Made of Honor (20 page)

He lifted his guitar over his shoulder. It dangled over his fingers by the strap for a second while we stared at each other, his eyes searching mine. He lowered it gently to the ground. As he moved in closer, the scent of figs, something I’d debuted a season before and he’d bought a ton on clearance for an unknown reason, opened my nose the way a good melody perks up my ears. It’d sold decently as a woman’s scent, but on a man? Oh my.

Stop working. Your business is probably over anyway.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. My stubby fingers laced through his long, slender ones. I closed my eyes, waiting for a kiss.

The kiss.

I’d run from it all these months, since that day at Tracey’s wedding when I’d wanted to lay one on him right there in that torn dress.

Tangerine-scented breath blew across my mouth instead. It sounded like someone had stabbed an over-inflated balloon.

He peeled his face away, then touched my face, traced my brows, my cheeks.

My eyes closed. This wasn’t funny. “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t.” Somehow kissing would have been so much easier to walk away from.

He traced his finger down the curve of my chin and kissed the spot where he’d extracted a hair not so long ago. The guitar crashed over but he kept his eyes on me.

My stomach did cartwheels.

“I love you, Dana. I always will.”

Before I could reply, his lips marched back up my cheeks, my brows…. Each kiss as warm and steady as the next.

“Please don’t.” I whispered it this time.

With a pained look, he pulled back.

I took a deep breath and pointed to his cheek. “Are you trying to grow a beard? You know you almost slit your throat trying to shape up that pseudo-beard you had in eleventh grade….” My voice creaked. I hated to deflect him with a joke, but I couldn’t do this. Not yet.

He tapped my shin with his foot. “The pirate beard? You were forbidden to mention that.”

Forbidden. Wasn’t that always the buzzword between us? Though I didn’t welcome it, Dahlia’s confession darkened the scape of my mind. My lips tightened into a line. “Yeah, well lots of things are forbidden, but that doesn’t stop us, does it?”

His eyes sparkled with questions. “Sometimes, though, things aren’t forbidden at all…just delayed.”

I took a deep breath. Weren’t we talking about my financial demise? Wasn’t that my biggest problem? Why then couldn’t I focus on it? Probably that figgy pudding lotion he was wearing. I’d made it, of course, but it hadn’t smelled like that then. No, every person brought something to a fragrance, unlocked it. Owned it. And Adrian had surely just reinvented the fig.

I shrugged. “Delayed. Denied. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Especially when you’re traveling a road with baggage in both hands.”

He touched my face. Lighter this time. I fought the urge to bat his hand away. What was he trying to do, kill me?

Maybe I should just tell him that I know about Dahlia. Just put it out there.

As I considered it, he turned away, reaching down for his guitar, now with a loose wire and a scratch grooved on the side. When had he even learned to play? Another piece of the puzzle of this new person he’d become. He strapped the instrument on the front this time, creating a distance between us.

With a melancholy look, he patted my hand one last time. “You’re right, sometimes the luggage is so heavy, the trip is impossible.”

Remember that frozen hot dog bun that Oprah ate back in the eighties? Well, I think I topped that today, tackling a brick of God-only-knows-how-old raisin bread from the freezer. A Weight Watchers coupon had come in the mail the day before, just when even my Velcro jeans wouldn’t pull up. Did they have spies or what? In preparation for the dreaded weigh-in, I was making an effort to eat better.

I hated the thought of facing that receptionist, but I was having my I’m-too-fat-to-live headaches and Rochelle, who hadn’t said a word about my weight in a while—or much else—had expressed concern about my huffing and puffing up the stairs at church last Sunday. I’d been a little peeved at her weakly disguised intervention—I’d done enough of them for her and Tracey in years past to see one coming—but when I saw the fear in Chelle’s eyes…I realized her sincerity.

Considering my mother’s high blood pressure, I can see how it would scare her. And truthfully, after getting those pictures back from the baby shower and realizing it was my belly blocking the shot instead of Tracey’s, I knew I had to do something.

Freezer-burnt raisin toast definitely wasn’t the answer. I should have known by the thud of the bread against the counter when I took it out of the freezer. I pried the inch of ice off it and shoved it into the toaster, only to be shocked half to death while trying to retrieve the soggy wad of dough a few minutes later.

