I Almost Forgot About You (25 page)

“I probably wouldn't have majored in biology and would not have gone to optometry school. I would've traveled more, and I still intend to, and I'd probably live in a foreign country for a while and maybe have tried dating outside my race and learned to speak French and Italian and maybe not married my second husband.”

“Have you ever dated anybody besides black guys, Doc?”

“Nope.”

“They're no different from the rest of them. Trust me. I've fucked just about every ethnicity known to mankind.”

“I did have sex with a white guy when I was in college.”

“And?”

“He was pretty good. But I was worried what would happen if I liked him.”

“Duh. This is America. You're too old-school. I date anybody I find interesting. I don't believe in discriminating.”

“Duh yourself. That was like the 1970s, and the world was a mess.”

“Okay, I'm getting tired or maybe a little drunk, but what would you have chosen to do had you not gone the whole seeing-is-believing route?”

I want to answer, but I don't think I have it in me to explain another thing.

“Oh, to hell with it, Doc. But I'll bet you a pair of Prada sunglasses you'da made a terrible talk-show host.”

And we both laugh. She chugs the remaining three ounces of her wine and almost misses the desk when she plops it down. Now I know why she got plastic.

“You still here?” the same pizza kid says when I open the door.

He not only appears to be two or three inches taller but also has what looks like a fuzzy mustache and a dirty chin.

“You still delivering pizzas?” I ask lightheartedly.

“Yep. But I'm in school full-time now. Going to Laney College. You moving? I've seen that For Sale sign in your front yard for months, and I was thinking of stopping by just to say hi and give you some free breadsticks. How you doing, Dr. Young?”

“I'm doing fine. And it sounds like you're doing well, Free.”

“You remembered my name?”

“How could I not?”

“Did you stop eating pizza, or you stopped liking ours?”

“No, I just haven't been in the mood.”

“Well, I'm glad to see you. I ain't—I mean, haven't got a tip like the one you gave me since then. Hey! Did you get robbed or something?”

“No, I had to put most of my stuff in storage.”

“Why?”

“To make the house more appealing to buyers.”

“You mean to white folks. You don't even gotta say it. It's ugly, no offense. This sure wouldn't make me wanna buy this crib. It look just like the rest of these houses I deliver pizza to. Except for the ladies next door. Their crib is ultra-cool. Anyhow, I liked yours the way it was. Did you do this?”

“No. Someone else did.”

“I hope you didn't have to pay 'em.”

“I did.”

“Did you pay somebody to make it as hip as it was before?”

“No.”

“Then you got skills, Dr. Young. Where you trying to move to, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Don't know yet, Free.”

“What you mean, you don't know? You too old not to know where you going—no offense. Even
I
know where I wanna go, so I know
you
gotta have some idea.”

“I'm just not sure what I'm going to do next.”

“Well, at least you got options. Some folks don't. This pizza's on the house for you being so nice to me last time.”

“No, you don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to, but I want to. And hurry up and eat it, 'cause these pizzas are nasty when they get lukewarm, and forget about microwaving it unless you put a half cup of water in there, or your teeth'll get stuck in the crust. You'd be SOL if you had dentures!” And he cracks up.

“Thanks, Free,” I say.

“You're welcome. And guess what? Eighteen months I'ma be able to transfer up to Sac State, which is where my daddy live. Anyway, Dr. Young, I hope your crib sell fast and you figure out where to go.”

“I will. And good luck in college, Free.”

“Luck is for fools. I'm working my tail off, 'cause one day I wanna have more than one option, like you. Can I give you a hug?”

“Sure,” I say, and he squeezes me like he hasn't been hugged in a very long time.

Which would make two of us.

I only eat two slices, because it's greasy and doesn't taste like pizza. In fact, it makes my throat feel thick. I crush the box with the remaining pizza in it and push it inside the metal trash can. I surprise myself by scouring inside the fridge and finding some salad fixings and make one, and I'm shocked it's not only tasty but filling. I grab a bottle of sparkling water and put on my brand-new pink-and-black dalmatian pajamas and go sit in front of my computer. I Google every course and degree program offered in the Bay Area that deals with every type of designing imaginable, and as I carefully read every single description, it becomes crystal clear to me that I want to make things folks will appreciate touching or find cool or interesting and maybe even useful. I want to make things that are one of a kind. Things you might not find in a conventional furniture store. And I don't want it to function as furniture. In fact, I'm hoping it might be considered art.

I feel ten pounds lighter.

My house phone rings and makes me jump. I was enjoying this carefree zone I was in, and who interrupts the flow of it? My mother, who else? “Hi, Ma. What are you doing calling me at nine o'clock at night? Where's your fiancé?”

“You mean husband,” she says, chortling.

“Okay, so you eloped?”

“I guess you could say that. Since Grover is just starting to get around good, we went downtown to the courthouse. But we're legal.”

“Well. Congratulations. What's your new last name?”

“If you think for one minute I'm changing my last name after fifty-three years, think again, sister. It's Young, and I'll always be Young. Grover's last name is Green. And don't say anything smart.”

I try not to laugh when I hear it in my head but I blurt it out. “Grover Green. Green Grover.”

“Anyway, he certainly is a nice addition to my life.”

“I'm so glad to hear it, Ma. Really.”

“Now I don't have to worry about dying alone.”

“Please don't say that!”

“His son thought you were nice, too.”

“He was interesting enough, but I'm not interested.”

