My Husband's Girlfriend (22 page)

“That sounds like something every boss does.”

“Remember a month ago when it was storming really badly? Well, while I was outside battling the weather, my stupid thirty-five-dollar umbrella broke. So I go to the ladies’ room and have to blow-dry my hair, ’cause it’s all wet and stringy looking. My hair took a good thirty minutes to dry. And when I got back to my office, Mr. D hands me a personal-leave request form. And my time spent in the ladies’ room? He forced me to charge that to vacation time.”

“Hmmm,” I say, suppressing a smile. “Whatever did you do to piss off your boss?”

Dani frowns and avoids eye contact. She’s not her usual spirited, happy-go-lucky self. She’s more sullen today, like she has serious issues on her mind. And from everything she’s been telling me, I’m thinking maybe the bad guy does get what he deserves—even if the bad guy is a woman.

“You know, Duntworth has always been an all-out bastard, it’s just that lately, His Royal Asshole really lived up to his title. So, you know, I don’t know. I–I…”

She looks at me like she’s studying me, assessing what’s in my eyes.

“Anya, what time do you get up in the morning?” Her voice sounds sweet yet edgy.

“Uh, usually at six, sometimes a little earlier. Why?”

“And you’re here every day with Reesy?”

“Get to the point.”

“I’m thinking about doing some serious hustling trying to find another gig. It’ll look bad if I walk into a potential employer’s with Brax strapped to my back. Or do you think they’d even notice? I’m sure I can bring him with me just to fill out some applications—No, no, that wouldn’t work. Too unprofessional.”

“Audrey?” I finally find my voice.

“Uh, no. I feel like I can’t depend on her to do a good job every single day.”

Dani leans toward me and whispers, “One time, when Audrey gave me the slip, I had no choice but to take Brax with me to work. I put him in the truck, drove to the job, and was about to leave him in the car while I worked half a day.” She leans back against the chair and calmly gazes at me.

“Dani,” I say firmly. “Now, I hope you didn’t do that one time, but even if you did, ain’t no way I’d let you do something so foolish a second time. It’s getting so hot in Houston and you cannot leave that precious baby in your car. Brax would be dead by the time you get back, and CPS would be after you.” Brax looks up. I guess he’s like most other folks. Whenever we hear someone speak our name, our ears prick up.

“Hey, you,” I say, and go lift him up. Looking at me with wide eyes, Brax places his head against my chest. I tap his back with my fingers, then kiss him on the cheek. He takes in a loud breath and sighs. Content. Secure.

“Anya, can I let you in on something that I swore I’d never tell you?”

“What?” I freeze, my gut stiffening into a tight ball.

“I know what it’s like to lose a child.”

I stare at Dani, perplexed.

“I’ve never had a miscarriage, but you can lose a baby without having a miscarriage, if you know what I mean.” She takes a deep breath. “I know what it’s like to carry a man’s child yet never get to see the baby’s face. The father’s name was Fred. And Fred didn’t want me anymore, which I automatically interpreted as him not wanting our child, either. So…I made an appointment, went to that stupid abortion clinic all by myself because I had no one to go with me. I—” Her voice catches. “I saw all these silly-looking young girls waiting in the lobby—black, white, you name it. I kept my face buried in a magazine, though. I pretended like I didn’t see them and I hoped they didn’t see me. I–I rubbed my belly over and over and kept saying to my baby, ‘I hate you, I hate you,’ but I was
lying.
” Her voice is a shattered whisper, and her head shakes in wonder.

“Oh, Dani,” I mumble, and reach over to stroke her shoulder.

She sighs. “The doctor asked me if I was positive I wanted to terminate, and I said, ‘Hell, yeah.’ He probably asked because my face was all wet. I looked a mess. But he went on and completed the procedure. Got it over with. And I lay there in that cold room, scared for my future, thinking about what could have been.”

“My God,” I say, shuddering.

“The nurse issued me a prescription for these pills I needed to take for two weeks. She told me no sex for six weeks, yada yada. So I called a cab and went outside to wait for my ride, and I started feeling dizzy. A thick amount of bile rose up my throat and I puked right there in the bushes, seconds before that cab drove up. I hopped in and chatted with the driver as if everything in my life was absolutely perfect.” She stares at me with haunted eyes, stares at me with eyes I recognize from when I stare in my own mirror.

