Between Lovers (38 page)

I say, “You let her see me. Why?”

“How could I stop her from seeing you? How could you stop her from seeing me?”

Ayanna stares out at the darkness for a while, her eyes walking across heaven's vault, before she turns around and stares at Nicole. She looks so sad. Then she gives me a strange smile.

Ayanna says, “Your hair is a mess.”

“Is it bad?”

“Looks like half a ‘fro.”

I chuckle. “What does the other half look like?”

“Hell if I know. Never seen anything like that in my life.”

“Guess I'll have to see Ana again.”

“Let me.”

“Another hidden talent?”

“Who do you think does Nicole's hair?”

I understand what she's doing. We're in the same book, on the same page. She wants to be alone with Nicole awhile. To say whatever she needs to say while Nicole can still hear. Before that sense fades like a candle at the end of its burn.

I just hope I get my turn too.

At dawn I go back toward the Waterfront, my pager at my side. I pull over at the Tube. Stare at the spot where the accident happened. It's clear. As if nothing wrong ever occurred on that spot.

Inside my hotel room, I gather a few things. Then I stare at Nicole's silver bracelets. Her toiletries. Her clothes. Walk around and touch all the things she left behind in this room. We all are collectors of things, and in the end, we leave all those things behind.

I sit there for a while, trying to think, to breathe.

Lolita
is staring at me. That book is next to my laptop, pages bent from days of reading. I pick the book up. A story about a man and his obsession. I walk to the balcony, stand in the chilling air, and I let
Lolita
fall. Let that book twist and turn and land on the cobblestones five floors below.

I take the back way out; avoid the friendly people who work the lobby.

Then I drive around, drive until I find an open store, get a rat‘s-tooth comb, some gel.

All of that seems trivial, is very trivial, but I have to keep moving.

When I get back, Ayanna is drying her eyes. Her words have been said.

She says, “Time to turn her.”

After that, I sit between Ayanna's legs, surround myself with her warmth while she does my hair.

Nicole's chest rises and falls.

My cell phone rings, cuts off our conversation. It's my father. I tell him what's going on; talk to him a good twenty minutes.

Two beats after we hang up, Ayanna says, “Your father, he's a great man.”

“Why didn't you hang around to meet him at the bookstore?”

“I saw him and felt like an idiot for the things I was saying, and he was right there. One of our leaders was right there witnessing me act like a fool. And the way everybody applauded and wanted to touch him, it was amazing, so I guess I just ran back to my ride as fast as I could.”

“He's just my daddy.”

“Don't take that for granted.”

I chuckle.

She asks, “What was it like growing up with him?”

I tell her about my old man. About my hero. Tell her that for the last forty years, since before my time on this earth, my old man has been a church-aholic workaholic, either on the road or in the pulpit, so in my eyes, he's been pretty much absent, even when he was at home.

She says, “I've always wondered what the kids felt like.”

“What you mean?”

“Kids of our leaders. With their fathers being gone off on a quest for righteousness, soldiers in our war, always putting themselves in danger at the drop of a hat, in front of a camera all the time.”

“Yep,” I say. “It's a war out there. He's a gladiator. Always in battle.”

Nicole's breath gets choppy for a second. Then it smoothes out.

We both tense, then sigh out our worry.

I check on Nicole. Look at the machines. Look at the lines that add up to life. No change. Ayanna follows. She whispers, “Didn't mean those things, boo. You know how I gets from time to time.”

We go back and sit. She gets back to my hair. Ayanna asks, “Did his being gone so much leave your momma lonely?”

That catches me off guard. In a good way. “Momma was busy taking care of her four little boys. She was proud of her husband.”

“He's done a lot for his people.”

I say, “But everything has a price.”

“Elaborate.”

“Long story.”

“Does it look like I'm going anywhere?”

That warmth, her sensitivity gets me to talking. Right now I need to talk. Think I'd tell the world the truth about anything. So, I tell Ayanna about my momma. About all the nights I woke up and saw her walking the floors of our home by herself, her Salem 100 burning in her right hand while she held herself with her left, her short nails running up and down her Creole skin. Talk about her restlessness, her loneliness, heard the covers rustle as she tossed and turned, as she slept alone with her smokes by her side, hoping our phone didn't jingle at 3 a.m. with bad news.

I say, “And when my old man came home, his suitcase never had a chance to get cold.”

“That bothers you?”

“Well, when it's time for my family, I wanna be there. Want my wife to be able to sleep at night. Want to see my kids when they wake up in the morning. At least I hope I will.”

“His being gone all the time still bothers you.”

“What bothers me is how much he gives and gives to a world that doesn't seem to care.”

Then I chuckle.

She asks, “Wanna share?”

“Thinking about when you said your old man slapped you for asking who made God.”

“I'm not laughing up here. That's a sensitive issue for me.”

I tell her about when I was a teenager and I wanted to let my hair grow long, wanted to fit in with the crowd, with my peers, have it in a shag, or get a curl, and my old man refused to have his sons walking around looking like that.

I tell her, “I stood in his face and said, ‘Jesus had long hair.' ”

Ayanna laughs, because she knows.

I say, “He slapped the shit out of me.”

“His hands are huge.”

“Knocked my ass into the middle of next week.”

We laugh a lot. Talk a lot. Look toward Nicole a lot. Wish this laughter and openness was in trio.

Ayanna tells me about growing up. Good Fridays and wrapping the maypole and holy water and penance and years of Latin and giving up things for Lent and corporal works of mercy and contests to see who could keep the ashes on the longest.

And excommunication.

I say, “I'm confused. Thought your daddy was Baptist or something?”

“He is. Momma's Catholic. And once a Catholic always a Catholic.”

“So you're Catholic.”

