My Soul Cries Out Page 13

  “Deevorce. Divorce. Deeeevvvvooooorrrrcc-ceeee. It starts with ‘di’ which has negative connotations to it. Then the ‘vorce’. It’s like something bad or painful, like force and vortex mixed together. I’m about to go through an industrial strength, high-speed blender. I’m going to be deeeeevorced.”

  I took a big slurp of the ultra strong coffee and winced as it singed the roof of my mouth. “Think I’ll ever get married again?”

  “You never know. You may walk out of this hotel and meet Mr. Wonderful. Make you forget all about Kevin.”

  “Oh, no. I need at least two years to flush this whole situation out of my system so I won’t be carrying baggage into the next relationship. I can see it now. If he goes to play basketball with his friends, I’ll be standing courtside, watching to make sure they’re not gay. If he goes shopping for clothes too often or if he can cook, I’ll suspect him. No, I need some time before another relationship.”

  “Mm-hmm. Drink your coffee.”

  “Would I ever want to get married again? I mean, maybe marriage is overrated. You give away too much power. You hand someone the key to your heart, the most delicate, yet most important part of your anatomy, and trust them to take good care of it. They rip it out of your chest and drop it on the ground and stomp on it, and when you scream and ask them how could they, they look at you and say, ‘I’m sorry, it’s not my fault. It’s because of something that happened to me when I was ten.’ Then they pick up your mutilated heart and press it back into your chest and try to fold your ribs and chest wall back over it and say, ‘Okay, beat again, pump the blood, work like nothing ever happened’.”

  Alaysia grimaced. “Lovely. The rantings of a drunk nurse.”

  “Let’s say I get through this two-year period and my heart heals and starts working again. You think I’d be dumb enough to give someone else the key to it and say, ‘Here you go. It just got healed, but I give you permission to rip it out and mutilate it’? That, by definition, is insanity.”

  “I couldn’t think of a better word to describe this conversation.” Alaysia got up and pulled a T-shirt and shorts out of her suitcase.

  “Then again, I can’t be in a relationship without giving my heart away completely. What’s the point? If I’m going to be in love, I’m going to be in love. I don’t believe in doing it halfway. Which is what got me into this situation in the first place.”

  “Monnie, you can’t blame yourself for loving Kevin, and you can’t blame him for what happened. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “And that, my friend, is the scariest part of it. That someone can love you and not mean to hurt you, but destroy you anyway. And don’t be defending him. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “I am your friend.”

  “Then act like it. Either join the pity party or go home.”

  Alaysia laughed.

  “What if I do decide to get married again? I mean what are the stats these days? When we first got to Howard, they told us ten women for every one man. You count all the brothers getting killed in the black man’s war, then all the black men in prison, then the gay men . . . a sista ain’t got much to work with. How many girlfriends do we have our age that ain’t got no man and no prospects either? The only thing saving us is the lesbians. That’s the only thing helping out the ratio.”

  I leaned forward, almost falling off my bed. “You’re not gay, are you, Laysia? Is that what this celibacy thing is about? You got fed up with the brothas and switched over to the sistas? You could tell me. It’d make my chances better.”

  Alaysia laughed and shook her head. “I’m not gay. Just taking a break from black men.”

  I nodded and pointed a finger at her. “Now you got the revelation. I’ma find me a Latino man—a Puerto Rican hottie. They black anyway. Or maybe I’ll find an Italian man. They’re pretty dark. I could try an Asian, but they don’t have much spice to them. Maybe I’ll just get me a white man. Naw. I better stick with my Puerto Rican hottie.”

  “You know how people treat interracial couples. You sure you can handle that?”

  “It ain’t like that for black women. Think about it. When you’re out in public, you see a black man with a white woman and pure hatred rises up in you. Why? The ratio. That’s anotha brotha the sistas lost. When you see a black woman with a white man, it don’t bother you. You say, ‘I feel ya, girl. I ain’t mad at ya. Do your thang.’ You think you’re okay with it because you sympathize with the fact that she wasn’t able to find her a black man. But secretly, you’re glad because that sista has tilted the ratio a tiny bit more in your favor.”

