Best Dressed Lie (Keisha Jackson) (7 page)

Finally,
we arrived at
my house and a black Nissan
Maxima was in my
driveway. The bumper had a rental
company sticker on it. “Who does this rental car belong to?” I
wondered.

“What the hell?” Zan said, coming to her senses. “Is that
the car from the other night?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do I need to walk you in?”
“I’ll be okay girl,” I said, unconvincingly. “It’s similar, but
not the exact same car,” I said. “One of his coworkers probably
rode with him to the picnic and left their car here, that’s all.
I’ll be fine.” I called Randy’s phone just to make sure. It went
straight to voicemail. “He would have his phone off!” I said,
pissed.
I didn’t have a clue as to who this car belonged to, but I
was about to find out. Once I got inside the screened porch, I
waved Zan off, indicating everything was okay.
“Call me,” I said smiling, holding my pinkie and thumb to
the side of my face.
Zan drove off. I noticed the front door cracked open. My
first thought was that randy was having sex with another
woman in our bed, forgetting I left him at the picnic. I
elbowed through the door, looking down as I walked in.
Furniture was scattered everywhere. “What the…”
My eye scanned the floor like a police dog searching for
drugs. They stumbled upon a pair of khaki Timberland boots
standing before me. The boots looked like a size fourteen
men’s, not Randy’s size.
I slowly skimmed up his body from the feet up. I stopped
at his face and screamed. “What are you doing in my house?”
He had on a black mask, covering everything but his eyes,
nose and mouth. His eyes were blood shot and his lips were
cracked. He was unquestionably a black man.
“Where is Randy?” he said, grabbing the back of my head,
pulling my hair. I felt my hair follicles peeling away from my
scalp.
I was so scared; I tried to listen carefully to his voice, to
figure out who he was. “Please, no,” I pleaded. “Who...who are
you?” I was stuttering and fumbling over my words.
“He owes me money and I want it now,” he said, calmly.
“I’ve been sitting here for hours waiting for him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Shut up!” he said. ”I’m tired of riding around following
his ass. The only reason I haven’t put him on blast at work, is
because I’m afraid of losing my job! Now where is he?”
With no response from me, he opened the basement door
and tossed me down the stairs like a rag doll. My scream
echoed through the room as I tumbled downward. “Help!” I
yelled. I fell on the concrete floor headfirst and everything
went black. I was unconscious all night.
The next morning, my eyes opened to the glare of morning
sunshine beaming through the side window in the unfinished
basement. I lay on the floor like a fish out of water, stiff and
almost lifeless. I felt vibrations against my stomach but was
too scared and hurt to move. Then I remembered I kept my
cell phone in my pocket.
After fifteen attempts, I tugged it out while lying flat on
my stomach. Once I removed the phone, I slid it upwards
toward my head and then slowly turned it towards my face. I
had ten percent left on my battery, with five missed calls from
Zan.
My body was sore and bruised. I was not going to waste
the little strength I had returning her call. I heard voices from
upstairs. I started panicking. I was afraid the masked man was
still in my house. I made sure the phone was still on vibrate. I
did not want him to hear it ringing.
“God, please help me,” I whispered in tears, as I dialed 911
slowly, one digit at a time.
“Nine, one, one…. Police, Fire, or Ambulance?” asked the
operator.
“I need a police!” I said desperately in a loud whisper. The
concrete floor was cold and I was shaking in shock.
“Ma’am, please… calm down,” she said, “What’s your
emergency?”
Hearing squeaking sounds of footsteps above me, I glanced
at the unfinished wooden ceiling. The reflection of his body
was traumatizing.
“He’s coming, please!” I said, holding the phone with my
bare shoulder.
“Keisha!” he yelled through the floor cracks, pressing his
eyeball to the crack.
“What are you doing down there?!”
The phone slid off my shoulder. I crawled my way towards
the stairs and climbed upwards. I stretched my arm as far as I
could to lock the door.
“Please God, help me reach it!” I was terrified. Grime
pinched and dug into my scratched knees .
The door jerked open and brushed against my mouth
barely missing knocking my teeth out. “What the hell are you
doing?!” he said, standing over me. His face covered with the
black mask.
“Who are you?” I asked, petrified.
He grabbed my face under my jaw. He clenched his dirty
fingernails into my skin. He squeezed hard and blood oozed
out of my mouth. It ran down the side of his chafed hands. He
pulled my face towards his. My mouth nearly touched his
mouth. I could smell vodka on his breathe. His sweat drizzled
down his lips as his devious eyes watched me.
“Now,” he said, viciously. “You listen and you listen real
