Unbeweaveable (5 page)

I'm Fine

Chris owned a small tapas restaurant called Muave on Fifty-first Street. I wanted to hail a cab, but since I was pinching my pennies, I took the subway. The restaurant was doing well, especially after a well-known actor started making his rounds there. With several paparazzi outside whenever he came to dinner, it put Muave on the map, and a flattering review in the
Post
followed. Now reservations had to be made at least two months in advance.

I pulled the heavy wood door open and saw Chris sitting in one of the brown leather booths, talking to one of his waiters. He saw me come in and approached me.

“You ready for tonight?”

“Sure,” I said. My stomach had already began burning even after swigging my bottle of Maalox like a wino on the subway.

“Look, I really appreciate you helping out. Becky's out sick, so you're really doing me a favor. Come on.”

I followed him to the hostess stand where I would be standing.

“This is the layout of the restaurant,” he said, pointing to the laminated seating chart on the stand. “It's pretty simple, really,” he said as he gave me a quick overview of how to seat people. “You think you can handle it?”

“Um, I guess so.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “You'll be fine. You're college-educated, remember? This should be a piece of cake for you. By the way, you sure you want to be doing this in those?” he asked, pointing to my five-inch Manolos.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Normally Becky wears flats. It's a lot of walking back and forth from tables, and you have to stand long hours at a time.”

“Trust me, I'll be fine.”

* * *

An hour later I was anything but fine. My calves shook as I towered over the stand, gripping it for dear life as I wrote down a reservation. I grimaced at the sight of a young couple walking in and tried to smile through the pain.

“Welcome to Muave. Do you two have a reservation?”

“Yes. Kendrick, party of two at eight?”

My finger trailed the book until I saw their name. “Ah, I see it right here. Let's find you two a table.”

“Is he here tonight?” the young woman asked, her voice high with excitement.

“Who?”

“Jonathan Frankel? The actor from
Vows
? I heard he was going to be filming a new movie with Jennifer Aniston this summer. Anyway, is he here?”

“Sorry, I'm afraid not.”

“Oh.” Her date rubbed her back, trying to ease her disappointment.

“But you never know, the night is still young.”

She smiled at the thought, her hope revived. “Yeah, he could always come in later.”

I nodded and had them follow me to their table.

“Your waiter will be right with you,” I said as I turned to walk back to the hostess stand. Attempt to go back to the hostess stand was more like it. The heel of my shoe caught on the hem of my pants and I skidded, stumbled, then finally fell hard on my hands, my wrists and knees taking the brunt of the fall. I could hear gasps of, “Oh, no, she fell!” “She looks hurt.” “Somebody help her.”

Please God, make the earth open up and swallow me whole.

I felt a pair of hands on my back, asking if I needed help.

“No, I got it.”

“You sure?”

I nodded and stood, slipped again, then held my arms out for balance. After a few shaky seconds I limped back to the hostess stand, with the entire restaurant watching my every move. I gave them a wobbly smile to show that I was fine, but they didn't buy it. As people left, they kept asking if I was all right. “I'm fine! Thank you for asking but I'm fine,” I said, for about the tenth time. But this time, even I wasn't buying it.

* * *

“Heard about your tumble. You okay?” Chris asked later that evening.

“I'm okay,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You did a good job, all things considered. How'd you like it?”

“I don't think this is for me, Chris.”

“Of course it isn't. It's just something to tide you over until you find something else.”

“I know, but I don't think I'll last that long. This would have been cool if I was still in school, but I didn't go to college to be a hostess. I mean really, can you imagine anyone my age working at a restaurant?” I laughed.

Chris stiffened.

“No, but I didn't mean you—”

“Of course you didn't. Here,” he said, handing me an envelope. “Hope you don't mind being paid in cash.”

I peeked in and saw two $100 bills.

“Chris, this is too much—”

“It's fine. I appreciate you helping out, but I can see this was a bad idea.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean you—”

He walked away. “Of course you didn't.”

The Department Store

A month later and it had come to this. I was forced to sell everything. My apartment looked like a department store with all my designer duds spread over my sofa. I left myself a few pieces for interviews and casual wear and added up what all my clothes were worth.

“What do you think I can get for all this?” I asked Norma.

“I don't know, how much did you spend?”

I shrugged.

“Let me guess, about six figures?” Norma asked, fingering a Burberry coat and holding a pair of patent leather Jimmy Choo pumps.

“No way,” I said, laughing. “No, just a little over $30,000. You think I could get at least $20,000 for ''''''''''''em?”

“Maybe,” Norma said. “Most of this stuff is still in really good condition. How much do you need to keep afloat for a few months?”

“My rent is $3,500 a month—”

“What? Thirty-five hundred dollars? Are you crazy?”

“Hey, you can't talk. You don't have rent to pay.”

“Still, that's high. Maybe you need to move—“

I put my hand up. “There are a lot of things I'm giving up, but my apartment is not one of them.”

“I thought your weave was something you weren't giving up?”

I ran my hand through my adopted long locks. “That, too,” I added.

“I can't believe you're willing to get rid of all this stuff. Aren't you sad?”

“I'd be sadder if I had to give up this apartment.” I shrugged. “You have to do what it takes to keep what's important.”

“All this for your weave?”

“My weave is a part of me; I can't give it up. I wouldn't ask you to give up your baby, would I?”

She clutched her stomach. “That's different.”

“Not to me.”

She looked around the room again. “How are you going to pack all this stuff to Margaret's?”

Margaret was a resale luxury boutique. I've never bought or sold anything there, but the store was known for their fair prices.

“They're sending someone over here to look at everything. I told them this was too much stuff to bring.”

“When are they coming?”

The doorbell was her answer. I went to answer it and was greeted by an older woman and a young gentleman.

