Pushing Up Daisies

First and foremost, I thank the Creator, the One who created and breathed life into me, my gift, and my hands that type a cazillion words a minute. Thank you for yesterday, today, and my tomorrows.

To the ones who have given love a new and improved definition and life more meaning: My beautiful daughter who introduces herself as “My name is Ms. Dames, and I’m an author.” Who would’ve known that you’d have a career at just five years old? Keep saying it, baby, because you have the power to write your life.

For him who has designated himself my protector, my alpha twin son. You are truly magnificent and will grow up to be what women dream of and men strive to emulate: the perfect gentleman who has a lot to offer the world.

My singer, athlete, and entertainer; my omega twin son. Your drive, candor, and ambition are truly incredible. It’s up to you how high you’ll go.

Mr. Dames, you are something special. We’ve laid a foundation together and have built a solid structure. Thank you for not only feeding my creativity but for standing back and watching it bloom—applauding it.

Loving thanks to: My mother, Barbara Gill; my grandmother, Viola Box; my great-aunts: Ynobie Zackery and Charlene Jefferson; my great-grandmother, Pearlie Box, and the rest of my family.

Love to the following families: The Boxs, Greens, Pattersons, Fricks’, Hollimans, Roses, Childers’, Blakelys, Walkers, Blakes, Sockwells, Gulleys, Cottos & Mangols, Clays, Porters, Dansbys, Reels’, Thomas’, Rickersons, Whipples, Sebastians, Randolphs, Buckners, Penixs, Artis’, Dortons, Grooms, Berrys, and the Zackerys.

Kind thanks to: Sue Trinkley, Mocha D’Chateau, Divine Saddiq Dubar, Trevor Randolph, Paul Hendricks, Mrs. Randolph (Hey Ma!), Tashonda Phillips, Nickie Blakely, Jane Clay, Valerie Kilgore, Maureen Sebastian, Tracy Sebastian-Ingram, Nafeezah Shabazz, Kenny Reels, Michael Thomas, Sherryl Martin, Denise Anderson, Aunt Laura Porter, Felicia R. Box, Riccardo Box, Shelly Box, Robin Box, Sharone Box, Paradise Payne, Michael Slaughter, Tonia Crowley, Brenda (Penny) Pickett & family, Chucky & Lynne Charles, Deborah (Debbie) Davis, Carla Dean, Richard Holland, Michael Slaughter, Kyshina Chandler.

Extra special thanks to Dorothy and Leonard Wright, not only for your blessings but for raising one of the most wonderful people to have ever graced this earth with his footprints.

Here’s to Leola Jean McCrorey, Doug McCory and my girls (couple guys in attendance as well) from Sister Sister Let’s talk, Weaver High in Hartford, CT: Veneice McKenzie, Nadia Redway, Angie Fontenelle, Tashana Mitchell, Kimberly L. Brown, Brittany Brown D., Charity Brown, Stephanie Clark, Shantel Fraser, Nicolette Mitchell, Lakia King, Cristina Torres, Johanna Torres, Joselyn Cruz, Nelley Rosade, Kellena Nelson, Ashley Coleman, Jazmine Daniel, Shirley Minnifield, Tiara Conway, Reneé Gary, Marcia Clark, Margarie Little, Adrianne Little, Khila Wakefield, Ashley Weaver, Latiza Hales, Zoya Decarish, Kimblia Gillispie, Sidjae Hemy, and Mark A. Austin and Leord Shakes.

Warm recognition to the following authors: Brandon Massey, Brenda L. Thomas, Nikki Turner, Travis Hunter, Tracy Price-Thompson, Eric E. Pete, S. James Guitard, Yasmin Shiraz, K’wan, Marcelle Morgan Payne, V. Anthony Rivers, Noire, Carla Rowser Canty, and Earl Sewell. Gracious thanks to my AIE family: Literary manager extraordinaire, Ken Atchity; Andrea McKeown, Julie Mooney, and Margaret O’Connor. My Atria family: Brenda Copeland, you have to be the coolest editor—ever. Thanks for making it easy and comfortable. LaMarr Bruce, Jenny Voohries, and Amy Tannenbaum. My Echo Soul family: Kim Rose, publicist of publicists, you are a writer’s dream. Thanks for pushing when no one else would and doing so much more than what your title entails. Nicole Childers, the behind-the-scenes person who is never behind. Thanks for taking me international. I owe you both To-Gos! Thought I forgot, hunh?

