The Eleventh Commandment (25 page)

H
aving eaten their fill at a seafood restaurant, Hope and Frieda window-shopped as they walked around Seaport Village. It was a beautiful day in San Diego—a soft wind blowing, bright sun shining, and boats bobbing gently in the marina waves.

“It's beautiful here,” Frieda said as they strolled. “I should come down more often.”

“Yes, and you should keep driving a few more miles and visit your cousin more often, too.”

“Whatever, chick. Same distance going north on the freeway as it is going south.”

Hope laughed. “True that. What brought you down here anyway?”

“Trying to track down a dude I messed with a while back. Ran into a friend of his while shopping in Long Beach and he told me to come down, that he didn't have a number or address on old boy, but if we rode around we might find him.”

“By the sound of your voice, I take it you didn't?”

Frieda shook her head. “I think his friend was just trying to make a move, if you know what I mean. I don't hollah at hoopty drivers. Boyfriend should have known.”

“So was this another—”

“Possible baby daddy? Yep. And the last one I'm going to try for too. After Gorgio and Shabach came back negative I just knew Jonathan was the child's father. He's the one I thought had the birthmark. But come to find out, it's more of a mole. Even if that hadn't ruled him out, that DNA test sure did.”

“I'm sorry, cousin. I know you want to know the identity of Gabe's father.”

Frieda shrugged. “I didn't know mine and it messed me up. At least Gabe's got Gabriel.”

“He still going for full custody?”

“Our lawyers are trying to work out something a little more agreeable, maybe not fifty-fifty, but definitely with me having more of a presence in my son's life. I might not be the best mother, but I am his mother. Nobody is going to take that role from me, believe that.”

“So you and Gabriel are still not talking? No chance that you'll work it out?”

“No. I hear a little this and that from a sistah who works at the hospital, one I befriended a year ago after she'd had her baby. All her family is down south and her husband was overseas so I kept her company a little bit.”

“What did you hear?”

“That Amber is working extra shifts and shit, trying to be at the hospital every time he drives up. They're probably screwing.”

“You don't know that.”

“I don't not know it, either.” They reached their cars, which were parked side by side. “I don't care. She can have his nerdy behind.”

Hope knew that Frieda didn't mean that, but she felt no need to point out the obvious. “What are you doing for Labor Day?”

“I don't know. What are y'all doing?”

“Cooking on the patio. Simeon is coming down.”

“Cy's fine-ass cousin?”

“Yes, Mrs. Livingston. He's coming down with a guest, a woman he wants us to meet.”

“I should have got me some of that at your wedding, when I had the chance.”

Getting “some of that” is what had gotten Frieda in trouble in the first place. But, again, Hope chose to not sing to the choir. Instead, she reached over for a hug. “Love you, cuz. You're more than welcome to join us for the holiday. A few of our neighbors are coming over, and some of Cy's friends. You'll be fine.”

“Okay, Hope. I'll let you know.”

“Call and let me know you made it home safe, okay?” Hope turned to get in her car, and stopped. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I don't think I've heard you use the b-word lately. In fact, today you barely cursed. Are we trying to turn over a new leaf?”

Frieda smiled. “Something like that.” She got into her car, having decided early on not to share the fact that she was consulting with a life coach. “When change is genuine,” her life coach had told her, “you don't have to tell people. They'll see it and know.”

As Frieda hit the I-5 ramp on her way back to Los Angeles she thought of someone else she'd like to see, wondered whether he'd notice anything different. And if so, if it would matter.

 

Gabriel nodded as Amber rambled on and on about pathophysiology and clinical assessment, classes she was taking at UCLA on the road to a masters in nursing. Gabriel was happy that she was continuing her education and that she was excited about medicine—he really was. But truth was, he'd done thirty-six hours at the hospital, slept for eight, and then agreed to have dinner with Amber to get away from medicine, not talk about it from appetizer to dessert.

“Gabriel? Are you listening? Do you think my volunteering with Doctors Without Borders is a good idea?”