Not easily shaken, I tried the oven method. Well, after downing that rock of raisins—dry, of course—stroke or heart attack is the least of my worries.

I drove straight to Starbucks holding my throat and only felt my tongue again after three white chocolate lattes. Oh, well, so much for a new start. I think this time I’m going to have to ap
proach this eating thing from another angle. A wider lens, too, to catch my hips.

I wanted to be balanced, but my lifestyle, the 60-hour work week, family dinners with more fat than the local butcher’s, loving and hating my former best friend and business competitor, the revival of my church at a time when I was dying and just trying to survive, didn’t bode well for my good health.

Driving to work, I stared up at the red light, burped a mouthful of raisins and prayed for the traffic light to change. Adrian’s figgy pudding kisses, or maybe my sorrow at the thought of never experiencing another one, had inspired me to start a new men’s line. It’d gone over like gangbusters. If I pushed a little harder, I might be able to save the store after all. Even pay Rochelle back. Or should I give it to Jordan? Too much to figure out.

With a deep breath, I eased into the store, staring at some of the half empty shelves. I’d needed to stay up last night making stock to replenish the shelves after my last wedding order, but my body had given out without my permission. And it was a good thing.

I dared to hope, to believe that somehow things would work out.

They had to.

I shoved my purse in the safe and looked in the mirror, finally having the time to really pay attention and being lucid enough to process what I saw. I gasped. Who was that? I mean sure I’d been running ninety to nothing, babysitting Sierra, worrying as much as working…but that hag in the glass couldn’t be me, could it?

Why didn’t anybody tell me?

Rochelle’s concern-filled face and Austin’s frustrated voice—“What are you doing to yourself?”—skipped through my mind. Tracey chose to lead by example, looking slim and perky even though now quite pregnant. Daddy had been much less tactful—“You blew up like a hot air balloon. You sick?”

Even Mother Holly had made a few comments at the last noon day prayer about trying to cut back on her eating. Usually, having Dahlia around was enough to make me starve myself out of sheer vanity, but this time I just couldn’t care less.

What was this fat to me? A wall? A place to hide from my womanhood, my past and my future? Was I using the weight to try and hide from Adrian? Or worse yet, from God?

I shook off the thought, noting the dangers of self-analysis. Calculating how much product I could make before the store opened in an hour, I measured out the ingredients for my shea-based products—body butter, lotion bars, lip balm and my new bestseller, Figgy Fella for men’s hair, nails and skin. After measuring everything into my meticulously clean utensils—my lack of care for myself had been translated into my care for my shop and products—every dropper and beaker was twice cleaned and sanitized between batches.

As I capped the last jar and arranged the labels face out, though the first morning rush would mangle them all again, the phone rang. I paused, wondering who would call me here at this time of morning, then picked up, figuring it was Tracey, Austin or Rochelle. Perhaps even Adrian, whose shop across the street would remain dark until 10:00 a.m. when my beloved sister would trot up and unlock the door.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Miss Rose. This is Bob, a Visa customer care representative. After many attempts to contact you—”

Oh, great. Now the bill collectors even knew I worked overtime. Guess they figured that should translate into a payment. “Well, Bob I—uh—cashavutomoo—”

“Huh?”

I stared at the receiver as confused as him. My “I do hope to make a cash payment tomorrow” had somehow come out garbled.

“Sowecanyoucallmesomeovatimo?”

Okay, I was definitely working too much. Sweat dripped onto the receiver. And working too hard. In fact, I felt a little dizzy….

“Miss Rose? Are you all right? You sound—”

Broke? That was my snappy comeback, of course, but my lips refused to deliver it. As if I’d applied Novocain lipstick, my mouth did a sort of saggy, draggy thing. As I tried to feel my tongue, a pain shot up my arm. I dropped the phone.

“Miss Rose?”

Bob definitely sounded upset, but not quite as angry as I was. As he spoke, I dropped to the floor like lead and heard the rip before I hit the ground. My new pantyhose. Eight dollars and seventy-five cents. A lot to pay for the pleasure of buying size B, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Oh, well, I could still make knee-highs out of them. Mother Holly would be proud of me.

