deuces HIGH.

On my own. Once again, nowww. One more timmmmme. BYYYYY myself. 

Happy New Year, y’all. I am trying with every thing in me to turn things around in real life. Cocoa’s just a lil’ tied…but she is still here (as much as one who barely writes blog posts any more can be). Seemingly on my own. Beginning again.

No one said it was easy…nooooo, no.

Uhhh. That’s not… That’s not what I wanted — or was supposed — to say.

You know what?

Sometimes, the best way to deal with things/people/situations is to not deal with them. Dealing with emotional shits takes too many cards from the deck. The house WILL fall. Not dealing? Well, if you sacrifice a card or two and then play “deuces high”…

You dig what I’m sayin’, right?

…no?

Le sigh.

Earlier, I had this whole plan in mind. I knew which things I was going to write about in this short post:

• baby giggles
• pink & purple sunsets
• puppies
• crunchy Vlasic dill pickle spears
• Boar’s Head turkey pepperoni
• LHOTP marathons
• other random things that make me happy (like this t-shirt graphic  I designed last month)
• oh, and some encouraging shit, too

But once I accepted that SandMan had stood me up (again) and turned my laptop back on, this is all that would come out. So.

Catch-up with Cocoa

Long time.  No speak.  Heyyy!

I went to the movies the other day.  “No Good Deed” was very predictable but still managed to be an ok movie.  Visually, Idris can do no wrong.  I love his diddy bop; it gives me fever!

Sidebar: Did I forget to mention the scene where he was standing there in nothing but a towel? 

But his American accent has multiple personalities.  Some words are from New York…some are from Atlanta or Florida…others are from London — but they, all, live in the same sentence.  I don’t think Taraji (I love her!) knows how to play THE VICTIM…although, her textbook mistakes in the beginning had me worried for a minute.  All’s well that end’s well.  The bad guy dies in the end.  I give it 3 out of 5 stars.

Every day, I pray for strength/tolerance/patience/whatever it takes to keep me gainfully employed.  It’s SO mentally taxing to do something other than what I really want to do every day.  I thank God for my corp gig and all of the benefits that come with it.  But I also question whether I’m doing the right thing by staying where I don’t feel wanted, appreciated, valued…by staying where I don’t want to be.  The alternative — no way to sustain myself — is not all that appealing.  For now, I’m…stuck.

Suck it up, cupcake!

An old friend passed away recently.  I hadn’t seen him in a long time.  And even though it had been on my mind to reconnect with him for the last couple of years, I never did.  Now…I never will.  Still don’t know the exact details of his death.  Smalltown rumors — I can’t truss ’em.  In my heart, I believe his lifestyle (for lack of a better word) was the culprit.  He’s resting peacefully now.

I will never forget you, Regg!

Yet another reminder that tomorrow is not promised to any of us.

Yes, Honeypot is still around.  Sorta.  I’ll write about him…in detail…in a separate post some time this week.

I have SO many things in my head!  My problem has always been…FOCUS.  I’ve printed 3 designs so far; but sales have been slow.  I am NOT a salesperson.  I have t-shirts in my trunk, on the backseat, underneath my desk at work, and in my Create Space at home…just waiting for me to find them a new home.  I know, I know.  I’m trying to do better.  But the uncomfortable truth is — I need a team.  It’s hard to find people with drive to match my drive…people that I can depend on…people that aren’t afraid to fail.  So, I keep trying to do everything by myself…

…which doesn’t exactly work because I don’t know how — or want — to do everything.  

My cousin — my kindred spirit — asked me to make a logo for a (potentially) HUGE project she’s working on.  Got my fingers crossed for her.  I want her to win…so she doesn’t get discouraged and give up on these creative shits…because she deserves to win, finally.

Speaking of…this is majorly DOPE!

Gotta show love for the fam.

In typical Cocoa fashion, it’s almost time for my alarm clock to go off…and now, I’m sleepy.  Guess I’ll try to get this nap in before I start my day.

Happy Monday!

End of Me/If I Was a Bird (a recurring dream)

OPENING SCENE

The scene is a beautiful, garden-like boardroom.  A pool of clear water is in the center with chairs all around it.  The ladies enter – all wearing long, flowy, white gowns and sparkly jewelry.  They look like fierce angels…and they are!  This elite group is made up of R&B/Soul female artists, past and present.  They, each, take a seat.

An emergency meeting for The Sista’hood has been called to order to devise a plan to save a future member of this legendary organization – Fantasia Barrino.  Their reflections on the water fade as snippets from Fantasia’s life story begin to play.  The music starts…

REFLECTIONS

1 – Fantasia is a little girl.  Her mother, the pastor, calls her up to the podium in church.  She lifts Fantasia up onto a chair and lowers the mic for her.  The churchgoers smile and clap for her as she sings.

2 – Fantasia is a teenager.  She sings in church with the choir backing her.  Churchgoers sit with tears streaming down their faces, arms outstretched.  Others faint.  Fantasia’s confidence and showmanship have greatly improved.  She kicks off her shoes and struts throughout the church and the pulpit as she sings.

3 – Fantasia is a college student.  She studies in the library.  She laughs and talks with friends on campus.  She goes to open mic night at an establishment and sings.  The crowd gives her a standing ovation.  A handsome young man approaches her and gives her his card.  They begin dating and he quickly becomes her boyfriend.

4 – Fantasia is a professional singer.  Her boyfriend controls every aspect of her career – what she sings, what she wears, who she talks to, what she eats, and etc.  He abuses her, physically and emotionally.  He isolates her from her family.  She begins dressing very sexy and develops a chemical dependency.

THE GARDEN

The Sista’hood has seen enough.  Patti LaBelle volunteers to take on this rescue mission.

THE AUDITORIUM

5 – Fantasia is on stage performing.  She sees her boyfriend flirting with a girl in the crowd; and then he leaves with her.  When she leaves the stage, she is overcome with sadness.  As the tears begin to fall, her pace quickens.  She hurries into her dressing room and pours herself a drink.  The door opens and Patti walks in.  Fantasia walks over and hugs her.

