His First Wife (13 page)

A
fter everything I'd been through, I was still relieved when one of the nurses came in and said Jamison was on his way into delivery. The weirdest thing about being angry with someone you love is that when you really need them, you tend to feel less of the anger riding your heart. And lying in the hospital bed alone with my legs cocked up and nurses and my doctor walking in and out of the room on a rotating basis, I needed and wanted no one else there but my husband. Cheat or no cheat, this was our baby coming out of me and I didn't want to go it alone. That wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not how I imagined it. I didn't want to someday tell my child that his father was not there the day he was born. I wanted to feel the love I felt when my child was conceived, see the man I loved, and share, even if it was for the last time, a part of the family we'd created. So, when Jamison came into the room, while I was silent and wondering what I'd say, I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't soften.

“Baby, I'm here,” he said, rushing over to my bedside.

I didn't say anything. After an hour or so of trying to breathe between the thumps in my gut, all I could do was cry. Seeing my husband, the moment finally hit me. So much had happened, but here I was now, Kerry, giving birth to my first child. And now my husband was by my side. It was happening. We were giving birth.

“I came as soon as I got the ca—Are you all right? You need anything? You need me to . . .” He was nervous. Jamison tended to ask a lot of questions when he was nervous. “Get you something? Something to eat?”

“Sir, she can't eat right now,” the only nurse left in the room said, laughing.

We both looked at her blankly.

“I guess I'll let you two be alone for a second,” she said.

“Baby, I—” Jamison started.

“Don't say anything,” I said with my voice cracking. “I'm just glad you're here. I just want you here right now.”

“And I want to be here too. I can't believe he's coming. Can you, baby? Our son?”

“No,” I said.

“I love you.”

“I—” A contraction came that was so powerful, I felt as if I was going to fall off of the bed. “Ahhh,” I hollered, and I don't believe I even recognized the voice. It felt as if I was suddenly hit with the worst menstrual cramp I'd ever felt, a swift kick in the belly. I sucked in deeply and then released, this seemed to make the other contractions stop, but it just came back and this time it was harder.

“Jamison,” I hollered after what seemed like ten minutes but must've been a second because Jamison still hadn't said a word.

“I know, and I'm sorry, but I—” he tried.

“No, get the nurse,” I managed.

“Oh,” Jamison said. He hustled out the door and the next thing I knew the nurses had wheeled me into delivery and I was giving birth. I always thought birth would be the most painful part, but the birth had nothing on those last, awful contractions. I felt as if everything inside of me was trying to get out and tear me wide open, so by the time the doctor announced that I was crowning, I felt at peace and ready for the whole thing to be done. I was so hot and sweating, and every five seconds it seemed like my doctor was telling me to push harder and again and then harder and two more times. I wanted the pressure to stop and when the last push came, I grabbed Jamison's hand so tight. He looked into my eyes and for that second, time stood still. I saw fear and happiness, confusion and clarity. We were beginning something. Someone was joining us. A part of both of us. It was arresting, baptismal, and I was so happy to share that moment with him.

“This is it,” my doctor said. “One more push and he's here.”

Jamison nodded his head and I pushed and our son came into the world.

I'd imagined having so many beautiful things to say about my son when the nurse placed him in my arms for the first time, but nothing came out. I just kept crying and laughing. I was so happy to see his little wrinkly face, his questioning eyes that seemed to ask the inevitable, “Where am I and who are you?”

“He's ours,” I said to Jamison, who was standing beside me and crying.

He bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

“Tyrian,” he said and then kissed me on the forehead too.

“Tyrian,” I said too.

