Something She Can Feel (38 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: Something She Can Feel
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“Amen and amen!” Dr. Sullivan shouted, grabbing me when the song was done. “You've come home,” he said into my ear and I knew he meant so many things by that. Aside from my family, it was the first time I'd seen anyone look at me so clearly in a loving way since I'd been back. And it wasn't the last.
Behind Dr. Sullivan, as each choir member departed the loft, they all came and embraced me, patting me on the back and whispering in my ear, “Welcome back,” “We missed you,” “We love you,” and “God loves you.”
It was one of those empowering moments that made the church
still
the church and reminded me that God was
still
God. Even in this place where at the top was trouble, inside there was still comfort, still a love of God and all of his children—even me.
“Think you have a visitor,” Dr. Sullivan said after he excused the last person. He pointed me in the direction of a familiar face standing in the doorway. It was Evan. His hands pushed down far into the pockets of the slacks he was wearing, he leaned against one side of the doorframe and looked at me with expectant eyes.
“Hopefully, I'll see you here next week,” Dr. Sullivan added, picking up his briefcase.
“I'll try,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Wonderful. Tell your mother I said hello.”
Dr. Sullivan nodded at Evan as he walked out of the room and turned to look at me.
“You'll lock up?” he asked.
“Sure.”
For a few seconds, Evan and I just looked at each other. It seemed, in a way, we were figuring out the distance between us and trying to consider ways to break it all up. I thought of dozens of ways to begin this conversation and just when I settled on just saying “Hi,” Evan spoke.
“I haven't heard you sing in a while,” he said, straightening up.
“I haven't felt like singing.”
“I guess you do now.”
“Evan, I—”
“I didn't come here for that,” he said, holding his hand up. “I was just pointing that out.” He walked into the room and sat in one of the folding chairs near the door. I stayed where I was standing. Fear or otherwise, I couldn't move. “So, how have you been?”
“I'm fine, I guess. Staying with my parents and I just started doing some work around here for my dad. Nothing really, I guess you could say I'm just trying to keep myself busy.”
“Yeah ... busy.” He snickered a bit and clenched his jaw tightly. “Can you come sit down?” He looked at the seat beside him.
“Over there?” I asked nervously.
“Yes.” He patted the seat and smiled at me.
“Okay,” I said, walking over timidly.
I sat down and looked up toward the choir loft in front of us at nothing in particular.
“I've driven past your parents' house every day since you've been gone. Sometimes twice. At first, I would stop, but then I realized that seeing me was only making your being gone harder on them, so I stopped,” he said solemnly. “And then when the news came about the shooting”—he took a deep breath—“and people around here were saying maybe you were dead, too—I didn't cry. I knew it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. And I knew that because in my heart, you were still alive. It didn't matter what you did, who you were with, or where you were, I knew there was no way my wife could be dead. Not like that.”
“I didn't mean to leave like that,” I said. And my words sounded so weak up against his.
“You didn't leave me. You left us. You walked out on our lives.”
“It wasn't like that.”
“Then what was it like?” He raised his voice a bit. “What?”
“You don't want me to say that. You really don't.”
“No, say it, Journey,” he ordered, turning to me.
“You always talk about our lives and all the sacrifices you made for us ... and me, but you never stopped to ask me what I wanted.”
“What? What about the house? The car? I've given you anything you've ever asked for.”
“That's just it. This isn't about things, Evan. This is about my life. About what I need inside to make me happy,” I said.
“Is that what he does for you?”
I didn't say no; I knew this had to hurt Evan's ears, but this was no time for lies. Another lie would only take me back to where I'd been before.
“Why couldn't you just come to me with this?” he begged. “Why couldn't you let me know you weren't happy? Before he came?”
“I didn't know. I didn't even know I wasn't happy. I was just walking around here and living. Thinking this was how things in life were supposed to be. It was like I was blind. And when he came ...”
“What? When he came what?”
“I could see things ...”
Evan turned from me and looked ahead again, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I still want you to come home,” he said so softly I could hardly hear him.
