I Almost Forgot About You (24 page)

“I've found quite a few relatives and old friends, too.”

“I haven't done that yet. But hopefully I still have time.”

“So can I be honest with you?”

“Stupid question, Abraham.”

“I'm so proud of what you've done with your life and what you're still trying to do, and I'm glad you're not one of those women in their fifties who're bitter because past relationships or marriages didn't work out, and you haven't thrown in the towel and given up on men and love, and I'm thrilled you've still got the same fearlessness you had in college, because here you are thinking of giving up a lucrative profession to jump out into the abyss. Try a whole new path. You still rock, lady, as my youngest says.”

“Thank you, Abraham. Here's my testimonial: I'm glad you didn't become a pothead and that you took horticulture seriously, and I respect and admire what you're doing for black farmers, because I know how they got screwed by the government. I'm even more thrilled that you stand for something, and even though it might feel as if we missed the boat, we didn't. I don't think we need to go back. And I'm happy you found a woman who makes you happy.”

“Thank you, sugar.”

“Please stop with the sugar, Abraham.”

“Okay, Georgia, so what are you saying?”

“I would so much love to have sex with you, but I'm afraid that if I do, I would probably want to pretend like we're nineteen and on my Murphy bed and that I'm about to hit number four. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think we should keep our clothes on.”

“See what I mean? You're still using that amazing brain, and I'm still thinking with the one in my pants, although I was just about to tell you that this would probably be a mistake, because I still and always will love you, and it would be selfish of me to hurt Maya.”

“This is music to my ears. A man with a conscience. And I am thrilled to finally admit to myself and to you that I have loved you for thirty-four years, so there.”

He pulls me up to a standing position, and I walk him to the door.

“But,” he says, looking down at me, “may I pretty please just have one of those deep, juicy kisses I used to love, for old times' sake?”

And he bends down, and I stand on my toes, and his lips are sweet and warm and soft, and as soon as I feel that waterfall, I gently push him away, and he steps back the same way he did right before he walked out of that restaurant, handsome and strong.

“It was good seeing you, Abraham.”

“It was more than good seeing you, Georgia. Thank you for not forgetting.”

I watch him get into his car and disappear down the hill.

I close the front door.

And lean back against it.

I should've married him.

“Well?”

“ ‘Well' what, Wanda?” I ask back. I'm finally doing laundry. Something I've almost forgotten how to do.

“Don't play with me, Georgia. Did you give it up or not? Did he get rid of the cobwebs? Did you fall back in love? Is he the same or better or worse after a thousand years?”

“We hugged. And he's much better.”

“Hugged? Clothes off or on?”

“On.”

“Don't tell me Abraham's gay?”

“No. But he's engaged.”

“And? That's not the same as married.”

“I told you I wasn't trying to hook up with him, Wanda. My goodness.”

“Did he want to or he didn't want to?”

“Oh, he wanted to. We both did. But it would've been dangerous for both of us.”

“You know what? Don't even bother explaining. I don't know any man in his right mind who would turn down some free pussy.”

“You can really be crass sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, it's for your ears only. Anyway, so how'd he look? And what's he been up to?”

“He looks better now than he did back then. He's a farmer.”

“A what?”

“He owns a farm. He grows soybeans and rice and sweet potatoes and fights in Congress for black farmers. And he lives outside of New Orleans.”

“You sure that's all he grows?”

“Let me say this. It was cathartic for both of us.”

“Well, that's just great. And pretty fucking boring. I'm very disappointed that nothing came out of this. Not even a single orgasm. What a waste.”

Estelle had to go and have another girl, and Frankie had a boy three weeks later. I understand that the twins aren't crazy about Dove. In fact, they said they wish she'd fly away. With those two she-devils running around, Dove's going to have to be one cool baby sister.

I volunteered to take a few days off to help Estelle, but she insisted it wasn't necessary. I asked her how Justin was adjusting to his new daughter, and she just said that Justin's making all kinds of adjustments and asked me to give her a few weeks to get settled into more mothering, so what else could I say?

