Chapter 12
mad
. . .
Grumpy Cat, who? Three days after I’d ghosted Washington, I’d gotten slotted in with my grief counselor.
I slouched into the seat, carrying the weight of the entire last millennium on my shoulders.
If that little fur ball thought he looked rough.
Wait, was it a she? Whatever. Grumpy Cat needed to see my RBF.
“It’s been a while, Madison.” Shonda tugged the wire-rimmed glasses from her face.
Her expression reminded me of Momma’s … when we met face-to-face.
At least I tried to remember that. Long before my parents left for the vacay life, my oldest memory of Mom was us in the mirror.
I’d secretly joked about her Karate Kid wax-on, wax-off process of teaching moisturization before age ten.
That woman had me on a Mary Kay regimen by the age of twelve. Shonda asked, “How are you feeling?”
I blinked. “Honestly? Like I live with a small, judgmental demon named Mr. Whiskers.”
Her brow rose. “Mr. Whiskers?”
“Grumpy cat energy. Permanent scowl. That cat’s staring at me like I walked in wearing socks with sandals.
And not just any sandals. The kind with the separated big toe.
” My shoulders trembled at the thought of thick socks and toe posts widening out my feet.
I lifted the pillow, smothering my face, instead of addressing the fact that my therapist wanted to discuss Elijah. “Guilt kicks my ass for existing.”
“How do you feel, Madison?” I imagined Shonda drawing a tiny cat on her clipboard.
Or maybe she scribbled delusional. I had better clean up my act, or I’d end up in some mental ward, dressed in a straitjacket.
I’d mutter about the cat that I might or might not have seen. Okay, I didn’t see a stupid cat.
“I’m always angry. Mad,” I replied. “Then people call me … names. Not like crazy.”
“Who would call you crazy?”
I suppose I’d added that part for Shonda, so she wouldn’t diagnose me as mentally unstable. But she didn’t jot that down. “Oh, nothing. I feel like I need to be depressed. Then I focus on bills and groceries. Sorting laundry.” I scratched the back of my neck.
“To help deepen your depression?”
I smiled.
This woman offered a bless-your-heart look that made me think she had had the number to The House That Ain’t Right, a.k.a.
, the psych ward in Mid-City, on speed dial.
I wanted to grab my café au lait cup and put some space between us, but Shonda leaned forward and took my hands.
I edged forward too, still poised for a fifty-yard dash, in case she called that number.
“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 even before 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 it Modern 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 me childless.
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 had already 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 been Mad in 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.”
“Right on time, beautiful.”
I sorta needed that fine specimen not to use flattery, or I’d probably run faster than I’d been prepared to run at this morning’s therapy session. In minutes, I’d parked and hit a footpath inside a blocky building in the Warehouse District.
The door sat open when I arrived, and Omari, in a three-piece suit without a tie, leaned against the frame. So casual. His mouth tipped into a one-sided smile. “Thank you for meeting me here.”
“Of course,” I replied. “You’re in between meetings with your wealthy art buyers, right?”
“My next client always runs late.” He gave me a look that said, Chill, what’s the rush? And gestured me inside.
“Mm-hmm.”
I stepped into an apartment so modern it made the new kitchen, which Washington and I spent a year getting city permits for, look like it was from the eighteenth century.
He closed a MacBook on the quartz counter.
As he strolled toward a couch that screamed expensive but uncomfortable, I took a seat at the high-backed barstool.
I placed my leather portfolio on the counter.
“Mr. Riche, you never saw my work in person?”
“Nope. Just online before Mad Bold & Blown shut down. Even if you closed your store,” he said, glossing over that embarrassing ordeal with a soft smile, “you should never have got rid of your website.”
“Ah, so you’re not only an art dealer, you’re also a business consultant. Got it.”
“Nah. What I’m saying is that someone else is gonna own your domain. You try to buy it back in the future, it’s gonna cost you. That’s all I’m saying, Maddy.”
“Oh?” I had never handled the website and possessed zero knowledge concerning it. Except for It’s not pretty enough. Or It’s not bold enough when I discussed the aesthetic with the web designer. I loved mixed moods.
Omari took it upon himself to open my portfolio, and he whistled. “As a big admirer of your work, I wish I got to see you make magic.” His voice was low. “This is better than online. Are you ready to jump back into our world?” Dang. He sounded as if we were a team.
“Uh …”