“I can't,” I said. “I can't do that.”
“Why?” He looked at me again. “Don't you love me?”
“I'll always love you. You're my first love,” I said. “And you'll never know how much I want to come home to you. To be with you and stay here forever and be happy. But I can't. I just can't do that after feeling what I've felt. And learning what being in love feels like. It's not something I can just walk away from and pretend it never happened. Because it did and I'll always have it with me. No matter how much I want to pretend.”
“But what about us?”
“I want you to find someone,” I said, crying as I took Evan's hand into mine. He held his fist tight at first and then he loosened up. “I want you to find someone who can love you like you love me.”
Evan's body jerked and he began to sob loudly over my cries as it became clear what I was saying.
“You deserve that. You deserve to know what it's like to have someone love you like that.” I looked him in the eyes. “And it's not me.”
We sat there in those plastic chairs crying and wiping each other's tears until the sun outside the window set and the moon came in to have a look at us as it had so many nights in our bedroom. Looking at the moon through my tears, I admitted that in my heart I knew I'd lost something essential to my life that afternoon, but as much as it hurt, I had to let that something go.
Chapter Thirty-one
I
was learning to crawl, to stand, to walk. And not in the way a baby does. Well, similarly, but for me, it was less like I was doing it the first time and more like I was relearning to do it as me.
Being at home in my parents' house again, a welcoming womb where meals were served on time, it was always warm and everyone just seemed happy to see me each day, gave me the fresh start in Tuscaloosa I needed. I was brand new, not belonging to or being obliged to anything or anyone but myself. My days were my own and whatever new thing I wanted to discover was up to me. This freedom, this ability to see possibility in the world was what I'd craved when I left to be with Dame. It was what I'd felt in Africa and thought was completely impossible in Tuscaloosa, but living under the radar by choice, it was becoming more real than I'd expected. Yes, hurting Evan, walking out on my life and letting my family and church down did bring me pain in the beginning, but the reward, I was discovering, was so simple and sweet. I was free. I was eating what I wanted, when I wanted, and never thinking about how much weight might come with it. But then, I was also walking a lot. All around downtown, at the mall, the park, the river, just walking and looking at things for what they were. Not for how they could be used or what they could give to me, but for what they really, really were. And even when I met unhappy, judgmental faces that no doubt found some reason to still care about the news with me and Dame, I smiled and accepted their role in the controversy, the way they wanted to see me and the world—and it didn't even matter, because I didn't care how they felt. And after all that walking and not caring and eating what I wanted, I managed, somehow, to lose weight anyway. That was something.
But the best part of the freedom was the night. Being alone, with nothing to hold on to but myself and the moment, made my nights a spectacular show.
I had a routine. I'd come in from my closet/office at the church, eat dinner with my parents, put on a sundress, grab a glass of sweet tea and go, barefoot, out to see the sunset each night. Lying in a reclining sleeper or sometimes just out on a blanket I'd placed on the grass in the middle of the backyard, I'd wait for and watch the arrival of the moon like fireworks on the Fourth of July. While it didn't crackle or pop, its shine, its incredible, luminous glow over every single thing it touched reminded me of how I felt when I was at my best in life. When I touched people and they leaned on me, and I knew, beyond any doubt, that I had something to give to the world. Like the moon, I was learning that I was magical. I was an eyeful. I was big and shiny and luminous just because I was me.
I fell asleep out there looking at the moon show most evenings and woke up sometimes in the middle of the night to my mother's calls from the back door. I'd open my eyes, look back up into the sky to see that it was still there above me and then, with a pout, head indoors where I knew the moon would get a chance to elude me. The idea of this, somehow, always angered me now. I wanted to say it was because, right then, the moon seemed to be the only thing in the world that I could really connect with. But there was a secret to these nightly rendezvous.
I was still very, very angry with Dame for how he'd behaved, his selfishness and disregard for my feelings. And taking Kweku's advice, I was trying my best not to even think of him. No matter what happened, or how it happened, I was lucky to get out of there unharmed and I had to keep my mind on getting myself better and living my life. But all of this was more easily advised than executed where my heart was concerned. And even in my anger, my heart still somehow found a way to miss and think of Dame.