MUSIC BREAK

A glow begins to form.  The spirit of The Sista’hood surrounds them.  The light continues to grow until it completely fills the room.  Light is all that can be seen.

ON-STAGE

6 – The opacity lowers, revealing a beautiful Fantasia on stage.  She is wearing a white, long, flowing gown with sparkly jewelry in her hair and draped over parts of her body.  She performs “If I Was a Bird”.

7 – During the performance, Fantasia has flashbacks of packing her things and moving out of her boyfriend’s house…of moving into her own spot and buying a ticket home…of showing up at her mother’s church and singing with the choir.

8 – At the end of the song, Fantasia stretches her arms out by her sides and creates waves that travel from her shoulders to the tips of her fingers and back…an homage to Patti LaBelle.

Crimson Shakes: Round X

Brook Noe

“And you’re sure no one other than staff has been in her room?” Darrell Chandler sat erect in the chair across from Dr. Mohammed. He appeared every bit as uncomfortable as Dr. Mohammed felt.

“I’m positive. Everyone has my direct orders.”

“And when you are not here?” Darrell questioned.

“When I am not here, my orders still remain firm. No one is to go into your wife’s room unless authorized by me directly.” Dr. Mohammed stood from behind the medium sized desk and adjusted his lab coat. “Now if you’d like, I can take you to see your wife. She’s awake now.”

Darrell’s phone chimed several time as he pulled it from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. From the other side of the desk, Dr. Mohammed could see a picture of a woman on the screen. He could surely guess who was on the other end of the phone by the slight smile that came across Mr. Chandler’s face. He spoke a few words into the phone in a gentle tone and then directed a louder voice to Dr. Mohammed. “It can wait. I have to take this call.”

“It can wait? It?” Dr. Mohammed repeated in a mumble to himself the question of insult to the woman this man had made vows to. He walked over to the door and excused his self from his own office. Outside, he fumed at the audacity of such a person. He’d met many people in his career as a physician in six different countries, but never had he encountered such a person. It disgusted him.

Moments later, more than a phone call interrupting a man going to visit his pregnant wife warranted, Darrell came from the office. “Now where were we?”

“We were going to visit your wife, Mr. Chandler.”

He brushed away invisible lent that always seemed to sit on the front of suit jackets tailored to the bodies of important people when they were uncomfortable. “I won’t be doing that today. I simply came by to speak with you and make sure my requests were being followed.”

“Indeed sir. Your demands are being taken care.” Dr. Mohammed let his personal feelings about Darrell slip out on the tone and choice of his words. “Your requests, I mean.”

Darrel gave a devious grin to the doctor and proceeded to walk away. A few feet away, he stopped and turned back to face a waiting Dr. Mohammed. “Dr. Mohammed. Khalid, is it?”

“Dr. Mohammed is fine.”

Darrell came closer, within a whispering distance. His shoulder parallel with the doctors. His chest broader. His stature a bit taller. “Khalid. You listen to me and listen good. I know you’re a new doctor here from India, Pakistan or whereever it is you come from. But around here, in this country, in this hospital, on my grounds…the name Chandler is the one you know, respect and damn near worship like your big fat ass Buddha Gods. Now, I won’t waste my time asking you if I make myself clear, and I surely wouldnt want to waste your time having to answer me when you should be moving those little legs of yours to rush off and make sure the best care is given to that child in that wife of mine’s stomach. But I will leave you with this. If you ever get even a thought rolling around in your mind between all your medical know how to disrespect me again, losing your job and medical license to practice anywhere on this entire planet will be the least of your worries. Now lets call this a friendly goodbye.” Darrell turned and pulled both sides of his suit jacket closed with a single gold button as it laid smoothly across the front of him. He headed towards the elevator again. Dr. Mohammed stood as still as a statue, frozen by the bite of Darrell Chandler’s words long after he’d begin to walk away. Again, Darrell turned back to the doctor, this time only his head. “Oh Dr. Mohammed.”

Doctor Mohammed didn’t respond.

“Namaste. Isnt that what your people say. Yeah. Namaste.” He smeared a smile across his face and winked before turning to finish his walk to the elevator.

When he was gone, Dr. Mohammed rushed to Marla’s room. She was sitting in the bed with her pillows behind her. Marla had a glow that arrived when Mr. Pallard had come through the door and it was still with her.”

“Where is he, Doctor? Where is my husband?”

Still shaken by Darrell’s words, he spared her the details of his visit. “He had a call. He said he would come back.” Dr. Mohammed lied. “He left.”

Marla crinkled her nose and laid back against the pillow. She knew for herself what had happened. She’d been married to the Chandler ‘important meetings’ long enough to know it was the escape of dealing with whatever was to be avoided. “Its okay. He’ll come at some point.”

“Mrs. Chandler? Do you…”

“No please don’t call me that. Call me Marla.” She raised her head from the pillow. “Hell, you can call me anything. Just don’t call me that.”

“Forgive me.” Dr. Mohammed gave a slight bow of his head. It was his culture. It was the respect he felt such a pretty bird deserved. “Marla. Do you really want him to come visit you? You want to see that man?”

“Dr. Mohammed. I know everything about having me as your patient goes above what you are supposed to do in treating me as a doctor. But believe me when I tell you this isnt just some romantic affair gone wrong between Mason and I. We didnt set out to fall in love, make a baby and run off into the night together.  The circumstances of being Mrs. Chandler have me here. It has you here. None of this is accidental.”

“I’m sorry I don’t understand. I did not choose you to be my patient.”

“Oh I know that.” Marla pulled at a stray strand of hair tickling at her shoulder. The sun light that lit the room slowly walked out as the sun hid behind a cloud. “But it doesn’t make you safe and immune to what you are now a part of.”

Dr. Mohammed shook his head in disbelief and headed back towards the door.

“Dr. Mohammed,” Marla called behind him. “Believe me when I tell you to be careful. And that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what.”

“For ending up in your world.”

Dr. Mohammed reached for the door handle. “Everything will be alright. You just get some rest, Mrs… I mean Marla.” When he opened the door, he was startled by the man standing in front of him.