Sprawled on the ground, I tried to smile at my witticism, but my lips wouldn’t comply. My eyes refused to stay open, either. With sweat dripping into my mouth, I conceded to the pressure squeezing up my body and fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

Sight escaped me. Words defied me. But my nose refused to give up. The scent of Betadine and saline solution assaulted my senses, dragging me from the comfort of unconsciousness. My eyes slit open just enough for me to make out the street outside my shop, still dark with morning, but somehow crowded with people. Loud people.

“How long since the Visa guy made the call?”

“Ten minutes I think?”

“And he said she was lucid when she answered?”

I heard a shuffle of papers. “Right. Said hello with no problem, but it went down from there.”

My body sped along suddenly, then went over a bump into the ambulance.

“Okay, so we’ve still got a window for the tPa to work. How old is she again?”

“Twenty-nine—no, thirty. Today’s her birthday.”

I tried to frown with no success. My birthday? What kind of person forgets her own birthday? I really was working too hard. No wonder my lips went on strike. My eyes ripped open. Strike. Stroke?

Though I’d never been present for Mama’s three strokes, it didn’t happen like this. On TV, it was more…dramatic. Maybe this was Bell’s palsy, like Tracey had one summer in college. Her face drooped for a few weeks, but she recovered. Not that I had a few weeks to droop…. In fact, who would cover the store today?

I tried to sit up. “Ineedsomeverraimpor—”

Something pushed me back down as the ambulance pulled away. “Could you make that out?” Betadine asked.

“A little,” said IV solution. “Let’s just get her there.” With that he proceeded to cut off my pantyhose.

Miraculously, I found my voice. “Noooo! Eightsebentyfive!”

Betadine scowled. “What’d she say?”

“Eight seventy-five?”

The first guy nodded. “The hose maybe? They look expensive.”

“You would know, dude.”

I lifted my lead lips and pushed through all the air I could muster as the last of the nylon was ripped away. “And they weren’t on sale.”

He looked like a cartoon character. As I’d spent my childhood Saturdays watching TV, a cartoon guy he was.

“You took us on quite a ride, Miss Rose.” He smiled reassuringly in that way doctors do. Usually I found it aggravating, but not today. Today, I took it for the life raft it was. I mean, if he was smiling like that, surely I couldn’t be totally dying. The Novocain lipstick seemed to have left my mouth. I could actually smile back at him. A pain shot up my arm, erasing my grin.

And his.

“Pain in the arm?”

“Yes,” I said, stunned at the sound of my own voice, garbled, as though I were chewing a mouthful of spaghetti and trying to talk at the same time.

He patted my arm with one hand and waved for the nurse with the other. “Don’t be surprised about your speech. It may take some time to return to normal.” He paused. “We’ll do therapy during your recovery.”

I swallowed hard. “So, it was a stroke?”

He nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how much you owe Visa, but you might want to pay them. That bill collector saved your life. We got you here in time to administer tPa, which bursts the clots, and from what we can tell, there was no permanent damage to your brain tissues—”

A muffled sob escaped my lips. “Thank You, Jesus.”

The doctor’s eyebrows raised a half inch or so, making him look very surprised. He looked up at the nurse, who’d been quietly checking my blood pressure, pulse and other vitals on the computer screen and on my person.

She nodded. “Everything is normal. Her pain meds are probably just wearing off. Is the arm sore, hon?”

Her beehive hairdo and southern honey voice made me smile—or at least attempt to—again. “Yes. Sore.”

“Okay, when the doc is done I’ll come back and we’ll work on that.”

I nodded, wondering if she’d return with an omelet and some hash browns from the thanks-and-come-again rhythm in her speech. I guess this place served up its one recipe day after day—a menu of healing. “Thank you.”

The doctor grabbed the side rail. “There are many things that we’ll discuss with you in the next few days, but the most important ones I’ll say to you now. You got away this time, but you’ll have to make some changes. Fourteen percent of people who have a stroke, have another within the next year. Unfortunately, with African-Americans, the rate is even
higher.” He took off his glasses. “As nice as you seem to be, I do not want to see you in this unit again. I sent your family downstairs because I didn’t want to alarm them until I’d talked to you….”