Choose Me (43 page)

“He gon’ apologize to me?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then I ain’t apologizing.” He slapped the air like he was swatting at a fly.

“Don’t be stupid, Ronnie. If he presses charges, you
will
go in this time. You like this place?”

“I don’t know. I could get used to it,” he said unperturbed, but he wasn’t fooling me.

“Yeah, okay. You do that. You get real nice and comfortable,” I said indifferently, getting up and heading for the door. I
felt myself deteriorating, even though I had been sitting most of the morning. I could feel a fever coming on and congestion
in my chest, which meant I was probably getting an upper respiratory infection. From now on, I wasn’t going to put any extra
effort into people who didn’t want to do for themselves.

“Yo, that’s it? You gon’ give up on me that easy?”

I turned to look at him, my hand still on the door. He was standing up, his arms spread wide, his face hard with bravado.

Normally, I didn’t use my disease as an excuse for anything, but I was fed up. “Ronnie, I’m going through some serious stuff
right now. In a couple of months, I’m going to have major surgery. In the future you’re going to find that this petty stuff
is nothing compared to what life’s got in store for you. You’ve got to learn to put things into perspective, decide which
battles are worth fighting for. Sometimes you’re just going to have to submit.”

“I submit to no one but God,” he said bitterly. “Then do that.” I knocked on the door to notify the guard I was ready to leave.

“Mr. Black, Mr. Black,” Ronnie called out. “Hold up, hold up.”

I turned around again, my eyes narrowed from exhaustion, impatience, and the pending fever. “What is it, Ronnie? I got things
to do.”

“Can I… can I just talk to you about something right quick?”

Ordinarily, it was at this point where I would be swelling up inside, proud of myself for getting through to another troubled
youth. But the past week had been an emotionally draining one for me and I didn’t think I had any more compassion to lend.
I couldn’t even fake it. Then I looked into Ronnie’s pleading eyes, crying loudly for help. I gestured to the guard that I
wouldn’t be leaving just yet.

After leaving Floremont, I found myself driving toward Montrose Harbor. I parked the car half a block away and walked the
rest of the way since the parking lot was closed for the season. Whenever I felt a need to escape for some solitude, I drove
to Montrose, secretly hoping that I’d run into Eva. But I never did. She either stopped going or we kept missing each other.
In spite of this, I kept going back because being near the water made me feel something I hadn’t expected: a sense of invincibility,
like I was the last man alive on earth and not even death could touch me.

Most of the time, few people braved the frigid wind-chill factors and the icy winds, which were harsher closer to the lakefront,
confirming Chicago’s much-deserved nickname. Even though it was March, huge chunks of ice still floated in the lake and the
Chicago skyline looked like gray icebergs in the distance.

Today, however, there were city workers walking around, measuring the landscape, taking notes. I had read in the paper that
they were going to be renovating many of the lakefront beaches, an estimated billion-dollar project. Ordinarily, the allocation
of government funds for beautification purposes rather than for the city’s needy social programs would really set me off,
but not today. Today, my physical and spiritual health was at stake.

It turned out that Ronnie didn’t really want to talk about anything, he just didn’t want me to leave. So even though my eyes
were beginning to burn from the fever, I sat and talked with him about anything and everything until visiting hours were over.
Traveling down Lake Shore Drive, the words I had said to Ronnie kept coming hauntingly back to me:
Sometimes you’re just going to have to submit.

There were many times I felt something pushing me toward God, a gnawing feeling I couldn’t quite explain. At first, I thought
about re-dedicating my life to Christ to get closer to Eva, to understand her, be a part of her world. Then later, I thought
it would bring her back to me. In the end, it was just plain old fear, fear of cancer, fear of death. I had started praying
more often, but it wasn’t the same as allowing Him in my life, completely. I didn’t want to be like my father, on his deathbed
when he got saved.
Some people got to see the light before they see the light,
Mama had said about Daddy.
When was the right time to come to God? What was the right reason?
I wondered.