Crimson Shakes: Round IX

KRP-Sims

“Pennington. Pennington Mental Health and Psychiatric Facility. What the hell? How did Marla end up in a nut house?”  Mason clicked the link for the About Page on the facility’s website. His dark brown eyes quickly scanned the words.  His brows went up and then slowly came back down, forming a murderous scowl on his face.  Chandler.  Various Chandler family members had held positions ranging from presidents, doctors, administrators and advisors in the facility’s one hundred plus year history. They owned that facility and everyone in it; including Marla.

Mason laid down his tablet, walked over to the customized mahogany bar in his game room and poured a glass of cognac. He stared blindly at the gold colored liquid before tossing it down his throat. He blew a hot breath and formulated a plan.

“Dr. Mohammed, a Mr. Pallard is here to see you.”

Dr. Mohammed signed a release form, adjusted his tortoise shell glasses and looked up at the nurse. “Pallard? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“He said you two spoke late last night.”

“Goodness! Mr. Pallard, Mason Pallard. Yes, yes, yes send him in, send him in.” Dr. Mohammed opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out Marla’s file.  “Come in.” He replied to the firm tap on his door.

“Dr. Mohammed? I’m Mason Pallard.”

Mason Pallard looked exactly how Dr. Mohammed imagined he would. Exactly the type of man Marla should be with. Over six three, muscles everywhere, magazine features and a deep voice that made him even tremble. A damn good-looking man. He could only smile and accept the strong smooth hand that was extended to him.

“Mr. Pallard, please have a seat.”

“Thanks. Listen Doc, I’m not going to waste either of our time nor play any games.  I’m a very straightforward man. Where is Marla, and why is she here?”

“I understand Mr. Pallard.”

“Call me Mason.”

“Okay Mason. Marla was brought here almost a month ago.  She was hysterical, delusional and combative. Our first concern was to calm her down to reduce the risk of injury to herself, the baby or our staff.  So we chose…”

“The baby? Marla’s pregnant?”  A slow smile crept across his generous sensuous lips.

“Yes, yes she is.” He consulted his notes. “She almost seven months. That’s why we had to be careful with the type of medication prescribed for her. Mason, I have to be straightforward with you as well. All this information I’m giving you is confidential. However due to the situation and circumstances surrounding her I feel I can trust you.”

“What do you mean Doc?”

Dr. Mohammed scanned the memorized notes. He didn’t want this man to know how much he truly cared about Marla.

“Marla’s ah, husband Darrell Chandler brought her here. He said Marla was telling people she found him dead and that he was having an affair with her best friend Sheila Lofton.  He said she also kept talking about someone named Mason who didn’t exist. He said he wanted her kept here, preferably sedated until the baby came. Besides him, she was to have no visitors or phone calls. Mr. Chandler has been here once and calls every few days to check on the progress of her pregnancy. But he never asks about Marla. I find that strange. Until last night when I spoke to you I thought you were a figment of her imagination.”

“No Doc, I’m 100% real.  The baby Marla is carrying is mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Doc, not only am I sure, I bet you Darrell Chandler knows too.”

“But why would he be interested in a baby that possibly isn’t his?”

“Pride, public humiliation, inheritance, but pride mostly. There is no way a Chandler male would ever admit that his wife cheated and is pregnant by another man. However it had to become public somehow that Marla was pregnant so he has to go along with it.”

“Mr. Pallard, ah Mason, if this is your baby and you and Marla are in a relationship, how is it that you didn’t know?”

Mason shook his head. “Doc how much time do you have? Because not only am I going to tell you what happened to me, I’m going to tell you my plans for Marla and my, my…”

“Your son?”

Mason swallowed, “Yeah Doc, my son.”

“Dr. Mohammed, she’s awake now.  She’s asking for you.”

“Mason, I’m going in first and prepare her. Marla’s mental condition is delicate and I don’t want any shocks at this time, okay?”

“Just hurry up Doc, my entire world is in that room.”

Dr. Mohammed walked out of his office.  “It must be exhilarating to be someone’s entire world.”

Marla’s trembling hands fidgeted with her hair. She readjusted her robe and tried to quiet her heart, but to no avail, Mason was her heart.  She felt him before his hand turned the knob. When he entered the room and their eyes connected, time stood still in anticipation of their reunion. He buried his face in the curve of her neck.

“I promise to never leave you again my love.”

“And I promise with everything in me my love to make sure you don’t.”

Mason stepped back and noticed the fullness of her breast and roundness of her stomach. He knelt before her and kissed her stomach. “My son.”

“Our son.” Marla ran her hands over his head, “our son.”

“Our son.” He stood, kissed her passionately and then led her to the bed. He set her down and then pulled the small chair over to the bed and set down. “Marla, right now all I want to do is crawl up in that bed and never let you go. But we have a matter that has to be dealt with, Darrell Chandler.”

“Yes, I know, but he’s not the only one.”

“Who else?”

“His partner in crime and his lover, She-She.”

“Damn, She-She? But I thought she was your friend!”

“So did I Mason, so did I. But she’s going to burn right along with that bastard. It’s all I’ve thought about since I got here.”

“Me too my love. It’s all I’ve thought of ever since I woke up in a hospital in Denver, Colorado under a fictitious name. A hospital with ties to the Chandler family.”

“Denver! That’s over 1500 miles away! How did he manage that? How are we going to stop this? Because as long as there is a possible Chandler heir, he is never going to let me go! I want this madness to end! I want us to be together forever, you and me and our son! What are we going to do Mason?” She put her face in her hands and began to cry.

Mason pulled her into his lap.  “Marla, Marla, listen to me. Look at me. “She lifted her face and looked into his eyes. He kissed a tear as it ran down her cheek. “We’re going to make both of them pay, permanently. This is what we’re going to, so that by the time our son is born, we’ll be Chandler free.”

Their kiss was interrupted by the door opening. It was Dr. Mohammed.

“Mason, please hurry and follow me. Mr. Chandler is getting out of his car and will go directly to my office.  I can keep him there while you leave. I can’t risk him finding you here. I’ve heard stories that it would cost me more than my job.”

Marla and Mason stood. He kissed her again.  “Are you ready? Do you remember what you have to do?”