“I'm Sylvia Donners, and this is Steven Plath. We're from Margaret's.”

“Come in,” I said, opening my door to let them in. Sylvia's jet-black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, which made her eyes slant, giving an Asian flair to her appearance. Her body was short and compact, and as I shook her hand I got the feeling that cleaning floors was her previous job. Steven had a Lurch-like quality to him. You felt he would only talk if you spoke to him first.

“This is my friend Norma,” I said, as Norma stood up to shake their hands. After the brief introduction, Sylvia came deeper into the apartment and looked at all the clothes that I had placed around my small living room.

“You have a lot of beautiful things,” she said, eyeing a pale pink Chanel jacket. “But you have a lot of inventory. It will take us a few hours to catalog everything. Is that all right?”

“Sure, make yourself at home.”

Norma and I waited in the bedroom, looking through several magazines, until Steven peeped in and said they were ready.

“Well?” I asked, walking back in the living room.

“You have a beautiful collection here. Especially for someone as young as you; how old did you say you were?”

“Oh, I'm not that young, I'm only twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-nine is young in my book. Well, you have excellent taste, my dear. I've called over to Margaret's to speak to my boss, and I've been approved to offer you $9,500.”

“For everything? That's nothing! All my clothes are worth at least triple that,” I said.

“I know. But the market has seen a downturn with designer clothes. Women just aren't spending the money they used to.” She thought for a moment. “What about an even $10,000?”

“I need at least double that,” I whined.

She shook her head. “You're not going to get that price from anyone. Tell you what, I can give you $12,500. But that's my final offer.”

I looked at Norma and she gave me a thumbs up.

“Deal,” I said, shaking her hand.

* * *

“So what are you hoping for?” I asked Norma as she hopped up on the exam table.

“Chris and I just want a healthy baby.”

“Girl, please, it's me you're talking to. You don't have to act so politically correct.”

“Well, I really want a little girl.”

“Really?”

She shook her head and started to cry. “I'm sorry; I've just been too emotional lately.”

I got up and hugged her. “It's okay. That's normal.”

“And to top it off, Chris is running late. This is his baby, too!”

“He's coming, he's just stuck in traffic. Don't worry, everything is going to be fine.”

“What if the baby isn't healthy? What if they find something wrong?”

“Girl, calm down! Your baby is fine.”

She took a deep breath. “You're right. I know you're right.” She patted my hand. “I'm fine.”

I sat back down. “So I figured out my expenses. I fired Kathy, cut my cable and Internet, I'm doing my own manicures and pedicures, I eat at your house every evening—”

“And we love having you.”

“Thank you. I bought an iron, so I'm ironing my own clothes—”

“Oh, no, the horror!”

“Hush. And I called my credit cards and got them to lower their interest rates. So with all that, I would need to find a job in two months. Or things are going to get really tough.”

“You can do it. The offer still stands for working with me.”

“Thanks. You know I really appreciate it. But after things went with your husband, I don't think mixing friends and money can go well. Besides you can't afford to pay me what I need to keep afloat.”

“True. But if you got another apartment—”

“No.”

“I've seen some really great places in Brooklyn.”

“Absolutely not. Brooklyn? Gross.”

“Hey, don't turn up your nose. Brooklyn is coming up.” She paused for a minute. “You know your money would last longer if you would start doing your own hair.”

“What? No, ma'am.”

“How much does it cost for Tameka to do your weave?”

I ran my fingers through it. “I pay about $3,000 to get it sewn in—”

“What!”

“Including the cost of the hair,” I added.

“That's ridiculous.”

“I said that
includes
the cost of the hair. Look at my hair,” I said, standing up so she could touch it. “Every penny is well worth it!”

“Not when you're
counting
your pennies. Mariah—”

I put my hand up. “My weave is not up for discussion. I'll find a job. Everything will turn out all right.”

Chris came in, ending our conversation, and I watched him shower her face with kisses, and she tried to pretend to be mad, but then broke into laughter. My stomach squeezed and I looked away. When had a man ever kissed me like that?

“Thanks for covering for me,” Chris said, giving me a hug.

“No problem.”

There was a knock on the door as Norma's doctor entered. Dr. Mitchell was a stocky man with the neck of a bull and the smile of a child. He said his hellos and got right to business.

“And how have you been feeling, young lady?” he asked Norma.

“Fine. Great, actually. I can barely tell I'm pregnant.”

“You just started your second trimester, that's normal.”

After a quick pelvic exam and a few more questions, a technician rolled in the ultrasound machine.

“This is it, baby,” she said, looking into Chris's eyes.

“No, this is just the beginning.”

The lights were dimmed and Norma's belly was slathered with a clear gel. The doctor skimmed his scope across her stomach and the room filled with the sound of her baby's fast heartbeat.

“Oh my God, Chris!”

“I hear it, too. It's wonderful.”

“You guys want to know the sex of the baby, right?”

They looked at each other and nodded.

“Well, the baby's positioned perfectly. Her legs are right open.”

“Her? Did you just say her? Chris we're having a baby girl! A baby girl!”

“A beautiful baby girl!” Chris said, his eyes full of tears. He kissed her full on the lips as his tears fell onto Norma's face.

“That's so wonderful,” I said. “I'm happy for the both of you. I think I've had too much coffee today.” I twitched my foot. “Need to go to the ladies' room.”

I needn't bother excusing myself; they were too busy looking at the monitor of their baby girl.

I left the room, and walked—nearly ran—to the restroom. I went for the handicapped stall, closed the door and burst into tears.

I had worked so hard all my life for this? To be almost thirty and unemployed? To be without love, even the
hope
of love? Beverly's word's chimed in my head
—“Not every woman is made to be a wife. Career first.”

I built my life around those words, trusting them—no,
needing
them to be true. But I was alone. So utterly alone.