His First Wife (12 page)

W
hen this all began, I realized that Jamison's cheating was turning me into a paranoid mess. Before I even really knew about Coreen, I felt inside that something was wrong with Jamison, something was different in how he responded to me. This grew into a paranoia where my mind was busy with worry. The phone ringing, Jamison being late for dinner, unanswered questions . . . I tried to break into his e-mail. . . . I even found myself looking through the garbage to see if he'd thrown away any receipts from restaurants. I was looking for clues to confirm what I'd already known. I felt like a fool for doing it, but really, if there was something to be found, I'd feel like more of a fool for not knowing what was going on. Seeing Coreen was only making this worse.

When I walked into our house to meet Jamison as I'd promised over the phone, my thoughts led my eyes to spy every single inch of the house to see if anything had changed. If there was a sign, a clue, an item that would reveal that something was still amiss and that woman had been there.

As I waited for Jamison, I wasn't sure if I was paranoid or just plain perceptive, but I noticed that Isabella wouldn't look at me. Feeling like a visitor in my own house, I sat down at the kitchen table and watched her work. She'd wiped the counters, scrubbed the inside of the sink and started the dishwasher, all without taking a second to look at me. There was nothing but silence between us. After she said hello when I walked in the front door and explained that Jamison called to say he was on his way, she turned her back and got busy, cleaning around me and the chair I was sitting in.

While it was rather rude, it wasn't exactly a surprise. Isabella never liked me; she was probably happy when I didn't come home the night before. Hell, she was probably trying to put the moves on Jamison herself. That would be a quick step up.

While it was my idea to hire a maid when Jamison's business started to take off, I wasn't there for Isabella's initial interview. Apparently, the two hit it off. She was an immigrant from El Salvador, who'd managed to secure legal residence for herself and her three children and had been providing for all of them with the meager cleaning salary. Jamison said her strength reminded him of his own mother, how she raised him with her heart and hard work, and that he was sure Isabella was the perfect fit for us. When Isabella showed up at our house for the second interview and saw me when I opened the door, I could tell she was taken aback. While Jamison said she spoke perfect English, she was stuttering and kept trying to recall English words to match the Spanish ones in her mind. Jamison claimed I was reading into it, but I knew why she was having such a hard time—old Isabella was surprised to see that such a successful man had a black wife on his arm—one who needed a maid. A black woman not cleaning? Not cooking? If I was white, she would've smiled, called me senorita and fluffed my pillows. She would've expected that. And I have to suppose that if I was a little lighter, perhaps it would've been an easier pill for her to swallow. But, no, I was just little old me. The dark-skinned, rich black woman whose underwear she'd have to wash from now on.

When it came down to it, I wasn't on the “Let's Hire Isabella” campaign, but I let Jamison win that battle. From that day on, she was my maid, but Jamison's friend. They laughed together, took up for one another, and between the two of them, I always came out looking like wire hanger–hating Mommy Dearest.

“Excuse me, Ms. Kerry,” she said, pushing past me with a broom in her hand.

“Sure,” I said. But I really wanted to snatch the broom and snap it in two. “When will Jamison be back? Did he say?”

“Um . . . How you say???? He's back soon,” she said, still with her eyes averted. Please, she'd been in Georgia for too long to play the “I barely speak English” card. I wondered what secret she was keeping for Jamison . . . if Coreen had been in my house. Had she been in my house, my bed, with my husband, and Isabella was just laughing at me? Sweeping and laughing . . .

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.

“No say, he never say. He say he be right back,” she said clearly struggling to inject nonchalance into her voice. But I knew she was aware of the matter in my home. If Ms. Edith knew, of course she did. Those maid hot lines were far-reaching, and they crossed color barriers too. If one household was dirty, or the kids were wild and crazy acting, the whole maid circuit knew. That was why my mother cleaned our house before the maid came when I was smaller.

I sat back in the seat and tried to relax, but it was impossible. The silence was tearing at my brain. Birthing my paranoia. I knew what I knew. All I kept thinking was that Isabella knew something else too. She had to know something. She had to have been covering up for Jamison. Maybe she was covering up for him now. I was tired of thinking these things, tired of being in the dark, of everyone knowing about my marriage but me. Well, if Isabella wasn't going to tell me where my husband was and why he was taking so long, I'd find out for myself. How could Jamison do this to me? He'd begged me to come home to talk and here he was abandoning me . . . again. Well I'd be his fool once, but twice wasn't my style.

 

 

Angry, I got up from the chair and hobbled to the car to squeeze back into the driver's seat. Isabella followed me, saying Jamison was on his way, but my mind was seared with anger; I just kept hearing that broom sweep against the floor, seeing her eyes turn away from me. Something was going on. She couldn't cover up for Jamison. I had to find him and if memory served me correctly, the last time he was late, he was down Highway 85.