well, your trifling-ass boyfriend messed up and I’m going to
wait and torture you until he gets here!” he said undressing
me with his eyes.
I leaned on the stairs railing trying to ease down the steps,
motionless and scared stiff.
“I’ve been waiting on him for hours,” he said, poking my
forehead with his finger. He sat on the steps near the door and
demanded, “Come closer.”
I sobbed and mumbled under my breath, “Randy, where
are you? Please get here!”
He reached down and slapped me. “Didn’t I say come here,
whore?!”
I crept over to him holding my face. My chin lifted by the
strength of his finger. He roughly kissed me with his chapped
lips. He sucked the blood out of my mouth.
He held my bloody slobber in his mouth and then yanked
my mouth opened and spit it back in. I gagged and begged,
“Please stop!”
He clamped my lips shut, forcing me to swallow. “Shut
up!” he demanded.
He took the palm of his hand and covered my face, then
pushed me backwards
nearly knocking me unconscious
again.
“Get your ass up!” he said, raising his fist.
Everything was a blur, so I lay there.
“Get up now!” he said pounding his fist into the palm of
his hand.
I cried so hard, I could barely breathe. “Somebody
please…please, help me!” my throat was burning. Sluggishly I
tried to get up. I was too weak.
“That’s all right, stay right where you are,” he said, heated.
He stripped down his dirty, white, rugged jeans splattered
with my blood. He lit a cigarette, placed it in the corner of his
mouth, stood over, pointed at his penis then shouted, “Come
slob on my knob!” He was drunk and musty, with old dried
up mucus from previous sex, matted and tangled in his pubic
hair. “I can’t move,” I said, lying on my back.
“ You better not move!” he said, flicking ashes on my
body. I slowly made my way up. I was dizzy.
“Bring your ass here,” he said, grabbing the back of my
hair. He dragged me up, leaned my head back, and put his
cigarette out on my forehead. He scorched my skin.
“Ouch…Ouch!” I screamed, whacking his hand.
“Shut up,” he said, forcing his penis down my throat,
violently moving my head back and forth.
I started gagging and vomiting from the pressure hitting
my tonsils. “Look at me!” he yelled, looking into my watering,
swollen, red eyes as he tortured me. I vomited and he let go of
me. I fell weakly to the floor.
“Get up, you’re not done!”
I tried to yell, but I couldn’t. I knew I could not fight him
and even if I tried, he was going to kill me. He tried to find
something
to
punish
me
with
for
throwing
up
and
interrupting his arousal. He angrily stomped up the stairs and
talked shit as he went.
“You better not move, whore!” I stayed there watching him
go up the steps. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could. I knew
that once he returned, the beating would be worse. I heard
him rambling through the open door.
“Just what I need,” he said, stomping back down the stairs
with one of Randy’s fifty pound weights.
He made his way back down the steps one at a time. He
stood over me breathing like he’d finished a marathon. He
held the weight around one end with both hands. He raised it
in the air as high as he could…
“Police, put down the weapon!” The officer stood in the
doorway, pointing his gun at him. I was in too much pain to
make a sound. I inhaled deeply and exhaled with more tears.
Thank God! I thought.
The policeman
gradually walked down
the fragile,
wooden steps one by one towards the psychopath. The police
officer stared at him like a hawk never moving his gun out of
the murderer’s face. He stood there, looking down at me with
hatred. “Put down your weapon now!” the police officer
demanded. He moved closer.
The masked man didn’t move. He made a sound in the
back of his throat and then leaned down toward my face and
spit in my eyes. The cop grabbed him roughly from behind.
The 50 pound weight came crashing down towards me, but
thank fully fell to one side at the last moment.
The two men wrestled as the officer tried to subdue him.
He broke loose; head butted the policeman and took off up the
stairs. The officer
fell
backwards
and called
for backup.
Luckily, several cops heard the call and arrived to the scene.
As he bombarded his way out the door they started shouting,
“Get down…down now!...Now!” The police officer tried to
corner him, but he managed to get away. They fired several
gunshots and chased him through the woods. He was too fast
and got away. They didn’t know whether a bullet hit him or
not. The ambulance finally arrived and the paramedics rushed
to my side. Tears crawled down the side of my face. I was
limp, broken and distraught.
“Ma’am,” the medic said, “We’re taking you to the
hospital.” He held the blood pressure cuff around my arm and
asked, “Ma’am, what’s your full name?”
I was very frail but managed to say, “Keisha… Keisha
Jackson.” My body and mind were not responding. My weary
eyes slowly closed. I could not and was not answering any
more questions .

