What Doesn't Kill You

by Virginia DeBerry

  And of course the change of season also brought The Cruise. Yeah, it was already paid for, but the idea of a vacation from my layoff was ridiculous, even to me. I’d take out my document packet, check out the location of my cabin and “what if” over the cancellation dates, which were long gone, and what I coulda done with that money or, more accurately, without the charge on my card. The pitiful part is I couldn’t even remember which one I had used, but now I could have used it for something else. At this point, it would cost me less to go than to stay home—at least my meals were paid for. When I mentioned it to Julie, I could see she was worried, but she tried to put a good face on it. She said maybe I’d meet some high-powered executive who would want to hire me on the spot. That’s what I love about Julie—she can sincerely see the rainbow in a hurricane. But I wasn’t about to mention my predicament to my traveling buddies. I mean, we had been together for years, but some things I knew better than to broadcast.

  The bunch of us had met when our kids were little, at a school parents’ day. We were the only ones of “us” there. I was the newest addition, the fifth, and apparently the one needed to officially form a “group” or at least break a tie. We were older, younger, married, exed, transplants, natives—all working women, except for Cecily, who was married to an anesthesiologist and at home with their five children, which definitely had longer hours than a job. About the only thing we had in common were kids in the fourth grade. The first time we got together was for coffee at my town house. Before the evening was over, someone—no one remembers who, which really means nobody will claim responsibility—said next time we should have wine. So there was a next time, and out came the Chardonnay, which was the birth of the Live Five.

  Our kids grew, we moved our monthly gathering to one of those chain restaurants decorated in early attic and staffed by annoyingly cheerful teenagers. Eventually we advanced to finer dining in New Brunswick and Princeton. Over the years we arranged many outings both for the kids and for ourselves—we took in a matinee of Black & Blue on Broadway, lost our minds outlet shopping in Pennsylvania and indulged in a Happy Mother’s Day to Us spa weekend in Connecticut—two weeks after Mother’s Day of course, so we were home for our fancy bottles of too-sweet cologne and the breakfasts in bed that left our kitchens looking like the aftermath of an earthquake.

  Lives, jobs, addresses and spouses changed. While our rug rats got older, we did our best to stay young. Then the kids were out of high school and off to colleges and jobs, and suddenly we were empty-nesters. Mostly through Diane’s persistence—or was she just the nosiest one?—we never lost touch, even though our gatherings were no longer regularly scheduled. Recently graduations, weddings, grandbaby showers and a funeral brought us together more often, and our kids weren’t the only ones changing. After twenty-two years of married indifference Joyce got divorced, meaning I finally had company. Marie and Diane were knocking on fifty, and Cecily was now a widow. It seemed like a good time to celebrate, so we signed up for the Live Five We Raised ’em Right, Let’s Raise the Roof, All-Out Blowout.

  Now, The Cruise was like the Love Boat meets the Soul Train on the next episode of Lifestyles of the Negro and Middle Class. A few thousand black folks from all over the country take to the high seas on the biggest, newest, poshest ship. It was seven days packed with big stars, big food and big foolishness, all for a good cause: college scholarships for students who need some help to achieve their dreams. We’d been itching to go for years, and guess who tracked down the particulars and made sure we were all paid up before the good cabins were gone? Wish I hadn’t been so efficient, but I really wanted to go. I had given Amber the wedding she wanted and she was gone—off to her new life, not my responsibility anymore. This trip was supposed to be like the first sunrise over the finally carefree me. Ha! What I got instead was a total eclipse of my life, which was definitely not on my calendar.

  And did I say it was big bucks? I could have cruised for a month for what that trip cost me, but it seemed like a great idea at the time.