Driving to Coreen's, I was sweating from the inside as if I had a fever. I turned the air conditioning in the car on high, but I couldn't escape the heat inside my body. I was hot, my head was pulsating, and I couldn't keep my thoughts straight. My nerves were striking a heated tune as I charged down that highway, in broad daylight this time. It was no secret. No darkness to hide what was coming. I just wanted to know everything. And have my say this time.

But when I got there, something was wrong. I was on the right street. At the right house. But Jamison's truck wasn't in the driveway. I turned off the ignition and wiped my brow. He wasn't there. Suddenly, I felt ill. Like the heat had burrowed itself deep into my stomach and rotted into shame, anger, loneliness. What was I doing here? I looked at the door, at the little lace square covering the window. My marriage was falling apart because of the woman inside. I was falling apart because of the woman inside. Driving around the city, eight-and-a-half months pregnant. Endangering my child's life.

I wondered what made Coreen think she could have my husband; just come in and take him from me. What had Jamison told her about me? What did she know about me? About my marriage?

Then the door opened. Coreen stepped outside. She was walking toward the car, toward me. Charging with her fists balled tight. This woman who'd tried to tear my family apart wanted a confrontation, and she was going to get one.

I wiggled out of the car and walked toward her, pushing my feet hard into the dirt on her yard, trying to keep my balance.

With each step, as we came closer to one another, my mind cluttered with insults, angry words and thoughts of what I wanted to do to her.

The air was thick with hate when we came toe to toe in the grass. Her hands were by her side, mine were on my hips. Something was about to happen.

“You,” I said with my face only a spoon away from hers. I felt the baby twist and turn quickly in my stomach.

“You,” she said, coming in even closer.

“Where's my husband?”

“You don't know?”

“Don't you dare try that with me,” I said, and then something inside of me just dropped. It was like an anvil that had been dangling from my throat had fallen and landed in my stomach. The pressure where it sat tightened and then released.

“Kerry,” Coreen said, stepping back and pointing toward the ground.

“What?” I looked down to see water streaming in crisscrossing lines down my legs. Water was pouring from my middle, and the front of my dress was soiled.

“Your water broke,” Coreen said.

“Oh, no,” I said. “No, not now!” But the water kept flowing down my legs and into the grass beneath me.

“The baby . . . It's coming,” she said.

“I have to go.” I gathered my dress and tried to walk back to the car. I had to get to the hospital.

“Kerry,” Coreen cried after me. “You can't go alone.” She was following behind me, hesitating with each word.

I tried to open the car door, but she grabbed my arm.

“You can't drive like this,” she said. “I have to take you. It's not safe.”

“Please, let me go,” I said, feeling my stomach tighten into little cramps. I pushed her away and opened the door. “I don't want to be here.”

“Kerry, don't be stupid. You can't drive.”

“I don't need you,” I said. I slid into the driver's seat and a bigger cramp came striking up my spine. I buckled forward and took a deep breath.

“You okay?”

“I'll be fine,” I said. The pain came again and instead of pushing the key into the ignition, I dropped it on the floor. Coreen grabbed it.

“Give me the keys,” I said, struggling to keep my breath. The contractions were coming faster and hitting me harder.

“I know you hate me, but I can't let you do this,” she said.

“You slept with my husband and now you want to care about me and my baby?” Another contraction came, pulling me forward as I bent over to escape the pain.

“Breathe,” Coreen said, pulling me out of the car. “Just breathe slowly and try to think about something else,” she said as we walked to the passenger's side.

After helping me into the car, Coreen got into the driver's seat and turned the engine on. I couldn't believe what was happening. Where I was and who I was with.

My phone began ringing in my purse. I knew it had to be Jamison.

“Get my phone,” I said, between breaths.

She pulled it from my purse and looked over at me.

“It's Jamison.”

“Tell him to meet me there . . . at the hospital.”

Coreen looked at me cross, but I didn't care anymore about fighting with her. I just wanted to get to the hospital and I needed my husband.

“I'm taking Kerry to the hospital,” she said, opening the phone. “It's me . . . Coreen.” She paused. I imagined Jamison was wondering how we'd ended up together.

“Just tell him I'm having the baby,” I cried.

“He wants to speak to you,” she said, handing me the phone.

“Kerry, are you okay?” Jamison asked with deep worry in voice.

“No,” I said. “I'm having the baby. Meet me at the hospital.”

“How did you end up with Coreen?” he asked. “Did she come to the house?”

“No,” I said. “Just meet me at the hospital.”

“It's over between us,” Coreen said breaking the silence shortly after I hung up the phone. We turned onto the main road where the hospital was. “It's been over.”

I really wanted to hear what she was saying, but inside I was still hurt to know that there was something.

“I'm sorry for what I've done to you . . . to your family.” She started crying.

