The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception (27 page)

“Wait, what?”

“I don’t believe in long ass goodbyes. Take back your life. Oh, and give your girl some time. You gotta give women that you did wrong some time to be in their feelings. Maybe she’ll come around. Maybe she won't. As for Devantay? I can’t fix that one either. The home won’t allow you back in his life. You’re just going to have to own the damage this has done to him.”

“The damage
you
have done. You messed up my life Bam. I had a good life."

“No, you had a good
lie,
there’s a difference
.
You can’t live a lie and get the rewards of the truth. But I gotta go kid. Like I said. No long goodbyes.“
BEEP BEEP BEEP

YOUR CHAT

HAS ENDED

Chase leans back. The mid-afternoon sun casts a golden glow on his chiseled cheeks. Rivers of dry tears crust under his lashes. The silence of the room becomes a welcome comfort though. Not even Frank speaks. They both sit, breathe and listen to the nothingness. Chase rises and stares out of the colossal bay windows. Frank reclines with hands clasped on one knee of his crossed legs. He allows Chase an uninterrupted monologue with his own thoughts. After fifteen minutes Chase breaks the calm.

“My favorite drink is ginger beer. Would you like one?” Chase says, as he stares through the sheer white curtains.

“You know, I’ve never tried it. But I will today. Thank you Chase,” he says.

Chase slouches and walks towards the kitchen as if he were dragging sandbags with his ankles. He pauses at the entrance…“You can call me Tevarus.”



A singing preacher once said: ”Love will make you do right, Love will make you do wrong." A simple statement. But like the surface of a wave, it carries the depth of an ocean. That fateful May afternoon in Brooklyn seems so long ago. Three searing summers and two desolate winters of tears on a pillow, ignored phone calls, unreturned texts, and two building security escorts from an ex-lover’s law firm have passed. Twenty-seven months to be exact. Time and distance became his companions. Time allows wounds to heal. They crust, scab and renew. Distance keeps the scalpels of reminders such as her smile, her scent, and her laugh, from slicing old wounds fresh again.

Montclair, New Jersey. A posh and trendy enclave twenty-five minutes west of Manhattan. Some call it the Princeton of the north…with a different university bearing its name. The only chain restaurant is a Starbucks nestled in a cul-de-sac. Wealth lives here, but it wears a rustic smile. You can sniff the dry, pulpy fragrance of an old novel in the indie bookstore. You can delight in a salted caramel macaroon at the Parisian café, owned by a French expatriate. And along the way to the art museum, down Bloomfield Avenue, you can grab a hot beverage at Montclair's most comforting tea shop with a clever name,
No Emptea Cup
. And it is through the shop’s glass doors, with their hand etched tea cup logo, that Chase strolls through.

The door shutters behind him silencing the crisp autumn street breeze. Funky 70’s Soul streams into his ears from the ceiling’s exposed ductwork. The old school music matches the throwback flowered fabric couches and red velveteen love seats. Filling the center of this warm and toasty donut of a place are a half dozen wooden tables and chairs. The floor planks creak under the weight of his determined strides as he passes the small platform stage on the right. After waiting in line behind three customers, he is greeted by AJ, the barista. AJ sports a bull nose ring, thick black mascara, and a
fauxhawk
. He raises one of his tattooed arms with a wide wave.

“Hey, how’s it goin’ AJ?” Chase responds.

“All good. Punch you up for the usual?” AJ says. Chase nods in the affirmative.

“Grandé Pearl Jasmine Matcha Tea with soy, and an apricot jam biscuit,” AJ shouts over his left shoulder.

Chase hovers his phone over the auto pay scanner and walks to the opposite end of the counter. A second barista lifts her forearm to pour a high, arching stream of piping hot water into a jumbo ceramic mug. Hand rolled Chinese tea buds float to the surface; they steep for exactly three and one half minutes.

“Here you go Chase,” she says, handing him the tea and pastry. He closes his eyes and perches his nose above the sweet steam; the floral scent of hot jasmine and the grassy notes of Japanese matcha float into his nostrils. He savors the moment before carrying his tray to an empty table. One with an unimpeded view of the front door.

