Bitter and Sweet

Chapter 23 Mariah

Jordy, my little neighbor back in Duncan, was on my mind. Spending time with Kenni made me think about him. I’d been gone for weeks. I wondered what Jordy was eating now that he’d grown accustomed to me feeding him a few times a week.

I sent Hope a text message: Call me when you can.

I went downstairs to the kitchen. Sabrina and Kenni were still in their bedroom. I made a pot of grits and cooked some bacon. Sabrina didn’t eat much meat, but she never passed up bacon. The smell quickly drew them downstairs.

“I was hungry, so I made breakfast,” I said.

Kenni dashed to the table, and Sabrina stood there, shock gluing her feet to the floor. I could literally knock her over with the tip of a teaspoon, so I fixed them both a plate and placed them on the table. Kenni went right for the bacon.

I crouched down next to her. “What do you have planned for today?”

“I have ta go ta school,” she said, popping a piece of bacon in her mouth.

Sabrina sat, and I stood. “Thank you,” she said.

“Enjoy,” I replied. I left the kitchen and returned to my bedroom.

I dropped down on the bed. I was perspiring. That had been hard. Something was wrong with me.

My phone rang in a call from Hope. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“You know that kid I’ve been giving extra food to?”

“You mean the one you’ve been cooking for. Mr. Call-me-Jordy-cause-I-ain’t-a-river?”

I smiled thinking about that. “He’s been on my mind. I haven’t been feeding him because I’m not there.”

“So you’re just remembering your kid needs a meal? I need to open a child welfare case on you.” Hope laughed. In her job as a family and children services community partner, she had many open cases.

“Very funny,” I said. “I want to get some food to him.”

“How are you going to do that?” I could see the expression on Hope’s face in my mind. The question made sense.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a relationship with his mother, but I was thinking...”

Hope grunted and said, “Go on.”

“I was thinking I could order something for them. I don’t know if she can cook, but maybe I can get some prepared foods delivered.”

“Girl, that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And are you sure she’s going to be good with that? I mean it’s one thing to make her think you’re sharing leftovers; it’s another to send her food from somewhere else.”

“She’ll take it. She’s never sent anything back to me.”

“That means she’s in need.”

“And maybe too prideful to get help,” I said, thinking about how she never even thanked me. I assumed it was her pride keeping her from doing so. No one’s manners were that horrible.

“I tell you what, Zelle me some cash. I’ll go and pick up some food and deliver it to her. While I’m there, I’ll talk to her, see if I can get her linked to a service that will provide her with food to fill in the gap between her paychecks. Sometimes people don’t know what’s available.”

I loved what Hope was proposing, but this was asking a lot. “I don’t want to make you work after you clock out. You’re busy enough.”

“Girl, please. There’s always some neighbor or church member asking me questions. I’m rarely off the clock, and the truth is, I kind of don’t want to be. If I can help somebody, especially a child, I want to. Text me what to get him. I’m not trying to figure that out.”

“You are amazing.”

“I know. You don’t have to remind me.” She laughed. “I have a meeting. Call me later. I need an update on what’s going on down there.”

I nodded. “I will. Love you.”

I ended the call just as a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” I offered, and Sabrina opened it and walked in.

“I’m sorry. Did I interrupt you and Vince?”

“Vince?” I asked.

“I heard you say you loved him or someone.”

I put my phone down and waited for her to come all the way in the room.

“I have something for you,” she said. She pulled her hand from behind her back and handed me a stack of old envelopes. There was no name outside of any of them.

“What are these?” I asked.

“Letters that Great-Great-Grandma Tabitha wrote.”

I processed those words slowly. Letters from our great-great-grandma? Where had they been? I opened one of them. “The paper was yellowed with age, the ink faded to a brownish hue, the paper brittle with the folds of time. There were three pages, and on the last, I saw her signature—Tabitha Cooper—in the neatest cursive script that I’d ever seen.

“Where did you get these?”

“Grandma gave them to me the night we arrived. I’ve been reading them.”

