When I Was Your Girlfriend

by Nikki Harmon

  She takes my head in her hands, looks me directly in the eyes and says, “I think you need to start running on a regular basis. You hear me? Goodness! You need some new running shoes?” She collapses back on the sofa. I laugh, help her get dressed and head off to the shower.

  Pepper and I spend the weekend together, like any couple would. We walk around Rittenhouse Square, and get some Thai food for dinner. We go to the Ritz and watch a weird French film, then go back to her house, and have some good sex. The next morning, we laze around her place, read the paper, check e-mails and Facebook. By late Sunday afternoon, I decide to give my mom a call. She’s making pork chops and invites me to dinner. Of course, I accept.

  My parents still live in the house I grew up in, so it’s always good to go back. I pull up to the red and white twin and marvel at how it hasn’t changed at all. I can still see us playing hopscotch and jumping rope in the middle of the street. I can still see the crowd of kids hovering when my next-door neighbor got a busted nose during a fight with Andre from up the block. That was a mess. I wave to the neighbors across the street and head up the walkway. My sister Janine opens the door.

  “Hey, sis!” We hug and I go inside. She’s three years younger but six inches taller and five shades lighter. We used to make lots of jokes about the mailman when we were younger, but my dad, with his rich brown skin, didn’t think it was so funny. Janine has decided to change careers, again. This time, she is going back to school to be a physical therapist. So she’s back home, again, living in her old bedroom and complaining about it every chance she gets. I can smell the candied yams, macaroni and cheese and asparagus before I even turn the corner into the kitchen. There’s Mom at the sink, washing something in the apron I gave her 10 years ago for Christmas. I give her a hug and see what I can do to help.

  After dinner, my dad goes back to the TV room to watch a basketball game and my mom, sister, and I chat in the kitchen. Janine talks about school, I talk about work, and my mom talks about the neighborhood and her impending retirement. It’s all warm and cozy and familiar until Janine lets out a gasp.

  “What?!” my mother and I ask, my mother alarmed, and I annoyed.

  Janine sighs and says, “Dee, I forgot to tell you. I saw one of Candace’s sisters the other day. I think it was Denise.”

  “Janine, is that all? Why do you have to be so dramatic? You’re going to give me a heart attack!” my mother exclaims.

  “Oh, how is Denise?” I say trying to sound casual, trying to still the sudden drumming of my heart.

  “She’s fine. Just got divorced, I think. She had two kids with her who were acting up so we didn’t get to talk long,” says Janine.

  “Oh…. How’s their mom? Her other sisters? Candace?” I say as casually as I can manage. My mom sneaks a glance at me. I see it.

  “Like I said, we didn’t get to talk much, but she’s working at the library. I think she’s a librarian at the Coleman library,” Janine replies. But she’s looking at me funny.

  “I’m just asking. I was just curious. Can’t I just be curious? Sheesh!” I say all annoyed. Inside my heart is just drumming away (Candace). “I’m gonna go watch the game with Dad.” They watch me leave, shrug and continue cleaning up.

  I go sit with my dad, pour myself a small snifter of cognac and tune in to the game. The Sixers and Nets. My dad and I exchange small talk about the game, the cognac warms me up and I relax. I think back to when I came out to him in this very room.

  I was 21 and a senior on winter break . . . my last winter break. We were watching football. Well, he was watching it. I had a book in my hand but mostly I was thinking about how I would say what I had to say. My dad is the quiet type. He has opinions, lots of them, but he keeps them mostly to himself. I had no idea what he thought about gay people. I had no idea if he even knew what that was. It just wasn’t anything that ever came up in conversation and he didn’t know any gay people as far as I knew. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t think he would disown me, or yell at me, or make a big fuss. That was not his style. I just didn’t want him to think less of me, to be disappointed or disgusted by me. And I had no idea of how to start this conversation.

  “Dad,” I said.

  “Mmmm? Oh! Oh! Fumble! Unbelievable!”

