Feelin' the Vibe (6 page)

When I got myself together, I cleaned everything up and hopped in the shower. By this time it was close to five in the morning.
Cramps still had me crippled over as I stumbled back into my room. I climbed in bed beside Kenneth and watched him sleep,
waiting for the sunrise to tell him that we’d lost the baby at the near eight-week mark. Looking at him rest peacefully finally
made me cry. He had no clue what he would awake to. The moment the sun peeked into our bedroom, I shook him.

He squirmed. “Yeah.”

“We lost the baby last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I woke up with cramps and I came on my period.”

“That’s impossible,” he said, sitting up.

“It’s very possible.”

“This is unreal.”

“No, it’s very real.”

Finally, he said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m in a lot of pain.”

“Should we go to the doctor’s?”

“It’s probably a good idea.”

When we got up, we went straight to Dr. Battle’s office. He confirmed what I’d already known and he performed a D & C, which
felt like he was removing my insides. After the procedure, he spoke with us and told us that it would be best to try in about
three months. Kenneth listened intently, while I stared out the window.
Try again
was no longer in my vocabulary.

On the ride home, I found the courage to say, “Kenneth, I’m done. I’m not going to try again.”

He rested his hand on my knee. “You’re just emotional right now. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“It has nothing to do with emotions. I don’t want to put my mind or my body through this anymore.”

“You’ll feel different in a few months.”

“I can promise you that I won’t. I thought about this a million different times in a million different ways and I still feel
the same. I’m done.”

“Are you saying you’re giving up? You don’t want kids? You’ve always wanted kids.”

“I don’t have to give birth to be a mother. I’ve been a mother to Mia and Morgan, and I don’t have to be anyone’s biological
mother.”

He grimaced. “You saying you want to adopt?”

“Yes.”

“Hell, no. I’m not having it.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I do for a living?” he shouted.

I frowned, because I didn’t know where he was going. He said, “Talk to a bunch of nutcases all day and half of them are adopted.
Messed up. Confused. Lost to the point of no return.”

The subject seemed to have opened up some sores that I didn’t know were there. “Kenneth, get the hell out of here. All your
clients weren’t adopted.”

“Adopted. Abandoned. Foster care. Their parents don’t want them. It doesn’t matter if they get substitute parents. They’re
still messed up. I’m not adopting. If you don’t want to try again, we just won’t have kids.”

I was in complete shock. How could a man that is supposed to be helping people say this? He didn’t know what the hell he was
talking about. I always felt he cared about his clients, but I couldn’t believe my ears. Maybe he was just angry and wanted
to drive his point home about not adopting. If that was the case, that would make Mia a basket case. Her mother abandoned
her. Could this have been buried animosity from that situation? I didn’t know where it stemmed from, but I felt that he was
a complete jerk.

I wondered how he could be so cold, especially hours after I lost our baby. I folded my arms and stared out the window. Why
would I want to have a baby by this fool?

Ten minutes or so later, he said, “Maybe you should have had Devin’s baby and we wouldn’t be going through this.”

I reached over and pushed the side of his head. His glasses popped off his nose and the car swerved while he adjusted them.
I yelled, “I hate you! I can’t believe you said that.”

He shrugged as if my anger didn’t faze him. He meant what he said; he blamed me for what we were going through. We rode in
silence to our house.

M
y parents had already wired one million dollars into the campaign’s account. I’d designated Curtis as my campaign manager.
He’d run Congressman Grayford’s campaign in 2004. He’d done a fairly good job, but Grayford was basically a household name.
So Curtis would have to develop something new and fresh for me, and I trusted that he could. He was innovative and strategic
and that was all I needed to make this thing happen. We were meeting nearly every day to discuss our plans. We had what it
took; since we weren’t tainted with the old way of doing things, we brought young blood up into the mix. We were planning
self-esteem seminars for the young people, because although they couldn’t vote we needed the ears of their caretakers, their
teachers. We had bimonthly happy hours scheduled throughout the year at various venues. The happy hours would serve as a combination
of town hall meetings, good times, and dancing, all while fund-raising for the campaign. Each one would have live entertainment
targeting the twenty-five- to forty-year-old, up-and-coming African-American professional. We would call these happy hours
The Vibe. There would be a light jazz set early in the evening, where people could discuss their issues, so we would be on
the same wavelength. Which ultimately enhanced my campaign,
The Voice You Can Trust
. Everything was laid out; it was just a process of executing it. I rented a four-thousand-square-foot campaign office space
in an office park in Greenbelt. We’d ordered the furniture and the phone lines were on. Curtis and I had pretty much settled
in the place. We were ready to get this thing popping.

Despite all the plans, I had yet to mention to Taylor that I already submitted my application. She was going about her day
completely unaware that shit was about to change, drastically. We rarely argued, if ever, and I just didn’t want to confront
the opposition until I completely had to.

When I pulled up to the house, I didn’t press the garage door opener. Instead, I sat in the driveway with my car running,
gathering my words, my thoughts. I needed her beside me, holding my hand, looking supportive when I made the announcement.
Women handle all news better with dinner, flowers, and a gift. I bought her a new pair of diamond earrings, I had had three
dozen flowers delivered to the house, and my personal chef was coming over to cook dinner. I’d gone over the speech twenty
times in my head. After maybe five minutes, my cell phone rang.

“Yes, TJ,” I said, assuming she was watching me from the window.

“Devin.” Her voice quivered.

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my father. He’s in Prince Georges Hospital.”

I hung my head, not that I’m not concerned about my father-in-law. But more important, that’s how life works. I get amped
up to let her know that I have a press conference scheduled tomorrow and her father is in the hospital.

“What’s wrong?”

“Toni said they think it’s a stroke.”