  For months I made myself seasick, rolling back and forth, half the time believing The Cruise was just what I needed to jump-start a new attitude. Then there were the days I felt like an imbecile for spending five thousand dollars on my solo superior deluxe ocean-view stateroom. It amounted to two-thirds of my monthly nut or my total ten-week unemployment allotment, depending on what I was feeling worse about. And that was just for the cruise. It didn’t include my nonrefundable supersaver plane ticket. Definitely not my perspective when I booked that little adventure. Then there was what I’d spent hunting and gathering my resort wardrobe, because I know my people. Given half an opportunity we will put on a fashion show to rival the Ebony Fashion Fair. And with an entire week to showboat in front of a built-in audience? Puh-lease. I knew I had to be ready, called myself being thrifty by shopping last year’s summer sales. Guess it depends on how you define savings.

  I did manage to dodge throwing the presail soiree. Diane came up with the idea in the first place, so I played dumb to her not-so-subtle hints and let her be our B. Smith this time. Of course, that meant I had to act like her lame Bahama mamas, plastic leis—like we were headed for Maui, not Miami—and some truly forgettable pineapple and crab salad were the perfect way to launch us out to sea. While we were catching up and passing around the bean dip—not very tropical, even in a coconut shell—I had a moment when I thought about telling them what was really going on with me. Then Marie started in about her grandchildren, who were all certified geniuses. Joyce could hardly cash her real-estate commission checks fast enough. Even Cecily had sold the family homestead and moved to a high-rise with New York skyline views, moving on with life after Bill. So my sorry tale would be a downer, and we had never been the Bad News Bears. Years ago we didn’t find out Marie’s daughter was suspended from high school for smoking reefer in the bathroom until we saw it in the newspaper. So I talked about the newlyweds and their house hunt. Joyce gave me her business card—like I didn’t already have a deck of them.

  We got a little tipsy, discussed how much we deserved this trip—hell, we earned it and we were out for some duty-free fun. In a moment of inebriated seriousness, we even took an oath that “What happens on the ship stays on the ship.” And when you start thinking real life works like the commercial, you are heading for a test of your emergency broadcast system.

  Let me tell you how clever I was. My travel mates were flying to Miami at crack of dawn the day we were sailing, which I though was insane. You know how flights are always late because two raindrops fell in Pittsburgh? Or canceled because the wing fell off and there’s no spare plane closer than Hawaii? If you missed the boat, you’d really miss the boat and two days of the trip before you could catch up in St. Thomas—for the cost of another plane ticket. Way too dicey for me. The others could do what they wanted, but I was arriving the day before, spending a leisurely night at a hotel near the Port. Nothing fancy—it wasn’t the hotel where the official, shake-your-bon bon bon voyage party would be, but I had too much money invested to chance blowing the whole trip. At the time I called this logic.

  Well, you’ve heard about the best-laid plans. That May day started as gloomy as February and proceeded to get worse. By the time I arrived at Newark for my one o’clock flight, delay was the order of de-day. No worries. So what if I landed at six instead of four? I was feeling quite superior, but by five o’clock bands of thunderstorms had harnessed the East Coast, and I was still sitting at the gate watching rain slap the windows.

  I was also hungry as a bear but determined not to waste money on overpriced airport food, so I feasted on a leftover bag of Gummi Worms I found at the bottom of my purse, and coffee. By the time Mother Nature and the FAA got their act together and we took off, I was wired, which was not helped by the two diet sodas I drank in flight, but at 11:17 p.m., when we touched down in a balmy seventy-degree Miami, I just knew I was ahead of the game. Until I got to baggage claim and watched all the people on my plane coll
ect their stuff and leave me looking sorrowful as one beat-up duffel bag and a broken-off suitcase handle passed me on the conveyor belt for the umpteenth time. Then the thing shut off, meaning my bags were officially lost.