“Yes, my love I’m ready.” They kissed again and then Mason followed Doctor Mohammed from the room.

Marla lay back in bed, smiling for the first time in months. She had the proverbial stone and was ready to kill as many birds as possible to get what she wanted.

Crimson Shakes: Round VIII

Cocoa Brown

“Doctor,” the first nurse said, “the patient is still refusing to eat, but her vitals are fine.”

“And the baby?” he asked without looking up from the chart.

“The baby’s heart rate’s within normal range now.  And his development is right on target.”

“Very good.  Thank you, nurse.”

Dr. Mohammed walked into Marla’s room and stood there looking at her.  “Such a pretty bird,” he mumbled.  He held her wrist between his thumb, index, and middle fingers for a full minute.  He released it and was startled when the metal grommets embedded in the caramel leather straps clanked against the bed rail.  “Sorry!” he whispered.

“Mason?” she moaned.  Her voice was hoarse.  Her throat, dry.  “Mason?”  Again, she called out…a little louder this time, “Mason, where are you?  Where are you?”

“Shhh,” the doctor said and gently tapped her hand.

“Mason?”

“Marla, do you know where you are?” he asked.

She tried to open her eyes but they were swollen from crying.  Her lids were heavy from the constant stream of drugs coursing through her veins.  “Wa…,” she struggled, “…-ter.  P…please?  Wa-ter!”

Again, he stood there watching her, admiring her beauty.

“Wa-ter…please!”

“Oh, I’ll get some water for you!”  This time, Marla’s words had broken the spell Dr. Mohammed seemed to be under.  He walked over to the sink and removed a cup from the protective wrapping.  He turned the cold water on and let it run for a few seconds before filling the cup half-way.  “Here you go.”  He lifted her head just a little and pressed the rim of the cup against her full, dry lips.

She took a few sips and then turned her head slightly.  The water spilled onto her chin.  “SHIT!” she screamed.

“I’m so sorry, Marla!”  Dr. Mohammed chuckled, “Looks like somebody’s finally awake!”

“Oh, you think that shit’s funny?” Marla chastised.  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I apologize for my inappropriate response.  Please forgive me,” he begged.  “My name is Dr. Khalid Mohammed.  I have been taking care of you ever since you arrived at this facility.”

“Facility?” she tried to sit up but failed miserably.  “Where am I?  Take these off of me!”

“The restraints are for your own good,” Dr. Mohammed reassured her.  “You were very feisty when you came here.  It took 3 nurses just to get your IV in!”

She looked down at her arm and followed, with her eyes, from the bruising around the tape and gauze to the bag hanging from the metal pole and back to Dr. Mohammed.  “Mason…where is he?” she asked with tears in her eyes.

“Mason?  I’m not aware of…”  He picked up her chart and quickly scanned over it again.  “Is Mason your husband?  There was a gentleman here a few weeks ago.”  Something on the chart caught his eye.  “Ah!  Yes, your husband…” he paused, “…oh, it says here that your husband is Darrell.  Is that right?”

Marla fell back on the bed, tears streaming down into her ears.  “Yes,” she exhaled, “Darrell is my husband.  Where’s Mason?  Can you find out where he is?  If I give you his number, will you call him for me?  Please?  Please, Doctor?  I just need to know that he’s okay.”

“Let me get a nurse for you.”

“No!” she sat up, resting on her elbows.  “Can’t you do it?  Please?  The phone’s right over there.  I’ll give you the number.  Please, Dr. Mohammed?”

“I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty lady,” he joked.

Since her arrival at Pennington Psychiatric Hospital, Dr. Mohammed had gone out of his way to take care of Marla.  He had become obsessed with her and spent every available moment in her room…watching her sleep.  He often fantasized about her – she was the popular girl who dated the school geek.  She found his intelligence…sexy…and dared anyone to speak ill of him or of their relationship.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?  Oh, I’m sorry,” he regained his composure.

“Yes?  You’ll do it?” she asked, filled with hope.

He picked up the receiver and said, “What’s the number?”

A huge grin spread across Marla’s face.  “Um…it’s um…,” she struggled to remember, “It’s 555…24…35.  Yes, 2435!  That’s it!”

Dr. Mohammed repeated, “555-2435?”

“Yes, yes!  That’s it!” she confirmed.  Marla was overcome with joy.  “Finally,” she thought, “I get to hear my baby’s voice!”

“Are you sure about the number, Marla?” Dr. Mohammed asked.  “It says this number doesn’t exist.”

“Of course, I’m sure!”  Marla was nearly hysterical.  “555-2435!  555-3425!  No…it’s, it’s…555-4435!”

Dr. Mohammed hung up the receiver.

“No, no!  Dr. Mohammed, please!” she begged.  “It’s just…”

“There, there, Marla,” he said to her in a hushed tone, attempting to soothe her.  “Don’t upset yourself.  Think of your baby.  Relax.  We’ll try again tomorrow, ok?”

“TOMORROW?!” she shouted.  “No, no.  It’s 555-2…no, it’s…555-2…435.  Yes.  That’s it.  That’s what I said the first time, right?  555-2345!  Dial that.”

“Marla, don’t try to remember right now.  I’ll come by to visit you tomorrow, and we’ll try again, ok?  Maybe your mind will be clearer and we’ll try again.  Don’t worry, ok?”

But Marla couldn’t hear him.

“Just dial it again, Dr. Mohammed!  DIAL IT AGAIN!  555,” she cried out, “2335!  No, wait…555-3555!  555-2545!  MASON!  MASON, WHERE ARE YOU?  PLEASE?  I JUST NEED TO KNOW THAT HE’S OK!”

The door flew open and two nurses came rushing in.  The first nurse rushed over to Marla and attempted to calm her down.  The second nurse approached Dr. Mohammed and spoke to him.

“Doctor?”

“Give her something to relax her,” he instructed but did not speak to either nurse, in particular.

“Should we call her husband?” the first nurse asked.

“What good would that do,” Dr. Mohammed responded.  “He hasn’t called or come by here to check on her for weeks.  It’s as if he left her here to rot…only calling to check on the status of the baby.”

