A Love of My Own (29 page)

3
__________________

My mother, like most mothers, thinks she's psychic when it comes to her children. So I wasn't surprised when she called with that certain tone and asked if I was doing okay. I knew my dismissal from
Bling
had been in some of the media outlets in New York, but it seems Mother got a little help from one of her former students who heard Sybil Wilkes and J. Anthony Brown talking about my face-off with Yancey B. on the Tom Joyner show, which I didn't know ran in Nashville.

“So, who is this Yancey B.?” Mother asked.

“A singer and actress,” I said after I had assured her everything would work itself out.

“I can't believe she thinks my daughter would deliberately spread lies about her. Yancey needs to know you were raised right.”

“Maybe I'll use that in court,” I said, managing to summon a laugh.

“Now, Zola, don't take this lightly. Even if you don't have to pay her millions, hiring the right lawyer can still cost thousands of dollars. Your dad and I have gone through a lot of our retirement money trying to help Pamela.”

“Don't worry, I can handle it.”

“Did I tell you the latest about Pamela?”

I let out the loud sigh that I usually reserve for ridiculous men, dumb girlfriends or my annoying older sister.

“Zola? Are you still there?”

“I'm here, Mother,” I said.

“Don't you want to know about Pamela?”

“Is she dead?”

“Zola! I can't believe you. Don't talk to me like I'm one of your girlfriends. We're talking about family.”

“I'm sorry. What's going on?”

“She finally got into a clinic in Minnesota that your father and I think will help her, and we've been trying to get her in for years. Pamela came over about three days ago, drunk and high, wanting to borrow some money.”

“I'm sure you gave it to her,” I said.

“I did, but with conditions. I knew there was a spot for her in Minnesota, and so I told her I would lend her some money if she would come over the next day and help me with my garden. Unlike you, Pamela loves working in my garden. I knew she was going to go out and buy some drugs or liquor, but I felt if the good Lord could protect her one more night, I could have one of the intervention counselors from the clinic here in Nashville convince Pamela to go to Minnesota.”

“So what happened?”

“Sure enough, Pamela showed up. She was late, but I was so happy my prayers had been answered. Donna, the counselor who Pamela really liked when she was in a rehab clinic here in Nashville, was at the house waiting for her. Donna is a gardener as well, and the two of them went out and worked in the garden. About two hours later, Pamela came into the house in tears, with Donna holding her tight. Pamela told me she was ready to change her life. I just threw my hands up in the air and cried, ‘Thank you, sweet Jesus,'” Mother said.

“How long do you think she's going to stay?”

“I don't know, Zola, but I've got a feeling this is the place that can help her.”

“I'm glad, if only for you,” I said softly.

“Zola, you need to forgive Pamela for what she's done to you.”

“I can't, Mother. I could have never done what she did to anyone,” I said.

“It took two to tango. Wilson wasn't the saint you thought he was,” Mother said.

“Mother, look, I can't expect you to understand how I feel.”

“Zola, you've had just about all life has to offer. There are things about Pamela that you don't know.”

I was silent for a moment, wondering what she was referring to, when Mother continued talking.

“I know I should have told you long ago, and I know the phone is not the place to share something like this, but I want you to stop carrying around all this anger in your heart.”

“Tell me what, Mother?”

“I wish I could tell you this in person,” Mother said.

I didn't know what to expect, so I asked her to hold on and I went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water. I opened it and sat on the edge of my bed and took a deep breath before I picked up the phone.

“I'm back.”

“Zola,” Mother said. Then there was a brief silence over the line.

“Are you still there, Mother?”

“Pamela isn't my natural birth daughter,” she said calmly.

I wanted to jump for joy, but I wanted to make sure I'd heard correctly.

“She's not your natural daughter? What are you talking about?”

For the next fifteen minutes almost nonstop, my mother told me how my father had an affair with Pamela's birth mother and how she had given her up when Pamela was about three years old.

“Why did she do that?” I asked.

“She was on that stuff,” Mother said.

“Crack?”

“I don't know. Back then they just called it dope or stuff,” Mother said.