PART TWO

 

—Erykah Badu,
“Green Eyes”

L
ike most men I know, I have to admit that I hate weddings. But unlike most men I know, this isn't because of the frills and forced intimacy in front of hundreds of sappy spectators—most of whom you don't know. When I fell in love with Tanya Tolliver in fifth grade and spent every red cent in my piggy bank to buy her a dozen pink roses (she was always wearing this pink sweater and I knew she would like them), I accepted that I was a hopeless romantic when it came to the woman who had my eye, so romance never bothered me, much less public displays of it. What bothered me about weddings was the crying. Rows and rows of wet eyes and cheeks, falling back like dominoes from the person who likely started the whole thing—the groom. I noticed at every wedding I went to that the tears in the church always seemed to start with stormy tears gushing from some brother's eyes. Now, this too, in light of the situation (seeing the woman that was supposed to be the love of his life giving her life to him) wasn't completely deplorable. But even with my sensitive side, I'm still a boy from southwest Atlanta, and seeing some otherwise strong brother standing in front of a room full of people crying just wasn't my idea of a good time. Was he happy? Was he sad? Was he a damn punk? Come on, brother! Love was deep for me; the love I had for Kerry was the deepest thing I'd ever experienced. But on our wedding day, I was determined that I wasn't going to be that dude crying.

That morning, during Damien's “Bros Only Pre-Wedding Chat,” he broke it down for me and gave me some “dry eye,” man-up advice.

“No way out of this crying thing?” I asked.

“Nah, dog,” he said frankly. “The whole damn thing really is set up to make you cry. See, when Kerry comes walking down that aisle, she's gonna be wearing this white dress. Now, I know you're thinking you've seen her in white, so who cares? But you haven't seen her in
that
white dress. And
that
white dress is
real
white. It's gonna look big, huge, flowing and glowing and shit in the church like you're hallucinating and seeing an angel. So already then, you're gonna think you're having a dream like in some alternate reality where brothers are supposed to cry. But it doesn't stop there. That's not what takes you out the game.”

“No?”

“No, because then she's gonna start floating and gliding straight to you like you're rolling down the street in a Spike Lee movie, and everybody's eyes are going to be moving from her to you to see your reaction. Now, you're gonna try to control your reaction because of the eyes on you, but then you're all proud and shit, because that's your woman. So you might smile a little. Let folks know you're impressed and happy. Cool. Nobody likes a scared groom. And you got that. No tears yet. You're smiling. Proud. You got it. Right?”

“Hell, yeah,” I agreed. I got it.

“Hell, nah! Because then, man, they're gonna move that veil from Kerry's face. And while you're trying to be strong, when you see her face, man, how nervous and innocent and happy she looks, that's it. She's gonna take your breath away from you . . . then you're ass is gonna cry.”

“Damn,” I said. “Take my breath away?”

“Like a fucking cat,” he said. “That's what they do.”

“And there's no way out?”

“Well,” Damien started, “I did get some advice on my wedding day.”

“What?”

“My uncle told me to hold my breath when they raise the veil, and my father told me not to look at her face at all. Not into her eyes. He said to look at her ears, so everybody thinks you're looking at her eyes. But you can't look at her eyes because then you're definitely going to break down.”

“Any of that work for you?” I asked.

“Hell, nah, J.” he said. “You were at my wedding. You saw how I showed out when Marcy came down the aisle. Shit, I was already crying when I remembered what they told me. Good luck.”

 

 

When Kerry walked into the church and the organ started playing the wedding march, I kept reminding myself to hold my breath and look at her ears.

“Breath. Ears! Breath. Ears!”

Shit, I said that to myself so much that aside from saying it, I totally forgot to do it. First Kerry entered the church. Then, just like Damien said, she was an angel floating toward me in
that
white dress. Then her uncle was raising her veil. Then everybody was looking at me. Then I was looking at Kerry. Her eyes soft. Her lips quivering. A smile suddenly on her face, just to me, just for me. My breath was gone. Like someone had punched me right in the gut. Then I was crying. And still saying to myself, “Breath. Ears!”

