Unbeweaveable (19 page)

Beyoncé or Halle?

Beverly was staying in a hotel until we left for Memphis, which I was thankful for. I was glad of her tears, but also felt guilty, like I always did when she cried.

We planned on leaving first thing tomorrow morning, but Renee wanted to run a couple of errands first. Like a dummy, I tagged along.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we pulled into a shopping center. “You didn't buy enough stuff at the mall?”

“This isn't for me, this is for you. Come on, get out.”

I followed her out of the car and saw her heading to a hair salon.
Weaves
‘
R'
Us
was emblazoned on the sign out front.

“Renee, I know you—”

“Well I couldn't let you meet your father not looking your best.” She smiled as she pulled the heavy glass door open and I walked into the best scent in the world. Hair spray and burnt hair. Heaven.

Renee walked to the receptionist and checked me in while I looked at the walls that were full of all their before and after pictures. From the photos I could see that their weaves were virtually undetectable, and looked real enough that you could run your hands through them.

“Okay, you're all set,” Renee said, turning to face me. “Your stylist's name is Kasandra, and she's ready for you. I told them to do whatever you ask for. I have some more running around to do before our trip. So I'll come back in a few hours.”

I pulled her tight in my arms, crushing her to me. “Thank you so much.”

“Okay. Okay, calm down,” she said, patting my back so I would let her go. I did finally.

“Remember it's just hair, okay?”

I nodded and reached out to hug her again, but she ducked out of the door. She waved goodbye through the glass doors and was gone.

“Mariah?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Kasandra. I'll be doing your hair today. Come follow me to my station.”

She was pleasant looking. Pretty enough to not be called ugly, yet average enough to be forgettable. I sat down in her black hydraulic chair.

“Your sister mentioned that you would probably prefer a weave?” she asked, as she ran her hands through my frizzy hair.

“Umm…”

“Don't worry, you're in good hands. I lot of people are nervous about getting their first weaves. You want to look through some books first?”

I nodded and she reached under her station and pulled out several hair magazines. “Take your time and look through these. Would you like something to drink?”

“Water would be fine.”

She skipped away, and I started flipping through the pages, seeing Beyoncé, Alicia Keys, Gabrielle Union—all with their perfectly coiffed long hair. I flipped another page and saw a picture of Halle Berry winning her Oscar. Her short hair was delicately spiked and feathery, and accented her features. I looked in the mirror above her station.

I had the same heart-shaped face as hers, some of the same petite features. How had I not noticed before?

Probably because it was hidden under a mountain of weave.

I kept flipping between the two pages. Beyoncé or Halle? Halle or Beyoncé?

“Here's your water,” Kasandra said, handing me a cold bottle. “Did you decide?”

“I want this one.”

Kasandra smiled.

“Good choice.”

* * *

“You look great!” Renee screamed when she came to pick me up. “I love it!”

I touched my hair. “I love it, too.”

Kasandra darkened my hair to a shiny black, and it was tapered low around the sides, with soft spikes in the crown. She kept my bangs short and they were wisped to the side; “So everyone can see those big brown eyes,” Kasandra said. I have to admit I looked good. Better than good, I was fierce.

I pushed open the door of the salon and a gust of wind blew and not a hair moved. And for the first time, it was okay.

 

Hair style is the final tip off whether or not a woman truly knows herself.

—
Hubert de Givenchy

Vogue, July 1985

Caffeine-Filled Kangaroos

Should my coming to see him be a surprise? Or should I call him and let him know that the daughter he's never seen is on her way?

I bit the end of the pen, then wrote:

I thought it would have taken longer to find his telephone number, but technology makes everything easier, and when I typed his address into Google—bam. His phone number appeared. Renee thinks I should call him. “You'll give him a heart attack!” she said. But calling him would give him a chance to say he didn't want me to come.

I shook my head.

Okay, I doubt that he would tell me no, but still I just…

I stared at the ceiling. What do you say on the phone to the father you've never met? “Hey Dad, it's me, your daughter. How you doing?” Or “Hey, remember the child that you never got to see? Well, hey, that's me.” I shook my head again.

