All the Things I Meant to Tell You Page 4

  “I hope you have the rest of the meetings at your house, Kim,” Debbie said as she trudged to the door.

  Kimberly glanced over her shoulder and gave Hahna a mean glare. Hahna’s face softened a little, but only a little.

  “Debbie, I’m sorry. Come on and stay. I’ll put some plastic down for the baby,” Hahna said.

  Debbie, who clearly didn’t want to leave, spun on one heel and rushed back to her chair. She plopped the car seat down on the floor and left Kimberly with the sticky-handed toddler.

  Kimberly took a moist wipe from the diaper bag and wiped Artalaysha’s hands. Then, she followed Hahna to the kitchen with the child in tow. When they were out of earshot of the other girls, Kimberly opened her mouth to speak.

  “Don’t even say anything,” Hahna said to Kimberly. “I know. It’s not her fault that the daddies aren’t helping. She needs us. That’s what you were gonna say, right?”

  “I was gonna say that we’ve got a long road ahead of us until the wedding, so maybe we want to hold off on the high drama.”

  “High drama? Girl, you would’ve seen high drama if she had spilled that damn Hawaiian Punch on my seven thousand-dollar Horchow sofa.”

  “Do you know how much you paid for everything in your house?”

  “What? No.”

  “Oh, ’cause for a second I thought that couch meant more to you than your line sister.”

  “You sound like Sam.”

  “Well . . . it can’t be both of us. Maybe it’s you, sis.”

  Kimberly lifted her eyebrow and waited for Hahna’s retort. She couldn’t have a valid one, because it was her. Kimberly understood why Hahna revered her things so much, but it just didn’t always come across well to the people she loved.

  “Wow. I didn’t know you felt like that. You having second thoughts about choosing me as one of your Maids of Honor?”

  Kimberly chuckled. “No ma’am. I accept you in all your flaws and brokenness, although Samantha sure would be ready to step up and take your spot.”

  “She’s bothered, huh? That’s the real reason she left, isn’t it? She doesn’t care about Traci, Abena and that club.”

  “She does care about that too, but yeah she just felt she should’ve been before y’all. Probably more Twila than you.”

  “But it’s always been the three of us. Even in college. We were friends before we pledged. And when she got all the way evangelist saved, she ghosted all of us.”

  “Not all. She and I never fell off.”

  “Well, she fell off with me and we go to the same church and serve on the same ministries. It’s pretty awkward. Especially when the other Gammas at our church find out we’re line sisters.”

  Hahna took out a sandwich bag and filled it halfway with Cheerios. Artalaysha giggled as she put the unoffensive snack in her hand.

  “I wish I had something for her to play with,” Hahna said. “Or at least something for her to put her hands on other than my couch.”

  Kimberly spied some colorful plastic measuring cups on the counter. “What about those?”

  Hahna shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She picked up the measuring cups and held them out to the little girl. She reached for them and handed back the cereal.

  “Look at who’s gonna be a good mom,” Hahna said. “I would’ve never thought of that.”

  “I don’t know about that good mom part. Ron mentioned having his daughters in the wedding, and I’m still trying to wrap my brain around what that even looks like.”

  “Will their mother have to be there?” Hahna asked.

  “I’m sure she’s not going to let him take them to Jamaica without her going along.”

  “Well, maybe y’all will have one of those Will and Jada type things. They’re all one big family with his ex-wife. I bet if Tupac was still alive, he’d be in the mix too.”

  “Nah, Will wasn’t feeling Pac all like that. But he wanted Jada to accept his ex-wife all up in her space, though.”

  Hahna laughed out loud. “Girl, we act like we know them.”

  “Shoot, you don’t? I done watched every Red Table Talk. I know them.”

  Twila poked her head into the kitchen. “What’s taking y’all so long? They in here drinking all the wine. We’re gonna need replenishments in a minute.”

  “Debbie too?” Hahna asked.

