Black Girls Must Die Exhausted: A Novel for Grown Ups

by Jayne Allen

  “I’m coming Gretchen, good Lord,” my grandmother said, letting herself be pulled toward the door by the insistent force of nature, otherwise known as her best friend. I followed them down the hall.

  “Now, Tabitha,” Ms. Gretchen said to my grandmother as they walked down the hallway, “you have got to tell this girl, that I have all the same privileges to leave as I would in my own house. Now, see, she’s new. But I don’t have time today! I have an Uber waiting and a nail appointment!”

  “There was a new person at the desk in front,” I said. “I don’t think that she believed that I was your granddaughter.”

  “Well, now,” interrupted Ms. Gretchen. “That’s not ‘cause she’s new Tabby, that’s cause she’s ignorant. But she’s gonna learn today!”

  The three of us arrived at the front desk like some kind of misfit gang. Ms. Gretchen re-approached the front desk aide.

  “Now see, I brought two people to tell you. You better call someone. I know what—I know I’m not going to miss my nail appointment foolin’ with you!”

  “Now, Leslie,” said my grandmother, trying to be diplomatic in reading the now bewildered aide’s nametag, “Gretchen does have privileges—you should call one of the nurses…” Sure enough, almost on cue, and likely because of the growing commotion, a familiar face in a doctor’s coat appeared.

  “Well, good afternoon Ms. Potts and Ms. Walker—hello Tabby, visiting with your grandmother today I see? How nice.” Dr. Johnson was here every Saturday and I saw her often. The poor aide at the front desk now looked totally confused.

  “I’m glad you showed up Dr. Johnson,” said Ms. Gretchen. “Could you please explain to Leslie—who’s new—that I shall not miss my nail appointment today? My Uber is outside to take me to the mall.”

  “Ms. Gretchen, Leslie is right that our residents are not supposed to leave the premises without an escort for safety…” Dr. Johnson started, “but…” she continued with a wink, “we know you have a few special exemptions. You’re clear to go.” Dr. Johnson turned to address the now fully overwhelmed aide, who was looking from one to the other of us with her mouth open. “Leslie, just make a note on the log. She’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Dr. Johnson turned to Ms. Gretchen who was already halfway out of the front door. “A couple of hours, right Ms. Gretchen?”

  “Sure thing, Doc!” And with that she disappeared into the light of the outside and into the passenger side back door of an Uber that sure enough had been idling there during the entire episode. Her departure left the four of us remaining to momentarily regroup, and then my grandmother and I headed back to her place to make the most of my remaining time to visit. After all, while she had plans in Calabasas this evening, I had plans with Marc, who I had yet to see after my news from the doctor. I still had no idea what I was going to tell him…and what I wasn’t.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday had already started to feel long even before I put the last touches of my makeup on preparing for my date night with Marc. The conversation with my mother weighed on my mind. I managed to shut her down when we spoke, but somehow she managed in just a few words to plant a seed of self-doubt. True, Marc and I had been dating for a year and a half, but on many weeks, our time spent together would look much like this one. Texts and a few calls during the workdays and then a formal Saturday date that would lead into Sunday. It certainly didn’t have the momentum of a relationship that appeared to be moving forward. I couldn’t help but to wonder if my work schedule was partially to blame.

  When we first started dating, Marc made it incredibly clear to me that he didn’t want a woman to make him the center of her life, and that he liked that I had my own career and goals. “I wouldn’t mind being Steadman someday,” he said, when we discussed my career as a journalist, and he never complained about the lack of time spent. Sometimes, it seemed like Marc relished having the freedom and leeway apart from me. But that wasn’t bringing us any closer together either. I was just always taught that the man was supposed to take the lead, and as a woman, you were supposed to let him. There was never any idea of a joint negotiation of a future, but I was going to have to try to start one tonight.—with no playbook and no idea of how receptive he would be, or not. Knowing that I could be inviting disaster, I tried to calm my nervous thoughts as I finished getting ready. I loved him, which was for sure—just not in a completely innocent, silly high school “first love” kind of way. It was smart to love Marc. He was the type you could love and not feel guilty about it. Seeing him still gave me butterflies, talking to him made me feel special, and I could certainly see having his baby, or babies, even now—and I wouldn’t even mind if that meant maternity leave and time away from the station. In light of my mother’s commentary, it felt reassuring to know that I was willing to make some sacrifices. Just that, I hadn’t been asked to—not by Marc and not by life circumstances, at least not before. This was the week that all that changed.

