Never Say Never (32 page)

It was amazing that someone's world could crash in just a moment. But then, I was sitting in front of a little girl who'd lost her sister in a second. So even with what I was going through, someone else always had it worse.

Still, it was hard not to feel as if I was the only one in the world who'd ever lived this nightmare. I was tortured by the question that had kept me up all night: how long had this been going on?

I'd searched my memory, trying to recall every moment over the years with Jamal, and all the time we'd spent with Miriam and Chauncey. I tried to remember every glance they'd exchanged, every word they'd spoken, every time they hugged.

And I remembered the day of Chauncey's funeral and my suspicions then.

But even when I'd stared at Miriam with her eyes closed and her arms around my husband, I never imagined the true fact, that they were
actually
sleeping together.

Since that day when Miriam had taken me and Michellelee into her bedroom and given us those bracelets, I'd turned off that sixth sense that I believed every women had. I turned mine off because, obviously, my sense had gone haywire.

I was so mad at myself. There had probably been signs and signals right in front of my face.

And all of that made me want to cry from anger and pain. But I was not going to cry. I was not going to break down.

“So,” I said to LaTonya. “How're you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said, though she didn't look up.

I sat back, wanting to let LaTonya draw as we talked. “How're your mom and dad?”

“Fine,” she said, her attention on the roof that she was constructing on the house she'd drawn.

“So, did you do anything special when you got home from the hospital yesterday?”

She nodded, though she didn't take her eyes away from her picture. I studied her as she drew the windows and then colored in the curtains.

“What did you do?” I asked her, trying to pull out a longer response.

“I had ice cream,” LaTonya said, making me think about all the ice cream I'd eaten. Another reason why I'd been up all night; my aching stomach matched my aching heart.

“So,” I said, pausing because I wanted to see her reaction to my next question. “Are you looking forward to going back to school?”

She stopped drawing and hesitated. “Mommy said that I'm going to school on Monday,” she said, sounding like tears weren't far away.

I nodded. “Aren't you happy?”

“No.”

“Don't you want to see your teacher, Ms. Parker, again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to go to school by myself.”

“What about going to school with your friends?”

She shook her head and said nothing.

I let her get back to concentrating on her drawing. Now that the house was finished, she sketched three figures in front, just like she'd done with the picture that was in Dr. Caster's file.

Though LaTonya no longer talked about joining her sister in heaven, I was still concerned. According to the Millers, LaTonya had always been the gregarious one, but I would never have been able to tell it. Since the fire, she'd become an introvert, taking on the personality of her sister.

I had never even seen her smile.

At first, my goal had been to save her life. Now I wanted to help her get her life back. Not exactly to where it used to be, but I had to help her find a new normal that included her laughing and playing and loving school again.

I pressed, “Don't you want to see your friends in school?”

“I don't want any friends.”

I felt LaTonya's pain right now. I wasn't sure that there would ever be another woman in life I'd trust enough to call a friend.

But still I had to ask LaTonya, “Why don't you want any friends?”

She looked at me. “I just want LaTrisha.”

“But you know . . .” I paused to see what LaTonya would say.

“LaTrisha's in heaven.”

I waited for her to say more, but she said nothing. She'd put a period on that sentence, which was a good thing.

I moved away from the talk of school and looked down at her picture. “That's a big sun,” I said.

“LaTrisha liked the sun.”

“What about you?”

“I like the sun, too.” Then she stopped and admired her work. “Can I take this home with me?”

“Of course.”

“I want to put this on LaTrisha's side of our room.”

“That sounds great.”

I'd told the Millers to keep LaTrisha's bed in place and to let LaTonya talk about her sister as much as she wanted. My hope was to get LaTonya to the day when she was ready to live with just her sister's memory.

After fifty minutes, I turned her over to her parents, confirmed her appointment for tomorrow, and returned to my office, and in just minutes, loneliness descended upon me.

I'd felt it all along, from last night to this morning. From the moment that Jamal had walked out, loneliness had been hovering like a vulture, waiting to swoop down and come in for the kill.

The plan was for me to gather my purse and briefcase and head home. But for what? The vulture would be larger there, the pain
would be greater. So I sat behind my desk, closed my eyes, and wondered about the days ahead.

My life was really going to be different now. I'd loved Jamal for so long, I could hardly remember the time before him. But now I'd once again be alone. I could handle that—at least, that's what I kept telling myself.

My cell phone vibrated on my desk and I didn't even have to reach for it to know that it was another call, or another message, or another text, from Jamal. He'd left so many messages last night that I'd had to clear out my voice mail this morning, though I hadn't listened to a single one.

Picking up my cell, I clicked on the text message icon and nine popped up from Jamal. The messages were all the same: I love you. I miss you. I'm so sorry.

I deleted them, then tossed my phone back onto my desk.

“It was never supposed to be like this,” I said aloud.

All that was supposed to be waiting for me in life was happiness. That's what Jamal had promised, and not just with his words. From the moment we'd kissed on the beach's edge in Maui, my heart had been filled with joy, though it had come at such a high, high price. A high price that I'd been so willing to pay . . .

August 29, 2003

It was just
a little more than two years ago when Jamal had knocked me out with that kiss as we sat on those rocks in Maui. We had sat there and just kissed, soft kisses, gentle kisses, love kisses—what I would call, from that day forward, Jamal kisses.