  “Especially her ass, but you know she don’t get out much. Somebody gonna have to drive her home.”

  Hahna and Twila both looked at Kimberly.

  “Y’all get on my nerves,” Kimberly said.

  “She’s your bridesmaid,” Twila said.

  “Both of you need therapy and life coaches to fix y’all messy ass selves,” Kimberly said.

  Hahna laughed, but Twila did not.

  “I start therapy tomorrow,” Twila said. “Dr. Mays.”

  “Does this have something to do with the reason you’re staying here,” Hahna asked. “You know you can tell us, right?”

  Twila took the last swallow of wine in her glass and shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve tried to start the conversation so many times, and I know y’all are a safe place. I just . . . this requires a professional.”

  Twila’s hands started trembling so hard that Hahna took the glass from her hand and set it on the table. Hahna smoothed Twila’s hair out of her face and hugged her.

  “It’s fine. Whenever you’re ready to share, you will.”

  Kimberly touched the middle of Twila’s back and rubbed. She wondered if they could ever all be joyful at the same time. It seemed she and her two best friends always had to juggle sadness and joy at the same time—only allowing the appropriate amount of either emotion to come out in their conversations so as not to disturb the other’s happiness or block their healing process.

  Kimberly wasn’t, however, surprised that Twila was on her way back to therapy. The multiple self-defense classes, the weapons, the twice-weekly gun range visits. All the signs were there of someone who had experienced trauma. Kimberly had been talking to God about her sister for years.

  She was never surprised about an answered prayer.

  Chapter 6

  TWILA

  I thought I’d never come back to this place. The office of LaTonya Mays, licensed therapist. She was the one who’d helped me put the pieces of my life back together when my mother died, and I couldn’t get past the grief. I didn’t see her after what happened to me at Club Phenom. Probably should’ve, but I didn’t want to cross-pollinate pain. She had witnessed one tragic event in my life, and didn’t need to witness another.

  Plus, over the years, I’d built a friendship with Dr. Mays. Just like I didn’t want my best friends to know that I’d visited the land of the free and the home of the nasty, I didn’t want Dr. Mays to know. Everyone always said that they wouldn’t look differently at you, but they always did. Unconditional love had conditions and they were usually tied to sex, crimes, and religion. My shit had all three.

  But I wasn’t going to get through this without someone who could reach down to my core, find all the sludge, and drag it to the surface. That was Dr. Mays. She was my own personal Iyanla. She didn’t call me beloved, but she sure as hell made me own my shit.

  Dr. Mays’s receptionist showed me to her office, and I sat reminiscing. The décor was different, upgraded, but it felt the same. It still smelled like lavender and sandalwood, and there were still African masks on the wall. You couldn’t come in Dr. Mays’s presence as a person of color and not feel like you mattered. She dripped blackness and greatness and wrapped herself in the motherland. She was a masterpiece.

  Dr. Mays walked into the office and parted her lovely strong African mouth into a smile. Her teeth were perfect. Of course, they were. I fixed them. I was the only orthodontist in Atlanta who cared enough about culture to fix her slight overbite while maintaining her small gap—a thing of beauty to her Nigerian family.

  Dr. Mays extended her arms, and I jumped up to hug her. Her locs smelled like essential oils
and heaven. This was a nontraditional practice. There was no distance between Dr. Mays and her patients. She didn’t just help them heal with her education and degrees. She helped them . . . us . . . heal with love.

  “I have missed you, Ms. Twila. How have you been?” Dr. Mays asked as she sat on the couch across from the one I’d chosen. I sat as well.

  “I’ve missed you too. I’ve mostly been well.”

  “Is it right for me to assume that the little bit left behind after mostly is what you are here to talk about?”

  “That would be an accurate assumption.”

  “Where would you like to begin?”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. I didn’t know where to start. I’d been plugging my emotions up like the little Dutch boy who’d saved his town by sticking his finger in the dam. Except that story was a fraud just like my false cover. I was falling apart one leak at a time, and now the people closest to me knew because I couldn’t hold it together anymore.

