Wouldn’t Change a Thing (6 page)

“Two days?”

I go to the mirror and Whiplash follows me. I look like highway road kill. My hair is matted and my breath smells like a can of sardines. I get a whiff of my underarms and curl my nose. Whiplash isn't bothered by my odors and licks my leg.

“Whiplash, enough!”

I sit back on the bed and place my head in my hands. I'm back in Sparta again. I survey the room. This is where Willa and I spent our early years eating popcorn and Girl Scout cookies and watching movie after movie, reciting lines until we fell asleep. This house was
the
happening spot when we were young. Cousin Clayton had a wife then, Uncle Raymond and Daddy manned the barbecue grill like pros, and Aunt Mavis and Mama sat around like schoolgirls, laughing at jokes and swapping nursing and teaching stories. Our girly room has been converted to a modern, chic bedroom. The twin beds have been replaced with a modish bedroom set and bold African prints line the walls. Although I'm funky, I inhale childhood smells—Johnson's baby powder sprinkled beneath the sheets and Aunt Mavis's secret liquid washing detergent mix. Mama begged for the secret, but Aunt Mavis's lips remained sealed. Aunt Mavis's homemade potpourri fills the room. She sits next to me and rubs my back.

“I'm sorry about everything that happened, Toni.”

“Tell me how I got here so I can leave.”

“Russell called. You collapsed at Lamonte's place and he thought maybe you needed to come home a while. I gave you a mild sedative to help you rest.”

“Atlanta is my home.”

“That's obvious.” She stands to retrieve my cell phone charging on dresser.

“What does that mean?”

Aunt Mavis sits again and shows me my cell phone contacts. “ICD? Really?”

My face flushes. The typical call-my-family-I'm-in-trouble code is ICE—In Case of Emergency. However, I knew I didn't want to see my relatives in this town again unless I was dead. Hence the code ICD: In Case of Death. The only exception to my rule of never coming back here is that Ingram Brothers' Funeral Home handle my arrangements since they buried all our relatives.

“Toni, do you hate us that much?”

“Hate
is a strong word.”

“I know your life hasn't been conventional, but we thought—” She places her hand on my shoulder.

“You thought?! Do you know what my life has been like all these years?”

I yank my shoulder from her grasp. Whiplash follows me to the closet and I open it, searching for a clean outfit.
Damnit, I'm not at home.

“You need to rest a while, Toni. Things have spiraled out of control. Recuperate with us.”

I spin around. “Recuperate? You separate me from my mother, she puts Willa and me on blast, and now I'm supposed to act like nothing happened?”

“Our doors have always been open.
You
decided not to keep in touch with
us!”

Checkmate
. For years, Aunt Mavis and Uncle Raymond reached out to me with cards, calls, and gifts, but I had rebuffed their olive branches.

“Are the towels still in the same place? I want to take a shower and go home.”

“Russ said you rented out your home.”

“I can ask her to leave. I don't want to be a burden to you and Uncle Ray.”

“You're not a burden, Toni.”

“I can't tell. I seemed to be a
really
big burden twenty-three years ago.”

Aunt Mavis and Whiplash disappear from the room and return with a facecloth and towel, Lever 2000, and a toothbrush and mouthwash. “You know where the bathrooms are. Take your pick.”

“
Thank you.
” Aunt Mavis isn't moved by my nasty tone and extends the wash items.

“Your keys and cell phone are on the dresser. I handwashed your lace dress.”

I snatch the plush bathing items and pad down the hall as Whiplash whimpers. I sniff the towel and facecloth and smell her mix. Daddy said Aunt Mavis learned her hospitality skills from my paternal grandmother, Helen Williamson. As I trudge the hallway to the bathroom, Aunt Mavis's spring-cleaning ritual surrounds me. The walls give off the minty smell of peppermint and almond oils. The hardwood floors gleam with a high gloss, windows are streak-free, and a table near the bathroom houses
Good Housekeeping, Ladies Home Journal,
and a decorative bowl of Mary Janes, Coconut Long Boys, and mini boxes of Nerds. I swipe a Coconut Long Boy and think of Willa. I put it back in the bowl. These candies were the holy trinity of sweet treats for us and the cause of our childhood dental visits. So many memories, so few of them that I want to embrace.

I slam the bathroom door, angrier at myself than I've been in years. I have to get back to life as I know it. My heart is broken, my business projects are dry, and I'm mad as hell that, overnight, my life is gone. This is only a slight setback. I can turn this around. I can flip the script and make this tragedy work for me. I got myself into this; I can get myself out.

I jump in the shower, tracing my steps and assessing how I got here. Until now, I never believed in karma. Not only is karma real; she's a woman scorned who'll stop at nothing for payback. I should have never agreed to be featured in
Atlanta's Movers and Shakers
, a monthly show featuring area professionals under forty. I had devised a brilliant plan—my appearance would garner exposure for Williamson Designs. Reality shows, movies, and design festivals are Atlanta staples; I wanted in on the action. I hadn't anticipated the going-back-to-your roots approach the reporter took. Of course, I couldn't say I was from Sparta, Georgia. That would open the door for more questions.

Clay couldn't deny my account, so I pulled out the big guns. When Mindy Barlow asked if my mom and dad were proud of my accomplishments, tears fell like raindrops. Taking her cue from Barbara and Oprah, Mindy produced a box of Kleenex from thin air, plucked several from the box and handed them to me. She waited as I dabbed my eyes. I hunched my shoulders, leaned forward, and cried like I'd lost my best friend. She seemed pleased with herself for tugging at my emotions as my chest rose and fell with each shudder. Mindy nodded with empathy as I recounted how hard life had been without my parents.

