A Day Late And A Dollar Short Part 43

When I hear a tap tap tap on my door, I'm wondering what Dingus is doing back so soon. It's only nine-thirty. "Come in."

He's wearing his school colors: purple and gold. He walks over and kisses my forehead. "Are you feeling any better this morning?" he asks.

"As a matter of fact, I'm not."

"I'm totally sorry, Ma. I couldn't sleep, so I went over there early."

"So what happened?"

"Her parents are p.i.s.sed at both of us. They asked Jade if she was ready to be a mother."

"And what did she say?"

"She said no, but it's a price she's willing to pay for making a mistake."

"And what'd you say when they asked if you were ready to be a father, which I'm sure they did?"

"Her dad did. I basically said the same thing."

"And?"

"And we talked about our college plans, our goals and stuff, like once we're out in the real world, and . . ."

"And what?"

"She's not having it."

"You mean to tell me that a preacher's daughter is going to have an abortion?"

"Yes."

"How is that possible?"

"Because her parents said that times have changed. And, plus, they said Jade has plans. She's got a three-point-eight-seven GPA."

"So do you, dummy!"

"I know. And she's been getting scholars.h.i.+p offers. She's a very good writer. And wants to major in journalism."

"Did you tell them what you want to do besides play football?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I told them I'm planning to go to med school. That I'm majoring in biology and chemistry."

"Thank you very much. What else?"

"Well, they asked us, if we could do this all over, would we do it differ- endy, and we both said yes. And they asked if we wanted another chance, and of course we both said yes again."

"And that's it?"

"Yep. But I have to pay for it."

"You certainly should."

"That, plus we both promised to go to these teenage church groups to talk to them about the dangers of having unprotected s.e.x. Once a week for the next nine months."

"Good. Do you still plan 011 dating this girl?"

"1 think we're going to chill for a little while."

"And you're sure about this?"

"Ma, I know I messed up big-time. I was major scared, and then, when you made me deal with this by myself, it became crystal-clear just how much was at stake. So-don't even worry about this anymore. And thank you." He turns to leave.

"Wait, I have something to tell you, too."

"Yeah?"

"Well, you know how testy and mean I've been lately?"

"Sort of,"

"Anyway, Dingus, let me just be honest. A little over a year ago I had some dental work done and then ... I know you know I had my b.r.e.a.s.t.s done, don't you?"

"I kinda noticed, yeah."

"Anyway, I was prescribed some pain medicadon that at first I took for pain, but later on, whenever I'd get a litde stressed about something, I'd take one, and then two, because they took the edge off and I thought they helped me think clearer. But, well, fast-forward the film and here I am."

"You mean you got strung out on the medicine?"

This is a hard one for me to answer, but I say, "Yes."

"What's the name of it?"

"Vicodin."

"I heard of that. I think I have some."

"Had."

"Word."

The next thing I know, tears are rolling down my face, and I don't know how this happened, because I didn't mean to cry, and I don't even know why I'm crying. Yes I do. I'm embarra.s.sed, because I've finally admitted one of my many weaknesses to my son, and it feels weird.

"Its all right, Ma. You always have so much stuff on your plate, it's understandable how it might get a little tough to deal with sometimes. You don't have to feel bad. Is there anything I can do to help?"

I just shake my head as he puts his arms around me like I'm his child. "I guess I picked the wrong time to lay my craziness on you. I'm sorry, Ma."

"Dingus, it could've been next week or next year-this has nothing to do with you. It's me, and how I handle things. I should know better."

"Come on, Ma. Dag. So you made a mistake. It just proves that you're human like the rest of us. Thank the Lord."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I had my doubts."

I slap him softly. "Anyway, I'm going to try to go to this place in Arizona where I can do some soul-searching and maybe cleanse my body and mind some, too."

"Cool. I told you to get some running shoes and hang with me. I guarantee no pill can touch these endorphins."

"I'll take you up on that, as soon as I master walking."

"Word up," he says.

"Word up," I say back.

As soon as he leaves, I put on a sweatsuit I've always wanted to wear, stop by Forward Motion Sports and buy a good pair of running shoes, and head to Lafayette, where I manage to walk around that reservoir in less than forty minutes. I even perspired. It felt good.

But. I spoke too soon. All of a sudden I felt hot. And then I started sneezing and then I was freezing. I guess this is what withdrawal feels like.

I go straight home and get under the covers and wake myself up snoring. It's been fourteen whole hours since I had a pill. I almost want to congratulate myself, but, then, I'm the one who did this to myself in the first place, so it doesn't seem practical or logical to even celebrate on a mental level.

I sleep for three whole hours, and when I get up, even though I'm excited about my dinner date with Randall, my body has its own agenda. It's screaming for just one pill. I'm feeling agitated, jumpy, and I'm surprised when I find myself ransacking all my desk drawers, old purses, jewelry boxes, sungla.s.s cases, every suit and coat pocket, even the ashtray in my car , where I usually keep two dollars for the bridge toll-all the places I've hidden pills from myself in the past, in hopes of finding them one day by accident, or like now, when all I need is one or two. The Smart Side of Me says, "You're being stupid again! You're acting like these things are some kind of tucking reward or hidden treasure. You better be glad n.o.body can see you doing this."

