Chapter 17 Monique #3
There was so much of her life that she remembered, a lot of it she wanted to forget.
But when taking an account, what came to mind tended to be colored in a negative tint.
Looking around here, though, she could imagine the everyday life experienced within these walls.
All the good and the bad. The portraits teased her into taking a closer look, as if the images captured would animate if she ventured close enough to notice.
This woman, like Monique, kept company with descendants and ancestors.
Some she’d been born to, others she’d chosen.
That part, the choosing, was missing from Monique’s ofrenda—her mantle, her altar.
Her mind’s eye filled with the image of placing a portrait of her and Maurice on her daughter’s bedside table when they took her back to school in the fall. She’d hug her tight before letting go, this time with less reluctance because he was by her side.
“Ah,” the woman said, not quite sympathetic as she put a handkerchief into Monique’s hand. “Sit.”
The woman disappeared inside and returned with two glasses of water, setting one in front of Monique.
“So,” the woman said, settling into her chair with a grunt. “Wanna tell me why you’re crying on my terrace?”
She hadn’t realized she’d begun to cry. Monique let out a surprised and watery laugh in response to this woman with her Midwestern accent and attitude.
She waved a hand, urging Monique to talk.
“Um…” Monique cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. “My friend is dying. And the man I—he, um, he—whatever. And my family has never been there for me when I needed them.”
The woman stared at her, sipping her water. “And?”
“Excuse me?” Monique’s tears dried up instantly. “And? And I’m tired. I’m tired of being the steady one, the one who always shows up. I’m tired of being the one always extending grace, always forgiving.”
“So, stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You said you’re tired. You said nobody was there for you anyway, so stop showing up for them and start showing up for yourself.”
“I can’t just—”
“Why not?” The woman’s gaze was pointed. “You think your friend wants you to suffer? You think crying over this man who’s whatever is gonna make him figure himself out faster? You think your family needs your forgiveness for you to be happy?”
“I’m not crying over him.”
The woman made a dismissive sound. “What is it that you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah you do, but I think you’re just afraid to take it.”
Monique tried to object, but the words wouldn’t come.
“You’re sitting here crying like the world is ending. Is it?”
“No, ma’am. But it’s not—”
“No is a full sentence, my love.” The woman stood and picked up her glass. “You can sit here and be sad if you want. But don’t lie to yourself.”
Monique raised an eyebrow in question.
“You’ve been telling yourself that you don’t have choices, that you’re stuck. That’s a lie.” She started back the way they came, then paused and looked back at Monique. “Those stairs behind you go down to the water. It’s a good place to think. The ocean don’t give a damn about your problems.”
And then she was gone.
Monique leaned forward in the creaky chair, resting her elbows on the brightly tiled tabletop. She sat on the terrace, alone, except for the portraits that watched her and the ocean roaring at her back.
Monique pulled her phone from her pocket and saw all the notifications she’d ignored for the past couple of hours. The Aunties. Lanie. Her girls. Her kids.
She responded to her kids and her girls before tucking her phone back into her pocket. The ocean drowned out the incoming alerts.
She found the stairs, whose stone was worn smooth by centuries of weathering.
Treacherous was a word, but Monique kept moving one uneven step at a time.
The ocean kept coming. Wave after wave. Crashing, curling, swirling.
Breaking apart and beginning again. It didn’t care that Chickie was dying.
It didn’t care that Maurice had run from her.
It didn’t care about her family’s wounds and who deserved forgiveness.
The ocean was too busy being to concern itself with Monique’s self-pity.
It just kept coming. Relentless, unstoppable, and indifferent to her feelings.
She’d been performing strength for so long she’d forgotten that she was acting. Over time, she’d forgotten that being strong wasn’t the same as being whole. That showing up wasn’t the same as living.
Chickie demanded she live, not survive. Live.
What did that mean?
It meant not waiting for permission to be angry. It meant wanting something for herself and maybe demanding that people show up for her the way she showed up for them.
It meant choosing, even if the choice was hard, even if it meant being alone. Especially if it meant being alone.
A wave surged higher than the others, nearly cresting the stonewall. Monique laughed, bitter and sharp. The ocean didn’t care. And maybe that was the point.
She sat there as the water rose and fell around her. As the sun climbed higher. As the afternoon stretched toward evening. The wedding would happen whether she was ready or not.
Monique stood. Walked back through the villa. Through the bustling city streets and back to the hotel.
She had a wedding to get ready for.
She had a promise to keep to Tommie.
And she always kept her promises, even when they were hard.