  “You are out of control.”

  I stood up and did a little salsa dance. “Yeah, man, a Puerto Rican hottie.” My dance didn’t last long because it made the room spin. “Next time, I’d have to get to know him for at least five years before I even think about marrying him. I’d have to know his high school friends, his neighborhood friends; I’d interview his parents, want to know about his past relationships. Maybe I’d make him take a lie detector test—question him under hypnosis or something. I would say he’d have to be a sincere man of God so I could be assured he was telling the truth, but so much for that.”

  Alaysia frowned.

  “And I need a manly man next time. He’d have to be a mechanic or a construction worker, or a garbage man. Someone who comes home dirty and stinky every day. Yeah, that’s safe. He’ll have to have a garage full of tools, and will always be working on the car or fixing something in the house. And he will never talk about his feelings. He won’t know his way around a kitchen, either. When I ask him how I look in an outfit, he won’t turn away from football on television and will say ‘Fine, babe,’ then slap me on the butt and tell me to bring him a soda. When I bring it to him, he’ll pull the top off with his teeth, drink it in one gulp and let out a loud belch and stuff his hand down his pants.”

  Alaysia was rolling on the bed, laughing at me.

  “We haven’t even gotten to the whole issue of kids. If I am ‘blessed’ to get married again, after the initial two-year ‘Kevin wash-out’, then the five-year ‘new man investigation’, we’d need to be married at least three years so I could be sure I wanted to stay, then I would think about having kids. Which would put me at the ripe old age of thirty-nine. I know too much about what kind of babies old eggs could make.”

  “A lot of women are having babies when they get older these days. It’s a trend. The career woman of the new millennium, getting established in her career and having kids later.” Alaysia scooted onto the floor and did some stretching exercises.

  “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but I ain’t having no old-egg baby.”

  “No, come on, Monnie. One of my clients swears by it. She had one child with her first husband when she was twenty-four, then got divorced. She got remarried at the age of thirty-seven and had another daughter a year later. She said motherhood when she was more mature was much better than when she was twenty-four. She thinks all women should wait until they’re older to have their children.”

  “Say what you wanna say. I don’t want no old-egg babies.” I slurped down the rest of my coffee. “The way I see it, Kevin wasted my time. He took my precious reproductive years. Six of them. Now I’m stuck never getting married again and having no babies, or at best, getting a late start and having some old-egg babies.”

  “Monica, you’ve been thinking about all this too much.”

  “Good old Kevin.” I lifted up my coffee mug in a toast. “You know what I miss the most about him?”

  “No, but I’m afraid you’re gonna tell me.”

  “His warmth.”

  “Yeah, Kevin’s a nice guy.”

  I shook my head. “Not his personality, silly. His warmth—his body heat. No amount of comforters or electric blankets can replace it. I don’t care how many body length pillows I buy and snuggle up next to—there’s nothing like a warm body wrapped around you at night. Kevin’s a great snuggler. What if I never get
married again? That means I spend the rest of my life alone, in a cold, empty bed with no one to keep me warm at night. No one to share my life with. No babies, no grandbabies. I’ll be one of those old women who lives alone, mutters to herself all the time, and has fifty cats.”

  Alaysia laughed. “You’re allergic to cats.”

  “Fifty dogs, then.” I frowned. “They never have a bunch of dogs. You ever notice that? Why do they always have a houseful of cats?”

  “It’s definitely time to go to bed. No more mini-bar for you. I can see it’s not safe to leave you unsupervised.”

  Must have been the alcohol. That night I dreamed about being in a huge bed with a bunch of rotten eggs and dogs. Alaysia was right. No more mini-bar for me.

  22

  Early the next morning, Alaysia opened the blinds and turned on the lights. She pulled my covers off. “Get up, Monnie. It’s time to exercise.”

