The Truth of Right Now

by Kara Lee Corthron

  “Dariomauritius,” a familiar voice says.

  I don’t believe it. My mother’s here. And it’s not my imagination.

  “It’s you,” I say.

  She looks me over like she’s never seen me in her life.

  “My baby. My beautiful baby,” she cries and kisses me all over my face. It’s too much. I feel suffocated.

  “Stop it,” I struggle to say. She does.

  “My poor, sweet baby.”

  “You haven’t called or e-mailed in ages.” There is no way I’m going to make this easy for her.

  “I’m so, so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am, baby.”

  Yeah. I’m sure you’re sorry NOW.

  She pulls the chair closer to the bed so she can hold my hand and look me in the eye while being as close to my face as possible. She needs to back the fuck up.

  “I guess we haven’t talked since . . . August? Good Lord, where does the time go?” She genuinely seems confused and agonized by the passage of time and her role in it.

  “This is–what it takes to get you to visit? I have to nearly die?”

  She shuts her eyes and nuzzles her face against my hand. I want to pull it away from her, but I’m too tired.

  “You know I love you more than anything.”

  “Do I?”

  The tears fall. They dampen my palm, and it’s a nice feeling. I like the feeling of her tears on my skin. Haven’t felt that in so long.

  “I hope you do. I’m gonna make things right between us, Dari. I’m much better than I once was.”

  So many words come to me that I want to say, to argue with her, to tell her she’s a crappy mother who left me to be raised by a mean, sad man. But I can’t catch up with them. I can’t fit my mouth around all of them, so I just say what little I can say.

  “How are you better?”

  She lets go of my hand for a moment and opens her purse. She unzips a pocket and pulls out a tiny velvet box. Is she about to propose?

  She opens the box and where a ring would normally be, sits a bronze-looking disk like a coin. She shows it to me. There’s a symbol on it that reminds me of the illuminati triangle, but it’s something else. This is a one-year pin.

  “You haven’t had a drink for a year? At all?”

  She shakes her head. “No. A year, two months, one week, and a day. I’m working on myself, Dari. I will keep working on myself.”

  I try to nod, but that’s a lot of effort. I’m skeptical, but this is a good thing. One little step in a humongous journey, but a step nonetheless.

  “When you’ve healed, want to come stay with me?”

  Despite all her efforts, I just can’t believe that this is a real offer. Not after all this time. She’s worried about me and she feels guilty. This is not real.

  “For how long?” I will call her bluff.

  “However long you want. I can work it out with Maynard.” Her eyes shift a little nervously when she brings up Dad. “We can enroll you in school there.”

  “I don’t speak–French. How am I supposed to go to high school in Paris?”

  She chews her lower lip like she hadn’t thought of this.

  “Summer? Come for the summer. I can teach you the language or you can take lessons if you prefer and then if you want? Stay.”

  “You’d shit yourself–if I said–‘yes.’ Wouldn’t ya?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be ecstatic if you said ‘yes.’ ”

  I shake my head. No. This cannot be real. Something I’ve fantasized about a hundred times cannot possibly be real. She’s messing with me.

  “I am the queen of making mistakes. I’d love the chance to do one or two things right.”

  It could truly be the morphine, but I think she may be serious this time.

  “I can promise you: There is no better place to paint.”

  I hate how much I miss her. I hate knowing that there’s probably nothing else in the world I want more than to live with her in Paris.

  “I’ll think about it,” I finally say.

  She smiles and caresses my arm. She tells me about her work and a show she has coming up in Lyon. I close my eyes and listen and enjoy it when she accidentally slips into French. She was born a black girl in bumblefuck Alabama and spent most of her young life being passed around to relatives that didn’t want her and could barely take care of themselves. Things weren’t easy for her. I don’t know when she started drinking, but she was probably young. And it’s funny to think about now, but I had no idea her drinking was such a big problem when I was little. I just thought that was her personality. I just thought she was a zillion times more fun than Dad.

  Yes. I resent her. I can’t help it. But some tiny, mysterious part of me that I can’t help is a little bit glad that she found a way to be happy. I don’t know how long her visit will last, but I’m also glad she’s here.

  Izzy’s outside, her back to the window. The last time Mom called was before school began, I tried to give the phone to Izzy, but she wouldn’t take it. I wonder if she’s speaking to her now. She probably has to, given the nature of things. I hope she forgives Mom someday. Actually, I hope Mom earns her forgiveness someday.

