I Almost Forgot About You (7 page)

“Are you getting forked, too?” Scarlett asks.

“What do you mean ‘forked'?”

“We have a sign in our front yard, and it says ‘Forked' on it,” she informs me.

“No it doesn't, Scarlett! It has an
s
and an
e,
but we don't know how to say it.”

I cover my mouth.

“Where's your sign?” one of them asks, and I don't care right now which one it is.

“Granny doesn't have one yet, but my house isn't getting forked.”

“Wanna know another secret?” Scarlett asks.

“We're moving, too!” Gabby yells.

“You are?”

“Yes indeed!” she says.

“We're moving into someplace cheap, because Daddy can't keep paying for the whole house—”

“Which we do not need anyways,” says Gabby. “And Mom said when she finds a real job, we'll get to go to a real school.”

“We want to go to a real school, don't we, Gabby?”

She nods.

“Can you keep a secret, Granny?” Scarlett asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, thinking that apparently so can my daughter.

“Good, because we were not supposed to talk about this, and we don't want to get in trouble.”

“I won't tell.”

“Good. Now, what are we going to do for fun?” Gabby asks.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Walk where?” Gabby asks.

“Up the hill,” I say, pointing out the window.

“Not interested,” Gabby says.

“How about down the hill?”

“Okay,” Scarlett says.

So I change back into my sweats and sneakers, and we walk down the hill, but of course we have to walk back up, which almost kills me. Afterward we don't open that backpack Estelle sent. I let them eat forbidden snacks: unnatural cookies and potato chips, but when they see the Red Bull in the fridge, I draw the line. We watch two long cartoon DVDs, and they take turns reading me those silly but fun children's books I once loved, and of course I'm impressed with how well they can read and I applaud and applaud, and then I take them to In-N-Out Burger if they promise not to say they had that instead of the hummus and celery and the orange homemade soup that Estelle packed for them. Some people take all this healthy stuff entirely too far, and then one day you get cancer and die anyway.

We play hide-and-seek, but it's a bitch trying to find the two of them, and when it's finally four o'clock, I ask, “Do you guys ever take naps?”

They look at their little digital pink and orange watches.

“Is it Saturday?” Scarlett asks.

I nod.

“Not on Saturdays,” Gabby says.

“But aren't you girls tired?”

What a stupid-ass question.

“Wait! I made a mistake! It's Friday!”

They run and sit back on the sofa, looking bored, waiting for the next activity. I turn on the television. “Have you two ever watched
Judge Judy
?”

They shake their heads no.

I turn to her show. “You'll like her. She's funny!”

They sit through two shows without moving an inch. They are mesmerized and probably too confused to ask me what a past-due notice is or a loan or a scam or why the people are fighting over a ten-week-old puppy.

“Judge Judy is mean,” Scarlett says when it's over.

“What is a judge?” asks Gabby. “Is she like a preacher? And what is insurance, Granny?”

I tell them I don't know what insurance is but it's something I'm sure I should probably get. And on and on until I finally hear that door open and they jump up and run into their mother's arms like they haven't seen her in years, and I hug my daughter tight for trying to put on such a good front. I don't know what to say to her right now, and even though she looks refreshed and her brown cheeks are glowing, I can tell she's already thinking about tomorrow, next week, or next month. She uses rush hour as an excuse to head home, says thank you, and the girls give me a hug without being told, which means I may have finally scored some maybe-Granny-is-nice-after-all points. Estelle kisses me on the cheek and says she'll talk to me soon, and I hug her again, even harder this time, and say let's make it sooner.

When I hear the phone ringing, I'm lying on the sofa in the family room, my mouth wet from drooling. It's dark outside, and the clock on the wall says it's a quarter past eight! Shit! It's Wanda. I spring up and start running toward my bedroom. “I'm getting dressed right now! Be there in an hour!”

“Are you all right, girl?”

“I'm fine. Those twins wore me out! After they left, I decided to close my eyes for a few minutes.”

“Well, don't bother getting dressed. I'm on my way home. These folks must've all popped a Xanax or something. No one even laughed. It was boring. With one exception.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, they say you can talk a person up.”

“You are not telling me Michael was there.”

“I kid you not. He was with some cute Asian chick who looked like one of her parents must be black, but she was also young enough to be his daughter.”

