My Daughter's Boyfriend (28 page)

Lauren 30

“Take me to Aaron’s,” I ordered Justine, as soon as we
drove about a mile away from the restaurant.

“Why you wanna go there, girl? He still back there with—”

“Will you just shut the hell up, Regis?”

“Excuse me!” she said, like she really didn’t care one way or the other, and increased the volume to the radio.

Zoe patted me on the thigh. I didn’t look at her. Looked out the window, into the blackness of the night. Knowing that something had to give.

WE PULLED UP IN FRONT OF AARON’S place.

“Thanks for the ride. I’m getting out here.”

Regis shot me a look. “I know you not going to see that scrub.”

“You have no idea what I’m going to do, so don’t even try it.”

I stepped away from the car and waved at the crew. Justine’s Buick crawled away; she kept looking at me with cautious eyes. One final look from Justy, and I found myself alone in the parking lot. I sighed and walked up to Aaron’s front door. Tapped lightly two times, then harder four times until my knock was answered.

“Oh, hey, how you doing?”

“Fine,” I mumbled.

He stared at me. My face and body felt the warmth of humiliation, like I’d just spilled a pitcher of grape juice on brand-new clothes.

“You all right, Lauren?”

“Yeah, I—I’m—no, I’m not all right. May I come in, please?”

Brad swung open the door and I slid past him into the living room. Set my purse on the couch and looked around. Sniffed the air. It smelled like nothing. Just like I felt.

“Whassup, Lauren? What’s going on?”

I opened my mouth, but it was like English was no longer my first or second language. I wished that he could read my mind, that he could say the words that were omitted from my mouth. Instead of reading my mind, he examined my empty hands, clasped one of them in his, and motioned at me to sit on the couch. I crossed my arms and began rocking back and forth like an eighty-year-old woman sitting on earth without a thing to do. He said nothing for the longest. But his silence didn’t make me feel bad at all. Felt like he understood. Or like he wanted to.

After a while he said softly, “You know, don’t you?”

I stopped rocking. “How could you tell?”

“Easy.”

“How?” I pleaded.

“Your face says it all, your body.”

“I just don’t under . . . I just don’t get it.”

He said nothing.

“Am I ugly?”

“Hell, nah, Lauren. Nothing ugly about you.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, nooo. Wouldn’t do that. You’re fine and you know it. Maybe your boy doesn’t know it.”

“Hmmm. My—my mom looks better than me, though, right?”

He shook his head. “Look, I don’t think it’s about how you look compared to your mother. Y’all two different women. Two different generations. No comparison.”

“But why didn’t he stick it out with me, Brad? Did he . . . did he ever tell you?”

He shifted in his seat.

“Never mind,” I told him, and rocked even more vigorously.

“Nooo, Lauren. I don’t have anything to tell you as far as all that. All I know is, stuff happens. Aaron, well, maybe he just felt he had to move on, you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t know. I feel it’s messed up to dump me because I’m trying to keep myself . . . and not because I wanted to, either, but just to please a woman who . . . I should’ve gone and done something anyway. Shouldn’t have listened to her. Hypocrite!” I yelled, releasing a lot of my pain.

The color in Brad’s face changed from brown to strawberry. His eyes grew as round as saucers. I wanted to laugh at his reaction, but I kept pulling my fingernails and twisting all my rings.

I thought about my mother. “I’m the one who tries to do the right thing, and I end up getting done wrong.”

Silence.

I jumped up and looked in the kitchen.

“Ugh, I could just—”

Brad leaped to his feet.

“You’re not going to start breaking things are you?”

“Ahh, ha-ha. That’s all you’re worried about, Brad?”

“No, that’s not all. Worried about you, too, Lauren.”

I looked at him. What he said sounded suspicious, but good. He walked to me and was so close I could detect the faint scent of his deodorant. He put his arms around me. Patted me on the back real soft-like. Barely felt it, but I knew his hands were on me. I stiffened at first. His hands on my body felt strange. Like they didn’t belong. But it was like his body couldn’t hear what my mind was saying. And he pulled me closer to him, against the warmth of his chest.

Comfort.

Acceptance.

“Am I ugly?”

“Nooo. Now stop asking me that before I lie and say yes.”

I smiled. Shoulders relaxed. My hands moved up his side, around his strong waist. Moved my head in closer to his shoulder.