Settling in, he scrolls through the day’s news on his tablet. He glances up each time the door opens. He returns his gaze to the device with each unremarkable customer. After ten minutes it opens again. This time his heart jumps. His lungs surge. His eyes lock onto the tallish woman in a thigh-length grey flannel autumn coat. She darts her eyes until their pupils meet. He waves with a half-smile. She responds with a gentle nod. Her black charcoal stockings, and sable and red riding boots stride with grace across the floor towards him. Her shoulder harnesses a scarlet leather satchel. Chase rises to greet her. His mind agonizes with the speed of a computer as to the most appropriate hello.
A long embrace? No, I shouldn’t do that. A friendly hug and a peck? Hmm. No, that’s too assumptive. A handshake? Yeah, a handshake. No, wait. That’s too cold.
What's a boy to do?

“Jenae,” he says, as she places her bag on the empty third seat.

"Hey," she says with a polite smile. She places her palm on his shoulder, the other on his elbow, and initiates a light hug. Though their cheeks meet, their torsos barely touch and she leaves a generous space between their belt buckles. As Jenae breaks away, Chase notices a slight frown; she rubs her right jaw.

“Oh, this?” Chase says. “Sorry. I keep a bit of stubble these days.”

"So I see...and feel," she chuckles. "It's not bad. It’s cropped and it’s neat. It goes with this smart casual look you got going. Striped blue pinstripe shirt, brown wool vest, weathered blue jeans. Oh and are those red Chuck Taylors? Chase Archibald is wearing sneakers? And he’s
not
on his way to the gym? If you still go by Chase that is.”

Well she sure seems pleasant. Even cracking jokes. Hmmm, a better start than I expected.

“Yes, I still use Chase…as a nickname. But not with the Archibald. I use my birth name for anything that matters. And thanks for the compliment. You look awesome yourself. Stylish, chic, gorgeous as usual. Please, have a seat. Let me get you something. You still don't drink coffee right?”

"Some things change," she says.

"Oh. Okay. Then what kind of cof—“

"But not that," she says with a laugh. Chase shakes his head with a smile.

“But
that
sure smells good,” she says, with a deep sniff of Chase’s mug. “I’ll have what you’re having”.

Chase walks back to the barista and returns a few moments later with a hot green tea and a warm pastry.

“Ooh. Is that a scone with raspberry jam?” she says clasping her hands with glee.

“Yes, because you don’t like apricots.”

“Mmm, good memory. Looks yummy.”

Jenae removes her jacket. Her shoulder length curls have grown into long, sienna brown locs. They cascade down the middle of her spine like springy streams. She surveys the café.

"This is a nice place," Jenae says.

“Yeah, it’s cool. When you responded to my email saying you moved to Jersey City last year, I figured why meet up in Brooklyn since we’re both in New Jersey now. I moved to Montclair right after…well…after,” Chase says. Jenae peeks above the rim of her hot mug. “They have a great open mic on Fridays. I don’t know if you still take those as half-days or not, but you might enjoy it.”

“Half-days? Oh wow. Yeah, well I guess you wouldn't know. I left the firm two years ago. That's why I moved to Jersey City. I'm with the Hudson County public defender's office now. I was still living in Brooklyn when I took the job but I got tired of the commute; I decided to move across the river for the new job.”

“What brought on leaving the firm? I hope it wasn't because of…uh..."

“That mess called the Chase Archibald story?" she says.

Chase nods.

"No. They would have fired me immediately if they thought I had anything to do with that. It blew over and they kept true to their promotion offer. I moved to D.C. for a year. But the promotion took me further away from my social justice work. I didn’t want to just have a job, even a great paying one; I wanted to follow my passion. So I resigned.”

“Well, you were the one that kept the Prospect Park Three out of jail. I always felt that working with the underprivileged was your true calling,” Chase says.

Jenae swallows a morsel of the scone and jam. She takes a slow sip of the honey sweetened brew.

“Mmmm, this is so good," she says.

“I’m glad you like it," he says. Her tone is encouraging. Chase lifts his mug and takes a long slurp. "I wasn't sure if you would respond to my email this time. Thanks for replying and agreeing to meet.”

Jenae palms her cup and savors another sip.

“Well, I almost never got your email. You sent it to the address at the firm. Giselle, my old secretary, happened to be checking an old inbox for a case she was helping with; she saw it. She forwarded it to me two months ago. I just didn’t respond to you until last week.”

“Well thank you for coming. I know the last time you saw me it didn’t go so well.”

"Didn't go so well?" Jenae says. “Building security had to escort you out,
twice
, after you somehow made your way up to my floor even after being banned the first time."

"I'm so so sorry about that. I was trying to get you back."

"So after you went into full stalker mode I blocked your number, your email address to my personal account—”

“I don’t know if I would say
stalker
, stalker.”

“
Stalker
, stalker? There are degrees of
stalkery
?