Truth is, I don't believe he really wanted to see me. How could someone stay away for thirty years? No one was stopping him, why didn't he try harder to see me? I've only had the stomach to read five of the letters. Every time I start reading my stomach burns and I get so angry at Beverly for blocking his love out of my life. Maybe if my father was around, I would have a man, and a family of my own, instead of sitting in the bedroom in my sister's house. Alone.

I closed my journal and my eyes, and tried to stop the whirlwind of thoughts going through my head. I sat up and rummaged through my suitcase and found my only picture of Paul. I stared at his face so long, my eyes blurred.
I'm coming Daddy. I'm coming.

* * *

When Renee arrived two hours later, I was pacing the living room floor.

“You got the tickets?”

“Better,” she said, breathless. “Come downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Just come downstairs,” she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me into the elevator.

“What is this all about?”

“You'll see,” she said, as we exited the elevator and I followed through the lobby to the entrance of her building. She pushed open the glass doors and started jumping up and down. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About this!” she said, pointing to a white BMW convertible. She walked around it like one of those girls on
The Price is Right
, her hand gliding over it as she pointed out all the bells and whistles.

“And it has navigation so you won't get lost.”

“
I
won't
get
lost
? Renee, is this car for me?”

“Well, duh! Did you think
I
needed another car?”

My feet started bouncing off the ground and we were hugging each other, both of us jumping up and down like a bunch of caffeine-filled kangaroos. “You bought me a car, you bought me a car!”

“I bought you a car, I bought you a car!”

I stopped jumping and she handed me the keys, and I got in and inhaled that new car scent, ran my hands over the peanut butter leather interior, grabbed the shiny mahogany-stained steering wheel.
I could get used to this
…

“I want to take this baby out for a spin. Hop in.”

She giggled, and then got in the passenger seat.

“Where to?” I asked.

“How about Memphis?”

“What?”

“I was thinking how fun it would be if we took a road trip, you know? I always wanted to do something like that, especially in a convertible. Sunglasses on, wind blowing through our hair—what do you think?”

She had me until she mentioned the wind in the hair part.

“Nothing's blowing with my new hair cut, Renee. Besides, that's crazy. We can't just go take a road trip.”

“Why not? We have the time. Besides, you need to practice driving anyway. What better way to do that than on the open road? We can plan the whole thing, and it'll only take a couple of days—”

“I don't know about this…”

“Look, it'll give you time to figure out what to say. Have you thought about that?”

“No…”

“Good. Road trip,” she shouted, her head back.

“I don't know how long I can be in a car with you.”

She hit my arm.

“I'm just playing. Man, Renee, this is a nice car. I've never had my own car. I don't know what to say—”

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Good. Now let's park this baby and plan our trip. I want to leave first thing in the morning.”

* * *

It took us a few hours and several phone calls to decide on what route to take for our trip. After washing a load of laundry and packing the clothes I would need, I called Norma.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice sounding like the voice of a new mother, tired and haggard.

“Hey, Mama! How are you feeling?”

“How does it
sound
like I'm feeling? She hasn't been sleeping, so I'm up all night. My breasts feel like a dog's chew toy, and I haven't bathed since you left.”

“Wow. Sorry.”

“Hey, the trials of motherhood. But she smiled at me today.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She opened her eyes and gave me a wide toothless grin. It's amazing how much I love this little girl.”

“Of course you do.”

“How is everything with your mother?”

“Beverly? She handed me a box full of letters that my father wrote her. And I found out that she's a compulsive liar.”

“All right. But what's your plan? Are you still going to see your father?“

“Yes. Renee bought me a car so—”

“You have a car! Whoo-hoo!”

I pulled the phone away from my ear to save my eardrums. “Calm down or I'll need a hearing aid.”

“What kind of car?”

“A BMW,” I said, my voice filling with the confidence that a BMW owner has.