“Why haven’t we seen them before?”

“She said she was waiting for the right time. And now that I’m reading them, I think I understand that it’s the right time for me.” Sabrina’s words made me more curious. “Maybe it’ll be the right time for you too.”

I found that statement curious. I counted five of them. “What was she writing about? Who were they for?”

“They’re addressed to her mother, but I think she was writing for us,” Sabrina said.

“Us?”

She nodded. “You’ll see what I mean. They’re in order. As I finish more, I’ll leave them for you.”

A faint smell was tickling my nostrils. I raised the letter to my nose, expecting it to have some hint of mold. I was caught off guard by a familiar scent.

“The box she kept them in has a sprig of dried lavender,” Sabrina said, obviously realizing I was trying to figure that out. She continued, “I was thinking you might have to leave soon. If I hold on to them until I finish, you’ll have to wait until you come back.”

I looked down at the letters. I hadn’t read a word, but I knew I would find the vulnerability of my great-great-grandmother’s heart. For that reason, I felt compelled to be vulnerable with Sabrina. There was no point in pretending with her anymore.

“I won’t be leaving. Not anytime soon,” I said, placing the stack on the nightstand. “Vince and I are separated. He’s filed for divorce. I’m no longer living at the house or working at Clark’s.”

Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. She sat on the end of the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

I shrugged.

“Are you two sure? You’ve been married a long time.”

“It’s over. There’s no way for us to come back together, and after the way he’s treated me, I wouldn’t want to.”

Kenni’s voice sounded from the bottom of the stairs. “Mommy!”

Sabrina stood and walked to the door. “I have to get her to daycare before she takes herself.”

A little laugh bubbled in my chest.

Sabrina hesitated for another beat before saying, “I’m so sorry about Vince and Clark’s.”

I could see she was. “Thanks. I’ll be okay.”

“We’ll talk later,” Sabrina said. “Thanks again for breakfast.”

I nodded. I almost smiled, but then Sabrina turned and walked out of the room. I heard the gentle pounding of her footsteps as she took the stairs, and then minutes later the opening and closing of the front door. She and Kenni were gone.

I released a long breath. That hadn’t been so bad—breaking the sheet of ice between us.

I reached for the stack of letters. As I delicately unfolded the fragile, century-old paper, a rush of emotions overcame me. This was a bridge between eras. The weight of my great-great-grandmother’s ancestral roots and the legacy of my family settled upon me, and for some reason, Dante crossed my mind. He was a man who wanted to keep our history. He would really trip over these letters. I sat down and read. A little over an hour later, I had one left. I was so filled with emotions I couldn’t bear to read it yet. My heart ached for her, and it ached a little for myself. We were a century apart, and DNA wasn’t the only thing we shared. She had the disdain of Charles Cooper, and I had Lorraine, my shady ex-stepmother. The enormity of that was something I needed to sit with for a while.

***

The next day, I was up before the sun, standing on the porch with a mug of coffee, taking in the morning sounds and the earthy smell of the marsh.

The door opened, and Grandma stepped out with her mug. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep anymore.”

“I suppose you have a lot on your mind,” Grandma said, sinking into one of the rocking chairs.

“More than I’d like.” I raised my coffee mug to my lips. “I’ve been reading Grandma Tabitha’s letters.”

Grandma nodded.

“I ripped through the ones I have. I have to go back and read them again.” I was having an experience with Great-Great-Grandma Tabitha. The way she took over Hank’s and found a way to survive all alone in Charleston was unbelievable. I’d always said Harriet Tubman was my shero, but Tabitha Cooper was a baddie. She left me with zero excuses for failing at anything.

Grandma’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Your sister told me you made her and Kenni breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was grits and bacon.”

“It was a big deal to her. She saw it as an olive branch.”

I took another sip of my coffee. “Maybe it was.”

“You know, you girls have me looking at YouTube all the time now. I have a sign-on and everything.”

I laughed. “Grandma, what?”

