Chapter Forty-Seven

 

Kimba

 

 

We lost.

I read the text message a second time. A third, letting the words toll in my head like a church bell.

Felita:  Should I call? You want the details of the vote?

I glance around the depressing hotel room with the dated décor in the Alabama town where I’m sleeping tonight. I have a meeting with a local voting rights organization tomorrow morning. How am I supposed to inspire, encourage them when the very legislation that could destroy their efforts just passed?

Me:  No. I’ll call you in an hour. I need to eat.

The overcooked chicken and underseasoned vegetables, already unappetizing, hold even less appeal now, but I’ve only eaten a bagel today. The better I eat— whole grains, fresh vegetables, avoiding processed foods—the better my chances of freezing quality eggs and maybe having a baby when I’m ready. I glare at the little bag that holds my syringe and medication for the injection I have to give myself. I’m good at a lot of things. Apparently giving myself a hormone shot isn’t one of them.

It’s so easy, the nurse said.

Anyone can do it, she said.

But I hate needles and sticking one in my hip is the last thing I want to do.

I strip off my dress and toss on yoga pants. I’m sifting through my overnight bag, looking for a top to wear, when Ezra’s scent hits me. A corner of red cotton peeks out from beneath my toiletries.

His YLA T-shirt.

I found it in my overnight bag after our trip to the lake house. It must have gotten mixed in with my things. I’ve made no attempt to send it back to him and find myself packing it every time I go on the road. I’m keeping at least this for myself. I toss my bra across the room and pull Ezra’s shirt over my head. The well-worn cotton instantly transports me to a different time and place. Not a dingy hotel room, but to his bed, where he could make love to me all night and hold me until the sun rose.

I pull the collar to my nose and inhale.

A ring of fire squeezes my heart, burning, aching, forcing tears from the corners of my eyes.

I miss you.

On a day like today, when I lose, even worse, when the people I’m supposed to be fighting for lose, I want to go to him. Abandon this self-imposed separation and let him hold me. My phone, screen darkened, beside the rubbery food, silently dares me to call. I ignore it and reach instead for the little pouch. I can’t bear the thought of sinking the needle through my flesh right now. It shouldn’t be hard, I know. I’m a badass, I get it, but I’m a badass who hates needles and having to inject myself with one is my worst nightmare. It’ll be the last thing I do before I go to sleep.

I poke a fork at the food room service delivered and wrinkle my nose. It’s not great, but there’s an echo in my empty stomach and a throbbing in my head.

I’ve taken four mediocre bites when my phone lights up with a message.

Mateo:  Down another four points in the polls. When are you coming back?

Can this day get worse?

Me: Don’t worry about the polls. They’re preliminary. We haven’t even really started. The election’s a long way off. I’m back tomorrow. I’ll be at headquarters by noon.

I hope he doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t. We knew this would be a tough race and that our odds are long, but the reality of this uphill climb gets to us all sometimes. I took valuable time away from the campaign to come to Alabama and fight this shitty voter suppression legislation.

And lost.

Now we’re down in the polls and Mateo’s side-eyeing me, probably second guessing his decision to hire our team. Wishing he’d gone with his first instinct, bet on the good ol’ boy Anthony.

Okay. I’m spiraling.

Lennix could get me out of my head, but she’s so close to delivering and has a lot on her plate. I hate to bother her. I could call Viv or Kayla. Even Mama, but I already know there’s only one voice I actually want to hear. And tonight I’m just weak enough to call.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Kimba?”

Ezra’s voice is dark liquid poured over my nerve endings, making me shiver, soothing me in the space of one hot breath.

“Hey, Ez.”

The rush of air on the other end sounds like relief, disbelief. Joy.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “We haven’t spoken and I—”

“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

A beat of silence fills up with all the things we could have said to one another over the last four months.

“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I understand.”

“So have you.” My smile belies the ache in my heart. “You turned in the book?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s all behind the scenes, preparation stuff right now.”

“How’s Noah?”

“He’s good.” A smile enters his voice, the one reserved for his son. “Same Noah. Looking for new and inventive ways to rule the world.”

I laugh, force myself to ask the next question. “And, um…Aiko? How’s the pregnancy coming along?”

Another beat of silence, filled with all the things keeping us apart.

“She’s great. The baby’s growing. Healthy.”

I want to ask if the baby has kicked yet. If he was there for that, if he felt it. If it’s a boy or a girl. If Aiko has that famous glow. If this is bringing them closer…again, reminding them why they spent the last decade together.

Making him love her?

But I don’t ask any of those questions in case I can’t live with the answers.

“You sure you’re okay?” Ezra asks. “Do you need me? I can come—”

“Yes, I need you, but no, you can’t come.”

