I Almost Forgot About You (3 page)

Wanda decided over pizza one night to major in psychology, which is probably one reason she was unemployable. But she's enjoyed not working and is addicted to a number of old-lady hobbies. Scrapbooking is one, and because they had zero children, her scrapbooks are full of pictures of all the dogs she and Nelson have rescued from the pound over the years that have since passed on. Creepy. Then there's needlepoint: ugly needlepoints are scattered all over their house, and three loud, shivering, newly purchased Chihuahuas sleep on the ones they can reach. I have never been able to sit there and watch her do it without needing a drink. I don't understand the purpose of needlepoint, because none of the pictures are ever interesting. In fact, I find most of them to be depressing and eerie. But because she's my best friend—or BFF, as my younger daughter, Frankie, has reminded me to call her and Violet—I've lied and said I loved them, since she gives me one every single Christmas regardless. But so as not to hurt her feelings, I put them in low-traffic areas.

They say you should never tell anyone what you're going to do until after you've done it. I disagree, because there's something to be said for intention. Plus, I've always had a hard time keeping my mouth shut when I'm itching to share what I'd like to think is good news.

I drive up the entrance road lined on both sides with giant oak and pine trees. It feels like an enchanted forest, and when I reach the top, where the parking lot is, a huge blue body of water is surrounded by hundreds of acres of green-and-gold hills. I spot Wanda stretching on a park bench and pull in to a parking space. To my dismay, Violet and Velvet pull up right next to me. Why didn't Wanda bother telling me that Violet was coming and bringing her daughter? I wave and smile and don't get out of the car. This spoils my plans. How can I have a personal, grown-up conversation with a hip-hopper right next to us?

Before I can figure out how to handle this, Velvet jumps out of Violet's white Range Rover, runs over, opens my door, and gives me a big hug. “Hi, Auntie! Thought I'd join you guys this morning.”

“It's been too long,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. She runs over and does the same thing to Wanda. Like mother, like daughter. She's in skintight orange leggings and an even tighter white tank top. She has about a thousand blond braids that hang down past her shoulders. She runs back to the SUV and hops back in.

Wanda turns and waves, hunches her shoulders, and I can tell she isn't thrilled to see Velvet either. Velvet not only runs her mouth nonstop like her mother, but she's loud.

Violet is my other college friend whom I love like a stepsister, but I'm not crazy about her standards. For being so smart, she's dumb as hell and gets on my nerves, but I just can't bring myself to divorce her. She won't let me. We've gone months without speaking, but eventually she always calls back. Or I break down and call her. She's the youngest of nine and apparently had a lot to prove, because she's competitive and hates to lose. Her brains and beauty merged quite well and she became a top sports attorney, but I still wonder how she managed to pass the bar. In her heyday Violet probably slept with half the NBA, MLB, and the NFL in her quest to represent players. She finally cooled her jets when word got around she was a legal slut and her client list started diminishing. This, however, hasn't stopped her from dressing like one. Even after three children and at fifty-four, she still has the body of a thirty-six-year-old.

Violet is married to Violet. She never believed in the institution, but she did believe in cohabiting. For the last five or six years, she's been what she calls a free agent, except that Wanda and I think Velvet has been cramping her style. At twenty-five, Velvet has yet to find a college she likes or a college that likes her, so she's been trying to figure out why, while living rent-free and asking, “Do you want fries with that?” Violet treats her daughter more like a girlfriend and is stupid enough to confer with her on things that Velvet knows nothing about. One son lives with his father in Toronto, and the other one plays basketball in Spain. Neither of them visits, and Wanda and I know why. Because Violet was not a great mother.

Of course she's on her cell and holds up her index finger to give her a minute. I text Wanda,
i'm going to call you in a sec. answer it, but don't look up or at me.

I dial her number and pretend I'm getting an incoming call. I put a glad-to-hear-from-you look on my face. “On our walk this morning, I had planned on telling you that I'm seriously thinking about putting my house on the market and I'm considering selling my share of the practice and trying to change professions sometime in the near future and not necessarily in that order, and, Wanda, I just found out that Ray Strawberry died five years ago, which has really broken me up, and even though it might sound like a crazy thing to do, I've decided I'm going to look up all the men I've loved just to let them know I'm glad I had the opportunity to know and love them and just to see if they're alive and well. I know it may be a lot to take in, but now that Violet has brought Miss Thang, you know we can't talk about anything real, so I'm hanging up and we can talk about this another time.” I end the call, get out of the car, and smile as if I've just received the best news.

