Should Have Known Better Page 21

  “She did say something about getting pregnant!”

  “Well, that’s all I got,” Sharika went on. “After I let him massage my ankles, he said the day he broke it off with her, she refused to leave the hotel and completely spazzed out. She stayed there for days, ran up a bunch of bills, and the next time he saw her, she showed up in his office with some black couple begging for work. He was sure she was just doing it to flaunt her next victim in front of him.”

  “That must’ve been us,” I said. “That must’ve been Reginald and me.”

  “Yeah, and there’s the bad news. Landon has no intentions of giving Reginald that contract. He said he was just trying to get Sasha out of his office. Sorry.”

  “I knew something was wrong. That whole setup seemed too good to be true. And the look on Landon’s face . . . Reginald’s going to be so disappointed when he realizes it was a scam,” I said. “But why would she have done that if she knew he’d only fake the contract to get us out of there?”

  “So she could seem like Jesus walking on water and turning water into wine. She was just trying to upstage you and scare the crap out of Landon. The rest is none of your business. I know you probably feel bad about Reginald not getting the contract, but he was the mouse who ate that cheese. He’ll have to realize who Ms. Thang is on his own.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. Old girl is scandalous. A real-life black widow—well, she hasn’t killed yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” Sharika said dramatically. “There’s no telling what she might do. Landon said she’s one of those people who wants to get her way no matter what. And she’s desperate right now. You better watch your back.”

  “Watch my back? What more could she do to me?” I scoffed.

  “Trust me. There’s plenty she can do. She’ll hurt you if she thinks you’re in her way. I’m surprised she didn’t try to hurt you already.”

  Something in me clicked. I heard Sasha’s voice telling me to drink the last of the wine, holding the cup to my mouth even when I said I’d had enough. I told her I was dizzy. She said I needed to loosen up.

  “I need to call you right back, Sharika,” I said as this sudden suspicion washed over me.

  “But I wasn’t done,” she protested.

  “It’ll only take a minute. I swear.”

  “Fine.”

  I hung up and looked over at my mother sleeping.

  It couldn’t be true. There was no way. I got up. I needed to think. To remember.

  I remembered the white chalk in the bottom of my glass every night. “It’s red wine, silly,” Sasha had said. “That’s just sediment from when they made it. It happens with expensive bottles.”

  I paced around the room. My thoughts sounded ridiculous, but nothing else made sense. There was no other way for ecstasy to get into my body.

  My mother didn’t have a computer so I had to look up what I was thinking on the Internet on my cell phone. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I searched: the effects of MDMA—emotional warmth, decreased anxiety, enhanced sensory perception, recklessness. I moved from link to link. They all said the same thing. One noted that when taken with alcohol the effects were even more pronounced. Users experienced chills, sweating, blurred vision, faintness, a loss of consciousness.

  I remembered the night in the backyard. How the whole ocean seemed to be coming into me. I’d put my tongue into Sasha’s mouth.

  I nearly dropped the phone.

  “I knew she was crazy! I knew she was chicken-coop crazy!” Sharika screamed into the phone after I called her back.

  I went into the kitchen so my mother couldn’t hear the conversation.

  “So you believe that? You really think she’d try to drug me?”

  “You said yourself you felt like you were sleeping that weekend. Right? And we both know you don’t use ex. I wouldn’t put this past her at all.”

  “But it just sounds so crazy. I keep remembering everything and it sounds so crazy. People don’t really drug people,” I said.

  “Ask all those chicks who get raped in clubs. It’s real. Happens all the time.”

  “That’s different. Those are rapists. Have you ever heard of a woman drugging another woman? Why would she do that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Dawn. If you wanted to steal someone’s husband, what do you think the best course of action would be? We’re not talking about the most sane person.”

  I believe my mouth hung open for two days straight. My mother kept asking me what was wrong. But I couldn’t say it. For so long, I’d felt like I was out of control physically and bodily in my own home. I was losing control in my life. And what was most deceiving about this reality was thinking that it was all somehow my fault. That I should’ve known better. Now I knew that most of the decisions I’d made that weekend and the days following weren’t my fault. That wasn’t how I normally behaved. Yelling at R. J., randomly taking off from work, staying up all night, sleeping all day. That wasn’t me. That was what Sasha did to me.

  I was stunned. I felt violated. Cheated. I wanted to scratch her eyes out. I wanted to call the police. But for what? Sharika and I thought that anything I said would be unfounded. I had no evidence. My husband had left me for her. Everyone would say I was just a jealous, angry woman. And I was. And knowing that, admitting that, was the most powerful thing I could do.

  I heard someone say one time that “when you know better, you do better.”

  Now that I knew Sasha’s game, I had to do better.

  I woke up one morning and decided that it was time for me to get back in control. I just had to figure out how.

  That next Monday, I got to the meeting at the HHNFH early and ready with my pen and pad. I was ready for old business. I had some questions that needed answering.

  “Last week, our ringleader asked us to define our power,” I said. “When we left, I admit that not only did I not want to answer this, but I also think I didn’t know how to answer. Maybe that’s why she asked the question.”

