Choose Me (48 page)

The wedding ceremony was followed by a long session of photography and videotaping. The photographer was a petite older woman
of about sixty, an independent, never-married aunt of Adam and Jade’s on their father’s side who had owned her own photography
studio for thirty-five years. She had a salt-and-pepper mini Afro and was dressed in a cream-colored fitted pantsuit that
accentuated her extra-small figure. The two cameras she alternately used looked like they weighed more than she did.

“The ceremony was nice,” I told Adam when we had a sit-down break between poses. “The vows, especially.” My gold-dyed shoes
were killing me, so I slipped them off and lifted my feet onto the pew.

Adam shook his head. “They should’ve memorized them. They didn’t sound natural.”

“They sounded alright. It’s the words that count, not the presentation. We can’t all be poets.”

“It would’ve sounded more ro … dramatic, if they had recited the words, instead of reading them,” he said critically, but
not harshly. Then he began reciting the words in his lyrical voice,
“Love is kind and patient, never jealous or boastful, proud, or rude … It doesn’t keep a record of wrongs that others do …”
His voice dwindled as he momentarily closed his eyes and massaged his torso underneath his tux. Although he was officially
recovered from the surgery and was in remission, I knew he still had pain management issues and was seeing a specialist who
kept trying different medications. Some of the drugs sapped his energy, and there were times when he would doze off when we
were together, other times when he seemed preoccupied.

“Show-off,” I said. “When
you
get married,
you
can say it the way
you
want.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me with mock scorn and I held his gaze as a camera went off, startling us.

“I just love your dress, honey,” Mattie, the photographer, cried. “An Indian sari out of African print. I love it, absolutely
love
it.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me get a picture of you two.”

“You just did, Aunt Mattie,” Adam protested.

“Don’t argue with me, boy. I want another one over there.” She gestured toward the rostrum where two columns were decorated
with an arrangement of lilies, foliage, and baby’s breath.

“Did she just call me ‘boy’?” Adam asked loudly of no one.

Adam pulled himself up with effort, pulling me with him as I struggled to step back into my shoes. We posed in a classical
bridesmaid-groomsman pose: turned slightly toward each other, holding on to the bouquet.

“I don’t like that. You look staged,” Mattie said, shaking her head. “Put your hands down. Look at each other like you were
looking at each other a little while ago.”

With everyone looking at us, I felt self-conscious and hesitantly looked up at Adam as he looked down at me. The flash went
off and I rubbed my eyes, pretending the bulb had blinded me.

As we walked off the lectern, Mattie held my arm and pulled me back. “What did you say your name was, sweetheart?” she asked
in a low voice.

“Eva.”

“Um-hmm. I’ve been watching you two eyeing each other all afternoon.”

Before I could tell her that Adam and I were just friends, she called up the rest of the wedding party for final pictures.
We were directed to gather around Jade and Akil, joining hands in what Mattie called “a circle of love and blessings.” Adam
leaned over to me.

“I’m ready to go,” he whispered in my ear.

“You can’t leave your sister’s wedding,” I whispered back.

“Watch me.”

He looked at me in that way he had been lately, like there was something on his mind, something he wanted to say but didn’t
know if he should. This confused me because I thought we had reached a point where we could tell each other anything.

The reception was held in Akil’s parents’ home, a Victorian three-story mansion with a wrap-around porch. It sat on a double
lot in Hyde Park. A beautiful rose garden and gazebo in the backyard created a ready-made decorated effect. The band, comprised
of college students from the nearby University of Chicago, played a variety of neo-soul and R & B love songs from the eighties
and nineties. Adam and I danced to a couple of ballads during which we held each other like junior high kids who were forced
to dance together at their first dance. Several times, his lips brushed my forehead, but whenever I looked up, his eyes were
closed as if it had been unintentional. We also participated in the usual group dances: the bus stop, the electric slide,
the cha-cha slide, dances I was familiar with, and which I infused with my own salsa moves. Adam ran out of steam after the
first two numbers and after I finally sat down, he commented that he didn’t know I could move “like a sistah.” It dawned on
me that we had never gone dancing.