Violet and I trot over toward Wanda, and I can't believe she's wearing loose brown sweats and a beige zip-up jacket. She must be depressed about something, but I can't tell because she's also wearing Ray-Bans. “Hi-di-ho, ladies. After we warm up, I'm going to jog on the upper trail for a half hour with Velvet, and then we'll meet you guys on the lower one for the last twenty. Okay?”

“Fabulous!” Wanda says, trying not to sound too relieved. She and I do not jog.

The three of us do a few stretches while Wanda leans against the railing. The reservoir is in the background, and people are already out in pedal boats, rowboats, and even a few kayaks. Some folks are fishing from the shoreline. It's a Kodak moment for sure. I'm a bit stunned when Wanda gives me a smile like I just performed in a school play and did a great job. She then claps her hands and puts on her white visor. Of course she's sporting one of the five identical last year's no-brand exercise outfits she bought at an outlet last month. This one is mint green. I like it.

Violet and Velvet give us a see-you-later wave and jog away toward the upper dirt trail, which is off to the side of the asphalt one we're about to walk on. They disappear within minutes, which is when Wanda walks over and gives me a hug. “I'm so on your team,” she says.

“I know that, but let's get warm first.”

“Whenever you're ready. I'm all ears.”

We walk in silence for the first ten minutes. There are joggers, and quite a few elderly folks are being pushed in wheelchairs. We wave to them. Those who can, smile back. Lots of people with leashed dogs stop and go. Bicyclists whiz by us in their designated lane. Almost everyone we pass or who passes us says “Good morning” or “Hello, and how are you today?” or “Another perfect day” or “Stay fit.” When we finally reach the boathouse on our left, it means we've made it to the top of the first steep incline. We walk slowly on the now-flat path a few minutes, long enough to catch our breath.

“So,” I say.

“Wait, Georgia. I've got to ask you something first.”

“Of course.”

“What made you decide to do all this?”

“Sometimes you know in your heart it's time to make a change, but the longer you just think about it, the longer the change takes. If ever. I'm finally tired of just thinking about it. But let me ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“You're happy with your life, aren't you?”

She nods.

“Well, I'm not. I'm bored with mine. And since my life is the only thing I do have any control over, I want to start changing some of it.”

“I'm listening.”

“Don't you have any regrets?”

“We all have regrets, Georgia.”

“Well, I feel like I have too many. I'm getting old, Wanda. We're all getting old. Not old-old, but older, and at some point we need to be honest with ourselves and do what excites us instead of what looks good on paper. I think that's how I ended up in optometry. I was good in science. And I wanted to impress my father by proving how smart I was, since he was a doctor. But I just kept on proving it only to learn later that he didn't care what I did as long as I loved it. So now here I am
not
loving it, and even though there're some things I
do
love to do, I'm not sure if it's too late to find out how good I might be at them. But so help me God, I'm going to find out.”

“Well, finally! This is the Georgia I've missed.”

“Hold on, now. This isn't
I Dream of Jeannie.
One step at a time. First you have to have the dream before you walk inside it. Let's keep walking.”

Of course, if I had it to do over, I would have tried my hand at decorating or designing. I'm pretty sure my father would've hit the roof if I'd said, “I'm thinking about majoring in interior design, because one day I'd love to make homes uniquely beautiful.” Ha. That's right up there with telling your parents you want to be a writer and you're going to get a degree in creative writing. Back in the day, I didn't know that
real
people designed furniture. I thought you had to have a gift or something. I can't draw, but I've always been full of ideas and had a knack for playing with color and textures.

I fell in love with paint in college. Learned how to make old things new. I bought a used wooden futon that came with a matching chair at a yard sale to fill up my tiny apartment. They were willing to throw in the cushions, which I passed on because they were filthy. I bought batting and some loud upholstery fabric and made my own. And then I forgot all about beauty.