Resting. Releasing. Feeling good. Feeling not so good. Wondering what I’d do if Aaron walked in. Wondering why I’d even care what he thought. Wondering what he and my mom were doing.

I looked up at Brad. One eye bigger than the other, yet they were still taking in all of me. Eyes talking to me. Telling me I’m okay. Nothing’s wrong with me.

I tilted my head. My lips advancing toward his. Been so long. Just this once. Couldn’t hurt. Already hurt.

Mmmmm.

Sweet connection.

His lips were sweeter than what I
ever
thought (not that I ever thought).

Brad’s tongue licked and folded my lips inside his wet mouth. I felt that familiar stirring. A stirring I thought belonged to Aaron alone.

My panties had no mouth but still spoke volumes, whispering in my ear,
You’re wet and getting wetter.
Maybe this is how it’s supposed to go. Maybe Aaron wasn’t the one. Maybe that’s why things happened the way they did. Maybe I’m losing my mind.

Brad’s hand inching down my back. Warm. Caressing. Sliding toward my starving behind.

Damn, that feels sooo good.

My legs shake, rattling like an impatient child’s. My butt automatically sticks further out.

Touch me all over.
I deserve this. Need this. Shoulda been
had
this.

Brad’s eyes were closed, his mouth open.

I could feel the heat of his breath stroking my cheek. Wanted his breath on more than just my cheek.

“You all right?” he asked huskily.

“I’m fi—I’m fine,” I croaked.

My knees were weak and as undependable as the rickety legs of an old wooden table.

“You want to go to my room?”

His voice sounded crackly and uneven. Like I couldn’t hear straight.

“Think you can carry me?” I heard myself say.

“Well, we’re about to find out,” he whispered.

I closed my eyes.

Felt him wrap his arms about me. One hand across my back, the other under the backs of my knees. Hoisting me up. I cradled my face in his neck. Eyes shut tight. Blacker than black is what I can see. He fumbled with the doorknob.

I heard a door squeaking and turning.

I smelled gym shoes, Lagerfeld cologne, and chlorine, like someone had been swimming.

Plop, I was on his bed. Don’t want to think about it. Don’t think about it. I heard the door being locked. My eyes were still closed. I saw nothing but blackness. Nothing but total darkness. And Aaron’s Chris Webber–like smile shines bright within my darkness.

Why is
he
smiling? He glad for me? Glad someone else can pay a rain check besides him?

I swallowed hard when I felt Brad lay next to me in bed.

“Lauren,” he whispered, but it was more of a statement than a question.

“I wanna see your body,” he said.

His words caused my knees and legs to shake. I had on black slacks and a black T-shirt, black knee-highs, and black Mary Janes. Felt his hands on my feet, on my shoes. Unbuckling them. Sliding off my knee-highs. I was as stiff as a corpse.

Hurry up, please hurry.

I listened for sounds, laughter, and additional voices. Hearing nothing, my body moaned within my soul. The coolness of the night caressed my breasts as soon as my T-shirt fell to the floor.

Is my Mom to blame for my shirt being on Brad’s floor?

If she hadn’t shown up at Mickey D’s with Aaron, would I be giving up my body? With Brad McMillan of all people?

Is this how I want to go out?

My feet were now bare. My soul exposed.

Zzzzzzzzz.

Brad’s hands unzipped my slacks. Warm hands. No, actually they were scorching. Didn’t know hands could feel like this, especially ones that didn’t belong to Aaron Oliver.

My eyes were closed, and I felt Brad looking at me. All that was left were my panties and a bra. I could feel his eyes walking up and down my body like it was an open field. His hands were shaking, and I was opening and closing my fists. He slid next to me. I opened my eyes. All he had on was his BVDs. He poked his finger under the fabric of my brassiere. My legs wobbled.

“Ahhhh, Lauren,” he moaned, and pressed himself into my thigh. His penis was hard, like it was made of mortar. I shuddered at the thought of mortar penetrating my body. Making itself at home inside the deepest part of me.

Brad ground himself against me, my thigh, my leg. I grimaced, wanted to roll out of the bed. His breathing was heavy, like he’d been running an all-day marathon. I guess I was the finish line.

I
am
finished if I let Brad McMillan be the first man to infiltrate my body.

Is this how I want to go out?

I wanted to cry.

