by Reese Ryan
“Nothing bad,” Jamie says immediately, sensing my fear.
“So it’s something good then. What is it? Spit it out!”
“First, I’ve been working part-time in a local gallery in addition to my bartending gig. The owner is this cool artist. Her name is Nazirah Jiménez. She’s amazing. She’s been teaching me about the business side of art and how to run a gallery. She encouraged me to take some classes to help me become a better artist and a real businesswoman.”
“You’re taking classes?” It took our entire family to will Jamie through high school and across that stage to get her diploma. We haven’t been able to talk her into so much as a cooking class since.
She smiles proudly. “Yep. I started off with a three-week Artist as an Entrepreneur course. I learned a lot about raising capital, pricing and how to protect my rights as an artist. It changed my attitude about my work. I’ve taken courses offered by local multimedia artists to learn new techniques and expand my skills. My last two classes were taught by local art legends. It’s been surreal.”
“Jamie, that’s wonderful. Why would you keep that from me? You know I’d be thrilled for you.”
“Maybe I wanted to see your reaction in person, to see you proud of me.”
It breaks my heart when she says this. I think of all the certificates and awards crowding the mantle when we were growing up. Only a couple of art certificates were for her. I swallow hard and force a smile. It couldn’t have been easy for her, always feeling like the odd kid out. Not because she was a different race, or from a different family. But because she’d always seemed so broken. It affected every aspect of her life. “I’ve always been proud of you.”
Jamie’s life has been filled with drama and pain. My family and I have been there through most of it. Jamie followed me home after school one day when we were eight years old. She’d just moved to the area and didn’t want to go home because her parents were always fighting. My mother made her call home to ask if she could stay for dinner. Her mother didn’t much care. Jamie’s spent most nights at our dinner table since then.
When she was ten, her parents split. She hasn’t heard from her father since. She threatened to run away from home at thirteen—though it was more of a promise than a threat. She was fully prepared to live on the streets, rather than with her junkie mother and her mother’s boyfriend-of-the-week. She made me promise not to tell. It’s a promise I’m glad I broke.
I went to my parents in tears and begged them to let Jamie come and live with us. My parents loved Jamie and worried about her constantly. They took her in and became her legal guardians.
High school was a difficult period for her. We weathered the years that she experimented with sex, drinking and drugs. My parents never gave up on her. Eventually she settled down a bit.
“Thanks.” She seems genuinely happy. “For the first time in a long time, I’m proud of myself, too.”
“Now, what’s the other surprise, and who the hell does this Beamer belong to?”
Jamie laughs. “Oh yeah, about that...I told you I took a better bartending gig about a year ago. The music is lame, but the pay is better and the tips are great,” she says, “so what are you gonna do?”
“The sacrifices we career women must make.”
Jamie scrunches her button nose and makes a face at me. “Anyway, about six months ago I started dating this guy who was a regular. His name’s Miles Copeland.”
“You’re still dating him?” I’m not being facetious. Jamie doesn’t believe in long, drawn-out relationships. At least not the Jamie I know.
“I am. We’ve talked about me maybe moving in with him.”
My eyes practically bulge out of my head. Jamie has always found it easier to allow a man into her bed than into her heart. I’m astounded that Miles Copeland has achieved both. “So tell me more about the guy who’s got you ready to put down roots. I assume the ride belongs to him.”
“It does. Byron’s in the shop right now. Miles insisted I take the Beamer.” “Byron” is what Jamie calls her 1995 Ford Explorer. She says the name just came to her when she saw him.
I look around the interior of the car once more. “Nice ride. I assume he’s got the great job that goes with it.”
Jamie nods enthusiastically. “He’s an ad exec at one of the top firms in town.”
Again, surprising. Jamie’s never much cared for things like that. She usually goes for the most dangerous-looking guy in the room with the most piercings. Income and status rank well below musical taste and the ability to hold one’s liquor.
“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me, but I’m really happy for you, hon.”
“I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s amazing.”
“Oh my God...” I put my hand to my chest. “Are you in love, Jamie Charles?”
She bites her lip and cringes. A semi-smile emerges. “I dunno. Maybe. I’ve never felt like this about anybody before.”
I shake my head, still not believing what I’m hearing. My best friend is in love. Not in lust. Not in one of her typical destructive relationships. Not even in an I’m-just-killing-time-until-someone-better-comes-along relationship. “Jamie the happy homemaker. It’s an image I’ll have to get used to.”
Jamie laughs. “Mom’s teaching me to cook. I wanna surprise Miles. He usually does the cooking.”
I close my eyes and picture Jamie with her midnight black hair, nose ring and tattooed arms laboring over the stove to fix a holiday meal. I smile. Life back home won’t be exactly as I’d anticipated.
Chapter Seven
Jamie pulls into the driveway of the suburban home where I grew up. The place is too big for my mom, but she’s isn’t ready to let go of it. There are so many memories. She wants her grandchildren to grow up here—in a house filled with love and history.