  That’s when I met Earl at the customer service office. His cornrows were as intricate as the path he was about to lead me down. After consulting my claim check and his computer, he typed something that seemed as long as the Old Testament, then informed me my bags were sent to Fort Lauderdale, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  Now, I had done what I was supposed to—attached my special luggage tags so I could drop my bags at the cruise office at the airport, just like it said in my documents—because unlike some people, I do read directions. And I tried to maintain my dignity, because I did not want to be one of those loud, indignant black women with her hands on her hips reading somebody in public. But then he said they would deliver my bags to the hotel tomorrow, like we were done and he could go back to doing whatever nothing I had interrupted. At that moment I didn’t trust Earl to get a newspaper delivered, and there I was, wagging my finger, having a caffeine-and-sugar blowup. I demanded to speak with Earl’s supervisor, Rocky, who couldn’t do any more for me than Earl. He apologized for my inconvenience in that “I really don’t care, but they make me say this” kind of way. And I was not satisfied, but what else could I do at one o’clock in the morning?

  Worry.

  I had the feeling I’d entered some kind of Murphy’s Law marathon. If my luggage didn’t show up, how was I going to get through a week without my brand-new seafaring wardrobe? My carry-on had overnight things, a fresh blouse to go with my black pants, all my hair stuff, even a bathing suit and coverup since I had this idea I could relax by the pool before I took the shuttle to the boat.

  The closest I came to water was taking a shower the next morning. Oh, there would be lots of clothes I could buy. While you’re out in the middle of the ocean, with no land in sight, there are plenty of shipboard shopping opportunities—at twice the price. I had two credit cards that weren’t straining their outer limits. One I was planning to use, as sparingly as possible, for incidentals on the cruise. I’d have to pick up a couple of Live Five bar tabs and join in on at least one group spa session. But the other card I was saving for emergencies—real emergencies. Did a week with no clothes or shoes constitute an emergency? I could wash underwear by hand every night, and if I got a pair of white pants to supplement the black ones, how many tops would it take to make enough outfits to get through the week—not fashionably, just covered? Yet another puzzle.

  When I didn’t get an apologetic phone call from the airline announcing my luggage was on the way, and my calls to them produced nothing but aggravation, I decided to be proactive. I found a shuttle to Fort Lauderdale–Hollywood International, where they continued to look at me like I was from Mars. So back on the shuttle to Miami International, where nobody seemed to have heard of Earl or Rocky. You guessed it: the shuttle back to the hotel confirmed my luggage was not, in fact, waiting for me.

  I wanted to boohoo. This south Florida airport tour was not in the budget. And while I was composing hate mail to the airline in my head, I was also deciding if I should just turn around and go home—let the money I’d already spent head down the drain it had been circling anyway.

  But I could see the Colossus gleaming in the distance—probably how Dorothy felt about Oz. I’d been planning this for a year, and I was not going to let bureaucratic bungling get in my way. So I’d make a joke about it, or I’d be the joke, but I wasn’t going home.

  I’ll spare you the tedious boarding details. I joined the herd, moving from station to station. We know I didn’t have any luggage—which struck everyone around me as deviant. Most folks had steamer trunks, shopping bags, crates—the pioneers packed lighter. My papers were in order, I plopped down a perfectly good credit card in exchange for my Colossus Card, “for all my shipboard needs and desires.” The smiling young woman didn’t need to know I couldn’t afford any desires.

  I had planned to be on board early, in my first lounge outfit, kicked back with a fruity beverage and waiting for my girls at the Shangri-la Lounge by the pool, our appointed meeting place. Instead, I rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor and dragged down the loooong corridor to my stateroom with just an hour to spare. And when I opened the door, wonder of wonders—my bags were inside waiting for me, just like they were supposed to have been in the first place.

  You wanna talk about happy? I danced around my superior deluxe cabin, which did not cause me to break a sweat, since it was the size of my bedroom closet, but they never promised spacious. This had to be an omen, a sign that in spite of the rough start, I was in for a great trip, smooth sailing on calm seas. And that my personal tide was about to turn. At least that’s what I thought it meant. Unlike the day before, the sky was blue, the sun was beaming, and I tossed the rest of my worries overboard along with my emergency wardrobe plans. I unpacked, changed into a breezy pink-and-yellow number, and headed for Shangri-la.