Cry.

Anguish bursting within me like a dam, I let my insides out.

“You okay, Lauren? Why you crying? You worried it’s going to hurt?”

I sat up.

“No,” I said wiping my eyes. “I’m not worried it’s going to hurt. I
know
it’s going to hurt.”

“It’s always like that the first time,” he assured me.

I finally looked at him. The serious expression on his face suggested he was concerned, so caring. But was his expression sincere, or did he have the I’m-about-to-get-some look down pat?

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise not to hurt you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“Don’t promise me you won’t hurt me. How do you know what will or will not hurt me?”

He raised his eyebrows, looking baffled, and shifted his eyes to the side.

“Okay, I can’t promise you that it won’t hurt, but if it does, I won’t be doing it on purpose.”

I laughed.

“Gee, thanks for being honest, Brad.”

He looked at me without smiling, began sliding his moist hand against my bare shoulder.

I felt so weak. So close, yet so far. Brad embraced me tight, pulling me against his chest, squeezing me so hard I thought I’d done something wrong. He kissed my neck, lightly, sweetly. His body was a magnet. So hard to pull away. He grabbed my hand and we plopped on the bed, our arms and legs a mass of amorous entanglement.

The ringing phone made us stop what we’d started.

We locked eyes.

It rang again.

He hopped out of bed and opened the door. The answering machine did its thing.

“Hey, thanks for calling, but no one is home, so it’s entirely impossible for us to pick up this phone. Please leave us a message after the t-t-tone.”

“Hi, Brad, it’s A. Pick up if you’re there.”

Brad looked at me and then disappeared like a vapor. My hands fumbled for my shirt and slacks. Had one shoe on and was inserting my foot inside the other when Brad reappeared. He wore a hopeful smile and his eyes danced and sparkled.

“You leaving already? Don’t go. He ain’t coming home tonight.”

Instead of looking at Brad, I raised my eyes to the ceiling and mumbled, “Do you take rain checks?”

Tracey 31

The following Sunday morning, Lauren’s dad picked her
up for church. I just sat on the couch, forced myself to sit still for one hour straight. No getting up every ten minutes to open the refrigerator. No tinkering with the stereo.

I wanted to think, to have one clear thought after another, to get in touch with my inner spirit and hear what, if anything, was being said. Even though I didn’t want them to, my thoughts kept going back to my mother. I’d shut my eyes and shake my head, but I could still see her face. Her looking at me, face all miserable looking, and frowning. Showing me nothing more than what I’d been looking at most of my life.

It’s the spring of ’82. I’m sixteen. For the past few weeks I’ve been waking
up feeling so dizzy that as soon as I stand I feel like slumping to the floor.
I’ve been urinating seems like every half hour. The smell of anything
greasy gives me migraines. And don’t forget about the nausea. I hate
throwing up. Hate when my throat narrows and then contracts as I spew
out the most horrid taste imaginable. When I ate the catfish last night, it
looked and tasted so good that I devoured it, letting it go down my throat,
hot, spicy, and flavorful. But twelve hours later, as I looked inside the toilet, I saw pink remnants of my meal floating in the water, and I cursed this
thing that was causing me to lose my peace of mind.

I had just flushed the toilet and was rinsing my mouth with tap water
when my mother burst into the bathroom. I stood upright and felt my legs
shaking.

“Tracey, I heard you in here puking. Girl, what’s wrong with you?”

“N-nothing.”

Her stern eyes penetrated my face and crisscrossed down to my stomach,
which I began rubbing.

Her jaw tightened and her fingers beckoned me to follow her.

I began praying really hard, hoping for a miracle to turn my life
around.

“Have a seat,” she said, and pointed to the kitchen table. I sat and
looked at my hands.

“Tracey, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the
truth.”

I nodded.

“Are you pregnant?”

“I—no,” I told her cuttingly. My mother grunted and narrowed her
eyes. My lips trembled as I felt my heart hiccup inside my chest.

My mother grunted again and said, “Let me rephrase that. Have you
gotten a test to see if you’re pregnant or not?”

First my shoulders started shaking, then my legs followed. I tried to
hide my hands underneath the table, but they were trembling so hard they
wouldn’t fit.

“I asked you a question.”

“Mom, I don’t know, I think I’m just sick, think I’m just stressed.”

