The Last Good Kiss: A Novel

Prologue

So he’s writing a novel. Up until this point, I have not written anything longer than a grocery list. But, there is one thing that I firmly believe: When I put my mind to something, it’s going to get done. So, I’m going to write a story.

Margo, come down from there, I am yelling. I can see her hanging from the banister and trying to kick her pudgy little legs over. She stops what she is doing guiltily, and plops her behind down on the stair. She smiles at me in that don’t be mad at me, I’m too cute way, and I cannot help but laugh at her.

So I want to tell you about my friends, my family, and my life, just because I figure it’s an inspiring story, or something like it. Who knows, maybe even Oprah-worthy? Yes, this coming from someone whose grocery list is usually cut in half, because she’s tired of writing. Don’t get me started.

Here we go. Enjoy!

One

one year earlier . . .

The look on his face betrayed his message before he even sat down. I knew that he was deliberately avoiding my questioning gaze. I was desperate for good news and he knew it. Yet, there was going to be none of that today. My palms suddenly felt cold and clammy, and the pit of my stomach felt as though it had a sack of bricks dropped directly into it. I gripped the chair, fearing my sudden dizziness might cause me to fall over. Finally, I looked at my mother and marveled at her composure. It was something that I had tried to mimic since I was a little girl. Looking at her proud, self-assured frame made me want to cry instead of sit up straight and play composed. If he was about to tell us that the cancer in her breast was as serious as he had originally thought, I didn’t know if she would even be here to sit so straight much longer.

Zora. How are you? he asked.

She silenced him with a steely and direct gaze. Cut to the chase, buster. What’s the deal?

I’m sorry, he began. The rest blurred in my head. I felt as though my eardrums were on fire, and his words were slowly seeping out onto my shoulders. My breath caught in my throat and I fought hard to control the tears. He was sorry that she was going to die.

. . .thirty percent of one breast . . . into the lymph nodes. Immediate admittance and surgery is necessary . . . , he continued.

Are you certain? I heard myself whisper. My voice came out sounding foreign and strange. Finally, he looked at me with sad, apologetic eyes. I pulled my gaze from his, and finally let the tears come. They dripped down my face, and dampened my lap. I imagined they might never stop falling. I was even more embarrassed when my mother stood up and pulled me to my feet. She embraced my much smaller body, and tucked me into that protective shroud her body provided. It had comforted me when I was small, and the realization that it might not always be there to comfort me, gripped my heart and shred it into a million little pieces. I cried hard on her shoulder because I missed her already and she was still here. I cried because she was comforting me when she was the one that had to deal with the possibility of death.

Two

My father used to tell my mother that she looked like a white woman with black skin. I guess he considered this a compliment. My father had always loved white women. His twin brother, Tony, wouldn’t date white women. He said they were way too fertile.

When I was eight, my mother says I had a meltdown. I developed an ulcer, and stayed in the hospital two weeks. I remember Mom kept telling me I had to learn not to worry and not to stress. She told me I was too young to stress. I remember waking up in cold sweats in that hospital room, my gut hurting as I worked myself into yet another meltdown. The doctor wanted to know why I might be so stressed. He said our focus was to relieve some of that stress. That was what would cure my ulcer. His eyes bore into mine, patiently waiting for me to talk. He wanted a tear or a small clue that I was a little girl just dying to tell my secret. But, my lips were sealed. I had broken his gaze and looked at my mom. She, in turn, looked away from me. Her face was riddled with shame and hurt. I imitated my mother’s silence.

It wasn’t until my dad’s sister, Aunt Marie, came to visit that my life changed.

Tammy, baby, you have to know that your father’s behavior is not a result of anything to do with you. It is not your fault that he is a dog. You need to remember that. Sugar, you need to stop stressing yourself. You and your mother are better off without my brother. You hear? You done made yourself sick and it be tearin’ up your insides. As she spoke, the pain in my gut had returned, and after about five minutes of talking, she noticed that my face was scrunched up in pain. She called the nurse.

Later that night she and Mom got into an argument in the hallway. Mom wanted to know what she had said to make me so upset.

Aunt Marie told her plain as day, Zora, you better change those locks on your door. Do not let that man back into your house. He will kill you. The Lord sent me here today to tell you that. If you don’t listen, he will kill you, and maybe that baby in there, too.

Two days later Mom sat on my bed stroking my head. He’s not coming back, okay? she whispered. No more fights, no more arguments. No more hitting. No more breaking of things. So you stop worrying, okay?

I remember looking at her as though we shared a very private bond. She was mine, and I was hers. I nodded slowly. Then, just before tears sprang to her eyes, she stood up and walked out of the room.

A month after I had been released from the hospital, I was on the porch cleaning my imaginary kitchen with the little girl across the street. A beaten-up hunk-a-junk car pulled up to our curb, and screeched to a halt. My dad jumped out. And, without so much as a lingering glance in my direction, he went to the corner of the yard. Garbage bags, full of his clothes, had been rained on, and burnt by the hot sun. A stray dog had peed on them. He picked up the bags, and walked back down the path to his car without turning back. That was how he left my mother. That was how he left me.

I used to sit on my bed staring at a picture of my mother when she was twenty-one. She looked like a model. It was a mesmerizing picture of her caught off guard in her front yard. Her long hair was lifted by the wind, as she turned around to tell the person not to take the picture. Her face spread into a pretty, playful smile. Her lips covered a perfect set of straight white teeth. My mother has this natural beauty that captivates people—me included. I would sit and wonder how anyone could leave my mother.

