I was anxious to see what was in there. What kind of storage place was it? What would happen if I lost the key? Was this the only copy? Could I still get in? Was it like a safe-deposit box? I took it out of my purse, slid it into the front pocket of my black jeans, and walked to my Jeep.
“Pull the truck into the driveway,” said my dad when he saw that the top was off. I got in and turned on the lights. The orange lights in the dash were very dim. I turned the knob, and the temperature, gas, and miles per hour gauges glowed. I maneuvered a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled into the driveway. Dad went into the back of the Jeep and took out the soft-top and started to put it on. I got out of the car and stood in the driveway with Charlotte. Goosebumps rose on the back of my arms. We didn’t say a word. We’d never been friends, but we stood in the driveway side by side. I touched the key in my pants pocket, just to make sure it was still there.
“Everything there is for you,” said Charlotte. I don’t even remember driving away.
I drove around in the blue velvet night with the intention of heading for home. It started sprinkling a light mist. Cars’ white headlights came toward me on the opposite side of the street. Red rear lights stopped in front of me. I made left turns and right turns. Finally I pulled in to the mini-storage place called Darryl’s. There was no one there. The parking lot was empty except for a big iron gate and me. I got out of the car and went over to the phone pad that was stuck into the beige cement wall next to the gate. It sat there suspended in concrete with no directions and no instructions. It was late. It was damp and chilly. I got back into the car. What was in there? I turned on the lights and the radio. Warm streams of heat hit my face and ankles as I sat there.
My dad, who never talked about my real mother, said he’d been waiting for me to come to him about her. How come he didn’t just bring me here? Why was the stuff in storage and not at their home? How long had it been in here? And I couldn’t believe that Charlotte, my evil stepmother, who acted like I was here by some immaculate conception by my father alone, was crying over me, and my mother. She was so phony. I bet she was the reason that the things weren’t at the house in the first place. This was about the time that I remembered that I was to leave for vacation the next day with Eric. I wouldn’t be able to get back over here for almost a week. I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot.
Getting Nowhere
E
verything was happening in my life at the same time, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. My stepmother was acting like she liked me, I’d just inherited a storage room full of probably some very important things, and I still had a cruise to pack for. I was tired. It was late, and I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be alone. I reached over into the seat next to me and grabbed my cell phone out of my purse. I dialed Eric’s number.
“Hello,” said a groggy voice.
“Hi, Eric. It’s me.”
“What’s up?”
“I phoned you earlier, you didn’t call me back.”
“Oh, I haven’t checked my voice mail.”
“I need to talk to you.”
He was quiet. He probably had somebody over there now. “Come on,” he said at last.
“What?”
“Come over.”
“I’ll be there in a few.” I didn’t give it a second thought. I hung up the phone and headed toward the lake.
Eric lived in Oakland, just next to Lake Merritt. Oakland was an unusual town. It was one of the few cities that I’d known of where you could go downtown and find a lake smack dab in the middle of it.
Around the lake there were lots of houses and apartments. Some Victorian, others recently remodeled. Hundreds of them, it seemed. No two alike. To live by the lake showed stature. It was a haven for up-and-coming single, black twenty- and thirty-somethings. The rents in this area had skyrocketed, doubling twice in the last two years.
By the time ten minutes had passed, I had pulled onto his street. I parked, checked my makeup, and put on some MAC brick-colored lipstick. I walked up to his building and rang the intercom to his apartment.
“Chantell?” he said.
“Yes, it’s me”
He buzzed me in, and I took the elevator up to the eighth floor.
“What’s up?” he said when he opened the door.
“Hey. I need to talk to you.”
I went over to his white leather couch and sat down. He stood in the hallway that led to his bed looking like he wanted to sleep.
I began, “I’ve got this key and my dad says for me to go to this storage place called Darryl’s with it.”
“Chantell, can we do this in bed?”
