Chances Are (10 page)

She'd watch it at home in the privacy of her bedroom. That way if he said what he did to spare her feelings, at least she'd be humiliated without an audience.

 

Garrett left after saying good-bye to Brenda. But he wanted to turn back around and ask Dione to spend the day with him tomorrow. That would be out of line, and he knew it. But, he didn't want to spend another empty weekend alone or with someone who made him wish he was alone.

He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

D
ione unlocked the door of her two-bedroom apartment. Each time she stepped across the threshold she felt truly blessed, remembering where she'd been and where she was now.

It wasn't luxury but it was aesthetically comfortable with a view of Prospect Park directly across the street, and if she went up on the roof of the three-story brownstone, there was a beautiful view of Manhattan.

She slipped out of her cashmere coat, her one extravagance, and hung it in the hall closet that she'd sprinkled with bits of cedar. She loved that smell.

Flipping on the hall light she crossed the short parquet floor and stepped down into the wide living room.

Every item she and Niyah, when she was old enough, had selected for the apartment had been done with care. She smiled, recalling the weeklong debate they'd had when it was finally time to replace her ten-year-old living room furniture. Niyah had insisted that black leather was the way to go and Dione tried to explain that it would absorb all the light in the airy apartment and they'd roast in the summer with the sun streaming in through the bay window.

Finally they agreed that Niyah could have a black leather chair for her bedroom, and Dione settled on a cool beige fabric with pencil thin streaks of brown and gold running through it.

She looked toward the mantel where a framed photo of Niyah's high school graduation graced the marble facade.

Pride filled her as it always did whenever thoughts of her daughter filtered through. Niyah was everything any parent could ever want. She was smart, pretty, had a strong sense of values and a genuine goodness about her that attracted people to her. She had her pick of boyfriends, but Niyah's focus had always been on school, getting her education as quickly as possible so that she could make her mark on the world.

“I want to be like you, Ma,” she'd said as they lay cuddled together in Dione's queen-size bed, the night before Niyah left to go off to Howard University.

At once the words filled her with pride and just as quickly made her heart race with anxiety. For her daughter, she wanted so much more for her than she'd ever had. She'd never wished for the struggle, the pain—even though Terri always insisted that what Dione had endured had shaped the woman she'd become.

Dione just wanted Niyah to reach her potential and blossom into her womanhood without the trials that had plagued her early years.

She knew that she'd sometimes overindulged Niyah, wanting to give her everything. Betsy had daily insisted, “You gonna spoil that poor baby rotten. She won't be good for nothin'.” And in the next breath Betsy would be cooing, playing with and indulging Niyah's every whim. And Niyah had turned out to be an endearing child, an inquisitive adolescent and a giving young woman. Dione knew it was because Niyah understood that above all else, she was truly loved.

Sighing, she stroked the glass that covered her daughter's face, knowing that she couldn't bear to have Niyah believe anything otherwise.

Still clutching the package with the videotape, Dione walked into her bedroom, kicked off her shoes and opened the padded envelope.

“Well, here goes nothing.” She opened the smoked glass of the television cabinet and turned on the television, then the VCR and stuck in the tape.

Perching on the edge of her bed, she pointed the remote at the VCR and pressed play.

After several seconds, her voice, clear and strong could be heard over the scenes from Chances Are. She briefly spoke of the house's five-year history, and the goals of her program. “But without your help, the dreams of these young women and their children will never be a reality. Chances Are is about choice—making a choice for a better tomorrow. Choose to be a part of a better future.”

The screen went blank, Dione released a breath and actually smiled. Pressing rewind she watched it again and again. It was good. Actually it was great. Just like Garrett said it was.

Excitement and relief flooded her, running through her veins like warm water. She wanted to call him and tell him how happy she was. She jumped up from the bed and fished through her purse, hoping that she had his business card. Even though it was after hours, he had left his pager number.

Two meticulous searches later, she conceded that she didn't have it. It was at work right on Brenda's Rolodex. She'd have to wait until Monday. It would have to be soon enough.

But she couldn't get over the momentary sensation of disappointment. And it was more than not being able to tell him how pleased she was. She actually wanted to hear his voice.

“Oh, well.”

She popped the tape out and stuck it in the box, then back in the envelope and set it on top of the cabinet. She had to talk with somebody and the most likely candidate was Terri.

She dialed her number and crossed her toes hoping she was home.

Terri picked up on the third ring, sounding hurried.

“Hey, girl, what's up?” Terri greeted.

“What are you doing? You sound like you were running around the block.”

“Actually, I was halfway down the stairs, heard the phone and couldn't decide which direction to go, then finally ran back upstairs to catch the phone in the bedroom.”

Dione chuckled. “That's some story. But I didn't call to discuss your directional problems. I got the tape.”

“And—”

“It's great! It's really good.”

“You're not just saying that because you're the star, are you?”

“No! For real, it's good.”

“So when can I see it?”

“Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Of course. If I don't get my bike riding in once a week I'm a physical wreck. It's my only exercise.”

She and Terri had met every Saturday for the past three years—except those times when Terri was out of town—to ride their bikes along Prospect Park's bike path. With their erratic schedules, it was impossible to join a gym. And when they'd hit the big 3-0, and gravity started working against them, the battle was on.

