“Yes.” MiMi’s affirmation infuses the air with power. “Strength. Dignity. Courage. All these things belong to you. Take them back. Your soul is yours. Your heart is yours. Your body is yours. Yours to keep and yours to share.”
Yours to keep and yours to share.
The words summon a memory I haven’t allowed myself in months. Breathing in and out, I indulge in thoughts of August. His carved profile and soft, full lips. His thundercloud eyes and gentle hands. A body of granite covered in taut, velvet skin. The urgent want smoldering between us. His hunger so palpable, I felt it stroking me everywhere. His tongue delving inside, seeking, giving.
“Oh, God.” A gasp transports me, and my eyes drop closed until we are alone again, he and I. Back in that closet, the door shut, sealed off from the world. Our mouths meld and our breaths tangle, and I can’t gather enough of him on my tongue, can’t reach enough of his body. I press into him until our bones touch, until our souls kiss, until every part of me, from the inside out, I’ve shared with him.
And I break.
I break like a storm on the Mississippi River, a relief from the cloying weight of summer heat. I’m a deluge, drowning my doubts and washing away my fears. I stiffen with a catharsis so spiritual and sensual, so pure and carnal, that for a moment, I’m not of this world. I’m above its cares, outside of its confines, divorced from my body and untethered from the earth.
“Breathe in,” MiMi says softly. “Breathe out.”
Her words slowly reel me back, returning me to the small room behind the curtain. They ground me in a fresh sphere with a lightened body and spirit.
“What was that?” My breath comes in pants and my hands shake. “What did you do?”
At first I think she’ll only answer with a smile and an otherworldly light in her eyes, but she reaches back to answer my question from before.
“These,” she says, waving her hand at the bottles on the shelves, “don’t tell me what you need. They don’t tell me what to do. You do that. You, ma petite, you needed the truth. I gave it to you.”
I’m still not sure what she actually means.
I sit up carefully, expecting my head to spin, but the room is steady and I’m not weak-limbed.
“A few moments with the truth don’t chase away the lies forever,” she says, pushing back the sweat-dampened hair clinging to my face. “Lies don’t give up easily. You’ll have to remind yourself and heal yourself over and over, every time they come.”
“You mean I need to talk to a therapist?” I ask. I’ve thought of that and probably will at some point.
“Yes.” Her smile is that of a younger woman, knowing, teasing. “And sleep naked sometimes. Soon, you’ll want again.”
We share a husky laugh. Recalling August’s kiss, I wonder if she’s right. I slide off the bed and touch my bare feet to the floor, reaching for her.
“Thank you, MiMi.” I blink at my tears with my head tucked into her long, silver braid. “I feel so weak sometimes, and you make me feel strong.”
“Struggle does not make you weak,” she whispers back. “Struggling against those who hold us is what makes us, over time, stronger than they are. Strong enough to fight back. Strong enough to win.”
That night, with the soft sounds of crickets and swamp creatures drifting through my window, I sleep better than I have in months. I sleep so deeply that by the time I wake up, the sun is higher and brighter than usual. I reach out and find the space beside me empty.
“Sarai!” I bolt up, my breath caged and flapping in my chest. I fumble through the sheets, stumbling out of bed and into the narrow hall.
My daughter’s sweet voice drifts back to me from MiMi’s room. My smile comes full and wide. I’m so glad we’ve had this time with my great-grandmother; the experiences I missed as a child, Sarai will be able to treasure.
“Wake up,” she cajoles in that sing-song voice she uses to stir me on mornings when it’s hard for me to rise. MiMi usually beats the sun up and, at more than ninety years old, is making coffee and cooking eggs and bacon before I’m awake. Last night must have worn her out, too. I lean my shoulder into the doorjamb, running my eyes over MiMi’s small bedroom, stuffed with furniture too big for the space and photos, many black and white, crowding the walls. The room is set to burst, a larger-than-life woman squeezed between the walls.
Sarai sits beside MiMi, rubbing her little palm over the silver hair loosened on the pillow. Her eyes, the darkest parts of blue and violet, consider me solemnly. My gaze drifts to MiMi, who stares back at me, eyes unblinking and void of life. I rush to the bed, grabbing her hand. It’s cold and stiff. At her wrist, there is no rhythm.
“Shhhh,” Sarai whispers, one finger to her rosebud mouth. “MiMi’s sleep, Mama.”
“No, baby.” I shake my head and let the first tear fall. “She’s not asleep.”
August
In the grand scheme of life, one year is a drop in the bucket. When you’re looking for someone, wondering if they’ll call or when they’ll come back, a year feels like forever.
Sylvia said it. Caleb told me that Iris left, but I still keep thinking maybe she’ll call or contact me. Caleb’s been seen with other chicks, living his life, so I assume he told the truth and they really aren’t together anymore. His girlfriend has left, and I’m the one who can’t move on.
“You should fuck.”
I glance up from the report I’m studying at lunch with Jared. Our server, who overheard his comment, blushes and stretches her eyes.
“Um . . . did you need anything else?” she asks, sliding a look between Jared and me.
“We’re good for now,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “You can bring the check.”
“Sorry,” Jared says, but he doesn’t look repentant as she walks away. “Her overhearing it doesn’t make it any less true. I’ve never known you to be this . . . grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy. You make me sound like an eighty-year-old man.”
“You have the sex life of an eighty-year-old man.” He sips his wine. “Hell, I’d be grumpy if I didn’t get any ass for a year.”
“I’m not you.” I flip through the report, hoping to divert his attention back to business. “These second-quarter numbers look good. Elevation’s doing even better than we hoped it would.”
“Yeah, they look great. Don’t change the subject.”
“The subject is none of your business. Speaking of business, let’s talk about it.”
“Okay.” Jared tears a bread stick into little pieces over his plate. “Did you talk to Pippa about signing on?”
“I did. She’s interested.”
“In fucking you.”
I tilt my head and blank my face, exasperated.
“Are you saying she doesn’t want to?” Jared asks. “She would have already signed if you’d give her what she wants. She practically spelled it out in the sand when she visited the office last week.”
One advantage of living and setting up our agency in San Diego is an office only a pebble’s throw from the beach. It’s worked for us, wining and dining clients oceanside. Well, I don’t wine and dine. I’m still a silent partner but have recently started persuading high-profile athletes that since I now trust Elevation with my representation, they should, too.