“What happened to her?”

“She was selling drugs for some man, and he killed her.”

“Pamela's mother was a crack ho?” I asked.

“Zola! I didn't think I would live to see the day when my daughter would call another woman that word.”

“But that sounds like what she was, Mother. Was she hooking?”

“Listen to me. Whatever she did, you can't talk about the dead with such disrespect.”

“I'm sorry, Mother, but why didn't you tell me about this before?”

“It was grown folks' business. I should have told you when you were old enough to understand, but since you and Pamela were always fighting, I thought it might make the situation worse.”

“Were you and Daddy married?”

“No, we were just courting. He knew I didn't believe in premarital sex, but you know, baby, the rules are always different for men. But because he went against God's word didn't mean I was going to. Still, I loved him, and when he asked me to take Pamela in to prevent her from spending her life in some orphanage, I just couldn't say no. I prayed on it, and did what I thought God would want me to do, and then I loved her like she was my own. Pamela didn't ask to come into this world.”

“Mother, that's a really sad story, but you and Daddy did all you could to raise her like me. At some point when Pamela became an adult, she also became responsible for her own life. Does Pamela know how her mother was killed?”

“She found out several years ago from one of those old drug addicts she was hanging out with, and then she confronted both your daddy and me. That was one of the times Pamela disappeared for more than a month,” Mother said.

“Is this supposed to make me forgive her?”

“You've led a perfect life, Zola! Doesn't that make you happy?” Mother asked.

I thought about her question and I suddenly caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror on the wall. I had not led a perfect life. I had slept with a married man to advance my career. I had slept with men I didn't and couldn't love.

“I have not led a perfect life, Mother,” I said.

“None of us have or will.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. What can I do for Pamela?”

“Do whatever your heart tells you. If all that means is getting on your knees to ask God to support her on this journey, then that's fine. You might want to call, or even see her when she can receive visitors. I'm not making excuses for Pamela or for you for whatever sins you've committed, but I would have hoped that I raised compassionate children.”

“You did, Mother. I love you,” I said as I hung up and got on my knees and began to pray for the first time in a long while.

4
__________________

I started my session with Dr. Few with a question I hoped she could answer. How could I be forty and my life be such a mess? Just like most shrinks, Dr. Few answered with a question.

“What do you feel is wrong with your life?”

“I think moving to New York was a mistake,” I said.

“Why?”

“I just feel really lonely here. My best friends Jared and Nicole moved before I even got here, and it looks like Basil is going to stay in Atlanta.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“What? Jared and Nicole?”

“Let's talk about Basil.”

“Let's not,” I said with a faint laughter.

Dr. Few just looked at me for a few minutes and then I started to speak.

“I don't think I want to admit that I miss Basil. It's not like we spent a lot of time together, but I figured that might change. Then Rosa, the mother of Basil's child, dashed off with his daughter, and Basil was history.”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you miss him.”

“He'd just brush it off. Basil doesn't want to deal with his feelings about me, and I think that's best.”

“Why?”

“I can't compete with the two ladies in his life. I mean, if that's what I wanted, I would have stayed in Seattle and fought for Trent.”

“Why didn't you?”

I thought for a few minutes and then said, “I think deep in my heart Trent would have been unfaithful again. I know it sounds like a fairy tale, but I still want to believe that I can fall in love with someone who would love me only and that love would be enough to sustain the person when temptations appear. That's why I love women so much. They never give up on that dream.”

“Then why should you?”

“I'm getting old. Maybe my time has passed.”

“Forty isn't old,” Dr. Few said.

“I certainly don't plan to bow out without a fight. Now that I'm working out on a regular basis, I think I might have four to five more years where men and women would find me attractive.”

“So being attractive is important to you?”

