I Almost Forgot About You (28 page)

I'm holed up in a three-star hotel while Percy gets all that ugly furniture out of my house and I have most of the walls repainted with energy. In five days I'll be able to move back into my old new home.

I've also come to the conclusion that trying to reconnect with the remaining three men I purportedly once loved feels like a waste of time. I think I was just melancholy and nostalgic after finding out that Ray had passed away. I will, however, send these men a shout-out and call it a day. After reuniting face-to-face with my ex-husbands, I admit it was touching, but I'm not so sure that if I'd never laid eyes on either one of them, I would have really missed out on anything. Although I couldn't stand Michael for years and can now tolerate him, what would I have lost had I never forgiven him? It's not like I sat around year after year thinking about how I wished I'd pushed him off the Golden Gate Bridge or like I lost sleep wondering how things were going with his new wife. And Niles. Mr. Narcissisto. After seeing him I could not remember what it was that made me fall in love with him.

I'm no anthropologist, but it has become clear that as a middle-aged woman, I've spent more time and energy on mistakes than I have with men who lived up to their image and kept their promises. It doesn't seem to matter how educated or smart they were—since the two aren't synonymous—although the geniuses I've met seem to think they've been blessed with holy water, which is one of the major reasons for, causes of, and contributors to their shortcomings.

As I swivel in this chair, I open Facebook and stare at my home page. I'm getting bored with Facebook, but if I say I'm going to do something, I usually do it. It may take a while, but I like to finish what I start. Right now, however, this is what I'm thinking: if I'd just gone on and had Abraham's baby and married him and ended up on a farm in Louisiana growing stuff, I probably would've been happier and wouldn't need to go scrounging around on Facebook looking up these blasts from my past, and Abraham would still be my boo.

Which is why I wish I'd just gone ahead and seduced him and not run my mouth so much talking about old times and his life on the farm and how much we once meant to each other. I'm too old to fall in love because I have a few orgasms. Those days are so 1980. And so what if I had? It would've been worth the suffering and longing I felt after he went back home to plant soybeans and sweet potatoes with his earthy new wife.

I click on Carter.

In bold blue letters across those velvety green mountains is a caption:
IN MEMORY OF CARTER GLENN RUSSELL
. There are comments from at least thirty people expressing how much they're going to miss him and what a great
uncle/​brother/​cousin/​father/​friend/​colleague
he was. I click on About, and all it says is, “Our father passed away on January 1, 2011, surrounded by his friends and family. Please share a photo and any memories you have about him on his timeline. He would like that.”

This is what I remember about him.

I lived in an iffy neighborhood on a busy street my first year in optometry school. One night while I was trying to get my key in the door, some guy comes out of nowhere and snatches my purse and runs. Carter, who was patrolling the area, saw this and took off after the thief. He was able to corner him, and the man tossed my purse into some bushes. I saw Carter draw his gun and then say, “Go in those bushes and get the lady's handbag, right now, son, and don't make me say it again.” The man, who was in his early twenties, did as he was told. “Now, walk back down the street to where you see her standing and give it back to her, and then I want you to apologize for scaring her half to death.” And he did. “I'm sorry for stealing your purse, ma'am,” he said as Carter shook his head, indicating that I not respond. He then pushed the guy into the back of his squad car and locked the door. “Are you okay?” he asked, and I told him I was. Carter was a big guy, at least six-five, and he gave me his card and told me if I ever needed him for anything, to feel free to call him.

For the next nine months that I lived there, almost every night Carter made sure either he or one of his partners kept an eye on me when I walked down that street. And right before I was going to move in with Michael, he showed me a picture of his wife. “Lucky woman,” I said. He kissed me on the cheek and told me to take good care of myself and not to marry any man who didn't.

This is my comment:

Carter was a brave, honest, caring, and loyal human being. He made me feel safe as a college student, and I'm honored to have known him.

And Lance. Not worth remembering, and I probably should've put him on that long list.

