Someone to Watch Over Me Page 5

  I wanted to coax more love talk out of him, but there was no use twisting his arm. He simply didn’t get it. “Okay,” I said, settling for his sincere apology.

  Kisses followed, along with our usual sexual routine. My body went through the motions, but no matter how hard I tried to focus (and believe me, I tried) I couldn’t make my head get into the game.

  Kevin was somewhat distracted by my unresponsiveness. “Do you want to do this or what?” he asked breathlessly at one point.

  “I’m sorry. My mind is on other things.”

  I don’t suppose any man has ever stopped himself in the act on account of a woman’s wandering mind. Kevin was no exception.

  The three-and-a-half hour drive to Bayford did little to clarify life for me. I wondered how long I could continue the relationship with Kevin, or if I would even classify what we had as a bona fide romantic relationship. He really did love me in his own low-maintenance way, and I appreciated the space we both allowed each other. I didn’t want a clingy boyfriend who didn’t understand my dedication to work or who pressured me to cook and clean like I imagined most committed women did. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t have my cake and eat it, too. Part of me wanted a friend who wouldn’t place any demands on me. The other part wanted someone to be so close that our relationship warranted his presence at all hospital stays, company parties, and holidays.

  I was turning into my own worst needy-chick nightmare.

  The closer I got to Bayford, the fewer exits available on the highway. With my cell phone going in and out of consciousness, I started to get paranoid. A sense of total vulnerability settled over me and I began to note every gas station and Dairy Queen so if I had any type of car trouble, I’d have an idea of which direction I should walk. There was an eighteen-wheeler trailing me and a Honda Accord up ahead. The three of us had been together for at least fifteen miles, the Honda and I trading the lead a couple of times. I began to imagine that the diesel and the Honda were a tag team. The Honda would pour out some nails on the street so my tires would go flat. Then the diesel man would pull over and kidnap me. Since my cell phone was dead, I wouldn’t be able to call for help. No one would know I was missing for several days. Why? Because no one cared enough to report me a missing person.

  And then I’d be dead for so long before they found me, my body would have decomposed and they’d have to wait for forensic dental records to identify me. At my funeral, there’d be hardly anyone present to say good-bye.

  I accelerated my cruise control by five more miles per hour. If anyone was trying to harm me, they’d have to catch me first.

  Snap out of it, Tori! No one is going to kidnap you!

  As I got off at the Bayford exit, I breathed easier. I don’t know why I let myself get all worked up over the worst-case scenario. Habit, I guess. Maybe habit and watching a few too many crime reality shows.

  My drive through town toward the hospital yielded some pleasant surprises. A Sonic drive-in, a Dollar General, even a billboard boasting a new housing development starting in the low hundreds, though I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to move to Bayford. Electricity poles lined the streets and scarcely needed four-way stop signs littered the intersections here and there. Even in the middle of the day, Bayford seemed sleepy compared to Houston, which didn’t calm down until well after midnight—and only then for a few hours.

  First stop in Bayford: Aunt Dottie’s. Since I’d pass her house before nearing the county hospital, I wanted to drop my bag off and change into something other than my riding clothes. The Humble Trail street sign still leaned a little to the right. Every house on the street still looked exactly the same—color, fences, even down to the potted plants on the porches, it seemed. The houses sat on acre lots. Plenty of room for folks to mind their own business, though they rarely did.

  The first time I rode down Humble Trail, nearly fifteen years earlier, I was terrified. Being dropped off at a step-relative’s house in the middle of nowhere would scare anyone, let alone a pregnant teenager trying to make sense of what to do with her life after thoroughly ruining it.

  Aunt Dottie’s was the only brick house on Humble Trail. Actually, I think she owned the only brick house for several blocks, which made hers stand out, of course. The brown bricks with green trim amid an immaculate lawn spoke of the home owner’s wealth. Back when I was living with Aunt Dottie and helping her run the store, people would always talk about how rich she was.

  She’d say, “I’m just blessed.”

  Sometimes they’d say something smart like, “I’m blessed, too, but not as blessed as you.”

