I Almost Forgot About You (5 page)

“Don't say that,” I say.

Wanda's driving, which is a mistake, because she's not good at staying in her lane. “Everybody can be found somewhere on the Internet.”

“Apparently that's not true.”

“Did you ever meet any of his relatives?”

I shake my head.

“Not even his mama?”

I shake my head again.

“Then he's probably in prison.”

“I don't want to think either one could be true.”

“What would you have said to him anyway?”

“I don't exactly know.”

“Yes you do,” she says.

“I don't feel like telling you, Wanda, especially since it didn't happen.”

“But you weren't even in love with Abraham, if I remember correctly.”

“I didn't put that label on it back then, but I actually think I was. He scared me. And I scared myself. But so what? I'll be forever grateful to him for generating my first orgasm. You don't forget that.”

“That's for sure. Not to skip the subject, but I'm skipping the subject for a minute. Have you done anything about the house yet, or are you already getting cold feet?”

“I can't lie. Ever since I decided to do this, I've been nervous as hell, but I've been telling myself it's normal to be scared when you're about to make a major change in your life. So, to answer your question, I've interviewed three Realtors and think I've settled on one.”

“That's my girl!” she says, and gives me a high five right before she pulls into a parking space. Before us there are nothing but sexy white sailboats and fat yachts rocking in their berths. Behind us are steep green hills full of hip houses, some with giant windows jutting out and some on stilts that you couldn't pay me to live in, views or no views.

“Well, they all basically said what I already know. That because of the economy the real-estate market is taking a beating so it could be up to a year before the house sells. But I'm not in a rush. I've still got some other things to figure out.”

“I think it's exciting. That you don't feel too old to do this. Seriously. I'm proud as hell of you, if you want to know the truth.”

“Why, thank you, huzzy.”

“Hurry up. Our reservation is in five minutes.”

We finally jump out of the car and walk as fast as we can past shop after beautiful shop. I don't bother looking. Wanda doesn't either, because she wouldn't dream of buying anything over here, since the prices are way too high for her.

“So who do you want to look for next?” she asks.

“Listen, I'm not thinking about men right now. I'm thinking about lobster.”

“What about Brad?”

“He doesn't count.”

“Why not? You lived with him for three long months!”

I start laughing. “We were roommates.”

“You slept in the same bedroom with that
roommate.
”

“He stole money from me. Plus, I didn't love him.”

“What?”

“I just never told you or Violet.”

“You know we didn't like his ass anyway. He was below you, and he looked sneaky. With those little bird eyes. He was a waste of a perfectly good summer.”

“It was forty-eight dollars.”

“Delete him from your list.”

“I don't have a list!”

“Well, why don't you make one?”

“First of all, Wanda, I'm only interested in finding the men I was in love with, not the ones I just slept with.”

“I'll bet you a hundred dollars you can't count the ones you screwed.”

“You are starting to piss me off.”

“You can't even name them, can you? Because that list is probably too damn long. Ho.”

“How many are on
your
list, huzzy?”

“Two. Because I found what I needed early. Anyway, I know who you loved, but I want to hear you say them just in case I missed some, since you were so sneaky.”

“Oliver. David. Eric. Carter. And Lance.”

“See what I mean? Who in the hell are Carter and Lance?”

“Well, like Ray, they didn't know I was in love with them.”

“Why not?”

“Forget it, Wanda. Let me just say this, since you obviously don't get it. You can fall in love in a nanosecond, and there's really nothing you can do about it.”

“Yeah, and how's that work?”

“I'm not even going to bother explaining it, but there's a reason so many of us act like we're possessed.”

“Speak for yourself. Why aren't you including the ex-husbands? You did love them, if I remember correctly.”

“Because I still hate Michael.”

“You couldn't possibly after all these years, Georgia.”

“He cheated on me.”

“And he's the father of one of your children.”

“He was a mistake. She wasn't.”

“Where is he these days?”

“Last I heard, he moved to Chicago to work for some Big Eight firm. Estelle doesn't talk to me about him, because she knows it'll make me break out in hives.”

Wanda shoves me through the door of the restaurant, which looks like the lower level of a giant old sailboat complete with portholes, thick wooden walls, long rubber sharks, and silver fish hanging on them. We can see straight out to the deck, which juts out over the water.

“And Niles?”

“Can you use social media when you're behind bars?”

“Shouldn't he be out by now? Anyway, I think you should start with the husbands and get them over with. Find out if Niles is a free man. But Michael should be next.”

“Is this a directive, Lieutenant Jeffries?”

“Look, this whole mission was your bright idea, so if you're going to do it, do it in chronological order. That way you can see when and how and why you made such bad choices in men, which might help explain why you're still lost and confused.”

“Go straight to hell, Wanda,” I say, laughing.

“Been there once. Didn't like it.”

“Look. In all honesty, I don't really care what Michael's doing or who he's doing it with. In fact, I think I'll skip him.”

“You are such a hypocrite. I thought you said you wanted to get a new perspective, forgive them or yourself, and maybe tie up some loose ends.”

