“I got you, Nina,” Jared says, nodding while heaving himself out of the cushioned comfort of my wingback chair.
“I look forward to seeing great things from you, Jared. I know I will,” I say with finality, holding my doorknob. Start on a compliment, end on one too.
“I know you will too.” Jared gives me a quick salute and strides off my court. I have a feeling this is not the last time we’ll be facing off.
Xandra 12:24 PM
I have a study group but need to talk to you tonight, my drama teacher’s a real dick.
Xandra knows she’s not allowed to throw around curse words with me. In our family I’m the one with the filthy mouth that Xandra’s always quick to edit. I’m going to need to open a bag of corn chips to decode this text.
Nina 12:25 PM
K. I’ll call then. I’m worried. Or call me earlier if you can. Whenever. I’m available. And I LOVE YOU. Really, really love you.
I reread my text and delete up to worried. I can’t come across too overbearing and desperate to solve my teenage daughter’s life from across the country. Marisol would be proud of me for checking myself.
Xandra 12:27 PM
Hand out of the chip bag Mom, I’m OK.
I pop a handful in my mouth and chomp down in defiance of my fifteen-year-old know-it-all. I kick open my lower cabinet door. Turns out this is my only bag, so I need to make it last through the day. A bag used to last me a week, but I’m currently excelling at eating my job performance insecurities. Plus, I think Mimi forgot to stock my fall collection.
“Mimi,” I singsong out my office door. “Do you mind hopping over to Trader Joe’s when you can and picking up some more of my corn chip dippers? My summer stash is almost gone.” I truly don’t think I can head of school without them.
In a moment Mimi’s in my doorway. “Are you sure? I restocked about ten days ago. Let me take a peek.” I pull my desk chair back so Mimi can squat to inspect the bottom cabinet I just finished examining. “Wow, you’re right, they’re all gone. That’s so strange, I know I put a couple in there, recently.”
I put down the bag I’m currently devouring and dust off my hands.
“No worries, please just grab me some when you can. And on your way out, can you . . . uh . . . close my door? I have some calls to make.”
“Okay.” Mimi studies my face for a second before doing what I’ve asked. We both know I rarely shut my door, so the look of concern she aims my way is not unfounded.
My hands shake as I scroll back through my weekly calendar. Past the first day of school. Past the day Leo left. I search past my dad’s arrival, all the way to the road trip Leo and I took to Yosemite at the beginning of August.
Soon after our tryst in Santa Barbara, Leo called me to reissue his camping invitation.
Rather than jumping in an SUV with a man I barely knew, I suggested we try a meal over a table rather than a campfire for our first real date. At that dinner I admitted to Leo I had never been to Yosemite. Once he recovered from his shock at that piece of Nina trivia, he cracked the competitive campsite reservation game and insisted he was the one to show me the national park wonders I had only seen in Ansel Adams’s photographs.
Like many Black people living in urban areas, my family does not camp. Or hike. There were a lot of people staring at me on the trails as we explored the outdoors. I had folks passing me left and right with looks I was sure said, First a Jamaican bobsled team, now this! I high-fived the one brown-skinned brother I saw coming down North Dome as we headed up. He lifted his chin at me, we shared a sly grin, and, no doubt, the same thought—We’re everywhere!—before continuing in opposite directions.
As it turns out, I like everything about hiking! The exercise, fresh coffee before starting out in the crisp morning air, watching Leo’s backside flex with every step without seeming creepy. I can, however, do without sleeping on an inch-thick mattress pad and having to eat dinner with a utensil called a spork. I’m a grown-up, damn it.
I return to today’s schedule and email Mimi on the other side of our shared wall:
Cancel my meetings for the afternoon.
“You’re so lucky I’m at a shop being remodeled,” Marisol says, laying a clean piece of plastic down on the stripped wood floor of the bathroom. We both slide down the wall and inelegantly land on the ground. “While you were in here peeing, I gave my contractor two twenties to quit early and take his guys to have a beer on the Clean Slate.” I nod, thankful for Marisol’s swift action.
“You didn’t sit on the toilet seat when you peed on the stick, did you? The workmen have been using this bathroom for two months and still haven’t cleaned the bowl. And they don’t lift the seat!” Marisol cringes at the thought.
“What, you think I’m a rookie?”
“At pregnancy tests? Yes. I’ve been riding shotgun to your love life my whole life.”
“No, nasty bathrooms. I work in a school, remember. You only learn that lesson once.”
“Truth,” Marisol says, nodding. “Those are some gorgeous shoes you got on. Seems you actually got it right for once shopping without me. When did you get those?” I can’t tell if Marisol’s paying me a sincere compliment or trying to distract me while we wait for the plus or minus on my pregnancy test to show up.
“Saks sale. This is their first day out for a spin. They’re last year’s Gucci, but still a big win for me.” I look down at my well-clad feet, and they wave back and forth at me. Marisol elbows me twice. Time. Clenching, I unfurl my fingers from the stick and pass the test to Marisol.
“Well, I’d wear those shoes every day for the next couple of months, ’cause soon they’re not gonna fit.” I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears, hoping I heard wrong. Marisol pulls my hands away from my head, gripping them tightly in hers, trying to pass strength on to me, or to take away some of my pain.
“This . . . this . . . CANNOT be real. This cannot be my life right now, Marisol. NOPE! It really can’t,” I insist. “My life is too full already running a school, guiding Xandra into womanhood, and making sure my dad can travel back and forth whenever he pleases. I’ve been working on getting me, Dad, and Xandra to this place for years.” Marisol squeezes tighter, she knows. “And I’m marking off the days until Leo comes home, so he can take me to dinner, not to ultrasounds!” I’m choking on my sobs, stuttering to finish my thoughts.
“Mom died, and I finally left Graham. Graduate school, Xandra going to Pemberley, starting this huge job. It’s been seven hard fucking years. I deserve some breathing room!” I’m not sure which is dripping more, the tears from my eyes or the snot from my nose. Marisol unhooks the toilet paper from its holder and hands me the whole roll.
“You still keep a paper calendar?”
“We’re sitting here on your disgusting shop floor finding out I’m forty-three and pregnant, and you want details about my calendaring?” I feel the onset of a hysterical laugh-cry. “I don’t know how this happened, Sol!”
“Sure, you do. Think back to the bee talk Fitzroy and Celia gave us as kids. Remember the stinger? That would be Leo.” At the warning look I give, she continues, “Sorry. I say stupid things when you cry.”