“I know it sounds vain, but if I was totally honest with myself I would say yes. My father is a good-looking man, but I remember when he was forty he looked old to me. I know Kirby and I have been blessed with good genes. When I tell people I'm forty, they seem shocked. I still have the things in life people deem important. I'm smart and I have a little money. Being light-skinned with green eyes doesn't hurt. I know it's sad, but it doesn't seem to matter when people look at me as if I were an ax murderer, a woman beater, or an asshole like Davis. All I have to do is smile or blink and people are drawn to me, both men and women. Women, they know why they are attracted to me, but men, even straight men, are dumbfounded, but they still come. I know they don't all want to sleep with me, but they want something. I've had straight black men tell me they're attracted to me because I'm smart or they think I'm smart. I find myself wondering if black men bought in to the notion that black men are dumb and if you speak the King's English and are attractive that you're smart.”

“So it's a mixed blessing.”

“It is, but I'm not going to stop working out with Sebastian. I need him now more than ever,” I said.

“Sebastian?” Dr. Few asked with a quizzical look.

“My brother's friend who I hired as a trainer. He's a good kid, but he really pushes me,” I said, laughing as I thought of some of my workout sessions with Sebastian.

“What is the laughter about?”

“I was thinking about Sebastian. I think he's out to prove to me that he's not homophobic or just a free spirit,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“When I was growing up, especially in high school and college, if my boys thought somebody was gay or a little light in the shoes we would always keep our towels wrapped tight when they were around. Even though Sebastian knows I'm gay, he's the complete opposite. He doesn't wear underwear or a jock, and he's quick to rip his clothes off and shower with me after we work out.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Hell no. Sebastian has a great body, and it's about as close to a sexual experience as I've come in a long time.”

“So you're going to remain celibate?”

“I doubt it. I think it's just something I'm going through. The grief over a relationship ending. The 9/11 stuff still haunts me, but I know we all have to go on. I don't want to just have sex. I want to make love and be loved by one person,” I said.

“You mentioned Davis, your boss, earlier. How is that going?”

“I can't figure Davis out. There are times when he seems to be totally in control, but I think he could use a session or two with a good therapist. Sometimes it seems like he's hiding something. I still don't understand how he thinks he can mess over Zola and not suffer some repercussions from it.”

“Sometimes powerful men don't worry about consequences,” Dr. Few said.

“Yeah, I think you're right.”

Dr. Few put down her pad and pen and told me that this would have to be our last session of the year, since she wouldn't be back until the end of January 2002. Dr. Few asked how I'd been sleeping and I told her some nights were better than others. Again she asked if I wanted medication and I refused. I was going to do this my way. I started to ask her where she was going but then decided I wasn't really interested.

“So are you going to see your parents over the holidays?” Dr. Few asked.

“I hope so. I might even rent a car and drive down to Florida. It will give me some time to sort things out. I tell you, if I don't get my head together before I get down there, my mother will know something is wrong the moment I walk through the door,” I said.

“I hope you have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Why don't we schedule a session the first week of February?”

“That's cool. You travel safely,” I said.

5
__________________

It was three weeks before Christmas, but Yancey B. decided to present me with a early little holiday cheer. Not only was the diva suing
Bling Bling
but me as well, to the tune of five million dollars. Yancey B.'s suit stated that my running the story showed malicious intent and that I knew full well that the drug accusation wasn't true.

Well, this little situation had gone far enough and I wasn't about to concede. I'd started working on an outline and proposal for a novel I was going to write about the magazine industry and had plans to call Raymond to make sure that wasn't a violation of my agreement with Davis.

Kirsten still wasn't returning my calls, but I figured if Yancey sued her as well, then I'd be hearing from her.

It was early afternoon and I went out to check my mail. I was greeted with a copy of
Architectural Digest
with guess who on the cover? Davis and Veronica in a six-page Christmas article. I couldn't drop the magazine in the trash fast enough. As I was walking back into my brownstone, I noticed a flicker of blue and quickly recognized it as one of my favorite things: a Tiffany's bag. I picked it up even though with the kind of day I was having, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if it were a booby-trapped gift. Maybe from Davis, trying to work his way back into my life. But after what he did to me, there wasn't enough jewelry or magazine positions in the world for that to happen.

When I walked back into the house the phone was ringing. The caller ID displayed the number at
Bling Bling,
and I wondered for a moment if it was Raymond calling me.