  Lily. I can see her peeking in from the hallway. She looks gaunt, pale. Like she’s been ill. Maybe she has been.

  “Dari? Baby? What’s wrong?” My mother asks.

  Nothing’s wrong. Only that I’ve been shot in the head. Oh. She wants to know what I’m looking at. I don’t say. I just keep looking until Lily realizes I’m staring at her and she jumps. If I had the energy, I might laugh.

  “Who is that?”

  “Lily.” I don’t have it in me to explain Lily to my mother right now. For that, she’ll just have to wait.

  “I want to see her now,” I say.

  She goes to get Lily. I do want her to come back. My mother. I do want to hear more about her life, but I need to see Lily.

  Lily

  I tear down the corridor like a tornado, but Mom catches up to me and holds on, forcing me to move at a normal human pace. I can’t wait to see him, though I’m also terrified. He might not want to see me.

  As we turn the corner, Izzy sees us immediately and smiles.

  “Everything looks good so far. One of his doctors used the word ‘miracle,’ ” Izzy says, and Dari’s father rubs tears from his eyes and takes a deep breath.

  Inside the room, Dari still looks pretty bad. He’s talking to a striking, tall woman in designer boots.

  “Do either of you need anything?” Mom asks.

  “Thank you, no,” his father says. “I am grateful to you. We haven’t always gotten along, but I love my son very much.” Mom nods empathetically. He slowly heads back to the waiting area. There’s something shy about Dari’s father. I hadn’t noticed that before.

  Mom pumps Izzy for specifics about Dari’s prognosis and she gets out her phone, where she’s been storing all her notes related to Dari. I peer through the window. He still looks incredibly frail. I’ve gotten so used to looking at Dari’s lifeless body that I jump when I realize that he is now looking straight at me. The woman turns to follow his gaze and rises when she sees me.

  “Hello, Lily,” she says, popping her head through the doorway. She has a smooth voice, like she might be a singer.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “That’s all right. Go on in,” she says and takes my place on the bench.

  I walk up to the side of his bed. The machines beep. His jagged breathing accompanies the mechanized sounds.

  “Are you in pain?” I ask, because I don’t know where to begin.

  Dari

  “Not right now,” I tell her, though that isn’t exactly true. Too soon for another dose of morphine, though.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and she says a few other things too. Things about her responsibility and her shame. And being a shitty friend. Things she should say. Things that make sense. None of which I feel like hearing.

  “I don’t remember a lot
—from that night. I don’t wanna talk about it. Let’s just be quiet for a minute,” I suggest. She nods, pressing her palms into her thighs nervously.

  I don’t like the smell of this room. Pine-Sol, starch, and metal. I try to catch a whiff of Lily’s cocoa butter body lotion. I can’t. Maybe she doesn’t wear it anymore.

  In a near whisper, she asks, “Will it hurt if I hug you?”

  “It might.” It would. I wanted to see her. As soon as I saw her face at the window, I needed her here. A burning, painful itch needing to be scratched. But now that she’s here, nothing feels right.

  “It’s hard to get up and live my life. It’s hard to, like, brush my teeth and comb my hair. To put on deodorant. To refill my MetroCard. Feels like all those stupid things I do, that I’m supposed to do, are insulting to you because you can’t do them.” She stops. I glance over at her and she’s staring at the floor. I have a strong urge to tell her to stop brushing her teeth and combing her hair and putting on deodorant then.

  Lily

  Everything I say sounds stupid. Everything I do is stupid. Why am I here? Why can’t I just leave him alone?

  “What do you want me to say?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.” He almost smiles after saying this.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” I mumble. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I know the words to describe how I feel. I don’t know if there are words that could do it. It’s just ridiculous trying to pretend to be normal when nothing will ever really be normal again.”

  He starts to respond, but coughs for a second. Then he tries to turn his head and winces in pain. I figure out that he needs his cup of water from the night table and hand it to him, holding the straw to his lips until he gets enough.

  “You have to feel how you feel, and so do I. That’s how it is,” he finally says.

  I nod. I’m grateful for the painful simplicity of that thought.

  Dari

  What do I want from Lily now? Do I even know? I think I might be too tired to want.

  “Was she your aunt?”

  “Huh?”

  “The woman who was here. Your aunt?” Lily repeats.

  “My mother.”

  The air falls from the room for a moment. Lily opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t. Of course she’s shocked. I lied. It was a pretty serious lie. But honestly, there were times when it felt like the absolute truth.

