My Husband's Girlfriend (20 page)

“Awful, yucky, sucky advice, Neil. You could never be a psychoanalyst with a hot column.”

“Thanks for sharing that, Dani. Just be cool, okay? I’ll try to come see you tomorrow.”

“Are you going to church in a few hours?”

“I don’t do church anymore,” I say with sorrow, and hang up.

Do you know what it’s like to love a woman so much that she makes you feel weak, as if you possess the strength of a flimsy piece of tissue? The woman you love is that one-of-a-kind, God-broke-the-mold-when-he-made-her type; she walks the earth and can affect you like no other. One woman can have the hots for you, ask you to call her, and you keep on stepping, acting like you don’t speak her language. Another woman tells you to call, says she needs to hear your voice, and you add her number to speed dial, wishing there were more than twenty-four hours in a day, so you could talk to her and be with her all the time, as if the day had no beginning and the night had no end. You stare in this woman’s eyes whenever you’re together. And when she’s not with you, you whip out her ever-present photo, look at her face, smile, and talk to her picture even though you know she cannot hear you.

But then there’s the other side. The same woman who causes you to stagger after her like a happy drunk is the very one who tires you out, making your legs collapse underneath you. You’re the dopehead resisting rehab. Your soul cries for her, and you’re willing to steal from your own mother—anything to pay the price it takes to be with that woman. And you love how love feels, yet you hate the feeling that love gives you. You’ve fallen into a deep well that has no walls, into relationship purgatory. You’re dropping, descending, wailing, grinding your teeth, so horribly tormented you feel no one, not even God himself, can hear your cries and rescue you.

That afternoon, Dani calls and asks to come by. I say, “Don’t bother.” She screams at me and says don’t tell her what to do. Flustered, I explain I’m not telling her what to do, but I wish she’d lay off me for once. I promise I’ll bring Brax to her early the next morning before I go to work. I know Audrey will get to Dani’s place around seven. I can be there at six-thirty.

“Why are you acting like this, Neil?”

“Acting like what?” I snap. “Saying no for a change?”

“I wish—”

“The things you wish always get me in trouble, Dani. I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep in the past twenty-four. I have two kids in my care, and so far none of this has been the most peaceful experience.”

“Oh, and I suppose all of this is my fault. You know what, Neil? You’re terrible at taking your share of the blame.”

“I know, and that’s why for this one day, I want to be by myself. Let me care for the baby without any impromptu visits. I need to concentrate more on being his father than being your crutch…and, well, that’s all I have to say.”

Dani is disturbingly quiet, which causes me to whistle. I’m in the kitchen trying to fix a Sunday afternoon meal. Brax is in his infant seat. Reese is sitting in the corner, with large yellow, green, and blue crayons spread on the table. She’s trying to color in the lines but isn’t doing a good job of it. I’ve promised her that I’ll help, but I have to put a honey-baked ham in the oven. I am rinsing the broccoli so it can be steamed, and I want to make some hollandaise sauce, and strip and rinse a few stalks of corn.

“You know, Neil, you’re totally right about this. It’s not like we cannot function if we aren’t in each other’s face all the time. Besides, I need to get a life. I’ll be twenty-six in a couple of weeks. I have no real boyfriend. I want to find someone who is serious about me, who loves my son and appreciates and values both of us. So you go right ahead and play Daddy. I’m going to do what I have to do. Let’s just be best friends, okay? We’ll freeze the sex and be good friends, Neil. What do you think of that?”

I close my eyes and tell her, “I think since we’re so-called best friends like this, you have no damn reason to call me again.” And I hang up.

19

Dani

There’ve only been two times in my life that I’ve wanted to kill myself.
The first was when I was a nineteen-year-old college student. It was a Friday night and I was invited to a frat party. These types of parties went on all the time. We’d see flyers about the event at the University Center on the UH campus. Me and my girls would get dolled up and head out. We danced till it was so hot our clothes fastened to our skin. And we’d gulp beer past one in the morning, then ask around about the after-party. This one time, some guy I never heard of was having a get-together at his home in Third Ward. Since that wasn’t too far from campus, we girls thought, Cool, let’s close down the night by making this one last stop.

