Ameera, Unveiled (11 page)

I locked the front door, turned and saddled my shoulders with a carryon, and reached down for the bags. As I was placing our bags in the trunk, Chris opened his door and asked, “Need help?”

Yeah, I needed help. I needed help to regain my self-respect. “Nope,” I’d replied. As I climbed into the back seat with the kids, the car radio was playing “Cold as Ice” by Foreigner. I looked at the back of Chris’s heavily controlled comb-over and thought,
How appropriate.

“Let’s take a picture of you with the pilot, huh?” I’d said, shifting my attention to my excited son clicking his cowboy boots to the beat of the song. His big brown eyes had twinkled at the idea of an adventure in the West and riding in an airplane.

At the airport, the rising sun had burned off the low fog looming on the distant runway.

“Thanks for taking us to the airport, Kay. Kiss Melkey for me when you check on him,” I’d asked my sister as I hugged her. Aiden had skipped off with his dad, leaving the bags curbside.

“Try to have fun,” Kay had advised. “I gave Isabella and Aiden some money to spend on the trip.” I knew she’d seen the tension between Chris and me. “We’ll have a cookout for your birthday at Daddy’s when you get back, okay?”

“Thanks. I’d better get in there.”

“Don’t let him ruin your trip. You’ve never been to Colorado. Everything’s good here,” Kay had assured me, slipping a birthday card in my hand.

My eyes had teared as I slipped it in my carry-on. As I joined my family, limping under the weight of our bags, I looked over my shoulder and saw her taillights fading around the corner. I felt alone . . . again.

Alright, I wasn’t strictly alone. I did have the children. They (and their dad) weren’t quite to the check-in counter. I’d excused myself as I lumbered past a couple of travelers. Aiden waved at me to hurry up to stand beside him. Isabella had unwrapped a granola bar. A stone-faced Chris had refused to acknowledge my baggage burden.

“Mom, I’m gonna sit with you on the plane!” Aiden had said, jerking on my hand.

“Of course!” I smiled down at his eager face. “Isabella, do you mind sitting with Dad?” Isabella nodded.

Ten minutes later, agent Debi had checked us in and sent our four suitcases to the conveyor belt. A company-issued navy-blue vest displayed her name tag. As I envied her pretty, red nails, I noticed her wedding ring. I wondered what it was like when she used her free-airfare benefits. Romantic getaways with a gentle and considerate mate? Mimosas in First Class? Stop it, Kat! I needed to remember this trip was about my children.

It wasn’t long before it was time to board. Chris had walked ahead without us. The handwriting was on the wall.

Aiden was jumping up and down. “It’s his first flight.” I’d smiled at the flight attendant.

She’d stooped to his level. “Really? Would you like to meet the pilot?”

Aiden’s face lit up. “Can I?” he asked.

The pilot had overheard through the open cockpit door. “Your first flight? Come in. I’ve got some wings for you. Does your mom have a camera?”

Aiden had looked at me, nodding his head.

“Hop in my seat.” The pilot put a captain’s hat on Aiden’s head. He pulled a pair of wings out of his pocket and pinned them to Aiden’s shirt. The crew posed with Aiden. I’d taken pictures and felt a deep maternal satisfaction. We proudly took our seats, Aiden at the window, clicking his cowboy boots with a new pair of wings on his shirt.

In no time at all, the family “vacation” had flown.

Five days later, we’d driven to Denver to catch our flight home. Shuffling through connections and retrieving luggage, I’d stood on the concrete curb several feet from Chris, waiting for my sister to pick us up. She flashed her lights as she pulled up at the baggage sign.

After all the bags were stowed, I stared out the passenger window as we pulled away. Aiden’s head lay in my lap. As Kay and Chris chatted, I tuned them out until I heard my name.

“Kat, how was your birthday?” Kay had asked me, looking in the rearview mirror.

Before I could answer, Isabella chimed, “Mom and some cousins had a special cookout, but it was the day after. My cousin cooked over a fire pit, and we had a really big birthday cake.”

Kay’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. I’d pursed my lips and lifted an eyebrow, trying to send a kind of “it sucked” signal.

“I got to play in a wigwam,” Aiden had said lazily and yawned. “And I ate pork and beans outside on a metal plate just like the cowboys.”