“Stressed from what? ’Cause you’re worried if you’re pregnant or not?”

“Mmmm, mmmmm,” that was me, weeping, wanting to be anywhere
but in my mother’s presence. Her tongue clucked, and the ridges in her jaw
were enough to make any grown person want to run for his life.

“We’re going to the doctor, Tracey. If you’re pregnant, there’s something
we can do about it.” She started thumbing through the Yellow Pages as if
I weren’t even there.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not having it.”

“Mom, what do you mean? What if I really am pregnant? I can’t kill
a baby.”

“You should’ve thought about that before you lied down with Derrick. It
is his, isn’t it?”

I averted my eyes and swallowed deeply.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Mom stormed from the kitchen and refused to speak to me until the day
she dragged me over to Dr. Feinstein’s o fice at Texas Medical Center. We
sat in the waiting room, she on one side and me on the other. She waited
stone-faced and clicking her heels together; I browsed through a couple of
raggedy
Seventeen
magazines.

Once the urine test was complete, it only confirmed what I already knew
inside. The strange feelings my body o fered me throughout the day were
my clue.

The baby was scheduled to be born in November, Dr. Feinstein informed
my mom. Mom didn’t even circle the date on her calendar. Didn’t even
accept the vitamins the doctor tried to give her. She immediately set an
appointment for me to get an abortion. I’d hated her before, but once she
tried to take control of my life and my unborn child’s, hate was a mild
description for how I felt about her from then on.

“Mom,” I begged her. “I don’t want to do this. I can’t kill a baby.”

“You ain’t killing it. Doctor is. It ain’t a baby anyway, just some gook
at this stage.”

“But, Mom, if the gook one day evolves into a baby, then it is a baby,
an embryo that will one day be my o fspring. Your grandchild, Mom.”

“Ain’t my grandchild. Just a mistake. You’re too young. You haven’t
even gotten all your education. You got all the relatives talking about you
and me behind our backs. Talking about you ain’t nothing but a girl destined for welfare—government cheese and all the other ridiculous hand-outs. I may not make much money at my jobs, but at least I’m earning my
own keep. I can’t have you living off the welfare.”

“Mom, why do you think I’m going to go get on welfare? And I really
don’t give a damn what they think, even if they are my relatives. They’ve
never done anything for me anyway.”

“Don’t matter. We’re blood, and blood can hurt you worse than anybody
else.”

“I can see that,” I said, and rolled my eyes at her.

The night before I was supposed to get the “operation,” I crawled into
bed, tossing and turning, kicking the covers off while I imagined how it
would feel to get that baby ripped from my insides. I screamed in the night,
waking up with my clothes soaking wet and clinging to my chest. I shuddered and washed my face with cold water, crying and praying for a
miracle.

The next morning, Mom was washing clothes and su fered a slight
heart attack, unheard of for a thirty-eight-year-old woman. We missed our
appointment, and a follow-up date was never set. Lauren Hayes was born
the second week of November. On the day she made her entrance into the
world, Mom handed Lauren to me, and when she did, I felt she was giving me my life back.

That afternoon, when I heard Lauren coming in from church, I thought she’d be alone. But the sole act of thinking something doesn’t make it so, and I cringed when I looked up and saw Derrick walking through my doorway. His suit jacket was folded over his arm, and his jaw was rigid and his forehead taut.

“Hey, Tracey, I need to have a word with you.”

I looked at him in distress, feeling numb and apathetic. I pointed at the couch, and Derrick took a seat. Lauren stalled, trying to take a peek at her dad, but he cleared his throat and she ducked inside her bedroom.

“Hey, how’s everything been going?” he asked, looking around the apartment like his question really didn’t require an answer. I obliged and stayed silent but eyed him like I wished he’d say whatever it is he came to say and be done with it.

“Uh, Tracey, I’m very concerned about Lauren. Her grades. They’ve been plummeting for the last few months. I doubt that you’ve noticed.”

“Lauren hasn’t shown me any report cards,” I glowered.

“Have you even bothered to ask her for them? And aren’t you provided a schedule that tells when report cards come out?”

“I—I uh, I don’t know,” I said, and shifted in my seat. “Well, Lauren’s a smart girl, she couldn’t be doing too bad,” I mumbled.