The first nurse was surprised by Dr. Mohammed’s response.  She brought a syringe and bottle of medicine over to the doctor and watched him draw 10 cc’s into the syringe.  Then, she stuck Marla’s thigh and pushed the drugs into her body.  “What about the baby?” she asked Dr. Mohammed once Marla began to drift back into a drug-induced sleep.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Mohammed said.  “I had hoped she just had a hormonal episode and would be more lucid by now, but that doesn’t appear to be the case.  Has anyone been able to find this ‘Mason’ guy she keeps asking for?”

“According to her family, there is no ‘Mason’,” the first nurse said as she exited the room.

“Her family…or her absentee husband?” Dr. Mohammed asked the second nurse.  “I’m beginning to wonder about that fellow.”

Darrell’s long absences struck the doctor as odd behavior.

“That fellow,” the second nurse asserted, “is Darrell Chandler.”

Dr. Mohammed paused for a moment.  The second nurse’s assertion said that he should know exactly what she meant.  Then, it came to him.  “…as in ‘The Lizzy Chandler Foundation’?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“But,” Dr. Mohammed looked at the chart again, “I don’t see anything about that in the notes.  Seems like something would be in here to let everyone know Marla’s a VIP.  I mean, she’s a Chandler.  More importantly, she’s carrying a Chandler heir.”

“Dr. Mohammed, you’re fairly new; so I’m gonna do you a favor.  I’m gonna give you some sage advice that I wish someone would have given me when I first started working here.  But…I learned it the hard way,” the second nurse confessed.  She positioned herself right in front of him and spoke in a hushed voice, just above a whisper.  “Don’t ask too many questions when it comes to the Chandlers.  When they’re concerned, it’s best to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear.  That’s old money.  They own this hospital.  They own the bank.  They own the factory.  They own this whole area and most of the souls in it.  Keep your head down and mind your own business.”

Dr. Mohammed wanted to laugh it off, but he couldn’t.  He knew the second nurse was genuine and knowledgeable.  He had recently accepted her letter of resignation with no real explanation for why she was choosing to leave.  Now, things were beginning to make sense.

“Nurse…”

“Just be careful.”  Her eyes filled with water.  “Please be careful.  Be careful who you talk to about the Chandlers.  Be careful what you say.  These walls have ears…and eyes.  And sometimes,” she warned, “people just…disappear.”

The second nurse wiped her eyes and blew her nose before she calmly walked out of the room.

Dr. Mohammed repeated the nurse’s words to himself.  He looked at Marla and felt such pity for her.  He wondered, “Where did you come from, pretty lady?  How did you get here?”  He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small tube of Carmex.  He squeezed some onto a tissue and gently rubbed the moisturizer on Marla’s cracked lips.

“Dr. Mohammed?” the second nurse had stuck her head inside the door.

“Yes, nurse?”  He was embarrassed at the possibility of someone witnessing him caring for Marla in such an intimate way.  “What is it?”  He was somewhat relieved to see that it was the second nurse.

“Doctor, the Residents are waiting to go on rounds.”

“Ah, yes,” he remembered.  “Thank you.”  Dr. Mohammed saw bruises on Marla’s wrists.  He knew they were fresh because he had not noticed them there when he took her pulse.  “Nurse, will you please wrap some gauze around the wrist restraints?” he asked.  “Let’s make her as comfortable as we can.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

As the two passed each other, the second nurse intentionally bumped into Dr. Mohammed.  He felt her hand brush against his pocket.  Their eyes locked and they paused very briefly, mid-stride.

“Pardon me,” Dr. Mohammed apologized.

“No need.  It was my fault, sir.”

Dr. Mohammed walked down the hall and greeted the Residents.  He took them on rounds and tested their knowledge all morning.  After that was done, he retreated to his office.  Marla was all he could think about.  And the second nurse…

“Why did she bump into me like that?” he thought out loud.

He reached inside both pockets and emptied the contents out onto his desk.

“Stethoscope…prescription pad…syringe…gauze…penlight…notepad…” he took account of the items now spread across his desk, not sure what he was looking for.  “Mints…gum…paper clip…card…”  He tossed the business card aside and then, a moment later, he picked it up again to examine it more carefully.  “Where did you come from?”  He couldn’t recall meeting anyone new that day.  Then, he remembered the second nurse…how obvious she had been when she bumped into him.  “But why would she put this in my pocket?  ‘PALLARD, LLC’…should I know what this is?”

Dr. Mohammed stared at the card for a moment more.  He took mental note of its condition.  It appeared to be worn.  There were creases, indicating it may have been crumpled – perhaps discarded – before.  He finally turned it over and noticed writing on the back.  The handwriting belonged to the second nurse.  He recognized it from the notes she often left on his patients’ medical charts…so tiny and neat and legible (completely opposite from his own).

“Please call M. Orvette Pallard,” the note said.

Dr. Mohammed didn’t fully understand what she meant, but his curiosity got the better of him.  He picked up the receiver and then looked at the card again for the number.

He read the card out loud, “PALLARD, INC, 555-4235…oh, my!”

He felt a surge of excitement go through his body like electricity.  The card flew out of his hand.  The number was too similar to the one Marla attempted to recall earlier.  And he didn’t believe in coincidences.  He took a moment to collect his thoughts and then, he bent down to retrieve the card from the trashcan.

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes, come in, please,” Dr. Mohammed responded, shoving the card inside his pants pocket.

“Doctor, the patient in Room 212 is asking to see you,” the Resident nervously said.

Dr. Mohammed went about business as usual for the rest of his shift, slipping into Marla’s room from time to time, hoping she would wake and answer the questions mounting in his head.  But she never did.

At 7:15 that night, he turned out the light and locked his office door.  The whole drive home was a blur.  He was so distracted by recurring fantasies of rescuing Marla from a tower guarded by a dragon named “Chandler”.  He pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine of the car.  But he didn’t get out.  Instead, he reached for his cell phone and then stared at the keypad.  He dialed the number on the card.

“Fear of the unknown,” he breathed.

