Choose Me (16 page)

Once a month after Sunday services, Maya, Simone, and I took turns having brunch at each other’s homes. It was Maya’s turn
so she went ahead with Alex and the boys to prepare the meal. Simone hitched a ride with me and in the backseat began changing
out of her confining “church clothes.”

“Why don’t you just wear decent clothing? That way you won’t have to change,” I teased.

“Hush, peasant,” she grunted, struggling out of her pantyhose and into some shorts. “You guys know I can’t stay long. I have
that radio interview on V103 with Zephyr. Then I’m meeting Ian for an early dinner.”

I shook my head silently; I had resolved to ease up passing judgment on her.

“What?” she challenged, removing her blouse to reveal a tiny T-shirt that looked like it had shrunk in the dryer.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you want to. I can see right through your Oil of Olay”

“You’re being paranoid,” I chanted.

“No, I’m not,” she chanted back.

Maya still wore her calf-length sundress but was barefoot, padding back and forth around her newly remodeled kitchen, making
coffee, sandwiches, and Caesar salads. Alex and the boys, she said, had eaten the first round.

“How was coffee with Adam?” she asked.

“Yeah, how
was
the Rastafarian?” Simone asked, suddenly remembering.

“He’s not a Rastafarian,” I said.

“You know that’s a religion,” Maya said, as she sliced some romaine lettuce like it took too much effort. I could tell by
the frustrated look on her face and her inability to stay still that she had had another fight with Alex. Their fights had
become almost routine since Alex began attending church less frequently—and when he did he’d fall asleep. “They believe some
Egyptian leader was a prophet. Celeste, somebody.”

“Haile Selassie,” Simone corrected her, pouring coffee into three cups.

Maya and I looked at her quizzically.

“I dated a Jamaican a couple of years ago. Remember Ty? Remember I used to say ‘me like heem’?”

Maya and I shook our heads because neither one of us could keep her men’s names straight.

“Maybe he’s a convert,” Maya suggested.

“He’s not Rastafarian,” I assured them. “He’s Christian. He had cancer and he thinks if he cuts his hair, the cancer might
come back.”

“Can’t he, like, comb it into some cornrows or something instead of those … dreads?” Maya asked spitefully. “They look so
dread … ful.”

“He had cancer?” Simone asked, shocked. “What kind?”

“I kind of like his hair,” I answered Maya first. Then I immediately regretted it as they both looked at me like I had said
something cute. “I mean, when he pulls it back into a ponytail, it looks nice, you know, neater …” I stuttered.

Just then, Alex and the boys came into the kitchen. They had changed into tennis outfits and carried tennis racket bags over
their shoulders. Alex, a part-time instructor, was convinced his sons were going to be the next Williams tennis champs. He
liked to joke that they already had the famous last name. He came up to Maya and said, “We’re gone. See you later.”

Simone and I watched as he pecked Maya’s cheek. It was a basic, run-of-the-mill kiss, but I watched longingly. Simone crossed
her eyes in mock disgust. I wondered how Maya could be with Luciano, no matter how platonic she claimed their relationship
was, and then come home to Alex. Although I believed her when she said she had not slept with Luciano, I knew that the more
time she spent with him, the closer she was to temptation. I realized I had yet to talk seriously to her about my reservations
with Luciano.

“Bye, Ma!” Marcos and Lucas cried as they kissed Maya with more emotion than their father had. They then kissed Simone and
me before hurrying after their father.

More than anything, what I missed most about being with a man was kissing. I tried hard to remember what it was like, being
held by a man, his hands in my hair, around my waist, as he sampled my lips. After leaving Adam, all I could think about was
what it would have been like to kiss him. Whether I desired to kiss any man, or specifically Adam, was debatable. I quickly
felt convicted, especially after having just come from church. More than once, the pastor had warned that the enemy always
attacked just when one was trying to get closer to God. It was certainly the case with me as I thought back to my dream with
the Oak Tree Man in the middle of Pastor Zeke’s sermon. The dream had been related to the medication, I reasoned. However,
the first time I had experienced the hallucinations, the tree didn’t have dreadlocks. Already Adam was creeping into my subconscious.
Forgive me, Lord,
I thought.
Remove this man from my mind.

