting Your Marriage Libido. Also in the box: goodies we had purchased at the Hustler Store one Saturday night. “To keep it interesting,” I had told him with a wink while slipping tubes of Motion Lotion into the basket. We had played with our toys three times a week, and then, twice a week, and then, not so much. I didn’t worry—we were experiencing normal life, that’s all. Our Hustler box would find its way off the shelf, and back on the nightstand once we worked through our issues…
I placed the box back on the shelf.
Despite its age, Truman’s M.I.T. sweatshirt hung among his newer, more expensive wardrobe. I’ll give it to Trumanita, he told me once. I had joked—What if she goes to Northwestern instead? Truman had faked a Fred Sanford heart attack and collapsed on the bed.
I coaxed the sweatshirt off its hanger, then brought the worn cotton to my face. Citrus, sunscreen and Tide. I folded it, and placed it on a shelf on my side of the closet.
You can’t do this. You can’t. It’s too early. You’re betraying him.
I stared at that sweatshirt until that critic in my head hushed. Then, I returned to Truman’s side and piece by piece, removed his clothes from hangers. I rifled through pockets and found crumpled dollar bills, receipts to Gamestop, and clear candy wrappers.
By three o’clock, I had packed most of Truman’s wardrobe into six suitcases. I kept the parka he wore in Nepal, the suit he wore on his last birthday, the pair of blue boxers I bought him after our first date, and the I is a colege stoodent tee. All of it sat on my shelf, prizes to treasure until my own death.
“Nic!” Leilani shouted. “Where you at?”
I shouted, “In the closet.”
“I knew you were a big lez—” Leilani popped into the closet’s doorway. Her smile died once she realized what I was doing. “Nicole…”
I stood and said, “I know, Lei. But it was time.”
Leilani shook her head.
“I had to. Maybe I’ll stop seeing him now. Maybe I’ll be able to move forward.”
Leilani offered a curt nod. “Guess you can check off Step Three on your little list. Is all this going on the lawn tomorrow?”
“No. There’s this program that clothes the homeless and poor people going on job interviews. I’m thinking of donating all of it to them.”
“How noble.” She darted out of the closet.
I followed her out to the bedroom. “Look through and take some things, okay?”
“That’s so sweet of you to think of me,” she said as she stomped to the hallway. “I would’ve hated fighting a crack-head for my brother’s Rolex.”
“Zephyr suggested that I do this. I didn’t mean anything by it. Lei, don’t be mad at me, okay? I really didn’t want to do this.”
Leilani headed down the stairs and to the kitchen. She threw open cabinets, and grabbed ingredients to make a pot of coffee.
“It’s all meant to help me move on,” I said. “And it’s working because I’m also…” I swallowed nervously, then whispered, “I think I’m gonna adopt a baby.”
Leilani’s eyes widened.
“I’m surprised, too,” I said. “I wasn’t really planning anything. I hadn’t even thought it through until I started cleaning up around here. But we wanted to have family, and I think… I think he’d be happy knowing that I...”
Leilani gawked at me.
I twisted my fingers and shifted my eyes to the floor. “It’s just a thought. But the more I think about it and talk about it, the more I want to do it.”
Leilani attempted to smile. “You can’t even take care of yourself right now.”
I nodded. “I have to pull myself together. I know that.”
“And when you pull yourself together, you’ll be able to handle raising a child alone?”
“Women do it all the time. And I wouldn’t be alone, Aunt Leilani.”
She cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. “And what did Zephyr think of that?”
I shook my head. “Haven’t told her yet. Speaking of Zephyr…One-fifty a session? She’s good and all, but Dr. Clark? My old psychiatrist? She only charged $75 for people who didn’t even have insurance. I’m not saying that Zephyr hasn’t helped me. Cuz she has. I just cleaned up the house because of her. But I’m thinking maybe of going one more time and then stopping.”
Leilani rolled her eyes, then jammed the “Brew” button on the coffee maker. “What do you want her to do, Nicole? Pull rabbits out of a hat? Turn water into wine? She’s an advisor, not Jesus.”
I sat at the breakfast bar. “You’re right. I guess I’m expecting something phenomenal. I mean, that first visit was wild. The ‘Truman is here’ thing? That was crazy.”
Leilani said nothing as she watched coffee drip into the pot.
“And really: it’s not the money. I just feel uncomfortable going to a psychic.”
“Advisor.”
“Whatever.”
“But you just said that she’s helped you.”
I nodded. “Even though something works doesn’t mean that it’s good for you.”
“So now you’re a good Christian?” Leilani asked.
“I never said anything about being good. But I don’t feel nervous sticking with what I believe, even if I’m not the best at it. Nor do I feel this constant need to justify going to God. But with Zephyr, I’m constantly rationalizing my time with her. I know I’m probably not making sense to you, but I’m actually relieved that I decided to stop seeing her.”
“Guess your conscious is working, then. Congratulations.”
“You said Zephyr’s helped you,” I said. “How?”
Leilani grabbed a mug from the cupboard.
“How has she—?”
“I can talk to her and she won’t judge every single thing I say.”
My cheeks burned at the insinuation. Still, I said, “I like her, and I like that she has an open mind, but—”
“But what?” Leilani shook her head, and muttered, “No wonder Truman never came home.”
I jerked, smarting as though she had gouged my eyes.
She poured coffee into the mug, and continued: “Everything has to be Nicole’s way. If it doesn’t make sense to Nicole, well then, it’s just stupid. While the rest of us soar, she stays on the ground, te
lling us that we’re flying crooked.” Her shoulders slumped—out of steam. “What-the-fuck-ever, Nic. You’re an adult. See her. Don’t see her. Adopt fifty babies from Viet Nam. I don’t give a…” She dumped cream and sugar into her cup.
I studied the countertop—what should I say? “I wasn’t attacking you. Just being honest. I’m sorry that you’re upset.”
She grunted, and threw the spoon in the sink. “I’m sorry, too.”
I climbed off the stool and headed to the door. I opened my mouth to apologize again, but stopped. There was nothing left to say.
60
Back in June, my hairstylist had called after I had missed my standing hair appointment. Monica had called Phillip back, and told him about Truman’s accident just two days before. As an expression of sympathy, Phillip sent me a gift basket of shampoo, conditioner and hair gloss. I had used the shampoo once. After that, though… We (black girls) don’t wash our hair every day, usually every other week; but I had even broken that rule. I hadn’t washed my hair at all, and now it smelled like burning leaves and sour milk. So, when I called Phillip and asked him to squeeze me in between his other appointments, he had shouted, “Yes, Lord.”
Once I sat in his chair, though, and told him all that I wanted, he uttered, “Get out of my chair right now and don’t come back until you can think straight.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Cut it off.”
“But it’s so pretty and long,” he said, hooking a finger around my formerly-pink scrunchie. “When it’s washed and combed.”
“I need a change.”
“Adopt a poodle,” he said, his lip turned up in disgust. “Does Mo know that you’re doing this?”
“Doing what?” I asked, eyebrow cocked. “Cutting hair that belongs to me?”
He crossed his arms. “Nope. Not doing it.”
“It’s my hair. Not my uterus.”
Phillip draped a leopard-print smock around my shoulders. “Whatever, little Nikki. For what you pay, you are the boss of me.”
The View from Here Page 20