“Please,” I said. “You're just sorry you got caught.”

“It wasn't like that,” she said. “It wasn't even my idea to meet him. . . . The whole thing was just . . .” She turned into the emergency room driveway. “Look, I can't tell you all of it. I swore . . . I swore I'd just—”

“Uggggggghhhh,” I screamed as what felt like a jab thrust into my stomach.

“I've got to get you inside,” Coreen said. She got out of the car and ran into the hospital. She came out with a nurse and a wheelchair.

“She's going to take care of you,” Coreen said.

“How far apart are your contractions?” the nurse asked as I slid into the chair.

“I don't know. They're coming now though.”

“Are you going in with her?” she said to Coreen.

“No,” we both said.

“Well, you'll have to wait outside,” she said, stopping in front of the emergency room doors.

“Okay,” Coreen said. “Kerry, I'll just leave the car here for Jamison and I'll take a cab home.”

I didn't say anything. That part of my journey was over. I wasn't thankful. I wasn't sorry. I just wanted her to go.

I
was mad. I know they say “only dogs get mad,” but that day, there was no other way to describe my feelings than mad. One of Jamison's mentors invited us to the annual mayor's ball and I couldn't have been more excited. I'd been before, so it wasn't a huge deal, but after taking the MCAT for the second time and being completely stressed with the next batch of med school applications, I was happy to get out for a night and mix with good company. I'd spent the day at the spa with my mother and picked out the most beautiful Cavalli buttercup cocktail dress I'd ever seen. I certainly couldn't afford it on my budget, but I needed that dress. I wanted to show everyone that I was okay, that Jamison and I were doing fine. There was so much discussion going on. People wondered why neither of us had left Atlanta after graduation. And as they always did when there was no news, they simply made things up. According to Marcy, some gossips said Jamison had gotten me pregnant and moved into my mother's house. He was spending all of our money and forbade me from going to med school. It was ridiculous and I had to show them that it couldn't have been farther from the truth. Everyone who mattered would be at the ball. They'd see me in my Cavalli and with Jamison at my side and know that we were happy and clearly on our way up.

I was supposed to meet Jamison at his apartment at 7:00
PM
, but when I got there, he was nowhere to be found. I could hear music playing inside, but his car wasn't outside and he wasn't answering the door. Now, it was 1996 and neither of us had cell phones, so all I could do was sit in my car and wait for him to show up or go home. I grew more and more angry with each minute that passed. Jamison hated these kinds of events, the kinds of people who would be there. I knew that. He didn't want to go and he was probably somewhere just sitting around eating a hot dog with his mother or something. I didn't understand why he couldn't just sacrifice his feelings for me for three hours. Yes, he hated these people, but these were my people and I needed to be there, we needed to be there together. If he was ever going to be successful he'd have to make partners with the people I knew.

By the time the mayor's ball was supposed to start, I was completely mad. Dog mad. Burn-down-a-house mad. Get-arrested mad.

Furious, I was about to leave, but then I decided to go and knock on his door one more time. Maybe he'd fallen down. Maybe he'd hit his head. Either way, when I got to him, I'd kill him. I got out of the car and walked to his door and knocked and knocked, but still, I could hear music, but there was no answer. This only made me more mad, and when I decided to walk back to the car I was so mad that I'd decided to break up with Jamison. If he couldn't understand, sacrifice for me, we couldn't be together. I'd sacrificed so much for him, and he couldn't even come to a party? He couldn't even tell me? He just stood me up? This was a first, and I was sure it was going to be a last.

When I walked out of the gate, I turned to my car and saw that it was covered with some little round things. As I got closer, I realized that they were purple flower petals. Rose petals. They were everywhere—on the roof, the windows, the hood.

I looked inside the car and there was a bouquet of purple roses in the passenger seat.

I was smiling. I remember that. I was smiling and opening the door.

I picked up a little gold card that was on top of the car and read it.

Do you feel this yet?
it read.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Damien standing behind me, wearing a black suit with a gold tie and white gloves. He had a stern look on his face.

“Damien? What are you doing here? What are you wearing? Are you going to the ball too?”

“I'm here to escort you to your destination,” he replied, extending his arm.

“To the ball?” I was intrigued, yet confused. “Where's Jamison?”

He simply winked suggestively and signaled for me to take his arm. He turned and walked away from Jamison's apartment, toward a small cabana area in the apartment complex where they had a pool.

“Where's Jamison?” I asked but Damien was silent. As we neared the pool area, entering a small garden of trees and bushes that were intricately set up around it, I could hear what sounded like humming.

When we turned toward the walkway that led toward the pool, two lines of Jamison's fraternity brothers stood facing each other, dressed in the same suits as Damien. They were holding candles and now I could make out that they were humming my favorite Stevie Wonder song, “Isn't She Lovely?”