“I’ve been searching for stuff I want to know.” She giggled and took a sip from her mug. “I like it.”

I covered her free hand with mine and squeezed it. “I’m glad. Sometimes a distraction like that can be good.”

“I ran across this video the other day from one of those Bible study teachers. I forget her name... Jackie Hill or Perry something.”

“Jackie Hill Perry?”

“Yes, that’s her name. She was talking about Christians needing therapy. She was sharing her own journey.”

I put my mug down. “She talks about that quite a bit.”

“So, you’ve heard her?”

“I have. I follow her on social media.”

We were quiet for a moment. Grandma was trying to steer this conversation to my mental health. My grandmother, advocating for therapy? I never thought I’d see the day. I inhaled deeply and released a slow breath, reminding myself that my grandmother always meant well. Always.

“You and I have talked about you talking to someone,” Grandma said. “You know this is a big thing for me to suggest. People in my day didn’t know anything about therapy. If Jesus couldn’t fix it, it couldn’t be fixed.” She smiled. “But I am wise enough to know that everything we believed wasn’t right.”

I set my gaze on my mug but then eventually closed my eyes to the pain and confusion I was feeling.

“Every generation does the best it can with what it knows.”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. I figured my grandmother had to think something was really wrong with me for her to keep suggesting therapy. Hope kept the message on repeat.

“I can’t help but think the migraines you have come from bottled-up stress.”

“I haven’t had one since I got here. Maybe the air in the lowcountry is better for me than the air in the Upstate.”

Grandma’s eyes grew wistful, then sad. She added, “And you not getting pregnant... that could be stress.”

“I didn’t try to get pregnant.” I shrugged. “Every woman doesn’t want children.”

Grandma threw up her hands. “Okay. Forgive me for assuming. I never knew that. I’m just on the hunt for more grandbabies.”

I pushed my back into my chair and sighed a little. “It’s for the best that I never got pregnant. Look at us.”

“Your marriage ending is not hindsight.”

“My having a child would just be another thing Vince might be trying to take from me.”

Grandma frowned in worry. “Let’s not focus on Vince right now. This conversation is about you. You have had to deal with a lot. Losing your mother, and then my son could have done better when he remarried. By the time I realized how bad things were with Lorraine, you were almost in high school, and your father...”

“Had surrendered his power.” I completed her thought. We both knew what it was. Hot tears crept into my eyes. I wanted to fight the idea that I needed help, but I knew it wasn’t true. I was angry and controlling and bitter. I couldn’t deny that I saw myself and didn’t like what I saw. But it was all scary.

“Are you listening to me?” Grandma’s voice rose an octave, and I drew my eyes back to her. I was listening. Kind of. “Baby, this isn’t just about your sister.”

“What if it doesn’t help or it makes things worse?”

“How would it make things worse?”

“I don’t know. But I’m scared, Grandma. I’m afraid of what I might find out about myself.” I pressed my hand against my chest. “What if the safe space I’ve tucked my feelings into explodes and I need to get my feelings back in the box and can’t anymore? I may be limping, but I’m coping. I get up every day and do what I have to do. Therapy could disable me.”

“You are not going to live your life not taking action because of fear.” Grandma put a hand under my chin and turned my face to hers. “If you had a lump in your breast, you’d be scared, but you would go to the doctor. We don’t avoid help because the treatment might be hard.”

Grandma let go of me. Nothing anyone had ever said to me made more sense.

I sighed heavily and whispered, Okay, in my head and then let it come off my lips.

Grandma said, “Okay.”

I wiped my tears. I was tired of crying.

***

Before my anxiety overtook sound thinking, I made an appointment with a local therapist grandma’s pastor recommended. She accepted my insurance, so I figured she was a good place to start. I wouldn’t have my insurance for long with the divorce pending, so I might as well get some use out of it.

The doctor’s name was Johnson. She had a cancellation this afternoon. I tried to put it off, but the next opening for a new patient wasn’t for three weeks. Getting started couldn’t be delayed. I had to commit before I talked myself out of it.