  “Dad,” I said again trying to muster up the courage to just dive in and say it. “Would you be upset if I didn’t get married? Or have kids?”

  “What? What are you talking about, Deirdre?” he asked turning his head slightly towards me but keeping his eyes on the screen.

  “I might not ever get married or have kids. Is that OK with you?” I was starting to get emotional.

  “Deirdre, you have to live your own life. If you don’t get married or have kids, that’s up to you. I don’t have a say in that. Why are you worried about that? You should be thinking about graduation and what you’re going to do after that. That’s what’s important now, right?” He looked at me.

  “I’m gay,” I said looking back at him. He sat quietly looking at me. I started to tear up waiting for him to say something.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m sure daddy, I’m sure…. Do you hate me?” I asked.

  “I could never hate you, Deirdre, you’re my daughter. If you’re sure about this, then OK. Like I said, you have your own life to live and you have your own choices to make. If this is what you want, then OK. I love you no matter what. OK?”

  “OK,” I replied and wept from relief. I never loved him more. He got up and hugged me but I could see his eyes sliding towards the screen. It made me love him even more. I closed my eyes and hugged him hard.

  Ten years later, I look over at my dad. He’s aged a bit, more gray hair, more sagging jaw, more wrinkles on his hands, but he’s the same – steady, consistent, and reliable. I tear up again thinking about how lucky I am. Suddenly, he lets out a huge snort. I bust out laughing when I realize he’s over there napping.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday morning and I’m back at work. I see Meadow as soon as I walk in the door.

  “Good morning, Meadow!”

  “Namaste!” she replies and bows to me.

  “Alaikum salaam,” I bow back. We laugh. She’s one of my favorite people. She’s as crunchy as they come but she doesn’t take herself too seriously. Today she’s wearing some kind of maroon and beige dashiki and a headband with a white feather. It could be very corny but she actually makes it looks kind of stylish. We head back to the offices together.

  “So you were inquiring about one of my patients?” she asks over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, the name sounds very familiar to me and I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t a girl I was friends with in high school,” I reply.

  “Well, you’re in luck. She just happens to be stopping by today to pick up some handouts and a ‘script’ for iron.”

  Thump. Thump. “Oh, cool. Let me know when she gets here.” My stomach instantly knots up. I go into my office, close the door gently behind me and stare at one of my favorite paintings, Georgia O’Keefe’s “Pelvis IV” to try to calm myself down. Breathe. Whew. OK. Then I look in the mirror because if I’m going to see my first love, I’ve got to look good. I pat the hair, re-curl some curls, take out a gloss and glide it over my lips. My hands are shaking a little.

  I put on some Norah Jones and prepare for my patient, Missy and her husband George. They should be 35 weeks today. This should be fun. George is an ex-boyfriend of my sister’s. He’s a good guy and comes to every visit. I think he’s a little nervous with me being a lesbian and having my hands all up his wife. I don’t know how to explain it, but looking at my patients’ body parts is nothing at all like looking at a lover’s. When I am at work, I am all business and patient care. I love pregnancy and I love pregnant women, but bodies can be very clinical for me and at heart, I’m a scientist. Most of the time, I have to remember to switch it off when I’m not working. Nobody wants a Pap smear when they’re making love.r />
  After my third patient of the day, I hear a knock at the door.

  “Hey, it’s Meadow. Candace is here.” I had almost forgotten! My stomach knots return and I get up and open the door. Meadow points down the hall to reception. I see a figure in a green down coat bending over and picking up something. I start down the hall, and she stands back up and turns toward me. She smiles and says, “Hello!”

  I am looking over her shoulder, scanning the waiting room but no one else is there. She continues to stare at me. “Hi! I’m Candace. You wanted to meet me?”

  Like a popped balloon, I deflate. It’s not her. It’s not my Candace. It’s not even close. This is a very thin white woman with an impossible large belly. I try to recover my manners and stretch out my hand.

  “Hi. I’m Dee Armstrong. I did want to meet you. You have the same name as a girl I was close with in high school. I was hoping to see her again.” I try to laugh it off, but I know I sound disappointed.