“What's going on?” I asked to no one in particular. My eyes widened as I saw that the trees had been decorated with white lights and I saw that dozens of pictures of Jamison and me were hanging from gold ribbons.

“You will have to walk the rest of the way alone,” Damien said, turning to me. “But before you decide to go any farther, please read this note.” He handed me a piece of parchment paper that was rolled up like a scroll and walked away.

I was already crying before I opened the letter. The mayor's ball was far from my memory, and my mysterious surprise was taking my breath away.

I could hardly read the last two lines. The tears had clouded my eyes and my heart was beating so fast. I looked up from the paper and the guys raised their candles high so I could walk down the path toward the pool.

As they continued to hum the song, one sang the words a little slower, as my father used to do when I was young. It was like a dream.

At the end of the path, I saw the pool shining with lights and color. It was beautiful. Purple rose petals drifted in the water, around floating tea lights. A small wooden walkway that I'd never seen before had been built on top of the water, down the center of the pool, and right in the middle of the bridge was Jamison, standing dressed in white.

The men stopped humming and the soloist sang the chorus alone as I walked down the plank toward Jamison. I couldn't believe he'd done all of this for me. I knew the man who wrote those words in the letter. I knew him well, and I loved him so much. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and show him that I was worth that kind of love, that I could receive it and I could give it.

“Baby,” I said, finally standing before him. The men had separated and now they were encircling the pool, their candles making the water shimmer even more beneath the dark sky. It was the kind of romantic moment women dreamed of. But I was living it, and feeling like the luckiest woman in the world.

“I don't ever want to be without you, Kerry,” Jamison said. “I told you before that when I first saw you, for the first time, I felt something in my heart.” He placed his hand over his heart. “And I know now that I never want to be without that feeling again.”

Every hair on my body raised. What was he saying? Was Jamison about to ask me to marry him? Did he want me to be his wife? And . . . did I want him to be my husband? We hadn't talked about it. Not this. I loved him. I really did, but we were so different. From different worlds. Could our worlds ever come together? Would he love me forever? Could he? All of these thoughts raced through my mind in seconds. I was happy but nervous; overjoyed but scared as a baby. This man was in love with me. Not in love like I thought . . . he was innnnn lovvveeee. I knew I loved him, but I didn't want to let him down.

Jamison got down on one knee, reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, red ring box.

“No,” I cried.

He looked up at me with terror on his face.

“I mean . . . not no, but no . . .”

“Kerry, I . . .” he tried.

“I mean, I know I want to marry you,” I said. Everyone was silent. “I do, but . . .” I bent down by his side. “This is a big deal,” I said. “I love you and I know I want to be with you, Jamison, but I just . . . I'm messed up.”

“What are you saying?”

I was crying again, this time in sadness.

“I just have a lot in my past with my mother . . . and with your mother and with our difference, who knows . . . I mean, who knows—”

“Who knows what?” he asked.

“If you'll love me . . .” I said. I felt weak. “If you'll always love me. That's what I want to know, Jamison. If you'll always love me. Good or bad, me. Selfish me. All of me. Can you always love me? Will you? Can you do that and promise me you won't leave?” A crack came stinging through my heart. I saw my father's face in my mind. I felt his hand on my back as he hugged me, and realized right then how much I'd missed my father, and that I was hurt, hurting since he'd left. And I knew it didn't make any sense at all, but I couldn't bear to lose someone else the same way. Anyone else that I loved, through death or deception, I couldn't do it.

“You are the most perfect person I know,” Jamison said. He was crying now too. “And do you know why?”

I shook my head no.

“It's because even in your flaws, you're still being you. And that's part of what I love about you,” he said. “Some people's cracks are a little less visible, but you wear yours. And right or wrong, you are what you are. So, if the question is if I can deal with all of that, the answer is, I already am dealing with it. And I always will. Because if that's what it's going to take to have you, point blank, baby, I'm down. So, our mothers will have to change. And in some ways, we'll have to change, but we'll do it together.”

I smiled.

“So . . . Kerry Ann . . . perfect Kerry Ann, would you please rise?” He wiped my tears and straightened his back.

“Huh?” I asked.

“So, I can . . .” He held up the ring.

“Oh,” I giggled and stood up. I looked at Jamison and wiped a single tear that was still left on his cheek with my hand.

“Kerry,” he said, taking my hand into his. He held up the ring to my ring finger and looked back up at me. “I would be blessed if you would do me the honor of being my wife. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” I cried with joy. “I will. I do. I will and I do.”

Jamison slid the ring on and everyone started cheering. He stood up and we hugged each other tightly.

“I love you, baby, and I always will be there for you,” he whispered in my ear.

I could see Marcy standing on the other side of the pool with Damien. She smiled and waved at me.

“I love you too, Jamison,” I said.