I still didn’t know how I felt about therapy, but it was time to try something new. My joy was gone, and it was time for me to stop wanting to be accepted the way I was when the way I was might be wrong.

I reopened the text I’d kept from Hope, the one I had not completely read.

Therapy is an opportunity to get strategies. It doesn’t mean you’re unwell. It just means you need a little help coping. It’s no different from going to a medical doctor for a physical health condition.

If I had a lump in my breast, I wouldn’t ignore it. I would go to the doctor immediately. If I started bleeding from some orifice I wasn’t supposed to, I would get help. I would run to the emergency room. The things I told myself made sense, but reconciling the sensibility of it all was difficult. It seemed natural to be able to take care of my own feelings. But then... there was nothing natural about my life. Nothing had been natural about how my mother left this earth. Growing up without a mother was unnatural.

I stepped out of the car into the swelter that was summer heat in Georgetown and walked into the building.

Dr. Johnson was tall and slim with gorgeous skin and an elegant neck that reminded me of a swan. She moved with the confidence of a model on the runway, and she was just as attractive. She looked so beautiful and so strong. I admired her immediately.

After our initial greeting, she put on dark purple reading glasses and tapped on an iPad. “In looking at the paperwork you filled out online, I see this is your first time trying therapy.”

I nodded.

She pushed her back into the plush leather chair and crossed one long leg over the other. “Tell me, what brings you in?”

I wanted to say my grandmother and my best friend, but the truth was Dante’s assessment of my situation with Sabrina hung in my mind more than anything else. When he’d said one of her problems was my moods, I felt convicted, and that conviction hadn’t lifted. It sat in the middle of my chest like a heavy rock. Dante didn’t know us, but he’d observed us enough to know or feel comfortable saying I was the problem.

It was funny how little triggers could move us when big triggers froze us. Sabrina and I had been fighting our entire lives, but I’d never felt moved to do anything about it. Now Dante, someone looking from the outside, saw me, and I took action. I wasn’t one of those women who was only moved to action by men. That wasn’t my story. I think he could have been anyone I respected, right?

Lord, stop.

I was already spinning. I raised my eyes to Dr. Johnson’s and said, “I’m angry and mean. I have headaches and... the people in my life see my behavior.”

She nodded. “Tell me what you’re angry about.”

“Everything.” I summed it up with that word but ran down the list, which included my divorce and losing my role at Clark’s, the house I’d been living in for nine years, and my television show. I mentioned my daddy issues, and then I finished with, “I have a complicated relationship with my sister.”

Overall, it was a getting-to-know-you type of meeting. We talked about the HIPAA stuff and confidentiality. She told me what she was required to do by law if I was thought to be a danger to myself or someone else. She asked me how I felt about medications. Had I tried breathing exercises? How did I cope with stress? She talked about her part of the process. She was not a fixer. Her role was to help me deal with my problems and create new strategies for coping. She would never be judgmental or critical and would not give me unsolicited advice.

Dr. Johnson probed, but it was all harmless and unintrusive. It didn’t make me feel terribly uncomfortable. I ran out of gas and didn’t say much beyond yes and no to her questions. Saying what bothered me had stolen the air in my lungs. By the time we were done, we had determined I did not sleep well, I was somewhat antisocial, I had OCD, and I had anger management issues. I basically knew all that, but it really sucked to hear someone else say it.

Later that week, I was back for session number two. Dr. Johnson began with questions about my career. She wanted to know why I chose to study hospitality.

I imagined it seemed a contradiction for someone who was as antisocial as I was. Antisocial people weren’t hospitable, but I hadn’t always been this way. I tried to remember the moment I’d selected my major, but I couldn’t. “I don’t know really.”

“If you could go back in time, would you change your major?”

“I don’t know.”

“Base your answer on how you feel about your work, not your current situation with your ex-husband.”

“I like my work.”

“Tell me what you like about it.”

