Kenya
“A benefit concert?”
“Yup.”
“Whose idea is this?”
“Mine, Ken,” Lark says. “You don’t like it?”
“I’m a megalomaniac,” I say. “’Course I like it.”
Lark laughs. “You’ve been reading the dictionary Fiasco left you, huh, Ken?”
“One of the aides sits with me, reads it. I’m not quite strong enough to hold the book.”
“What’s his name?” Lark asks without missing a beat.
“Why it got to be a he?”
“What’s his name, Ken?”
“I hate you.”
“You love me, Ken. What’s his name?”
“Terrence. You happy?”
“Black boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Cute as 106 & Park Terrence?”
“Cuter.”
“Only you, Ken. Only you.”
“I’m very sexy on a bedpan.” I laugh.
Laugh to keep from crying.
Lark’s a friend.
Check that, my best friend.
She knows me inside and out.
“You holding up okay, Ken?”
I bite my lip. “These four walls are driving me crazy. And I keep thinking about…school.”
“JaMarcus?”
“Whatever, girl. I ain’t thinking about that boy.”
“You’re better than me. Six-two—”
“Six-four,” I cut in.
“Well, excuse me, Miss I-Ain’t-Thinking-About-That-Boy.”
Again, I laugh. Lark is medicine.
Better than Percoset, Vicodin, codeine.
I tell her so.
The accident has made me more willing to tell those I love that I love them.
“I love you, too, Ken,” Lark says.
“Donnell’s coming to see me today,” I whisper.
Lark’s eyes widen. “Shut up!”
I nod. “Yup.”
“You finally approved his visit?”
“Yes.”
“I need to go. Don’t want you to see me boo-hooing.”
“Yeah, you should go.”
“You kicking me out, Ken?”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t want you to see me boo-hooing, either.”
“Kenya?”
I open my eyes.
Dayum!
I fell asleep after Lark’s visit. Didn’t mean to do that, but these medicines are kicking my ass. Now I’m upset at myself. I didn’t get a chance to prepare.
“Donnell,” I say.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days.”
He nods, frowns.
“How is your mother?” I ask.
“Doing well. Taking therapy. Speech, physical, occupational. I was joking with her yesterday, told her she spent so much time down in the rehab’s gym she was gonna come out looking like Nelly.”
“50 Cent,” I say.
“Reggie Bush.”
“Flo Rida.”
Donnell purses his lips. “How you get me talking about all these buff dudes?”
Buff?
Donnell’s got the soul of a forty-year-old, I swear.
I love that about him, though.
He’s solid.
“Speaking of buff,” I say, “you’re looking pretty good yourself. Been working out?”
“I’m allergic to the gym.”
“What about your push-ups, sit-ups, crunches?”
“Yeah. I still do ’em.”
“Two hundred of each every day, right?”
“Most.”
We’ll do anything to avoid the real issue. Donnell’s forehead is creased with lines. The flesh around his eyes is puffy. Eyes aren’t quite as clear as usual. Lips look dry.
“For real, though,” I say. “How have you been holding up?”
He shrugs as an answer.
“I’m sorry I’ve kept you from seeing me.”
He nods. “I’ve been worried about you. Eric’s kept me up to speed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool.”
He says cool the way I spell it in my text messages.
Kewl.
“How did we get here?” I ask. It isn’t the first time I’ve asked this question.
“I don’t know, Kenya. But I don’t like it.” He sighs, places a vase of flowers I hadn’t seen in his hands on the desk next to my bed. I’ve gotten flowers from so many people. But these mean the most to me. Even more than the arrangement my mother brought me.
“Ooh. You got me flowers.”
Modest, he doesn’t respond.
“What are they?”
“What?”
“The flowers. They’re beautiful. What are they?”
He flips up a card at the edge of the bouquet. “Fields of Europe. Lilies, daisy poms, button poms, waxflower and salal.” He looks up at me. A tight smile on his face.
“They’re very thoughtful.”
“That they are.”
“Your mother really is doing okay?”
“It’s a process. She’s doing fine, Kenya.”
“I miss you calling me YaYa.”
“That so, Kenya?”
I want to ask him again how we got here.
“You ready for school?” I ask instead.
“Not much for me to do. I’m staying here, commuting.”
“Don’t know how long I’m gonna be in here.”
“Yeah.”
“I was accepted at Rutgers, too,” I say.
Feeling him out.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” I say.
“Have you?”
I smile. Mine is tight like Donnell’s. “There’s nothing much else to do in here.”
“You can smell your flowers.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, Kenya.”
I bat my eyes. “Can’t I get one YaYa from you?”
“I don’t think so, Kenya.”
There’s an edge to his voice I can’t figure out.
I don’t want to figure it out, either.
“I’m tired of water. Can you get me a soda?”
“Where from?”
“Vending machine at the end of the hall, I believe.”
“Do anything to get me to spend money on you, huh, Kenya?”
I smile. “Just practice. Get used to it.”
Instead of the return smile I expect, he swallows, digs in his pocket for change, then turns and leaves the room.
What’s wrong?
Is he not getting my signals?
Why is this going so wrong?
Does he not understand that I’m trying to put the past behind us? That I’m looking forward, instead of over my shoulder? That Melyssa Bryan is in my rearview mirror?
“Sprite.”
“I missed you.” My voice is cheery, sweet.
“Wasn’t gone but a minute,” he says.
He won’t play along. “Wipe the can off,” I say. “Hold it up to my mouth.”
He does, but his mouth is so tight. Deep lines form around his lips. So much for this gesture bringing us closer. I take a sip. “Thanks. Can you wipe my mouth?”
He does. With a napkin.
“Could have used your lips,” I say.
“Don’t know where they’ve been, Kenya.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What crawled up your butt and died?”
He sighs, rubs his head, his eyes. “I’m tired, Kenya.”
I will not be getting a YaYa.
“I know about tired. Pain, too.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t’ve come, Kenya.”
“Must you keep calling me that?”
He knits his brows. “What? That’s your name.”
“Okay, Donnell. Don’t say I didn’t try.”
“You have,” he says. “I have. I guess it’s just not meant to be.”
I will not cry.
“You can go,” I say.
“Okay.”
“I really hate you right now, Donnell.”
His face falls. For a second I think he’s about to salvage this get-together. “I love you, Kenya,” he says. “And always will. I hope you remember that.”
That sounds so final.
So done.
So over.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I say.
His eyes are ruined by the crease lines at their corners.
He nods, leaves without another word.
I snatch the card off of the flowers, ready to rip it up into the tiniest of pieces and rain them on the floor. But I stop. And everything comes into focus.
The flowers aren’t from Donnell.
They’re from JaMarcus.
With a message. Waiting for you in Georgia, my peach.
Dayum!