  We all laughed.

  “Preach, Jennifer,” Madonna said.

  “I don’t think I’ve known for a long time if or why I’m powerful. I add up everything I do to just needing to do it. If my husband needs something, I just do it. If my children need something, I just do it. The house. The car. My husband’s business. The people at my job. I step up and I dig in. I never thought for a second that meant I was powerful.” I slid my pad under my seat and stood up like some of the older members had last week when they spoke. “My son has mild autism. I don’t talk about it with many people. It’s hard. Very hard. Most people don’t understand it. They think he’s just bad or spoiled. One woman even asked if he was retarded—whatever that means. I thought my husband didn’t want to be bothered with him. That he was embarrassed by him. But I was embarrassed, too. I wanted so much to fix him. I wanted him to be OK. To be just like the other kids. So he could enjoy life. I pushed him. I pushed myself. I pushed our family. I ignored my other child. I said I was doing it all for him, so he could be better. I thought that was what made me powerful. What made me a good mother. But now I think it was all for me. He’s fine with who he is. And he’s fine with sometimes not having me hanging over his shoulder. I think his sister needs me more than he does. I know his sister needs me more than he does. And I’m going to try to be better. I have faith that things can get better. And that’s what makes me powerful. My faith that things will get better.”

  I got a standing ovation and a lot of hugs from famous women.

  When my mother came to pick me up, I got into the car and said, “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for what?” she asked.

  “For reminding me about faith.”

  A secret sister from the HHNFH gave me what they called a “Divorce Grant” and I was able to upgrade from the flimsy lawyer my mother had found in the phone book to one who handled most of the cases of the members at the house. I was pretty certain the “secret”
sister was Kerry. She’d called me days before to see how I was doing and to tell me that Reginald had contacted her ex-husband’s company to set up a meeting. She said she’d gotten 50 percent of the company in the divorce settlement and there was no way she was letting her ex do business with Reginald. I told her I had a custody hearing coming up and I was worried about my attorney. The next thing I knew, there was a call from the HHNFH talking about giving me a grant I hadn’t applied for. I was shy at first, but then with everything on the line, I had to take it. I promised myself I’d give Kerry back every dime once I got myself back together. The ringleader said most women just paid back into the grant. In the justice system, a woman without good representation wasn’t likely to see any justice.

  After two weekends of me meeting with the twins at the local McDonald’s, my new lawyer filed a petition saying me seeing the children in Sasha’s house could be psychologically damaging for them. I waited in court to hear the judge’s ruling on returning the children to me. My attorney made a special case, noting that I’d passed two drug tests and was in counseling. I’d had no further contact with the police since that night at the roadblock.

  “I can’t promise you anything,” my lawyer said as the judge walked into the courtroom after taking a break to read over his notes. “But let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

  Cheyenne and R. J. were sitting out in the hallway with Sasha. I growled at her like I’d learned to do from the other women at my HHNFH meetings, but I quickly found my poise when I went to hug the twins. I kept reminding myself that this wasn’t about her.

  R. J. wouldn’t stop kissing me and talking about the pink pool, but Cheyenne hardly looked at me. I knew I had to get her back quickly or I’d lose her forever.

  In the courtroom, the judge brought down his gavel and proceeded with his ruling after we sat down. Reginald was seated on the opposite side of the room with his attorney. He had on a tailored suit with cuff links and a pinky ring. No wedding ring.

  I turned to my mother and she pointed to the ceiling.

  “Pray,” she mouthed.

  “God help me,” I said, turning back around.

  “Now, this ruling was difficult,” the judge said. “Here in family court, we try to keep the best interests of the children at the center of what we do—even when the parents don’t.” He looked over at me and I was sure I’d be back at McDonald’s the next weekend. “But,” he went on, “any parent knows that no parent is perfect. We make mistakes. We fail. We try to do better. Even when we should’ve known better. Mrs. Johnson, I’ve looked over all of the interviews from your children’s teachers and their pediatricians, even some parents of their friends. And they all say you’re an outstanding mother. Now, your actions say otherwise, but your reaction to this situation is very impressive. Counselor, what information do we have to solidify your client’s claims that she’s able to support her children?”

  Right then, Reginald stood up and shouted, “She can’t. She has nowhere to live and she doesn’t have a job!”

  His attorney pulled him to his seat as the judge warned that he’d lock Reginald up if he had one more outburst in his courtroom.

  “Judge Bruner, my client is currently living with her mother in a four-bedroom house in Atlanta,” my lawyer explained. “She’s been placed on a leave of absence from her job with the Augusta Public Library System until she resolves this matter of guardianship and is able to return home to find suitable housing. In the meantime, her mother has pledged to support her daughter and grandchildren. She has part time work.”

  “Is this true, ma’am?” the judge asked, looking at my mother.

  “Yes, sir, your honor.”

  “Well, with all of this information, I believe it’s in the best interests of the children that they be returned to their mother until a final custody hearing following the divorce petition.”

  “Wait!” Reginald jumped up again. “She’s on drugs. I know it!”

