One Better Page 18

  Today was the second Saturday in April. She had an early appointment with her therapist, and then Spice would come. Carmen didn’t want to move. She lay in her bed, remembering a story she had heard over a news radio station about a stepmother who allegedly terrorized and disfigured her two stepdaughters over an eight-month period. The younger child was pushed down the basement steps, and the other girl had been cut severely on the cheek and hand with a utility knife. When the stepmother confessed to the abuse, she admitted that she’d been drunk at the time.

  Who will protect the children?

  Now, as the dust floating on the wind swooped past her windowpane, Carmen felt the secrets hiding in the chambers of her heart. Her hands began to tremble. She rose and began to pace the room, trying to fight the craving. It had been almost six weeks since she’d tasted alcohol, since she’d had even the tiniest of sips. She began to lick her lips. She stopped, turned, and walked faster, clasping her trembling fingers behind her back.

  Suddenly she fell to her knees to pray but couldn’t find the relief she sought. Prayers were no substitute for her real friend. Spice would be there soon, she knew, but for how long could she lean on Spice to save her?

  When Carmen first arrived at Temple Gardens, she had suffered from an acute case of the D.T.’s. To ease her withdrawal symptoms, she’d gone through first the unmedicated detoxification, then the medicated, which finally worked. But not without pain. Carmen had experienced such severe tremors that the head of the institute, Dr. Wright, had told her she’d been in danger of dying from seizures during her three-week bout in detox. The mental anguish was as severe. The hallucinations, night terrors, the whole “ball of wax,” as her therapist put it, had left Carmen weak in body and devastated mentally.

  During this postdetox period, Dr. Wright called Carmen into his office and revealed to her that because of an error in communication, the staff had barred Spice from visiting. He apologized profusely and promised that starting today, Spice would be given a daily update on Carmen’s progress from Dr. Wright personally. Even more important, Spice would be allowed to visit.

  The first visit was strained for both Carmen and Spice. Few words were spoken. The two friends merely held each other’s hands.

  By the third visit, Carmen had begun counting the days between visits. Spice brought along hair products, a curling iron, a blow dryer, and a makeup kit. Carmen couldn’t get enough of her friend’s pampering. She felt secure in Spice’s love for her.

  “How do I look?” Carmen once asked Spice hesitantly. She knew that Spice would ignore her lumpy complexion. Of course her hair didn’t shine as much as it did when they were young. How could it, after all her years of drinking? There was no way to hide the telltale signs of alcohol. Your body told on you before you could open your mouth to argue.

  “Tiny,” Spice answered.

  “You look good, Spice.” You always look good.

  “I didn’t say you didn’t look good, Carmen. I just mean you’re still too thin.” Spice mussed her hair and said, “You’re the prettiest woman I know. If you weren’t my friend, I wouldn’t take time trying to make you look better than me.”

  Carmen chuckled a bit and relaxed some.

  By the time Spice was ready to clip her fingernails, Carmen could feel herself warming up, a morning glory in the sun.

  As Spice worked, she filled Carmen in on everything that was happening at the restaurant. She assured Carmen that her apartment was being cleaned weekly, and her pictures were being dusted, not to mention her beloved dolls. Carmen knew Spice was working to see a smile on her face.

  And the visits were therapeutic for both of them. Spice talked about the girls.

  When Spice mentioned that she hadn’t heard from Sterling since their argument in January, Carmen could see the pain on her face as she spoke.

  “Do you worry about her?” she asked Spice quietly.

  “Of course. I don’t know how she gets by day to day. Sterling is so miserable at taking care of herself. But I can’t do it for her anymore. It’s time she learned.” Spice looked away, trying to hide her tears of anguish.

  Then Spice mentioned Mink and Dwight’s problems. “They just can’t seem to see eye to eye,” she explained.

