Chapter 11 Monique
Monique stretched, languid in a cloud of Egyptian cotton, and reached for her phone to check the time: not quite eight in the morning.
“Wow,” she said, chuckling her way through another stretch. “And no missed calls and texts.”
For years, she woke before six every day, beating her alarm. There were hundreds of tasks to accomplish and problems to solve. Relaxation and Monique rarely kept company. Maybe her kids were right, and this trip was good for her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she rested.
Even after the surgeries and floating on a cocktail of drugs, rest had never lived up to the hype.
For the first time since… she couldn’t recall…
she barely noticed the knot of anxiety in her chest that heralded each day.
Her bladder, however, let her know that she’d slept through her internal clock.
The curtains were doing their job, holding back the insistent sunlight. She lay there and let the morning be.
No alarms. No schedules, sort of. No routines. No one waiting on her. She lay there for another few minutes and then hustled to the bathroom. When she emerged, a note had been slipped under her hotel room door.
Meet in the lobby at 10 for beach outing and lunch.
T&L
“So, I guess I gotta figure out breakfast,” Monique said, opening the blackout curtains over the French doors that led to the balcony. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if Maurice was awake.
He probably was. With the way he checked his watch, it wasn’t a stretch to believe Maurice was as reliable as a Swiss timepiece. She liked that about him.
Standing at the balcony door, Monique tried to maneuver to catch a glimpse of the neighboring balcony. To catch a glimpse of him.
She shook her head. What was she doing? She wasn’t a teenager anymore, putting herself in the path of a boy she liked. She was grown. If she wanted to talk to him, she could just pick up the phone, or better yet, knock on his door.
“And if he wanted to talk to me—” She stopped herself. It was eight in the morning. Girl. Stop. Monique reminded herself not to read anything more into their encounters than routine niceties—the “getting to know you” part of blending families.
She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the room service menu. Her phone buzzed. The Baddest Baddies group chat.
CHICKIE
Good morning sunshine!!! How’s paradise???
ELEANOR
We want a full report
VANESSA
Details, Mo. DETAILS.
Monique smiled and typed back.
MONIQUE
Y’all’re up early for a Saturday
CHICKIE
Some of us never went to sleep The oxygen machine is loud tonight
ELEANOR
Chickie stop. You’re supposed to be resting.
CHICKIE
I’ll rest when I’m dead. Right now I want to live vicariously through Mo’s vacation romance
MONIQUE
There is no romance
VANESSA
Sure Jan
Monique laughed despite herself.
MONIQUE
I’m just here for the wedding
ELEANOR
And how’s mysterious Mo from the video?
MONIQUE
He’s… nice. Quiet. We went for a walk yesterday.
CHICKIE
A WALK! That’s so romantic!
VANESSA
What else? Come on, give us something
MONIQUE
Beach day today. That’s it. That’s all I got.
ELEANOR
Take pictures. And Mo? Have fun. You deserve it.
CHICKIE
YES! Stop surviving and START LIVING remember???
Monique stared at that last message. Dr. Tedrow’s voice and that mantra of his had found their target three thousand miles away.
MONIQUE
I’m trying. Love you all
CHICKIE
Love you more! Now go have an adventure!
Within the hour, breakfast was delivered and eaten.
Every crumb. Puerto Rico made her hungry.
Monique set about getting ready for this beach day.
She had shoved the pack the kids had labeled Beach to the back of a drawer when she unpacked.
Now she drew it out, trying to steady her hands, like it was a pressure-sensitive bomb.
Yeah, she’d lost weight, and the hysterectomy made her belly flatter than it had ever been.
But it also left her with a scar that ran from hip to hip like she had been a part of a magician’s act and was actually cut in half.
Radiation treatments had burned burgundy rectangles onto her abdomen, weaving with the shimmery topaz stretch marks from her children and the constellation of maroon keloids from an unsuccessful laparoscopic surgery, to create a tapestry of her belly.
Since being thrown into the deep end of medical menopause, her skincare routine now included an arsenal of oils, salves, and creams. The persistent itch came first, sometimes hiding behind numbness until she’d scratched herself raw.
Carefully, she circled the port wound scab on her chest first with antiseptic and then with thick ointment, before covering it with a waterproof bandage that almost matched her skin tone.
Then she applied a full-body base layer of moisturizing cream before sealing it in with fragrant body oil.
She stepped back and just looked, brown skin shimmering. Her breasts were still full and high all these years after nourishing her children. The way her waist dipped and her hips curved were more evidence that she’d come through more than a few things.
She returned to her belly and lifted up the fleshy overhang above her hysterectomy scar to massage the ointments into her still tender flesh.
The navy blue swim dress surprised her. Monique had never seen anything like it. The high neck gave her bandage enough cover, the ruched waist camouflaged most insecurities there, and the full skirt and briefs covered the stretch marks and cellulite that had settled at her upper thighs.
She lingered at the full-length mirror before grabbing her phone and opening a video call.
A bleary-eyed Jasmine answered. “Hey, Mom. You sleep okay?”
“Actually, yeah, I did.” Although the city sounds could be heard in the distance, reminding her of home, a persistent chirping set the rhythm that had lulled Monique into an easy slumber.
“You eat yet?”
Who was the parent here? “Yeah. Room service—”
“Fancy lady,” Jasmine said, yawning. “What y’all doing today?”
“That’s what I was calling about.”
Jasmine sat up in the bed, giving the call her full attention. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Monique nodded. “I was just calling to say thank you.”
Jasmine’s posture softened. “You deserve it.” She shrugged.
“I’m serious, Jas. This bathing suit is damn near perfect. Look.” Monique propped the phone and stepped back, giving Jasmine a full view.
“Oh, that’s real cute. I’ll tell Jay he did good when he gets back from work.”
“Your brother picked this?”
Jasmine nodded. “Him and Auntie Deb did when she was in town last.”
Deb had a habit over the past few years of doing what the kids called drive-by visits.
Always in town for a day or two. Always with Avery in tow.
Always bracketed by some meetings or site visits Monique was never clued in about.
Because when had Deborah Fairbanks ever done just one thing at a time?
She’d been too sick and too sad to pay much attention.
She was just glad that someone looked in on her kids.
“Have a good day, Ma. Don’t forget your sunscreen and coverup. I’m going back to bed. Okay?”
Sunscreen? She didn’t have any of that. “Okay, Jazzie. Love you, girl.”
“Love you too, Ma. Talk to you later.” The call ended.
Monique stood there for a moment, staring at her reflection. The navy swimsuit looked good—better than she’d expected. But Jasmine’s reminder about sunscreen sent her rifling through her toiletries bag.
Nothing.
Monique grabbed her room phone, then stopped. She could call and ask Maurice if he had any. He was right next door, probably already awake and organized with SPF 50,000 in his meticulously packed bag. But that felt like… something. An excuse to talk to him. An admission that she wanted to.
She put the phone down.
Instead, she pulled the hooded coverup over the swim dress—long-sleeved, lightweight, meant to protect sensitive skin from the Caribbean sun—and packed her bag. Camera. Towel. Water bottle. The jumpsuit her friends had teased her about, folded carefully at the bottom. Armor, all of it.
At 9:50, Monique made her way downstairs.