Never Say Never (33 page)

I trotted up the steps ahead of Jamal and then used my key to let myself in.

“Surprise!” I said the moment I stepped into the rotunda.

Just a few seconds later, I heard soft steps clicking against the floor. “Miss Emily, is that you?” It was Nellie, dressed as always in her navy-and-white uniform, who rushed out first to greet me, and I wrapped my arms around the woman who was like a grandmother to me.

We had barely said our hellos when my mother sauntered in from the parlor. She walked slowly because a proper Southern lady never got caught up in excitement. But I could tell that my mother was happy to see me.

“Emily, what are you doing here?” Nellie stepped aside and now I was in my mother's arms. I had to bend over to get my hug from her; I'd clearly gotten my height from my father.

My mother said, “I'm so glad to see you, sweetheart. Why didn't you tell us that you were coming?” Her Southern drawl was so thick to me now that I'd been away from home for more than seven years.

“I wanted to surprise you,” I said.

“What's all of this ruckus?”

I grinned as my father strolled down the circular staircase looking like the leading man in
Gone with the Wind Revisited,
with his smoking jacket and his pipe in his hand. “Daddy!” I met him at the bottom of the steps. I loved, loved, loved my mother. But everyone knew I was a daddy's girl. I kissed my father over and over on his cheek. “I'm so happy to see you.”

That's when I heard the cough behind me. “Oh, my goodness.” I turned to Jamal.

But before I could say anything, my mother said to Jamal, “Just leave her bags right there.” And then, to my father, she said, “Honey, I don't have any spare change. Do you have a twenty or two you can give this nice young man? He's been so patient.”

“Oh, no, Mom,” I said, knowing that my face was probably fire-red. “He's not my driver.” I took Jamal's hand. “This is Jamal.”

My mother, father, and Nellie stood with blank stares.

My mother spoke first. “Jamal?”

“Yes,
Jamal.
” I said his name as if they'd heard it before. “Jamal Taylor, the guy I've been seeing.”

“Seeing him do what?” my mother drawled.

I swallowed. My mother was a bright woman, and she knew exactly what I meant. But in order to get past this awkwardness, I had to play her game. So I said, “The man I've been dating.”

My parents' expressions did not change, and even Nellie stared at me like I had lost my mind.

After many long moments, my father turned and walked into the parlor. Without a word, he just walked away from me.

I looked at my mother and pleaded with my eyes for her to fix this. All she said was, “Emily, your father and I need to speak with you.”

That was it? That was her save?

“Okay,” I said and took Jamal's hand, though he didn't budge an inch when I tried to follow my parents.

When my mother saw that I was trying to pull Jamal with me, she added, “Privately.” She turned to Nellie. “Can you take Emily's . . . guest into the kitchen? He may want something to drink. He does look a little parched.”

“No!” I said. There was no way I was going to let my parents disrespect Jamal this way.

But Jamal spoke softly into my ear. “Go on,” he encouraged me. “Talk to your parents. I'll go with Nellie.”

“No,” I whined. “You're supposed to be with me.”

“I know. But go and talk to your folks. I'll be fine.” He squeezed my hand before Nellie led him to the other side of the house.

My mother raised a single eyebrow, but I stomped past her and into the parlor. She followed me, then closed the sliding doors behind us. I wanted to tell her that wasn't a good idea because the steam that was rising out of me was enough to start a fire, and we might need to get away quickly.

My father stood with his elbow propped up on the mantel as if he was posing for
Architectural Digest
. When my mother sat on the floral-patterned sofa, my father motioned for me to do the same.

But I didn't move. I stood in place, folded my arms, tapped my foot, and glared at the people I'd loved my whole life. It was true, I didn't know what to expect. But I certainly didn't expect my parents to behave so rudely. I could not remember a time when I had to press down my emotions and work hard to be respectful. I'd never been angry with my parents, so this feeling was foreign to me.

But it was real. I was hurt. And I was pissed. Like I said, I didn't know what to expect when I brought Jamal home. But I can say that I didn't expect this.

“Sit down, Emily,” my father said.

“No.”

“I said, sit down.”

“I'm fine where I am.”

He glared at me and I glared right back. It probably would've been better to sit down and talk this out, but I couldn't be rational.

My father gave in first. He nodded, then turned forward so that his whole body faced me.

But before he could say a word, I jumped in. “What was that about? I bring a friend home and both of you treat him like I just met him and picked him up at the bus station or something.”

I was growling, but my parents didn't seem to notice. “We didn't know you were coming home,” my father said, softer this time. “We didn't know you were bringing a friend.”

“I've brought friends before and you've never acted like this.”

“But you've never brought home a colored boy before.” It was my mother's Southern twang that made those words sound so dirty . . . so racist.

Tears came to my eyes, but not because I was hurt. I was just mad now. “And what does Jamal being . . . black have to do with anything?”

“Daughter, do not act like you have no idea what this is about,” my father said, with the sternness back in his voice.

“I don't know what this is about,” I said. “Because the thought of what it may be about makes me sick.”

“Don't talk to your father that way.” My mother's tone was as demure as the way she sat, so prim, so proper, with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap.

“I can't help it because I can't believe what's happening,” I said.

“Why not?” my mother questioned. She tilted her head as if she were trying to get a better look at me. “We had this talk before you left home.”

