Table of Contents
ALSO BY TERRY MCMILLAN
Mama
Disappearing Acts
Breaking Ice: An Anthology of Contemporary African-American Fiction
(editor)
Waiting to Exhale
How Stella Got Her Groove Back
A Day Late and a Dollar Short
The Interruption of Everything
Dedicated to Mrs. Helen Johnson
Who deserves as much happiness as she can stand
Nothing can be forced to live.
The earth is like a drug now, like a voice from far away, a lover or master. In the end, you do what the voice tells you. It says forget, you forget.
It says begin again, you begin again.
from March by Louise Glck
We create ourselves by our choices.
Kierkegaard
AUTHORS NOTE
For those of you who may have seen the movie that was based on my novel Waiting to Exhale, please be aware that it was indeed a movie. As one of the screenwriters, I acknowledge that we strayed from the book, took many liberties and ended it the way a film should leave you: hopeful and somewhat pleased. Well, sorry to say that after these women left that campfire on New Years Eve 1990, way out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but each other and a pitch-black desert in Phoenix, they found out that apparently exhaling is a relative state that is difficult to sustain. Like the rest of us, I assumed they flourished and floundered over the years. To be honest, all four of them got on my last nerve long after their shelf life and I forgot about them each time I met a new set of characters to worry and care about. Fifteen years later, however, these women suddenly began to reclaim their place in my heart, and, like old friends you havent seen since college, I wondered how they might be faring now. And, like a good bottle of vintage winewhen aging is savored because it usually enhances the flavorI had hoped that their lives might now be easier, smoother, solid, joyful. A lot happens in fifteen years. And like the rest of us, I realized that these four women are still trying to get to happy.
THE WOMEN
Savannah Jackson
Bernadine Harris-Wheeler
Robin Stokes
Gloria Matthews-King
The Deep End
Are you sure you dont want to come to Vegas with me? my husband asks for the second time this morning. I dont want to go, for two reasons. First of all, its not like hes inviting me for a hot and heavy weekend where Ill get to wear something snazzy and well see a show and casino-hop and stay up late and make love and sleep in and order room service. Not even close. Its another exciting trade show. Isaac builds decks, fences, gazebos and pergolas, and as of a few months ago, playhouses. Hes in love with wood. Can I help it if I dont get worked up hearing about galvanized nails or color-clad chain links and breakthroughs in screws and joists?
I dont bother answering him because hes known for weeks Im under a deadline for a story Im doing on the rise in teenage pregnancy in ArizonaPhoenix in particularwhich is the other reason I cant go. Ive been sitting in front of my laptop in my pajamas for the past forty minutes waiting for him to leave so Ill finally have three and a half days to myself to focus. But he is taking his sweet time.
I didnt hear you. Hes looking for something. I dare not ask what. Youd have the room all to yourself for most of the day. You could still work.
You know thats not true, Isaac. I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee. Ive been to so many of these conventions, trying to be the supportive wife, but I always get stuck with the wives, most of whom just want to sit around the pool all day reading romance novels or People magazine while they sip on margaritas and eat nachos, or linger in the malls for hours with their husbands credit cards, trying on resort wear for the cruise theyre all going on in the near future. Im not crazy about cruises. I went on one with Mama and my sister, Sheila, and those long narrow hallways gave me the creeps because Ive seen too many horror movies where the killer jumps out of a doorway and pulls you inside. After two or three days of being out in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight until you wake up not knowing what country you might be in front of, by day four I was ready to jump off our balcony and backstroke home.
And then there are those obligatory convention dinners. Id sit there in one of the hotel ballrooms at a table full of contractors and their now-gussied-up wives, trying to be sociable, but I was basically making small talk since they never discussed anything that might be going on in the world. Call me elitist, but this often made me feel like an alien whod been dragged to another planet by my husband because he, as well as they, didnt seem to think producing television shows about cultural and social issues was as interesting as all the things they could build out of lumber.
It truly irks Isaac that people dont respect or appreciate the role wood plays in our lives. That we arent aware of how much we take it for grantedas if itll always be hereand how much we rely on it yet overlook its value to the point we ignore it and its beauty. It would be nice if he still saw me the same way. For about eight of the past ten years it felt like he did.
As Isaac passes behind me, he smells like green apples and fresh-squeezed lemons. For a split second it reminds me of when we used to linger in the bathtub surrounded by sage and lemongrass candles, my back snug against his chest, his arms wrapped around me and our toes making love. Those were the good old days.
I snap out of it.
Now hes pushing my favorite mustard-colored duffel across these terra-cotta tiles with those size-fourteen boots, leaving black scuff-marks behind him as he simultaneously pulls a white sweatshirt over a white undershirt. Its a V-neck and shows the top of a black forest on his chest. If I could, you know I would, I say while checking my e-mail. Of course there are back-to-back messages from Robin: a joke I dont bother to read and an attachment about a new motionless exercise she told me and Gloria about last week that almost had us choking from laughter. She believes almost everything she sees on TV.
You just dont want to go, he says, and starts looking through his pockets to make sure he has everything. He doesnt. I know just about all his patterns. Why dont you just come out and say it?
Because it wouldnt be true. I rarely lie, although Im not always a hundred percent honest. This is one of those times.
Then I guess Ill see you on Tuesday. After rush hour. He walks over, presses his palms against my shoulder blades, gives them a little squeeze, bends over and gives me a peck on the cheek. I dont feel a thing except the scratchy new growth on his face.
You have everything? I ask.
What if I dont? Would it matter to you?
Of course it would matter to me, Isaac.
Right before he gets to the door leading to the garage, he turns and looks at me as if he doesnt believe me. Isaac knows were on shaky ground. Im seriously beginning to think you might be racist.
Hes trying to find a button to push. Im not falling for it. Part of our problem is hes forgotten how to talk to me. Hes forgotten how to ask me a question that doesnt put me on the defensive. All those sessions with the marriage counselorfor some of which he played sick, or was too busy drilling or hammeringarent saving us. Im tired of this war, which is why Im ready to hold up a white flag. Arent you supposed to be picking up somebody?