While I made it a point to focus on something else whenever a thought of him came to me, at night it seemed unavoidable. This had been his time. It had been our time together. I thought of this, remembered this, secretly and silently at night in my parents' backyard when the evening breeze, still warm from the day, brushed past me and in smells from the river I found something that reminded me of the time I'd spent in Ghana. Of the night air there. And, in part, I knew this was why I'd stayed out there in the backyard for so long. Yes, the moon was luminous. Yes, I'd longed to just be alone. Yes, to all of the reasons I'd shared with my parents. But also, yes, to the point that being out there allowed me to feel connected in the universe, at least, in some way to Dame. In the black night, I saw his skin. In the stars, I saw his eyes. When the moon gleamed, I saw his smile, heard his laugh, and felt him near me.
Not a night had gone by where I didn't try to see his face in the sky or hear his voice in the breeze. I didn't look at pictures or videos or even listen to his music. None could do him justice. So this was the closest I could get to the real thing.
But this was a secret.
 
 
Ashley, whose mother volunteered her to help me with the files, and I were in the closet/office making scrap files of old photos, flyers, and letters from various conferences the church had sponsored over the years. Once we'd gotten most of the heavy organization into a decent order to go to the records keeper, we'd been left with all these piles of random things and Ashley suggested we make scrapbooks that could be put into my father's library. It was a good, youthful idea and the more we made the files whole and filled with images of smiling faces and letters of praise from events dating back to the eighties, I knew it would be a hit.
“Oh, that was from one of the St. Valentine's dances we used to have when I was a teenager,” I said, looking at a picture Ashley was holding, a picture of a group of girls dressed in long, white dresses. We were sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by piles of pictures.
“Y'all had Valentine's dances?” Ashley asked, grinning and pointing to one of the girl's jheri curl.
“Every year. The girls wore all white and the boys wore black and had to escort a girl their parents and Sunday School teacher picked out,” I said, remembering how every year Evan's mother and my Sunday School teacher chose me for him.
“People chose your date?”
“I know; it sounds ancient. Right?” I answered. “And we hated it, too ... being fixed up by our parents! And the worst part was that none of us wanted to be embarrassed by not being selected by a parent or teacher. That was humiliating and most people started looking at the girls' parents like they'd been raising a raccoon. So, even though you hated it, you had to act right at church the weeks leading up to the dance, so you'd be selected.”
“That would never work today. Girls would be acting up just so no one would pick them,” Ashley admitted, and we both laughed.
“Well, I guess that's why we stopped having the dance.”
The door opened and Sister Davis entered in a flurry. A stack of paper was in her arms and an envelope hung from her mouth. Ashley immediately got up to help her mother.
“Thank you, angel,” Sister Davis said when Ashley took the envelope from her mouth. She leaned onto the desk to take a break.
“What's all this?” I asked, getting up and taking up the little space that was left in the office.
“Some papers your father asked me to bring in here to you,” she said.
“Oh ...” I scratched my head and looked around the room for more space.
“I know,” Sister Davis said, looking with me. “We need to get you more space.”
“That would be good.”
“I'll put a bug in your father's ear about that. You're doing such a fine job, I'm sure he'll see to it. And it doesn't hurt that he's completely ecstatic to have you here.”
“I know,” I said. While I told him that the time I spent in the office was certainly temporary, just a way for me to get out of the house until I figured out what I was going to do with my life, my father couldn't stop telling me how happy he was with the situation. He popped in every hour when he was at the church to make sure I was okay and insisted my work alone had changed the face of the church. This was hard to believe. But what was an easier reality was the positive effect my presence was having on our relationship. While things would never be perfect between us because of the complicated past, the situation allowed us to see each other more clearly. He wasn't the perfect daddy and I wasn't the perfect daughter. And we'd just have to move on like that.