  Where did she get a megaphone? I groped for my covers. “Alaysia, leave me alone. My head is killing me. Stop talking so loud.”

  “Didn’t nobody tell you to empty the mini-bar yesterday. It’s time for a workout.”

  “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  She pulled my covers back down and smacked my legs. “Come on. Up and at ’em.”

  “If I could get up without my brain exploding, you’d be in trouble.”

  “Come on. You want a piece of me?” She slapped my feet and did a little boxing dance.

  “ALAYSIA!” Screaming her name nearly ripped my head open, but I hoped it would make my point.

  It didn’t. I felt her put something on my legs. “I picked you up some exercise clothes yesterday. I think I got them big enough to fit your big ol’ butt.”

  I opened one eye and glared at her through it. “You really want a beat-down this morning, don’t you?”

  She laughed and did some kicks and punches. “You look like you already got a beat-down from Jack Daniel’s. You don’t need another one from me.”

  “Alaysia, let me sleep for another hour and I promise I’ll do whatever you want.” I didn’t plan on exercising, but I would tell her anything to make her go away.

  “One hour. That’s all you get. I’m gonna go do my workout. That means when you’re working out, I’ll be able to give all my attention to make sure you get the best workout possible.”

  “Lovely. Looking forward to it.” I flipped her the bird.

  “I love you, too.”

  She must have decided to have mercy on me, because when I woke up on my own and looked at the clock, it was three hours later. I rolled over and she was sitting in one of her yoga positions.

  “She’s alive.”

  “Forget you, wench.”

  “You—”

  “Couldn’t if I tried. I know. Did you have a good workout?” I sat up and wiped the dried slob crust off my cheek.

  “Yeah. I let you off the hook today, but tomorrow you don’t get off so easy. You might want to avoid the mini-bar this evening.”

  “Trust me. I have no intention of going near it again.”

  “Get up and shower. We have to talk.”

  “This sounds serious.”

  “It is. Do you have any idea how many carbohydrate calories you consumed last night?”

  I flopped back on the bed and pulled the covers up over my head. “No, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  “I’m serious. You can’t do that stuff with a sugar problem.”

  “Sugar problem? You make it sound like I’m an alcoholic or something.”

  “Some of us do alcohol and drugs. Others of us do Tom & Larry’s.” Alaysia mimicked someone dipping a spoon into a carton, ate off the spoon, then nodded off like she’d just shot up some heroin. “We all have our different addictions.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.”

  “I’m not laughing. Get up and wash your tail so I can let you know the house rules.”

  “House rules?” I threw the covers back and scooted to the edge of the bed.

  “Yeah, rules for living in my house.”

  “You trippin’ now. I’m grown. My momma live in Baltimore, not Atlanta.”

  “I’m your momma now. Until you lose about thirty pounds and your sugar and pressure go back to normal, you live by my rules.”

  “Okay, I’ma let you have your little ego trip for a second. What do these rules entail?”

  “For one, you have to follow my diet and exercise program to a tee. No whining, no complaining, and no excuses.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m not playing. You can only eat what I cook and buy, or what I order for you if we go out to eat.”

  “What are you? The food police?”

  “That’s Lieutenant Food Police to you.”

  “So what can I not eat?”

  “No meat, no—”

  “No meat? Just because you’re a vegetarian doesn’t mean I want to be one. I can eat low fat chicken and fish and pork and—”

  “Pork?” Alaysia wrinkled her face. “There will be no swine to enter my home.”

  “Fine. I’ll eat meat when I eat out without you.”

  “Uh-uh. I don’t even want any meat farts in my house. Only pure organic vegetarian farts are allowed in my sanctuary.”

  “Meat farts? What the heck is a meat fart?”

  She looked at me like the meaning was obvious. “A meat fart is a fart emitted from the colon of someone who eats meat. I don’t want you emitting any gaseous animal particles into the air in my abode.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What else can’t I have?”

