Chapter 7
Momma says I can’t be mad forever and that my marriage won’t last if we don’t communicate. I just am frustrated is all. I was a mother and now I’m lost and I do need some help. We still haven’t packed up her bedroom, given her clothes and toys away, because I guess we just can’t face the facts. The good thing that came of this is that Isiah is in jail for a very very long time. I think he’s gotten ten years with parole in about half the time and I don’t know if I am satisfied with that. There’s so much going on with me and Issac that it’s not even funny. I guess that’s why were are where we are…in a quiet office that plays WNUA jazz music while we wait on pins and needles. The eeriness of this place scares me and it’s like we are instruments in a unsung song about pain and strife. With each note, I am ready to yawn my mouth and go to sleep. Personally, I am not feeling this visit and it better be worth my time.
Today’s November 18, 2004 a few days before the turkey day and Issac decides we need to do something real quick about our communication issues. I don’t have issues. He is the one with the issues. He is the one who’s trying to sweep under the rug, this situation. He don’t want to talk about his brother. He wants to act like it didn’t happen. That our child didn’t die under my eyes while I could do nothing about it.
And now as I sit near my husband in a cold clinical office, I dust my blue jeans off and smooth down my red thick sweater angrily. I suck my teeth as I think of Issac’s messed up brother, Isiah who’s gotten off scott free by living in a jail cell while my daughter is six feet under. I shake my head and soak in my husbands image as he lets his dipped-in chocolate fingers view the Maxim magazine he’s checking out. Since this lovely trip was his idea, I know he shouldn’t be acting like this is for me. Anyway, if you haven’t already guessed, we are in the therapist’s office. She is a marriage counselor and her name is Africa Jones. According to him she comes highly recommended. I wasn’t too hot on seeing a counselor but I guess it’s over due for us. The office we are sitting in has plush brown couches and a simple décor of green plastic plants placed in the corner of the small but modern office. There’s a very nice secretary, whose name is Maria. I see a nice name tag on her navy blue skirt suit. She had a huge smile that stretched her thick cheeks when we greeted her.
I wish I had her same energy. I look around the table before me at the various boring magazines; the bland Time Magazine, the hilarious The Star, and the too hard cored The New York Times. Yawning my small mouth open, I tisk and Issac responds by trying to make me feel better but he doesn’t.
“Look, babe. It’ll be over before you say boo!” He looked at me with those hazel eyes I fell in love with when we met a few years ago at that poetry set at Jazz and Java, but now as he gazes with intent at me, I just want to spit on him.
I suck down my pride and blankly smile at him, “Yeah, whatever.” I rolled my eyes and totally ignored him and while my fingers played with the magazines on the table, I finally something that peeked my interest. The December Issue of Ebony with Star Jones and her fine yellah man. I mean, he’s a nice light dip with dark eyes and curly hair, looks intelligent and prominent. I used to love looking at the View when she first got on. I thought she was gonna keep it real and stay thicky thick but it ain’t happening yet. Yes, she lost weight, she got a man, but at what cost? Frowning, I thumb through the magazine to page 172 so I could get the real deal, why she got this fine man and did she sell out? I am on a few online black relationship groups and the women and men are arguing about Star. Some thing she is blinded by this man’s fine attributes. Some think her man is gay or bisexual. I don’t care. Hell, whatever makes her happy, will make her happy.
You know.
I shake my head and laugh out loud, “Star and her man.”
“Why you say it like that?” For the first time in a long time I noticed the brown khaki pants he was wearing the way they hugged his thighs and his tan cotton teeshirt hugging his fine upper body. I had to shake my head. I mumbled something under my breathe, punched myself back to reality as I grunted at his response in after thought as I continued to browse the magazine.
“Joie.”
“Yeah.” I kept looking at the magazine without meeting his eyes.
“Ms. Jones is ready for us.”
I looked up and my eyes soaked in the image of a very earthy woman with medium length twists that framed her face gently. Wearing a very casual blue jean denim suit at her five foot five inch frame, she ushered us into her offices which were to the left of us. My eyes meet Maria’s and she gave me the upward sign of “good luck” and we were in the office.
My stomach was bubbling when I sat down. Shoot, I didn’t even want to be here. No matter how relaxed Ms. Africa Jones appeared to be. To calm myself down, my eyes caught the sight of several awards and degrees in her office, including a Masters Degree from the University of Illinois in Psychology as well as a Ph.D from Northwestern University in the same field. Ok. Seems like she’s got herself together, but can she help glue us back after a tumultous event. Losing our child, him losing his brother, and both of us apparently holding secrets.
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