Levi, my grandson, looks about thirty when I lay eyes on him. Even though he's black, he looks Chinese, but he smells new. His eyes are tiny black marbles.

I've been holding him in his mint green blanket for a half hour, and he's just fallen asleep. I like the way Levi feels in my arms, so I don't put him in his crib. Frankie's decided to take advantage of my grandparenting presence and has beelined it to Target to buy a few things and get a Starbucks.

I look around their Hansel-and-Gretel house and can't imagine how they pass each other without bumping.

OMG! This little boy is snoring!

I try not to laugh as I push myself up from this crunchy rattan chair, but it takes another attempt before I'm standing. Levi isn't fazed as I walk into his parents' room and put him in his crib. There's about six inches between his bed and theirs. This room is the size of my walk-in closet, but—like mother, like daughter—it's full of color. The walls are turquoise, but the ceiling is pale orange. They painted the door goldenrod, which doesn't make much sense to me, but then again I don't have to live in this tiny box they call home.

I shouldn't judge.

While he sleeps, I go into the kitchen to get something to drink and see what looks like a pile of typewritten papers on the cute little IKEA table. It's one of Frankie's stories. It has no title. As soon as I start reading, I realize it's written in the voice of an elderly woman who has magical powers and can make pain evaporate in those who don't deserve it. This is my daughter. I'm only up to page ten when I hear her pull up, and I quickly straighten the stack as neatly as it was and go sit in the living room.

I hope she changes her major again.

Hunter was right.

I open the front door for her. “You need help?”

“Nope. I'm good.”

“Are you sure? You shouldn't be lifting anything heavy yet, Frankie.”

“These Pampers are weightless, and so is my latte. How's my little man doing?”

“He's fine. Frankie?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I read some of your wonderful story, and I wasn't snooping, but I just want you to know how impressed I am, and if what I read is any indication of how good you are, please don't stop.”

Her eyes open wide, almost in disbelief. But then she sees the sincerity in mine and relaxes.

“That means so much to me, Mom,” she says, and gives me a strong hug.

I head into their room to check on the little man, and those sparkling black eyes are wide open, and I swear he's smiling at me. I'm pretty sure sweet Levi already knows who his grandma is.

“I'm afraid I'm not the bearer of good news,” Marina says at the close of business, which seems to be the only chance we get to talk about anything. I should've known that something was up, because for the first time in almost five years she's not wearing black.

“Come on in and have a seat,” I say, since my door isn't closed. I lean back in my chair and want to cross my arms, but it might make me look like I'm upset, which I'm not. I knew that this day was coming. I'm just surprised it's taken so long.

“I'm moving to New York,” she says as she eases into the chair in front of my desk, sliding it back to make room so those long legs don't bump into it.

“This sounds like good news to me.”

“I need a change. Haven't you ever felt like that, Doc?”

“I think I have.”

“I mean, seriously. When every day feels the same and the needle just doesn't move?”

“It's the reason I've been divorced twice.”

“I heard that,” she says.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“About to pop that cork now.”

She goes over to my hidden refrigerator and whips out a bottle of something good.

“Yes, I believe in product replacement,” she says, laughing. “Sometimes after everybody's gone, I've sat in here and blasted Pandora and only leave the lighting on in the cabinets, and I'll be honest, I've had sex with a few boyfriends in the lunchroom, on the floor behind the reception counter, and even in the exam-room chairs—which is fabulous, I might add.”

“And you think this shocks me?” I ask, amused.

She runs to the lunchroom and comes back with two plastic glasses, even though I have real ones in the cabinet. She pops the cork and pours us both a full glass of sauvignon blanc.

“You've got good taste in wine, Doc.”

“Glad you approve, Miss Thang,” I say, and try to get the smirk off my face but then decide I want her to see it. I take a very long swallow, then cross my legs as if I'm waiting for her to tell me the real reasons she's ready to leave the Bay Area. “So I want to know what you're going to do in New York, which is even more expensive than San Francisco, but I'm not asking to be discouraging so don't take it that way.”

“I'm not! Do you know where I've been living all these years?”