Walking on the bottom stepstone closest to the frozen water’s edge, I tried to remember the day I first accepted the Lord,
when I was twelve. While I couldn’t remember the exact words I had been instructed to say, I remembered being dunked backward
into the church’s baptismal pool, holding my breath, waiting for Jesus to enter my soul. When I emerged from the water and
opened my eyes, my mother was the first person I saw. Seeing her glowing face was like seeing God’s light beaming down on
me.

With my shoe tips perched on the edge where the stone ended and the ice began, I waited for the words to come to me, wondering
if I should be down on my knees. I tried to recall the words my father spoke.
Lord Jesus, I ask You to come into my heart
…

“Lord,” I started. “God …”

“Don’t you go jumpin’ in ’ere,” I heard someone behind me say. “Cuz I ain’t gonna save ya.”

I turned around slowly to see a city worker lumbering down the steps, his barrel chest leading the way, busting out of his
city-issued jacket. He was carrying surveying equipment and he wore a crooked smirk, like he was looking forward to witnessing
a suicide.

I gave him a dismissive laugh. “There’s only one person who can save me,” I told him, surprised by the authority in my voice.
The words were not mine; they had come to me seemingly from nowhere. But I knew they came from somewhere, someone else. Someone
who had been trying to come inside for the longest time. Someone who had always been there from the beginning, after I had
turned away, and was still there, now that I was trying to come back.

The man’s sneer disappeared as he walked away, almost slipping on a patch of ice.

I turned back around and got to the matter at hand.

“Lord, I feel like You’ve been trying to tell me something,” I whispered. “If this is what it is, give me the right words.”

And He did.

THE ELEVATOR DOORS
opened and I got on, my nose buried in a book about gunshot victims and posttraumatic stress disorder in
hope of deterring anyone who wanted to talk. At first, I thought I was alone because the elevator was so wide, since they
used it to transport patient gurneys and large equipment. But after I pressed the button for the top floor and walked to the
elevator’s rear, I looked up from my book and noticed a man leaning against the wall near the number panel on the other side.
His head was bowed and his eyes were closed like he, too, was purposely avoiding eye contact, or maybe praying. Then he raised
his hands at his waist and folded them, the index fingers and thumbs touching.

He wore a blue bandana, which was tied on the top portion of his head, and I could see that the back of his scalp was bald,
but not in the way when men shaved with a razor. There were no razor bumps or hair follicles, and I realized that his baldness
was a side effect from disease. I had seen others like him here before, men and women of all ages, children and even babies,
with no hair, wearing baseball caps, scarves, and other headwear. Some patients went bareheaded, modeling their baldheads
without shame. Usually, they were on their way up from, or down to, the basement, the “lower concourse” as the hospital referred
to it, as if the fancier name concealed the hazardous radiation and chemotherapy treatments taking place on that level.

As the elevator stopped on alternating floors letting people on and off, I noticed the man remained in the same position,
like a statue, his lips moving silently. People stole curious glances at him, but he didn’t look up. His clothes hung off
him like the teenagers who had created the oversized, sloppy dress mode that had yet to go out of style: cargo pants sagging,
an extra-large plaid shirt with sleeves hanging down past the knuckles. But he wasn’t a kid. The higher the elevator went,
the less people remained until we were all alone.

I must have made a noise in my throat, or sighed, I can’t remember, because he looked up slightly startled. And then I saw
the glasses on his face, amber colored and wire rimmed, sliding down his nose as he slowly lifted his head. But it was the
shaggy eyebrows that stunned me, still thick and cryptic, more contrasting than before. My heart began pounding uncontrollably,
and I touched my chest as if to keep it from pushing through my blouse.

Our eyes met and we both smiled as we walked simultaneously toward each other and hugged, like old friends, my arm around
his neck, his around my back. Unable to resist, I reached up and touched the back of his head.

Adam.
His name was on the tip of my tongue, but what came out of my mouth was, “Your hair.” I thought of Eli when he had chopped
off his tresses.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, just as awestruck.