  “I’m staying at one of my best friend’s houses. I can’t stay at home.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “I would if I could. I don’t feel safe there right now.”

  Dr. Mays nodded slowly. “Not right now, but you would like to feel safe again. That is the end state you would like to see?”

  “Yes. I’d like to feel safe. Empowered.”

  “And did someone or something take your power away?”

  I scoffed. “I am a black woman in the American South. My power is microaggressed against every day.”

  “Right. Agree. But be more specific. You have stayed in your own home until now even with the microaggressions of racism stealing a portion of your power. Who specifically made you feel unsafe and powerless?”

  “The man who raped me.”

  The words shocked my ears as if someone else’s voice had said them. It was the first time I’d said that out loud. I’d never even thought the word rape with reference to my being assaulted at Club Phenom.

  “Did this rape happen at your home? Is he someone you know?”

  I swallowed, suddenly not feeling as forthcoming about the rest of the story. “No, I don’t know him. And it didn’t happen at my home.”

  “And does he now know where you live?”

  “No. I saw him in my housing development, but he didn’t see me. I don’t even know if he would recognize me.”

  Dr. Mays pursed her lips and moved them from side to side. I wondered if she was calculating what she should say next. She took long pauses all the time. She considered things and then considered them some more. There were no written notes taken, although she recorded every session. This was analysis in real-time.

  “The reason he wouldn’t recognize you?”

  “When he raped me, I was wearing a mask.”

  “Tell me what you felt when you saw him. I know that you moved to your friend’s house. But in that moment, what did you feel?”

  I thought back to that moment. Standing on the pavement, at the intersection, unable to move. The terror.

  “I was having my morning run, so my heart was already racing. But I felt the air leave my lungs, and I felt like I couldn’t draw another breath. I couldn’t move. My feet were stuck in place.”

  “What emotions did you feel?”

  “Fear. Mostly fear. But some shame with remembering him . . . hurting me. The memory of it had started to fade, and when I saw him again it all rushed back.”

  There was another long pause, and more lip pursing.

  “I’d like to try a technique with you, over the next few sessions. I think it will get you to the end state you desire. Empowerment and feeling safe again.”

  I was willing to give anything for that. I didn’t know how long I’d survive living with Hahna and her bubbly goodness. I needed my own space back again.

  “What is the technique?”

  “It is called Cognitive Behavior Therapy. CBT. Basically, you recount the assault over and over until it no longer causes the fear and shame. You desensitize your emotions and your body’s natural response to the stress of remembering.”

  “And it loses its power?”

  “Correct. Does it sound like something you want to do?”

  I nodded. “I trust you, and if you think it will be effective then I will try it.”

  “Good. You have had enough trauma for the day even admitting it to me. You have not told anyone else about the rape, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t. I almost told my two best friends, but I couldn’t get it out.”

  “Would you consider pressing charges?”

  “No.”

  “All right. I did not think that you would, and I will not try to convince you. I had to offer it, though.”

  I didn’t smile, but I felt a bit brighter after she said this. She hadn’t forgotten my personality and the things that were important to me. My pride was the thing that drove me to succeed. It was also the thing that wouldn’t let me admit that someone had taken advantage of me sexually. I would never be able to testify in court.

  “Thank you, Dr. Mays. For the offer and for understanding.”

  “When you go out to make appointments with Holly make at least four.”

  “Only four?”

  Dr. Mays nodded. “You will know four sessions in if this treatment is working for you, and so will I. We can then assess our next steps.”

  Our next steps. The other thing I loved about Dr. Mays is that she was on this journey with me. I wasn’t going to be alone.

  “Okay. Thank you. I’m ready to be well.”

  “Asé. And it shall be.”

  There was power in Dr. Mays’s words, so I believed. She would help me see this through.

