The Blackbirds (23 page)

“Dr. Debra Dubois.”

“Good morning.”

“Hi. You might not remember me. My name is Ericka Stockwell.”

“Ericka Stockwell? My Lord, is it really you all grown up?”

At eleven in the morning on Kwanzaa's birthday eve, when Ericka walked into her office, Dr. Dubois stood slowly. It had been over twenty years since she had seen Ericka Stockwell, had been more than two decades since Ericka had been in the halls of this OB/GYN clinic with her mother.

Dr. Dubois evaluated Ericka, saw the woman the child had become, exhaled like she was relieved, like two decades of worry could finally be put to rest, and Dr. Dubois's bottom lip trembled as her eyes filled with tears. Ericka pulled her lips in, hadn't expected to feel such a surge of heat in her throat, hadn't expected her emotions to become a ball of fire because she had hardened herself to that time in her life, but all of the toughness went away, fell like the walls of Jericho, and she took shallow breaths, began to suffocate in a room filled with fresh air.

Her chest heaved like a baby crying after a spanking, and she was unable to speak another word. She tried to shake off the heat, but failed at hardening herself again. Seconds after walking back into her past, she was embarrassed. She gave in and the tears began to pour. Hot tears streamed across her reddened face. She cried. Just like that Ericka was no longer the woman she was today, she was back in time, back before the divorce, before the cancer, before the marriage, before college,
before she had been shipped off to Oklahoma. She was the frightened thirteen-year-old girl who was living in one of the worst eras of her life.

Dr. Dubois wiped her eyes, then hurried to Ericka, arms open, pulled her close to her bosom, and hugged her like they were long-lost sisters. Emotions ran in both directions.

Dr. Dubois's voice cracked as she said, “My God. You've grown up.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Look at this. I forgot how tall you were. You were taller than me then, and you are even taller now. I'm amazed.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I've worried about you, Ericka Stockwell.”

“I'm fine, Miss Mitchell. I mean, Dr. Dubois.”

“I have worried about you for so many years.”

“I'm fine.”

“I'm so glad we've found each other again.”

“Me too, Miss Mitchell. I mean, Dr. Dubois.”

“Young lady, twenty years ago, didn't I tell you to call me Debra?”

“Yeah, back when I was . . . here . . . and I was . . . when I was a child.”

“You're an adult now, Ericka.”

“Sometimes I'm not so sure about that.”

“We are both adults. Please, call me Debra.”

Through a stuffy nose, Ericka laughed, then cried more and said, “Me too, Debra. I'm glad we have found each other again. I have missed you. I have missed you so much.”

Tissues in hand, Ericka wiped away tears as she sat facing Debra. Debra did the same, dabbed her eyes with Kleenex. Ericka congratulated Debra on becoming a doctor. Ericka saw some photos of Debra on the walls. She had run more than a few marathons.

Ericka complimented Debra on how young, beautiful, and fit she looked.

Debra said, “Love your short hair. That is so funky.”

“It's not short by choice. I had to get in the ring and have a fight with cancer.”

“No. Cancer? How are you?”

“I'm in remission now. Fifth-round knockout, but it might be sneaky and demand a rematch. I'm feeling good, feeling stronger than ever. Going to have another PET scan soon.”

“Stay on top of that, please?”

“I don't think I can go through this again, so the PET scan better come back clear.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm not good at suffering. I don't want to die a slow, painful, nasty death.”

“Stay strong.”

Ericka didn't say anything.

After a short pause, Debra asked, “Married? Children?”

“Was married for a couple of years. No children.”

“Oh. I didn't know.”

“No, I didn't have the baby.”

Debra said, “You vanished back then. I had no idea how things turned out.”

Ericka told her that she had lived in Oklahoma with relatives, but left out the parts about being forced to go, didn't bring up the obvious reason why, just said that while she was gone her parents had legally separated.

She lived in Oklahoma from the age of fourteen to the age of sixteen and when she was sent back she had lived with her mother for only a year. She had studied hard, earned a full ride, and used that room and board to get out of her mother's house. Education was the tool she used to escape, and scholarship had earned her her freedom. She worked hard during the year, and stayed with friends during the short breaks. She went to summer school each year so she would have a place to live on campus. Ericka told Debra that she hadn't spent a night in her mother's home since she had gone to university, but she did occasionally talk to her mother, which was a lie. She didn't want to say she had talked to her mother only a couple of times in several years.

It was a soft lie. A church lie, the kind told on Sunday mornings so people wouldn't think badly of you, the kind of lie meant to shorten certain types of conversations.

“Is Mrs. Stockwell okay?”

“She's Mrs. Stockwell. Let's leave that as that. You haven't seen her since . . . then?”

“She stopped coming to Faith's clinic after . . . after. She had her records sent to another OB/GYN somewhere near the Beverly Center, maybe on Robertson, from what I remember.”

“My father wanted her to cut ties with this clinic. She did whatever he said.”

“Yes, she did.”

“He was the man of the house, even if he was never in the house.”