See, that's a pastel lie. Not white, but just enough color to be believable. When she prodded for more details, I waved my hands in the air as if the pain was unbearable. She cut to commercial with childhood photos of Willa and me. The appearance reaped astounding benefits. I received more inquiries and social media hits in three hours than I'd had in years. Respondents said they felt a connection when they saw the pictures. That was my biggest hiccup: the photos. How could I have been so stupid? I waited for fact checkers to out me. I waited for someone from Sparta to say, “Humph, that's Paul and Greta Williamson's daughter. They ain't a bit more dead than Matt Lauer. She oughta be ashamed of herself.” I thought I'd gotten away with it since no one had said anything. But karma worked her magic overtime.

Whiplash scratches at the door, pulling me back to my present mess. I hear low whimpering, then a loud bark. This is my cue to blow this joint and get back to my house in Atlanta. If I get started soon enough, I can do damage control. I stop the twin shower head action, pat my skin dry, and lotion up with Aunt Mavis's handmade Lavender Lush. Her home is still an organic dream, with handmade soaps, lotions, and detergents. Uncle Raymond encouraged her to sell her wares and turn her hobby into a business, but she only sold them during Sparta's annual Pine Tree Festival.

I complete my hygiene business and exit the bathroom. Whiplash follows me to the bedroom and sits on the bed as I gather my things. She scratches herself as I look at her. Her dark eyes beg me to stay. Even though fury fills me, there is still warmth and love in this room. The dog follows me as I head to the front door. Aunt Mavis works on a needlepoint project while Uncle Raymond reads
Stars and Stripes
. I eye the craft box. A retro, black-and-white telephone is today's project.

She tosses the telephone aside. “Toni, will you please sit down a moment?”

I sit across from her on the loveseat. I stare at the box again. Aunt Mavis always had a thing for different projects. No cats, dogs, or roses for her.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Why are you running off so fast? Stay here awhile, until things cool off.”

“Stay here and do what?”

“Unwind. Regroup. I'd love to see you reconnect with your mother.”

“Reconnect or connect, since you gave us away?”

“Enough, young lady!” Uncle Raymond folds the paper as perfectly as the creases in his starched pants. “You will not speak to my wife in that tone.”

“Ray.”

“No, Mavis. I've watched her lie all these years and pretend we never existed. Cards, gifts, and letters always returned to us unopened. Never a thought or consideration as to why we did what we did.”

Whiplash is as surprised as I am by Uncle Raymond's loud voice, and she retreats to a corner. Aunt Mavis scoots next to him on the couch. “Ray, we should explain ourselves to her. We owe her that much.” His furled brows soften as she speaks.

They're still the picture of calm and solidarity after forty-eight years of marriage. Whenever my parents fought or my mother had an episode, May and Ray—my parents' name for them—came to the rescue. Uncle Ray's military sternness ruled the household. A retired lieutenant colonel, his was an ironhanded regime. May was the fire; he was the ice.

He accepts her gentle admonishment and addresses me in a quieter tone. “You don't need to go running off again. Stay here with us. We'll explain everything when the time is right.”

I stand, careful not to disrespect my beloved uncle. “I appreciate your kindness. I want to be alone for a while. I promise I'll be back to sort things out.”

They stand now, both enveloping me with love. Whiplash joins in the group hug and laps at my leg. I gather my things and stack them on the porch. Whiplash makes small circles near colorful potted marigolds. I take the steps two at a time, marveling at how Willa made me sweep while she pulled weeds from the flowerbeds that still line the yard. I pop my trunk and toss in my engagement dress. I'll sell it on Ebay when time permits.

Panic fills me as I eye the boxes from my eviction in the backseat. The finality of my relationship with Lamonte is etched on the boxes in his handwriting.
Do not return.
I will myself to move forward as I start my engine and creep out of May and Ray's driveway. They become small dots as I watch them in my rearview mirror. If I drive fast enough, I can make it to Atlanta and be back in my house before sundown and help Giovanna move her things.

M
y neighborhood got its turn at gentrification bat seven years ago. Downtown Atlanta is the place to be for excitement. The traffic is hell, but the people watching is amazing. I'm proud to call the Mechanicsville area home. I'm five minutes from downtown, Turner Field, my office, and sites of many dinner dates with Lamonte. I swing a right on Garibaldi Street and examine several properties. I check for sale signs, patrol the streets for neighborhood characters, and insert my design ideas on lawns with sparse or abandoned landscaping.

Fifteen minutes into my drive, I pull into an empty driveway to calm my breathing. This is a tradition I shared with Lamonte every weekend. As with any routine, I've fallen into it without a second thought. I close my eyes and see Lamonte getting excited as we drive down street after street discussing Plan D. He said smart couples didn't rely on plans A and B; you had to anticipate life all the way through Z. We'd comb this area for properties, discuss the purchase and flip of them, then sit back and mentally count our money. We opened the D&W account together at Bank of America and funneled money once a month for the past two years. We planned to start D&W properties three years after our marriage and when the account reached $125,000. Clay expressed his disdain about D&W properties with the statement, “No ring, no financial commingling. Simple as that.” We were off to a good start with $75,000.
The money.

I plow out of the driveway to the nearest Bank of America branch. My clammy hands grip the steering wheel. The Lee Street branch is the closest. I make it there in record time, swerving as I nearly hit an elderly woman on a cane. She rakes her fingers over a chignon bun and leans on her cane. She looks at me, flicks her middle finger, and points her cane in my direction. “Slow down!”

I wait until granny drives off in her Crown Victoria to enter the bank.
Please be here. Please be here.

I enter the bank in panic mode and I'm greeted by a dapper young banker. “I'm Keith Justice. How may I assist you today?”

Words fail me and I'm motionless. Keith instructs me to follow him. I take a seat and catch my breath.

“How may I assist you today…” He pauses a few beats for my name.