The food was supplied by Jade’s catering business and included many of her family’s traditional Creole dishes, and an orange-wine
wedding cake. Jade took my advice and served sparkling white grape juice, which when slightly frozen tasted like bubbly champagne.
I noticed that Adam wasn’t eating much of anything, just drinking water and juice. When I questioned him, he claimed to have
an upset stomach.

As the afternoon wore on, I was a little overwhelmed by Adam’s and Akil’s extended families, even though I had gotten to know
many of them during the rehearsals and on the dance floor. Whenever I got the chance, I stole away for some quiet time, exploring
the mansion or some corner of the expansive yard. My solitude was interrupted every time by Adam, who would come hunting for
me, wondering why I kept disappearing. He still didn’t understand that sometimes I just wanted to be alone for the sake of
being alone. It didn’t necessarily have to mean anything. When the band started calling for a conga line to the tune of “Feeling
Hot, Hot, Hot,” I disappeared from the reception once again. I had noticed the small greenhouse at the far end of the yard,
and finding the door unlocked, I went in. Akil’s mother had a variety of breathtaking orchids and tropical plants. My first
thought was of my mother, how she had always dreamed of having a greenhouse. Then I remembered that I had never gotten around
to building my own.

From inside the greenhouse, I could hear the band begin to play the Chicken Dance, and despite being alone, I rolled my eyes
as I imagined the antics of the guests.

Just before Eli’s birthday party, I had taken Pastor Zeke’s advice and continued praying, rising early and doing my daily
devotion, falling to my knees at night, things I hadn’t done in a long time. Slowly but surely, I was beginning to feel God’s
presence in my life again, to participate fully in church once again, and in the Youth Ministry. I was beginning to let go
of the anger at the man who had murdered my child, let go of the helplessness I felt when I tried to make sense of Tony’s
death. Although no explanation was plausible, I was beginning to accept it, in spite of my efforts not to. When his birthday
rolled around, I was busy helping Adam convalesce, which kept me from getting depressed. It was still a horrible time, but
somehow I got through it. Next year, it would be easier, I told myself, a promising, yet somber thought.

The night after the party, after everyone was gone and I was finally alone, I sat in the backyard glider for what seemed like
hours, listening to the night sounds: the crickets chirping, the wind whispering through the leaves.

For some people, there was usually some event that triggered their reconnection with God. For some, it was a specific song
they heard, for others, a particular sermon that touched them. For me, it was being alone, in the middle of my backyard, the
night of my son’s birthday. That night, surrounded by God’s nature, I began my nightly prayer, waiting for His guidance. I
could have easily continued being complacent, letting the days slip by, going through the motions of life. But Eli, although
grown, still needed not only me, but God. I realized that even though my relationship with my father was far from ideal, it
was better than it had been. And I had finally begun to forgive and love myself, my life, once again. I was at peace in my
solitude, only this time I wasn’t wanting for anything, or anyone.

Even when Adam came back into my life and started making his way into the crevices of my mind, I remained steadfast and blocked
him out. When we were together, I didn’t allow him in my personal space and anything I felt, I kept to myself. In our e-mails
and phone calls, we shared so much more than we ever had before, about our deepest fears, our relationships with our fathers.
We were able to talk about anything—except the way we were, what we had meant to each other, and what, if anything, we would
be in the future. He respected my boundaries, never attempting anything. Had I been as strong in the beginning, that first
time I let him into my house, the kiss in the bathroom never would have happened, nor would’ve any of the events that followed.
Our attraction to each other was still quite obvious, at times tangible in the air between us, but because of other important
issues—his surgery and recovery, my ambivalent relationship with God, his rededication—we didn’t cross the line. And always
in the back of my mind was the promise I had made to God, when I feared my children would be taken from me:
I will never let another man come before You
…

In the distance, I heard someone at the microphone announcing the throwing of the bouquet and garter. Although I had no intention
of participating, I always enjoyed watching the unmarried guests clamoring for the trinkets that promised future matrimony.
As I strolled back to the reception, Adam headed toward me.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said impatiently, taking my hand. He steered me in the opposite direction, away from
the party. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“What? Now? They’re getting ready—”

“Come on.”