After fifteen minutes Wanda finally says, “Let me say this. Hearing you say you're putting that house on the market is music to my ears.”

“Why?”

“Because you don't need it. You've raised your kids. Fuck grass and flower beds. Fuck a two-car garage. Get a loft. With a whole new view. This way your relatives will have to stay in a hotel when they visit.”

“I don't trust apartment living, Wanda. Anyway, I just need a new venue, but there won't be a For Sale sign in the front yard next week, that much I can tell you.”

“I know, honey. But this is all just so fucking exciting! And as far as giving up your practice goes, I say right on. I always thought it was a pretty dull profession with no real payoff, not to mention a little creepy looking inside folks' eyes all day long. I never really thought it suited you.”

“Well, why didn't you ever say so?”

“Because that's right up there with parents trying to tell their kids who not to marry. You have to find out for yourself that you erred. It just takes some of us longer than others to figure that out. You need to find something more creative to do. Make me some more of those goddamn pillows. They were gorgeous. I still get compliments on them all the time.”

“Well, I'm not whipping out the old Singer anytime soon, but last week I found myself walking into an unfinished-furniture store like a shoplifter and came out carrying a tall wooden stool I intend to do something magical to. Just don't ask me what yet.”

“And what are you going to do to it?”

I crack up. The only thing I know how to sew anymore is a square and a rectangle, and one Christmas we all agreed to make one another's Christmas gifts, and Violet gave me a dried-flower arrangement but forgot to take the price tag off the bottom, and of course Wanda made me a needlepoint. I whipped out my old sewing machine and made her and Violet silk pillows. Apparently I was on cruise control, because I went a little overboard and made them for everyone in the office and even some patients, and of course Mona Kwon wanted me to sell her four, which I refused to do and just gave them to her. Then my sewing machine broke down and no more Martha Stewart.

We walk around a curve in silence until it straightens out.

“So how'd you find out about Ray?”

I tell her. And all the reasons I've decided to look these men up.

“As long as you're not trying to be slick and rekindle an old flame that burned out a century ago.”

“Please. You should know me better. I understand that you can't go back.”

“I'm not sure if I could do it, but hey, this is why people go to shrinks! To get perspective. And that old cliché known as closure. Plus, what do you have to lose? Oh, hell, I see Velvet coming down the path. I would hold off telling all this to Violet, because she'll probably miss the point. So tell me real quick, who's up first?”

“I think I should start with Abraham.”

“Well, I would hope so.”

No matter how drunk you get, don't count the guy you meet at the club and sleep with the very same night as a potential husband. It'll never happen.” I'm trying to remember who said this, but I'm drawing a blank. Anyway, who was looking for a husband? We came to party. Which is why Wanda, Violet, and I, all underage and relying on fake IDs to get us into the club, were dressed in hot pink and orange and silver hot pants to make sure the fellas wouldn't miss our curvy behinds or our A- to D-cup cleavage in those thin, tight tank tops. Our white platform boots with fake goldfish in those acrylic heels also didn't hurt us any, which is why when we strolled toward the back of the long line, freezing our asses off, we pretended not to have any idea how good we looked and had the nerve to act surprised when the fellas started checking us out and “Hey, girl” and “Hey, baby” and wink-wink and “Please let me be yo' man.” The big bouncer strolled down the line, reviewing all the girls like this was the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, and by the time he got to us, he said, “Y'all cover charge been covered.” Some of the girls left outside looked at us like they wanted to kick our asses. We strutted right on past them. We never paid when we wore these getups. And I, the only one not drowning in department-store cologne samples, rubbed a dab or three of oils I bought, and occasionally stole, from the health-food store meant to lure and intoxicate a fella or at least make him curious enough to ask, “What's that you wearing? You sure smell good, girl.”