“I'm a lot of things. We all are.”

“What are you now?”

“Right now I'm struggling. I believe in hell, just not so sure about heaven. Not the kind of materialistic, gold-lined place that people in the pulpit promise on Sunday mornings.”

We talk some more on that. The struggling. I guess I'm struggling too.

When she's done with my hair, after it dries, we clean Nicole, then turn Nicole again.

Ayanna tells me, “You're different.”

“How's that?”

“I thought you were weak, but you have depth.”

I say, “Things are never what they seem.”

At some point I fall asleep.

When I wake up, Ayanna is sitting next to Nicole, one hand on her, reading one of my books.

I watch her read. She smiles when she sees me. Then goes back to reading.

Ayanna leaves around noon.

While she's gone, I have my moments with Nicole. Hand-holding moments as the sun fills the brilliant blue skies with hope. Ayanna comes back an hour or so later, comes back in clean, colorful, oversize sweats, looking comfortable and ready to wait for eternity, and she has a huge bag from Tropix. It's filled with Jamaican food.

And three cups of overpriced hard-to-pronounce java from good old Starbucks. That reminds me of when I stood in my hotel window, watching Nicole struggle to be at two places at once, a divided soul wanting to please two lovers.

While we eat and sip, Ayanna taps my books and says, “I'm sorry ... sorry for all the evil things I said to you.”

“Ibid.”

She smiles.

We both sound like we're in some sort of AA program, because I guess we are both addicted, now going through the twelve steps, this step being where we apologize to all we have done wrong.

If my love for Nicole was fire, and Ayanna's love for Nicole was gas, we could blow up the universe. We hug. Hug and see who will hold on the longest. Our spirits dance a long dance.

After we eat, Ayanna gathers all the trash and takes it away. When she comes back she says, “This could go on for weeks. Months. That's what the doctor said.”

“I know.”

“How long will you stay?”

“I'm not leaving. I've never left her.”

She smiles. “Check out of the Waterfront. Stay at our house.”

I smile. Match her generosity with appreciation.

I say, “You sure about that?”

“I can't do this alone. You can't do this alone.”

I nod. And that simple gesture seals that deal.

Days slip by.

I'm in the hallway stretching my legs when I see a nurse hugging a man. He has long-stemmed roses and a box of candy.

I go back to the room and say, “Ayanna.”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“It's Valentine's Day.”

She blinks and blinks. “Already?”

Time has escaped us. They would be in Spain now, and I'd be on the east coast selling books from city to city. Spain, books, none of that is important anymore.

Ayanna dresses up like she's on a date. I do the same.

Flowers, candy, heart-shaped balloons, we decorate the room with it all. Have our own little party.

And in the middle of all that celebration, the EKG alarms again.

Then come the jerks, the spasms; worse than the first time. Her bowels scent the air. Eyes rolling, peeping at the backside of her brain. The emergency crew comes. Take her. MRI. CAT scan. Hours pass before they bring her back. Let us know that the ship is sinking deeper into the murky abyss.

Joe Black walks these halls. It's Valentine's Day, but he never takes a day off. They have a special room down in the basement for the people he shakes hands with. Treats newborn babies the same as adults, men the same as women, black the same as white. An equal opportunist who whistles while he works.

I call Nicole's mother again. This time she answers.

While I tell her what has happened since my last message, she listens.

In the end, when I'm done, she calmly says, “That was God.”

I say, “It was a truck.”

“It was God.”

“When did God start wearing high heels and get a California driver's license?”

“It was God.”

And she hangs up.

I try to call back, but the machine has been turned on. Nicole's siblings call. Other members of her family call and want to know if they should come right now. The phone never stops ringing. The phone rings and rings and rings. Not a jingle, not another word from Nicole's mother.

The spasms come again.

And again.

Nicole sinks deeper. Moves farther away from us with every breath.

Five times a day, Ayanna faces the east, palms to the sky, and prays.

Three times a day, I go down to the chapel. Face the altar and say my words.

When you're underwater holding your breath, two hundred eighty-eight hours is forever. Twelve days. That's how much time goes by. Four in the morning. That dreaded four in the morning. The time when the world makes those calls to let someone's friends, someone's family know that they are no longer available for breakfast, no longer available for lunch, will never make it to another dinner.

I'm sitting next to Nicole, lights on low. Sleeping. I jerk awake. I glance over at her and she's watching me. Not blinking. The eyes of the dead.

Once again my insides fold; I inhale so deeply it hurts my ribs.

Then Nicole's lips move. Her chest rises and falls. She blinks. Eyes move around.

I say, “Nicole?”

Ayanna is on a cot near the window, locks wrapped in a bright yellow scarf, moonlight falling on her butterscotch face, sleeping in jeans and a WHARF TO WHARF RACE sweater that swallows her frame.

I jump, push the button for the nurse, call Ayanna's name, lean over and shake her. She jumps out of her REM sleep. Eyes looking worn, heavy under the bottoms, as if years have gone by in days.

I keep talking, “Nicole? Stay with us. We're here.”

Ayanna talks too. “Sweetie. I'm right here. Can you hear me?”

Nicole's eyes are moving around, out of focus. Searching.

Nicole frowns. Frowns like waves of pain are waking up her body.

We smile at her agony. Only the dead feel nothing.

Ayanna holds her left arm close to Nicole's ear, jingles her bracelets.

Nicole struggles, sounds like she says, “Itch. Ing.” We laugh light and low. Ayanna's trembling, rocking, leaning forward in sprinter's position.

Nicole keeps trying; “Itch. Ing.”

The nurse comes. The rest of that team comes too. Nicole's doctor's not here, has to be called back to the hospital, but another comes in her place. They rush into a room of nervous laughter.