  And she’d reply, “Well, you might want to talk to the Lord and see what He wants you to do about it ’cause He doesn’t play favorites.”

  Then the person would swagger out of the store as though Aunt Dottie was just blowing hot air, but I know she wasn’t. Aunt Dottie was the only person claiming to be a Christian I knew of who actually did what Pastor Jacob used to tell us to do on Sundays. Aunt Dottie was so into the Bible and doing what she felt God told her to do, sometimes I wondered why she didn’t preach the messages.

  I wasn’t expecting the front door to be locked. Then again, this wasn’t 1996. Bayford was clearly changing just like the rest of the world. Colder, meaner. More dangerous—with the eighteen-wheeler kidnapping schemes and all.

  I rang the doorbell a few times, just in case Joenetta was inside. When I got no answer, I walked around to the side of the house and unlatched the six-foot gate. Hopefully, she still kept the back door unlocked. I laughed to myself, thinking of how different Bayford was from Houston, where (by now) someone would have called the police on me.

  The expansive backyard where Aunt Dottie planted her own vegetables was still in place. And although it was winter, just the sight of her peach trees made my mouth water. Nothing like good old country yard-grown produce, even if you do have to pick out a worm every now and then.

  The back door of Aunt Dottie’s house was open, thankfully. I let myself in and, at once, inhaled the smell of her home, this home that had become mine during the worst time of my life. The heater’s furnace, Pine-Sol, furniture polish, and detergent from the washing machine all converged. To me, this was the smell of unconditional love.

  She was a skinny old thing, this aunt of mine. “You can use this room,” she said as she hoisted one of my suitcases down the main hallway. This place was something straight out of a magazine—an old folks’ magazine. Hardwood floors, floral print wallpaper, and stark white baseboards throughout the home screamed “You are now in the country.” At first glance, the kitchen seemed messy. Counters covered with jars, the refrigerator plastered with various magnets. Foil paper blocking the sun’s rays from a small area that could probably heat up quickly when the gas stove activated. A closer look, however, revealed a kitchen bearing stripes from decades of fellowship—and good cooking—contained within. No, the kitchen wasn’t messy. It was lived in.

  Family portraits lined the main hallway leading to the bedrooms. I followed her, wobbling slightly with the additional weight I carried around my midsection. The door to what would be my bedroom creaked open, and the morning’s sunshine blasted our faces, temporarily blinding me.

  “Ooh! I forgot to pull these shades yesterday.” She rushed over to the window, pushed the lace curtain back, pulled the cord, and the old-fashioned canvas shade flopped down over the pane.

  Ever heard of blinds?

  She set the largest suitcase on the oblong rug, a coil of thick rope, in the center of the floor. I put the others on the bed, which required a great deal of effort seeing as the bed was a good two or three feet off the floor.

  “Don’t swing your arms like that!” Aunt Dottie snapped. “You’ll choke the baby with the cord—so they say.” Then she laughed at herself. “Whew, chile, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout having babies. All I can tell you is what I’ve heard other people say.”

  My eyes bugged out and I lost my breath. Was she actually referrin
g to it? The baby?

  This woman (not even my blood relative), whom I knew only from pictures and the occasional family reunion, had in an instant let me know that I wasn’t out of my mind. That it really was happening and that I wasn’t the only one who could see the basketball sitting at the top of my legs. She stopped for a second, peered down at me above the rim of her glasses and asked, “What’s the matter with you, sweetie? You look like you seen a ghost.”

  “Nothing . . . ma’am.”

  “Everybody calls me Aunt Dottie, precious.”

  Aunt Dottie hung up the last of my maternity dresses and dismissed herself. “I’ll give you some time to yourself. When you’re ready, you can come to the kitchen and eat you some breakfast. I’ll be leaving in a little while so I can go open up the store.” She shuffled herself out of the room on a pair of worn-out ruby red slippers.

  A store? I’d overheard my stepfather talking about the store and how it didn’t matter that Aunt Dottie couldn’t watch me since I was already pregnant. They just needed me out of town for now.