Oliver had a voice so deep he made you feel like you were being seduced fully clothed. Even when he laughed, it came from down deep. I used to ask him questions that required long answers just to hear him speak. He knew he was sexy, but he couldn't help it. His smile was sideways and forced a dimple to form in the crease below those cheekbones. No man should have so much to lure you in with, but he did. And on top of all this, he was smart. Much smarter than me. Or I should say he was more knowledgeable about a lot more things than I was. Oliver was a philosophy major, and when he told me that, I almost squeezed the moisture out of the plastic cup of juice I'd snuck into the library. I thought this was very cool, especially him being a young black man. Out of all the majors in the universe, I asked him, why philosophy? And he said because he had always been curious about how to live a morally awake life and about how and what we could do to elevate our character. Well, okay, I remember thinking. But wasn't that what the Bible helped us figure out? And going to church? I didn't say it—I was just thinking it. But I remember him asking me if I'd ever heard of Epictetus, and of course I hadn't, and he went on to tell me that he was one of his favorite philosophers and suggested I look him up. Which I never did, because in the nine months Oliver and I would date, I would learn more about him and a lot of other philosophers, some of whom I thought were nuts, until I started OD'ing on how to live based on a moral compass. I spent so much time trying to impress Oliver that I got lost in his way of looking at the world and the role he thought we were meant to play in it, and to ourselves.

I loved him because he lifted my heart and my mind, but I got tired of analyzing everything. Loving Oliver wore me out. He lost patience with me because, I believe, he came to the conclusion that I was just shallow. He wanted to break up because I didn't share his beliefs. I wanted to break up because he didn't respect mine.

I'm not surprised he became a minister. He's married. The father of three. One grandson. Although I'm trying not to put so much emphasis on the sex, there was a reason I didn't mind being preached to. He was extremely talented in bed, and over the years I've come to realize that there are only two schools of men: those who are good in bed and those who aren't.

Hello, Oliver! Just wanted to let you know I recently saw a book on Epictetus and thought of you. I purchased it in your honor and believe he may very well have been onto something! I'm trying to do some of what he subscribed to. But enough about me! I'm so glad you found your calling, and it looks like you are happy, which I'm thrilled to learn. I turned to a different type of curative practice and am now ready to find a more creative one. Just wanted to let you know that after all these years I hadn't forgotten that you once held a warm place in my heart and that I'm grateful to have met you. Continued blessings to you and your family. Very best, Georgia.

Last but not least is David. He was not the most tactful. I knew it when standing behind me at the grocery store, he leaned close and said in a low voice, “You look good enough to eat, and I wish I could put you in my basket.” When I turned around, he gazed at me with those dreamy black eyes. That shiny mustache couldn't hide those smooth lips that he had the nerve to lick, and I tried my best to say, “Don't be so fresh. You don't even know me.” I paid for my food, and when I unlocked my blue '75 Honda, he came out of the store empty-handed and just stood there with his arms crossed and watched me open the door before he said, “Can I help you put your groceries in your Rolls-Royce?” And that pretty much did it. I let him enter my life, because he was intoxicating, and after Eric and a few hits and misses pre- and post-Niles I was due for some excitement, regardless of how racy it might turn out to be. I had the time of my life with David and fell in love like a teenager. They say you always want what you can't have, and I knew that David wasn't in love with me, but I didn't care.

He was almost always unemployed, but he was quite the socialite for someone with no money. He didn't miss a party or an excuse to go out, which was one of the reasons I started sewing again! He pretended to be creative and claimed he was going to get into theater one day, even though he never took a class. He was dramatic. And I didn't know how to read him. He would fly. And then crash. I didn't know there was a name for his behavior back then, and after six months on this emotional roller coaster, he broke up with me. I took him back. And then I broke up with him. The last time I heard from him is when he called me from New York to apologize for exiting stage left without closing the curtain.

Hello, David! It's me, Georgia Young from the Stone Age. Was in Berkeley a week ago and passed by your old apartment and thought I'd look you up on Facebook to see if you'd dropped off the planet: glad to see you haven't. So you went from theater to television, and looks like producing was a good fit. I hear Toronto is a great place to live. Anyway, I just wanted you to know I'm happy to see you're thriving and glad I had a chance to know you back in the day! Warmly, Georgia.

There.

I put on a pair of fresh pajamas, brush my teeth, put my hair in six braids, don't turn on the low-definition television, and pull the Clorox-smelling sheets across my breasts and stare up at the popcorn ceiling.

I might just give up on love, because I've come to realize it's the one thing that doesn't last. Too many men have disappointed me. They confess their love, and then I discover they don't really know how. There are three things I've decided might have helped if I had known then what I know now:

But then again, I ain't no Oprah.

“Guess who's back?” Marina says.

“I can't begin to,” I say.

She opens the door wide, and Mercury pops his head inside. “Hi, Doc.”

“Don't tell me,” I say, laughing.

“I was too loud and too friendly. I tried to calm it down, but it wasn't enough for Neiman's, and so here I am! Marina's ready to train me to replace her if you'll take me back.”

“I like loud. And I like friendly. Welcome back, young man,” I say, and walk around my desk to hug him.