I remember that as soon as I heard the first few chords of “Get Down Tonight,” I jumped up from my chair and ice-skated out onto the dance floor and started boogying by myself, and before I could sit down, “Boogie On Reggae Woman” ran right into it, and then “The Hustle,” and that's when this tall, black, handsome fella walked out and just started doing the Bump with me. “You sure smell good,” he said, looking down at me, and I looked up, smiled as innocently as possible, and said, “Thank you.” Violet was dancing with an android, and Wanda said she remembered this like it was yesterday, because no one had asked her to dance, and that's because she looked like she was mad about something. When “I Wanna Do Something Freaky to You” started in, the strobe lights were just spinning away, and I kept on dancing, and finally he said, “I'm Abraham, and who might you be?”

“Georgia,” I said, and ordered my hips to give him one strong bump, then left him out there and strutted on back to my empty chair, where Wanda and Violet were sitting with their legs crossed, staring at him and then at me.

I should've known right then and there when Abraham didn't offer to buy me a drink that he was not meant to be on my Most Wanted List. But boy, oh, boy, how wrong I would be. He disappeared into the crowd, although I could see his blue or red or yellow Afro from time to time, and then he reappeared and asked me if I had come alone. When I pointed to my girlfriends, that's when he asked me if he could buy all three of us a drink, and Violet said, “Hell yeah,” and I kicked her under the table, which meant to pretend like she had some class, and then he and I danced all night and drank all night, and I was so toasted that when he took me by the hand, I followed him into the men's room and inside a stall and fucked him.

Wanda and Violet dragged me out to the parking lot right before the club closed, and he followed, asking for my number, and I remember thinking his name sure was appropriate, because he looked like he had just stepped right out the Bible. I wrote my phone number on his long arm, but he was so dark and hairy he couldn't read it, so I wrote it on both palms.

He called the very next day and asked if he could come over. Back then we didn't really “date,” because no one had any “date” money, and dinner was usually a hot dog and a drink at the movies, so the fact that Abraham actually called made me feel special. Of course Wanda and Violet reminded me the following morning what I had done off the dance floor with a guy whose last name I still didn't know. But like a fool I gave him my address and then made something perfectly clear. “I am not an alcoholic, and I'm also no slut. I'm a college student.” He said he didn't understand what would make me think he would think that about me. Please. Playing hard to get was a complete waste of time, and at nineteen I really just wanted to get laid in a horizontal position. This time not only did I want to remember it, but my fingers were crossed that Abraham would be able to make me feel and act like those women in the movies who're drowning in ecstasy. I was hoping he had the skills to make me slither, grit my teeth, dig my fingernails into his back, cause me to look like I was in agonizing pain when in fact it was just the opposite, and pretty much lose my mind. It would also be great if he told me he loved me, since no one ever had, and I wouldn't even care if he meant it.

When I opened the door, I almost couldn't breathe. All I remember thinking was,
Thank you, Jesus,
because my blackout was gone and I instantly remembered how unbelievably beautiful his lips were and how white and straight his teeth were and how long and hairy his arms were and how shiny and black his Afro and mustache and goatee were, and he even smelled heavenly. He handed me a purple hydrangea he'd stolen from someone's yard. We sat on my cheap tweed sofa, which was really a love seat. My studio was small. My bed folded up into the wall. I remember being nervous, and I figured we should talk about something light, something that would put us in the mood, which turned out to be the fog in San Francisco. He pretended to be interested in what I was majoring in, and I lied and told him architecture, because it wouldn't make him think I was too smart to handle, even though I knew it was going to be biology or physics or something in the physical sciences. I remember not caring what
his
major was, because tonight it was going to be me, Georgia Louise Young. We both knew why I let him come over, and I figured I'd find out his last name when I needed to know it.

I remembered you were always supposed to have a bottle of wine in the fridge in case you had unexpected guests, so with my fake ID I dashed to the corner and bought a bottle of cheap white wine that claimed to have real grapes in it.

This night would be a turning point in my life. After that first time with Darnell and then with Patrick and Jimmy, I just liked the fact that we were naked and trying to move in sync until we, or I should say “they”—in a matter of minutes—acted like they were being electrocuted and then suddenly collapsed on me. I never even broke a sweat and wondered when and if I was ever going to tremble like that.