“We didn't talk. You
told
me—”

“That the Bible says that everyone is to stay with their own kind,” my mother said, repeating my grandmother's words.

I steamed.

My father jumped in. “This is exactly why I didn't want you to go to LA.”

My mother drawled, “And don't forget that basketball thing.” She shook her head. “I always knew that was a bad idea. For a girl to be playing sports.” She shuddered.

My eyes opened wide. Really, I shouldn't have been so hard on my parents. I mean, didn't Miriam react the same way at first? And Jamal, too. He'd rejected me because of the color of my skin.

Miriam, Jamal, and I had worked it all out. It never should've been an issue with my parents. They should've just loved Jamal because I did.

My mother said, “Your friend can stay here tonight because it's late and we would never turn anyone away.” She paused and glanced at my father. When he gave his permission with a nod, she added, “But tomorrow . . .”

Clearly, my method wasn't working, so I unfolded my arms and, with a deep breath, sat next to my mother.

“Please don't do this,” I said. I looked from my mother to my father. “Let us stay here for the weekend so that you can get to know Jamal. Once you talk to him, you'll see that he's smart and he's funny and he's caring, and it won't matter if he's black.”

“Being black or white
always
matters, Daughter,” my father said.

“But, but . . . what about Nellie? She's black and she lives here,
and she's here for all of the holidays and you always say she's like family.”

“We pay her.” Those simple words made me lean away from my mother. Then she made it clear to me. “Do you think she'd be here for anything if we didn't pay her? Do you think she would attend our parties and talk and laugh with us if she weren't getting a very good paycheck every two weeks?”

I wanted to tell my mother to take it back. Nellie was family. But I could only fight one battle at a time. “You've always trusted me,” I said to both of my parents. “Trust me now.”

My mother turned to my father and he shook his head. “We've told you what we're willing to do,” she said. “But your friend is not welcome here for more than one night.”

Jumping up, I said, “If you don't want him here, then you don't want me.”

“Oh, Emily”—my mother waved her hand as if she was dismissing my words and my emotions—“don't be so dramatic. We're just being good parents, which means we have to guide you and direct you, and—”

“I'm twenty-five years old. You don't have to guide me or direct me or tell me who I should fall in love with.”

It was as if I'd sent an electrical volt through the room. My father glared at me before he said, “You don't love him.”

It was ridiculous that I even shaped my lips to answer him, but I did. “Yes, I do.”

My father kept staring, while my mother looked like she wanted to cry.

“It won't last,” he said.

“We're getting married,” I threw back.

Now, those words were to just shock them, because Jamal and I hadn't talked about marriage. At least not in a serious way. We'd both
said we wanted to spend our lives together, but Jamal insisted that I focus on my doctorate, and I had at least three more years for that.

I had no doubt, though, that we would be married. It was destiny to me.

“You can't do that!” My mother's accent was more pronounced now. It was always that way when she was upset. “Not in this family.”

I jutted my chin forward and, without a word, dared her to say that to me again. When she said nothing, I turned to my father.

He nodded, then moved closer until he was standing over me. “We've put up with enough of this, Emily,” he said, calling me by my name for the first time that I could remember. “We let you go to Los Angeles . . .”

He said that as if I'd just traveled to California to hang out for a few years rather than go to college and grad school.

“We let you play basketball,” he continued. “And then we let you stay out there.”

Let me? Was he really saying that?

My father kept on, “We've supported all of that nonsense—”

“Nonsense?”

As if I hadn't spoken, my father continued, “But we won't support this.”

A part of me wanted to go through and argue all of his points, but I had to keep my focus. “Daddy, you raised me right. You know I'm smart and I make thoughtful decisions, and I don't do anything blindly.”

“Clearly, that has changed,” my father said without emotion.

“I don't know what to tell you,” I said, my voice cracking for the first time.

He nodded a little. “You do what you have to do,” he said. “But make sure you're thinking about the consequences.”

“I am.”

He paused for just a moment. “Then, we'll do what we have to do.” He reached for my mother and she took his hand. Standing up, they both paused as if they were giving me a moment to change my mind.

I didn't budge, not physically, not mentally.

Then they walked out of the room. I sat there trembling, letting minutes pass by, not believing what had happened. Surprisingly, I didn't cry. Maybe because I was just too shocked to shed a tear . . .

But I had
cried many times through the days and months and years that followed. Jamal and I had left their home that night, though Jamal had insisted I stay. I'd told him that if he was leaving, I was going, too.

Jamal never asked me what my parents had said, but I figured Nellie had given him a good earful when she sat him down in the kitchen. She'd been a longtime employee of the Harringtons. She probably knew my parents better than I did.

I'd been sure that once my parents realized how serious I was, they would accept Jamal. They had to; I was their only child.

I was wrong.

When I returned to school the following week and was called into the Admin Office, I found out that my parents would no longer be paying tuition.

“So, you have to make other plans,” the head of Admin told me.

I'd barely had time to process that before I found out my credit cards had been canceled, and then two weeks later, my landlord had knocked on my door telling me the rent was overdue.

I'd been devastated, and Jamal had tried to walk away so that I could save my relationship with my parents.

“I don't want to be the cause of you being estranged from your mother and father.”