Gabriel rubbed a hand across his face; stifled a yawn. “I'm sure it would be a valuable learning experience.”

“Oh my. I'm sorry. Here I am prattling on and on about work and you're probably sick to death of dealing with this stuff. It's just that I'm so psyched about . . .” And off she went again.

Gabriel looked at her with interested eyes. And didn't hear a thing. He was too busy getting a revelation.
That's what I loved about her. And that's what I miss.
Sitting there, he tried to remember not only the last conversation he had with Frieda about his profession, but any conversation he'd had. None in-depth, that was for sure. Whenever he'd begun a conversation about the hospital, Frieda would inevitably turn it into a conversation worthy of a reality show. She'd always focus on the people involved in whatever he was talking about, wanting to know the dirt of their personal lives and imagining some if none existed. When with her, he learned more than he ever wanted to know about hip-hop performers and movie stars, about vacation destinations and designer labels. Yes, she was materialistic, even shallow, to use his mother's term. But in his somewhat stodgy community she was also a breath of fresh air, a delightful change in the norm with a different perspective and a plethora of opinions.
And a plethora of men, don't forget.
Yes, there was that. She'd never hidden her promiscuous past from him. And while he wasn't excusing her behavior, he felt somewhat responsible for her feeling the need to look elsewhere for what he couldn't give her after performing a ten-hour surgery.

“Doctor Livingston?”

“Uh, I'm sorry, Amber. What were you saying?”

“Never mind. It's obvious that you have a lot on your mind.” She reached over and grabbed his hand. “Is it the divorce? Has it been finalized? Do you want to talk about it?”

“Thanks, Amber, but no. It's not something that I want to discuss.”

He didn't want to discuss it with Amber, but the bigger question, he later realized, was whether or not he wanted the divorce to happen at all.

S
tacy and Frieda sat on Hope's massive patio, catching a beautiful breeze as they took in the picturesque view of the Pacific Ocean that served as Hope's backyard. It was the day before the big Labor Day bash. The three friends were grateful to spend time alone before the crowd arrived. “It's beautiful out here,” Frieda mumbled, adjusting her sunglasses as she lay back on the chaise.

“Sure is. If I lived somewhere like this, I'd never leave home.”

“Girl, for real.”

Both looked toward the sliding glass door as it opened. “All right, ladies,” Hope said, carrying a large tray toward the canopied table. “Lunch is served.”

Stacy rolled off her lounge chair and stretched. “Hope, you should have told me you needed help.” She walked over to where Hope was removing the dishes from the tray to the table. Nibbling on one of the tempura-fried vegetables, she commented, “These are good.”

“Thanks, sis,” Hope replied. “I'm glad they turned out this time because my first attempt was a failure to the nth degree and my second try wasn't much better. I guess the third time is the charm.” She picked up a crispy cauliflower and plopped it into her mouth. “Come on, your highness,” she said to Frieda, who was still lying on the chaise.

“Aw, hell,” Frieda moaned. She walked over to the spread, taking in the sliced baked chicken and kaiser rolls for sandwiches, the vegetables, and German potato salad. “Dang, Hope,” she said, after eating a slice of chicken. “Did you cook this?”

“Why, what's the matter with it?”

“It's good!”

Hope gave her a look of indignation. “You say that like you're surprised.”

“I am!”

The women laughed, sat down, and fixed their plates. While Hope opted for sparkling water, Stacy and Frieda enjoyed chilled chardonnay. Soon eating replaced conversation, punctuated by the lapping water and an occasional screech of a bird overhead. After finishing off her first helping of vegetables, Stacy reached for her glass, sat back and sipped thoughtfully as she again took in the beautiful day.

“A penny for your thoughts, Stace,” Hope said, reaching for her glass as she too sat back.