“He always liked them young and Asian, so what else is new? Wait a minute. Is this some kind of setup, Wanda?”

“Don't be ridiculous. He just moved back to the Bay Area.”

“I'm thrilled. And?”

“And what?”

“So how'd he look?”

“Well, you know we've always had different taste in men.”

“I mean did he look healthy?”

“Violet thought he looked old. She was talking his ear off when I left.”

“Did he ask about me?”

“Of course he did.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That you're alive and thriving.”

“Was he wearing a wedding ring?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

“He did give me his card and asked me for your number.”

“You didn't give it to him, I hope?”

“Of course I did. And he's going to call you, and you're going to talk to him.”

I slide down the wall to the floor. “I have nothing to say to Michael.”

“Georgia, this was part of your plan. So look at this as divine intervention. And try not to be a bitch when he calls.” She laughs.

I try to laugh, too, but I can't.

It's the crack of dawn. I'm making coffee when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my bathrobe pocket. I know it can't be my mother, because she's not back from her cruise. It's probably Frankie, who only calls this early from New York when she needs me to help her with yet another unsolved mystery in the ongoing saga of why her checking-account balance is negative. Of course I'll send it. Then again, maybe Estelle wants to confide in me for a change. She should know she can trust me. Besides Justin, I'm her biggest ally. And I'll help any way I can.

But when I pull out the phone, I see
MICHAEL MAYFIELD
on the screen. You have got to be kidding me. It's one thing to call the day after, but 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday? I drop the phone in the sink like it's hot and watch it slide around the stainless basin until it stops.

I could kick Wanda's ass. He's still the same arrogant son of a bitch he always was. I haven't seen or spoken to him since 2002, but I was on my best behavior at Estelle's college graduation. I sat six chairs away from his not-as-pretty-as-I-thought-she'd-be wife at the luncheon, and I planted and replanted a faux smile on my face whenever I caught him looking at me. “I'm so proud of our daughter” were my last words to him before waving good-bye in slow motion. What could he possibly want to talk about? He must want something. And right this minute I don't want to know what it is, at least not before my frigging coffee.

I drink two cups. I water the plants Percy thinks I neglect. I empty the trash. I microwave a Hot Pocket and take my sweet time eating it. I chase it with a glass of orange juice. I put three towels in the washer and turn it on. I'm disappointed when there's nothing in the dryer that needs folding. I'm trying to remember if I have any pets I've forgotten I have that might need to be fed. When I finally pick the phone up out of the sink, it almost feels as if Michael can see me. I hop onto a barstool and listen to what he has to say: “Hey there, Georgia. It's me, Michael. I'm sure Wanda and Violet probably told you I moved back to the Bay Area, and I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner, just to catch up. They said you're doing great. Not that I'm surprised. It'd be nice to see for myself.”

Dinner? He sounds more like an old friend than the ex-husband I still despise. I take a few minutes to figure out how in the world I would posture some oh-by-the-way-how've-you-been-doing-all-these-years? courage and some I've-been-good-no-not-married-but-in-a-blossoming-relationship courage.

I don't have any.

I walk into my room and fall across the bed and call my confidante.

“This is what you said you wanted to do, so cut the bullshit,” Wanda says after I give her the lowdown. “Not including Michael makes you a hypocrite. So go catch up. It won't kill you. And let me know if you fuck him. Bye.”

She loves to hang up after she makes her point, but she's right except for the sex part. I'd masturbate crossing the Bay Bridge before I'd even consider it. I sit up straight and dial.

“Well, hello there, Georgia. I didn't think you would call.” He sounds the same as he did thirty years ago. His voice is heavy, raspy, still confident. Bastard.

“Why wouldn't I? How in the world are you, Michael?”

“I'm doing great. Just as I hear you're doing. But I wouldn't expect anything less.”

“So what made you move back?”

“I was offered a partnership with my old firm, and I missed the Bay Area. As you may or may not know, Estelle refuses to give me any information about you except that you're alive, so I've stopped inquiring. But tell me what you're up to these days. I do know you remarried.”

“I did.”

“And are you happy?”

“I am. How about you?”

“Divorced.”

“Me, too. Was it the same woman you left me for?”