I'm about to exhaust myself for ten whole minutes stir-frying Latin-spiced shrimp and snow peas to pour over linguine in this outdated kitchen when my doorbell rings. No one just drops by my house.

“Open the door before I break it down, huzzy.”

“I'm coming!” I'm at a loss for words when I open the door, and then, just like old times, standing there in a short leather jacket with her hands on her hips like a middle-aged runway model, is my Violet. She's in her animal print, but this getup is turquoise-and-black leopard or cheetah—who knows? She's got her auburn weave back, and it's cascading way past her shoulder blades. She's too thin, because I can feel how pointed they are when she bends over and hugs me hard.

“I don't believe this. Come on in. Is something wrong?”

“Why does something have to be wrong?” she asks, and sashays right on past me like she's been doing for years.

“I'm just surprised to see you. Why didn't you call first?”

“Because I didn't want to. How's that?”

“What if I hadn't been home?”

“Then I would've turned around and gone somewhere else—anything to get out of that little house.”

“So what brings you all the way over here, Violet?”

“It's only twenty minutes away. But for starters I've been trying to figure out how to thank you and Wanda for walking those thirty-nine miles. It meant a lot to me. I'm going to do it next year for sure. What's that you're cooking? It sure smells good, but I don't care what it is as long as you're cooking it. I'm starving,” she says, and heads to the kitchen and grabs a plate from the cabinet.

“Your coming here says it all, Violet. So how's everything going?” I ask, and it must be obvious I'm looking at her chest, although I don't mean to.

“It's fine. You want to see it?”

“No!” I yell, just as she's taking off her leather jacket and is about to pull up her tight black top.

“It looks just like the old one.”

“Well, I didn't see your
old
one, Violet. I'll take your word for it. But you're doing okay, then?”

“I'm moving along.”

“I'm glad to hear that. I've been leaving you alone thinking you might just need some time to grieve.”

“I'm done grieving. I'm moving to Toronto.”

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me. Can I get a glass of wine or something to go with my dinner?”

“You've been getting what you want from the bar for years, so don't try to pretend you're a guest all of a sudden.”

And she does.

“The bar has me on probation for another year. I'm done living in America.”

“Oh, really, now?”

“Really,” she says, and kicks off those four-inchers.

“So tell me, Violet, since when did you get tired of the whole damn country?”

I go pour myself a glass of wine. I know this is going to be like her own reality TV show, so I'm going to give her my undivided attention.

“Okay, so I'm exaggerating,” she says, and uses her fork to pierce a shrimp. Chews it.

While I watch and wait.

“This is tasty. Anyway, I'm sick of my daughter. I'm sick of that baby. I'm sick of being a lawyer. I'm sick of the Bay Area. I need a clean break. So I'm taking it.”

This is really hard for me to swallow. I know that Violet's oldest son, Maxwell, plays basketball in Toronto.

“So are you going to just abandon your daughter and grandson to go live with your son and his wife? Is that it?”

“Maybe. That baby hasn't changed her one bit. If I could, I'd take him with me, but he would need a passport.”

“What's his name?” I ask, holding my breath as I fix both of us a plate.

“Sauvignon.”

“Wanda said he was named after a fruit.”

“And you know damn well that's a grape. Anyway, we just had it out, and she's freaking because I've given her until the first of the year to get her shit together. I'm tired of making excuses for her. I'm done. She had a paternity test, and the good news is the baby daddy does have a few ounces of sense, and if she doesn't watch herself, he could file for, and probably get, custody.”

“Really? You would let that happen?”

She rolls her eyes at me.

We both take a few bites.

“This is so good, whatever it is,” she says.

“Glad it meets with your approval. Anyway, I'm both sorry and happy to hear all this, Violet. But what are you going to do for money?”

“I'm not piss-poor anymore, Georgia. I can also work up there. You can get permits. I do have some marketable skills, although I can't tell you what they are right now, so don't ask. How in the hell are you? You look good. You must be exercising like crazy.”

“Not as much as I was when I was preparing to do the walk.”

“Well, don't stop now.”

Between bites I tell her about the new babies, that Frankie and Hunter are doing great and that she's enrolling at San Francisco State, that Estelle and Justin are going through something.

She downs her drink and stands up.

“I never trusted him if you want to know the truth. But anyway, thanks for the meal. I just wanted to say hi and give you a hug.”

“But you just got here, huzzy!”

“I've got tickets to see Oleta Adams tonight.”

“I love her.”

She walks over to the sink and washes her plate and glass and flatware and puts them in the dish rack. “You want to go with me?”

“I can't.”