“Anyway, Grover just told me yesterday that Grover Jr.'s wife left him for a man almost half her age.”

“Wow. I thought he was happy.”

“He was. But now he's not. So what were you doing when I called?”

“Looking for my future on the Internet.”

“Good luck. They say you can find just about anything on there. Bye-bye, baby.”

I make the love sound.

My phone rings again and scares the hell out of me. I'm tempted not to pick up, but when I look down and see that it's Michael, I go ahead and answer. Talk about not being able to get rid of the past. “Is the wedding off?” I ask jokingly.

“As a matter of fact, it is, Georgia.”

Shit.

Sometimes I need to learn not to say what I'm thinking just because I'm thinking it. I often say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong people, but apparently I have yet to learn from my mistakes.

“I'm sorry, Michael. And I apologize for being so tactless. I had no idea.”

“It's okay. I got punked, as Ashton Kushner would say. It was all about money.”

It's Kutcher. But this is no time to correct him.

“What happened?”

“She didn't like the ring I chose. She wanted to live behind gates, and she insisted we go to Dubai and Bora-Bora for our honeymoon.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“I'm not rich, Georgia.”

“Does she have money?”

“Not unless she hid it under her mattress.”

“Well, at least somebody managed to get married.”

“Who?”

“My mother.”

This makes him chuckle.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Would you like to have sex?”

“No, Michael.”

“I didn't mean to ask you that. Well, I did, but I didn't expect you to say yes.”

“You know, you can always buy some comfort if you need it that bad.”

“I've just lost a stranger, don't think I want to go looking for another one.”

It's marathon call night, because no sooner than I hang up do I see it's an alien. Violet. I'm almost afraid to answer it, since she put a price tag on our friendship. I do miss her, and I've been worried about her well-being, but she refuses to return my phone calls and even Wanda's.

“Hello, stranger,” I say.

“Hello back,” she says. “How are you?”

“I'm fine. And you?”

“Well, I had a lump.”

“You had a what? Repeat that. I'm not sure I heard you right.”

“I said I had a
lump.
”

“You mean as in a breast-cancer lump, Violet?”

“Yes. But it's gone. And they took my right breast. But I had it reconstructed.”

I almost can't breathe.

“Georgia?”

“I'm here. I don't know if I should just be happy or mad as hell at you for not telling me, Violet. When did all this happen?”

“Not long after I moved.”

“And you're okay now?”

“Yeah. I'm pretty much recovered.”

“Does Wanda know?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you fucking tell us?”

“Because I just didn't feel like it.”

“What the hell do you think friends are for?”

“Well, that's why I'm calling.”

“Do you need some help?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“What about Velvet? How's she doing?”

“Still trifling and unemployed.”

“And the baby?”

“He's good, finally up to ten pounds.”

“Thank God. So tell me, Violet, what I can do for you?”

“Be my friend again.”

Wanda and I are in Tahoe. The snow is long gone, but we drove up here to gamble and gaze at the snowcapped mountains and look for bears and, of course, stop at the Vacaville outlet on the way back. We invited Violet, but she said she had to babysit her grandson. We did not believe her. We have tried to learn everything about recovering from having a mastectomy and breast augmentation, and we realized Violet's probably depressed, but despite our efforts to reach out to her and tell her that we understand how she might be feeling—even though we really don't—and that we're here for her, she won't let us in. Wanda and I have decided we're going over to her house when we get back. We don't care what she says.

“Let's do that breast-cancer walk,” I say to Wanda as we unpack the back of her SUV.

“Violet won't care, and you know I did it last year, but you were too lazy.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not feeling lazy now, and Violet will care, and she's coming with us, even if all she can do is be our cheerleader.”

“It's thirty-nine point two miles, but we can do twenty-six,” she says.

“I want to go the distance.”

“Then let's do it.”

We ring Violet's doorbell until she answers.

“What do you two want from me?”

“We're doing the walk, and if you're not able, we just want you to come out to support us.”

She starts crying. We all cry. And hug. And together Wanda and I start what will be the most grueling eight weeks of my life. Violet isn't as strong as we are yet, but she can ride a bicycle. We follow the training program. I wake up when it's still dark and meet them at the safe walking trails. We walk six miles the first day. Do a recovery walk for fifteen short minutes the next. Then three miles. Then I haul my ass to the gym and use up some of that personal-trainer credit. I'm surprised how much I like exercising, how good it makes me feel. I have more energy, my spirits are rising, and at the end of the eighth week, when I walk into my closet to try on a dress I always wear, it's too big. I hadn't thought of how this walk would also benefit me.

Of course we're among thousands on the perfect fifty-five-degree day when we walked twenty-six point one miles, then thirteen point one the next, and I can't believe I actually did it. I really don't know how. Wanda's not surprised. I've never been this high in my life, and I've also never seen so many shades of pink and purple and blue, nor have I ever participated in anything this meaningful with so many people who have so much in common and all gathered for the same reasons.

We meet women in recovery. Women who are walking with cancer still alive inside them. We had hoped Violet would've come, but she said she didn't think she was strong enough to cheer us on for all those miles. We meet men who are the sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands of women who did and didn't survive.

I vow to do this again next year.

I vow to keep exercising.

Wanda does, too. Even though at the end of the walk, when we're heading to the parking lot, she tells me she and Nelson have made an offer on the condo they liked in Palm Desert and chances are they're going to be moving down there for good next year.