“The controversy that came and went in forty-eight hours was too much for him.”

“He was disappointed and angry, to put it mildly. He's never been a nice man.”

Debra nodded, took a breath. “So, L.J. told you I'm writing a book.”

“Dubois did.”

“My bad. Dubois. Jesus, that boy of mine. I call him L. J. Leonard Junior.”

“Morehouse grad. You've done well.”

“And soon he's off to grad school. His dad would be so proud of him.”

“I introduced myself, and when I said my name, he reacted like he already knew about me.”

“He's been helping me organize my journey in writing.”

“So, he said that my mother and I are included in your project.”

Debra went to her desk and took out a manila envelope. She handed it to Ericka.

Debra said, “These are only the chapters that include you and your mother. Chapters sixteen, nineteen, twenty-two, and twenty-six. Every page is based on my decades-old journals. I have written about every day of my life. I wrote about those days you were here with your mother in detail. It was really heavy on my mind. My agent informed me that a publisher might be interested in my story. Same for a producer. Years ago, Hollywood did a pretty decent film based on my late husband's life, and now they are interested in his world as seen through my eyes, through my words. Long story short, you were there, and you made an impact on both of us.”

“This scares me. I can't imagine anything nice being said about that part of my life.”

Debra told Ericka, “I was contemplating changing the names before my son ran into you. For legal reasons. This is the original version, just as I typed it from my notes. It's choppy, needs to be cleaned up, but this is straight from my journal, only with a little more structure, thanks to my son.”

“It's about me?”

“It's about my relationship with my son's father, was doing this for him initially, to help him see his father through my eyes, and meeting you was a powerful part of his and my relationship.”

“So part of my journey is part of your journey?”

“You were part of the story, of my journey, of my life when I met the man who would be my future husband. While I was in crisis with you, while you were in crisis, he was there for me.”

“Should I read these chapters pertaining to me here, or in the lobby?”

“No, I would prefer you read them in the privacy of your own home.”

“I can take this with me?”

“Yes. I made that copy for you. In case you did come by.”

“Understood. I have to tell you, I don't know what to make of this.”

“It's as personal for me as it is for you.”

“It's more than personal. It's the unseen scar on my soul.”

“Are you okay, Ericka?”

“I am afraid to see my life written down on paper from your perspective.”

“Ericka, I'm afraid to see
my
life written from my own perspective. I wasn't born an adult. I have done many things, and there are parts of my life I never wanted to discuss. I read the words in my journals, see my past, see the way I have felt about things over the years, see how I have changed, how I have evolved in some areas and have devolved in others, and it scares me.”

“This sounds so personal.”

“It is.”

“Are you sure you want to share this with me?”

“I trust you.”

“You haven't seen me in two decades. I've changed from who I was then.”

“I used to wish you were my relative so I could have taken care of you.”

“It means a lot to hear you say that. I had wished you were my big sister.”

“I worried about you so many days, and dreamed about you so many nights.”

“I'm fine.”

“You've grown up to be a beautiful woman. You've survived cancer.”

“You know how that goes. It's a battle in progress. I have to get through the next seven years to know what the real deal is. Seven is the magical number. Until then, I'm still in the ring.”

“You're a survivor. You will beat this the same as you have beaten everything else. You have always been a survivor.”

Ericka joked, “I survived marriage, too; let's not leave that battle out.”

“I've survived being a widow.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. I can't begin to imagine what you've endured.”

“I will rest a little bit better knowing that you are doing okay, Ericka, even if it's only on the outside. We never really know what's going on inside a person. I've had to smile and laugh on so many days when all I wanted to do was stay in bed and cry until I couldn't cry anymore.”

“I've had too many of those days. And twice as many of those nights.”

“If you ever need anyone to talk to, I can put you in contact with Dr. Shelby Williams.”

“A shrink?”

“A therapist.”

“Will let you know if I need to talk to a therapist again. It's been a while. Maybe I should.”

Debra told Ericka that she needed to get to her patients now, then instructed Ericka to take the printed pages with her. She handed Ericka two cards, one with her cell number.

Ericka assumed the second card was for her to call Dr. Shelby Williams for therapy, but it was Dr. Debra Dubois's son's cell number.

Debra said, “My son would like to get back in touch with one of your friends.”

“Indigo?”

“No, your other friend, Destiny Jones. I have done my due diligence, so now he can stop asking me every day if you've contacted me regarding my memoirs. He's working my nerves.”

“You know her story?”

“Of course I do. I would love to have a conversation with her too, at some point. I would love for her to come to a meeting with me and tell her story to others as a cautionary tale.”

“She wouldn't be comfortable with that. A lot of people don't like her.”

“Everyone didn't like Jesus, so some people aren't going to like me, you, or Destiny.”

“Some people don't like you? Are you serious? What's not to like about you?”

“Sometimes it feels like I have more haters than Rihanna and Nicki Minaj combined.”

Ericka laughed. “I will pass it on. Again I have to tell you that being in public is not her thing. But I'll tell her your son is looking for her so she can be a speaker. Since both of us have been called upon to be your son's emissaries, I will also do my due diligence.”

