Waiting to Exhale (21 page)

If I go ahead and get rid of him now, he'll probably think I wa
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sing him, but I wasn't. Is it my fault he's so generous? All I've been doing is hoping this could turn out to be a perfect union, but it's not my fault that it hasn't. Is it? I'm glad I had his chart done. Michael's planets are in the wrong houses and not at all in harmony with mine. My Venus is in Virgo, which, in a nutshell, means I'm too critical when it comes to lovers and is the reason I'm still not married. But. According to Frances Sakoian and Louis Acker, it also means that I'm "a nurturer, capable of sympathy and am helpful when it comes to the sick, and dealing with people who have psychological problems stemming from social maladjustment." Look how long I put up with Russell. They also claim that if Venus in Virgo is afflicted by Mars, Uranus, Neptune, or Pluto, there can be an overreaction against shyness and social propriety, producing loose living and promiscuity and therefore causing me to make sexual conquests in order to prove my desirability. This shit is not true. And regardless, I've still got to do something about Michael.

I count forty-one gray hairs on his head and finally tap him. "Michael," I whisper loudly. "Wake up." But he doesn't budge. "Michael!" I say, louder this time. "Wake up!"

He rolls over, pulls half the comforter with him, which knocks about ten of my dolls that are piled on top of my hope chest to the floor. The corners of his mouth are white, which I'm not complaining about, because mine are, too, when I wake up. He puts his head in my lap, and I want to push it off, but I don't. Ten minutes go by, and my legs fall asleep. When they're ice cold, I tap him on the back this time. He jumps up like his alarm clock just went off, and when he sees me, he smiles. "Good morning," he says, and squeezes my thighs.

"Michael," I say, "we gotta talk."

He sits up. "Talk?"

"Talk."

"This sounds serious." He smiles. "Can I brush my teeth first?"

"Please," I say, and when he goes to get up, I feel this burden lift, and the bed springs back into its original shape. I find myself following him over to my bathroom, and my brain is telling me to pretend like there's something in there I need to do. I look for the Visine and squeeze a few drops in each eye. After I do this, Michae l r eaches over and puts his hand on my behind. I move away from him.

"Oh, it's like that," he says. "What's wrong?"

"Michael," I say, and then stop.

"I don't like the tone of this, Robin. I don't."

"You want some coffee?" I ask, biting my bottom lip.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Is this gonna be something heavy?"

"I'm not sure, Michael. I've already got some coffee ready. Come on." He grabs his blue-and-white-striped bathrobe from the foot of the bed and ties it around his waist, or what would be his waist if he had one. Stop it, Robin. Just stop it! Yours not exactly Vanessa Williams yourself \ so just stop it. I pour us both a cup. We sit down at the kitchen table.

"So what's this all about?" he asks. "What precipitated this need to talk, although I think I can probably guess."

"I haven't said a word yet, Michael. Are you clairvoyant or something?" I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I'm still not satisfying you, am I? It hasn't gotten any better for you, has it?"

I don't answer. Instead I take a sip of my coffee.

"I've been trying," he says.

"I know you have, Michael, and it has been better lately, but that's not the only thing bothering me." I reach over for the half- and-half. "I think you're a wonderful man, I really do, and I was hoping that some kind of magic would happen between us so we could live out the fairy tale, but I'm not feeling as excited as I thought I was going to feel, and it has nothing to do with you or your not being a good lover or a wonderful person, because you are."

"So what's the problem, Robin? Is it Russell? Is he back in the picture?"

"No, he's not. I don't talk to Russell."

"I'm in love with you, Robin."

"I know, Michael, and that's what's making this so hard."

"You mean you want to stop seeing me, is that it?"

"I just think I need a little space is all. Maybe I just need to get a better perspective on you, get some distance. I mean, we've been seeing each other at work and almost every day, and I've got laundry piled up that I could stand to have a little time to do, I haven't cleane d m y apartment in weeks, I haven't seen my girlfriends or my parents since I don't know when, and I haven't had a day to myself in so long. ... Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Do you want to see me anymore or not, Robin?"