  I unzipped my book bag and searched the room for a suitable home for my best friends, my novels. My mother asked why I’d packed books she knew I’d already read. I shrugged, knowing full well it would have been impossible to leave behind the only people I had left in the world. When I could find no resting place for Carolina, Beatrice, Maxine, and the others, I settled them onto the floor, just to the right of the bed, in eight stacks of five. The last book I pulled from the bag was the Bible. Try as I might, I couldn’t get it to line up with the others. It was too thick. Where am I gonna put this? More importantly, I wondered, what exactly am I supposed to do with the Word of God now? I was fifteen and pregnant, had been all but kicked out of my home, and was sent out to the middle of nowhere to live with an old lady who didn’t know diddly-squat about being an expectant mother. I was facing an inevitably painful experience, and after all that was over, all I could do was turn the baby over to my Aunt Vivian, whom I knew just about as well as I knew Aunt Dottie at that point.

  I put the Bible back into my bag and stuffed the bag to the back corner of the closet. Momma had said there was no use in crying out now—I wasn’t crying then. I guess I just figured I was on my own so far as God was concerned.

  I finished unpacking my things and placing them throughout the ancient room. The walls were perfect for a baby’s nursery: light blue wallpaper with pastel flowers from the midpoint up. The top and bottom were separated by a white, raised wooden bar. Beneath the bar was wood paneling that had obviously been painted white. With some stuffed animals, a bassinet, and a few rugs, it would be the perfect place to nurse a baby. But who was I kidding? If things continued on the way they had been—with arrangements being made on my behalf—I’d be lucky to see the baby’s face before my mother and Mr. James shipped him or her off to be adopted by my mother’s cousin in Iowa.

  Chapter 7

  Amajor reconstruction made the hallways of Saint Frances Hospital a practical maze. PARDON OUR DUST signs posted throughout the corridors excused the unfinished walls and missing tiles on the way to room 117. I couldn’t help but think of the last time I’d been inside this facility. That day, I decided I wasn’t going home with my parents. I wanted to stay with Aunt Dottie and complete my high school education in Bayford.

  My mother did not receive the news well, initially. She felt I should simply return home and carry on with life as usual, as though I’d never gotten pregnant in the first place. “Only this time,” she’d warned, “we’re going to keep an eye on you.” I knew she meant I’d be forced to tag along with Mr. James everywhere, just like my mother did to prevent him from cheating on her again. She wasn’t wrong, I don’t guess, in her reasoning with regard to me or Mr. James. I mean, it is hard to cheat when you never get a moment away from your wife, and it would be near impossible for me to get pregnant again if I was always with my parents.

  What she didn’t understand about me, however, was that having sex with Bootsie was one of the worst experiences in my life. The last thing she needed to worry about was me having sex again for many, many years.

  The other thing I don’t think she got was how much this whole ordeal had changed our relationship. Before my mother married Mr. James, she always had a boyfriend. Couldn’t blame her, though. I imagine it would be hard to stay single when you’re breathtakingly beautiful before you even brush your teeth in the morning. My mother was a perfect brick house, 36-24-38. She was honey brown with long wavy hair and light brown eyes. In the seventies, it just didn’t get any better than Margie Henderson. Men were always asking my mother out, buying her things, picking up her check in restaurants.

  On the other hand, her beauty was a curse. She said she couldn’t keep female friends because they feared Margie would steal their man. More than once, a friend’s boyfriend came on to my mother, ending the female friendship abruptly. There were also instances when she’d notice a man following her in the grocery store and have to ask security to walk us to the car. The guard, of course, obliged, then promptly asked her for her number when we reached her vehicle.

  Marrying Mr. James had been a nice man barrier, at least against men who respected the institution of marriage. The way I see it, my single momma needed stability for herself and her six-year-old daughter, and Mr. James needed a trophy to undergird his political aspirations. With a woman as gorgeous as my mother on his arm, Mr. James got way more publicity than he would have received otherwise since the media tend to gravitate toward beauty.

