“Yeah, he did. And ‘dat don’t change, but I wanted you to know ‘dat pain ain’t black and white. Sometimes it comes with too many colors. I colored a lot of his anger. Pushed him to ‘da point ‘dat he needed a clean break.”
“The break you proposed that night. I was there. You had the props and materials that night to back your plan,” I speak forcefully with clear a memory of her making her plea to remove us from that from the projects all those years ago. “He shot you down and like the perfect submissive wife…like a trained dog with its tail between its legs, you didn’t fight. You let him make the call to leave us in that hellhole to disintegrate!” I find myself out of breath. I know I’ve been holding a lot in, but not how close to the edge I’ve been. “And we did. As a family, we were lit aflame and chard!” My face wrinkles. “You couldn’t stand up to him. Be a real woman…you just took his veto and rolled over.”
Samantha quietly nods. “Because two days before ‘den, Eric broke when I stole ‘da rent money for ‘da umpteenth time.” Her regretful eyes rise to meet mine. “‘Da same day, he saw me copping from O.” Suddenly, I recall Akeem telling me about my ex-boyfriend being my mother’s drug supplier. She’s confirming that story. “He couldn’t take it no more. Eric was done.”
I see the tears ejecting from the ducts, being reabsorbed as she fights to control her emotions. At the same time, her attempted revelations begin to anchor in my conscience. She’s presenting an argument of flexibility of perceptions. I’ve perceived the events of my childhood from one set of eyes all of these years. She’s now giving me new lenses—another angle. She’s taking responsibility for her role in our failed family unit.
Samantha is somehow able to see how those events of my troubled childhood holds bearing to my future. That with Azmir. Once again, I’m being faced with a mirror to help me view myself. I immediately identify the scars from my perception of things concerning my parents. I’ve been so angry with the both of them for our familial demise, but I haven’t had all the facts. All of a sudden, I think about my reservations to love. My delayed acceptance of Azmir’s commitment to me.
“Listen, I ain’t come here to upset you or to make ‘dis…” She gives a quick glance around the nautical suite. “…about me; we can discuss ‘da drama of my childhood another time. But let me just say ‘dat in my youth, being a Christian was lifestyle over commitment. I lost my way and—”
“…became sick. So sick that eventually you sought God like a patient in need of healing…” It’s becoming clear to me.
She nods as her shoulders shudder. She’s fighting for control. I, however, have a fissure in emotional rheostat. Tears pool my sockets and eventually empty from my lids. It happens so quickly, but I catch them on a rapid swipe of my hands.
After a long pause she mutters, “’Dis marriage between you and Azmir can work.”
I give an emphatic nod and observe her eyes catching mine. Her hand then goes to the mattress to lift her thin frame from its sitting position. She pulls herself up shakily and stands before for me for seconds long.
Then I hear a rapid, “I love you and believe in your marriage,” before she turn on her heels to make her way to the door and shuts it behind her.
Time speeds up. I’ve had my cocktail, hair done, and face beat to the gawds, as Adrian puts it. I’m instructed to put on my shoes first when it’s time to get dressed. A few days after purchasing the gown, I found a simple white satin, open toe, strappy Jimmy Choo sandal with ostrich feather covering my foot. I wonder would Azmir have me in these babies alone and chuckle. My gown is placed on me by more people than I need assistance from.
While eyeing my bridal attire in the mirror I hear, “Rayna, your sister is here to see you,” from Tessie at the doorframe of the parlor. I can hear the distress in her voice.
She fights to be patient, but really doesn’t want the last minute interruption of schedule to accommodate a guest just before my walk down the aisle. But what’s more surprising is her mentioning my sister. Chanell doesn’t have to pose as my— My thoughts are halted by the passing possibility of it being Chyna. I did, after all, ask for an invitation be extended to her and my grandparents.
“We only have four minutes before you are to be at the bottom of the steps here,” Tessie warns.
With a soft nod and eventually an, “Okay…” I consent.
Tessie backs away from the doorframe and in comes a beautiful teenager in a red satin mini tube dress, exposing her smooth almond skin. Her right shoulder is inked with a red rose, marring her beauty right along with her facial piercing, in my opinion. Chyna’s hair is jet black and pinned up in huge curls. Her red satin platform shoes are more appropriate for the club, but is perfect for this day so long as she’s here. Something deep within warms at the sight of her.
“Chyna?” I breathe.