“Why not? Doesn't look like the dishwasher's out of service. And let me say this. The crib looks great. Hey, wait a minute now! This is all your stuff! And you painted! You know my mind is gone for not noticing. Does this mean you took it off the market and you're keeping your stupid ass here?”

“Yes.”

“This is a good thing, especially since you've now got four grandkids and they're going to need somewhere to sleep besides your bed. Put a fence around that pool so they don't drown. Those twins were a handful—are they finally on some kind of medication?”

Under different circumstances I'd be pissed at Violet for saying this, but I know she's just being facetious. I'm happy to have my friend back, so I laugh right along with her.

“I told you. This market wasn't changing anytime soon, even with all Obama's trying to do. This is just one more reason I'm getting the hell out of here. I don't own anything anymore, and I don't care. I'm not leaving anything to my kids, because they don't appreciate me anyway. Let them fight over the insurance. Bye. I love you, girl, and good seeing you, but I can't afford to miss Oleta.”

Mercury knocks on my office door. I tell him to come on in. I can tell something bad has happened.

“What's wrong?”

“Lily's father just passed.”

“Oh, no,” I sigh. “Where is she?”

“At John Muir in Walnut Creek. She had the office on speed dial. That's the reason she didn't call you directly. She's a little messed up. I thought he was doing okay after his hip surgery.”

“He had liver cancer,” I say.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too. I'm pretty sure Lily knew what stage he was in, but it doesn't matter. It's her father.”

“She said she'd call you the first chance she gets, but she did ask me to relay this and said it might freak you out a little.”

“Relay what, Mercury?”

“She asked me to tell you she probably won't be back in the office for the next two to three weeks, and she asked if I'd notify all her patients as soon as possible and tell them about her loss.”

“I totally understand.”

The following day Lily expresses to me that because of her family's tradition she's taking her father to the Philippines for his final resting place and then tells me she's probably going to need to take the whole month off to handle all of his and her mother's affairs. I ask if there's anything I can do to help. She says no. But maybe we should consider closing the practice for a month to give us both a break before deciding what we're going to do with it permanently.

I agree.

It turns out Marina's not moving to New York for another month and a half, and since she and Mercury have become rather close, they've agreed to call every single patient to reschedule. They also put a big sign on the door to explain why the office is going to be closed and for how long, along with a number to call in case of an emergency. Of course I'm saddened by Lily's loss and can remember like it was yesterday how it felt when my father passed. It takes a long time to accept losing a parent no matter how old that parent is.

I spend the first week at home organizing my new “studio.” I may also have done something stupid. Instead of spending money on a real studio, I paid a contractor to install a utility sink and a partition to separate both sides of the garage and also to lay down waterproof rubber flooring. I bought Formica and metal rolling cabinets and enough cans, cork, bottles, jars, brushes, glue, and glue guns to last for years. I must think I'm some kind of artist or something.

I haven't even finished painting that stool, and I had the nerve to buy two baby chairs for Levi and Dove. I only hope they won't be in college by the time I finish them.

The house phone rings.

It's Michelle Obama.

“Hi, Ma. How you doing?”

“I'm just ducky, and you?”

“Quack-quack.”

“What are you doing for your birthday?”

“When is it again?”

“Funny. In twenty-seven days.”

“Why? You want to take me to Bora-Bora?”

“No. You want to go to Bora-Bora? Is that on your bucket list, too?”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, Grover and I want to come up to the Bay Area and take you to dinner if you're not doing anything special, which—I hate to say it—I doubt you are.”

“What if I said I was going to Bora-Bora?”

“Answer the question, Georgia. We might take the train up there. It takes almost seven hours, but we've never done it. Did you ever take your train ride?”

“Not yet. Soon. It's at the top of my bucket list.”

“So are we on, then?”

“We're on. You want to stay here?”

“No. Too many stairs. Don't worry, we've already got a hotel reservation. Anyway, did I interrupt you?”

“No you didn't.”

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing much. Just organizing.”

“I'm not even going to ask what. Talk soon, and see you next month.”

Ma has never been all that curious about how I spend my birthday, and because my daughters and Wanda haven't said anything, something is definitely going on.

I know how to find out. Play dumb.

I start with Wanda. I get her voice mail. Which is odd.

I call Frankie, who's at the pediatrician with Levi. Can she call me back? Of course.

Estelle's putting the twins down for a nap and about to breast-feed Dove. Can she call me back tomorrow?

Violet answers.

“So,” she says, “what's going on?”

“How was Oleta?”

“Phenomenal.”

Silence. Which is a dead giveaway.

“Why'd you call me?” she asks.

“Can't I call just to say hi?”

“Hi. So. Wanda just told me you finally saw Abraham.”