"I just don't want to see so much of you for a while is all I'm saying. Everything is happening so fast, I'm not keeping up." This is a real switch for me, I think, asking for "space." I wonder if this is what men feel when they ask for it and never come back. Here you are thinking all along that you're ringing their bells, and really they just want out.

"I'm glad we don't work on the same floor," he says.

"And don't worry, Michael. I have every intention of paying you back."

"I'm not worried about that money. I just want to know what I can say or do to change your mind."

"Nothing, right now." I take a sip of my coffee. "Michael?"

"Yes?"

I lean forward on my elbows. "What do you see in me anyway?"

"I've told you plenty of times, Robin."

"Refresh my memory."

"I don't want to make a fool out of myself."

"Believe me, you're not."

He doesn't say anything for about thirty seconds, and I guess he doesn't have anything to lose, so he says, "Basically, what I find attractive about you is the fact that we're complete opposites. You're spontaneous and kind of wild-and please don't take that the wrong way. I mean, you do what you want to do and worry about the consequences later. You're unpredictable, smart, and pretty analytical. You're excited about life and all its possibilities, and I just love your sense of humor. And on top of all that, you're beautiful."

"Wow," is all I can say. I hadn't looked at myself through somebody else's eyes before, and I was flattered. I'm hoping that somebody else will feel the same way about me, but next time I hope it's somebody who rings my bells.

"I'll say this, and I'll say it again. I love you, Robin. And I would like to marry you. But you take as much time as you need. You go on and date other men, and when you get tired, when you want
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eal man to take care of you and give you what you need, call me. Would you do that for me?"

"Why are you making it sound so calculated?"

"Because you don't seem to know what you want. I think you still need to till some more soil before you'll be ready to settle down with a man like me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I've been out here much longer than you have, Robin. You're waiting for a man to come along who'll make you feel fireworks. And he may very well be out there. All I'm saying is that sometimes you have to work a little harder at starting the fire, and it may bum a whole lot longer."

This makes perfect sense, but then again, Michael always makes perfect sense. Which is one of the things that bores me about him. "I just want to make sure I know what Fm doing," I say. "Because sometimes I don't."

He gets up from the table and puts his empty cup in the sink. "Do you still want to go the movies today?" he asks.

"I don't think so," I say, and get up too. "1'm driving down to Tucson. My mother's having a hard time with my father, and I need to go."

After he leaves, I feel this incredible sense of relief. I have energy for days. It's only eight-thirty in the morning, so I do my laundry and even fold everything and put it away. I dust and vacuum. I clean the bathroom and take a bath, squeezing out extra bubble bath. I soak for twenty minutes. When I get out, I give myself an organic mud facial and put fresh sheets on my bed. Afterwards, I wash off the facial and put on a pair of denim shorts, a neon-yellow T-shirt, a pair of thick yellow socks, and my Nike Airs. I put one of my handkerchiefs in my back pocket and slip on a Los Angeles Lakers baseball cap because I need to get my hair touched up, then I take my car to the car wash and start the ninety-mile drive to Tucson, with the top down and the music blasting. I put my sunglasses on and sing along with the radio until they start playing nothing but rap. I put on Tracy Chapman, but she's too mellow for me right now, so I pop her out and put on Bobby Brown. I pass through the Gila Indian reservation and, as usual, wonder where they all are. I look out at the dry golden fields, then orange groves with green oranges hanging from their branches. I see fields of cotton and think it's ironic that it's Mexicans now who pick it. I laugh when I pass the sign by the prison that says do not stop for hitchhikers. The mountains that are far away look like someone painted them into the sky. The one that's right here, Picacho Peak, makes me want to stop the car and climb up to the top. One day I will. I pass the Pima Air Museum and once, just once, I would like to turn the car off at this exit to see what's so special about those airplanes. By the time I get to Orange Grove Road, I know I've been trying too hard to make myself not think about what I'm thinking about. For the last eighty miles, I've been trying to appreciate how breathtaking nature can be, how beautiful Arizona is. I've been trying to pay extra-close attention to everything I see, so I won't think about my daddy as much. But now that I'm almost there, the image of him getting worse is wiping everything out.