“Tru,” he groans, my name torture on his lips. “Baby, where are you? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Just a crap day,” I say, my words going watery. “I’m in this poo butt town fighting bullshit legislation that would promote voter suppression. And we lost. People who really needed this win don’t get it, and I feel… I feel like I let people down, you know?”

“You didn’t. I know you did all you could do.”

Right, and the worst part is when it’s not enough. So many times it’s not enough. Tears prick my eyes and it feels good to cry for someone other than myself; to step out of my own problems long enough to consider all the people and communities who’ll be affected when they purge those voter rolls.

“Shit,” I say, my voice wobbling. “Why are people so… God, I hate this.”

Tears run into the corners of my mouth as I think of the poor, elderly women on that committee I’m addressing tomorrow; the ones who have experienced the worst of discrimination. I sniff, appreciating the silence he allows me. He told me once I could take off my armor with him, and even though he can’t see me, I’m naked, vulnerable in a way no one ever sees me. I hope it’s all the hormones I’m taking and not my actual emotions.

“You know what I love about you, Kimba?”

I need to hear this so bad. “What?”

“You save all your tears for the things that set you on fire inside. Anyone who’s ever thought you were cold never got to hear your passion for people, never got to see you fight for them when it’s inconvenient or even a lost cause.”

He’s right. I do save my tears for the things that matter most. That’s why I cry for him.

“Ez, I miss you so much,” I say, my resolve crumbling.

“Tru, dammit, where are you?”

“Alabama.”

“I can come. That’s not far.”

“No.” I breathe in all the reasons he shouldn’t come. Breathe out my desire to have him with me. “I’ll be back in Georgia by noon tomorrow anyway.”

“Atlanta?”

“No, we’re set up out of Athens right now. It’s easier for Mateo’s family.”

“Do you know what I would give to have one night with you?” There’s a desperate need in his voice that drops a hook in me, pulls me from drowning. I’m caught. I’m his, but it’s not time. But, God, I’m tempted.

“Is it a boy or girl?” I force myself to ask, needing to remind myself why I need to wait.

“Tru, don’t.”

“Boy or girl, Ez? You should know by now.”

His breath releases on a tired stream. “It’s a girl.”

I lick at the fresh tears collecting in the corners of my mouth and glare at the little bag of needles and hormones, my weapons to fight for what comes easily to so many other women.

“You’re happy, of course,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can.

The line goes quiet with his held breath. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, the thing that would drive me away. Further away.

“Fair’s fair,” I say, my voice deliberately light. “If I’m honest with you, you have to be honest with me. You’re happy?”

“Tru.”

“This is why, Ezra. This is why you can’t come to me, why we can’t be together right now. I…I’m happy for you. I just can’t watch.”

He clears his throat, and when his voice returns, it’s husky, raspy, stripped. “What about you? Have you been back to the specialist?”

“Yeah.” I swipe at my cheeks. “I’m taking shots now. Hormone shots so I can freeze my eggs.”

“What? You’re…you’re freezing your eggs? What does that mean? How many times do you do it? Are there side effects?”

“Whoa, buddy,” I chuckle and settle on the lumpy bed, laying back. “That gun was loaded.”

“Sorry.” He blows out a quick breath. “I just didn’t know.”

“Because I’m over thirty-five, I’ll have fewer viable eggs. So I do multiple rounds to increase my chances of a pregnancy. And since I’m in perimenopause, my chances are diminished even more. Fortunately, once the eggs are frozen, they don’t age, so I can…you know. When I’m ready. And if I think I might want more than one baby, well, I have to do it more times.”

“Do you think you want more than one baby?” he asks, the curiosity in his voice barely-checked, straining on the leash.

The chaos of Kayla’s house, five kids singing together, fighting, looking out for each other comes to me. Saturday mornings with my siblings, cleaning the house, eating macaroni and cheese.

“I think I might,” I say with a little surprised laugh.

“This could be…” His words break and then rush ahead. “Tru, this could be ours.”

I haven’t allowed myself to think of it that way, that what I’m doing now might be my only hope to have kids…with him. That it may be the foundation for our family. Until we get through this season, through Aiko’s pregnancy, I won’t think that way.

“I better go,” I tell him, pulling his shirt over my face so I can absorb the vestiges of him in its fibers. “I have an early morning.”

“Call again if you need to. I’d like that.” He sighs. “I need it, Kimba.”

So do I. We’ll see…

“Goodbye, Ez.”

I hang up before he says he loves me because there’s no way I’ll be able to stop myself from saying it back. Saying it louder. Meaning it more than maybe I ever have.

I sit up, walk over to the table, pick up the little pouch.

Tru, this could be ours.

This time when I try, the needle goes right in.