“Yes, sure, Eric. But listen to this. For months now I have been asking myself how can I make my life better. Now I realize that I haven’t been living for me. And how can you be happy if you’re living for other people? I don’t know. Anyways, everything is just weird right now. I had this dream of my—”
His lips pressed into mine. “Let’s go to bed. We can talk more there,” he said.
He walked me into his room with his arm around my waist. Eric’s bedroom was beige and cream and black. And it was all clean except for the chair in the corner with all of the clothes in it. That’s how he cleaned up. He took everything that he had tossed around the room for the last couple of days and put it all in the chair. And it stayed there until it could hold no more, or he or I could stand it no more. It was about this time that I realized that Eric was wearing just his dark blue checkered wool Eddie Bauer boxers and a crisp white T-shirt that looked as though he’d ironed it. He tugged at my Donna Karan blouse, pulling it out of my black pants. This was not what I came over for. He got closer to me, and I had to stop this.
“Eric, I am trying to talk to you.”
“I’m listening.”
He wrapped his arms around me and walked me backward to his bed. The warmth from his body felt really good. Everything wasn’t about sex. He rubbed his hand through my hair.
“Eric, I am trying to say something.”
The backs of my calves were against his mattress. He stepped forward again, with just a bit of force. I fell back onto his bed. His chest pressed against mine. It always came to this. I needed to be strong.
“Eric, I’ve just come over to share my news.” There was a kind of control that I gave him, or that he could take at will. But I didn’t come over to give myself in that way.
He started whispering in my ear. “Chantell, it’s me. Your man. Your husband-to-be.” He kissed my neck.
His warm, Aqua Fresh-smelling breath was gentle to my nose and warm on my ear. But my heart said for me to look, listen, and open my eyes. Husband-to-be wasn’t good enough. And I said, without yelling, “No.”
“What?”
“I said no, Eric.” And I rolled him off of me. We were not communicating, and we were not married.
“This is not how I want to live my life. I came over here to tell you about the key. To tell you that my father had something in storage that pertained to my mom. But you don’t listen! Eric Summit, I am precious, and worthy of a guy who wants to build a life with me.”
We sat up. Eric put his hands to his forehead, like maybe I was giving him a headache, and moaned.
“I am trying to talk to you, Eric! I want you to listen. And I want to talk to you about real issues. We can have a real good life together! That’s what I want for us. That’s why I ordered separate beds for us on the cruise. Cuz we have to do it right.”
“Chantell, we were fine the way that we were. What is wrong with you? What are you trying to prove?” He walked over to the door. “Look, you can sleep on the couch if you want to.”
I got up. “That’s okay.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Fine.”
I fished my keys out of my purse. “I’ll just see you tomorrow at Pier 27. We’ve got a whole week to talk about this.”
“Yeah.”
Pack Your Bags
I
got back to my house after midnight, and I was exhausted. Sure, my body was tired, but all of the things going on in my soul were what had me begging for rest. Old doors were revolving, and new doors were opening. I never really got the chance to discuss the key with anyone. I’d had no time to really reflect on my thoughts.
There were a ton of things that I still needed to do before I left. Cruises were supposed to be about fun and relaxation, but all I was feeling at the moment was a lot of pressure. I didn’t know what the key would lead to, and I wasn’t even finished packing. I imagined this was what the therapist was talking about when he said for me to slow down and feel my feelings. I was going in every direction, and not getting anywhere. Burning all my candles at both ends.
I managed to finish the last of my packing and prepared for my morning shower. I passed my collection of shoes all carefully boxed and arranged. I had belts and slacks and trousers, and blouses by Donna Karan, Prada, Anne Klein, Liz Claiborne, BCBG, and Jones New York. I grabbed my almost knee-length black skirt and a snug-fitting burnt orange sweater. I went back to the shoe area and grabbed my matching burnt orange pumps.
I walked toward the shower past the vanity mirror and chair. I had probably forty types of toiletries and perfumes neatly arranged on the countertop. I looked in the cabinet and found the cleansers that I wanted to use. I smiled when I thought of how I’d stood up to Eric last night. Thank the Lord for that. I was getting stronger and stronger every day. I looked around at all of the bath oils, body creams, and shower gels that I owned.