I was the punk I never wanted to be. But I really didn't care. Kerry was more than I could've asked for. More than I even dared hope for until I asked her out on our first date and she said yes. I loved that girl through and through. Even with her ways. It was no secret that Kerry was a bit of a perfectionist. I knew this when we started dating; it was what turned me on to her—that she cared about the fine points. That she was passionate. Confused as hell, courtesy of her confused-ass mother, but still passionate about the little things. Feeling. The girl arranged her underwear drawer by putting matching sets into little plastic bags. She lined my shoes up in the closet in order first of activity, second usage, and third color. To most people this was a sign that she was a little over the edge, but to me it was like a light to let me know just how sensitive she was. While Kerry tried to play Ms. Hard-as-Nails-in-Complete-Control, she really needed the world to comply with her. She really needed me to comply with her. Because if one of those things was out of place, if I wasn't there when she needed me to be there, she'd protest. So even with the pretending and crazy mother, my baby felt things deeper than most people, more than any other woman I'd ever known. And to me, that was what made her heart beat the loudest in any crowd. I couldn't ignore that beat.

Now, Kerry had spent every waking moment since the engagement planning the wedding with her mother. While I didn't exactly agree with the 600-deep guest list, filled with only about 90 or so people I knew and 450 Kerry thought she knew (the rest were her mother's “associates” and people that “had to see us get married”), it was her dream day and I wanted her to have whatever she needed. But at some point she turned from my little passionate perfectionist to a member of the Third Wedding Reich—with the wicked führer being her mother—Lady Hitler herself. I sat back and let them do their crazy wedding thing, sure it would pass . . . kinda wondering when it would pass. Usually when Kerry got trapped in her mother's control, after a certain point they'd end up fighting and Kerry would come out of it and run back to me. This hadn't happened yet, and I was waiting for it.

Standing at the altar, a part of me was wondering if the spell would ever break this time. But then it happened. When Kerry was supposed to say the vows she'd typed and spent the last month memorizing in the shower, she opened her mouth and nothing came out. Nervous, I started mouthing the words to her (I'd memorized them too by default), hoping she needed a refresher, but she was frozen. Just looking at me, her eyes wide and still.

“Jamison,” she finally said. But it wasn't like she was supposed to say it—like the salutations before a speech. It was more like she was unsure I'd answer. Like she was looking for me in a crowded room. “I love you. And I know I love you because I . . .” She paused and looked deeper into my eyes. “I feel it deep inside of me. Like when I'm with you I'm just where I'm supposed to be. I never told you this before, I never told anyone, but I used to feel like I was alone a lot before you came into my life. I felt like I was alone and that no one really understood me. Not who I really was. They all looked at me, but no one could see me. Not the real me. But you always did.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. It was the most vulnerable I'd ever seen Kerry. I reached over and took her hand.

“You always cared to really see me, Jamison. To really hear me. . . . And you accepted me. And that meant everything to me. Even though we're different and sometimes don't agree, you always take the time to see and hear me.” Her voice cracked and I squeezed her hand tighter. “And I want to say today that I want to give that back to you. I want to spend the rest of our days together hearing and seeing each other for who and what we are. That's what I want to do . . . that's what I want to do with you for the rest of our lives together.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding and trying to see her through the tears in my eyes.

If Kerry floated down the aisle toward me to start the wedding, after the preacher announced that we were man and wife, we must've sprinted out. I felt weightless, on cloud 99.9. I was ready to start the rest of my life with my wife, but it seemed like the rest of my life wasn't coming toward me fast enough.

But like most track stars, after sprinting out of that church, I learned that course-changing injuries came quick, and when least expected. Torn ACLs, pulled muscles . . . My injury came in the form of a permed-out Hitler that I was forced to dance with at the wedding reception.