“Oh, Georgia. Yes and no. Look, would it be possible to have dinner to see if we can call a truce? It would be nice to see you after all these years.”

Without thinking about Wanda, I say, “Sure. Which side of the bay works for you?”

“Really?”

“What do we have to lose?”

“Should I wear my bulletproof vest?”

I burst out laughing at that.

“I can come over to the East Bay if it's easier,” he says.

“No, I could use a drive.”

“Does seven work for you?”

“That's fine. You want to choose?” I ask.

“No. You choose. Just text me and I'll be there.”

“How will I recognize you, Michael?” I say with sarcasm.

“My hair and beard are salt-and-pepper. And you?”

“I look like Beyoncé's twin. See you at seven.”

So now I have all day to kill. I go to the grocery store even though there's nothing I need. I get a mani-pedi even though I just had one last week. I choose hot pink for some reason. I get my eyebrows waxed. I have some individual lashes added. I go to Nordstrom and buy an uplifting black outfit that makes me look slimmer.

This kills most of the afternoon, which is why I need a nap. I lie down on the sofa in the family room and slide under a blue fleece blanket. I wiggle until my head rests on a pretty pillow I wish I'd made until I'm in a comfortable spot. I look around the room. It feels like I'm in a small museum. I stare at the furniture and wonder, if and when the house sells and I downsize, what I will keep and what I will let go. I watch the ceiling fan swirling slowly, and when I feel myself sinking, there is Michael. And me.

I met him in the campus library. We were both studying for hours at a long wooden table. Me for optometry and him for finance. As I started gathering up my notes, he said, “So you're interested in how we see?”

That was a good one.

I tried not to blush, because I couldn't tell if this was a come-on or if he meant it. After all, I had, from the corner of my eye, been pretending not to notice he was almost handsome, the color of raw honey, his thick lips so perfect I would've been willing to pay for a kiss, and from what I could see through those thick lenses, his eyes were chestnut brown, and Lord, he smelled so clean, like he'd just showered in fig and mint leaves or something, but whatever it was, I couldn't stop inhaling him, and he'd been making it difficult for me to focus on anything ocular. I'd simply been turning pages without seeing what was on them.

“I am. And you're interested in money?”

His crooked smile emerged while he shook his head, and I believe it was at that very moment I crossed over.

“I'm interested in money management. And you.”

We knew we were already possessed and stopped pretending we were studying and just packed up our books and highlighters and walked down Telegraph Avenue to a restaurant full of Boston ferns and spider plants and vanilla incense, and I said, “Wait a second. Before we walk into this house of ill repute, what's your name?”

That crooked smile again. “It's Michael. I don't have a last name. And what does one call you to get your attention?”

“Georgia.”

“I'll bet you a burger you're not from there.”

“I'll bet you some fries you're right.”

We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner in that restaurant and would probably still be there had they not been closing. In ten hours we discovered who we were. Where we came from. Why we were here. He looked into my eyes when he spoke, which made me uncomfortable at first until I began to soften. Then melt. He said please and thank you and “Would you mind if I…?” and “Have you ever considered…?” and “Did you know if…?” and he rolled up his sleeves when we got to Malcolm X and Socrates and God and freedom and pain and love and beauty and honesty and why Berkeley and where on earth do we go from here?

He walked me to my dorm and kissed me on my cheek. Then he asked if I'd mind if he swore. And I said go ahead. And he said, “Damn.”

And I said, “Damn is about right.”

A year later I was honored to be his wife, and he said he felt lucky to be my husband.

I wanted to blow his fucking brains out. But instead I just kicked him out and signed the papers in my pajamas when I got served. I became a ghost of myself. My mother helped with Estelle, because I couldn't get out of bed for almost two weeks except to go to the bathroom and bring in the paper. But I couldn't read it. I called the hospital where I worked at the time and told them I'd had an emergency and wasn't sure when I'd be in. I would end up using all my vacation time to recover from the hole that had been drilled into my heart. I didn't comb my hair. I didn't shower. I had no appetite and forced myself to eat yogurt. Saltines. Wanda almost broke the door down when I wouldn't answer the phone. She wanted to shoot Michael. Violet said this shit was like recovering from a C-section and that it could take up to a month before I'd be able to walk without wobbling and holding on to something.