A great BIG THANKS to my readers. You’ve been wonderful, supportive, and very patient! I can’t and couldn’t do it without you. Much appreciation and love. As always, I hope you’ll visit me online at www.jamiseldames.com, and/or email me when you get a chance (yes, I do answer emails!) at [email protected].

Love, laugh, and enjoy life as carefree as children!

Enjoy,

Jamise

I
saw it coming. I knew it was coming—felt it inside. But I did the unthinkable; the thing that so many of us do and later regret. I covered my eyes and questioned, taunted myself until I made what I knew into something I wasn’t so sure I knew. Then I turned against my own feelings and convinced myself that I was wrong, that I didn’t have a right to feel what I felt. That’s why I can’t complain, that’s why I can’t point a finger at someone else. Yes, I was betrayed. Definitely. But I betrayed myself. Because I saw it coming, knew it was coming, and felt it coming deep down inside with all that I had. There, staring me in my face, announcing itself and poking me in my soul.

And I ignored it.

D
aisy Parker’s blood was boiling. She balled up her boyfriend’s favorite brown suede Armani jacket and threw it out the second-story window. She stuck her head out into the warm breeze, surveyed her work, and smiled wickedly. Jasper Stevens’s clothes and shoes decorated her front lawn. Silk shirts in every color imaginable sprinkled the red roses that climbed the white trellis. Boxer shorts were scattered like freckles on the flagstone walkway, while an isolated pair hung from the limb of an oak tree like a gigantic moth. A beige loafer lay in the neighbor’s yard across the street.

Neighbors stood outside and watched in shameless amazement.

“Mind your own business!” Daisy yanked the navy sheers closed.
Why in the hell is everybody outside so early anyway?

She stood thinking, hands on hips.
Now for his grandmother’s antique china.
As she ran down the stairs, a stabbing pain shot through her right foot. She winced as blood trickled from her big toe. She shook her head in disgust and pulled out the small masonry nail.

“Ooh…goddamn!” She cringed, grabbing her foot. “I hate these stairs. I hate this house.” Then Daisy’s heart raced. “Lord, don’t let him walk through that door right now, ’cause I swear I’m gonna kill him. I told him the last time that if he let the sun beat him home, it would be the last one he’d see rise.” The pain from her wound, which was beginning to swell, deepened her anger. She wiped a tear from her eye and went to treat her injury.

As she limped into the first-floor bathroom, Daisy frowned at the tiny spots of blood staining the tile.
If it’s not one thing, it’s something worse. I wonder who it is this time—what woman has twisted his head so far up his ass that he can’t see who’s had his back for years.
She yanked open the medicine cabinet, and the entire contents tumbled into the sink. “Jesus!” Her heart felt as if it were jackhammering its way out of her chest.

She was not going to have another anxiety attack. No. No. No. Jasper wasn’t worth it. She inhaled slowly, held her breath to the count of ten, then exhaled. The last thing she needed was to lose control. After repeating the process several times she began to relax. Seven years of yoga had taught her how to alleviate stress. As her pulse slowed, she rummaged through the fallen toiletries for the first-aid kit. After treating her wound, she found herself staring into the basin. Something wasn’t right. The medicine cabinet was usually full, but the sink only contained a few items.
All of Jasper’s toiletries are missing. His extra toothbrush—gone.
There was no denying the evidence. Every time Jasper had stepped out on her before, she’d found the cabinet almost bare. “Now I’m really going to throw the china out the window!”

Daisy carelessly stacked the fragile china on the table in separate piles. With each half-toss it clattered, threatening to topple to the floor. Silently she urged it to fall, dared it to break like her relationship.
Why not? Everything else Jasper claimed to love is broken.
She snatched a plate and examined it. The blue-patterned china that bore fanciful etching, navy like a perfect night sky lighted by stars, was trimmed in gold. The hazy color she once thought beautiful was now as hideous as it was gaudy and old. Ugly and disgusting.
Haunting, like the bluish lips of the dead.
She shivered. Flinging the dish on top of the stack, a vile film covered her fingertips. Smelling her hands, she realized the china smelled as bad as it looked. Its stench attacked her nostrils and made her mouth feel like cotton. Turning away, she bumped the table with her hip and watched the china shake, rattle, and fall.