After the wine Abraham took me straight to heaven. He seduced me just like in the movies. I will never forget the way those big hands gently slid my bra straps down my arms. That's when I stopped thinking. I remember not having time to turn off the lights. I remember being kissed like I was a baby and then a grown woman, and I remember him picking me up from my love seat and laying me down on the floor, on top of my thick shag carpet, and he kissed me slower than slow, and I started to move like I was in a race, because I was trying to prove to him that I was just as good a lay sober as I was drunk, but he whispered in my ear, “Slow down, baby,” and I didn't know what speed that was, so I said, “Show me,” and he put those hands on my hips and moved me like I was a slow roller coaster, and then the lights went off and I started losing control over my own body. At first I was embarrassed, and then when I started shaking and shivering and I yelled out, “Oh, God!” and Abraham said, “It's all right, baby,” and then he got stronger and moved faster and collapsed on me, and started kissing me everywhere like I was something precious.

I had what felt like aftershocks, and Abraham held me and said, “It's all right, baby, I got you.” Oh, yes, he did. And finally, finally, I understood what all the hoopla was about and knew without a doubt I wanted to feel like that as often as possible.

“Did you like that, baby?”

“Can you bottle it?”

He laughed like he was fully aware of his sexual power. All I knew was that I wanted to do it again just to see if I'd get the same results. And in the weeks and months that followed, I would discover I could have three and sometimes four of these magical moments back-to-back. It wasn't like I was trying. Abraham had become my real-life black Ken doll. And I wanted to keep him.

However. Despite my being smart enough to get a full scholarship, it had started to become increasingly clear that I was not that bright when it came to men. I thought they wanted a girl to be Wonder Woman. And me, like a damn fool, once Abraham started calling out my name during sex, I believed this to be a spiritual connection occurring between us and thus a sign of love. Abraham came over almost every day that first week, before or after his classes. Then one night we were lying on my Murphy bed and he was kissing my earlobe and said, “Look at all these goose bumps on my arm. I think I might be allergic to you, girl.”

And I said, “That's impossible. I'm hypoallergenic.”

“I like you,” he said. “You're quick. Feisty.”

“I've got better qualities, but I can't let you see them all at once.”

“I'll wait,” he said.

A week or so later, I finally asked him, “What's your major, Abraham?”

“Did I give you the impression I was in college?”

I just looked at him like he was joking. “I'm serious as a heart attack. What's your major?”

“It was horticulture.”

“Was?”

I felt like I'd been conned. I sat up and moved away from him. All of a sudden, Abraham felt too big for this room. He was really too big for me, too, because I felt small in his arms. Not safe, just small. He didn't put his arms around me with tenderness; he pulled me into him like he was an octopus.

“I was going to San Francisco State, but then my moms got sick and I had to work, so I've been on leave for two semesters.”

“What's wrong with your mom?”

“I'd rather not get into it,” he said, as if she had some type of embarrassing illness, which made absolutely no sense. I would learn later that his sick mother was not only healthy but worked in the lingerie department at Macy's in Union Square, that and at twenty-five and not twenty-two like he told me he was, Abraham still lived at home, had three younger siblings, all of whom, as I would also learn, were in or had graduated from various universities in Northern and Southern California.

“Well, I hope she's going to be okay,” I said.

“I pray every day,” he said.

“Why do you hang out around a college campus if you're not enrolled?”

“I don't
hang
out around a college campus. These clubs are open to the public. Plus, I live very close to here.”

“What do you do all day when you're not caring for your mother?”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“I want to know, Abraham.”

“I work part-time for a nursery.”

“Really? What do you do there?”

“I sell plants.”

I wasn't trying to be difficult. I just wanted to know how he earned a living or if his sick mother was taking care of herself, since he'd been spending so much time with me. I was also hoping he wouldn't ask me to meet her, because my gut was already telling me we were probably not heading down any aisle except maybe at the grocery store.

He picked up the remote.

“I have to study for an exam,” I said.

“Don't let me stop you,” he said, and took off his shoes.

“I think you might not be able to spend the night, Abraham. I have to study, and I can't do it with the television on.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“No, because it doesn't make much sense.”

“Try it and see what happens.”

“I need to be able to concentrate,” I said, sitting at my scratched-up wooden desk in the ugly brown Naugahyde chair I'd bought at a garage sale.