It was me, my roommate Samone, and our friend Nikki. Nikki claimed she knew the guy, had been to his place before. We went, partied, and drank till our tongues were silly and satisfied, and I ended up in the arms of a guy I never formally met—a handsome but short, hyperactive dude I’d seen around campus who flirted and called me “cutie.” Hype took me by the hand and led me to the privacy of a darkened room. It felt weird to press my lips against the mouth of someone I barely knew, but the heat was on, so we kept the heat going. I didn’t orgasm, and I don’t know if Hype did or not. The only good thing is that he wore a condom. But the worst thing was to return to campus on Monday and experience hearing a noisy cafeteria grow quiet as a golf course when I entered. All these guys, my classmates, were smiling and giving me knowing looks. It seemed like a hundred pairs of eyes monitored me while I was walking and grasping my tray of food, searching for a seat. When I passed by the table with the guy who saw me naked that weekend, I heard laughter, saw fingers pointing. I blinked several times, wanting to eradicate these heartless fools from my vision, but their stares and judgmental smirks kept hanging around. That’s the first time I’d been called a whore, obviously, and I didn’t enjoy how that felt. I wondered if those loose-tongued people ever stopped to think that I was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s grandchild.

Even though I didn’t own a gun, I wanted to find one, then find the hyper guy with the big mouth, press the steel between his eyes, pull the trigger, and take my pain away. I wanted to torture the man who only cared about me as long as he could hit it and run. Then for him to go tell what happened, as if I fucked myself by myself and he had no part in it at all…or maybe his part didn’t matter as much as mine. I never understood how guys could hound, beg, and promise, then kiss and gleefully, stupidly, loudly tell. These guys make themselves the heroes of sexual conquests, and the woman is the clueless, stained villain.

Unable to see clearly, I got sick of the cafeteria’s laughter and whispers. I abandoned my tray of untouched meat loaf at an empty table. I ran to my dorm and searched around until I was holding a bottle of my roommate’s white pills. I didn’t think about it, I just started popping them. One, two, three, four…I quit when I got to five. I slumped to the floor of the bathroom, leaned my head against the hard wall, with the plastic bottle clutched in my hand—a bottle with the power to terminate my life. Even though at first I yearned to end my life, I hoped my efforts wouldn’t succeed. I figured that if I tried to kill myself because someone said something vicious about me, then I was weak and deserved to die. But I knew better. I knew there was no way I’d let people like that steal my breath away. If I made a mistake, okay, I’ve blown it, but why should I go before my time, before I find out if there’s more to Danielle than the mistakes she’s been proven to make? Fortunately, Samone soon came home. She screamed when she saw me, then made me stick a finger down my throat, and remained by my side until I could pull myself together.

But today, when Neil hangs up on me and I tremble and stomp and scream at the air, and fling a glass against the wall and watch it shatter into dozens of pieces, I’m taken back to that day in college, revisiting the pain, hurt, humiliation, and lowliness tugging against my spirit, the haunting whispers that declared,
You are a worthless fool.
Today I am tempted to find another bottle of pills, but before that temptation takes root, my inner strength counsels me, “No, don’t do that. His ugly words can’t take your breath away. You’re worth more than what someone else thinks about you, good or bad.” And I listen and I agree…and I listen and I agree. I listen until my heart is persuaded to do something different. I pay attention and say yes to something positive instead of agreeing to beat myself up and take the pathetic way out. I don’t want to live inside the pain anymore, the pain that says I’m not worth the dirt underneath my feet. I tell myself I
am
worth something. And even if I haven’t any means by which to prove my worth, I know the end of my life will not consist of someone stumbling upon my cold, soulless body sprawled on the apartment floor. No way. No way.