  My crew still hadn’t shown up, but the reggae band and the packed dance floor let me know the party had started. I took a seat, introduced myself to Trevor, the bartender, and told him to surprise me. I did that on a trip to Bermuda once—in five days I never had the same drink twice. Trevor had sideburns shaved into a diamond at the bottom. He looked to be about Amber’s age, which reminded me that after my trial-by-baggage, I had forgotten to let Amber know I’d arrived safe and sound. She hadn’t called me either, which was kinda unusual. It had been just the two of us for so long that checking in was habit. We’d been told our mobile phones wouldn’t work at sea—not a problem for me, but I called my child before the ten-buck-a-minute, ship-to-shore rate kicked in.

  Boy, was that a mistake. Turns out Amber and J.J. had had a fight. Those two were mad one minute and lovey dovey the next—I swear, I couldn’t keep up. I was not about to let her wreck my renewed good humor, so I uh-huh-ed and tuned her right out. Sometimes I almost felt sorry for J.J., but he knew the girl could argue. Maybe she should have been a lawyer. Anyway, he was going to have to handle this solo, especially since I “suddenly” felt my cell signal fading. I hope they’ll never completely fix that problem—it’s a great excuse. “I’m losing you, honey. Talk to ya when I get back.” I flipped that phone closed, thought for a moment about calling my parents—which I knew was a worse idea than calling Amber. They would remind me—again—that I could not afford to be where I was. So I took a huge slurp of the frosty pineapple-mango concoction Trevor slid in front of me, then there was pain ping-ponging in my eye sockets.

  The woman sitting next to me said, “I just did the same thing! Brain freeze.” Guess my pain was visible. I nodded since I couldn’t unlock my mouth and form words yet. It reminded me that Bermuda was the first time I’d had that too. I’m not usually a frozen fruit cocktail kinda woman—I’m more a Chardonnay, champagne and martini gal, and they’re not that cold.

  My head thawed enough for me to squint at my advisor, who looked very chic in white linen—looked like something I would pick. She told me her name was Toni. Well, Toni must have heard my thought because she said she hadn’t even tried a frozen drink until she got divorced last year. Said her husband always called them silly, nothing but trouble. His advice was to stick to the basics—Scotch, vodka, maybe a little wine. And for twenty-six years she did. I tried to imagine being married twenty-six years. That made my head hurt worse than brain freeze. Anyway, I said her husband sounded like my father. She said her husband acted like her father, then she raised her glass. She had pretty hands—a lot like mine, but her nails were scarlet. “Here’s to making your own rules,” she said. I could toast to that, so we clinked hurricane glasses on it. I guessed she’d made a lot of her own rules in the last year, like it was OK to make slurpy sounds with her straw when she drained her drink to the bottom, and to come on this cruise by herself because she always wanted to. I bet ex-hubby wasn’t up for either of
those.

  The rest of the Live Five arrived during the PA announcement for the four o’clock life boat drill. I introduced Toni around, but the others were more interested in debating whether to see Babyface or Frankie Beverly and Maze that night. Toni waved to me and said she was headed back to her cabin for her life jacket. I liked her, hoped I’d run into her again on the floating city.

  After the annoyance of the lifeboat drill—like if the boat starts sinking three thousand people are really going to proceed calmly to their muster stations and wait for instructions (and will somebody please tell me how I’m supposed to strap that stupid neon-orange vest over my built-in personal flotation devices?)—we returned to Trevor’s bar. Joyce promptly ordered us two bottles of champagne. Normally I wouldn’t have blinked, but I had bypassed normal some months back. And I had checked out the price of champagne. I announced I wanted a light beer. My first tropical libation and the check that went with it reminded me of the big bar tab I had rung up during my cocktail chug-a-thon in Bermuda. All of a sudden I had eight eyes staring at me like I’d ordered a mug ’a blood. The usually quiet Cecily piped up and said she had never once seen me drink a beer, like I had to clear my beverage choices with her. I said it was refreshing. Really, it was cheap—I needed something to sip on, but I don’t care for beer so I wouldn’t guzzle it. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to start my cost cutting somewhere.