  “Oh. Well I’m pretty sure we didn’t go to high school together. I would have remembered you! Sorry I’m not your friend, but nice meeting you anyway,” she says. And with that, the fake Candace Wheeler picked up her papers and wobbled out.

  ~~~

  For two weeks, I pouted. I did my thing at work, but at home I grew increasingly dejected. Pepper had no idea what was wrong with me. She tried many wonderful and creative things to bring me out of my mood. And while they worked temporarily, after the moment was over, I lapsed back into my funk. I grew increasingly annoyed with her, with her name, with her friends. I tried another run on Kelly Drive but I couldn’t even make a mile. I wandered, I stumbled, the river looked gray and dirty, and the air was chilled.

  Then on a Saturday night, having declined Pepper’s invitation to go out and dance, I was home having some baked chicken and potatoes watching Terms of Endearment for the fifth time. You can’t go wrong with Debra Winger and Shirley MacLaine! Straight drama!

  BRRRRRrrrrrrriing! I pick up the phone. It’s Anita.

  “Dee, Dee! This is it! She’s coming. I felt pains. I waited. I wanted to be sure. But now ARRUURRGGH!!!!!!!!”

  I wait until the contraction passes. “Anita, how far apart are the contractions?”

  “Eight, no that was six, six minutes apart. I’m so nervous! Oh, my gosh. I passed my mucous plug this morning so I knew it was coming, I’m so excited!!!!”

  “Great, OK. I’ll meet you at the birth center. Don’t forget your birth plan and all the things you wanted for relaxation. And your camera, Anita, remember last time?!”

  “Check, check, check!!! Thanks, see you there!” I grab my purse, my food/snack bag, and a change of clothes. My adrenaline was pumping. It was time for Anita to finally have her baby!

  Sunday night, I was holding a sleepy seven pound, eight ounce perfect little girl, Maria Dorothy James. Anita was napping and her boyfriend Rashid was out getting food and texting friends and family. I was holding this new little life, whom I had known since she was a tiny growing embryo, barely 10 weeks conceived. I watch her little nostrils breathe in and breathe out. I watch her little mouth pucker. I watch her open one eye and peek at me. And all my depression washes away under the enormity of the miracle of her birth. I’m an idiot sometimes. I had been so focused on my disappointment with what didn’t happen that I didn’t see the obvious. I needed a change.

  ~~~

  Feeling renewed and refreshed on Tuesday morning, I call and ask Pepper over for dinner. She agrees but seems a little hesitant. She asks me if I’m out of my funk and I tell her I am. I apologize for being such an ass and promise to thank her with a home-cooked meal.

  There is something else I need to do too, and it is not going to be easy. I don’t say it to myself, I don’t even think it to myself. But when the universe makes things plain to you, you’d best not wait to make the changes you need to make.

  Tuesday evening arrives and I cooked my favorite dinner, Jamaican curry chicken, fried plantain, and some coco bread I picked up earlier in the day. I had ginger beer and rum ready for drinks, and some pineapple upside down cake with coconut ice cream for dessert. I put on Bob Marley, light some candles and incense, and relax. Pepper knocked on the door, late as usual, and laughs when I open it.

  “You went all out, huh? You must be feeling pretty guilty for the crappy way you’ve been treating me,” she smirks.

  She’s a little more dressed up than usual, like she is trying to impress me or maybe shame me for my stupid behavior. Either way, the low cut red blouse, the tight black maxi skirt with the thigh-high spilt and the black leather boots are exceedingly distracting. I look down at my usual jeans and Henley and feel a bit underdressed. At least I have on my Jamaican knit cap for some flair. I need a drink.

  “Come on, mon, let’s eat,” I say in my best Jamaican accent. I hold out my hand, and she takes it and follows me into my tiny dining room. We eat by candlelight, talking and laughing the whole way through. She forgives my moodiness and I finally feel at ease. I take a deep breath.