I sucked in air and let my mind search for the answer. “I like the order in kitchens. There are systems. If a kitchen is organized, it will run efficiently. Everything has its place and is always put back in its place at the end of the night. Kitchens”—all the kitchens in my life passed through my memory, including Tabby’s—“are polished, shiny, and clean. A well-run restaurant’s kitchen holds no surprises.” Feeling vulnerable, I wrapped my arms around myself. The thoughts that fueled my OCD were showing, and I didn’t like it. I shut down before the session was over. I was tempted to quit already.

At my third session, I decided I was going to try harder. My copay was fifty dollars. I wasn’t a fan of wasting money, so I wasn’t going to come here and act like any part of this session was free.

Dr. Johnson opened with, “Is there anything you want to begin with today?”

“Like what?”

“Tell me how things are going with the restaurant.”

I replied, “Better than I expected. Working from the food truck until we can reopen was a brilliant idea. The truck is getting busy already.”

“And you’re open how many days?”

“Thursday through Saturday evenings.”

She nodded. “Nice. You seemed anxious about the actual building last week.”

“Was I?” I didn’t recall being anxious about the building.

She nodded; a little affirming noise escaped her throat.

“The renovations are pretty much done. The rebuild is coming along faster than I anticipated. With the code inspection, we should be able to open in three weeks. I’m happy. I’m doing a good job.”

Dr. Johnson smiled a little. “Does it surprise you that you’re doing a good job?”

This is what therapists got paid the big bucks for. To ask questions to make you reflect on your answers.

“No,” I replied. “I usually do a good job at anything I do.”

She nodded and made a note. Was she documenting I was a narcissist?

“Why is it that you think that you usually do a good job?”

“I think because this is my skill set. This is what I’ve worked on for the last nine years of my life. Not necessarily a rebuild per se but running a restaurant. Understanding the heart and soul in the guts of it. There’s more to it than cooking and serving. There’s atmosphere. There is the very paint on the walls. The soul in the tables and chairs. There’s so much more than just the food, although the food is amazing.”

Dr. Johnson said, “I hear your passion. Are you cooking?”

“A few things here and there.” I told her about Dante. “He’s a total artisan. He completely understands the gastronomy of the region’s food. His ideas for the menu are already attracting millennials.” I realized I’d gone on about Dante quite a bit. Even to me I sounded like he was perfect.

Dr. Johnson said, “I have an assignment for you. I want you to get a journal. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. It can be a seventy-sheet notebook from a dollar store, or you can get something fancier if you need to. I make my own.” She held up a pretty notebook with applique and whatnot. My mind went right to my sister. I would never think to decorate a notebook that way. I might look for a pretty one, but change an existing one? No.

“It’s up to you, but I want you to start right away. Don’t let the instrument keep you from doing the work.”

She knew me a little better than I knew myself. That I would let the hunt for a journal get in my way.

“What I want you to do is make two lists.” She held up two fingers. “The first is of twenty things you’ve accomplished in your career. Push yourself if you have to, but get to twenty. Do this list first.” She put one finger down. “The second list... what you’ve accomplished personally.” She dropped her hand in her lap.

I nodded. “Is that it?” I shrugged.

It was her time to nod. “That’s it.” She picked up her iPad. “I see you’ve committed to biweekly sessions.”

“I don’t know how long my insurance is going to last. I kind of want to fast-track this.”

She chuckled. “Understandable, but I have to caution you, there’s no magic timeline here.”

I nodded again. I did a lot of nodding with her.

“Dig into the homework and that’ll help.” She stood and walked me to the door. She handed me a sheet of paper, which I looked at. It was the homework assignment. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

Friday came, and we didn’t talk much about the list I made—not as much as I expected anyway—because she went another route. She asked me about my friendships and social life; then she sent me home with more homework. This time I was journaling about my personal relationships. She wanted at least a page about the people closest to me: Vince, my father, my grandparents, and Sabrina. Dr. Johnson wasn’t wasting my copays. This was about to get real.