“With your parents?”

She nods.

“It's embarrassing, but I've had the freedom to come and go as I please, and I've managed to save up a bundle. I've got a cousin in New York who lives on Roosevelt Island, and I'm going to try to find a job in fashion. It's always been my passion. I've been taking merchandising and fashion-design classes at the Academy of Art on weekends and evenings, so I'm bringing something with me.”

“Why haven't you ever said anything?”

“Because I didn't want you to think I had another agenda. Like some fine man I know.”

“You thought Mercury was fine?”

“Hell to the yeah.”

“I'm glad you've
had
an agenda, because I know you had so much more going for you, Marina. I'm thrilled you're finally taking a risk on yourself.”

“Give me an example of a big one you took. Wait, hold that thought,” she says, and jumps up to head over to the fridge. “You don't mind today, do you? Since we're celebrating, aren't we?”

“Drink whatever you want to. I can put you in a cab if you get too buzzed.”

On that note she refills her glass, and I gulp the rest of mine down and hold it out. She pours, sits back down, and puts her elbows on my desk. All ears.

“This is about you, Marina.”

“Okay, forget about the risk bullshit. How do you make changes when you get old— My bad, again, Doc. I meant ‘older.' Forgive?”

“Forgiven. But let me just say this. When you get older, you have the understanding that it would be stupid to change what's been working for you, but sometimes you come to your senses and realize you're not happy, you're bored and lonely, you haven't been laid in years, and on top of all this you admit that your profession is dull and unfulfilling and you just decide you're going to break up the monotony and sell your big-ass home and you're going to take some classes in anything that excites you and you're also going to sell your interest in your practice and then figure out what the hell you're going to do next.”

“No shit?” And she holds her hand up to give me a high five. “How many years?”

“How many years what?”

“Since you've been laid.”

I count four fingers.

“You've gotta be fucking kidding me!”

I now realize I'm almost drunk and should never have admitted to that and especially to a thirty-year-old, sexually active, attractive, six-foot-tall Japanese woman! But: too late.

“I wish I were. But you don't die. It only feels like you're dying. Which is why I'm about to become a whore!”

And we both slap the desk too hard with our palms, and we're not that drunk because it stings both of us, and we can't stop laughing. But then we do. And a kind of sadness suddenly takes the laughter's place.

“So does this mean you're seriously planning to leave optometry?”

“Yes.”

“Good. This is one boring fucking profession.”

“It is.”

“When?”

“Next year, hopefully.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Paint stuff. Make stuff. Turn tricks.”

“Ha! What kind of stuff would you paint and make?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Paint something cool, but please don't make any curtains or shit like that!”

“I won't.”

“So since this probably is going to be like our last hurrah, can I ask you something that might sound corny, since you're old and full of wisdom?”

I'm just going to go ahead and be old this evening. “Nothing is corny, Marina.”

“Okay. So. What do you wish you'd done differently when you were young?”

“Whoa. Wow. Why?”

“I just want to know, when I get old—I mean older—if I'll have like a long fucking list of regrets. I don't know why I can't stop swearing, and I hope I'm not pissing you off.”

I shake my head. “Well, I think we have regrets at every age. But can you be a little more specific?”

“No, I can't. Just say whatever comes out, Doc.”

“I need a minute to think about that.”

“Hold that thought! I need to pee. I mean go to the bathroom.”

“Wait! I hope you're giving us at least a two-week notice.”

“Try three months from now. I'm Japanese. I plan my life in advance. Plus, I wouldn't stick you and Dr. L.”

And she dashes off.

I don't know if I can answer her question right now. I'm feeling a little tipsy myself, but I take another sip anyway. This is fun. And she's back! Marina must pee like a bird.

She flops down in the chair and leans on her elbows and stares those glassy eyes into mine. “I'm listening.”

“I don't know. I wish I'd read more so I'd know more.”

“Are you fucking serious? That's the first thing that comes into your head? Come on, Doc, rattle 'em off like you've got Tourette's or something—and I mean no offense to anybody with Tourette's, God.”