“I was just thinking about what a difference a year made. This time last year I was in Phoenix, happily married. Tony was playing for the Cardinals and life seemed good. Then bad stuff started falling like dominoes. Tony got hurt, then cut from the team; he lost hella money on that stupid Ponzi-scheme, and started taking steroids. Did y'all know that taking that drug can make it difficult for a man to get hard?” Hope and Frieda shook their heads. “It can. A few times, we had problems in the bedroom. I thought it might be another woman. Never dreamed it was because of what is sometimes called ‘juice.' I did research and found out that aggressiveness can be a side effect of over using. Guess that's how Tony turned into a monster and beat me up. Now, here I sit. Back in LA, alone, unsecure and my future unsure.” She shrugged. “It's a trip.”

“Are you still shopping your resume?”

“No. When Darius found out I was looking for work, he increased my child support, said he wanted my primary focus to be our child. I still want some type of career though; something that I can do from home.”

“Darius stepped up for real,” Frieda said, finishing a bite of chicken and picking up a tempura-battered asparagus tip. “Good for him. Let's see, last year this time,” she continued as she thoughtfully chewed, “I was kicking it with Clark Pratt, living in Brentwood, and feeling that my husband and son were weights I could do without.” She finished her glass of wine and reached for the bottle. “If only I knew those weights were treasures that I'd give anything to feel right now.”

“When is the last time you talked to Gabriel?” Stacy asked.

“Over the phone, about a month ago. Other than that our conversations take place through e-mails or via his assistant and only involve arrangements for picking up Gabe.”

Hope finished her water and poured wine into her glass. “Is Cordella still living with them?”

“Yes. And I can't even say I'm mad about that. I was blaming her for being in my business when, since I was screwing her son, she could say that she was minding her own. I was mad at her for not being down with my scandalous mess. But looking back at it, she was really trying to get me to pay attention to what I had right in front of me. She loves my son and whether I like it or not, he loves her. I don't doubt that at all.”

Hope stared out over the ocean. “Do you think there's a chance of y'all getting back together?” And then, “What about the letter? Did you write it?”

“More importantly, did you send it?” Stacy added.

“Yes and yes,” Frieda said, a soft sigh escaping before she could hold it back. “After a couple days I sent a text asking if he got it. He said yes.” She shrugged. “That's it. So . . . it looks like I'll have a new title in about three months—divorcée.”

It went without saying that in time, Stacy might be wearing that title too.

“Last year this time I didn't know Trisha Underwood,” Hope said into the silence.

“Good thing she's left the country,” Frieda said with a huff. For once, Hope was in total agreement with her cousin's brash remark. “I still wonder whether that chick even had cancer.”

“She had it,” Hope said quickly. “We've had extensive conversations with Dr. Adzikiwe about her condition, Cy more than me. She was a very sick woman and she's not out of the woods yet.”

“Well, at least she's out of your husband's life,” Stacy said.

“But she's still in that wallet, isn't that right, Hope?” Frieda asked.

“Yes, Cy is handling her medical expenses. There's no way she could afford this treatment otherwise. It's very expensive.”

“You're a better woman than me,” Frieda admitted. “If it were my man and my money, chick would be at the county clinic ... maybe.”

“I'm glad we decided to help her. She's not a bad person.”

Clearly, Frieda wasn't convinced. “Whatever. What about Crazy Millicent? Will we be seeing the ebony and ivory tomorrow?”

Hope nodded, understanding Frieda's interracial couple reference. “She's finally over her morning sickness. Their daughter, Sarah, is staying with friends in Los Angeles but Millicent, Jack, and both sons will be here.”

“I never thought I'd see the day when Millicent would be eating a meal at your table,” Stacy said with a chuckle.

“Me either,” Hope replied. “Life is full of surprises.”

“Well,” Frieda said, once again reaching for the wine bottle and emptying it by topping off all of their glasses, “it looks like it's a new day for all us sister-girls.”

Hope lifted her glass and her friends followed suit. “To a new day.”

“A better day,” Stacy added.

“And better decisions,” Frieda said.

The women clinked their glasses and hoped for the best.