  Something told Carmen there was more to this story, but Spice wasn’t sharing it. Carmen took a breath before she spoke and then said, “Spice, Mink’s a lot like you. She’s driven to succeed. Perhaps you can be the one to tell her that family is just as important—maybe even more. Did you ever think that maybe Mink can’t handle the money and the power it gives her—mostly over Dwight?”

  Spice looked at Carmen and then said, “Something’s wrong there, dreadfully wrong. She doesn’t seem to be thinking clearly lately. Sometimes I think she’s going to crack. She’s always been so strong. I don’t know—”

  Changing the subject, Spice talked about her building developments.

  Carmen stopped listening. She saw it all too clearly: Mink was following in her ambitious mother’s footsteps. She just prayed it wasn’t too late for Mink’s marriage. None of them could measure up to Spice.

  Glancing up now toward her friend’s face, Carmen didn’t miss the pity in Spice’s eyes as she gazed at the other patients walking around. Some talked to themselves. This was a routine sight for those who lived at Temple Gardens, but seeing them through Spice’s eyes, Carmen felt pain—it hurt to watch them. As Spice packed up her things to leave that day, she said, “You need to get out of here, Carmen. I don’t ever want to see you like that.” Her eyes pointed to a woman who, ever since Spice arrived, had been crouched in the corner, talking to herself.

  “You won’t,” Carmen said as she followed Spice to the door.

  Carmen looked at her watch. Connie, her therapist, would be expecting her: she was due for her appointment in ten minutes. Every morning and afternoon, 12 Step meetings were conducted with groups of patients to help guide them through the process of conquering their addictions. Each resident was also assigned a therapist. It was in this more private setting that each patient tried to elude her inner demons.

  Carmen felt comfortable opening up a bit of her past to Connie. For instance, she’d told her that her son had died in a fire. Of course, there was much more to the story than Carmen told her. She still couldn’t utter the words aloud.

  Still, there were parts she didn’t need to hold anymore. This morning on her way to Connie’s office, Carmen, without even knowing it, dug down deep, as deep as the herb’s seeds, and made some decisions.

  “I want to tell you how my son, Adarius, died,” Carmen said to the therapist when she arrived. “It’s been over fifteen years, but my child’s charred body is imprisoned in the vault of my heart.” She paused and looked fearfully at the therapist. “I want to free both of us.”

  Connie nodded for Carmen to continue.

  “During a cold winter back in 1981, I was living in Midnight with Adarius, who was just eight at the time, and Frank Desmond. Of course, he wasn’t Adarius’s father, but Frank told me that it didn’t matter. From the time he moved in, Adarius called Frank ‘Daddy.’

  “For two Christmases and two Mother’s Days Frank promised me the moon and the stars and didn’t produce a broom. I was brokenhearted. We’d had big plans to move away from Midnight, raise Adarius in a good home, put him in a private school, take him to church, and teach him about life.

  “That didn’t happen. The beatings started and I found out too late that Frank was more in love with his drug habit than me. I also finally noticed that every time we made plans, we were both high on cocaine. Sometimes I wondered if I only imagined that he’d said all those wonderful things to me. When we were sober, which was rare, Frank obviously didn’t give a damn about me or my son and stayed away from home for days at a time.

  “I finally got fed up, and took my son to stay with a friend for the weekend. When Adarius and I returned home on Monday Frank was gone, along with the little money I had saved. I started using drugs mo
re often, started making excuses for failing to pursue my lofty dreams—to make the dolls to sell. To join Spice at the restaurant and continue cooking school. I got high because I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had no money. No motivation.

  “I was running away from my problems and running away from myself. I would look in the mirror and say, ‘Carmen, you look like shit. This ain’t you.’ I kept the house a mess, but Adarius would clean it up. While I was high, I would lash out at Adarius, call him a bastard, a little motherfucker, whatever I could think of. By some miracle, my son never lost respect for me. Adarius would wash the clothes, fix his lunch for school, and make soup and sandwiches for dinner, or whatever he found in the cupboards to eat. I would leave for hours and Adarius would have the house cleaned when I returned.