  “No white flour, no white sugar—”

  “No sugar? You know how much I love sweets. I thought the whole goal was moderation. I thought when you diet you’re supposed to still eat foods you enjoy, but not as much.”

  “I didn’t say you had to give up sweets. I said they couldn’t be sweetened with white sugar. There are other ways to make things sweet.”

  “Like what?”

  “Fruit sugar, stevia, raw turbinado sugar—”

  I held up my hand. “Stevia? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “I promise you’re gonna love it. Oh yeah, no dairy either.”

  “No dairy? What am I supposed to have on my cereal, in my coffee, with my fruit-sweetened cookies?”

  “Soy milk, almond milk or rice milk. Take your pick.”

  “What else, El Capitan?”

  “A strenuous exercise regimen.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that consists of.”

  “We’ll start the day off with yoga, later do some cardio, then some light weights.”

  I shook my head. “Why don’t you shoot me now and get it over with?”

  “Come on. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Promise you won’t kill me.”

  “Just the opposite. I’m gonna help you live.”

  “Yeah, right. Any other rules, Massa?”

  “That’s all for now, but if I come up with any others, I’ll let you know.”

  “You get to make them up as you go?”

  “Yep. You are mine.”

  I walked into the bathroom. I was supposed to check my blood sugar when I first woke up, which technically was right now, even though it was almost noon. I hated to check it in front of Alaysia, lest I set her off on another lecture about how many carbohydrate calories I consumed. If I didn’t check it, though, I couldn’t eat, and I needed something to take the edge off this headache. After my binge last night, I knew it would be high. What was the point?

  I did need to take my medicine, though. After monitoring my blood sugar and blood pressure for a few days, Dr. Stewart started me on the Glucophage and a blood pressure medicine. She said I could probably stop them if I lost ten percent of my body weight.

  I pulled out my pill dispenser. I closed the door because I didn’t want Alaysia to see me taking the pills. I hadn’t bothered to mention I was taking the medicine, and knew she’d have a fit if she found out.

 
It was embarrassing that I let my health get to this point because I couldn’t control my eating. I felt enslaved to the little pillbox in my hands and knew I didn’t want to be stuck on meds for the rest of my life. Even though Alaysia’s plan sounded extreme, I had to do something.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. All right, Monnie girl. You gotta get yourself together. You are not gonna be on these durn pills for the rest of your life, and you are not going to die of a stroke. You are going to treat your body like the temple it is and get this stuff under control.

  I thought about Alaysia’s regimen and it seemed as much bondage as being enslaved to the pills. I looked up at the ceiling. God, you gon’ have to help me.

  23

  The next two months flew by. We had no problem finding and training a replacement for me at Dr. Stewart’s office. They had a big party for me at work to wish me well in my new life. Dr. Stewart said she hated to see me go, but had gotten the feeling I was unhappy in my position and was glad to see me moving on to something bigger and better. I tried to explain that it wasn’t her office I was unhappy with, and she was the best boss I could have ever asked for. I got teary-eyed and mumbley-mouthed, but I think she got the gist of it.

  Saying goodbye to my parents was difficult. They took me out to dinner at Phillips Seafood at the harbor. Their salmon was my favorite. My dad had this sad look on his face the whole night and kept asking if I was sure I wanted to go that far from home. I didn’t know what my mom told him, and didn’t care to ask.

  My mom kept wringing her hands, patting my cheeks, and smoothing down my hair. When my dad went to the bathroom, she kissed my cheek. “Monica, I just want what’s best for you, baby. Sometimes it’s better for a woman to start over than to let somebody know they can get away with whatever they want to for as long as they want to. I’m proud of you for doing what’s best for you.”

  I bit back my tears. I felt sad for my mother and the life she chose. I had to make myself be nice to my dad for the rest of the evening. I really wanted to hit him over the head with a chair to knock some sense into him. If he only appreciated the jewel he had in my mother.