Besides, that would be so unfair to my son. It’s no secret I’m not the best mother in the world, but I’m not the worst, either. I realize I could do much better than what I’ve been doing, but Brax knows me and accepts me the way I am. He knows I’m Mama even if he can’t yet form the word. I can tell by the way he pats, smiles, and strokes my cheeks. And I’m sure of his unconditional love when his toothless grin brightens his face every time I enter a room.

I have to get myself together for the sake of Brax. I want him to know me, to be with me long enough to remember me, to always know he has a place in my genuine but confused heart. I want him to know that even when I mess up big-time, we still have each other, I’m still his mama. So let me shake the fear within, begin again, and do something I should’ve done months ago. It’s something I’ve half-heartedly thought of, but maybe I should try to put my
whole
heart into it.

Dear Anya Meadows,

Not long ago you asked me to do something for you. To respect you because you planned on respecting me no matter what has happened in the past. I haven’t done a very good job of respecting you, not when I keep having intimate relations with Neil.

I put down the pen and read my words. My hands are shaking and I’m tempted to tear the paper up into tiny bits. I want to burst into tears, but don’t. Confession may be good for the soul, but isn’t it risky for my safety and welfare? Even if you know the right thing to do, what if you’re not quite ready?

I pick up the phone and dial. When Neil picks up, I feel relieved.

“Hi, Neil.”

He pauses. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me anymore?”

“Actually, I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Anya.”

“For what?”

“Neil, could you please give me her cell number?”

“Dani, why are you tripping?” His voice sounds hoarse.

“Give me her number, please, Neil.”

“For what?”

“I–I need to ask her something.”

“Tell you what. I won’t give you her number, but I can call her for you on the three-way.”

“O–okay.” I give in.

“But will you first tell me what you want to ask her?”

“I’d rather not,” I mumble. “It’s hard enough as it is.”

Neil sighs but clicks over to make the call. My hands are sweating so much I have to wipe them on my slacks.

“Dani, I have Anya on the line. Go ahead.”

“Um, hi, Anya. I, uh, I just wanted to say that I am going to make a real effort to do better than I’ve been doing. It’s not my intention to come between you and your family.”

“What? Dani, have you been drinking?”

I hear a smile in her voice, which surprises me and makes me wish I could smile, too.

“No, ma’am. No drinking. No nothing.”

“Well,” she responds, “I’m not sure what this is all about, but I’ll tell you one thing. What you just told me—I’ll believe it when I see it. Good-bye.” The smile in her voice is gone. And she hangs up.

I wait a day, and call Neil again. After some awkward small talk, I ask him, “What’s going on with us? What is our bottom line?”

When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Then answer a yes or no question for me.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Can we start again, can you give me another chance? Because in my heart I don’t believe you meant what you said; that you don’t want me calling anymore.”

He laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a yes or a no question.”

I laugh, too, and I know his reply is his way of saying he wants to give me another chance.

All drama ascends to a climax just to come to a stop so it can gear back up again. Two weeks later after our drama subsides, my March birthday arrives, on hump day. It’s sun-drenched in Houston, hitting sixty degrees as early as eight in the morning. I go to work and am surprised but pleased to find huge helium-filled balloons dancing outside my doorway. Inside the office, a huge white envelope with my name scribbled on it is leaning against the framed picture of Braxton. Inside is a beautiful card, fifty bucks, and my coworkers’ birthday greetings.

“Don’t make plans for lunch,” a woman tells me when I pass her in the hallway. Other coworkers are friendly while some offer me their customary aloof vibe.

After falling out for a hot minute, Neil and I made up and are on somewhat regular terms. He calls me thirty minutes before lunch.

“How’s your day going, Dani?”

“So far I’ve received three hundred e-mails, and two hundred ninety-five of them were spam. How’s that for being productive?”

“What about projects?”

“If a project includes zapping two dozen pop-ups, I’ve done quite well.”

“Did you do what I advised you to do?”