After Alex’s car left the driveway, Simone and I watched as Maya neurotically cleaned the table, swept the floor, and washed
the dishes. Then she started in on the sautéed chicken breasts for the Caesar salads, hacking them up.

“Would you stop with the OCD housekeeping?” Simone asked, snatching the bowl of butchered breasts from Maya, insinuating Maya
suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder. “Remember, I can’t stay long. I have to meet Zephyr in an hour and I got a
date with Ian later.”

Maya finally sat down. I blessed the food and we began to eat. She turned to Simone. “I love you, my sister. But you need
to stop dating all these men.”

“What do you mean, ‘all’? There are only two men in my life.” Then she held up two fingers and in Spanish said,
“Uno, dos.”

“This time, it’s two. Last year, it was three,” Maya said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “God did not intend for woman to have
a bunch of men.”

“Then
He
should have made men more multidimensional. I’m sorry but one man cannot fulfill my every need. And look who’s throwing stones?”

“For the last time, Luciano is my
friend.
We are not lovers,” Maya insisted. She poured French vanilla creamer into her coffee and took a sip. I thought back to Simone’s
party, how Maya sat with Luciano on the sofa’s arm and, later, kissed him on the back porch stairs. If they were friends,
I’d hate to see what her version of “lovers” looked like. But I didn’t say anything. “Remind me to say a special prayer for
you tonight.”

“You need to say one for your husband,” Simone countered.

“Oh, I always pray for my husband, sweetie. Always.”

Although they constantly got into it whenever the topic of their men came up, I believed that secretly, they envied each other.
In a way, Simone wanted what Maya had: the successful husband, big house in a nice neighborhood, the kids—well, maybe not
the kids. And Maya wanted Simone’s life, which was basically the freedom she never had because she had been married half her
life. However, neither would ever admit it.

“What is
your
problem with
her
husband anyway?” I finally asked Simone.

“My problem is this,” Simone began, standing up so she could pontificate as if she were on stage. “Man is supposed to be made
in the image of Christ. He’s supposed to love his wife like Christ loves the church and all that. He’s supposed to be the
head of household and lead his family by example. But I don’t see your husband doing that. He doesn’t go to church all the
time—you either go by yourself or with the kids. It’s almost like
you’re
the head of household and he’s a bachelor.”

“You don’t understand; this isn’t about him,” Maya explained. “It’s about
my
personal relationship with the Lord. I leave my husband in His hands. His salvation is not up to me. I’m doing what I’m supposed
to be doing.”

“What’s the use in being married to a man when he’s not doing what
he’s
supposed to be doing?”

“Men change,” Maya said, almost sadly.

“And women don’t?” I asked.

“Women change due to hormonal changes, childbirth, motherhood, the stress of being
slaves
to their husbands, especially working women,” Simone cut in, sitting down to eat her salad. “Men change because they think
their wives are supposed to pick up where their mothers left off.” One would think Simone had been married forever instead
of the one year she sacrificed to what she called “the world’s oldest form of slavery.” Married women, she always said, were
still in bondage. While I disagreed with her, I had my own issues with marriage.

“That’s why I’m afraid of getting married again,” I said. “Take Anthony. When we were living together, he used to help me
with the housework. As soon as we got married, I swear not a month later, he just stopped.”

“I’m not going to take that chance,” Simone said. “I
know
I’m never getting married again. Marriage is overrated.”

“With God, you’re not taking a chance. God is about faith, not luck, not chance. Just as He did not intend woman to have a
multitude of men, He also did not intend woman to be alone. You don’t put your trust in Man, you put your trust, your faith
in God. Man will disappoint, but God never will.”

“So what are you doing with Luciano?” Simone asked pointedly.

“I’m trying to keep myself from dying of boredom,” Maya said without skipping a beat. “Even though we’re just friends, I know
I shouldn’t be with him. It’s one thing to sin and acknowledge it, but it’s worse when you sin and don’t care. Meanwhile,
I’m praying for a sign from God ’cause I don’t know how much longer I can stay married to my husband.”

