Waiting to Exhale (33 page)

In the morning, she called her doctor. "What's in this shit you gave me?"

"Are you starting to have side effects?"

"Side effects? I'm one step away from checking myself into a nuthouse. I didn't feel this damn bad when I came to see you."

"Well, this medication affects different people in different ways. For some, it's like magic. For others, it doesn't do so well. Tell me, what are some of the symptoms you're having?"

"For starters, I had diarrhea for two days and kept feeling like I was going to throw up. I've lost six pounds, because I can't eat."

"This is one of the reasons some people love them. They're great for losing weight."

"I didn't come to see you because I had a weight problem. When I finally do get to sleep, I've been having nightmares. I can't even begin to tell you some of the things I've been dreaming about. And I've been hallucinating. Seeing things crawling when nothing's there. I'm like a damn space cadet. I'm self-conscious about every single move I make, and it's driving me crazy. I'm not taking any more of these pills. That's what I called to tell you."

"Are you sure, Bernadine? From what you've told me, it's clear that you're clinically depressed. You need something to help you get through this. No need to be a martyr. You could try breaking them in half."

Was this bitch deaf? Had she not heard a word Bernadine had said? "Look," Bernadine said. "I'm not taking any more, okay? And you should be a little more careful about what kind of medication you prescribe. These pills are dangerous."

"I understand how you must feel, Bernadine. And I'm sorry the medication doesn't agree with you. We could try another kind, if you'd like."

"I don't think so," Bernadine said. "I'll figure out a way to get through this on my own. Just like I've been doing. Thank you," she said, and hung up.

Bernadine poured the last few pills down the garbage disposal and emptied the rest of the Xanax in too. She turned the faucet on, and the sound of the water made her ears tingle. The grinding noise got so loud that Bernadine forgot all about the water. She listened with such intensity that she had to stop herself. She turned the disposal off, ran over to the phone, and called the doctor back. "Tell me something. How long will it take for these pills to get out of my system? I want to know when I'll start feeling like myself again."

"About a week," she said.

Bernadine slammed the phone down in her face. The bitch didn't know what the fuck she was talking about. First she said it would take three to four weeks to feel their effect, and it'd only been seven goddamn days. Besides, Bernadine already felt like herself. She was pissed off. And knew she had a right to be pissed off. "Fuck being crazy," she said, and she grabbed a box of Cheerios from the cabinet, poured some into a bowl, and forced herself to eat them.

Chapter
14

IT AIN'T ABOUT NOT
H
IN

I opened the door for Troy. Good God almighty. This man is past gorgeous. He was holding a lit cigarette between his fingers. I wish he didn't smoke, but I guess I can live with one bad habit. "Hey, sugar," he said. He was wearing a pale-blue polo shirt with some navy-blue baggy pants and Ray-Ban sunglasses, even though it was dark outside. His beeper was clipped to his shirt pocket. Troy does' not look at all like he's forty years old. He's in great shape. Hallelujah. His waist is probably the same size as mine, and he moves those narrow hips like he's still twenty.

He gave me a sloppy kiss. It was good. When he went to put his hand underneath my blouse, I thought about what Bernadine had said. The truth was, I didn't know all that much about Troy, and tonight might be a good time to find out. So I backed away.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asked, and took a puff of his cigarette.

"Nothing. Have a seat." I went to find an ashtray, then sat down on the couch. Troy walked over to my stereo.

"How about some music," he said, and pressed the buttons on my cassette player like he'd been doing it for years. It was hard to believe I'd only known him three days.

"What would you like to do tonight?" I asked.

"Whatever makes you feel good," he said. "This sister can blow," he said, after Vanessa Williams started singing "Dreaming." Troy jumped up, put his cigarette back in his mouth, turned toward me, and pretended like he was slow-dancing with somebody.

"How about a movie?" I said.

"I'm not in the mood for a movie," he said, and started pacing around the room. "Ask me what I want to do."

"What do you want to do?"

"Spend the night making sweet love to you."

He rushed over to the end table, crushed out his cigarette, and flopped down next to me on the couch. I inched away. "That's all we've been doing, Troy. I'd like to get out of the house, and I'd like to get to know you better-standing up."

"Oh, I get it," he said, grinning. "We're getting serious, are we?"

"You're not serious?"

"Don't I act serious?"

"I can't tell for sure yet."

"You mind if I get a glass of wine?"

"I'll get it," I said, and stood up. I went over to the kitchen, poured us both a glass, brought the bottle back, and set it on the table.

Troy had lit another cigarette. He drank his wine down in one gulp and poured himself another one. "So what'd you have in mind?" he asked, and got back up.

"Are you nervous about something?" I asked.

"No. Got a lot of things going on, that's all." His beeper went off. "Can I use the phone for a minute?"

"Yep. There's one in the kitchen."

He got up and pulled the cord over by the sink. I heard him say, "Yeah, man, I'll check on you in a few minutes. I'll have a lady friend with me. She's cool." He hung up, walked behind the couch, and kissed me on the forehead. I almost died. But I wanted to see if I could control myself. For once in my life. "I need to run by one of my partners' for a few minutes. You feel like taking a drive?"

"Why not."

"Cool. He lives in Scottsdale. He's a lawyer. Nice people. You'll like him. Plus, I want you to get to know the kind of people I deal with."

Sounded good to me. "Can you give me a minute to do my face?"

"You look good enough," he said, and lit another cigarette.