  “Pepper,” I say. “I have something I need to tell you.” She stops eating, her fork midway to her mouth with a piece of cake on it. She looks at me.

  “What, babe? What’s wrong?” she asks.

  She looks so genuinely concerned I almost forget what I’m saying. She’s looking at me as if she loves me. Does she love me? I hadn’t even thought of that before. Oh my God, I haven’t really thought about her feelings much at all, have I? I’m such a selfish, self-absorbed ass. I am and I know it. It almost makes this easier.

  “You deserve better than me,” I say quietly. The cake drops off her fork as she lowers it to the plate. The piece of cake rolls on the table and stops between us. I resist the urge to clean it up.

  “I like you a lot, I think you are a great person, but I’m not in love with you. You deserve better than me, more than me,” I say.

  I feel the air change in the room, like the pressure has dropped. I see her face go through a series of emotions. She says nothing. She’s staring at me, her lips pressed together, holding back.

  “You’re breaking up with me?” she says incredulously. “Unfuckingbelieveable! You are really breaking up with me?! Right now? What was this? My last meal? Are you kidding me?” The sarcasm is starting to creep up into her voice. I brace myself for the storm but there is silence instead.

  “Are you seeing someone else?” she says suspiciously. Her eyes start darting around the room looking for evidence.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not seeing anybody else.”

  “Then what is this? I don’t get it. What’s the problem? We get along fine, don’t we?” She sounded genuinely confused.

  “We do and you’re great but I … I just want more. I think we have a good relationship, but I want more. I want to be in love,” I say pathetically. I sound like a ridiculous teenager even to my own ears.

  “Now you don’t love me? You know what? This is bullshit. Fine. If you don’t want me, I’ll go but I think you’re either lying or stupid. We have a good thing; most people would kill for a relationship like ours. But if it’s not good to you, then I guess it’s not good at all. Oh, this is so stupid,” she says.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just, I just think there’s more out there and I think that we’ve settled with each other and we got comfortable,” I reply trying desperately to make her understand. Pepper stands up, irritated.

  “Hey, speak for your own fucking self. I didn’t settle. I love you and I love being with you and I thought we could be good for a long time. If you are not happy, that’s on you, but don’t put any of that shit on me. This is your decision, not mine,” she says. She walks to the door, picks up her purse, opens the door, and gives me one last long look.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, standing up and walking towards her.

  “I think you are making a huge mistake, Dee. I really do. Bye,” she says and slams the door behind her.

  I stand there for a while debating whether I should change my mi
nd and run after her and tell her that it was all a big mistake. But as the seconds ticked by, my doubt dissolves and I know I did the right thing. I know there is something more for me out there. I try but I can’t stop myself. I think about Candace.

  ~~~

  After our first kiss, which lasted about an hour I think, Candace and I just looked at each other. What we had just done was inconceivable, unbelievable, unprecedented (in our world) and incredible. It was like we had crossed into an unknown universe. Could we breathe there? What language should we use to speak? Who lived here and how?

  We had a moment of opportunity where we could take it all back. Get angry with each other for doing something we didn’t want to do. We could even get into a fistfight about it and that would put a stop to everything. Or we could laugh it off like a crazy and wild practical joke. We could blame Ms. Brown and Alice Walker for putting these ideas into our heads.

  I think all these things went through my mind. But I couldn’t do it. I could not deny the hour of perfect affection and passion I’d just spent. I could not deny how wonderfully right it had felt. I could not deny that I liked Candace and thought she was beautiful. I could not deny that I wanted that kiss. I had not planned it nor even anticipated it. She offered the possibility of it and I could not deny it. I didn’t regret it either, at least not yet. So we looked at each other thinking our thoughts, deciding if we should fight or flee. But we did neither. We stayed.

  I said, “Hi.”

  She giggled. “Hi.”

  It was exactly as if we were meeting each other for the first time. We saw each other out of our new eyes, and we saw each other newly. We were the same girls but changed.

  “I’ve never done anything like that before,” I said shyly.

  “Me neither,” she replied, “but there’s something about you, Dee.”