The phone rang twice and then a female voice answered, “You’ve reached the voice mailbox of M. Orvette Pallard.  Please leave your name, number, and a detailed message after the tone; and I will return your call at my earliest convenience.  Thank you!”

Dr. Mohammed ended the call before the beep sounded.  The outgoing message had not answered any of his questions, really.  He decided he would call again and leave a message this time.  But what would he say?

He started to dial but his phone began to ring.  It was the number he was calling.

“This is Dr. Mohammed,” he answered.

“Dr. Mohammed?  Um, did you just call this number?” a male, baritone voice asked.

“This number?”  Dr. Mohammed asked.  He was suddenly very nervous.  “Yes…yes, I dialed this number.  With whom am I speaking, please?”

“My name is M. Orvette Pallard, sir.”

“Hello, Mr. Pallard.  I’m not sure where to begin.  You see, I’m not quite sure why I called you,” Dr. Mohammed confessed.

“How did you get this number?”

“Well…someone gave me your card.”

“A client?”

“No…a nurse.”

“A nurse?”  Mr. Pallard inquired.  “Which hospital?”

“Pennington.”

“Pennington!”  Mr. Pallard’s voice raised a few octaves.  “Sir, have you seen Marla?”

Those four little words took Dr. Mohammed’s breath away.  Although he was still a bit confused and a little frightened of what he might be getting himself in to, that moment, he committed to help Marla at whatever cost.  He worried that, if he didn’t, they would keep her hidden away, medicated…just long enough to give birth to the next Chandler heir.  Then, what would become of her?

“Hello?  Dr. Mohammed?”  Mr. Pallard panicked.  “Dr. Mohammed, are you still there?  Have you seen Marla?  Do you know where she is?”

“Yes.  Yes, I’m here,” he answered.  “She is in my care at Pennington.  Forgive me…how do you know her, Mr. Pallard?”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for her!  I was very sick for a while; and when I woke up, I was in a different hospital in a different state and no one would tell me anything about her!”  Mr. Pallard’s voice cracked when he spoke.  He obviously cared for Marla very deeply; and knowing that made Dr. Mohammed want to help him, too.

Dr. Mohammed’s on-call alert sounded.  He looked at the screen that read, “911”.

“Mr. Pallard,” Dr. Mohammed began, “I’m sorry.  This is an urgent page from the hospital.  I really must call in.  Can I call you right back?”

“Please!  Please call me back!”

“I certainly will.  I will call you back at this same number in just a few moments, Mr. Pallard.”

“Mase.”

“What did you say?”

“Please…call me Mase or Mason.”

Crimson Shakes: Round VII

Brook Noe

When Marla came to, her cell phone was still in the slight grasp of manicured fingers. Rubbing the side of her hip, she made her way from the twisted position she awakened in to the chair. Quickly, everything came back to her and she remembered. She remembered the text message. She remembered the blood. She took a breath and remembered Mason.

“Mason.” She exhaled his name. “Darrell. Oh God.”

She limped back into the office to where she remembered Darrell’s near dead body had been. Turning the door knob, she walked inside and nearly passed out again in shock. Every piece of paper in its place. The desk was cleaned spotless and the floor…the floor was freshly vacuumed. And Darrell, his body. She couldn’t believe it. He was gone. She rushed into the room where her husband’s lifeless body had been. Dropping to the floor on her knees, she held her chest and begin to sob. “What the hell is going on? Am I losing my mind?” She rubbed her hands from her forehead down the sides of her face with open palms, holding it. “I know he was here. I am not crazy and imagining any of this. ” She reached for her phone beside her in the place she’d just remembered her husband’s head laying. “I’m going to backtrack. If I can just trace my steps I’ll be able to understand. Just breathe Marla.”

She clicked through her cellphone to the photo gallery. Panicking, she hit the next button again. And again. Then again. “What the fuck is going on?!?! Where is the picture?” Marla pressed the screen of her phone into the text message history. She scrolled to Darrell’s last message to her. Surely, she must not have saved the picture as she thought.

Darrell Chandler 1:28pm: Hi babe. Hope you’re having a great time at the convention. Wish I could be there with you and the baby. Tell me, does it feel like a boy or a girl? Im sure its going to be a boy. He’s going to carry on the family name. How do you feel about him being a junior? Hit me back when you get a chance. I love you. You know who.

“Okay now I know I am loosing my mind.” Marla sat the phone on the floor next to her and stared at the base of the mahogany desk beside her. “That message was not on my phone. Where the hell did the picture go? What is going on?”

Just then, she noticed the flashing voicemail indicator. She remembered Dr. Jordan’s call. Or did she? Had that been a part of this really bad dream she must be in the middle of. Was Mason really awake.

“God please let that part be real.” She dialed the voicemail passcode into the phone and hit the speaker button.

Thursday, 1:32pm. “Hello? Marla? Marla are you there? Are you okay? Was the call disconnected? Please give me a call back and let me know you are okay. This is Dr. Jordan.”

“Thank you!” She pressed the hangup button and pressed the phone to her bosom before getting up from the floor. Still, the limp followed her into the kitchen where she’d place her purse when she came in from the airport. She dug inside for her keys and dropped her phone in the side pocket heading back for the front door.

In the hospital parking lot, she whipped into the first open space and darted to the main entrance. The elevator to the seventh floor seemed to take forever illuminating each number on the panel. “Im coming baby. Im on my way.” She thought of Mason’s eyes, open and awake. Surely he must have been as anxious as she was for them to see each other. Finally the ding of the opening elevator door chimed. She made her way down the corridor to room 714. At the closed door, she stopped and undid the top button of her shirt and smoothed her hair in the reflection of the glass. “May as well welcome him back the right way.”

She opened the door.

“Oh Im sorry. Is this not the room for Mason…”

The elderly man, with strong italian features stared at her from the oxygen mask covering most of his face. A stout woman, appearing italian as well sat beside his bed looking at Marla’s over exposed cleavage.  Neither of them responded verbally to her. “Im sorry. I must have the wrong room.” She backed out into the hallway closing the door behind her. Marla looked at the glass she’d just checked her reflection in moments earlier to double check the room number. “714.” She shook her head. “What are you thinking Marla? Dr. Jordan said Mason woke up. They probably moved him to another room in a recovery area.” She walked the few yards to the nurses station where a woman with high cheekbones and a perfect weave wrote numbers onto a roster. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where Mason Orvette has been moved to?”

