“You feel as if you need to be sadder than you are? The world is hurling labels at you, and you’re this hot mess …”
Okay, reading me well. Proceed.
“… but you’re rolling with it.”
“I think so.” My voice came out low and breathy. I was confused. Exhausted from pushing away the man I loved. From wanting to be alone. But that’s what I knew. Before Wash’s shenanigans? I had loneliness. My sister raised me evenbefore my parents checked out on the job. I couldn’t ruin her adolescence, so I did my best to keep myself to myself.
“It’s that I have this pressure to be deeply, dramatically sad. That it would … please my son. Like I need to sit in the corner with a piano playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.” Again, not restrained by a cropped cardigan featuring not-so-stylish institution buckles. “While I stare at my ceiling contemplating whether chickpea chips count as a cry therapy session.”Because I legit hate this. Therapy … with humans.
Shonda released my one hand and scribbled on her notepad. I hoped it didn’t have to do with the Bad Behavior Blazer I’d be wearing in an asylum. Maybe she was drawing a piece. She could title itModern Black Woman: Depression Aesthetic.
Regardless of her deciding not to have me committed, I had this irrational idea that I should flee because her husband played golf with Wash. I understood confidentiality. We had a rapport. Still, I imagined her conversing with her husband. She’d accidentally slip and say, “Honey, we’ve gotta pray for Washington’s ex-wife. Besides losing all her assets to that man, she has lost it.” He might say Washington wouldn’t treat me like that. And I would agree. But still. This situation was too much.
Shonda’s hand squeezed mine. “Say this with me, Madison, ‘It’s okay not to be okay.’ ”
We repeated those words a few times with breathing exercises. After a while, somewhere deep in my soul whispered,You’re doing okay-ish.
“How do you feel?”
I drummed my fingers against my tights-clad thigh and sat back with my leather-booted feet crossed. “Like life is messy. I’ll be alright. But also, if somebody stares at me wrong, I’ll make them taste the emotional chaos I’ve bottled up in this cup.”
An hour later, I aimed my Daewoo for the Warehouse District while leaving my ex-little-brother-in-law another voicemail.
“Tex, it’s me again. I get that you’re not answering your brother’s but reach out or something. You know how worried I can get. I’m a mo …”
The end of the sentence slipped away. Normally, I finished with,I’m a momma and a menace,or I’d claim my nurturing skills were top-tier when nagging.But the words dried up.
I’m not a momma anymore. I’m childless.
That moment at the funeral came rushing back. A woman gossiped with her friends. Bridget DuVall, the Honorable Plantation Politics’ wife, had called mechildless. Hurtful, but true. I had no child, not by choice. Yet she hadn’t stopped there. One of the bleakest days of my life came rushing back to greet me …
“Childless. Or would Madison be childfree?” The woman had tittered in that quiet way people laugh at solemn functions, and her friends joined in. “Lucky heifer. I’m only childfree until Apple returns from boarding school.” There was more hushed laughter. “Madison probably wishes they hadn’t bought a used plane.”
“Didn’t you say it was her idea for the trip? Like staying in New Orleans wasn’t good enough for her?” Another woman, whose voice I recognized as Bridget’s bestie, whispered. I hadalready stopped before rounding the corner, but this woman’s comment had me sagging against the wall.
“Mm-hmm. That’s what Gaston said. He also told me …” Bridget’s voice dropped lower, and I missed a few of her words because my mind was a mess. “Guess someone was making a decision.”
Unable to see the women’s faces, their malicious conversation told me everything I needed to know; I was to blame. Everyone thought so. You were the one who planned the trip, Madison.
“So, we agree,” Bridget said, “childfree.”
I had heard the giggles and the soft slap of someone playfully hitting another. “Oh, you are so bad, Bridget.”
Man, if I could’ve beenMadin that situation, I would’ve slayed her where she stood. Gutted! But at my son’s funeral, though? With flowers around and helicopters and … planes that I ignored. I didn’t have a comeback then, only the now familiar voice that whispered,The trip was your idea. Be sad Madison. Live with your guilt.
A lump sat in my throat, and Texas’s voicemail prompted me to either hang up or delete and restart my voicemail.
Which button is for a do-over?
Honk!
I dropped the phone, growled, and pulled forward into the lot for the right apartment building. By the time I picked up my phone from the floorboard, the call had gone through to Texas.
Sneering, I stopped before a gate, rolled down the window and pressed a button on the keypad.This had better not end horribly like the Chad situation.
Omari’s voice came through the speaker. “Madison?”
“Yep.”