  “I would come home feeling guilty, hug and kiss him, then say, ‘I’m sorry for calling you names. I’m sorry for leaving you. Please forgive me.’ And he did.

  “During one spell that year, I stopped drinking for two months. I was thinking better, and taking better care of my child. Then Frank showed up and the drugs started—again. He was there only a few weeks. Just long enough to disrupt two needy lives before leaving.

  “Back then, I remembered my aunt telling me, ‘Carmen, you need to keep your ass at home and let that boy of yours go out and play with his friends. A child is just a child for a short period of time. Let the boy have some fun for a change. He’s too young to have so much responsibility.’

  “Over and over again, my aunt would preach the same words. I kept silent. Who could understand how I felt? Adarius had long since outgrown his clothes, and I had no money to buy new ones or secondhand items. The bimonthly check from the government barely paid the rent and bought food—especially when I was done buying drugs and booze. I didn’t know what to do.

  “‘You can’t expect your boy to live like this,’ my mother would say over and over again. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of what you are? Aren’t you tired of this filth? You stop this, you hear? You stop or I’m calling the social services to come and get him.’

  “I told her if she called welfare, she’d lose me. She wouldn’t have a daughter no more.

  “My mother called the authorities anyway. I came home one morning and found my child gone. If I’d had a gun, I would have killed my mother. Luckily, I just got drunk instead. After court, I got a caseworker, who was a single mother of three herself. I regained custody of my son. While waiting for him to come from foster care, I cleaned the house from top to bottom. There wasn’t a piece of lint on the carpet when I welcomed Adarius back home.

  “I remember Adarius said, ‘Mama, I knew you’d come to get me.’ He hugged and kissed me until I pushed him away in embarrassment. It nearly broke my heart when Adarius said, ‘I’m proud of you, Mama.’ ”

  Carmen saw that time was passing. Soon her hour would be up, and Spice would be there. She had to release Adarius’s sweet memory—she had to get free of it as well. Connie’s eyes led her on.

  “For a few months things went well. But when Adarius went back to school, I began spending too much time home alone. I couldn’t find a job, and one day, while I was downtown at the bank cashing my bimonthly check, I spotted Frank with a woman. Both were dressed in expensive clothes. He wouldn’t speak to me. Dismissed me like I was a tramp.

  “I got high that day, and it was the last real day of my life.

  “‘You want Mama to iron your pants for you, baby?’ I asked my son, reaching for the basket of clothes that he was carrying.

  “‘You can’t iron my pants like I can.’ He sprayed starch on his wrinkled jeans. ‘I’ll do it, Mama.’

  “I smiled. ‘Mama’s going out for a little while. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’

  “Later, on my way home, I was higher than the price of gold, with two hundred dollars in my pocket. The taxi driver asked, ‘Do you hear sirens, miss?’

  “I heard a child’s wail. Adrenaline shot through my veins and I was instantly sober. As I watched out the cab window, I saw flames shooting up into the sky. Smoke clouds blackened the area.

  “Several fire trucks and people I didn’t recognize surrounded my small house. I ran from the taxi, screaming, clutching my heart. I was in agony as I ran, storming toward my burning house.

  “One of the firemen held me back. His arms felt like steel bars, locking me forever away from my child. ‘My son is in there!’ I shouted, trembling. ‘Let me go!’ I said, struggling to break free.

  “‘You can’t save him, ma’am. I’m sorry.’

  “‘This can’t be happening,’ I screamed, hysterical, burying my face in my hands, then looking back at the fire. ‘This can’t be happening!’

  “Later they told me that the iron had caused the fire. The autopsy showed that my child died from smoke inhalation. The humiliation of going to court and being charged with negligence and the tragic death of my only child was more than I could bear.”

  Carmen fell silent. She was beyond tears, and when she looked in Connie’s eyes, she saw herself—a defeated woman.

  Then Connie finally spoke. “The court records show you were deemed not guilty.”