“Dani, I’m so sorry…”

“I guess I’m trying to say that it may not seem like it, but I know what it’s like to be you in some ways. Except you have such outstanding motherly instincts, and I’m trying my best to make a good life for my son. I just need to get the right gig, so…”

My throat swells so much I can barely talk, but I tell her, “You know, I don’t mind watching your baby for you…”

Dani quietly gazes at me as she ponders my offer.

I tell her, “Just bring an ample supply of clothes and toys. We’ll handle buying his food—at least Neil will.”

Dani’s watery eyes lock with mine, and for once I detect genuine appreciation in her. It’s amazing how common experiences have the power to transform.

“You know, Anya, I haven’t always made the best decisions in life. But know this: I truly long for a sane, good life. I want normalcy. Don’t want to be poor, barely making it, and trying to raise a child. I’ve seen mothers struggling here in the city so many times. Life is hard. So while I transition, I…Well, I hope you know what I’m trying to say.”

“Sure, I understand. We all want happiness, huh?” I reply, and pat the top of Brax’s head. He squeals and squirms in my arms. “To quote the late Ann Landers: ‘The poor want to be rich, the rich want to be happy, singles want to be married, and the married want to be dead.’”

“And my starving ass wants something to eat,” Dani says, and rubs her belly. “You hear my stomach growling? What’s on the stove?”

“Hmmm, well, Dani,” I say, struggling to hold Brax, “we got some rice, smoked turkey, pinto beans, cornbread, and collard greens.”

“I’ll take a little of each, please.”

I just look at her.

“And I’ll be happy to make my own plate.” Her face reddens and she breezes to the stove, lifting up lids, which make clanking noises. I ask Brax if he wants any more bananas, but he just makes a face and laughs. I pick up a spoon filled with banana and direct it toward my mouth. Brax’s little legs start moving.

“Oh, so now you want some, now that you think I’m about to eat up your food, huh?” I press the spoon into Brax’s mouth and listen to him gurgle and baby-talk and say whatever it is he feels he has to say. And I pray this situation is doable. It’s so strange, painful, and challenging, but will it be doable?

“I don’t care what you say,” Vette tells me, “you are weird, weird, weird.”

It’s the first day of my playing stepmom/baby-sitter to Brax. Vette is standing in my face watching me dress Neil’s love child. We are in my bedroom. And I don’t appreciate how loud Vette is talking. It’s only seven-damn-thirty in the
A
.
M
.

“Don’t you have to be at school, young lady?”

“I’m going later on. I’m trying to figure out what’s up with you. I thought you said you hate Dani.”

“It’s not hate. More like love-hate. There’s a difference.” I shrug and pull a sock onto Brax’s fresh-smelling foot. He balls his hands into fists and is baby-talking to himself.

“You have a love-hate relationship with Dani?”

“We’re polite because it helps us to get through our situation. We do what we need to do even if we have to push ourselves,” I admit.

“And you’re satisfied with that?”

“People in struggling relationships sometimes play a role until sincerity takes over. That’s just how it is. The almighty Danielle Frazier is no exception.”

“Shhh, you shouldn’t say things like that around the baby.”

“Vette, he’s only seven months.”

“So what? He knows his mother’s name. He knows by the scowl on your face that you’re saying negative things.”

“I’ll cover his little ears with my big hands,” I say, and make a face.

“Weirdo, weirdo, weirdo.” Vette walks out the room.

“I’m glad she’s gone, aren’t you, sweetie?” I rub my cheek against the baby’s. “Mean ole Auntie Vette don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s an evil demon and she must be destroyed.”

I carry Brax downstairs and prop him in his carrier. After I feed him some cereal and hand him a bottle of juice, I pray that Reesy stays asleep for another thirty minutes. I am breathing hard and my back is starting to hurt. All this weight I’m carrying, plus hoisting Brax around all weekend, well, I need some rest.

I go pick up a book that’s in the den. Written by Lisa Bevere, it’s called
The True Measure of a Woman: You Are More Than What You See.
Riley loaned it to me—or, rather,
gave
it to me. She said, “Hon, you can keep my copy. That’s how bad I want you to read this. Tell me what you think when you get a chance.” So I took the book and promptly laid it on a table somewhere. I’ve glanced at the pretty orange-and-yellow cover, read the back-cover copy, but haven’t wanted to get deep into the material. But its laid-back, conversational style is now drawing me. The book challenges me to be open and honest with myself, and to not be afraid of what I find. I need that. It’s important to know I can develop to be the woman God created me to be no matter how I’ve started out.