The nurse smiled at her and grabbed another clipboard from the other side of the desk. “What’s the name again?”

“Orvette. Mason Orvette.”

“Im not seeing that name? Could it be listed a different way?”

“No. That’s his name. He was in room 714.”

“Let me check another list, give me a second.” The nurse went into a side room and came out scrolling her finger down another roster. “No 714 is where Mr. Vitto is and he’s been there for several days. Are you sure you have the right room number.”

“Yes!” Marla realized she was hollering. “Yes. Im sure. Mason Orvette. Room 714. His doctor, Dr. Jordan called me today and told me he was awake.”

“Im really sorry ma’am. But I don’t have any patients listed at all on the floor roster or the hospital log at all with that name. What did you say his doctor’s name was?”

“Jordan.”

“What type of doctor is he? Im not even familiar with that name?”

“What do you mean? He’s a doctor here. I’ve been sitting in this hospital in that waiting room for days for Mason to wake up. Dr. Jordan has been keeping me up on everything that’s been happening with him.” Marla had tears streaming down her face. She was losing it and everyone in the hospital hallway could see it. Another nurse walked up behind her and touched her shoulder. Marla nearly swung around and toppled off balance, but the nurse caught her waste. “Its okay. Let’s sit you down.” She directed Marla to the waiting area.

“No, I don’t want to sit down. I want Mason. I want to know what’s going on.” She broke into a full blown cry and screamed. “What is going on?”

Crimson Shakes: Round VI

KRP-Sims

“This is not happening! This is not happening!!”

“Ma’am, are you okay?” The maid stuck her head out the bathroom door.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I’m great!” Marla threw back the covers with such fierceness she knocked the lamp, clock radio and phone from the nightstand.

“Ma’am, are you sure…”

“Yes! Listen come back later, I have things to do.”

“But ma’am…”

“Get the hell out of here!”  Marla watched the woman gather her cleaning supplies and scurry from the room.  The sound of the squeaky cart grated on her nerves but she listened to it until it disappeared.  She set back on the bed and looked at the picture and message again. “U not the only one who can fly.”

I cannot believe Darrell would screw some skank and then send me the picture! How could he cheat on me? Why would he cheat on me? I know I please him sexually the times I can stand him touching me, and I know a man has needs, but… “Wait a minute.”  Marla looked at her phone again. Upon closer inspection she noticed the black butterfly tattoo on the woman’s behind.

“What do you think Darrell is gonna say when he sees that butterfly across your butt? You think he’s going to try to spread its wings?” She-She laughed.

“Hey sister you gotta be still.” The tattoo artist told her.

“Sorry, my bad.”

“Girl please, he probably won’t even notice it. My husband is one of those missionary, lights off, in and out type men. The kind of man that has very nice equipment but unless I give him step by step instructions on what to do and how to do it, I wouldn’t get the little satisfaction I do.”

Twenty minutes later Marla and Sheila stood in the mirrors with their generous derrieres exposed and their twin black butterflies tattoos in flight.

“Sisters forever!” They laughed in unison.

“She-She? SHE-SHE! Oh hell naw not you! You my girl, my sister! You and Darrell! I can’t believe this!”

Marla closed her eyes, tried to release the hurt of her friend’s betrayal and formulated a plan. Satisfied, she exhaled loudly. She untangled the hotel phone from the abused comforter and called the front desk.

“Yes, can you send the housekeeper back to my room; I have something I need her to do.  I also need you to check flight times and schedule a cab to take me to the airport. I’m leaving as soon as possible. No everything was fine.  I have to get back home, family emergency.”

Marla turned the key, unsure of what she would find inside her house, but she was prepared to do battle. She was not ready to let go of Darrell just yet. It had nothing to do with love and everything to do with money. She needed his funding to see her through until Mason prayerfully recovered.

Marla had plans, big plans about who and what she wanted for her life. Mason had money, Darrell was rich and her plan was to be wealthy.  Marla vowed that she would be damned before she let that gapped legged Sheila spoil her plans.

“She must have forgotten I don’t share my toys and I don’t play well with others.”

Quiet. Empty. Darrell wasn’t home. She pulled the large Louis Vuitton luggage down the impressive foyer and left it by the staircase. Her stomach growled loudly and she realized she hadn’t eaten a single morsel of food that day.

Marla walked into the opulent kitchen and flipped the switch.  After placing a hastily made turkey sandwich, bowl of leftover spaghetti, and a huge slice of chocolate cake on a tray, she grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the cooler and walked towards the foyer. As she passed the door of Darrel’s office an unfamiliar sound stopped her in her tracks.

She listened, hearing nothing she took another step when she heard it again. Growing up in one of the roughest projects in the city, Marla wasn’t afraid of things that went bump in the night but she hated the unknown.

“Darrell?” She set down the tray and opened the slightly ajar door.  “Darrell?” Files and papers covered the room like Times Square confetti. The small conference table was overturned and its chairs ripped and scattered.  “What the hell happened in here?” Marla noticed the lighted lamp lying on the cream Abusson rug and bent to pick it up; Darrell’s blood smeared face came into view.

“Oh my God Darrell!!” Marla noticed the blood soaked shirt and involuntarily stepped back.  She closed her eyes and thought what should she do? He looked closed to death anyway, so maybe she should wait before she called the police. But they would piece together her flight from South Beach, the time the cab dropped her off and her delay in calling them. She could say she didn’t know he was in there. But then they might accuse her of trying to kill him. She looked around the room again. Someone was looking for something.

“Marla.” The raspy sound that emitted from her husband was surreal. She looked at his face and knew no matter how much she wished him dead she couldn’t leave him like this.  She didn’t see his office phone because of the chaos, so she went into the foyer and grabbed her cell phone from her purse. Just as she pushed the button to make her call she heard a voice.

“Hello?”