“It was at a dinner theater,” I’d bridged his effort to brag. “Mom would’ve loved the western songs. I bought tunes for her as a souvenir. How’s Melkey?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Greeted and followed me around every time I checked on him. On the dining room table a couple of times, looking out the back doors,” Kay had said, not realizing what she’d done.

Chris hadn’t missed the revelation. He looked over his shoulder at me with a questioning nod.
Whatever. I’ll take one for Melkey
, I thought.

Almost immediately, the headlights had reflected on our garage door. My sister parked the car and opened the trunk. Chris grabbed two suitcases. “Thanks, Kay,” he said, heading to the porch. My kids gave her a hug and thanked her. I had lingered to grab the rest of the bags and get a moment with her.

“You okay?” she asked, helping unload luggage. “Daddy wants to do steaks on Sunday afternoon for you.”

“That’s cool,” I responded, pushing off the conversation I’d have with her till later. “Reunion was well planned. The kids had a blast. Mountains were unbelievable. I spent a lot of time with Chris’s cousins. They tried to teach me Rook.”

The kids’ rooms had lit up, so I knew they were getting into their jammies. “Let me go get them ready. I need to make sure no one’s hungry and see how Melkey is,” I’d added, giving her a quick hug, trying to reassure her that I was fine.

“Okay, call me,” she’d said before walking back to her car.

“Will do,” I answered as I collected the rest of the bags. Opening the front door, I heard Isabella chatting with Melkey, catching up like old friends. I looked at the dining room French doors. The blinds had already been pulled shut.

As I’d turned the corner to the master bedroom, I saw Chris had unpacked and thrown his dirty clothes in a pile. I put my bag against the wall and told myself I’d unpack in the morning. As I removed my toiletries and headed to the bathroom, I felt the eyes on the back of my head shout,
You’re screwed
!

As I put my stuff away, Chris had charged to the bathroom and shut the door. “Did you hear anything I said to you out there? Anything?” Chris opened the white vanity door and threw his shaving bag inside. One hand was on his thigh, the other was propped on the counter, and his pupils were black and fiery. He got really brave when he didn’t have an audience. He reached for his toothbrush.

“Yeah, I noted everything you complained about. And all the times you walked ahead, didn’t help with the bags, and boycotted your cousins’ card games,” I’d said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “You ruined my birthday, and your family pretended not to see how you intentionally ignored me the entire week. There was no birthday gift from the kids or you. I think I did a pretty good job of not causing a scene.”

The intensity of his toothbrush scrubbing had increased as I unleashed my words. I turned to leave the bathroom, but he’d leapt in front of me, pointing his toothbrush in my face.

“You’re always neglecting me. I’m a good man who provides for his family. You’re never satisfied or care about me intimately,” he’d said, spitting toothpaste in my face.

My heart raced. I needed to get out of the tiny room before this assault escalated to a physical threat. “Chris, the kids are in the other room. It’s late, and this isn’t the time to discuss our issues. Let me out,” I’d spoken sternly, looking directly into his angry eyes.

“I wish you’d commit adultery so I could divorce you,” he’d said in a venomous hiss. He’d snapped his blue toothbrush in half and thrown it across the room.

“I don’t need to commit adultery to give you a divorce,” I’d said in a faux calm voice. Inside, something had snapped with the toothbrush. I was done. Done! I’d stepped around him and opened the bathroom door. I’d be a patient ex-wife-to-be. As Don Henley crooned in an Eagles song, the next name he’d be calling me was plaintiff.

I was through accommodating him.

Accommodating? Back in the present, my mind eagerly captured the word. That was what Sybil had been talking about: making accommodations.

I spoke out loud, “That’s what Sybil’s been trying to say! She keeps stressing that I need to quit accommodating my veil, and I’ve been clueless about what she meant. She means I need to lead the veil, not let the veil work me.”

I realized that I’d stumbled on to a deep metaphor.

“Stop accommodating your veil!” I cried. “If I’m going to incorporate a prop, I’m responsible for the energy that makes it work. It’s flow and consequences.”

My mind ran through a ton of other situations in my life that I’d relinquished to others on my behalf. My first marriage had been full of accommodations. I believed in the forever vows in spite of what soon manifested as a one-sided relationship. Scripture was used to shackle me to a toxic relationship. But, I still hold tight to my spiritual convictions in spite of the Pentecostal church’s message to stay in a bad marriage. My childhood had also been full of accommodations. The uprooting and inability to integrate with neighborhood childhood circles and girlie bonds left an unspoken loneliness. As the oldest, I was to set the example. Even during my twenty-three-year career, I’d taken on the professional challenges of a one-girl office to make sure my boss looked great, for which he got the credit, not me.