I'm embarra.s.sed, and it feels like I'm being watched. But this is so hard, pretending I don't want one when I do, pretending I'm not craving one when I am. I mean, I know one pill isn't going to change anything. They never do. Everything is exactly the same before I take one as it is after it takes effect. I wish I understood why they make me feel like they're compensation for my good behavior, for not falling apart, for functioning well, being able to connect the dots without anybody's help, for running my world in what looks to be effortless fas.h.i.+on when in fact it often weighs a ton. But, then again, that's part of the game, too, making it look easy when it really isn't.

A pill is a very small prize for what I do. In fact, the Smart Side of Me knows all this s.h.i.+t but the Dumb Side seems to have the most power. After exhausting my search, and I don't find a single pill, I just say f.u.c.k it and take my shower. When I open my bra-and-panty drawer and start moving them around to see if I can find a match-whamo!-a plastic sandwich bag with about twenty pills in it is stuck in the back corner.

I dump them all on top of the bed and watch each white pill roll toward the middle of the purple comforter. I want to put one in my mouth, but I'm afraid if I do that I'll have to do it again in two hours, and then the next two and the next, and then I'd just be right back where I started.

I decide to play the waiting game. To see just how long I can really go. It's almost seven o'clock, and Randall's not due for another hour. I'm thinking: What am I going to do to kill a whole hour? Can't eat. If I start doing something, won't be able to finish. Could call Janelle, but all she'll want to talk about is her new townhouse or her new job at Elegant Clutter, and since George's daughters testified against him, when she gets her setdement most likely she'll be able to go into partners.h.i.+p with the Orange Blossom lady.

She'd probably tell me again how she's going to put George's ex-wife's name on the deed to that duplex she's been living in all these years, and how much she and Shanice are getting out of the support group they're going to for incest survivors. And even though I'm happy for them, I just don't think I can be engaged right now. I always do the listening, and this time I need someone to listen to me.

The miracle of miracles is that I can finally call my brother, who actually has a phone in his own name, but all he wants to talk about these days is his sobriety and how he's started filing patent applications for his many inventions and how he's even getting prototypes made for some of them. He's so excited about being productive that you can't shut him up, except when he switches to the subject of his kid and how he took some of Mama's insurance money and cleared up his back child support. He's been working on the Twelve Steps of AA and even apologized to Donnetta and her husband for hitting him with that mop, and they forgave him and are letting Jamil spend a weekend with Lewis. He's so excited to be alive and feeling good that I doubt if he'd be able to hear my plea for a receptive ear.

And last but not least is Charlotte, who actually left me a message a while back explaining that she may or may not be ready to talk to me by Thanksgiving, because she and Al might start going to couples therapy, but first she's thinking about going by herself. She said she can't deal with him and her, me and my bulls.h.i.+t, Mama being gone, her son being gay, and now both daughters bleeding, all at the same time. She said we've still got issues, so I guess I have to wait for her to come around.

Since I didn't get my hair done like I'd originally planned, I stand in front of the mirror and pull my ponytail on top of my head and twist it into a knot. But the knot is too tight, so I loosen it and make a tornado bun in the same spot. I wonder what Randall and I will talk about over dinner. We're going to Sausalito. I look down at the pills. We might have to cross two long bridges. Maybe one wouldn't hurt. The restaurant will probably be on the water. My head is starring to throb. I'll eat lobster. Maybe I'm getting a headache. I wonder, will he be as interesting with his hands out of dirt? Maybe I just need one. To take the edge off. How much fun will I be like this? 1 want to ask him more about his daughter. Tell him about my son. How does he handle being a parent? Now my temples are throbbing. This feels like a migraine. But I've never had one before. Why now, Paris? What is your problem? My hands are clammy. And then I sneeze. I wonder if I'm catching a cold? d.a.m.nit. I can't go out if I'm getting sick. I wouldn't want to give this to him. Stop it, Paris. I know I'm not catching any cold. And my head isn't really hurting either. I want it to hurt. I want to be sick, so I won't have to face the music. And just what music might that be, Paris? Is it blues or jazz or light rock? Is it rap or cla.s.sical or R&B? What's so hard about facing the f.u.c.king music, Paris? Huh?

I fall back on the bed, and as soon as I do I feel those pills pressing against my damp skin. I roll over and s.n.a.t.c.h them up by ones, twos, threes, until they're all in my right hand, and then I march into the bathroom and flush every single one of them down the toilet. When I hear the doorbell I feel a sudden surge of energy. In fact, I feel as if I've been given some kind of emotional charge. I press the intercom and tell Randall to come on in, that I'll be right out. As I slide into the pretty peach slip dress I bought in London, for some strange reason I imagine myself telling him the truth about what I'm going through, and by the time I pull the straps on my slingbacks, I'm pretty certain I will. What's the point of starting any relations.h.i.+p with a lie, even if all we end up being is friends? Besides, he was honest with me about his situation, and if the truth doesn't scare him off, and he's still as interesting to me as I am to him, hopefully we'll have a whole lot more to talk about on the ride home and I won't mind how many bridges we have to cross.