  “Mr. Johnson, please have a seat,” the judge said unamused. “Please don’t make me lock you up today.”

  Reginald’s attorney grabbed him quickly. They argued and Reginald stared over at me with a pointed finger.

  I felt like sunshine. I hadn’t won the war, but this battle was coming to a close.

  “Thank you,” I said, hugging my lawyer. “Thank you so much.”

  I ran out of the courtroom and gathered the twins together like they were two hours old and still able to fit together in my arms.

  “We’re going home?” R. J. asked, but I could tell by his voice he meant the house in Augusta. Reginald had already changed the locks and had a letter sent to the attorney saying I couldn’t enter the residence. I was surprised by this action, but I guessed what the women at HHNFH said about people in divorce was true: it brought out the best and worst in people (but mostly the worst).

  “We’re going to Grandma’s house,” I explained to R. J. “You remember her house? With the garden out back?”

  “I want to go back to my park,” he said. “I miss my park.”

  “I know, baby,” I said. “We’ll go back there soon.”

  “What is going on?” Sasha demanded, trying to snatch R. J. from my arms. “You can’t have these kids. They’re mine.”

  “Hardly,” said one of the court officers, pulling Sasha back. “I need you to back away from these people and let them leave.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Sasha pulled away from the officer.

  Reginald walked out of the courtroom with his attorney and said good-bye to R. J. and Cheyenne before the officer escorted them into a waiting room with my mother.

  “What happened, Reggie?” Sasha asked dramatically.

  “I don’t know. . . . The judge had all of these lies Dawn filled—”

  “No, no!” I jumped in. “The judge had the truth and that’s why I got my kids back.”

  “So! Do you think this is going to change anything between Reggie and me?” Sasha said spitefully after quickly getting over the fact that I was taking the children. “We’re still going to be together.” She jumped in my face and whispered in my ear, “You can have those bad-ass kids, anyway. They were tearing up my damn house. Cheyenne and that attitude. R. J. and those freaking outbursts. I’d never have kids like that. I just want the man.”

  I pulled back my arm to punch Sasha, but my attorney caught me and started pulling me away.

  “You know, I hated the idea of that, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t care,” I said. “I guess we’ll just talk about that in court.” I pulled away from the attorney and stepped closer to Reginald. “You do know what they call that in court? Adultery? Sound familiar? And there’s no need to talk about what happens to adulterers in divorce settlements. . . . Guess I’ll be moving back to Augusta faster than you think.”

  “You’ll have to prove it first,” Sasha shouted as Reginald stood there looking stunned by my threat.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll need to prove it in court—” I stepped up to Sasha and whispered in her ear, “But even if I can’t prove it there, there’s a new public courtroom today: it’s called the Internet. And I plan to start a full-on campaign to air every piece of your dirty laundry to every person who will listen. You don’t need proof for that. Just an e-mail account.”

  Sasha looked like she was about to faint.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she said as my attorney got ahold of me again. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

  My mother had prepared what can only be described as Thanksgiving dinner. There was a turkey. A ham. Sweet potatoes from her garden. Macaroni and cheese. Stuffing. Gravy. Everything. There was so much food on the dining room table, we had no place to put our plates.

  “Is it Thanksgiving?” R. J. asked, looking around the table as we took our seats.

  “No, just a special dinner,” my mother said. “I wanted you two to know how happy your mama and I are that you’re ho
me.”

  “Home? This is our home?” R. J. looked around. I was so afraid he’d shut down with all of the changes, but he was more talkative than ever. He’d talked all the way from the courthouse.

  Cheyenne was the one who was quiet. More than usual. She was still keeping her distance, but I let her know that I was fine. I was her mother and her place was with me. I wouldn’t want it any other way. A psychologist who had met with the twins before we left the courthouse said she’d take some time to come around. I shouldn’t push. I just needed to be consistent.

  “Every head bowed, every eye closed,” my mother said proudly.

  We gathered hands around the table.

  I didn’t bow my head and I didn’t close my eyes. I just watched everyone. I looked at my family, looking like a family.

  11

  I was a part of the crowd laughing at the punch bowl at the HHNFH meeting now. I’d been Madonna and Vivaca, LisaRaye and even Ivana (three times for Ivana—I really liked how that name looked on my chest). I was making fast friends with these women as we openly shared our greatest fears and anger about this hand love was dealing us. Or was it life? Because our lives were what was being dismantled by the loss of our love. It was interesting to see how we all dealt with it. Some women, even the ones who’d left their husbands or were the ones who got caught cheating, were in a rage. They wore their anger in silence. Just sat there in the meetings. Or wouldn’t stop talking about how much they hated their husbands even when the ringleader was trying to move us on to talking about ourselves. The ringleader said anger was fine. Expressing it was OK. Being furious was to be expected. But when we denied those emotions or just stayed in them, we risked becoming scorned. And scorned was something far more permanent than fury. It was something that stayed with us and sat inside of us. I knew what she was talking about. I knew if I’d stayed in that bathroom or taken that gun and done anything with it, I would never have recovered. And I was still a long way from anything that resembled a nonfurious woman, but I refused to be scorned.