I grab my phone from the bedside table, shocked to see it’s after noon.
“Good grief,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the large bed. “I’ve slept half the day away.”
The production schedule has slowed significantly—partly because we only have music to finish, and partly because I need it to be slower, and it’s still a lot. I could literally lie right down in the bed and go back to sleep.
When I stand, I stagger and sink back down into the soft mattress for a second before trying again. A tiny hammer taps behind my eyes and at my temples. My ankles and feet are swollen. So are my hands. This is part of the disease, I know that, but it’s a cruel reminder that despite the drugs that manage these symptoms so I can get through each day, my kidneys are still failing. Toxins that should be filtered from my body aren’t leaving efficiently. And every day without a new kidney, it will only get worse.
I have to call Terry. Mama promised to give me today and I’m taking it. I’m facing enough crap without thinking about the most awkward conversation in the history of awkward conversations.
I know we’ve been beefing the last twelve years, but could I have your kidney?
No more awkward thanI fucked your fiancé and I’m having his baby, sis.
And who’s to say she’ll even be a match? We won’t know until we try, and I know we need to try. Sighing, I grab underwear from my suitcase, but ignore my clothes, instead opting for one of Canon’s USC hoodies slung over a chair. For a bachelor, Canon keeps his house very orderly. I’m sure someone helps with that, but still, his closet is as big as my tiny apartment in New York. One whole wall for shelves of shoes. A segment of his closet is dedicated to suits, and I remember how incredible he looked that night on the rooftop. His collection of sweatshirts, jeans, button-ups—they’re all color-coordinated and neatly arranged.
My body protests, begging me to crawl back into bed, but I push myself to venture downstairs. The house looks even more impressive now that I’m not distracted by hunger and nerves. I wander through expensively decorated rooms, each screaminginterior design. There’s no way Canon would slow down long enough to shop and create this beautiful space.
“Where are you?” I ask the empty room. Nowhere on this floor.
Spotting a door ajar beneath the floating stairs, I hear the rumble of voices. Tiptoeing down the steps, I peek around the corner. A huge home theater takes up most of this floor, outfitted with four rows of movie-theater seats and a huge screen dominating an entire wall. Canon is slumped in a seat in the front row, a pad on his knee, his eyes fixed to the screen. His laptop rests at his bare feet, open and frozen on what I recognize as one of the French Riviera scenes.
“Looking good?” I ask, walking across the plush rug to stand beside him.
He drops the pad and pulls me down to sit on his knee. I snuggle into his strong arms and hard chest.
“It looks amazing,” he says. “It’s not perfect, but we’ll get there.”
He takes my hand, frowning at my swollen fingers and wrists. His glance slides lower to the puffy ankles and feet. I tense, not needing him to tell me this isn’t good, but sure he’ll ask.
“Did you take your meds?”
“Of course. I know it’s a little bit of swelling.”
“Any other symptoms?”
Extreme exhaustion. A touch of nausea and a headache that’s playing ping-pong behind my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I assure him.
“When do you see Dr. Okafor again?”
“I have a checkup Monday.”
“And have you called your sister about getting tested to see if she’s a match?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it today.”
“Neevah,” he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I don’t care aboutwhatever shit you and Terry have going on. She has the highest likelihood of being a match. You have to ask her.”
“Does this place have popcorn, too?” I stand to get away from the conversation. I’ve already decided I’ll call Terry. I don’t want to be nagged about it. I sound like a spoiled child, but between work and what my body’s been putting me through, I just want to turn off for a second.
“You’re hungry?” he asks. “I can cook something.”
I’m actually nauseous and cannot imagine food right now, but I nod so we can shift from the unpleasant task of begging my sister for a vital organ. He grabs the remote to turn off the video, but pauses, staring at the screen.
“Wait.” He pulls me to stand in front of him and links his arms around my middle, tucking his head into the crook of my shoulder. “Watch this.”
The onscreen image rolls into a different file. Digital, not film. It’s one of the musical numbers at the Savoy we recorded early on. Days, weeks in the making, relentless hours of hard work, and the scene comes and goes in a matter of minutes. Lucia’s meticulous attention to detail and her exacting demands are evident in every step. The dance is precisely executed, but there is a wild joy on my face, in the abandon of my limbs when I’m tossed and when I glide and when I kick and swing. The spirit of the Savoy inhabits every inch of the screen. The excellence and the pride and creativity that swept through Harlem and reverberated around the world—they’re all there. Even now, standing here in the circle of Canon’s arms, I’m an echo of those artists—their talent and persistence in the face of prejudice or war or poverty or any flaming darts the world threw at them. Instead of burning them to death, adversity lit a fire under them to make something the world had never seen. Innovating with their bodies and minds and voices. The chaos and necessity of imagination. And this is their legacy.Iam their legacy.