I was curious so I picked up the phone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Zola, is that you?” I heard a female voice whisper.

“Yeah, this is Zola. Who is this?”

“Don't you recognize my voice? This is Cyndi.”

“Cyndi, why are you whispering?”

“My new boss, Master Bristol Barnes, is always popping out of his office surprising me.”

“What's going on?” I asked. I had talked with Cyndi a couple of times since I'd been fired, but we usually talked in the evening. She'd call and let me know what was going on in the office and told me she was sure Bristol was going to get rid of her at the beginning of the year. Cyndi had encouraged me to go out and start my own magazine and was really heartbroken when I told her I couldn't do that for a while.

“Kirsten is coming to the office to see Bristol this afternoon. I know you can't come in, but there isn't anything that says you can't be in the neighborhood,” Cyndi said.

“Cyndi, you're absolutely right. What time is she coming?”

“They are meeting at three,” Cyndi said.

I looked at the clock and saw that it was 1:40. I had plenty of time to make it to midtown and try to intercept Kirsten before she met with Bristol. Since Kirsten always ran late, I wouldn't have any trouble running into her.

“Thanks, Cyndi. You don't know how much this means to me,” I said.

“I'm glad to do it. I know Ms. Thang has been avoiding you,” Cyndi said.

“Did you ever find out what happened to the documents?” I asked.

“No, it's like they just disappeared into thin air,” Cyndi said.

“I can't worry about that. I want to know why Kirsten is tripping like she is. I'm going to make that heifer at least tell me to my face,” I said.

“Carry your cell phone in case I need to reach you,” Cyndi said.

“I will. Thanks, Cyndi,” I said as I started to take off my sweatpants and head to the shower. I wasn't feeling my best, but I certainly knew I had to look my best.

I arrived in the Times Square area about 2:45
P.M
. I looked and felt like one of Charlie's Angels on a stakeout for Kirsten. I had on black leather boots and my deep-blue suede jacket, which was the color of the early-morning sky, over a cranberry cashmere sweater dress. I also wore a black floppy hat, a silk scarf and large dark glasses.

Waiting for Kirsten was frustrating, and almost every other second I scanned each corner, looking for her. I guess Kirsten was going to introduce Bristol to C.P. (colored people's) time.

I checked my cell phone to make sure it was working and started to call Cyndi to make sure I hadn't missed Kirsten, but decided to wait a few more minutes. I put my cell back into my purse and started to survey the corners again, when I heard someone call my name.

“Zola? Is that you?”

I turned. Raymond was standing a few inches from me.

“Raymond, how are you?” I asked as I kissed him on the cheek nervously.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm waiting for someone,” I said.

“How are you doing?”

“I'm doing just fine. I'm glad I ran into you. I have a question.”

“Sure. What's your question?”

“Can I write a book? That damn contract I signed doesn't prevent me from writing a book, does it?”

“What kind of book? I think I can tell you without reservation that you can't write a book about Davis. That would break the confidentiality agreement.”

“I'm talking about a novel. I've always wanted to write one,” I said.

“I'm sure you could write a great novel, and I don't see a problem with that,” Raymond said.

“Thanks, you saved me a call,” I said. I heard my cell phone ringing so I asked Raymond to excuse me for a second.

“Hello. This is Zola,” I said.

“Zola, this is Cyndi. Bad news. Kirsten canceled her appointment with Bristol. She just called a few minutes ago.”

“Damn,” I said. Raymond looked at me with concern.

“I'm sorry. If she reschedules it, I'll let you know,” Cyndi said.

“Thanks for your help, Cyndi.”

I clicked my phone off, and Raymond again asked me if I was okay. I wanted to break down and cry, but I had to remain strong and focused.

“I'm doing just fine, Raymond, but it looks like I'm going to have to find a damn good attorney,” I said.

“Zola, you don't have to worry about that anymore. The lawsuit is the responsibility of
Bling,
and I'm pretty certain Davis is going to settle this thing out of court,” Raymond said.

“I guess you haven't heard,” I said.

“Heard what?”

