"Yes she is, Lewis. She's been dead for almost two months. Two long months."

"I need to talk to her, Janelle."

"We all need to talk to her, Lewis, but we can't, all right? So get over it."

"Get over it, huh?"

"You know what I mean. Look. I've gotta go look at an apartment today, and if all goes well, my daughter can come home in a few days."

"What exactly is going on with the George situation?"

"He's out."

"Yeah, but he is going to prison?"

"Not unless Shanice agrees to take that test and testify on tape, like I told you."

"But I thought you said he did this to his other daughters, too."

"He did. One was his stepdaughter."

"Can't they testify against him?"

It looks like a lightbulb just went off in her head or something. "I never thought about asking them. It never even crossed my mind. If they did, I wonder. . . ? I'm going to call and find out. Lewis?"

"Yeah," I say, kinda grateful that I finally offered a member of my family something that was helpful.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome. Can I ask you something, Janelle?"

"Sure, Lewis. What?"

"Sometimes, don't you ever wonder what you're fighting for? I mean, doesn't it ever seem like you mighta missed the point?"

"Yeah, but sometimes things happen to make you wake up, and if you don't, then that makes you a fool. I'm tired of being a fool, Lewis. And what am I fighting for? Me and my daughter's happiness and sense of well-being. If I can manage that, as far as I'm concerned I've done a lot."

"I agree."

"What about you? Do you know what you're fighting for?"

"My sanity. Some dignity. Sobriety. Self-control. But I'll stop there."

"Then let's just keep fighting," she says, and bends over and gives me a kiss on the good side of my forehead and then leaves. I lay here and just stare at that blank blue wall for so long that it becomes a movie screen like the kind we used to go to when we were litde: at the drive-in. I see myself. Cutting gra.s.s with a power lawnmower in front of a nice litde ranch-style house. It's my house. And in the driveway is a brand-new burgundy Ford 250 pickup. It's mine. On the visor is my burgundy leather garage-door opener I invented, with Jamil's picture under the plastic, right next to it. My hands and wrists are still deformed, but I'm finally taking the right kinda medication, and it's helping the pain. When I finish, I walk inside my garage and look at all these cans stacked high on the shelf. My name is on the labels. I've got a workstation that takes up a whole wall. I've got every kinda tool I ever wanted. I even got a TV and stereo out here. A litde refrigerator that I keep stocked with water and every now and then a Pepsi, but nothing stronger than that. I hear a car pull up behind my truck. It's Donnetta and Todd droppingjamil off for the weekend. We ain't best friends, but I remembered one of the Steps in AA and made amends and apologized to both of them and they accepted it because they're decent. I stand there and smile, waving goodbye, and when I hear the door to the kitchen open I turn to see who it is, but all I see is the tip of a woman's sneaker sticking out between the wall and the screen door. When I blink, I'm waiting for her to come out, but the movie is over. The screen goes blank. The wall is blue again. And I'm glad I ain't dead.

As a matter of fact, I'm crying. I'm crying because I wish my life was like that movie. Mama would be ashamed if she saw me like this. And so would my son. So would the rest of my family. h.e.l.l, I'm ashamed. But I also don't wanna die no time soon. I know I'm f.u.c.ked up. And I'm an alcoholic. But at least I'm finally admitting it to myself. And maybe this knowledge and acceptance can make me stronger instead of weak. I'm the one who's been letting all this bulls.h.i.t break me down to nothing. But I ain't gotta accept being flicked up-'cause basically everybody is, when you get right down to it-but it's what I do with this insight that can help me walk through, around, and over the hard stuff. I need to see this as an opportunity to learn how to live. The only way I'll stand a chance is sober. I should've known this a long time ago. But, h.e.l.l, f.u.c.k the past.

Right now all I want is my family, and especially my mama, to be proud of me. I want them to know that I'm a good person, that I'm a strong black man. That I can be responsible. Can take care of my son. That I can be a good father. That I'm smarter than they think. I just want to feel necessary and needed. Want to feel important to somebody. I don't have to be important, I just want to feel important. Up to now I've been in love with the wrong thing, 'cause alcohol ain't my buddy or my girlfriend. It sure ain't my wife. All this love been killing me. And I'm rired. Tired of not thinking clear. Tired of not remembering. Tired of falling down and not being able to get back up. I guess I been dead, Mama, but I think it's time for me to stand up straight and tall like you taught us to. It's gotta be a whole lot easier than this.

Chapter 34.