“Oh, I almost forgot again,” Sister Davis said, pulling a pink pad from her pocket. “I keep your father's messages here ...” She thumbed through a few pages and then stopped. “I got this message for you on Monday.” She licked her index finger and stuck it to the page to lift it and tear it out.
“What's this?” I took the message from her.
“Some guy who keeps calling and leaving messages for you on your father's line,” she said. “I couldn't spell his name—it's on the bottom line ...” She reached over and pointed to scribble at the bottom of the page. “Quinkoo?” she sounded. “Is that it? Kwaku?”
“Kweku?” I said.
“Yes, that's it. He's called three times. All in one day. Said it's urgent.”
“Really?” I said, looking at the number and SonySOULjourn written beneath it.
 
 
Kweku's voice, mellifluous but still directive in the way that only an African male's accent could be, had a way of sticking to me. On the plane it echoed in my mind like a drug, pulling me to open up and let go. And now, after speaking with him over the phone on my way home from the church, it was dragging me someplace else.
The urgent matter, he'd explained after his assistant forwarded me to his cell phone, was that Kweku wanted to make good on his promise. He'd meant everything he'd said on the plane about my voice and wanting me to contact him when I got home to set up a meeting. And when I hadn't called, he decided to try to get in contact with me the best way he knew how. The new Sony imprint was looking for a defining voice, a lead for the image it wanted to share with the world. He couldn't promise anything, but he could set up a meeting where key people would hear what he'd heard in Amsterdam. All I needed to do was get to Atlanta and bring my voice.
“What's on your mind, Journey?” my mother said, lumping another serving of vegetables onto my father's dinner plate. He looked at it and immediately shifted the section where the vegetables lay away from him. “You've been staring off into space since we sat down.”
“Probably got the West Nile from the mosquitoes in the backyard,” my father said. “I told you to stop sleeping out there.”
“She doesn't have West Nile, Jethro.”
“I want to sing,” I said. Ever since I hung up the phone after telling Kweku I'd consider meeting him in Atlanta the next day, I'd been thinking about it and feeling a need to do what I'd just said.
“Okay,” my mother answered and it was in her face that she'd expected me to give the common answer we'd learned to give as adults when something was on our minds that we either didn't want to share or hadn't figured out—“I'm fine.”
“With the choir?” my father asked. “Because you know any one of them would love to have you back and—”
“No, Daddy,” I stopped him. “I mean, go out and sing. Not in the church. I want to be a singer.”
“Well, how are you going to go about that?” my mother asked with her words patterned carefully.
“I spoke to my friend today—someone I met in Ghana ... well on the plane and he's working for a record label in Atlanta. He wants me to come and meet with some people.”
“When?” my father asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“I've been thinking about it,” I said, “and I think I should go.” Suddenly my thoughts went from consideration to confirmation. I took a second helping of vegetables and spread them out on my plate.
My mother glanced at my father. He slid his hand above hers on the table.
“What?” I asked, looking at them and feeling they were probably about to tell me my idea was crazy. This was the first time I'd mentioned wanting to sing. Who was this guy anyway? How did I know he was legit? And if he was, he'd said the label imprint was looking for a “voice” to define it. What did I know about that? I heard all of these judgments in my head and then realized they weren't circulating around the table. It was me.
“We've been thinking about what you were going to do,” my mother said. “It's been some time. And we know you can't stay here with us forever.” She pursed her lips sadly and looked at my father.
“I think what your mother is trying to say ... is that we want you to go,” my father said decisively.
“Really?”
“Yeah. We want you to go,” my father said again. “Go and figure out whatever you want to do. That's fine with us.”
My mother wiped a tear from her eye, and we sat looking at each other as if we were planning for something.
“We did you a big disser vice ... all of you,” my mother said, “trying so hard to shelter you from the outside and not letting you just go and figure things out for yourself. We did it because we love you, but none of you can live your lives just the way we want you to. And we need to let go of that. It's not parenting. It's selfish. So if you want to go, we fully support you. Me and your father.” She looked at him again. “Just know you will always have a place in our house and we'll always love you. But what we want most for you is for you to be yourself.”

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