“What exactly did you pray for?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you pray for your marriage to work or did you pray that Alex wants a divorce so you can be with Luciano? I mean, you
have to know what you want before you ask for it.”

“I prayed for patience, for guidance. All I know is, I want my husband to kiss me with passion, like he used to. I want to
be loved like I deserve to be loved. I like the attention Luciano gives me, I don’t know if I want to be with him.”

“I would rather kiss a man than have sex any day,” I announced. They gave me that collective look of adoration once again,
so I jammed a forkful of lettuce and chicken into my mouth.

“Check her out. She isn’t dead after all,” Simone said, smiling.

“Get out,” Maya said in disbelief.

“I’m serious. I’ve always thought kissing was much more intense,” I said quietly.

“Okay, now I know it’s been a long time for you,” Simone joked. Then she chanted, “Some-body’s sweat-
ting
the Rasta-mun.”

“It’s sweat-
in,
” I corrected her mispronunciation of the slang term.

“Oh, hush. Me? I don’t particularly like kissing. All that sharing of saliva,” Simone said, shuttering, her face recoiling.

“Oh, and sharing other body fluids is better?” I countered.

“When you wear condoms you don’t share body fluids,” she said shamelessly with a sly smile. “I believe a man cannot truly
possess you until fluids are exchanged.”

“Simone!” Maya admonished.

“It’s S’Monée,” she corrected. “If you call me Simone, I’m not going to answer.”

“Keep fooling yourself,” I told her, ignoring her request. “Every time you have sex with a man, he takes possession of you.
You lose a little of your soul, piece by piece.”

“Listen to you,” Maya said looking at me with a look of pride.

As I was saying the words to Simone, I hoped my sister was taking heed, and then I thought I should probably remember them
myself as a precautionary measure.

MY MOTHER IS
a very spiritual woman, fiercely devout and ardently dedicated to my father, her husband—and, simultaneously,
another woman’s—for twenty years. My mother found out about the other woman years before my sister and I did. When I confronted
her, demanding to know why she never said anything, she replied rather calmly, “One day you’ll understand what love is about.”

I could not understand why she would knowingly put up with sharing her man with another woman. I could not perceive how she
forgave my father and continued to sleep with him, knowing the only thing that separated her from this woman was a hot shower.
I could not comprehend how she embraced this other woman at the funeral, and still kept in contact with my half siblings,
who were close enough to my and my sister’s ages to have put our mothers pregnant at the same time. My incomprehension was
so entrenched that I still could not bring myself to visit my father’s grave almost twenty years later. So I guess I had yet
to learn what love was.

My mother lived in a senior citizen condo building; she moved there after selling the house I had lived in until I went away
to college. She acquired two cats to keep her company and took up acoustic guitar and stained glass art, which she sold at
seasonal arts and crafts shows. She stopped cooking large Sunday meals and became a vegan who believed in holistic healing.
Essentially, my mother became a hippie in her old age.

As I arrived at my mother’s floor, I saw a rather distinguished looking man in a suit emerging from her condo. I thought he
was perhaps the landlord, or some other kind of businessman, but then I watched as my mother stepped into the hallway and
kissed the man on the cheek. I froze, hoping I would blend into the tan carpet unseen.

“Oh, there’s my son,” my mother exclaimed when she saw me. I walked slowly down the hallway with my mouth half hanging open.
“Jameson Stevens, this is my son, Adam. I call him Love.” I was dumbfounded. I could not believe she had shared something
as personal as my nickname with this stranger. When I was born she’d wanted to give me “Love” as a middle name but my old
man put his foot down. From the time I was little, she had called me Love.

The man stuck his hand out toward me, smiling like he wanted to be my friend or something. I reluctantly, and automatically,
shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Adam,” Mr. Jameson Stevens said before strolling to the elevator, whistling. “I’ll see you later, Naomi.”

I could not speak as I watched my mother walk toward me. She was dressed elegantly in a floral print dress that accentuated
her slimmed-down figure, her pecan face flawless and glowing. Her hair was in a high French roll, giving her the appearance
that she was wearing an African headdress. A retired hairstylist, my mother always kept her hair coiffed.