When I got to the hospital, Zan saw the incident on the
news and was already there waiting. From a distanced, she
saw the paramedic wheeling me in. My head was wrapped in
white bandage, with my face barely showing. I had tubes
running out of my arm with lifesaving fluids doing their job.

Zan hands started trembling. She covered her mouth and
slowly fell
to her
knees. “Keisha!” she said, dramatically
breaking down. As soon as the gurney got closer Zan sprung
up and looked down at me. The paramedics rushed me into
the emergency room bay like a stampede. Zan wanted to be
right next to me.

Deliriously, I saw a vision of the burglar, walking along
side my bed holding and rubbing my hand. I snatched my
hand away.

“Keisha! Talk to me,” Zan yelled, bringing me back to
reality. Gently smoothing my hair into place, she watched me
with disbelief.

I was too frail to speak. She looked directly into my eyes
and asked, “Did Randy do this to you?”
With no response from me, she yelled, “Answer me god
dam it, did he?!” She was emotionally out of control. “It’s my
fault!” she said, making fists.
The nurses quickly grabbed her and said, “Ma’am, we
need for you to wait in the waiting room.”
“Damn you, Randy!” Zan said in rage walking toward the
indicated room. “Damn you, Randy!”
She cried hysterically and stumbled over her heels. She
squatted down to sit in a corner. Shortly, a nurse came into
the room and called out, “Zan Davis?” Not giving her enough
time to respond, she called again, “Zan Dav…”
“I’m coming!” Zan answered with a ruthless attitude,
rushing over and dropping her purse. Cigarettes, pills, money
and makeup fell out. She was shaking so badly, the more she
tried to pick up her things, the more they fell out of her hand;
all but
the pack of cigarettes. Once
she got her
things
together, she walked towards the nurse. She walked so fast,
one of her heels bent and broke.
“Damn it!” She tugged at her clothes as she limped her
way over to the door.
“What are you staring at?” she screamed, pointing at the
family members of sick patients.
The nurse softly asked, “Ma’am, are you a family
member?”
“I’m her best friend Zan…Zan Davis. Is she okay?”
“She’s stable. Do you have any contact information for her
family?”
Her eyes teared up. “I’m her family. All we have is each
other.”
“Alright Miss Davis, I’ll let you sit with her for a few
minutes.” She said, comforting Zan. “Remember she can’t
speak, so look but don’t touch and do not ask her any
questions.”
“Thank you,” Zan said. She wiped her tears and headed
towards the room.
Zan eased her way into the ER bay where I lay feebly. She
pulled the thin curtain back, the metal hooks rasping in their
groove. Then she swished the curtain closed again. She gasped
when she saw my battered and swollen face.
I had an oxygen mask covering my mouth. My head, knees
and hands were wrapped in white bandages. More tubes ran
to various clear bags hanging above my head. Machines
beeped, whirred and flashed tracking my vital signs.
Zan tried to hold back the tears, her lips were quivering.
Her shoulders started moving up and down from her quiet
crying. I could just see her, although she was blurry. I could
not speak. My puffy black and blue eyes filled with tears. She
felt helpless, so she knelt down at my bedside and started
praying, “Father God, please heal Keisha’s body. She’s been
through so much Lord, she needs you. Father God, heal her
body and soul, may her pain cease, may her strength increase,
may her fears be released, and may blessings, love, and joy
surround her. Amen.”
There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Keisha Jackson?” the man in the white coat said, looking
down at my chart, making his way into the room. Zan slowly
raised her head.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Baker,” he said, reaching out to shake her
hand. She stayed on her knees.
“Are you a family member?” he asked, eyeing Zan. She got
up from the floor, without speaking and staggered out of the
room. The doctor checked my blood pressure, and then stared
at the monitor, writing at the same time. Then he studied the
blood work results.
“Miss Jackson, I have some results and a couple of
questions for you,” he said, licking the tip of his finger and
turning a page.
I nodded my head to let him know I was alert.
“First I’ll give you some of your results, and then ask
questions,” he said, smiling.
“You have a fractured rib, and a mandibular fracture
known as a broken jaw . The swelling and the bruising will
get worse before better. I suggest that you have no visitors for
24 hours.”
He
cleared his throat before asking another question,
“Have you ever used drugs?” I moved my head side to side
again. I never took my eyes off Dr. Baker.
I noticed the troubled expression as he continued reading
my chart. He focused on one spot in my chart. He looked at
me, closed my chart and placed it on the bed next to my legs.
He moved in closer to me, took my hand, inhaled and slowly
exhaled. “Miss Jackson, we got some of your blood work
results,” he said taking off his glasses. “I’m sorry to say this, but
you suffered a miscarriage.”
I lay there unable to move or even blink.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, my hand and gently holding it
between his. After a few moments with no reaction from me,
he felt the need to give me some time alone. He placed my
hand on the bed and slowly got up.
My tears rolled down the side of my face like a waterfall.
Although I couldn’t speak, I heard every word came out of his
mouth. My heart raced as I waited for him to come back into
the room and tell me it was an error. I wanted him to say,
you’re pregnant. Numbness washed through me. I couldn’t
believe that the precious life I was unaware of died inside of
me.