She headed to the kitchen. It was nice. The cold marble floor soothed her injured foot. She took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, threw her head back, letting the water soothe her tongue and dry throat.

She needed to check on Jay, who was over at a playmate’s house. She longed to hear his young, innocent voice sing the magical words that had always lifted her spirits: “Hey, Mom.” Daisy’s heart warmed as she thought about him. He had a knack for making her think about things bigger than her problems. He’d made it easy and desirable for her to segue into motherhood. He was Jasper’s son, but became her own when she’d stepped in to raise him when he was almost two.

She dialed his friend’s number, but couldn’t speak to Jay. He was outside playing basketball. Daisy sighed. As upset as she was, and as proud as she was for finally taking a stand, she yearned for the comfort of someone who loved her unconditionally.

“Jay,” she said out loud.

Daisy sat on the sofa waiting for Jasper to come through the front door. She was fuming. He should’ve had the decency to call. She picked up Jasper’s photo from the end table.
You would think you’d want to spend every available minute at home, considering your job has you out of town four days a week. But no. Not you, Jasper. That would be asking too much.
She glared at the picture, then tossed it across the room. She looked at another photograph, this one of Jay and herself. Immediately a tinge of guilt coursed through her, and a sudden sadness too. What was she to do about him? She certainly wouldn’t put him out.

She picked up Jay’s Little League trophy that was sitting next to their photo. As she ran her finger over his engraved name, a whimper escaped her: “I’m the only mother he knows. I can’t lose him.” She’d taught him how to talk, potty-trained him, and nursed him when he was ill. She’d done everything that she assumed his biological mother would’ve if she could’ve. “Death stole her from you, and it’ll be the only thing that’ll keep me from you.”

“Hell, he’s
my
son,” she said, setting the trophy back in its place.

A tear slid down her face. Jasper wouldn’t leave Jay behind no matter how hard she fought. In her heart, Jay was her son. But biologically and legally he was Jasper’s.

“I’m sorry, Jay,” she whispered, thankful that he was spending the weekend at his friend’s house. “I tried. One day I hope you’ll realize how much. And I’ll never let you go.”

How can I leave the father and keep the love of the son?

Hurting her was one thing, but destroying Jay’s security was another. Jasper had thrown their lives out the window just as she’d thrown out his belongings. It was always about what he wanted. She tapped her foot, willing the brass knob to turn and give her what she wanted: Jasper’s head.

Where the hell was he?

Tears flowed freely now from Daisy’s deep brown eyes. She paced the room, pounding her fist into her palm. As much as she loved him, she couldn’t take Jasper’s disrespect anymore.
Wouldn’t
take it anymore. She’d pretended for too long, lived too long in her make-believe world. Her mind wandered to the time she’d smelled another woman’s perfume on him, and he had convinced her it was her scent.
It wasn’t perfume that I smelled. It was pussy.
She plopped down on the sofa, laughing at her naïveté. How could she have been so stupid? She’d give Jasper one more hour, she decided. If he didn’t come home, she’d change the locks.

Settling back into the soft cushions, Daisy questioned herself. Why did she sit around and drown in thoughts of Jasper? Obviously, he wasn’t thinking about her—or Jay. The longer she sat, the angrier she got. And not only at him, but at herself. Why did she allow him to drain her of her happiness? He didn’t deserve her undivided attention. He wasn’t God. But she did have to admit that she’d treated him like a god. She had made him her alpha and omega, her personal messiah who’d convinced her that he was akin to Jesus; he was her first and last, beginning and end. Her only. In his hands she’d turned to dust and allowed him to mold her, breathe
his
version of life into her. She’d thought that he was her savior, but had been seduced by the fallen one and believed his lies. Daisy cringed because she knew that
she
had given him power. She’d placed him on a pedestal from which he’d refused to come down, and she’d been punished for being the type of woman who loved completely. There wasn’t anything on the green earth that she hadn’t done for him, or for Jay. So why hadn’t he come home last night? “Because he thinks I’m stupid,” she whispered.