Jamie has to go to work. She says she’ll see me for family dinner on Sunday and asks me to give Mom a kiss for her.
I drag my carry-on to the side door, let myself in and tiptoe up the steps leading to the kitchen. The tantalizing aroma of tangy, moist chicken, creamy potatoes, steamed broccoli and fresh, homemade apple pie fills my nostrils. I inhale the delicious scent of home then leave my bag by the door and creep into the living room where the TV is blaring. “Mom! I’m home.”
“Melanie!” My mother grabs her chest. She’s more than a little surprised to see me, as is the older gentleman she’s cuddled up next to on the couch. Mom leaps to her feet and runs to me, looking as guilty as a cat with canary feathers dangling from its mouth. “What on earth are you doing here? You said you’d be home at the end of the month.” Her voice is two full octaves higher than the situation requires. She positions her body between me and the old codger on the sofa.
My heart is racing. Tears prick the backs of my eyes and choke me. My gaze never leaves the man sitting on the couch, where my dad and I watched television on Saturday mornings. I blink back angry tears and clear my throat. I finally turn to look at my mother. “I wanted to surprise you. Guess I did.” Arms folded, I nod toward her cozy little companion perched on the edge of the sofa, watching us. “Who’s your friend, Mom?”
The handsome older man with dark brown skin and a mouth full of gorgeous white teeth that appear to be his own stands and runs one hand over his crop of salt-and-pepper gray hair. He offers the other to me. “Hello, Melanie. I’m Walter Ferris, a friend of your mother’s. It sure is good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
She hasn’t said a single word about you. I shake his hand and force a smile, eyeing my mother. “Only good things, I hope.”
“Walter, why don’t you help yourself to some pie while I get Melanie settled.”
“Ellie, maybe I should go. I’m sure you two have lots to catch up on.”
“Yes, lots.” My voice is tight
as I try to sear the visual of my mother practically making out with this guy on the couch from my brain. Nope. It’s still there.
“Don’t be silly. I just need a few minutes with Melanie. Upstairs.” She addresses the man as she places her hand firmly on my lower back.
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and runs a hand over his head again. “Are you sure? We can do this another night.”
“Do what?” I look back at my mother, eyes widened.
“We’re making plans for the fall dance at the senior center, that’s all.” Mom’s eyes are fixed on Walter as she speaks. She’s willing him to remain silent—a look I know well.
“Don’t let me disrupt your plans. I can take care of myself.” I go back to the kitchen to get my bag.
When I pass the living room again, my mom and Mr. Ferris are whispering loudly. She’s sitting on the couch next to him, her hand on his forearm. She says something to him, pats his knee and then follows me upstairs.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Ferris,” I call to the man who looks like he just stepped out of a Viagra commercial.
“You, too, Melanie!”
I head to my old room. Not much has changed in the past twenty years. The same dull periwinkle paint barely clings to the walls. There are traces of tape from the posters of Michael, Janet, Madonna and Bon Jovi that covered my walls all those years ago. The signed New Edition poster is all that remains. The curtains are the same white floral sheers my mother bought when I was in middle school.
I prop my suitcase on the blanket chest at the foot of my bed and unzip it. My mother rushes into my room, out of breath.
“Gonna be okay there, Mom?”
She shoots me a look that tells me she doesn’t think I’m very funny then sits on my bed. “Melanie, why didn’t you tell me you were flying in this weekend?”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise. That you’d be pleased.” I open the one drawer that doesn’t have any of my nephews’ clothing in it and shove a few items inside.
“I’m thrilled you’re here.” Her voice softens. “But I like to have things ready when you come home, honey. You understand.”
I’m not sure I do. I study her face for a moment. My mother is fifty-nine years old and still beautiful. Her hazelnut-colored skin is firm and toned, only offering a hint of her real age. Her hair is black with a deep blue overcast—her favorite Jazzing coloring. Still, she looks a little older, a little more tired than when I was home six months ago. I put my things away in silence.
“I’m so glad to see you, sweetheart. It’s been a long time.” My mother stands and hugs me. “You shouldn’t stay away so long.”
I relax and hug her back. “I’ve just been really busy at work, but I know that’s no excuse.”
“Well, you’re making it up to me by moving back home. Your sisters and I couldn’t be happier.” My mom always refers to Jamie as our sister. She and my dad would always tell people they had three daughters. Dad got a kick out of seeing the surprise on people’s faces when he claimed a little white girl with red hair as one of his daughters. “It’ll be like old times.”
“Not exactly. Apparently Jamie has morphed into the perfect girlfriend. Mimi is an old married woman with children. And you’ve got a new...friend.”
“Walter is a very nice man I met at the senior center. We’ve become very good friends.”
“I saw.” I try to rein in my smirk. My mother isn’t above giving me a pinch if she feels I’m getting a little too mouthy—even though I’m nearly thirty-two.
“There wasn’t anything to see,” she insists.
Except his arm around your shoulder. I want to push the subject with my mother, but I know her well enough to realize she has absolutely no intention of revealing anything more about the nature of her and Walter’s relationship. At least, not today. I sigh. “So, how are Mimi and the kids? We haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Your sister says you never call her anymore.”