“Oooh, la te da, a BMW. I can't believe your sister bought you a car. A BMW at that. You were getting too old to not have a driver's license.”

“I have a driver's license. I just don't drive. I didn't need to in New York. In Houston everybody drives.”

“So you two are getting along?”

“We are,” I said, surprised at my answer. “We've been getting along pretty well.”

“You must be if she bought you a car.”

“We're taking a road trip to Memphis tomorrow.”

“Man, you're really doing this, aren't you?”

I sighed. “Yes. It's time.”

“And you don't think calling is the best way to go?”

“No. I'm going to find him, check him out, and then tell him.”

“Pretty bold. Not the way I would go, but you never did listen to me.”

I laughed. I heard Elizabeth's faint cry and we said our goodbyes. She was going to take care of her baby, and I was on my way to meet my father.

Wind Beneath My Wings

“It'll take us two days to get there,” Renee said as she heaved her Louis Vuitton luggage into the trunk.

“How much stuff are you bringing?” I asked.

“You never know how long this reunion could last.”

I threw my bags in the trunk and walked over to the passenger side. “Do you mind if I let you drive the first leg? I need to collect my thoughts.”

“You want me to drive? I would have thought that you would be chomping at the bit to drive your car.”

“I know, but I'm still nervous from wrecking your car. You mind?” I said, handing her my keys.
My keys
. I still couldn't believe it. I had a new car. I slid into the passenger side and inhaled the scent of new leather, and watched as my sister pulled out of the parking garage with ease.

The air outside was still and humid, and we both agreed to keep the top up and run the air conditioner full blast.

“The passenger runs the radio, so crack open one of those new CDs and let's see if we share the same taste in music.”

“Well we know we don't after last night,” I said. Last night we went to Target to pick up a few toiletries, and she had me laughing at our different tastes in music. She listened to Bette Midler, Celine Dion, and Barbara Streisand, while I enjoyed the cool musings of Eric Benet and Anthony Hamilton.

“What are you saying? You telling me you don't lip sync to ‘Wind Beneath My Wings' anymore?”

I laughed at the memory. Beverly was a huge Bette Midler fan, and she blared her music most evenings. The bathroom was near her bedroom, so I would go in there, lock the door, roll a towel over my head, imagining long dark locks trailing my waist, and lip sync “Wind Beneath My Wings” until Renee pounded on the door that she had to pee.

“I remember those days,” I said. “But I've grown up and we're going to listen to something more to
my
liking.”

“All right, pop something in.”

I tore off the plastic covering off Alicia Keys's latest and put the CD in. Her smooth voice and carefree piano playing brought my mood up and eased the terror in my stomach about meeting my father.

I gathered enough from the letters that he wrote Beverly until I was five. After that he simply sent checks. And he still stayed with his mother. What kind of man still stays with his mother at fifty years old?

“What you thinking about over there?” Renee asked, driving the crowded morning freeway with relative ease.

“That you're a good driver. Who taught you?”

“Mama. Don't you remember her taking—” She stopped, and then shook her head.

“You know Beverly didn't teach me anything. I take that back, she taught me how ugly she is inside. She taught me how not to be a mother. If I ever have children I'll never lie to them. They'll always know the truth, good or bad.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Stop apologizing for her! You didn't do anything wrong, okay? It was all her.”

“I noticed you brought the box.”

I looked at it in the backseat. “Yeah?”

“You didn't read all the letters?”

“I read most of them. It's too sad looking at them. Just seeing his handwriting makes me want to cry.” I shook my head. “I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

“Okay. But you should know there are two sides to every story, Mariah.”

“I've heard hers. There is no excuse for what she did to me.”

“I agree.”

“And I can't believe that you would even suggest that Beverly was right in any way. There was no right in what she did.”

“Did you see the way Grandpa reacted to her in the room?”

“I don't remember…”

“She had a hard childhood, Mariah.”

“However hard her childhood was, she brought it on herself.”

“Grandpa barely even spoke to her.”

“So?” I asked.

She sighed. “You don't know the half of it.”