It was the way I’d been raised. I’d been programmed that I was never meant to find a spotlight but to be the Chinese dog in the background.

Later during that day of self-revelation, as I worked on my dance routine in the poolroom, I found myself elongating my short self and making Pink stand to attention in my elevated arms. “Drama Queen” gave me my drum cadence. I shot out of the chute, making Pink follow my lead. I felt more empowered.

I thought I caught a glimpse of Ameera as I scooped my veil and looked over my shoulder in the mirror.

9

Morning came and I sipped coffee, checked e-mails, and sorted Ballet Guild papers. The Guild was meeting in a couple of days. I was resigning as Secretary. I loved supporting the ballet, but I had too much on my plate. Auditions were looming, and I needed more time. I punched holes in the final e-mails I’d be filing in the notebook. I was handing the notebook over to the new Secretary at Thursday’s luncheon.

Before I could move on to another task, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number: Sybil.

“Hey Kat,” she said. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not really. What’s up?” I asked.

“I’ve got a class conflict. I’ve called Polly and Cheryl about moving the time up, and they can. Can you be at the studio at four thirty?”

I looked at the microwave clock. It was 3:15 p.m. “Sure,” I said.

“Okay, see you then.”

After putting the notebook away, I went into the laundry room to remove a last load of clothes from the dryer. As I folded and sorted, I realized I needed to change my outfit.

My mind wandered while dance practice inched closer. I stole glances at the digital clock on the nightstand as I moved between hangers and dresser drawers. At 4:00 p.m., I grabbed dancewear, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and slipped on leather mules. I grabbed my black, twenty-five-yard gypsy skirt lying in a pile by the garage door. Pink was wrinkled from our workout and slumped over my arm as I climbed into the car.

I slid my “Drama Queen” CD into the car player and tried to recapture my newfound dance excitement. I felt it most of the drive. I was determined to develop a new mindset.

Opening the gate to Sybil’s house, I rushed through the maze. Something moved as I passed a dried Christmas wreath hanging on the wall beside the studio entrance. When I glanced at the brown wreath and reached for the doorknob, two beady eyes blinked at me. Before it registered, I felt a feathery bullet hit my face. My heart raced, but I looked back at the dead Christmas wreath. Inside was a tiny wren nest laden with three little eggs that the mother had been guarding. Relieved, I went inside to join my dance mates.

“Kat, how was your week?” Polly asked as she looked into the closet mirror and did a few warm-up moves from her solo.

“Can’t complain,” I answered, plopping down my bag. “Actually, I had a lightbulb moment last night. I think I understand something Sybil scolds me and my veil about.”

Cheryl looked up from working on her hip-scarf knot. “That sounds great,” she said.

“I think so. We’ll see,” I said as I continued preparing for class.

Sybil opened the door and breezed in. “Hello, ladies! Thanks for coming early. I’ve got a lot of news and didn’t want to miss telling you.”

We all smiled, but I knew she had something up her sleeve.

“Palmetto Oasis has been asked to perform in two weeks at the Piccolo Spoleto finale in Hampton Park. It’s a Sunday afternoon at three thirty,” she said. “We were discussing our theme and came up with a Middle Eastern wedding procession. I’ve told the girls I want my students there,” Sybil said with a big smile. “I’m asking a couple of girls from my Wednesday class, and I want all of you to join us too.”

My mind went back to the nursing home gig. I felt like someone had hit a panic button inside me. But Polly and Cheryl were all ears.

“I’ll lend you costumes. There’s a stage. I want pillows, fans, and students carrying basketfuls of flower petals,” Sybil said. “You’ll be in the procession, dropping petals as we present the bride. The first dancer will be wearing the shamadan. Others will be using veils, wings, and zills.”

I stood sideways and looked into the closet mirrors. My belly fat was still there. Not as much, but baring my body in front of hundreds of Charlestonians? I knew I didn’t have to be a stick figure. But would the people at the park know that? There weren’t any heavy dancers on the cover of my “Bellydance Superstar” CD . . . or any that looked over forty.