  The ping coming from my phone was Marc, letting me know that he was downstairs in his car at the front of my building. I took one last look at myself in the mirror, even turning to see how my exercise was paying off—I looked good, very good, and I’d need to. Tonight, Marc was going to get an earful.

  “Hey Babe!” I said breezily as I swooped into Marc’s idling new Porsche Panamera. I made it a point to close the door gently because, no matter what he said, or what was supposed to be, I was sure in reality that if he had to choose between me and this car, I would be the first to go. I had seen far too many times the cringe on his face with a door closed too forcefully, and this was when he still “drove American” as he liked to say.

  “Whassup Tab, damn you smell good, girl!” Marc said as he looked me up and down in his casually seductive way, biting his firm and generous lower lip. Marc was sexy. Very sexy. He wasn’t the tallest, but he kept his body fit and well-maintained. His flawless chocolate-brown skin was the perfect canvas for his thick black eyebrows, well-trimmed five o’clock shadow, and strong Jamaican features. In my mind, he was my own version of Kofi Siriobe, with a business degree from Stanford, and a very successful career as a commercial real estate broker. He sent a charge through my body as he grabbed my hand. That and the regular butterflies brought a blushing and flirtatious smile to my face.

  “We still have some time before our reservation. We can hit a bar on the way, or just have drinks at the restaurant. Up to you,” he offered. Another thing I loved about Marc, maybe he couldn’t make relationship decisions, but he sure knew how to make good reservations—and wine selections. I was never disappointed with his choices on date night. I was hoping that this trend would extend to the more serious topics that we’d have to soon discuss, so I opted to just go straight to the restaurant.

  On this night, Marc decided to take me to The Little Door, arguably the most romantic hidden gem of a restaurant in all of LA. The French cuisine was served in a cozy courtyard under gently flowering trees and a woven net of tea lights complementing the stars above in the open night sky. It was worth taking a little bit of a drive from Downtown LA, where I lived. I didn’t mind—to be honest, it was nice to sit and be driven around for a change, through LA traffic, in this very nice car. His was a far cry from the near-dilapidated Honda Civic that I drove for 10 years and was still recovering from. Marc-land could be a very nice escape, if that’s what I wanted. But, now I needed more than an escape, I needed a partnership. I waited as long as I could, past drinks at the bar, past small talk through appetizers, even past our entrees, until I brought up the events of the week.

  “So, I didn’t get to tell you,” I started in on telling Marc the story. I got pulled over by the police, randomly! I was basically in tears and almost convinced that I was going to die—my wallet and everything fell on the floor…and you saw what they did to Philando Castile just reaching for an ID…” I was dead serious, but Marc had started laughing at me.

  “Tabby, you’re an attract
ive black woman,” he said. “It’s not you that has the problem with the cops. They’re not looking to tag you. You were in no danger at all.” I looked at him with skepticism. What’s the difference between being in danger and feeling like your life is on the line? That’s what I wanted to know. What exempts me from the seemingly senseless violence? Just because I’m a woman? Well, what about Sandra Bland? Maybe, because I’m on television? I had plenty of questions in mind, but I let him continue. He took a bite of his food and then leaned back in his chair, his handsome face showing that he was considering what he had just said. “Plus,” he continued, “if you’re really worried, then you need to head over to the USC bookstore, just like I did as soon as I got the Porsche, and get a license plate.” Wha?? Oh, I had forgotten. Classic Marc. Classic too smart for his own good, overthinking Marc. As soon as he got his new, fancy car, he went over to the University of Southern California bookstore and bought a “USC Law” trim to go around his license plate. This was notable because Marc neither went to law school, nor USC. He said he did it “so the police will think twice before they stop my ass.” When I asked him why he picked fake USC over fake UCLA credentials, he said, because UCLA is the state school, and USC is the private one—I’d rather have them assume I come with money and will sue their ass if they fuck with me.” It was just that kind of crazy thinking that made me love him. I couldn’t help but laugh remembering.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about your USC Law ‘decorative’ license plate trim,” I said, throwing up air quotes and breaking into a laugh.