The sun was long gone by the time we broke away. For at least an hour after that, I leaned back in Jamal's arms while we listened to the music of the ocean as the surf crashed on the rocks. It had been so dark when we'd finally decided to go inside that Jamal had to carry me down.

From that point on, we were Emily and Jamal, though we made no announcement. Not that any was necessary; it showed in the way we were.

At breakfast the next morning, while Jamal and Chauncey chatted at the waffle station, Miriam and I stood in front of the omelet chef.

“The last time I saw you, you and Jamal were like brother and sister. And now it looked like he was gonna cry when you walked away from him. What a difference a day makes.”

My face was filled with my grin, but all I did was shrug.

“Oh, so you think you're gonna get away with not saying anything? You're gonna tell me something.”

“A woman never kisses and tells.”

“So there was a kiss!” Miriam exclaimed. “I knew it! I knew it!”

I laughed, but told her nothing more. Not that I had to. For the rest of the weekend, Jamal and I behaved like we were the ones on our honeymoon, and I would've cried when the weekend ended if Jamal and I weren't headed back to LA together. Back in the city, our lives and our love continued. I was in school, and Jamal was working a schedule as an EMT that was just as demanding.

No matter what, though, we spent as much time together as we could. Sometimes I took stacks of books to his apartment in Ladera Heights and studied while I lay across his lap. Or he'd come to my place and we'd rent movies.

Of course, like everything else, we had the same favorite movie.

Love Story.

It was no surprise that I loved that movie, but it was a little bit shocking that a guy would admit to it.

“Ryan O'Neal was no punk,” Jamal explained to me. “And I want to love my woman the way he loved his. And you know what?” he asked, as he kissed my neck. “I already do.”

Jamal's words, his kisses, his embraces, always made me swoon.

So now, two years into our relationship, it was time for the love of my life to meet the people who had loved me all my life. The only thing was, I had tricked Jamal, just a little. I hadn't told him the truth until we'd stepped off the plane at Jackson-Evers International Airport.

“Wait a minute! Your parents don't know we're coming?”

“Nope!” I said. “I wanted to surprise them.”

“Em, in what country do you think it's a good idea to be walking into your house with a black dude without telling your parents first?”

“Oh, please,” I said, waving my hand at Jamal's words. “My parents know all about you.”

“Yeah?” He looked at me sideways.

This time I nodded, because I couldn't keep lying out loud. I felt bad not telling the whole truth, but I couldn't let him know that I was a little nervous about my parents, which is why they hadn't met him yet. They didn't know about Jamal, at least not in the important ways . . . like the fact that he was black. And I'd shortened his name to Jay whenever I referred to him.

I really had wanted to tell my parents everything about the man I loved, but I just wasn't sure about the way they would react. In their world, everyone had their place. Not that they were really prejudiced, at least not in the white-sheet, hood-wearing kind of way. If you asked them, they'd tell you they loved “the blacks.” To them, Nellie, the woman who really raised me, was part of our family. And one of my father's favorite charities was the United Negro College Fund
because he felt everyone should have the chance for a college education—just not at Ole Miss.

It was because of these beliefs that I knew a telephone call would never do. The best way to present Jamal was face-to-face. Once my parents met him, shook his hand, looked into his eyes, talked to him, they would see what I saw—perfection personified. And then they would love Jamal, too.

“So,” Jamal began when he got behind the wheel of the rental car that we picked up at the airport, “do you actually live in Jackson or in some suburb?”

I shook my head. “No, we live in Jackson.” When he looked at me out of the corner of his eye, I added, “I mean, we don't live in downtown, but we live in Jackson.”

He grinned, took my hand, and kissed it. Then, with one hand, he steered and I directed him to my childhood home.

Twenty-five minutes later, when we drove up to the double wrought-iron gates, Jamal's eyes widened. “Whoa! Your house is somewhere behind all of this?”

“Stop it.” I hit his hand playfully, though I did know that the grounds were grand. I keyed in the code that opened the gates and then Jamal and I began the drive up the mile-long winding driveway.

“Where the hell are we?” Jamal asked.

“What?” I said, not wanting Jamal to think about this as any big deal. “I told you that I grew up in a big house.”

“Okay, but there are big houses and then there're plantations.” He paused. “This was once a plantation, wasn't it?”

I shrugged, as if I didn't know, as if I didn't care. I didn't care, but I did know. I would never tell Jamal, but I knew my family's history back for at least ten generations. This had been a major plantation, and my male ancestors had fought hard in the Civil War to preserve the institution that had made the Harringtons wealthy.

My family was a long way from that time, though. Those days had nothing to do with me and even less to do with Jamal.

By the time we parked the car in the circular driveway, Jamal was shaking his head. He looked up at my three-story home and I couldn't tell if he was impressed or intimidated.

“I don't have a good feeling,” he mumbled as he pulled my suitcase out of the trunk.

I waited for him to get his bag, but he just stood there. “What are you doing? Get yours out, too,” I said.

He shook his head. “Maybe I should stay at a hotel somewhere. I could even stay at my grandmother's house.”

“Your grandmother's is over an hour away and you don't like your cousin, remember?” I told him, referring to a younger relative who was living in the home that Jamal now owned.

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned and I breathed. At least he was only kidding.