  “Your mother’s alive?”

  “Yeah.” I say nothing more about it. My life, my choices. She wouldn’t get it anyway. When your Mom leaves you to escape a bad marriage and to pursue her dreams and to have piña coladas for every meal (until recently), sometimes you wish she had died. At least in that case her desertion would’ve been beyond her control.

  Lily

  “Did you hear things?”

  “What?”

  “I mean,” I try again, “when you were . . . unconscious. They say that people can hear things sometimes. Did you?”

  He starts to raise his arm, but the IV hose gets caught on something and he can’t. He sighs and leans back against his pillow. The tiniest movement takes all his strength.

  “There’s an awareness. I could see some things. Hear some things. I can’t tell you what. It was like dreaming in 3-D or something.”

  He stops; he has to catch his breath. I want to touch him, but I’m terrified of hurting him. He’s so fragile right now.

  “I can just let you rest.”

  Dari

  I know her. She doesn’t want to leave, despite what she says. I don’t want her to either. I still feel that burning itch that I don’t know how to scratch.

  “Say what’s on your mind, Lily.”

  Lily

  I shouldn’t say it. I know I should let it go. I should leave him be. But I can’t.

  “Are you in love with my mother?”

  He coughs a little, and I instantly feel ashamed for asking.

  “No,” he replies.

  “I understand if you are.”

  Dari looks at me, really looks at me, and that night flashes through my mind once again. I don’t have the right to ask anything of him.

  “I said no. Who even cares?”

  I shrug. Guilt-ridden.

  “If you don’t wanna believe me, then don’t believe me.” He sighs.

  For the first time I can remember, he sounds completely unsure of himself. He sounds like a kid. He said no. I do believe him. I don’t want to cause him any more suffering. None. I take his hand and gently squeeze, wanting to give him some comfort. He doesn’t squeeze back.

  Dari

  I don’t know. I’m tired. I don’t know what I feel. I liked both of them. Loved both of them? Maybe. But differently. I don’t know. I can’t explain it, and she wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand.

  “You were like a storm. She was the rain, you were the thunder.”

  “Destructive.”

  “Intense,” I correct and lean into my pillow, closing my eyes, hoping this will be enough for her, though I may never put it in those exact words again. I melt into the vision of a downpour and a rumble of thunder embracing me and lulling me to sleep. The itch starting to ease.

  Lily

  All is quiet except for the machines and his breath. A storm. Sounds right. I remember that I should probably breathe, too and I exhale for the first time since entering the room.

  Sensing that he’s had enough of me for now, I tiptoe toward the door.

  “Stay,” he says, eyes still closed.

  I do. I’d stay forever if he wanted me to.

  “Dari,” I begin, ignoring the knots in my stomach. “Do you think we’ll still be friends?”

  He takes a few breaths, those jagged breaths, before answering me.

  Dari

  “I think—I think if I ever get back to my old self, we’ll always be friends.” It’s the first time I’ve considered the possibility that I might not fully recover. I might not. Valerie Solanas shot Warhol in 1968. He didn’t die until ’87, but he never felt right again.

  In the midst of my Andy reverie, Lily starts to tremble, giving my arm a tremor sensation since she’s still holding my hand. She still needs more from me. She needs more than I can give. If I’m going to get myself better, I have to focus on my needs for a while.

  Lily

  I study the IV hooked to his right middle finger. I suppose this is to prevent dehydration. It should be me in this bed.

  “I love you,” I say softly. “But that doesn’t have to be your problem.”

  “I love you too, Lily. Like I love thunder. I need it. And sometimes I need distance from it.”

  Dari

  That sounded much better in my head, but my head is Swiss cheese now, so it’s the best I can do. All this is too heavy. Too thick with sadness. I miss laughing with Lily. Or arguing with her. I search my mind for the last time I can remember laughing so hard I almost pissed myself. It was at the Bevvy Botswana concert. I want to bring it up. I want to see if the memory tickles Lily as much as it tickles me. But I don’t.

  Lily

  We sit in silence. Relative silence. I know I should leave so his secret mom can take my place. I’m afraid to leave, though. I’m afraid he’ll cut me out of his life forever. And now that he’s firmly and wisely pushing me away, I love him more than I knew was possible.