  In the midst of all this, I was simply an addition to Margie Henderson. I knew my mother loved me, but I think what she loved about me most was my “no trouble” persona. According to her, I was the perfect baby—only cried when I was hungry or needed a diaper change. She could take me anywhere and I’d sit and observe without making a fuss. People would comment on what a quiet, well-behaved child I was. If she left me in someone’s care, I was content with that person until my mother returned. “I lucked out with you,” my mother would say, because even when I did misbehave, as all children do sometimes, a good time-out was all it took to get me back in line.

  So I guess the moment I became “trouble” by getting pregnant, my mother didn’t really know what to do with me. Maybe she wanted to be my mother, but she wasn’t sure how to do this hard thing. And I’d never disappointed her so much in all my fifteen years.

  When she told me she was going to watch me like a hawk, I balked, “I’m not a baby anymore. You don’t have to treat me like one.”

  “Tori, you are a baby who almost had a baby,” she argued.

  We were both lost, and the easiest thing to do was not figure it out. Walk away and never look back, which is exactly what we both did.

  I stayed in Bayford. She and Mr. James stayed in Houston until he realized his big-city political career croaked and got a vision about moving to Africa to live like a king. They sold the house, sold his human resources business, and crossed the seas. The first few years, my mother sent cards and pictures at Christmas. By all appearances, they were indeed living large in Africa, which, according to her, didn’t cost much at all. People there thought she and Mr. James were old-money millionaires—right up my mother’s alley.

  In recent years, I hadn’t heard anything from either of them.

  The hospital’s reconstruction was a welcomed relief because I don’t know how I would have handled walking down the corridors again if everything had been exactly the same.

  When I reached Aunt Dottie’s room, I discovered it was standing room only. Joenetta, her two sons, Uncle Bobby, and a few other Bayford faces I vaguely remembered from the store packed the small space. Whispers abounded as Aunt Dottie slept peacefully. She looked like a little angel. No tubes sticking out of her, no bandages wrapped around her face, her proud, high cheekbones taut against her skin. Still lookin’ good. I breathed a tentative sigh of relief, holding final evaluation until she woke.

  Visitors were draped across couches an
d chairs. I should have known Aunt Dottie’s hospital room would look nothing like mine in terms of warm bodies present.

  Uncle Bobby was the first to greet me. “My, my, my. Dottie’s liable to wake up and think she’s on her death bed, seeing you here.”

  Why, thank you, Uncle Bobby, for that warm welcome and your best wishes for Aunt Dottie. “Hi, everybody.”

  Hugs with varying degrees of sincerity followed, Joenetta’s being the coldest. Our bodies barely touched. “I can’t believe you actually came.”

  “I said I would.”

  Joenetta’s deep brown skin matched Aunt Dottie’s precisely, but where Aunt Dottie was thin and dainty, Joenetta was large and clumpy. Still wearing those nursing shoes everywhere, like she had a job.

  “Hmph.” She looked me up and down. “Well, since we finally got a black president, I reckon anything can happen.”

  Before I could respond, Aunt Dottie rustled in her bed. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the joy written across her face.

  “Hey, Aunt Dottie.” I rushed to her bedside and tenderly scooped her into an embrace. She was a little larger than I remembered, but still tiny compared to a lot of women her age in Bayford who’d given up the battle of the bulge after giving birth. Aunt Dottie blamed her lack of girth on the fact that she never had children.

  A part of me was waiting for her to say something; then it struck me—she couldn’t. I looked at her again and saw her lips moving. Mumbling something unintelligible. Her dentures were on vacation, which wasn’t helping. I could only decipher her thoughts with my heart, in the silent language of emotions. She was glad to see me.

  “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  A single tear rolled down her cheek. She tried to wipe it with her right hand, but the muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Her arm slapped around for a moment. I jumped in to help, feeling the wetness on my own palm. Aunt Dottie’s helplessness was worse than I’d pictured. I guess I figured things weren’t really as bad as Joenetta had made them out to be. I was wrong—Aunt Dottie was, as the old folk say, in a bad way. She wasn’t knocking on death’s door, but she had a long recovery ahead of her.