“Great. Come by here first. You can see the tape and we'll talk about it while we ride.”

“Sounds good. I'll be there about nine.”

“See you then.”

No sooner than she'd hung up the phone, it rang in her hand.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ma.”

“Niyah! How you are baby?”

“Fine,” she giggled. “I just wanted you to know that I'm definitely coming home for Thanksgiving.”

“You'd better be. Do you need me to send you money for your ticket?”

“Ma—I have a job remember?”

“I know, but that's for school expenses.”

“I can handle it.”

“Okay. How's everything going with your classes?”

“Okay. The poli-sci class is murder, but I'm dealing with it.”

Dione smiled. To Niyah, murder meant a
B.
She'd always been an excellent student and had been able to get into college a year early as a result. “When's the last day of class?”

“Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I'll catch a train Tuesday afternoon.”

“When you know what time, let me know and I'll meet you at Penn Station.”

“I'm aiming for a one o'clock train, which should put me in New York about five.”

“Wonderful. Can't wait to see you.”

“It'll be good to be home. At least for a minute. You find a boyfriend yet?”

“Niyah,” she admonished, feeling suddenly like the daughter instead of the mother. Niyah was always direct and to the point. Her honesty was often brutal.

“Well, did you? You need somebody, Ma. So you can get out and do something besides work.”

“I get out.”

“Oh, yeah,” she challenged. “Where?”

“For your information, young lady, I just went out to dinner the other night.”

“Get out! With who?”

“His name is Garrett Lawrence.”

“Oooh, is he cute?”

“Niyah!”

“Well, is he?”

Dione rolled her eyes. “Yes. He's cute.”

“That's a start. What does he do?”

“He produces videos.”

“Get out!”

Dione laughed.

“When will I get to meet him?”

“It's not that kind of relationship, Niyah.”

“Don't tell me,
it's just business.
”

“All right, I won't tell you.”

“Ma, you're impossible. Do you at least like him?”

“I haven't given it much thought.”

Niyah blew out an exasperated breath. “So what kind of business do you have with a producer?”

Dione explained about the PSA and the documentary.

“Get out!
You
on television. I can't believe it. You're so low-key. Were you scared?”

“Terrified.”

Niyah laughed. “Well, I've definitely got to meet him now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because any man who could get you in front of a camera and out of your shell, must be something.”

She hadn't dated much during Niyah's growing up years. She didn't have time. When Niyah was younger, Dione was busy trying to finish school, hold down a job and give Niyah whatever free time was left. As her daughter grew older, and more independent, Dione focused her attention on working harder to save money for Niyah's education, and her dream for Chances Are began to grow.

The few men who'd managed to get beyond the barriers she'd erected didn't last long when they saw the competition: her fierce love for her daughter, her undaunting determination to succeed and her devotion to Chances.

Dione couldn't say she'd been lonely over the years. For the most part, she didn't think about it except when Betsy or Niyah reminded her about her lack of a love life.

But Dione always insisted that her life was full. She was complete. She had friends, her daughter, Betsy and Chances. She didn't need anything else.

She blew out a breath as she undressed for bed. She thought about Niyah coming home for the Thanksgiving holiday and her last comment as she lay curled in her bed. Yes, Garrett “Gary” Lawrence was something. What that something was remained to be seen, she mused, finally dozing off, the vague images of her first Thanksgiving with Niyah materializing through the mists of her dreams….

Her public assistance check wasn't due for another week and all she had in her pocket was ten dollars. The apartment was freezing. The temperature had dipped into the teens during the night after tornado-like rain. Ice hung along the frame of the rickety window, the whistling wind banging mercilessly, seeming to be begging to get in and creep beneath the three patched-up quilts that covered her and her baby.

Dione's stomach growled from hunger and she mentally pictured the near empty cabinets and the refrigerator that held only Niyah's bottles, a half dozen eggs, and the loaf of bread she'd stuck in there to keep it away from the mouse who'd staked out a claim in their little space.

The radiators rattled, futilely attempting to pump some heat into the building. Aromas of food being cooked throughout the building seeped through the cracks in the wall, and beneath the door that didn't quite fit into its frame.

Her stomach knotted, and a silent tear slid down her cheek as Niyah stirred beside her.

For the countless time she asked how could her parents have done this to her—put her and, at the time, her unborn baby out into the street without a backward glance?

Some days when she was off from her part-time job at the supermarket she would pack Niyah up and take the number seventeen bus then the number forty-six back to her old neighborhood and walk to the corner of the block where she used to live, and just stand there. Hoping for what, she wasn't sure. Maybe that her parents would walk outside and see her, realize how much they loved her and the mistake they'd made, and take her back. Love her again. And love Niyah.

But it never happened and she usually went back home feeling more lost and alone than before.

For seventeen years she'd lived in the big, rambling brownstone, with her own room, plenty of food and almost too much heat in the winter. She had a backyard to play in when she was little and a safe block to run up and down on when she grew older. She had friends just like her who lived the black middle-class life.

Humph. And then she thought she was in love and she'd given away the one thing she could never regain: her virginity.

He was a sweet talker, Michael Thomas. He was f-i-n-e as all the girls would say. He was the captain of the basketball team and every girl in Stuyvesant High School wanted to “get with” Michael. But he only had eyes for Dione.

And just that one time during a spring break had changed her whole life.