2
He’d been that nigga since I could remember what a real nigga was. He’d been at the top of his game since I’d noticed as a boy there was one. But, this man… the one before me… was a mere shell of the man I knew up until this moment.
“Richie,” I muttered, still trying to digest the disruptiveness of his appearance.
“I harbor no apologies for my–” he coughed out, grabbing the glass of room-temperature water in front of him.
By the time he’d finished nourishing the dryness of his throat, words still failed him. Me, however, there were a few at the tip of my tongue. I waited, impatiently, as he regained his composure. And, after a silent battle within, I released them with worry.
“Are you dying?”
Tipping around the matter had never served a purpose, in my opinion. Head on, that was how I preferred facing anything that came my way in life, including death.
It was as sure as birth. Whether we believed it or not, we all had a designated hour to leave Earthside. It was the only sure thing in life. You couldn’t cheat it. You couldn’t outrun it.
With a nod, my father wiped the residue from his lips with a white cloth I’d seen countless times before. However, it was the pink stain he left on it that I had never bore witness to. His failure to conceal it was due to another coughing fit he quickly fell victim to.
Blood.
Victim?
Weak. Unfit. Sheeply.
Things I’d never mentioned in the same sentence with my father had come to mind. The strength for standing was no longer within my grasp. I slid the chair from underneath the table and had a seat.
My eyes never left the man who had remained a lone figure in my childhood until along came Rhea and created structure and balance in our world. Before her, it was him and I during my frequent visits and lengthy stays at his home. Things changed from the moment she introduced herself at the dining table in front of a full spread of food she’d prepared. Rhea gave us something pretty to see because all we’d seen was each other and the black-and-white world we’d created to live in. She was color in our colorless sphere.
“How long?” I asked when he was able to speak again.
“Hard to say. The shit is everywhere. Could be six months. Could be a year. Could be two years.”
Two years, the lengthiest mentioned, and it was still not enough time to prepare me to be fatherless. Motherless. An orphan of sorts.
“Don’t spare me.”
“A year. At best.” He shrugged.
I stood, hands and mind anxious.
“Put yourself together, Richie. Get your shit together, you hear? You don’t get to die. Not yet.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
“Good.”
“But, it will happen.”
Nodding, I agreed. The intensity of the moment, the reality of the moment, became too much to bear. I needed fresh air. I needed community. I needed my girls.
One foot in front of the other, I tried putting as much distance between me and the pungent smell. But, it followed me. It followed me until I heard him struggle to call my name.
“Chem!”
The pain in his voice wasn’t from the same pain in my chest. It was from the level of difficulty speaking caused.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to leave the earth without knowing you’ve done your part.”
History, it was made to be repeated and then perfected. That was my father’s memo and he’d nailed it in my skull as a boy. I was the better version of him. He’d made sure of it. My turn had come. He wanted the same for me. He needed the same from me.
An heir.
Questioning his resolve wasn’t necessary. It had been discussed time and time again.
It wasn’t a request. It was a demand, one he’d given me at the tender age of twenty-two. At thirty-six, it was the only demand he’d ever given that I hadn’t fallen through with.
“Understood.”
Without another word, I exited his home, leaving my heart right where he’d broken it.
“You know, I’ve seen so much in my lifetime. So much. But, the one thing I desire I haven’t quite gotten the chance to experience has been sitting with me. Heavy on me, one would say. There, every time I lay down for bed the world is finally silenced. There.”
“Yeah?” I asked as I lined the ball with the hole I was aiming for.
“Yes.”
“What’s that?”
I smacked the small white ball, landing it right where I wanted it.
We gathered our things, ready to move to the next hole, but not before my father’s words continued.
“My son sharing his heart with someone other than the girls I gave him or the woman I brought into his life. Other than Malachi’s wife, Anna, or his mother.”
“You speak about me as if I’m not the one you’re speaking to.”
“Mmm.”