“I did. But I think these would be called knots.”

So everybody's not on Facebook. And everybody can't even be Googled. Last night, before I went to bed, I took a peek at my home page, and apparently no one wants to be my friend. The only thing I see is a photograph of an old school and bold letters that say “40th Class Reunion!” Have I really been out of high school forty years? I'm almost ashamed to admit I've only been to one reunion, and that was the tenth, and I left early. By the twentieth I'd pretty much forgotten about high school, for the same reasons you don't reminisce about kindergarten when you're headed to middle school.

Nevertheless, I decide right here right now that I'm going to this one. Why, I don't know. I RSVP. Besides, it's a whole year away. I have no idea what to expect or if I even remember some of the nerds and sluts I graduated with. What I remember most about high school is heat, tumbleweed, and dust. I was popular but not well liked, because the word had gotten around that the reason I was in so many honors classes was that I skipped two grades in elementary school, putting me in the same grade as Roger, my older brother, who decided to skip college to join the army, which is how we lost him at twenty-two. There weren't very many black kids in my high school, and I often felt lonely. I'm so full of shit. I was just bored to death. By my senior year, I was tired of all the do-nothing clubs and couldn't wait to flip my tassel. I generated even more adversaries once the word got out that I wasn't going to Cal State Bakersfield but rather to the University of California in San Francisco. Bitch.

But that's all behind me. I now have a damn good incentive to lose twenty pounds by this time next year.

I log out.

Or off.

Whatever.

So. Since Wanda opened her big mouth about the order I should consider looking up the five but probably seven men I loved, I'm also curious about how many I've had sex with. Since my social calendar isn't exactly backed up this evening, I've decided to dig out my old phone books to see how many of these guys I can resurrect.

Back in the day, I used to save every single phone book and bought a new one only when the pages started falling out or when so many folks had been crossed out because either they'd moved too many times or their number had changed so many times, which meant it had probably been disconnected for nonpayment—mine included—and sometimes I had to look in my own phone book to remember my new number. I always wrote the date the new book started and ended on the back cover with a Magic Marker, which is why I never bought a black book. I put my current address on the inside page so I'd be able to remember where I'd lived when I got old and nostalgic like I'm feeling now. Last but not least were the people I just wanted out of my fucking life for one reason or another, so I'd either draw lines through their names or a wide X or scribble so hard I'd sometimes rip right through the page and shred the person on the other side. This left many a phone book looking more like a scratch pad. Which is what forced me to buy a new one.

Times have sure changed.

As I grow older, I realize there's something to be said for nostalgia and not getting rid of stuff that holds memories, which is pretty much your personal anthropology and can document your evolution on so many levels. The same can also be said for all the photographs. I separated them by what I called my Wonder Years from all the branches and leaves that constituted my entire family. I have some cracked black-and-white photos of my grandparents' grandparents, who were slaves in Alabama and Mississippi. For stupid reasons I tossed my yearbooks a long time ago. I didn't want to remember those folks, and I also hated my pictures. I was not even close to cute when I was young. This was, of course, before I discovered makeup. And I don't want to question my hairstyles back then, because it'll just make me think about headbands.

I go downstairs to the guest room and open the closet. And there's the cheap black trunk I took with me when I went away to college. Before I can slide it out, I have to move two big red boxes that hold all my special Christmas ornaments. I haven't had a tree in two years, since Frankie's been at NYU. I'm not feeling like a tree this year either. Santa doesn't stop at my house anymore. I still leave my porch light on at Halloween, because I don't ever want to think I've given away my last treats.

I figure I should probably get a little buzz to do this. And as much as I would love it if Wanda and Violet were here so we could stroll down memory lane together, I probably need to do this alone. Plus, they don't know everything I did or who I did it with. They only think they do. After I slide the trunk and a few boxes across this purple carpet, I run upstairs and pick out a decent enough bottle of chardonnay and grab a cheap wineglass and run back downstairs. I pour myself a glass and drink half of it standing up. I turn the intercom to Pandora, not really caring what genre it is, but as soon as I hear “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, I do know I'm not in the mood for hip-hop, so I turn it to the channel that plays music that makes you feel like you're either floating in space or underwater. I kick off my Uggs and sit on the floor right in front of the closet door that now may never close until I move out of this house.

I reach over and lift the top of the trunk and look down inside and am shocked at how neat everything is. The first thing I grab is a big Ziploc that's full of cards and letters. Since my mother never wrote me any letters, I know these are either to or from some of
Them.
I toss this over near the blue bed. I have a feeling this is going to be fun.

My cell phone shivers on the carpet.

I pick it up. It's my oldest.

“Hi, Mom. What are you doing?”

I don't really know how to answer that, and I hate it when people ask me. What if you're not doing anything? Then you have to explain how you do nothing. But I also don't want to tell Estelle the truth. So I lie. “I'm reading.”

“What are you reading?”

Shit.

Nosy Posy!

“
1,000 Places to See Before You Die,
” I say because it's on the table next to the bed. I want my guests to travel and then dream about it when they stay over.

