Forgive Me (4 page)

“Sweetheart, don't you think the restaurant is empty tonight? I've never known it to be this quiet,” said Victoria.

“Good point.” Emory called the waiter over to their table. “Is there something going on tonight? It's usually not this empty.”

“Sir, we're expecting a special party tonight. As a matter of fact, I was about to ask the two of if you wouldn't mind moving.”

“But we have reservations,” said Emory.

“It's okay, Emory,” said Victoria. She rubbed his massive hands and winked at him. Her divorce had taught her to relax. Victoria remembered the time she would have insisted a manager be brought out to fire the waiter. Time had taught her to enjoy small
moments and to be grateful. “Where would you like us to move?”

They stood as the waiter led them to what appeared to be a private dining area in back of the restaurant.

“See, we'll have more privacy,” said Victoria as she rubbed his back.

Victoria followed Emory closely. She loved the way he complimented her, and lately, he accompanied her to the gym to get rid of the twenty-five extra pounds she had gained over the past year. Try as she might since the divorce, she couldn't stop eating. Gone were the vegetarian meals her former nanny, Alva, prepared for her each day. Victoria fell for the South's beauty along with its cuisine. It was nothing for her to scarf down a rack of ribs, coleslaw, steak fries, and half a German chocolate cake in one sitting. Her daughter, Nicolette, chastised her about the food and gently reminded her of Michelle Obama's Let's Move campaign. Thanks to home training, Victoria avoided licking her plate clean. Emory suggested healthier portions of food. She ate them in his presence; however, when he went home or flew out of town on business trips, her toxic inner foodie took over and she couldn't help herself. She knew change was imminent when Emory surprised her with a membership to LA Fitness for Christmas. Victoria reasoned that real-life adjustment caused her excessive eating. The former stay-at-home mom now utilized her social work degree by working Monday through Friday for a health care agency. Although she'd been employed three years, she never adjusted to waking up early, getting Nicolette fed and off to school, navigating the hellacious Atlanta traffic, reporting to management, and obeying office rules. Nicolette's soccer practice, dance lessons, and general day-to-day movement made Victoria's head swim. Her wisely invested, $3 million-dollar divorce settlement was the only remnant of her
past life. Gone were the nanny, multiple credit cards, and endless spending sprees from her past life. Were it not for Canaan, and her associate, Yvette Hankerson, she wouldn't make it each day. Victoria wanted to embrace Yvette, but Aruba Dixon taught her that associates beat friends any day of the week.

“After dinner, perhaps we can visit some friends,” said Emory.

“What did you say?” asked Victoria. Engrossed in past thoughts, she didn't hear anything Emory said. She held his hand and fell in stride behind the waiter.

The waiter opened the doors to a private area in the restaurant. When he stepped back, Victoria's eyes widened as a sea of familiar faces smiled and said in union, “Welcome.” She looked at Emory, unsure of what was going on. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

“This is a special party for the most beautiful, magnificent lady I know,” said Emory. Emory extended his arm as if to encourage Victoria to mingle with their relatives and friends.

Victoria's aunt, Marguerite, stepped toward her with a glass of wine. “Do you know how hard it was keeping this secret? Foster just about put masking tape on my lips to keep me from speaking.”

“What is going on?” Victoria whispered to Marguerite.

Marguerite opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by her sister, Lillith. “It's about time you got here. My knee has been bothering me, and I was wondering when Emory would get this thing going. I have plans tonight with one of my gentleman friends, and I can't hang here too long,” she said.

Victoria looked at her mother. In Lillith's mind, she stopped aging at thirty, and her outfit was an indicator of her fantasies. She donned a tight, red mini dress that needed relief from hugging the rolls of fat on her stomach. Five-inch stilettos help boost her short stature, but rings on each finger and too much perfume
reminded Victoria why she kept her distance from her mother. She held tightly to the cane she'd been carrying since suffering a mild stroke. “And before you ask, Emory asked me for those photos of you when you were little,” said Lillith. She tossed her shoulder-length weave to one side and flashed Victoria a wide, veneered smile.

Victoria hadn't noticed the wide-screen television displaying images of herself and Emory on dates, as children, with friends, and alone. She looked to Emory for an answer, but he worked the room with his usual magnetism as he greeted guests.

“Go on and say hello to everyone,” said Lillith as she grabbed a glass of Moscato from one of the servers. Lillith bopped her head to the rhythm of the smooth jazz playing.

Victoria worked the room greeting people from her church, the gym, and her office. Two co-workers, Jasmine and Cassidy, gave her the thumbs-up sign and nodded their heads in Emory's direction. When she approached Yvette and her husband, Carl, she hugged her, enjoying the warmth and sincerity of Yvette's joy.

“You look so lovely tonight, Victoria,” said Yvette. “I told Carl if I had to pretend I didn't know what was going on for another week, I'd die.”

“I'll let it slide this time, but you know I don't like secrets. The last time I was at a surprise party…” Victoria's voice trailed off.

“What happened?” asked Yvette.

“I don't have enough time or liquor to tell you about it,” said Victoria.

Yvette observed Victoria walk away with the sullen face that appeared when the past came up. They'd been acquaintances three years, going back and forth to each other's homes, double-dating, and attending Nicolette's games. Yet, there was something missing from their time of fellowship. Yvette couldn't put her finger
on it. The few things Victoria shared, she kept them in confidence. She was quick to listen, slow to speak. She wanted Victoria to know she could trust her, but somehow, she couldn't get the message across.

“Carl, did you see her face? I wish I knew what made her so sad sometimes,” said Yvette.