Adam headed straight for the lakefront, past Montrose Harbor, which was already under construction and fenced off, and on
to the next beach—Wilson. The lakefront was crowded and people turned and stared at our wedding attire like we were wearing
spacesuits. All around us, blankets were flying up, and picnic gear and garbage were being tossed about. He led me by my hand
as an impatient adult pulled a tired child, my heels sinking into the sand. Finally, he stopped at an unoccupied spot and
faced the water, his eyes closed tightly. He released me and I waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.

Despite his efforts to appear happy for his sister’s sake, I had sensed that something was going on. I started to ask him
what was wrong, but the grave look on his face stopped me. His lips were pressed against his teeth, his dense eyebrows furrowed,
like he had a headache or there was some kind of war going on in his mind. His hands were hidden in the pockets of his pants,
his long jacket open and blowing back from the muggy blasts of wind. Momentarily, I was reminded of that day, after the poetry
reading, when he hyperventilated, that foggy day I first fell in love with him. I panicked, fearing he was going to give me
some bad news about his health, and I thought the worst: that perhaps he was, after all, dying.

“Adam, are you alright?” At the sound of my voice, his body swayed back and his eyes flew open, as if he had forgotten I was
there.

“Wait,” he said, holding out his hand. “I want to tell you something.”

“What? Can’t we talk in the car?” Not only was the sun scorching down on us, but people were staring and pointing, some even
laughing, or maybe it seemed that way since we were definitely overdressed for the beach.

“I have something to say.” He wouldn’t look at me so I finally walked in front of him and tugged at his jacket. “A couple
of months ago, I thought I was going to die,” he continued.

I cautiously grabbed the hemline of his Nehru jacket, afraid of what was coming next, prepared for whatever he was going to
say, even if he said he had only so many months to live. What did one say to that? “But you didn’t,” I assured him.

“You … I want you to know I appreciate everything you did. For being there … your prayers. You renewed my faith in God and
that’s something I didn’t think would ever happen.”

I had renewed
his
faith in God? How was that possible when a few months ago, my own faith had gone stagnant? I turned around with my back to
him, not too close so that we were touching, but close enough so that I could feel the heat from his body. It was overpowering,
but at the same time soothing, and I wanted to stay there, stop time and bask in his solace. “What are friends for?” I asked
lightly, rubbing my burning arms.

“You’re more than a friend, Eva.”

“Okay. Ex-girlfriend,” I replied, still trying to make light of the situation.

“I want you to be more than that.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t trust myself to say anything. Did he know how hard it had been for me these past few months, watching
him suffer, wanting to hold him, love him.

“Are you listening?” He whispered in my ear: “I want us to be more than friends, more than what we’ve been.”

It was his survivor’s gratitude talking, I knew this. I had read about it. It was like making promises to God when you want
to get out of a bad situation, when all hope is gone.

“I brought you here because this is where I felt alive when I was sick. Out here, when nobody was around because it was too
cold, I felt the most alive. I felt like I was the only one in the world and it was just me and God. Remember the first time
you brought me out here?”

He brought his hands out of his pockets and turned me around to face him, but I could only look at his chin, where tiny hairs
were beginning to grow. He held my face in his hands, forced me to look at him. The warmth from his hands sent tiny prickles
of heat through me.

“I want you to know that when it’s cold, I want to be the one to keep you warm. When you’re scared, I want to be the one to
make you safe. When it feels like the end of the world, I want to be there with you. I want you to know … I have no problem
being number two in your life—”