“You said you wanted a grandson. I’ll give you that much. Giving pieces of a heart that isn’t mine to share, I can’t make a promise.”
“Your mother.” He chuckled. “She was a ball of fire tucked away in the most gentle being one could ever encounter. That’s what I loved about her. That’s what Maurice loved about her. May his soul rest in peace.”
“May it.”
“I loved that woman. But, my God. He loved that woman.”
“To his detriment,” I reminded him.
“Til his death.”
“Is that supposed to convince me to fall in love?” Scoffing, I stopped to grab the ball that was in the hole. “If love will be the death of me, then I don’t want any parts of it.”
“As if your love for your sisters or your brothers wouldn’t result in death.” He tittered with a shake of the head. My twenty-eight-year-old brain still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact Maurice’s love for my mother had been as beautiful as it was tragic.
“He loved her to death.”
“And that’s exactly how it was supposed to be. When you love someone, you don’t only love the pretty parts of them. You love the ugly, too.”
“Sounds more like a curse to me than a gift.”
“Your anger won’t let you see past your own feelings.”
“Anger?”
“Yeah, that emotion every thought of your mother fuels you with. The reason you look the other way when any woman of your caliber is looking your way. The reason you get your dick wet without giving a name or any indication you truly exist other than a clogged toilet from a flushed condom.
“The reason you don’t have a single number in your phone that will lead to a night of unrestricted, unintentional fun. The reason your love has been distributed, in unhealthy amounts, to your sisters. The reason you bury your emotions and pile their gravesite with business dealings, meetings, and whatever else will make you forget they exist.
“The reason you spend more time lapping the pool and in that fucking lab than you do with yourself. You’re running from something that will outrun your smart ass every fucking time. You and that damn Milo.
“Books are no substitute for grief. It will hunt you down and gut you like a fish, eventually. And when the time comes, you’ll need more than your sisters’ love to revive you, stuff you, and stitch your wounds.”
“A grandson. I can give you that, Richie. A partner, a wife, I make no promises.”
“I’m not asking, Chemistry.”
My eyes cut in his direction, and for the first time, I made it clear his order held no relevance in my world.
“An heir, you’ll have, Richie. My heart is not part of a business arrangement. It’s off-limits. No business of yours. Your request, it won’t hold space in my court. I’m dismissing it. Just so you know.”
With a grunt, he dipped his chin to meet his chest, peering up at me. I was four inches taller than him. His six-foot-one frame was no match for my near six-foot-six resolve.
“Your mother,” he repeated as he sucked the skin of his teeth, completely disregarding everything I’d said. “She was a ball of fire tucked away in the most gentle being one could ever encounter. That’s what I loved about her. That’s what makes it so difficult for you to justify the anger you feel for her. That’s why you have such a disdain for women. You can’t trust them. Just as you couldn’t trust your mother. As beautiful, as gentle as she was… she was troubled. Inside, that pretty brain of hers was tarnished. You couldn’t see it. Her illness wasn’t visible, but it was there. You see her in every woman you encounter. For good reason. But, let yourself grieve, son, so you can free yourself of the shackles her death has–”
Stopping briefly, he sipped from the bottle of water in his hand.
“The fire.”
“What fire?”
“The fire within your mother, it will be the characteristic that leads you to choose your mate. Your wife will be beautiful, but she will be hell. There will not be much that is gentle or sheepish about her. She’ll be a force to be reckoned with and you’ll love her beyond your understanding.
“Beyond anyone’s understanding. She’ll be the first and she’ll be the only woman you’ll ever love more than your sisters. More than your brothers. More than… even more than your mother. She’ll be yours. And, you’ll know it the second you see her.
“Without a doubt, if death becomes the result of loving her, you’ll leave Earth a happy man. Just like me. Just like him. Just like your stepfather. Just like Maurice.”
“Richie–” I paused to look him square in the eyes. “I never knew you to have such a vivid imagination.”