“Give her some time, baby. Didn't you say she was divorced?”

“Yes, but I don't know much about it. Whenever the subject comes up, she becomes evasive or stops midsentence about the topic of divorce. I want her to know she can talk to me about anything—especially after tonight.”

Carl and Yvette smiled at each other and reflected on the reason they'd all gathered at the restaurant.

Emory stepped to the makeshift stage built a week ago for the occasion. A server handed him a microphone as guests gathered together in a semi-circle. His business partner, Pearson Loft, escorted Victoria to the stage.

Emory held Victoria's hand. He gazed into her eyes and lifted her chin with his free hand. “Your birthday is two weeks away, but I wanted to do something special for you because you deserve so much. You're beautiful, intelligent, and everything I prayed for in a woman.”

Victoria looked around at their enthralled guests, still unsure of Emory's motives. He captured her attention once again. “I can't erase all the things that happened to you in the past, but I wanted tonight to be a new beginning for you, for us.”

Emory slowly removed a Tiffany ring box from his pocket and got down on one knee. “Victoria Faulk, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? To share my world, to share my life, to share my vision?”

Victoria's blank stare caught Emory off-guard as did the fresh
tears flowing down her face. He knew the surprise would overwhelm her, so instead of waiting for her yes, he slid the ring on her finger.

She took several deep breaths, snatched her arm away, and yelled in a voice unfamiliar to Emory, “How could you be so insensitive?” She plucked the ring from her finger, tossed it at Emory's feet, and ran from the restaurant into the street.

The stunned guests looked at each other, then Emory. Lillith, satisfied that her chit-chat with Victoria two weeks ago had been effective, sipped her Moscato with a smirk, and checked her text messages to see if Bobby responded.

T
awatha held her urine six hours before realizing the unlocked guest bathroom was safe. Glued to the sectional with her legs crossed, she feared moving. Royce texted to let her know he'd ordered Jimmy John's for her, but she refused to open the door for the deliveryman when he rang the bell. After five rings, he left the food on the doorstep. She sat on the sofa thirsty, hungry, and angry. Royce remembered her favorite sandwich from her Hinton and Conyers days, yet fear kept her stuck to the sofa.
What if the deliveryman recognizes me from the news?
She had been out of jail for eight hours and hadn't decompressed. She waited for a guard to call out her inmate number. She listened for a catfight between inmates whose families didn't visit, or whose families didn't put money on the books. She waited for the hard bang of a steel door closing, which was accompanied by the clanking of keys. She looked around and found only tranquility. Royce had taken great care to make sure her surroundings were soft, genteel.
If only I could move.

Tawatha knew the real reason for her paralysis: the duffle bag letters. She received many letters in jail from angry mothers, fathers, and siblings who freely spoke their minds about her incompetence and selfishness. After reading several letters, she stopped opening them. The raw language grated her nerves. She collected
the letters and brought them from prison as a reminder of past mistakes. The last letter she received two weeks before her release scared her most. The writer researched her mother's name and addressed the letter with Roberta's address in the sender's corner. Thankful her mother reached out to her, she ripped open the letter and found the cryptic words:

Hello, Tramp,

I bet you thought I was your mother, didn't you? Well, think again. Matter of fact, think of the kids you killed who'll never get a chance to have a mother, a basketball game, a snowball fight, a high school graduation, and a wedding. And for what? Just because you were selfish enough to be caught up with a man. That man didn't want you and probably never did. You were an easy lay to him and he moved on to something new. The news didn't say it was about a man, but any time a woman gets a wild hair up her ass and kills her kids, a man is behind it. You messed up bad! You left your oldest daughter alone in the world, and you weren't even woman enough to think about the consequences of your actions. I thought you'd rot in jail and be gone for good, but I look up and see that biracial slut, Attorney Jamilah Greg, has the nerve to be an advocate for your freedom. I'll tell you what. If you see the light of day on the streets, it won't be for long. I will find you and kill you myself for what you did to those kids. Watch your back, Child Killer.

Your Worst Enemy

The sound of Royce's key in the door startled Tawatha. He stepped into the living room and raised an eyebrow at her sitting position on the sofa. He placed his keys and the Jimmy John's bag on the coffee table and sat next to her.

“I've been calling you for hours. Why haven't you answered the phone?”

Tawatha stared at the iPhone Royce purchased for her so they
could communicate. He handed it to her, paying careful attention to point out the missed calls. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Let me run to the bathroom. We can talk when I come back.”

Royce noticed the pained look on her face. He leaned back and wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Maybe it was a midlife crisis. Maybe it was the fact he'd be turning sixty soon and missed having a wife and a daughter. His divorce felt like the final blow to a once perfect life. His daughter, Ramona, died in a car accident, leaving Royce and his wife strangers. Ramona, a twenty-three-year-old graduate student at Indiana University, died en route to Millicent's birthday party. She was the victim of a head-on collision by a semitrailer. Numbness set in after her funeral as Royce and his beloved Millie tried to get back on track. Sure, the sincere, empathetic clichés comforted them for a moment, but their lives were forever altered. When Tawatha walked into Hinton and Conyers, Royce's construction company, he felt alive again. She looked so much like Ramona he avoided her for the first three weeks she worked. Slowly, he got to know her, admonished her for the skimpy attire she wore each day, and encouraged her to rise up and be a young lady. Her four children became his surrogate grandchildren. He showered the children with clothes, money, and tickets to Pacer and Fever games. When she killed them in the fire, he knew he couldn't abandon her as everyone else had. He knew her temporary lapse in judgment was the result of being overwhelmed with the children. There could be no other explanation.