The Better Half(34)
I blow out an enormous breath before I start in on what’s been holed up inside. “My entire life I’ve done exactly what Fitzroy and Celia expected of me, I couldn’t shoulder the barrage of sacrifice stories that would rain down on me if I didn’t. I worked myself to the bone in school. I sang in the church, and I sang in the school choir. Did you know that the longest I have ever been unemployed in my adult life is fifty-six hours? I even married the Black prince of Bermuda because my mom said she could hear my biological clock ticking from the outside. You know she didn’t come to America to not have grandchildren. I went right from working hard to please my parents to busting ass to please my husband.”
“Don’t go blaming your poor choice in husbands on Celia. She didn’t hold a gun to your head and make you walk down that aisle,” Marisol says, jumping in to defend my mother.
“I know that, I think. But I have a lifetime of my parents’ sacrifices riding on me, and every decision I have ever made starts with, Will Celia and Fitzroy be proud, or will they have to skip church? And don’t tell me you’ve never felt it from my parents, growing up they made you show them your grades too.”
“Remember that rickety piano your mom made us practice scales on for fifteen minutes every day before we were allowed to play actual songs?” Marisol reminds me. “Even then she only let us play gospel hymns. Why couldn’t your parents be Rastas?”
“Yeah, my dad rescued that piano from the free pile on the street corner before it became someone’s kindling. He sanded it up and stained it to make it Celia approved and living room ready. After you, me, and Clive, it was the pride of the house.”
“That’s what your folks did for me that my grandparents couldn’t, and I will always be grateful. They shined me up and made me life ready.” I can complain about anything to Marisol except for my parents. She will always defend them because her childhood depended on them. “And remember our piano teacher, Mrs. Richards? Her apartment smelled like a litter box. She’d teach stroking one of her precious pets. We learned to move our hands along the keys quickly, or she’d send one of those furballs home with us. To this day I still hate cats.”
“Yeah, Mom fought hard for concert pianists.” I laugh at the memory of Mom swatting at me to sit my butt down and practice Beethoven when all I wanted to do was sing En Vogue. Celia always won. “My parents’ pride in our little immigrant family was my number one priority. I never considered myself. I always considered us.”
“But it worked out all right, we turned out okay,” Marisol says, nudging me. “And I hate to burst your bubble, but you raise Xandra like Fitzroy and Celia raised you. High standards, little room for error.” I get a gut bomb in my stomach knowing there’s some kind of error going on with Xandra right now and I’m failing at figuring out exactly what it is. She’s holding her feelings tight to her chest, which, unfortunately, she learned from me. “And my guess is you run Royal-Hawkins much the same way.”
“You’re right, and that’s exactly my point. I’m full up on babies to parent and people passing judgment on how well I’m doing, or not doing, my job,” I whine. “I have Xandra and fifteen years of Graham pointing out all the ways I’m failing her as a working mother. Now I have Royal-Hawkins and a whole board and parent body looking out for my every misstep, waiting to offer unsolicited advice.” I haven’t been able to shake Winn and his random conversations about sports at Royal-Hawkins, nor Courtney’s push to join the board of trustees. “And, given Leo’s new work venture he’s struggling to fit giving me a call into his schedule as is. How’s that all going to work out when there’s a baby in the mix? Trust me, I know how this story plays out, I’ll end up a work widow twice over.” Marisol cannot deny I’ve been here before.
“I’m at capacity when it comes to taking care of people and all their expectations. What little free time I have, I’m hoping for some space to take care of myself. Hell, to be by myself.” The tears are back at the idea of eighteen more years prioritizing someone else’s needs, someone else’s desires, over mine. Before I start back up, Marisol holds up her index finger signaling she needs a second. She grabs her cocktail napkin and dabs the cascade streaming down my cheeks.
“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change my life for anything, the ups, the downs, the stress, and the love, all of it. I really wouldn’t. But with Graham and graduate school behind me and then this summer with Leo and starting my dream job, I was feeling like it was finally my turn to have MY LIFE.” Remembering I’m in public, I take it down from a ten. “That I finally get to be number one. Spend my time the way I want to spend it. Jesus, to have free time for the first time in two decades is a luxury I want to explore. I might want to do nothing or pack my schedule with a bunch of random shit like mah-jongg or collaging.” Marisol gives me a doubtful face. “I know I know, probably not going to join a quilting circle, but I know where they sell thread.” I let out a defeated sigh.
“I know it sounds bad, Marisol, but I’ve earned my forties, and I don’t want to give them away. If I do, then the next time I’ll be able to get a massage or go to brunch, let alone go to the bathroom by myself, will be when I’m sixty-five. And don’t get me started on my career, I just got to where I want to be.” Every selfish thought I’ve had since finding out I’m pregnant is now out there for Marisol’s review. It’s the truth, good, bad, or really, really dreadful, and there’s a relief to hearing the words out loud versus them bouncing around my brain.