  “See, you got jokes,” he said with a smile. “You can play around if you want to, but you realize, only one of us tonight has a story about a run-in with the po-po’s,” he finished with a self-satisfied grin. Well, on that, he did have a point. We shared another laugh, and then, I cleared my throat. The conversation was about to get serious. My palms started to sweat.

  “Well…I think I was also doubly upset because…” I paused searching for the next words while trying my best not to chicken out. “I…heard from my doctor that morning too. Not good news…my biological clock is ticking, Babe, like faster than it’s supposed to.” Reflexively, I reached for my wine and studied his reaction as I drank. The smile he was wearing vanished almost immediately.

  “What does that mean?” He asked as he leaned forward, his brow crinkled with concern.

  “I guess it means that I have way less eggs than I’m supposed to at my age. I have to do something in the next six months or I lose a lot of options.” I said quickly. With that, Marc leaned back in his chair, and I was a little relieved to see that he seemed much more comfortable than what I would have expected.

  “Oh, ok,” he said, his hand coming up to rub his chin. “You can freeze them or something, right?” I took in a breath sharply. I wish that hadn’t been his first response.

  “Yes, I could do that,” I said. “But it’s expensive, and you know I’ve been trying to buy a house. It would be my entire down payment.”

  “Doesn’t your insurance cover something like that?” He asked. No, it didn’t, that was my short answer, but it had never occurred to me that that could even be an option. I mean, whose insurance covers egg freezing?

  “No, definitely not. It would be out of pocket, totally,” I said.

  “Well, that’s crazy,” Marc said. “All the tech companies are covering it. Google, Facebook, seems like everywhere. The girls in my b-school class talk about it all the time. Some even factored that into how they picked their job at graduation. I thought it was almost a standard benefit by now.” His words surprised me. My mind quickly drifted to Lisa at work. I wondered if this was one of the issues that group she was pushing was going to address. Probably not, she already had a kid, and a husband.

  “Yeah, sadly, I don’t have it like that at the news station…Listen,” I said, grabbing his hand, hoping mine hadn’t gone too clammy. “I was thinking…about us…and, I wanted to know what you were thinking, really…about where we are, you know, with…with, our relationship.” I managed to force the words out, again studying him for a reaction. He pulled his hand back from mine slowly and brought it to the stem of his wine glass. He took a long drink. A real long drink. Shit. ShitShitShit. Then, he took a deep breath before continuing.

  “Well, we’re not at the point of having a kid together, if that’s what you’re asking. I mean, I want to have kids eventually, but I want to do it right, and I need to be at another stage in my career,” he said, looking at me with the hope that the conversation was over. Not yet.

  “But…” I said slowly, as I searched for the next words to get the answers I needed, “…do you want to have kids with me? Even if it’s eventually?” Damn. That still wasn’t what I wanted to ask. I tried to stop myself from talking in circles and find a way to get to the point. “What I’m trying to say is…is, do you see long term potential for us…in the short term?” There, maybe that was it. My stomach tightened and I felt my palms start to moisten again. I couldn’t help but think that I was probably ruining this romantic night under beautiful stars, and quite possibly my relationship alongside it. I heard Marc drag in a long breath. He reached back out for my hand.

  “Tab, I love you. I’m sure of that. But, we’re still getting to know each other. I can’t say that we’re ready to make big moves in the next few months, but I could see a future for us down the road,” Marc said with full sincerity. “Even with some kids,” he added with a big smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood. It wasn’t the answer I was hoping for, but it would have to do for now.