I turned on KBLX, the Quiet Storm, wrapped my hair up in a huge white towel, and got in the shower. I put on my bath gloves, poured some body polishing cream into them, and cleansed. Luther Vandross blared from the radio, but I was deep in thought. I thought about my mother being in labor and how she’d told the doctors to pick me if they were forced to choose between the two of us. That was her unmoving position, and it came from deep within her heart, from her interior. I thought about the money that I was spending decorating my exterior. It was amazing. I had done everything that a person could do to show the world that I was priceless. But what had I done to decorate the person inside? What had I done for my spirit?
I got out of the shower, trying to settle into this new mind-set. I put on my clothes and makeup. I looked like a million bucks, but I didn’t think it was the most important thing in the world. I put the key to the storage room in my purse, loaded up the Jeep with my luggage, and headed for the office. I had more healing to do, but at least I was making progress.
Later, at work, I pushed myself back away from my desk and headed a few rows over to my coworker Cameron’s desk. I handed her copies of my accounts that she’d agreed to keep an eye on. “Here’s everything. I believe that I have taken care of everything, so there shouldn’t be too much maintenance involved.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “If something arises, I can handle it. Go have some fun, girl.”
I went into Canun Ramsey’s office and gave him the duplicate copy of the list. Remembering my last fiasco, I cringed at the thought of him calling on my accounts again.
I grabbed my purse and left the building. This time away would prove beneficial, I was sure. I went into the underground parking lot and retrieved my Jeep. I had three suitcases packed and ready to go in the backseat. I left by 11:30 a.m., and had a little over an hour before the ship would depart. I was supposed to find long-term parking and meet Eric at Pier 27.
At 12:05 p.m. I was still driving around San Francisco, looking for a long-term parking garage with space available that didn’t cost a million dollars. I drove past the pier. The traffic was heavy, and I was at a standstill, almost directly in front of the boarding area. I spotted Eric in the crowd of people, waiting in line to board the ship. Cars drove in both directions on the busy street, separating me from the line of passengers, but I could see Eric chatting with people, his wandering eyes looking for me. When two big doors opened and people started taking their places in line, I knew that I needed to park, and fast.
My light turned green, and the traffic started to move. I made a quick left turn and swooped around the Embarcadero Center. I was racing against time, and the screech of my tires proved it. I spotted a garage on my left and pulled into it. The sign read: “Daily Parking Rate $40.”
The twenty-something attendant wearing Converse walked up to my car and asked, “How long will you be?”
“Do you have long-term parking?”
“Are you a tenant here?” he asked, looking down at my form- fitting orange shirt.
“Umm, hello, I’m up here,” I said. “No, I’m not.”
“Non-tenant long-term parking is fifty dollars a day.”
“What?” I asked
“Fif-ty dollars a day.”
We’d be gone for five days, I thought. “That is going to be two hundred and fifty dollars!” I said.
He raised an eyebrow like he wasn’t impressed that I could count. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said unsympathetically.
I gave him my keys and he gave me a ticket.
Thankful that I had rollers, I lugged my suitcases out of the back, put my carrying bag over my shoulder, and pulled.
As I hurried along the sidewalk, I could hear jazz being played on the patio above the department storefronts. The saxophones and trumpets hummed. I could hear people laughing. The San Francisco Lunchtime Jazz series happened in the Embarcadero every Friday, all month long. I walked past the commotion and around the corner.
There were several people waiting at the crosswalk, businessmen in dark suits and London Fog trench coats, and women with silk blouses and slacks or jeans. My boarding pass was in my purse. I was dragging my suitcases with a handle in either hand. My carry-on was heavy and uncomfortable over my shoulder, which must have been obvious.
“Can I help you carry your bags?” asked a man wearing a soiled blue ski jacket and with dark black hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in a very long time. Seeing homeless people always did something to me.
The light chirped for us to cross, and people started walking in both directions.
“No, but thank you for asking.”