Loosening Knots Its ten o'clock at night and I'm putting groceries in the trunk of my car. As I lift another bag out of the metal cart, I bang my knee into the back b.u.mper. "s.h.i.t!" I scream, but there's hardly a soul out here at this time of night, so no one even hears me. "f.u.c.k!" I say even louder, and then kick the car. I throw the last bag in, not even thinking that it could be the one with the eggs or something breakable in it, but I could care less right now, because that b.u.mper shouldn't have been in my f.u.c.king way.

When I get in the car I start it up, but I don't put it in reverse. I just sit here, because I realize that I just got mad at a b.u.mper. Now that I think about it, I've been mad about a lot of things lately. I've got a sister who hates me, a cookbook that's not even close to being finished, an ex-husband who has resurfaced and suddenly wants to be a father again, and basically everything and everybody seems to get on my nerves in no time flat. I'm always running into or tripping over things and have gotten more cuts and bruises on my body this past year than I have in my whole life.

"You are out of control, Paris," the Smart Side of Me says out loud. "You've been taking these stupid pills for so long now that they've become a part of your daily routine. They're affecting your whole demeanor. Your personality, even your thoughts."

"But that's not completely true," the Dumb Side of Me says.

"Bulls.h.i.t. You can't even start your day without figuring them into the equation."

"That is not true."

"Bulls.h.i.t. You can't get through a day without them." "Wanna bet?"

"Yes. I'll bet you can't do it."

"Watch this," the Smart Side of Me says, as I reach into my purse and get out my brand-new full-to-the-top bottle of sixty extra-strength Vicodin (the Dumb Side has not only moved up in the world, but found a new doctor, who was even more gullible than the others), untwist the top, and toss every single one of them as far as they'll go out into that parking lot. "There!"

And as soon as I do it, I panic. But the Smart Me refuses to succ.u.mb to the sudden pang of being left out in the middle of an empty lake in a paddleboat with no oar, and I back the car out and drive home. When I get inside the garage, I push the bottle inside an empty milk carton in the recycle bin.

"I can do this," I say as I walk in the house, where Dingus is sitting with a long face. We've both been so blue since Mama died that it has become our manner: sadness. I've been told that we're just grieving, that it's normal, and as time pa.s.ses it'll get easier. But it's been three months, and I feel exactly the same way. I miss her and want her to come back. I can't imagine not feeling like this. Ever.

But I'm trying. In fact, I actually have a real-live date tomorrow with Randall. Finally. After I got back from London, I called him to tell him what had happened to my mother. He completely understood when I said I wanted to hold off finishing the yard because it didn't seem that important at that time. Now I feel a need for motion, activity, company. Someone to talk to besides my family.

"Ma, you got a minute?" Dingus asks.

"The question is, do you have a minute? Can you get the groceries out of the car first, or is this something that can't wait?"

"I guess it can wait," he says, and saunters out to the garage and comes right back, carrying all six bags. How does he do that?

"You want me to put this stuff away?"

"No, I can do it. What's going on?"

"Have a seat," he says.

"Why do I need to have a seat?"

"Just because."

"Get to the point, would you, Dingus?"

He takes a few deep breaths. "Jade's pregnant."

"Who?"

"Jade."

"That's impossible."

"No, it's not impossible, Ma."

"How did that girl get pregnant. Dingus?"

"We had an accident, is all."

"You seem to be big on s.e.xual accidents, aren't you?"

"No."

"Does the name Meagan ring a bell?"

"She doesn't count."

"I don't see why not. But that's beside the point. I thought Jade was a nice girl."

"She is a nice girl. I love her. And just because she slept with me doesn't make her a s.l.u.t."

"Did you hear me call her a s.l.u.t?"

"No, but you're implying it by your tone."

"Don't tell me what my tone implies. And don't try to put words in my mouth either. Where's my purse?"

"Right in front of you, Ma."

When I pick it up, that's when I remember that what I'm looking for isn't in it. Which means I have nothing to rescue me from this bulls.h.i.t going on in front me. Nothing. I'm waiting for the Smart Side of Me to step up to the plate and deal with this, but she must be dozing or something, because, the next thing I know, I hear myself say, "I forgot my wallet at the store. We have to finish this conversation when I get back."

"I can go get it for you."

"No! I'll get it myself," I say, and fly out the door. Before I even know it, I'm back in the parking lot. With the engine running, I turn my brights on and try to look nonchalant as I search the pavement for white pills. I don't see any. This is impossible, because I just tossed them out here! I walk around in circles and then stand in the spot where I parked before and try to imagine every possible direction they could've rolled in, and that's when I notice that parts of the pavement are wet. The sprinkler system has been watering these f.u.c.king little trees, and when I go over and stand next to one, I finally see something white. I bend down and with one fingernail, scoop up what is now apparently a pile of gooey white paste. I can't. I won't. And I don't.