“Do you want me to meet you there?”

“Yes, Devin. Please hurry up,” she said, and she abruptly hung up the phone.

“Damn!” I yelled, as if there were someone in my car who would hear me.

Banging my fist into my palm, I prayed that whatever was going on with Bishop Jabowski wasn’t terminal, because I had less
than twenty-four hours to announce to the public my intentions.

When I walked in the hospital, I frantically called Taylor on her phone and it jumped to voice mail. Finally, I went to the
information desk. Wouldn’t you know? He wasn’t in any damn room. He was in intensive care. I rushed up to the ICU.

Mrs. Jabowski stood when she saw me step off the elevator. She looked as if she’d rushed out of the house. Her short hair
was on top of her head, and she wore a sweater that appeared a size too small and her slacks looked like she was in the middle
of preparing dinner. It was shocking to see her without a face full of makeup, but surprisingly her brown skin looked smooth
and even. In fact, I could see how much Taylor resembled her at that moment. Even as a plus-sized woman, Mrs. Jabowski had
an hourglass figure. I rushed over to them, gave Mrs. Jabowski a hug. “What are they saying?”

Tears filled her eyes. My heart dropped. It was selfish, but I was thinking:
Not now, Bishop. Not now.
She took a deep breath, and it seemed several minutes passed before she spoke. “He had a stroke and it appears that his voice
is gone.”

That news was like loud cymbals clapping in my ears. That was probably worse than death for him. Words evaded me as I looked
for the right thing to say to console her. I hugged her again. Taylor looked at me as if she needed me to say something, to
do something, but I felt weak at the moment.

I said, “Where’s the doctor? Is that what the doctor’s saying? Is it temporary?”

Taylor’s oldest sister, Toni, looked at me and shrugged. Taylor hung her head, and Mrs. Jabowski said, “Why don’t you talk
to him, Devin? Please.”

I looked at Toni’s husband, Walter, who sat there useless and wondered why hadn’t they designated
him
to do the talking. Rather than entertain that, I took on the challenge. My wife, her mother, and her sister needed me. I
headed to the nurses’ station to investigate. Just as I stepped up to the desk, one of the nurses looked up at me like she’d
worked all day without a break and I was the last thing she needed to exert her energy on. Her face scrunched up, but I greeted
her with a smile.

“I’m so sorry to bother you. I would like to know if I could speak to the doctor taking care of Jacob Jabowski.”

She took a deep, irritated breath. I spoke before she could: “I know that my family has probably been worrying you, but have
you ever heard of Zion Baptist Church?”

Her frown lifted slightly. “Why?”

“That’s the pastor, Bishop Jacob Jabowski, in there, and we just want to know what’s going on.”

I smiled at her again. Somebody had to care about the man of God. She sighed and scooted back from the desk. “I’ll have him
come right out. You can stand here or have a seat and I’ll tell him to come over.”

Something told me my chances were greater if I simply stood patiently in front of her, than if I went away. I nodded. “I’ll
just wait here, sweetheart. Thank you so much.”

She sucked her teeth, but said, “No problem.”

After five minutes or so, a young doctor emerged and before he talked to the nurse, I reached my hand out and shook his hand.
“Good evening, Doctor…” I said, squinting as if I was attempting to read his name tag.

He said, “Fisher. I’m Dr. Fisher.”

“Dr. Fisher, I’m with the Jabowski family and we want to know about Bishop Jabowski’s prognosis.”

He flipped through his clipboard and flicked his pen. “I’ve spoken to the family several times. At this moment, everything
is still the same. He suffered a chronic stroke, and right now his speech is gone.”

“I mean, do you foresee it returning anytime soon?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You can never really tell with strokes.”

I shook my head. “Nah, this can’t be.”

“Sir, I wish I had better news, but right now that’s the way it is.”

“Are you a specialist?”

“No, but I have in my chart for him to be seen by a specialist once he’s on the floor.”

“When will he get on the floor?”

“It looks like he’s in stable condition right now. So they’ll be moving him shortly.”

I hoped to be the hero returning with better news, but I strolled back to the waiting area with the same prognosis. And it
didn’t look good. I almost wanted to lie as I approached the three helpless women. Each of them looked at me as if I was the
pillar of hope. I said, “He’s pretty much saying the same thing that he told you guys, but I believe that only a specialist
can really give a clear prognosis.”

“What kind of specialist?” Mrs. Jabowski asked.

“A neurologist can give a better opinion. I’m sure it’s not as cut and dried as he’s making it. He’s just trying to move him
onto the floor.”

Mrs. Jabowski shook her head. “It just doesn’t make any kind of sense how they treat us.”

I looked at Taylor staring at the wall. It bothered me the way she was handling this challenge. I sat down on the arm of the
chair beside her and stroked her back. “You okay, baby?”

She huffed. “My father almost died. What do you think?”

“Taylor, he’s alive.”

“But he can’t talk.”

I could see that making her feel better was not happening so I just stopped talking. Somehow, I needed to find a way to get
her to open up to me. I continued to just rub her back. Finally, she rested her arm on my leg and began taking deep breaths.
She looked up at me and said, “I’m hungry.”

“Let’s go to the cafeteria.” She stood up, and I looked at everyone else and asked, “Does anyone else want anything?”

Mrs. Jabowski stood. “I’m going to go with you.”

No, lady. I need to talk to my wife
. Instead, I smiled and put my arm around her shoulder and grabbed Taylor’s hand. With the ball of her thumb, she stroked
our clasped hands. I felt her relaxing. Truth be told, I’ve never dealt with any major illness with my parents. So I really
didn’t know what she was going through. All I could do was be supportive, but it would be a lot easier if I didn’t have something
to tell her.