I’m skipping around reading, based on chapter titles such as “Escaping Your Past” and “You Are Not What You Weigh.” I read for a while, then go upstairs to my room. I walk straight into the bathroom and close the door. I’ll only be a minute, I say to myself, thinking of Brax. I take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and appraise everything that physically makes up Anya Meadows. My eyebrows are neatly arched—that makes me feel good. But my nose is bigger than I’d like. It’s so big I wonder if it’s the first thing people notice when they see me. My hair—I still have the weave. It itches a lot and I’m tempted to ask Phyllis to remove the extensions so I can feel more like myself. When I look in the mirror and notice my neck, it’s like my eyes refuse to go any farther south. I’m not in the mood to view my wide shoulders, huge breasts, and puffy belly. I pat my stomach, wishing that it could flatten just by the stroke of my hands.

I don’t always appreciate how I look. Sure, I’ve seen much uglier women. But still…I wonder how it would feel to be a truly beautiful woman, someone with perfectly shaped cheekbones, wide, expressive eyes, sensual and even-toned lips. I wonder what it would feel like to wear low-riders. Show my belly button without feeling the need to cover up my love handles. I wince and sigh. I have to catch myself because even Tyra Banks admits that all the hot cover models have flaws. All women have defects, even the alluring Danielle Frazier. So I smile at myself, wave good-bye to the mirror, and know that in spite of how I look, the real measure of a woman is more than what the mirror shows her.

Although my true measure is based on the inside of me, I still find myself on the University of Houston campus. I feel I need help with the spiritual, the mental, and the physical. Vette has convinced me to try out the treadmills at the Campus Recreation and Wellness Center. As a student, she gets a free membership and it cost six bucks for my one-day visitor’s pass. This $52 million facility boasts two levels and includes basketball courts, a rock-climbing wall, steppers, elliptical machines, NordicTracks, and weight-training equipment. When we walk up the stairs and locate a locker, I hear the radio playing loudly. The ubiquitous 50 Cent is rapping over the airwaves.

“Anya, the reason why you stopped going to those other gyms is because you had no one to go with you. Now that I’m here, it’ll be more fun. I’ll help you.”

Now, why Vette is working out in a gym in the first place is beyond my level of understanding. She doesn’t have the perfect body, but she’s as svelte as they come. Folks like that make me sick. When I glance around, I see that most of the people (make that
kids,
because they look twenty-five and under) are shapely, toned athletes.

“They look this way because they work out,” Vette explains, like she’s reading my mind. I guess she can read me because I’m openly gaping at everybody. Vette has on this cute, cute, cute yellow workout shirt that emphasizes her perky breasts. And her purple biker shorts display beautifully toned thighs, curvy hips, and long legs. She has no problem moving from the treadmill to the stationary bike to the thigh abductor machine to the track.

At first I feel self-conscious, especially when the treadmill asks for my weight. Should I lie? I punch in a number, having subtracted three pounds off my true weight. One hour later, when I’m sweating and the moisture is making my hair feel curly and nappy, I am smiling. I feel invigorated, alive, and
sexy.
Working out makes me more aware of my body than sex ever did.

“I want to come back,” I say to Vette when we’re finished. “Let me know when you work out again, okay?” She nods and rolls her eyes. We pat the moisture from the back of our necks and go downstairs to toss our used towels in the bin.

“You looking good, sister-in-law. I see a little strut in your step. You exude sexiness. As usual, you’re just too blind to recognize it. But I see it in you big-time.” She grabs me around the shoulders and squeezes. I nod my head, beaming, feeling good and energized.

Vette motions with her arms like she’s swimming. “Next time let’s jump in the outdoor pool.”

“Humph. The only part of my body that swims is my head, okay? You can go in the pool. I might do the hot tub.”

“You do that. I’m so proud of you. And even if Neil doesn’t notice, I’ll bet other people will. You’ll be fighting guys off. Watch.”

“You’re a silly dreamer, but I appreciate your kind words. I don’t know what I’d do without you, girl.”