“Okay, okay. Good point. Well you seem to be okay with me now," Chase says.

“Jury is still out on that one,” she says.

One of Jenae’s thick strands flops between the buttons of her blouse.

"Your locs are so long," he says.

“
Now
they are. I did the big chop after we broke up.”

“Why do women always do that?” Chase says with bulging eyes.

“Why do men always makes us
feel
like doing it? That’s the better question,” she says.

Chase bows and cups his hands to his chest as if to say, touché.

“Anyway…my hair reminded me of
you
too much. Your fingers loved digging all in it."

“True, true. I loved threading my fingers through those soft curls."

“And I thought about your fingers when I went chop, chop, chop,” she says with a sly smile and a hand chop on the table. “But listen, I didn't agree to meet you today, to go down memory lane."

"Why did you agree?" Chase asks.

"Why did you ask?"

"You're such a lawyer," he says. Jenae winks. ”Well, first off, a lot has changed. As you may have guessed I'm no longer a professor."

"I figured that. So how do you earn a living now?”

"I blog for a few online magazines, freelance write, and I do motivational speaking in high schools on finding your passion and pursuing it. That’s probably the bulk of my earnings. But because of my past, I can no longer pass a background check to teach.”

“Well, at least you’re still writing and you get to have
some
contact with the youth. That reminds me. Whatever happened to Devantay?"

"Honestly, I don't know. I was never allowed to see him again. I placed a call maybe a year later pretending to be someone else, but I was told he had been transferred to another home. They wouldn't give me anymore information. Losing him is one of the regrets I write about in my memoir."

"Memoir? You're writing a memoir?"

"Yes. It's been quite…cathartic? I suppose that's the right word for it. You have to be honest with yourself. Confront your demons."

“So, is that why you contacted me? I’m a demon you needed to confront?” she says.

Her question puts Chase on the defensive. Tiny bubbles of angst percolate in his gut.

“Look at you. It still shows on your face when you get nervous,” she says. “But you can relax. I confronted my demon on that Brooklyn stoop three years ago.“

“Jenae, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. That’s what I wanted to explain." Jenae raises her finger.

“Chase I’m not angry. And I’m no longer stuck in a place of pain and hurt. I’m good. Really I’m good.”

“Right, but…I mean…you deserve to know the real story."

"Well let's not talk about what I
deserved
or this hot ass tea may end up someplace else. You feel me?”

Chase nods like a child.

"Listen, you hurt me in a way you will probably never understand. Chase you had
all
of me. Completely and without question. And maybe that was foolish on my part. But you never gave me a reason to doubt you. But then again I thought you were Chase Archibald. I had no idea who Tevarus Huxley was. But in talking to some of my sister girls out there? There are a lot of you Chase Archibalds running away from your Tevarus Huxleys. Not too many were as creative about their deception as you were though. To be honest there aren’t many men, especially under forty, that can grasp how a woman puts her soul, the very fiber of her being, into a man she loves. In your twenties and thirties you guys are totally clueless. Over forty? Eh, you seem to do a bit better.”

"So you're seeing someone over forty now?"

“Seriously dude? That's what you got from all that I just said?"

“No, no, no,” Chase says as he refocuses.
Damn, man that was a stupid thing to say.”
Jenae, I’m sorry. I get what you’re saying. Really I do."

"It's fine, whatever. I didn't come here for an apology.”

Chase leans in and whispers, “Jenae, I just really want you to know that I wasn’t a child mo—“

“Child molester?” she says aloud. Chase looks around. “Yeah, I know you weren’t,” she says.

"I know maybe you
believe
that I wasn’t. But you don't know the story."

"Oh I don't believe you just because you're telling me. I learned that lesson the hard way didn’t I?”

Chase bristles at the not so subtle, reminder.

"I started to research you the moment I was able to stop crying and stop blaming myself for being so stupid."

"You researched me?"

“Hell yes. I needed to know what I was dealing with; I started pouring over those documents in the envelope. When I saw that you were really from Savannah, that reminded me of one of my old classmates. She’s an Assistant District Attorney in Georgia. I reached out to her and asked her to do some digging for me. She sent me a news story about a Cottonwood Regional High School star quarterback, with a scholarship offer to USC, by the name of Tevarus Augustus Huxley, son of Army veteran, Master Sergeant Bernard Leonard Huxley and school cafeteria aide, Teresa Anne Mason. Both of whom are quite alive by the way, contrary to Chase Archibald's story that both of his parents died in a tragic car accident."