No one could tell Daisy what she already knew. Inside, she knew he’d cheated before, and her gut told her that he was out doing something that he had no business doing.

As her eyes drifted around the room, Daisy realized that Jasper had fashioned her to his liking, just as he had fashioned his home. She too had been bought and paid for.

One thing she wouldn’t complain about was the grandfather clock. It had accompanied her through the night without missing a beat. And it had given her the wake-up call she’d finally answered, the call that had told her to put Jasper where he belonged—out with yesterday’s trash.

The clock chimed now, as if reminding her.
Time to make the doughnuts.
Daisy reached for the phone and called the locksmith, then forwarded her calls to a local psychic hotline.

The clock chimed again. The locksmith was late. How many people needed locks changed on a Sunday morning? Now she was waiting on
two
men, Jasper and the locksmith.
Isn’t this a trip?
It was bad enough that she was going to have to pay a surcharge for weekend work. In the phone book his ad claimed to have the speediest service in town, but please, she had seen molasses move faster. Daisy told herself to be patient. She’d waited almost seven years for Jasper to act right, so she could certainly wait another hour for the locksmith.

The doorbell rang. Her heart leapt to her throat.
Jasper? No, he has a key.
She calmed herself, tried to smooth out her wild hair, and let the locksmith in.

Three hundred dollars and five changed locks later, Daisy was even more pissed. There went the new outfit.

She walked slowly up the stairs, counting every one of the pictures that hung on the wall in stair-step succession. Seven in all, one for every year they had been a family.

“Seven whole years, and not once did you propose,” she said aloud. “And you asked me to have your baby? You must’ve thought I was a fool, telling me to have your baby first, and then you’d marry me. Hell, I raised your child.”

Daisy smashed one photo against all the others, shattering them to pieces, leaving only the photos of Jay and Jonathan, Jasper’s deceased twin, untouched. She stopped and paused in front of Jonathan’s picture. He seemed to watch her in disapproval. His eyes had always made her uncomfortable; they seemed more real than camera-captured.
Sorry, Jonathan, sorry you had to see this. But your brother’s acting a fool—again. Please send him some good sense from wherever you are.
She turned away and glared at the scattered pictures.

She went to the guest room and stood before the closet. She knew not to open the closet door, but still felt the temptation. Just the thought of what was hidden inside irritated her. The last thing she needed now was to come face-to-face with that haunting memory, that single piece of paper that had hurt her and served as a constant reminder of her shame. Daisy reached for the knob, then drew her hand back. She walked out of the room in a daze.

Padding down the hall, she tripped over one of Jasper’s ill-placed shoes and fell face-first into the carpet.

“I can’t…I just can’t take this,” she sobbed.

Daisy pushed herself up, her day-old makeup leaving faint traces of color on the carpet. “Who puts white carpet in a hallway, anyway?” she muttered, sniffing under her arms.
I need to bathe.
There was no way she’d allow herself to become like Jasper: tired and stinking.

The telephone rang while Daisy was taking off her clothes in the bedroom. She picked up, but no one was there.
My cell phone.

“Hel-lo,” Daisy snapped.

“Dai—um…what’s wrong with you?” her best friend, Gigi, asked. “You okay?”

“Yes. I mean…no. Jasper didn’t come home again last night, and he hasn’t called.”

“No? Girl, you’re having all kinds of trouble today. Men problems and phone issues. Did you know something was wrong with your phone? ’Cause I just tried to call twice, and some lady who claimed to be psychic kept answering—had the nerve to ask me which credit card I’d be using. I told her since she was psychic, she should tell me.”

Daisy laughed. “I forwarded my calls. They’re psychic, so maybe they’ll tell Jasper he doesn’t have a home.” Daisy paused, spreading cleanser on her face. “So what’s up? You feel like going to Ming Li’s and out to lunch?”

“Sure. I’ll meet you at her house in about an hour.”

“Make it an hour and a half. Oh, and Gigi?”

“Yeah?”

“When was the last time you talked to Marcus? Did he come to your house last night?”

“We were together until midnight. Why?”

“Just asking. Listen, if he calls you, don’t say anything, okay? I’ll see you at Ming Li’s.”