Chapter 35.

Help "How do this work?" I ask.

"Well, it's up to you, Charlotte. There are no set rules or strict guidelines we have to follow. But the things that are causing you the most trouble would be a good place to begin."

"Oh," I say, and find myself looking around this light-gray office. It ain't quite Cuckoo's Nest, but you can tell a white person work in here. Everything is so nice and neat. Too nice. Ain't no papers on her big maple desk, except for that questionnaire I gave her that she's reading over right now. There's one of them black blotter things, a fancy gold pen sticking up out of a marble holder that I bet ain't got no ink in it, a burgundy stapler and Scotch-tape dispenser, and a yellow pad with lines on it right next to a sharpened number-two pencil like my kids use at school. Things is just a litde too perfect in here for my taste. I can't even smell nothing.

And where's the couch? I don't see no couch. Just a window seat, and it's full of stuffed animals. The walls is lined with all these weird pictures that look like some kids just scribbled crayons or markers on some paper, and since they probably her kids, she felt obligated to frame 'em and hang 'em here instead of at home, where n.o.body she know gotta look at 'em, just people like me: complete strangers. Wait a minute. She ain't wearing no wedding ring, so I betcha she ain't even got no kids. I'll tell the truth: if I was a man and I pa.s.sed her on the street, she ain't nothing I'd do a double take for. But if somebody was to do her makeup-at least put some on her-and if she got rid of that mousy brown hair and maybe highlighted it or at least added some blond streaks, she could maybe halfway pa.s.s for attractive.

But she's a psychologist. She should know this s.h.i.+t already. Maybe she like the way she look. And, plus, I know she's rich, so I wouldn't be surprised if these pictures wasn't painted by some famous artists and she probably spent a fortune on this s.h.i.+t. White people sure know how to waste money.

But. Belinda, the very nice white girl I still work with at the post office (since I found out just how fast a hundred thousand dollars can last), told me that last year, after a divorce and losing custody of her kids, she took a three- month leave of absence and spent quite a bit of time with a psychologist who helped her get her head back on straight. She found some confidence, too, which Belinda said she never really had much of in the first place. I could relate to that, 'cause you can fake having confidence. I'm real good at it.

Last week I just came out and told her that ever since my mama pa.s.sed away I got too much on my mind these days, and could I get that woman's number. I didn't feel like telling her all the details when I knew I'd just have to repeat the s.h.i.+t to the doctor. So. I saved it all for this white lady in this navy-blue suit that look like it could be Ellen Tracy, but with the kind of money she making, she wouldn't be wearing Ellen, but, then again, some rich white people is stingy and spend all their money on silly art and drive cheap cars but got investments all over the world, so it could even be a knock-off. She coulda got it at Loehmann's, Marshall's, or even Ross, but, h.e.l.l, who cares?

This is exactly why I'm here. My mind be zigzagging all over the d.a.m.n place. Everybody said that the grieving process takes a long time, but I was feeling like this even before Mama died. It just got worse. I really don't know where to start or what to say. I done already answered a million questions on that form she still flipping through, so she should know my whole history up to this very minute. Some of them questions was a litde too personal and none of her f.u.c.king business, so I either left 'em blank or just lied.

They say you should always get two opinions, which is why, right after I leave here, I'm going to see another doctor. This one's a psychiatrist, and she's black. Last Sunday, right after church, Smitty's wife, Lela, told me ever since she accused him of cheating on her it was 'cause she had forgot he had told her he was going fis.h.i.+ng, and she said she had to admit that there was a whole lotta loose ends just hanging and not connecting to stuff like they used to, and she was worried that maybe she was going nuts, so the pastor's wife gave her the name of a psychiatrist who she went to see, and Lela said that doctor told her right off the bat that she wasn't crazy, and she said the doctor-who didn't even seem like a doctor, but just a woman you would want to be your friend-made her feel comfortable. Lela said she didn't want to sound like no racist, but she thinks it's 'cause they was both black and it was just some things this doctor already understood and she didn't have to explain. Lela said she done got to the heart of quite a few of her problems and her thinking is getting clearer.

When Dr. Simpson looks at me, I feel kinda weird. I'm scared of what's about to come outta her mouth, but when she opens it, she just says, "You've got a number of stressful things going on in your life right now, especially with the recent loss of your mother, don't you, Charlotte?"

"Yes I do."

"Which of these do you feel is occupying your mind most?"

"All of'em."

"Wow, all of them are preoccupying you."

"Yeah."

She just sits there like she's waiting for me to say something, but I'm waiting for her to say something first. Finally, she says: "You said your son might be gay?"

"Is."

"That must really be hard to digest."

"It certainly was. Don't you think it's sick?"

"Doesn't matter what I think. It's what you think about it."

I just look at this b.i.t.c.h. She probably from California. They all think like this in California. I get more comfortable in this chair and then I say, "I don't like it. It ain't normal. He should be liking girls."

"But if he doesn't like girls, does that cause you to have ill feelings toward him?"