“Two Bs, two Cs, and a D, Tracey. In my book, Cs and Ds are totally unacceptable. I know Lauren can do better than that. She’s almost a senior and it’s imperative for her to get all As and Bs if she wants to go to college via scholarship.”

I scratched my arm and didn’t say anything.

Derrick glared at me.

“You
do
still want her to go to college, right?”

“Of course, Derrick. What’s that got to do—”

“Okay, okay, just checking.”

He sighed and massaged the back of his neck.

“Tracey, you might as well know. It’s not just her grades, either. I think that with everything that’s been going on, Lauren’s getting a little overwhelmed. And let me cut to the chase. You have everything to do with it.”

I knew it was coming. Knew what was coming like I knew Whitney and Bobby would be in the headlines next month.

“What are you talking about, Derrick?”

“Aaron Oliver.”

“Aaron?”

“Look, Tracey. Don’t act stupid. Your daughter saw you and Aaron together the other night. She and her friends were out on Westheimer.”

I jumped up.

“Why did she tell you that? I wasn’t on Westheimer—”

“McDonald’s. Did you and Aaron go to the McDonald’s on Westheimer?” He said it real slow and precise, like he was talking to a freaking five-year-old.

“Oh . . . yeah. I forgot.”

“You forgot. You’re doing a lot more than forgetting, Tracey. Hey, I know you’re attracted to this kid, but have you thought about how it humiliates Lauren to see her mom out in public with her ex-boy toy? You’re thirty-four—”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You know, I never ever knew that, Derrick.”

“—and he’s barely legal. I knew it was tight, but damn, Tracey. I hope you can do better than him.”

“Wait a minute—”

“And furthermore whatever happened to your motherly commitments? When did you last spend any quality time with Lauren? If you weren’t so busy acting like you’re Stella trying to resurrect her groove, maybe you could develop some sensitivity and know what’s going on in your only daughter’s life.”

At hearing Derrick’s words, my cocked head turned into an order of four neck rolls.

“Hey, Derrick, it takes
two
to talk. And she’s hardly
ever
here and when she is here, all I get is
attitude, moodiness, smart mouth
—”

“What makes you think Lauren should be Little Miss Nice and Cheery around you after what you did to her, Tracey? You’re sleeping with her ex-boyfriend, for God’s sake. And I know that has to be the only thing you and this kid can have in common. Boning,” he spat.

I rushed at Derrick like a redneck charging toward anything black. He threw up his palm, then twisted my wrist until my skin felt like it was being severed. I’d never noticed before how Derrick’s veins could pulsate from his thick neck like popping grease.

“Look, you’re going to listen to me if it’s the only thing you do. Both you and I are her parents. But lately, Tracey, I feel like I’m her only parent.
I
pay child support,
I
give her spending money,
I
take her out, buy her things, go to the school functions, I do it all.”

“Derrick, you’re a lying—”

“Shut up, Tracey, I’m not done yet. I’m the one who’s there for Lauren whenever she needs anything. And church. I take her to church and she can’t even get you to commit to a mother-daughter event because you got intimidated by a few church folks and decided you didn’t want to deal with those kinds of people anymore. Well, it’s about time you woke up and grew up, because you have a daughter in that room who’s hurting, in trouble, and she doesn’t have anybody to talk to because her mother’s too busy trying to make sure she doesn’t miss out on her next high-pitched orgasm.”

“You son of a bi—”

I lashed at his cheek, but he ducked before I could make contact. After scowling for a couple minutes, Derrick stepped square in my face and raised one eyebrow, never once averting his eyes.

“Unless you want to end up in the emergency room, I advise you to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Look, Derrick. I don’t care what you say. I don’t care about your threats. How can you come into my home, judging me over something you don’t know anything about? To listen to you, anyone would think that I’m totally unsupportive of Lauren. But that isn’t even the case, it’s not even what this is about. Quite frankly, Derrick, I think the only reason you’re saying all this stuff is because you’re jealous.”

He scoffed. “About what?”

“Don’t act shocked. None of this even begins with Lauren and me. This has everything to do with how we broke up a million years ago and the fact that you never got over it. No one I’ve dated was ever good enough for you, so it doesn’t matter that Aaron is in his twenties. Steve was thirty-eight and you gave me hell over him, too. Well, let me tell it to you like this. Even if you were the last man on earth, I would never want your sorry, broke, uneducated, weak, and trifling ass again.”