  “Dari? You don’t have to answer me now. Or ever. I don’t even deserve an answer. But . . .” I briefly swallow the shame that will surely follow me for the rest of my life. “Do you think that you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”

  Dari gently opens his eyes and stares at me for a long time. Those stunning eyes. Even in this condition, his beauty remains intact.

  Dari

  I look at her. The best friend I have. Maybe ever had. I do love Lily and I do believe that we’ll still be friends. She deserves the truth.

  “No.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are
many wonderful, generous people in my life who have contributed in some way to this book’s creation. I know I’ll never be able to mention them all by name, but know that my heart is full of gratitude for all of you.

  Thank you to my amazing readers, who provided me with feedback, wisdom, tough questions, and encouragement. Kia Corthron (my sister, a trailblazing writer as well as a beautiful human being), Tom Matthew Wolfe (more about him in a moment), and these rock stars: Neal Adelman, Emily Bradley, Aleah Chapin, Tasha Gordon-Solmon, Kelly Ramsey, Nova Ren Suma, Cory Silverberg, Cori Thomas, and Chris Van Strander. Thank you to Beth Blickers, my intrepid playwriting agent, for giving me fantastic notes on an early draft and for introducing me to the force of nature that is Laurie Liss. Thank you, Laurie and Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc., for your unwavering support of me and this book and for being awesome in general.

  I can’t thank the lovely people at Simon & Schuster/Simon Pulse enough for taking a chance on this story. And to my incomparable editors, Fiona Simpson and Michael Strother: Thank for your tireless work, brilliant editing, and all you’ve given to this process. I am indebted to you both.

  I am so fortunate to have been supported by the following institutions at different stages of the writing process: the MacDowell Colony (where I worked on an early draft and then returned two years later to work on the final draft), Djerassi Resident Artists Program, Hawthornden International Writers Retreat in Scotland, and the angels at New Dramatists in New York City, who let me stay in “Seventh Heaven” for several uninterrupted days to pump out a fresh draft, even though I lived a forty-minute subway ride away.

  I want to again thank Tom for being the most supportive, funny, kind, soulful, intelligent husband I could’ve ever wanted. I’m a lucky lady.

  Lastly, to the families of  Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Sandra Bland, Symone Marshall, Akai Gurley, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Lonnie Hamilton, Keith Childress, Bettie Jones, Kevin Matthews, Leroy Browning, Roy Nelson, Miguel Espinal, Nathaniel Pickett, Tiara Thomas, Cornelius Brown, Chandra Weaver, Jamar Clark, Richard Perkins, Stephen Tooson, Michael Lee Marshall, Alonzo Smith, Yvens Seide, Anthony Ashford, Lamontez Jones, Rayshaun Cole, Paterson Brown, Christopher Kimble, Junior Prosper, Keith McLeod, Wayne Wheeler, India Kager, Tyree Crawford, James Carney III, Felix Kumi, Wendell Hall, Asshams Manley, Christian Taylor, Troy Robinson, Brian Day, Michael Sabbie, Billy Ray Davis, Samuel Dubose, Darrius Stewart, Albert Davis, George Mann, Jonathon Sanders, Victor Larosa III, Kevin Judson, Spencer McCain, Kevin Bajoie, Zamiel Crawford, Jermaine Benjamin, Kris Jackson, Alan Craig Williams, Ross Anthony, Richard Gregory Davis, Markus Clark, Lorenzo Hayes, D’Angelo Stallworth, Dajuan Graham, Brendon Glenn, Reginald Moore, Nuwnah Laroche, Jason Champion, Bryan Overstreet, Terrance Kellom, David Felix, Lashonda Ruth Belk, Gregory Daquan, Samuel Harrell, Freddie Gray, Norman Cooper, Brian Acton, Darrell Brown, Frank Shephard III, Walter Scott, Donald “Dontay” Ivy, Eric Harris, Phillip White, Dominick Wise, Jason Moland, Nicholas Thomas, Denzel Brown, Brandon Jones, Askari Roberts, Terrance Moxley, Anthony Hill, Bernard Moore, Naeschylus Vinzant, Tony Robinson, Charly Leundeu “Africa” Keunang, Darrell Gatewood, Deontre Dorsey, Thomas Allen Jr., Calvon Reid, Terry Price, Natasha McKenna, Jeremy Lett, Alvin Haynes, Tiano Meton, Andre Larone Murphy Sr., Brian Pickett, Leslie Sapp, Matthew Ajibade, and many, many others: May you find peace. May this nation be cured.