She laughs. “And what page are you on?”

“It's
where.
I'm in Bora-Bora.”

“That's in French Polynesia.”

“See, it does pay to go to college. So what's up with you, honey-bunny?”

“Nothing. Just reaching out.”

“You never just reach out, Estelle. What's going on?”

“Remember, you're my mother, and periodically it's normal for me to want to call and just say hi.”

“Hi again. But we just talked a few days ago. Is there something going on?”

“No! Everything is copacetic. Have you heard from Frankie?”

“Not for a week. Why?”

“For some strange reason, she sent me a text and said she's madly in love. She never texts me.”

“What's this one's name?”

“Hunter.”

“Is he white?”

“The last two were, so why would she switch up now? You won't see me at her wedding. I don't care who she marries.”

“Oh, stop it, would you, Estelle?”

“Frankie's the one who needs to stop. She didn't come to mine because she was supposedly studying film in Paris. She's also a dingbat and a spoiled brat with a host of undiagnosed issues.”

I refuse to react to this. Estelle never has anything positive to say about her sister, and there's nothing wrong with Frankie other than being young and foolish. Estelle has been mad at Frankie since she was born and stole all Estelle's thunder—and attention—from Niles.

“So tell me, how are the twins and Justin?” I ask.

“Everybody's doing great. We might want to come visit you in the next couple of weeks, if that's okay.”

“The whole clan?”

“No, just me and the girls.”

Lord, help me. They're a handful, and they get on my nerves, but I probably shouldn't blame them for acting like kids when it's my patience level that seems to be diminishing right along with my hormone levels.

“That'll be fun,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can. “And you're sure everything is all right?”

“For the last time, everything's fine, Mom. I'd tell you if it wasn't.”

“Okay, then. Let's talk again in a few days, and kiss the girls for me.”

Estelle hardly ever calls just to chitchat, and her lighting into Frankie like this makes me think something else is going on. I just pray she's not having another baby, or she'll be stuck in that house forever.

Before I get a chance to take anything out of the trunk, the phone trembles again. This time I look to see who it is, and of course it's Wanda. “What do you want, huzzy?”

“I'm bored, and I need to get out of the house.”

“Then go stand outside.”

“Pour me a glass of whatever it is you're drinking. I'll see you in twenty minutes.”

I finish pulling out all the scrapbooks and phone books and line them up to form what winds up being a very short history. I set aside the scrapbooks that have photos of my brother and the card he gave me when he left for the army. A few years ago, probably closer to five, Ma gave me four of these photo albums and said, “There's probably a million hours of my life and my parents' lives cracked and stuck to these pages,” and I promised I'd have all the pictures and newspaper and magazine clippings scanned and digitized and some of them colorized. I'm ashamed I haven't done it, but I'm going to make good on that promise before it's too late.

I take a long, lazy sip of wine and decide I should just dive on into this trunk. I open it, and the first thing I pull out is a handwritten letter in what I can tell is my handwriting. “Oh, hell,” I say to the empty room as I unfold it. I grab my glasses, which are parked between my breasts, and read:

Darnell: Do me a favor and do not call me ever again in life, since you seem to keep getting me confused with your other whores. I am not a cheap date. One day if you're lucky enough to grow up, maybe you'll learn what it means to respect the female species and not assume that just because you happen to be good in bed, it's enough, because it isn't. I've had better. You're one of the reasons the phrase “He's a dog” was invented. If there are ever any classes on self-respect and respect for women, I suggest you enroll in them both. Have a fucked-up life.

Georgia.

I tip over from laughing so hard. I should've made a greeting card out of this letter and used it for a whole bunch of these bastards. I set this declaration aside and continue my scavenger hunt. There are plenty of cards: Valentine and birthday cards from Michael's sorry ass, but these were when he was sweet and purportedly still loved me; then there's a separate, one-gallon freezer bag full of corny cards from Niles that I knew he put absolutely no thought into, because there were always white women with blond hair on the front of them.

When I hear the doorbell, I push myself to a standing position and head upstairs.

“Coming!” I yell while dancing to an unidentifiable beat that's obviously not coming out of the speakers. This is just one more reason I like wine.

I open the door, and Wanda walks past me in a blinding orange muumuu that must have once belonged to her mother. I close my eyes and put my hands on my hips. “Well, with that getup you've come to the right place, since I'm strolling down Nostalgia Lane. What has gotten into you, Ms. Thang?”

“I was sitting in my favorite chair just stitching away, and Nelson was snoring on the sofa, and the dogs were snoring at the other end, and some stupid football game was on, and I suddenly got this overwhelming feeling of boredom, so that's when I called you. Where's the wine, or did you drink it all?”

“Let's go see!” I say, and follow her to the bar.

As she stands on her toes to reach one of my fine wine goblets meant for real guests, I tell her what I'm doing and explain that I'm looking for the fish I had to throw back, and she just shakes her head and pops the cork on a good bottle. Then we head downstairs, the hem of that muumuu making her walk like she's in a beauty pageant or something.