When my mother answers the door, she looks worn out, sad. She's still losing weight. She never has been a big woman, but now she's too thin, and I know it's because of Daddy. We say hello, kiss each other on the cheek, and she presses her hand to the right side of her face and looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't. Or can't. I see the green and blue veins popping through her skin and remember when her hands used to be smooth and brown. Her hair is still in rollers, and she's wearing a dull floral housedress. Ever since her operations, she still wears a bra but stuffs the cups with foam. When I bend down to hug her, I feel them cave in. It breaks my heart. "Where's Daddy?" I ask.

She shakes her head back and forth and points. "In the kitchen, making his lunch."

I walk through the living room-which is full of the same furniture they had when I was little-to the kitchen, and there he is, with at least ten slices of whole-wheat bread spread out on the counter and a jar of mayonnaise in front of him. He has a plastic case knife in hi
s h and, because my mother's hidden all the real ones. He's a big man, which is where I get my height from, but now he's as thin as thread. His bluejeans sag, his once broad shoulders are round and narrow, his long arms are bonier than mine. My daddy's hair is white, full of tiny curls that lay flat against his head. But I see patches of his scalp, because he's been pulling his hair out. "Hi, Daddy," I say, and when he turns around, he nods and keeps on spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread.

"What's doing, pumpkin?" he says, and I feel a smile come on my face because he recognizes me this time. He sounds like himself today, because his speech is usually slurred and slower.

"Just came down to see how you and Ma are doing."

"I'm fine. Just making my lunch here. Getting ready to go to work."

Work? He hasn't worked since 1981, when he retired from the army. I can't stand seeing Daddy like this. "You must be pretty hungry today," I say.

"What's it look like?"

"I was just saying you must be good and hungry, Daddy."

"Don't get smart with me," he says. "I'm minding my own business, making my own lunch, so don't get smart with me."

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I wasn't trying to get smart."

"Then leave me alone," he says, and shoos me with his hands.

I go back into the living room. My mother is sitting there, looking like she doesn't know what to do next. I hate this disease and what it's doing to both of them. A few months ago, when she started feeling really sad because Daddy was getting worse, she took the doctor's advice and joined one of those support groups for people who have family members with Alzheimer's. She took Daddy to one of the meetings, but he embarrassed her so bad she said she couldn't go back. She said he had stood up while someone was talking and just started singing some hymn he'd learned from the Church of Latter- day Saints, and then he started crying and couldn't stop. I remember when Daddy talked her into going to that church. They were the only black people in the whole congregation, but it never bothered him, and when he asked her if she wanted to convert from Catholicism to become a Mormon, that was the first real sign that something was wrong with Daddy.

In the beginning, he forgot little things: like where he put something he just had; or right after my mother asked him to do something, he couldn't remember what it was. Then bigger things: he forgot their address and phone number, and how to tie his shoe, and he got lost going to the store that was only two blocks away. Daddy started doing things he'd never done before and got upset over things that never bothered him before. For the past two years, he's gotten progressively worse, which is the way this disease works.

Sometimes he thinks Ma is his mother, and she said when he's like this, there's nothing she can say or do to convince him otherwise. My parents have been married for thirty-nine years. They used to travel all over the world. Golf. Camp. With his own hands, my daddy built our house in Sierra Vista, but now my mother has to get in the shower with him to help him bathe. He wets the bed, and she changes the sheets. He used to be fluent in French but now can't understand a word. He always thinks somebody is following him or trying to kill him, and sometimes he hides. Ma says that sometimes his anger is so frightening she holds a pillow in front of her to make sure that if he tries to hit or pinch her-which has happened a few times-she won't feel it. What sets him off, she says, is when he's trying to think of too many things at once, or there's an unexpected break in their daily routine, or violence on TV.