“Yancey B. is suing me personally.”

Raymond was silent, but he looked at me with the tenderness of a big brother. Then he started shaking his head and touched me on my shoulder.

“Zola, I'm sorry,” Raymond said.

“It's not your fault. Yancey B. thinks that all I have to do with my life is to try and ruin hers,” I said.

“Do you have anybody in mind for an attorney?” Raymond asked.

“No. If I knew any good lawyers, I certainly would have had them review the contract I signed with Davis,” I said.

Raymond pulled a small leather notebook case out of his jacket pocket, tore out a piece of paper, and wrote something down. He handed me the paper and said, “Here's the name of a good attorney. Call this guy and tell him I referred you. I don't know if his firm handles your type of case, but he'll have some recommendations.”

“Thanks, Raymond. I really appreciate this,” I said.

“Zola, I looked over some of the notes from the case. Have you tried to get in touch with Yancey B.'s mother?”

“Why?”

“It seems she was the source of some of the information. I know I shouldn't be doing this since I work for Davis, but if I were your lawyer, I would certainly want to talk with Yancey's mother,” Raymond said.

“Do you remember her last name?” I asked.

“I'm not certain, but I think it's Middlebrooks,” Raymond said.

“That sounds familiar. Look, Raymond, I have to go. Thanks a million. I didn't connect with the person I wanted to see, but maybe you were the person I was supposed to meet,” I said. Raymond looked at me with a puzzled look on his face, and I added, “I'll explain later.” Then I leaned toward him and gave him a kiss on the cheek and headed toward the subway station.

When I got home I pulled out the piece of paper Raymond had given me and looked at the name
Chris Thomas—Partner
and a phone number, fax number and e-mail address. I picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“Chris Thomas's office,” a female voice said.

“Is he in?”

“No. May I take a message?”

“This is Zora Norwood. Would you have him give me a call as soon as possible?”

“Can I tell him what this is regarding?”

“Just tell him Raymond Tyler suggested I call,” I said.

“I will. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I said as I hung up the phone. I went into my bedroom, sat on my bed and took off my boots. I was feeling optimistic, but I knew I still had to depend on Ava Middlebrooks sticking by her story. I was headed toward the kitchen for a glass of wine, when the phone rang. It was Hayden. How did we ever live without caller ID? I thought as I smiled to myself and picked up the phone.

“I need to hear a cheerful voice,” I said.

“What's going on, Zola Mae?”

“Just trying to live my life, sweetheart,” I said, laughing.

“What are you doing this evening?” Hayden asked.

“I'm going to take a long bath and have a couple of glasses of wine,” I said.

“Sounds like you got some good news,” Hayden said.

I told him about my conversation with Raymond and his suggestion that I contact Yancey B.'s mother. Hayden told me that everybody in his cast was talking about the case and that I was like a celebrity to some of them and he wanted to invite me to the show.

He also told me that some of his castmates had been in
Dreamgirls
with Yancey B. and that people were still talking about her
All About Eve
tactics and that her mother had once been in show business. He also said he heard that there was no love lost between mother and daughter.

“I need to talk to her, but I don't know how I can get her number,” I said.

“Maybe I can help you,” Hayden said.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked as I lifted my dress and pulled down my pantyhose.

“If Mother has a cell phone, I can get the number for a couple of hundred dollars,” Hayden said.

“How?”

Hayden told me he was dating a guy who did consulting for a lot of the major cell phone companies and had access to all kinds of information, including unlisted numbers.

“Do you know where she lives?” Hayden asked.

“I think in California,” I said.

“That's a big help and a start. Let me make a couple of calls and I'll get back to you. When all this stuff is finished, you've got to come to the theater and sign autographs,” Hayden said.

“Hayden, baby boy, if you help me with this then I'll put on one of those beautiful costumes and sing and dance with you,” I said, laughing.

“A simple autograph and photo will do.”

“You saying I can't sing?”

“Don't make me use up a lie now so I can get this number for you later,” Hayden said.

“Bye-bye, Hayden. I'm going to get my glass of wine.”