  “I didn’t leave the iron on—no—but I am guilty. I’ve replayed the fatal scene with Adarius that morning over and over again. How could I know that those would be the last words I would hear from my child? ‘I’ll do it, Mama.’ Those simple words haunt me nightly. Why hadn’t I done my job as a mother and ironed his clothes? Why?”

  Carmen’s voice was ablaze with passion and emotion. “I know my child is not at peace, that he’s suffering. His soul is on fire.”

  Tears streamed down the therapist’s face. Connie cried Carmen’s tears.

  “The pain is unbearable. Losing a child is indescribable. Tears fall without my knowing. My feelings are on automatic pilot. . . .

  “Some days I can’t think. I can’t eat. It’s a pain down in my heart that will never move. Only dope and booze can keep it quiet.” Carmen’s tears flowed, but she spoke as if she didn’t even notice, as if she didn’t expect them to ever stop. “What mother can bear to outlive her child? Who would expect that God could be so cruel? You wonder, What have I done, Lord, to deserve this? Sure, I did drugs. I acted bad. But I hurt me. Me! Why didn’t God punish me instead of him?” Carmen paused, accepting a tissue from the therapist and blowing her nose.

  “I just want some peace. Just a moment of peace when the pain will stop. When my suffering will finally be over.”

  PART TWO

  Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for it self. They come through you but not from you. And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love, but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls. For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

  —KAHLIL GIBRAN

  SPICE

  Children make you want to start life over.

  —MUHAMMAD ALI

  D eceit and deception. Those were the terms she’d heard over and over again in the last few days concerning the structural engineer, Lucas Mann, whom her dear brother-in-law, Otis, had suggested Spice use on the Foxphasia project. Along with those accusations came the devastating news that not only had Mann underdesigned the buildings, but there was structural failure on sixty percent of the Foxphasia complex.

  Six days ago Otis’s counterpart in the town of Royal Oak told Spice the design was so deficient, it would be more cost-effective to tear down the complex and start all over again. Immediately both of her partners had backed out of the venture.

  Now she sat in her company truck on the outskirts of the Foxphasia job site, numb, as the wrecking ball hit the brick wall of the half-built hotel for a second time. She didn’t know what compelled her to come to the site and watch it be destroyed. At last, she turned away. Either she had to find new partners willing to invest quickly, or sh
e needed to borrow $18 million to finish the project. Both options seemed impossible.

  The double indemnity clause on David’s life insurance had enabled Spice to tuck away $2 million. That was her nest egg. Southern Spice was worth between $8 million and $9 million. With her other combined assets and investments she was worth at least $15 million. But if Foxphasia failed and she used all of her own money, she faced financial ruin. Could she take the chance?

  Shaking her head with disgust, she looked away from the cement devastation. And what would she have to leave her daughters? What had Carmen said? She was constantly torn between the concerns of her daughters and the catastrophes threatening her business ventures.

  On top of everything else, Travis had walked out on her. What began as an extended vacation became a bold dare for Spice to call and ask him why he hadn’t returned to work. They both knew why. She knew he was starting up his own restaurant. But his departure was a year earlier than she had expected it would be.

  Spice dropped her head in her hand. Everyone she cared about was caught up in a web of misfortune. Her thoughts crisscrossed from Carmen to Mink to Sterling. Just that morning she’d been awakened by a call from Otis, detailing Sterling’s latest incident with the law. Spice hadn’t been able to reach Sterling on the phone for weeks, and the call from Otis was the realization of her worst nightmare.

  “Listen to me, Spice. Sterling is okay. She needed help and was afraid to ask you.”

  Her voice shook with emotion. “Do you think I wouldn’t help my own child?”

  “It wasn’t a matter of what I thought. She was arrested—”

  “Arrested! My baby!” she screamed. “For what? Otis, what are you telling me?”

  “DWI. It’s just a year’s suspended license and a two-thousand-dollar fine.”