“My son’s with his therapist. Then he’s got physical therapy, for his leg. You know, because of the shooting.”

“Right. I remember. Eli. I was so sorry to hear about Tony.”

I didn’t reply, just slightly nodded, not wanting to talk about it. Contrary to what everyone said, talking about my pain
didn’t make it easier. I was tired of saying “thanks,” which seemed an inappropriate response to condolences. I knew it was
proper etiquette, but decorum was not on my priority list.

“How’s Eli doing?”

“Much better. He had a rough time for a while, but he’s going back to school in the fall.”

“To ISU?”

“No, no. He’s transferring to North Carolina. That’s where he … my sons were born there and we still have family there. The
change will be better for him.”

“So you’re going to be all alone?”

“I still have King.”

“Ah, yes. The beast.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my baby,” I said, smiling.

“Baby?” He smiled, and then his face turned serious. “How are
you?
”

“I’m doing good, considering. How about you? I heard about the cancer coming back.”

“Yeah. My hair wasn’t so lucky this time.” He ran his hand over the circumference of his head, pulling off the bandana. His
scalp was smooth, a lighter shade of butterscotch. There was now a bump at the bridge of his nose that gave him a Roman or
Aztec look, and I recalled the day his ex-brother-in-law had broken it. It still looked painful, but it suited him, complemented
his new haggard look.

“You coming or going?” I asked.

He glanced up at the numbers flashing higher and higher. “I was supposed to get off on the second floor. To the parking lot.
I was kind of out of it when I got on.”

Then I remembered that the last time I had been with him on an elevator, I couldn’t even look at him. “I’m going up to the
sun deck. Want to come?”

He nodded as he tied the bandana back on his head. We reached the twentieth floor, the sun deck, where I had come many times
in an attempt to reconnect with God. It was too warm, a little stuffy, but the sun filled the enclosed deck with glorious
light. At the end of the deck, a man sat facing a woman in a wheelchair, the woman’s head bent back in laughter. When she
brought her head back up, I could see how thin and frail she was, a White Sox baseball cap turned backward on her hairless
head. Adam waved at them, and I surmised that she was a cancer patient.

I searched my purse for change to put in the coffee-vending machine, but he reached into his pocket and brought out two quarters.

“Thanks,” I said.

He bought a bottle of water and we sat down in the lounge chairs facing east, where we could see the Chicago skyline and Lake
Michigan very clearly. I started thinking about Montrose Harbor, about the last time I had been there, when I had my catharsis,
and the time before that, when I had been there with Adam.

He tapped my hand. “So, how are you,
really?
”

I shook my head slowly “It’s been hard since, you know … But I’m dealing.” My eyes swelled with tears and I bit my top lip
to keep them from spilling, turned away from him so he couldn’t see. It had been five months and I still could not say “Tony”
without getting a lump in my throat, still could not look at his photos without getting weepy. Recently, at another college
fair, a potential college student introduced himself as “Tony.” Instinctively, I replied, “That was my son’s name,” before
bursting into tears. I didn’t know if it was just hearing the name or because I had used the past tense in referring to him.

“You’ve lost weight,” Adam commented.

“So have you.”

“Grief and disease, guaranteed diet plans,” he remarked.

We drank our respective beverages quietly, both of us periodically glancing at the couple talking and laughing.

“Did you get my package?” he then asked.

“I did. Thanks.”

“Did you recognize the passage? The last verse in Proverbs; a virtuous woman.”

I nodded, and sipped my coffee quietly. It was horrible watered-down coffee, but I drank it anyway. It kept my hands and mouth
busy.

“So, did you like the CD?” he prodded.

“Yes. It was all very thoughtful. Thanks.” Sometimes I played it, to test myself, to remind myself of the superficial things
on which I had placed so much value instead of remembering the important things in life, like keeping God first.

I decided to change the subject before he went down memory lane. “Hey, I heard your screenplay was being opted for a cable
movie.”

“Yeah. I met this agent at the hospital, of all places. His brother was in for chemo. So we’re in negotiations.”