“The phone works both ways, Mom.” I look under my bed for my favorite pair of slippers.
“Your sister is raising two children and she had to go back to work.”
“Why?” I pull my head from underneath the bed. A dust bunny falls from my hair and drifts to the floor. “I thought she was staying home with the boys through elementary school.”
“She was. Unfortunately, Marcus hasn’t been able to find anything that meets his salary expectations since he got laid off.” She rolls her eyes and sighs.
Now I feel badly about not calling Mimi. It seemed we couldn’t have a simple conversation anymore. One kid would be swinging on the chandelier and the other would be trying to tie something to the dog’s tail. Neither of us could complete a sentence before she had to call one of them. I’d grown frustrated with the entire process and resorted to emailing her. But Mimi had little time for email.
“Who’s watching the boys?” I open the closet, still looking for my slippers.
“Marcus, supposedly. Me, most of the time. He brings the boys over in the morning to go job hunting but doesn’t return to pick them up until an hour before Mimi gets home.”
“Have you talked to her about it?”
“She’s got enough on her mind.”
“Why don’t you just tell Marcus no?”
“And risk him not getting a job?”
“Okay, I see your point. So just call him on his bullshit. He thinks he’s slick, that’s all. Tell him to come right back and pick up the kids. Give him two or three hours and say you’ll expect him back then. He’ll get the point.”
I like my brother-in-law, but he’s far better with computers than he is with people. He’s clueless about anything you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to understand.
“Be nice, Melanie,” my mother warns. “And what are you looking for?”
I’m on my hands and knees, looking under the dresser. “My pink slippers. Have you seen them?”
Mom bites her lip and frowns. “The boys used your slippers as makeshift shovels. I threw them out. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you another pair.”
I’m annoyed and a little hurt. I’ve had those slippers for years. They remind me of everything good about being home. “It’s not a big deal.” I climb to my feet and shake more dust bunnies from my hair. “Besides, isn’t your friend still downstairs?”
“Oh my gosh.” Mom springs toward the door. “I nearly forgot. Why don’t you get settled then come down and join us for dessert? You’re going to love Walter. He’s such a dear man. He reminds me so much of—”
“Don’t.” My body tenses. My voice strains. “I know what you’re going to say, so please...just...don’t.”
“Alright.” She leans in to kiss my cheek then picks a piece of lint from my hair. “Come down and join us, if you like. If not, I’m sure Walter won’t be here very long, anyway. It’s getting late.” Mom closes the door and heads downstairs.
I finish unpacking. My phone rings. It’s Raine.
“Hey,” I say casually. “What’s up?”
“Hello, gorgeous. I tried to reach you at work today, but your voice mail said you’d be out until Monday.”
“I am. Out, I mean. I thought I mentioned that I’d be tied up all weekend.”
“You did,” he acknowledges, “but it’s Wednesday. Besides, I thought you’d be busy with work.”
“I am. Sort of. I’m in Cleveland.”
“Oh. For how long?”
“’Til Sunday. Why don’t you come over on Sunday night when I get back? Around nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great.” I trace the pattern on the quilt my grandmother and I made together when I was eleven. “I’ll see you then.”
“Count on it.”
I lay on my bed, staring at
the popcorn ceiling. I remember when Mom and Dad worked on the project. They loved doing home renovation projects together. Jamie and I hated getting dragged into their latest project, but Mimi loved helping. That’s probably why she decided to get a degree in interior design. Unfortunately, she hasn’t had much cause to use it.
She met Marcus as a junior at the Cleveland Institute of Art. They got married right out of college and within a year, Mickey was born. A year and a half later, they had Dusty.
For the past five years, my sister has poured her heart and soul into being a wife and mother, creating a picture-perfect home for her family. I worry one day she’ll wake up and wonder what happened to all of her hopes and dreams. Will she feel cheated and resentful, or will it all be worth it?
I should call her, but a million thoughts flood my brain. The new job. Moving. Jamie. Mom’s new mystery friend, Walter Ferris. Raine...
I retreat into the warmth and comfort of my grandmother’s quilt to take a short nap.
It’s the sunlight creeping through the yellowing shade and fragile sheer curtains that urges me out of bed at seven the next morning.
* * *
I track damp footsteps down the hall and into my bedroom. My hair is wet from the shower. My skin peeks from beneath the towel. My mother’s towels don’t provide full coverage for my blossoming hips anymore.
I slip into a gray tracksuit and review my plan of attack. First I’ll walk my old neighborhood—Coventry in Cleveland Heights. I miss its Bohemian feel. The used record stores, underground clubs, ethnic eateries and consignment shops. At around eleven, I’ll head to our new office downtown. Later I’ll tour downtown lofts, a condo in Westlake and one in Rocky River.
I trot down the stairs with my sneakers in hand and place them at the back door. Mom’s making my favorite—Belgian waffles with warm strawberry syrup and slices of turkey bacon.