“Yes, and it hasn’t done any good. My workload has dwindled drastically. Mr. D has been doing this stupid stuff for going on two weeks. What, is he trying to break my spirit or something?”

“Don’t start me to lying,” Neil says. “I thought if you talked to him, he’d work with you, but it sounds like that isn’t the case.”

“Well, what do you expect from a bastard? Bastards sure are good at being bastards.”

He doesn’t say anything, maybe realizing I need to vent.

“Neil, I dunno. It seems like so much is coming at me. My you-know-what test came out negative and that’s great, but I’m still having some feminine-type problems and will be going back to the doctor this afternoon. I get off at three.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the test was negative?”

“Get that smile out of your voice, okay?” I snap at him, then lighten my tone. “I mean, I was relieved, too, but lately if it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m forced to be strong even when I don’t want to.”

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Someone’s in my office. I gotta go. Let me know how your appointment goes.”

“Right, sure, no problem.” I hang up, eager to see this day come to an end.

The only good thing about today is I know I look hot. I’m wearing a gray-and-black pinstripe suit with a skirt that comes a few inches above my knees. My black patent pumps click with authority every time I walk down the hall. So when a group of us go to lunch at Pappadeaux’s on the South Loop and I drink two margaritas, I don’t feel guilty.

But when I get back to work around one-thirty, I see a pink envelope on my desk.

“He did it, that bastard.” He promised not to let me go after thirty days, but technically it hasn’t even been thirty days.

A minute later I look up and see two uniformed security guards standing in my doorway. They instruct me to pack all my belongings, and they say they’ll accompany me out the building once I’m done. I slowly stash Brax’s photo, a few potted plants, my Rolodex, some books and magazines in a cardboard box that a guard hands me, and twenty minutes later, when I leave work, I know that the fifty bucks I got as a birthday gift will hardly make a dent.

At the doctor’s I am trembling and feeling insecure. I wonder what will happen in the future if Brax or I get sick. Maybe Neil can add Brax to his insurance, but what about me?

I leave the doctor’s in a daze. I don’t remember passing by South Braeswood, or Fannin Street, or any other spot I typically notice when driving home.

As soon as I get there, I pick up the phone. It’s times like these I wish I had a long-distance calling card. But I dial the area code 562 and the remaining seven digits.

“Hey, Mama, it’s me.”

“What’s wrong?” she says, alarmed.

“Can you call me right back please, here at the apartment?”

“Why can’t we just talk now?”

“Please call me, Ma.”

“Okay, okay, give me a minute.”

I hang up and dab my nose with some tissue. I check the time. Audrey probably took Braxton on an outing, and as soon as she gets here, I’ll have to figure out what to tell her.

I kick off my stupid heels and slide my useless two-hundred-dollar suit off my body. I slump on the couch, my hand clutching the portable.

I let the phone ring twice, even though I want to pick up when it rings once.

“What’s the matter, Dani?”

“Ma, how are things going with you?”

I lay back on the couch wondering if I should speak louder or something. “Ma, did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard you. I know you didn’t ask me to call you long distance just to talk about me. So what’s going on?”

“I, uh, I’m so scared…” My voice catches.

“Scared of what? What happened, Dani? You want me to fly down there?”

I sit up. “No, no. Well, not yet, anyway. As of today, I–I’m jobless…I believe I’ll get another gig, but right now I’m trying to absorb the shock.”

“How’d you lose your job? Does it have to do with that guy?” Mama’s voice is filled with disappointment, which makes me feel worse.

“Kinda, sorta.”

“Why haven’t you filed for child support? Much money as he makes, you could be getting a good thousand dollars a month to help take care of that baby.”

“Aww, I just don’t want to do that. Neil is very good to Braxton, and takes good care of him on his own. I don’t want to burden him—”

“This is not about that piece of dick, Dani. This is about you and that baby. Now, what’s done is done, and I hope you aren’t still sleeping with him….”