When I get home, Dingus is in his room. I knock on his door and don't wait for him to tell me to come in. I sit down on the edge of his bed. It's hot in here. Very hot. "Talk to me," I say.

"I don't know what to say, except she's pregnant."

"And? When is she going to get the abortion?"

"Who said anything about an abortion?"

I know he didn't just say what I thought he said. "Have you gone and lost your f.u.c.king mind, boy?"

"Ma, please don't swear at me. I don't like it. And you promised you would never use that word and you just used it."

"f.u.c.k you, Dingus!"

He puts his head in his hands and covers his ears. "Look, Ma. I messed up. We messed up. But I'm willing to accept responsibility for this."

"So-does this mean that you just want to throw away your chances for a scholarship and forfeit college because of a girl?"

"No."

"You mean you're not planning on making me proud by becoming a high-school dropout? I mean, it's what we've worked so hard for, isn't it, Dingus?"

"Who said anything about not going to college? And I wouldn't dream of dropping out of school."

"Are you going to take Jade and the baby with you?"

"If I have to, yes."

"This is sweet. What about her parents? How do they feel about this? I betcha her father won't have to search for a topic for this Sunday's sermon, you think?"

"They don't know yet."

I slap him upside his head so hard it stings my hand. "Oh, but they will. And you're going over there first thing tomorrow morning to tell them."

"Ma, will you come with me?"

"Not this time, buddy. You're on your own. Wait. I forgot. Ask your father for advice, since you two are so chummy-chummy these days."

"I don't know if I trust his judgment all that much."

"Really? And why is that?"

"He's kind of phony and too hung up on his image."

"Surprise, surprise. Well, whatever you and your in-laws decide to do, I'll just go along with the program. Especially since you and the missus already have it all figured out. Good night."

"Ma, don't leave! I don't know what to say to her mother, and especially her dad. Help me out here."

"You should've thought about that when you didn't slide that condom on. Sleep tight, Dingus."

I slam the door behind me. I'd like to strangle his stupid a.s.s right now. Like to knock every single one of those trophies off" the shelves and throw them out the window so they land in the trash, because I wonder if he'll be reminded where he was headed while he's changing Pampers, searching through the cla.s.sifieds for a job that pays more than minimum wage, and trying to watch Monday Night Football all at the same time?

In the morning, I'm surprised I don't have the shakes like alcoholics get when they can't get a drink. But I don't. When I check to make sure Dingus is up, he's already gone. I decide to do exacdy what I'd planned to do today, before I found out I might be a grandmother. And I'll do it without pills.

I'm going to walk that reservoir in Lafayette, which is about three miles around, I don't care how long it takes. I'm going to a place to detoxify my body. A year ago, one of my clients gave me a gift certificate for a week at a luxury spa in Arizona that they swear is like ordering room service for the soul. They go twice a year to regroup, to clean out their bodies and minds, but mosdy to prevent what they call "major burnout." I've read the brochure at least a hundred times but never felt like I deserved or earned th e r ight to blow off an entire week doing nothing. But, then again, I've never felt a need to learn how to manage the pressures of daily living until now. Never thought I could get any real benefits doing yoga or tai chi or even meditation. Never knew I needed to be still. Never knew I didn't know how. I've never even heard of the term "mindful" before, but I like the idea of living in the present instead of always projecting and stressing about tomorrow or next year. And the thought of having my body polished and scrubbed and wrapped in seaweed or soaking in a tub of hot water with 109 jets going, sounds almost too good to be true. I would certainly be willing to try a deep-tissue or hot-stone or cranial-sacral ma.s.sage.

And of course I've never thought anyone knew me better than I did. So why would I need anything to promote "self-discovery"? What's left to discover? Wait a minute. Charlotte accused me of being a control freak. And maybe she's right. She basically said I was a manipulator, which I disagree with, but I do know how to get what I want. She said I'm bossy. And I can be. That I think I'm always right. Not true. I can admit when I'm wrong. That I feel I'm the only one who can get things done. I do not. In all honesty, by the rime I explain the s.h.i.t and wait to see if it's done right and in a timely manner, half the time I could've done it faster and better myself. That's just the way it is. But maybe I get on other peoples nerves, too. And not just hers. I'd also like to learn how not to care so much. So-the Smart Me understands that it wouldn't hurt to find out why the Vulnerable- Scared-Lonely-Has-to-Be-Perfect-at-Everything Side of Me has been hiding with the swallow of every pill. I do want to return to my senses. I want to feel a sense of balance. I want to not have to be everything to everybody, and I also want to forgive myself for not being perfect. I just wonder if any of this stuff can really happen at a place like this. We'll see.