  Chapter 7

  HAHNA

  Sam picked up the leavings of our soul-food lunch as I checked the calendar on my laptop. We had these lunches at least once a week, and I loved them. It made me stop and reflect on everything good and perfect in my life while in the middle of my worst work crisis.

  While Sam worked, he hummed, not even remotely aware that his easy and peaceful demeanor combined with his tight abs and sculpted arms made me want to abandon the rest of the working day and head home. I stopped looking at the computer and beheld my man in all his melanated greatness.

  He looked up at me and grinned. My body immediately responded. I crossed my legs to calm the growing fire.

  “You want dessert?” he asked.

  And just like that I was ready to start pulling clothes off. And I was unashamed about it.

  There was a knock on my office door. Shoot.

  “Come in.”

  Sam chuckled at what I was sure sounded like pure disappointment in my tone. I wanted my dark chocolate treat.

  Sylvia emerged from the other side of the door with a smile on her face. She enjoyed looking at Sam as much as I did, even though she was old enough to be both our mothers.

  “Your one o’clock is here, Hahna.”

  “He’s early,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “That’s what Corden said. He’s already gone down to greet him. I think he’s going to give him a tour while you wrap up with Sam.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Sylvia. I’ll be down in a few.”

  Sylvia looked at Sam. “Did you save me some of that lobster macaroni and cheese?”

  “Save you some? I made you your own.”

  Sam retrieved the sealed container from the edge of my desk and handed it to Sylvia. She squealed and gave him a hug.

  “Thank you, baby.”

  “I know whose good side to stay on around here,” Sam said.

  I laughed out loud. “Mine.”

  “And mine,” Sylvia said. “He knows who will clear that calendar and free up his lady for a little afternoon delight.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Sam said as he hugged Sylvia again.

  “What you know about afternoon delights, Ms. Sylvia?” I asked.

  “Baby, I know about mor
ning, afternoon, and midnight delights. Don’t play with me. Now you ‘bout to have me repenting at prayer service.”

  Sylvia laughed and shook her head as she closed my office door.

  “She’s great,” Sam said. “She reminds me of my mother and my aunt, Celestine. There is a common experience of older women of the African diaspora that makes them a comfort to me.”

  I closed the laptop and stood. Walked around the desk to touch what I’d been gazing upon. His breathing shallowed as I dragged my nails across his chest down to his lower abdominals where he placed his hand over mine.

  “And what about the younger women of the African diaspora? Are we a comfort too?”

  “You are my peace and my fire.”

  Sam pulled me into an embrace and placed soft kisses on my neck. My favorite thing. I swooned, then thought about my visitor downstairs.

  “Babe, can we pick up right here later on tonight?”

  Sam released me, and I almost changed my mind.

  “Yes. Your place or mine?” Sam asked.

  I sighed when I thought about my houseguest. “Yours. Twila is staying with me right now.”

  “Is she remodeling?”

  “No. Something’s going on with her, and she’s not sharing.”

  “Man problems? A stalker? She doesn’t have to be afraid of that. I can . . .”

  “No, no, I don’t think it’s anything like that. I’ve never seen her this afraid. She tried to tell me and Kimberly what it was, but she couldn’t get it out.”

  Sam lifted his eyebrows. “This sounds serious. Do you need to stay with her? I mean we can be quiet in your bedroom.”

  “I can’t be quiet with you.”

  “That will make it exciting. You trying to be quiet.”

  I thought about how Sam has helped me through every inhibition and found every button to push. He’d found hot spots I didn’t know I had, and erogenous zones on top of erogenous zones. Every nerve ending in my body craved him.

  There was nothing silent about this.

  “I’m going to meet this lawyer who wants to rent office space from me, and I will meet you later, at home.”

  “You’re renting out space? How did that come about?” Sam asked.

  “Corden did the numbers. It makes sense. With our reduction of staff and clients, we’re not using all this space, and we could use the steady cash flow.”