When I was a teenager, I used to cry myself to sleep sometimes. I was convinced that I would be lonely and sad forever. If a man could leave a woman as beautiful as my mother, then surely one would leave me. I felt I paled in comparison to my mother. I used to stare at her for hours, and mimic her movements, her speech and her mannerisms. Sure, most children imitate their parents, but I grew to learn that a lot of people imitated my mother. She had that certain something that people wanted to imitate.

My grandmother on my mother’s side is Swedish. She has stereotypical blonde hair and blue eyes. My granddad was from Barbados, which makes for an interesting mix in my mother. My mother is the kind of beautiful that causes accidents.

When I was about fifteen, I once let it slip that I wanted to be just like her. She had been putting on her stockings for church. She turned to me on her bed, and stared me straight in the face.

Why? she had asked.

Because. You’re beautiful. And, you get to be white and black. All the pretty girls at school are mixed, I told her. Her face scrunched up into a pained expression.

You be proud of who you are. Regardless of whether you have a dime in your pocket, or a grand in the bank. Whether you have blue eyes or you’re black as night. Be happy to be Tamara Jones. God made you who you are. That is perfect! There will never be another person like you. You hear me? When I didn’t answer, she looked me square in the eyes, and asked me again. Finally, I nodded.

My mother lived with her parents in Barbados until she was sixteen, and then moved to Jamaica to live with her aunt. That’s where she met my father, Webster Jones. He came from a long line of mechanics, which is a commendable occupation in Jamaica. At first my mother’s aunts didn’t want them to speak. My father was apparently from the wrong side of the tracks. However, based on his occupation, my mother’s aunts allowed them to see each other. My mother claims Daddy had already fallen madly in love with her, and had been busy planning how he would kidnap her from them regardless. My parents dated for a year and then moved to New York. They married a few months after arriving. I was born two years later.

I closed the door of my apartment, my feet aching, my knees sore and my back out of sorts. The minute I kicked off my shoes, and set my briefcase down on the floor, I dragged my feet across the shiny hardwood floor. I pulled my hair down, took my earrings off and unbuttoned my blouse. I was so tired, I briefly entertained the idea of sleeping right there on the couch. I pressed the message button on my machine and walked to the fridge to get a glass of water.

"Tami, it’s Dev. I’m in Manchester. I’ll call you when I get to Portugal next week. Love ya, babe! Bye!"

Devora has been one of my closest friends since grade school. She is a travel agent, and her husband-neglecting ass now travels around the world three-hundred days a year.

"Tamara. Pause. Where are you, child? Pause. It’s nearly five o’clock. Pause. Call me when you get in. Pause. Love you . . . bye!"

That’s my mom. She hates machines, but I think she hates the idea of me living so far from her even more.

The next message was the one that I had been waiting to hear all day. "Hi, Baby, it’s me. How do you feel about a late dinner tonight? I know I saw you last night, but I miss you already. I’m still at work. Call me on my mobile . . . Bye, Baby"

That’s Tyrone Livingston. He is the man of my dreams. I closed my eyes one night after a particularly horrible date, and prayed. I asked God to send me a man that I wouldn’t have to someday daydream about killing in his sleep. I was lucky to have Ty, the man of my dreams, be the man in my bed. Tyrone was a damn good catch. I know that from the bottom of my heart. I wanted his hands on my back, and kneading my calves. He had magic fingers, I swear. I wanted to drape myself across his chest and just fall asleep. Or maybe his back, so I could rub up on his booty. Let me tell you, built like a house. And, skills like nobody’s business. But, I can’t share that. It would be X-rated material. Well, maybe just a little—delicious lips. He is intelligent, he’s successful, he runs an electrical engineering company, owns more than one sexy car, and rents a condo in Westfalls. He was the epitome of every woman’s dream. He didn’t have to ask me if we could have a late dinner. He could come over and read me the recipe on a box of cereal, never cook a damn thing and I would swear it was the best evening ever. His presence was that fulfilling.

I flopped down on the couch and let out a sigh of relief. Every day should be Friday. I flicked the stereo on. Donnell Jones was on the turntable, where he and D’Angelo had been alternating roles for the past month. Okay, so I’m a bit of a routinist. It works for me! Donnell has a voice like honey: smooth, soft and sweet. Not to mention the man has some serious lyrical talent as well. Yes! Donnell, I will marry you. And, it’s alright, too. We have the same last name, Baby.

It was almost six when I finally reached for the phone and dialed Tyrone’s cell phone. He answered right away in that deep, smoldering sexy voice. I loved that. I took a moment to breathe in deeply as if savoring the sound of his voice.

It’s me, I said finally.

I was just thinking of calling your cell phone, baby, he said.

I just got in. I had some things to finish up, I replied, groaning a little. I stretched my long legs all the way down the length of the couch, and rested my arm on my stomach. It lurched. I was starved.

Are you okay? I don’t know why I got butterflies when he asked me that question. I mean it’s an everyday question, right? But when he asked I always felt as though he really cared. I couldn’t help but feel warm inside.

Mmm-hmm . . . how was your day?

Fabulous now. You up for dinner?

Depends what you have in mind, I whispered.

Hmm . . . dinner at Chez Tyrone’s. I hear they’ve got great after-dinner action, he replied.

I laughed out loud. Priceless!

What’s on the menu?

Tamara a là carte.

I burst into laughter yet again. I liked that idea even better. All the girls knew that Tyrone was the most amazing man I had ever been with. It’s strange because I had never once mentioned a word of his . . . okay! Well . . . maybe I had. But I mean I didn’t give them details. Okay . . . so maybe I’d mentioned some. Oh! Who the hell was I kidding? Once a month the girls and I sat down at one another’s place, and gabbed about our boyfriends, our husbands, our exes, our bosses. You name it, and it was on the agenda. The one rule: No men are allowed. Even if he were president of the United States, he doesn’t get access to our group. All eight of us went to high school