“No, he's looking for her for other reasons. I would like her to be a speaker.”

“Oh, okay.” Ericka chuckled. “Now I understand.”

“Ever since he ran into her again, all he talks about is Destiny Jones.”

They were quiet for a moment. Ericka looked at the wall, saw a photo of Debra and her deceased husband. She hadn't seen that at first. Debra was younger, so beautiful.

Debra looked up at the photo and said, “It's been years, and I still miss my husband.”

“I'm sorry, Debra.”

“It was the best time of my life. The
best
time. It also taught me that life is short. Life is short and you have to live it. When you find love, you have to open your arms to love, you have to grab love, hold on to love, and never let it go. I had the love of my life. No regrets. No regrets.”

“I want that. The love of my life. I want the love of my life and no regrets.”

“Before it's all over and done, that's what we all want.”

After walking inside the converted warehouse with the man who wore Hugo Boss, Kwanzaa was introduced to a colorful space with musical instruments decorating the high brick walls, a dimly lit area that smelled like lavender. There was a lot of space and the temperature was cool, but much warmer than the night air in the city. A Harley motorcycle was on the other side of the room, and there was a vintage car that looked like it was being restored. In that area there were posters of classic comic book covers on the walls. Spider-Man in
Amazing Fantasy
. The Hulk versus Wolverine. A gigantic Superman when comics cost a dime. Thor. Avengers. Captain America. Her first thought was that her true dad would love this man cave. Her bonus dad would find it too avant-garde. One wall was a mural, colorful, the image of a black two-headed snake. The two-headed snake was mesmerizing, almost seductive.

As music from Pandora played in the background on a sixty-five-inch flat screen anchored to a wall, her high heels clacked toward the open area that functioned as a living room. Chairs. A sofa. Lots of space, not much furniture. He was a minimalist in words and possessions.

Without a word being spoken, Hugo Boss took her hand, pulled her to him, and she was in his arms. The kisses started softly, gently, in a measured manner. He was sweet, had chewed a lot of gum between the Club and arriving in this area. He tasted like Juicy Fruit. She loved Juicy Fruit. The tongue exchange became ravenous, turned so intense she felt like they were trying to consume each other. When the hardcore petting
started, as she kissed him, she rubbed him, felt his rising erection with one hand, then
touched his firm erection with her other hand,
and her eyes opened wide with a combination of
What the bloody hell
and
Oh my God
etched on her face. He was calm. He moved her hands away from what each held, gazed into her stunned confusion. He pulled his long hair back, and nodded. Still no words. He stood up, clicked on the light, unzipped his pants, undid his belt, eased his pants to his knees. She saw he was wearing a black man-Spanx-meets-extreme-jock-strap number. He pulled down his special underwear.

And there they were.

He showed her that which she had felt as they had danced was not an illusion. Be it gift or curse, his expression said it was for her to decide. Speechless, she entered a world of unreality. She gawked, took a deep breath. It could not be real. But it was real.

He had to have been the baddest and most-talked-about boy in the locker room.

Every girl at his school would had to have had a moment alone with him, for tactile reasons, even if they didn't allow him to gain entry to one of their orifices of pleasure.

Orifices of pleasure. She thought that and smiled inside at her own corniness.

He had to be the king of ding-a-lings.

Again she smiled inside.

He was more than twice the man Marcus Brixton was.

She inhaled though her nostrils, felt a rush of heat, the kind that came from fight or flight. She was astonished, shocked, overwhelmed. She stared without blinking. She stood to leave, stood and adjusted her Forever 21 dress. He pulled the pants to his Hugo Boss back up, began moving his erect equipment from her view. She stared at the way the front of his dark pants bulged. She was poised to leave, to leave running if she had to, but something wedged itself in between the desire to flee and the desire she'd had at the Club. She was owned by something more powerful than sexual desire; she was owned by her own curiosity. What she had seen, it could not be real. She reached for his pants. She undid his zipper. She freed his equipment. She stared. She raised her left and
right hands. She stroked him with her left hand, and at the same time stroked him with her right. Mesmerized. Seduced. In awe.

This was real. She paused, eyes locked on all he offered, then she managed to lift her eyes, break her trance and gaze at the wall, first at the images from comic books, then briefly at the two-headed snake staring down on her. Kwanzaa stroked him with her left hand, then with her right. He touched her face, lifted her chin, and she changed her focus, looked into his eyes, but only for a moment. Her eyes went back to his equipment, went back to inspecting all he had to offer. She shuddered. She had no idea that this was medically possible, but she had the impossible before her eyes. A rush of fear danced with curiosity and flooded her thoughts and imagination.

This was different.

It was too much.

Her thoughts moved back and forth, ticktocking in her mind.

She had a chance to experience what few would ever be able to experience in their lifetime. But she was still undecided. This was not her character.

This wicked way was not how her parents and bonus parents had raised her.

This was not going to happen.

Sex with a stranger made like this was definitely not going to happen.