  We had enough wine at dinner to make short order of things once we got back to my loft. My heels were off as soon as we hit the door. Marc grabbed me around the waist and put his warm lips onto mine. We always got this part right. The downtown lights danced through my wall of windows and he led me past the sofa and directly to the bed. My feet nestled in the off-white fur of my bedside rug, and I felt my dress drop to the floor around my ankles. His kisses dropped lower too, first to cover my neck that was pulsating with the quickened pace of my heartbeat. Then down to my breasts, rising to meet his mouth with every one of the shortening breaths I was taking. I felt my strapless bra fall to the ground near my feet with a silent announcement.

  Marc cupped his hands around the curvature of my back and brought me around to lay on the bed behind us. I laid back and watched the twinkling lights while he went to work exciting my body past the point of no return. I was so turned on, I forgot about the pills—my pill…I hadn’t taken it yet today, and only twice this week.

  “Marc…baby, my pill, I haven’t taken it today…I…” I got lost in some maneuver he was executing with his tongue against my sensitized body. “Maybe we should…” I tried to offer up everything I didn’t want him to accept in that moment. Maybe we should stop?! Say it! My mind screamed. But I didn’t let the words travel to my lips. I tried though. I really did try before we both lost ourselves in wave after wave of pleasure that seemed to come from all directions. It felt right, even if it was wrong. So, so very wrong.

  Chapter 6

  “Beeech, you out here trying to have an NBA baby!” Laila shouted over the champagne flute at her lips at our Sunday late afternoon brunch table, cracking herself up at me and my indiscretions of the previous night. “I mean,” she continued, partially slurring her words, “Marc ain’t no NBA player, but he got an NBA car though! With his fine ass!” She added with a grasp of the air with her non-champagne-holding empty hand for emphasis. Clearly she was already tipsy. I knew I shouldn’t encourage her, but we were having fun. I hoped that no one within earshot would recognize me from the station.

  “An NBA car and a Stanford Business degree,” I added, feeling only a slight tinge of reluctance about objectifying my own man. We clinked glasses on that and I washed down any lingering pain of superficiality-induced guilt with more pink champagne. “We would make the perfect couple…if we …well, if he would just
cooperate.”

  “What are you going to do if you’re actually pregnant?” Laila hissed. I looked up to think and blinked at the bright California sunshine. We picked the trendy rooftop restaurant at the Nomad hotel. Just like Saturday mornings, Alexis couldn’t join, so it was just the two of us. After waking up with Marc and sharing a cup of coffee in my kitchenette and a long goodbye kiss, Laila would be my date for brunch to start the afternoon. Marc had work to do, and I had bad decisions to analyze.

  “I don’t know!” I said. I really didn’t. Honestly, I hadn’t thought the scenario all the way through. “I’m thinking about Plan B.”

  “What the hell kind of plan b would you have if you’re pregnant?” Laila spat back at me. “Sounds like you’re already on plan b, and c, and d…definitely plan ‘D,’” she said, exaggerating the “D” and cracking herself up all over again. This girl.

  “Plan B, like brand name ‘Plan B’,” I said. “The morning after pill, Silly.”

  “Oh! Thaaat Plan B!” Laila said. “Wait, wait, let me pull myself into serious professional journalist mode. I need to ask you reporter questions—like I’m dealing with a hostile information source…Ms. Tabitha Walker, what is it that you want to happen?” Damn, Laila! She always knew how to get to the core of what I didn’t want to confront.

  “What I want to happen, Marc took off the table last night,” I said. “I wanted him to want to live an adult life…with me…and maybe a plus one.” I paused to think a bit before continuing, “I can’t force decisions on him that he’s clearly not prepared to make. If we did wind up pregnant, it would solve a lot of problems for me, but probably create even more—especially with a man who is unwilling…I mean, with all that said, I guess…I guess I really have no choice but to take the morning after pill? Right? Like, what other options…”