“I never did.”
He responded, taking off ahead of me and leaving me to think about all he’d just said.
“Hmph.”
A frustrated grunt rocked my body.
Foolishness, I concluded.
Years had consumed me and so had my journey toward healing. I hadn’t yet mastered it, but I was making strides, no matter how small the steps were.
Rather’s degree was to credit. Therapy once a month was as much as I could stomach. Though it wasn’t nearly enough to unpack the weight of my mind, it made the load lighter.
Schizophrenia
Noun.
A mentality or approach characterized by inconsistent or contradictory elements.
“Don’t bullshit me, Rather.”
“Chemistry. Don’t insult me.”
“As if that’s not what you’re doing he–” Pausing to collect my thoughts and silence the words swarming my brain, I chuckled. “Fuck it. There has been a mistake of some kind.”
“Three tests, Chem. We’ve taken three tests. They all make it clear that the visions, the voices, the disorganized thoughts, delusions, sleeplessness, lack of connections, it all points towar–”
“There’s also sanity, education… to the highest degree, orderly thoughts, outstanding hygiene, routine grooming, utter motivation, high spirits, self-sufficient–Rather, baby, come on. This is me. Nothing about me says I’m losing my shit. Nothing about me–”
“Says her. Nothing but this, Chemistry. And it means almost nothing. You’re right. You’re not losing your shit. You’re just being… you. Don’t look at it as a bad thing. You’re stable. Very. I doubt this will progress, though it is known to. I can’t say anything about you has changed in the last six years. That’s good news.”
“None of this is good news, baby.”
“I’ve already told the others.”
“Good. Just keep my brothers out of this.”
“Good? Are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of shit, Rather, but becoming the woman I called Mother.” With a shake of the head, I paced her office. “Now that my only fear has come to fruition, my list is empty.”
“I love you, Chemistry.”
“You never had a choice, baby.”
Genetics. They were a motherfucker.
Bipolar disorder.It was the split personalities my mother suffered from each day.
Schizophrenia. It was the invisible illness that I wholeheartedly knew convinced her to kill the man she loved and then herself because she couldn’t bear life without him.
That part of her condition was often overlooked and underestimated because it was hardly scribbled across her medical records and barely spoken of during her treatment.
“One thing at a time,” her physician requested, though they were both killing her, simultaneously.
Blowing out warm air in frustration, I planted my index fingers in my freshly faded hair and rolled them slowly to relieve the pressure building in my head.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Her name rang out. Over. Over. And over.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Catherine.
“Shhhhhh.”
“Say something, Chemist?”
Aden’s eyes met mine in the rearview. A shake of the head assured him there was nothing I had to offer.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Catherine.
Catherine.
“Music.”
Cathe–
Slow, melodic sounds filled the vehicle, tackling the disorganization of my thoughts. My posture was hardly ever compromised but sometimes it was inevitable.
I slid down the leather of the seat until my neck rested against the coolness and my head dangled behind it. With closed eyes, I drowned in the chords played by the jazz band as darkness and water surrounded me, again.
Drowning there, however, wasn’t optional. I inhaled lungs full of oxygen and went under, hoping to come out on a brighter side. Hoping to finally find the sunlight. Hoping to reach the shore. Hoping to discover the meaning behind the constant vision. Hoping to end its recurrence once and for all.
Being hopeful had never gotten me far. This evening, all proved to still be intact. Because, when I opened my eyes nearly thirty-nine minutes later, I was still in the same spot, as if my tired arms and exasperated lungs were liars.
“Midnight.”
“Midnight,” Aden repeated, confirming the time he was to return.
“Destination?”
“Roulette.”
With a raised brow, he questioned, “Roulette?”
I wasn’t to be questioned.
Without a response, I climbed the stairs leading to my front door. Met by Jennie, I was stripped of my jacket and shoes.
“Take the week.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Come ag–”
“You heard me clearly, Jennie. Take the week.”