There I was doing my best to enjoy my wedding, waiting for it to be over with so Kerry and I could get back to the hotel to . . . seal the deal, when Kerry whispered that I had to dance with her mother. Now we both knew this “Mother-in-Law /Groom Dance” was a bad idea. I hated Kerry's mother; she hated mine. We'd accepted that and decided to rise above it. Kerry didn't have to dance with my mother. I was doing a pretty good job of keeping the two of them apart, so why in the hell did I have to dance with her mother? I'd never seen it done before, but Kerry said it was symbolic of bringing the families together and that it was her dream. I damn sure didn't want to do it, but when the dance was announced, Kerry pinched me under the table and I put a quick smile on my face to join the crone on the dance floor. Dread wasn't word enough to describe the moment. It was more like disgust . . . abhorrence. And it wasn't because of the normal reasons other men didn't get along with their mothers-in-law. Kerry's mother had them all beat. She took pushy and nosy to the next level when it came to my relationship with Kerry. If she wasn't talking about what we weren't doing correctly, she was talking about what we needed to do. If she wasn't telling me how she thought I should behave, feel, think, see, and breathe, she was complaining about the way I did all of those things—but never to my face. Of course it was never to my face. No, she'd get Kerry on the phone and get her all riled up and send her to me with the message. So I'd get home and find Kerry pacing the floor. I'd ask what was wrong and she'd say that “I” needed to get a home phone because it didn't look right for people not to have a home phone, or “we” needed to attend church every week together at her mother's church before we announced the wedding. Kerry would try to stand firm on this opinion, pretending it was her own, but after we'd discuss it for a little while, or sometimes argue, it would almost always come out that the whole idea came from conversation she'd had with her mother. One day I actually overheard them. “That boy needs to stop letting people call him J,” I heard her mother say. “His name is Jamison and that's much more acceptable. J is some kind of street name.” I was furious. But I didn't say anything to Kerry. I just went into the bathroom and shut the door. I guessed Kerry knew not to bring that garbage to me though, because she never brought it up. But even with all of her mother's drama, she really didn't bother me that much. Not to call a woman a bitch (my mother raised me better than that), but I'd known many females that could be classified as dogs in my life and they didn't scare me. I can bark and bite too, so I was cool. What really bothered me about Lady Cujo though was how she got to Kerry. Her nagging and constant critiques had led to Kerry being much too self-conscious about the world and what other people thought of her. Whenever Kerry was happy or had done some great thing, her mother came talking about how so-and-so could have been better. Kerry would be crushed and start second-guessing herself. It seemed like since Kerry's father got ill, the two of them were cells floating around, bumping into each other to see who hurt the most.

That was partially why I didn't go to medical school. I didn't want to leave Kerry alone, floating with her mother as they both starved for love from Kerry's dad. They needed a buffer. I didn't want to leave Kerry alone in Atlanta to crash and burn. I loved her and if protecting her meant that I had to put some of my dreams on hold, I was willing to be a man and do that. I'd lose one dream, but gain another in a woman who I knew I would make my wife.

My dream did not include dancing with Kerry's mother at the wedding. But there I was, trying hard not to vomit and thinking it was so typical of that woman to be all smiling and cheesing for the cameras. She actually looked like she liked me. Like she was proud I was her son-in-law—the steet boy on the come-up who at the time was actually driving a lawn care truck and cutting lawns himself to get his business off the ground. That wasn't what she'd wanted for Kerry. I needed a more recognizable name and a busload more of dollars in the bank. Shoot, according to her, I wasn't even going to the right church. She hated me. Period. I was also quite surprised when she started talking to me during the dance. “You were a lovely groom,” she'd said, smiling. “And this was a wonderful day for my daughter.” I just smiled, waiting for the punch line. There was always a punch line in situations like that. But she just smiled. Then I thought maybe, just maybe, she'd changed. Maybe she'd accepted me into the family. Maybe she wasn't as bad as I thought she was. She was turning over a new leaf. Old dogs could learn new tricks. I looked at Kerry and smiled. This was the family I'd imagined. If only we could get my mother to say two words to Kerry without accusing her of ruining my life, we'd be perfect then. “You looked lovely tonight,” I said, trying to return her nice words. I looked to Kerry again. She winked at me, nudging me on. Her mother looked at me with honesty in her eyes and nodded her head. As the song came to a close, the crowd began to clap and she opened her arms wide for a hug, which made them clap even louder, as if they knew the magnitude of the moment. I played along and hugged her tightly, and when I tried to let her go, she pressed her lips against my lips for a kiss. Then she whispered in my ear, “Good luck.” She stepped back and smiled again, only the look on her face had shifted from fake jubilation to pure evil. “You're her first husband,” she added just before we parted.