"It'll only take a minute." I took my makeup kit out of my purse and went on into the bathroom. I brushed on a little more blush, a coat of lipstick, picked my hair out, and grabbed a fresh handkerchief from my drawer. When I came out and said, "I'm ready," Troy looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

His car was deep. It was a 1978 Cadillac. I didn't know he was the Cadillac-driving type. The interior was gray leather, and it smelled good, like jasmine. It was coming from that yellow felt Christmas tree dangling from the rearview mirror. We drove through Tempe and on up toward Scottsdale Road. The closer we got to the hills, the darker the streets got. "You mind if I crack the window? The smoke is making my eyes water."

"No. Go right ahead," he said.

"Whereabouts do you live, Troy?"

"Seventeenth, right off Baseline."

"Do you live by yourself?"

"Not anymore."

"You don't?"

"No. My mother and son live with me."

"Oh," I said. That bit of information put a real damper on things. The man was forty years old. And his mother still lived with him? I bet he lives with his mother. Either way, I couldn't believe it. Maybe there was more to this than I understood. Considering I just met the man, I didn't want to get all into his business, but I had to ask something. "How old is your son?"

"Sixteen."

"Is his mother here in Phoenix?"

"She's in Detroit. He was having some problems a while back, so I took him off her hands. He's a good kid. Just got mixed up with the wrong people."

"What about your mother?"

"What about her?"

"What's it like, living with your mother?"

"Convenient. She cooks and cleans and basically runs the house. She gets her social security checks, plays a little bingo, and goes to church. I couldn't ask for a better situation, really. She's only sixty- eight but kind of scared about living by herself. She's got asthma. But since she's been out here, she's only had three attacks where she had to be hospitalized."

"How long has she been out here?"

"Four years."

"She's been living with you for four years?"

"Yeah."

"What's that like?"

"I told you, it works out for everybody. She's not all in my business or anything, and I can bring a lady friend home with no problem. You'll see."

"I will?"

"Yeah. I already told her about you. I want you to meet both of them."

Well, I thought, how refreshing. Right now I was hoping we'd get where we were going, because I had to go to the bathroom. Bad. We pulled into this long driveway that led to a beautiful Santa Fe house with a big oak door. After we rang the doorbell, Troy bent over and kissed me. "You'll like Bill," he said. "He's real cool people."

When Bill answered the door, he didn't look like any lawyer to me. He was wearing a Mike Tyson T-shirt, but Mike's face was almost gone. Bill had two gold earrings in one ear, and a raggedy Jheri-Kurl. He was probably handsome at one time, but there were pockmarks all over his face. The sockets under his eyes were puffy, and his lips were chapped. He could stand some dental work. And his bluejeans were clearly too big. He was skinnier than my daddy.

"Come on in," he said, ushering us. Bill acted like he was in a hurry. He moved so fast, I almost broke my neck trying to catch up to him and Troy on that marble floor. It eventually led to a sunken living room. The whole house was done in black and white, that hightech look, and he had Kenny G blaring. There were four other men sitting in the family room, and the TV was on, but it didn't look like anybody was watching it. That's when I smelled the reefer and saw the glass pipe sitting on the coffee table, with a flame burning underneath. Oh, shit, I thought, not crack.

I sat down. Bill introduced me to the other four men, whose names and faces I wasn't going to remember. Why didn't he ask me if I did this stuff, or if I minded being around it? Why didn't he give me some clue he was into this? "May I use your bathroom?" I asked.

"Be my guest," Bill said, and pointed down the hall.

When I came back out, they were crouched around the same spot, passing the pipe. Troy sounded like he was choking.

"You want a hit?" Bill asked.

"No, thanks," I said.

"How about some wine?"

"I don't think we have time, do we?" I said, looking at Troy.

"We've got time for a glass of wine," Troy said, and winked at me.

I sat there listening to them talk about some fight that had been on HBO, while they passed the pipe back and forth. One of the guys lit another joint, and I felt like running out the front door. This was so boring. And these men were old enough to know better.

I drank my wine and then the "transaction" was done. Troy handed Bill a hundred-dollar bill, and Bill handed him a white piece of paper shaped like a triangle. When Troy said we had to be going, I pretended like it was really good to have met them and looked forward to seeing them all again.

When we got in the car, Troy was wired up. "You feel like stopping by the Jockey Club and having a drink? I feel like doing something. Didn't you say you wanted to hear some music? I think Patti Williams is singing somewhere tonight. We could get a paper or stop by a phone booth and I could call around to check. She's good. You heard her before?"

"No," I said dryly. I didn't know where to start, since he obviously didn't feel weird about what I'd just witnessed. But then I blurted out, "I wanna go home."

"Is something wrong, baby?"

"I didn't know you were into this kind of thing."

"I just do it sometimes for recreation, that's all. Does it bother you?"

"Yes, it does."

"Then I won't do it around you. How's that?"

"I don't usually deal with men who mess around with drugs. Drugs scare me."

"You're making it sound like I'm an addict or something. All I did was took a few hits, picked up a little package, and to be honest, I don't have to do this. I swear. I like you, Robin, and I don't want something like this to come between us when I'm just starting to get to know you."

"I don't feel good about this, Troy. How can you do drugs, considering what you do for a living?"

"What I do in my private life is completely separate from what I do at work. Look, if I was into this shit that heavy, do you think I'd be in such good shape?"

He had a point, because he was in tip-top shape, which was another thing that baffled me. I was wondering how he could do this junk and work out without having a heart attack or something.

"Look," he said. "My mother is barbecuing some ribs tomorrow evening, and I told her I'd bring you over. What time do you get home from work?"

"About six."