“Hello Marla?”

“Yes, Dr. Jordan?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

Marla slid down into the chair in the foyer that she dared Darrell to even look at.  Her heartbeat raced and her throat became dry. She closed her eyes.

“Dr. Jordan is Mason…is Mason…” Her lips wouldn’t allow her to formulate the word that would crush her very soul.

“Marla he woke up. Mason woke up this afternoon and has been asking for you ever since. Marla? Marla are you there? Hello?

The shock of Mason’s recovery, lack of food and finding her husband almost dead were too much.

Marla unceremoniously fainted.

Crimson Shakes: Round V

Cocoa Brown

She was still.  His arm rested across her hip, her head glued to his chest.  She listened intently to his rhythm of life, convinced his heart only beat strong like that for her.  Her goodies were the sweet nectar he craved.  After all, what would life be like for Pooh Bear if he couldn’t have his precious Honey?  She lifted her head and kissed the area still moist from her sweaty silhouette – a test to see if he was still awake.  When he didn’t react to her kisses, she had the green light she had patiently waited for.

She eased out of bed and quietly tip-toed to the bathroom, grabbing a duffle bag along the way.  Afraid that the light would wake her lover, she closed the door and re-lit one of the big, lavender-scented candles still sitting next to the bathtub on a sea of fragrant petals.  And then, using only the flicker from the flame, she stood staring at herself in the mirror as she carefully wiggled into a black lace corsette.

“Do you think she knows?”

The sound of her lover’s voice startled her.  She had taken such care to be quiet and not wake him.  But obviously, she had failed.  He had entered the bathroom and walked over to the toilet unnoticed until he spoke to her.

“Pooh!  I almost pissed myself!” she screamed.  “Does who know, babe?  Marla?

“I really don’t care if she does,” he sang.

“Cold-blooded!” she laughed.

He shook off his penis and playfully rolled his hips before he walked over and stood behind her.  “She’s so busy tryna figure out how to explain that baby,” he whispered seductively in her ear, “I seriously doubt that she’s even noticed.”  He gently nibbled on her lobe and mistakenly swept a tuft of hair into his mouth.  He immediately started dry-spitting, attempting to remove the blonde strands from his tongue, “Man, why you still got this wig on?”  He playfully snatched her hairpiece and threw it to the floor.  “There.  That’s better.  I like your natural hair.  You’re a beautiful, sexy woman.”

“How much longer…”

“Is now too soon?” he interrupted.

“You wanna tell her…now?”

He promptly left the bathroom and returned with his cell phone in hand.  He flipped the light switch on and then stepped out of his burgundy boxer briefs.

“What are you doing?” she asked.  But he didn’t give a verbal response.  Instead, he started snapping pictures of sections of his nude, muscular body.  Then, he turned the camera to focus on his lover’s…manicured toes…toned legs…black thong…the laces of her corsette…perky breasts…

“Oh my God.  Are we really doing this right now?” she asked in disbelief.  She hopped up on the vanity counter and began striking provocative poses.  “And just what are you gonna do with these pictures, Pooh Bear?”

Still, he did not speak.  He continued on, capturing digital reminders of their mid-day romp, pausing only to insert himself inside the frame.

Eventually, the sexy poses turned into a scene from a steamy novel – the one where the vixen ends up bent over a chair with her lover entering her from behind.  The warmth of her moist flesh drove him closer to the brink of insanity with each thrust.

He smacked her left cheek and spoke at her in an aggressive tone, “Look at me!”  And she obeyed.

“YOU LIKE THAT, DADDY?” she belted out.  His thrusts hurt in the best way.

“Say my name!” he shouted at her.  “SAY MY NAME!”

“OH, DARRELL!  I’M COM-ING!!!”

Her body quaked uncontrollably.  He withdrew his rod and began stroking it, tapping the tip on the curve of her bottom.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.  Again, she obeyed.  He sowed his seed in the curve of her back.  A moment later, he backed away.  Both bodies floated to the floor, wonderfully spent.

“Who are you texting?” she asked, surprised to see the phone still in his hand.

“My darling wife,” he smirked.

“Seriously?”

“Yep,” he answered, matter-of-fact.

“Is that what this is?  …revenge?”

“You know what this is, SheShe,” he laughed.  “It’s too late to play the victim.”  Darrell got up and turned on the shower.  “You coming in?”

“In a minute.”

Sheila picked up Darrell’s phone and looked at the message he had just sent.  Her mouth flew open and her eyes filled up with tears.  A cropped picture of their connection point…semen dripping down her thigh.

Crimson Shakes: Round IV

Brook Noe

The passing weeks were an emotional roller coaster. It would have been easier to enjoy the breeze coming off of the ocean as I sat on the balcony if it weren’t for the constant vibrating of my phone and the pounding headache I woke up with. I ignored the phone and readjusted the wet rag laying across my closed yes. The empty chair I rested my feet in should have had Mason’s sexy butt in it. Instead, it held my bare feet with toes that needed badly to be polished.

I was bored. Restless. And tired entertaining the thought that next month, if Mason hadn’t gotten better by then, I would be hiking in Arkansas by myself too. We had an agreement, like vows. To enjoy life, together and experience all there was to savor about it. Every month, until death do us part, we would go somewhere, do something, we’ve always wanted to do. He was a more than my lover, but truly my best friend. South Beach was our June trip, and here I was with chipped toenail polish staring at me overlooking a beach I had no desire to be at. But he would have insisted. I could hear Mason’s voice in my thoughts telling me, ‘Babe its already paid for,  and you deserve the experience with or without me there. Go.” So I went.

In the bathroom, complete with double sinks, a double rain shower and TV inside the frost free mirror, I sifted through the black hole for the polish I’d grabbed in the last moments of packing. Crimson Coral was more than appropriate for the beach. It even went well with the cream Ann Taylor suite I packed for the conference I told Darrell I would be attending here in Miami. He looked at me, with both hands on my shoulder as if I was some kind of boy scout. I wanted so badly to run from his goofy smile and mushy words.

“Babe, I think you are glowing.  And here I thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful than you already are.”

Pregnancy was not suiting me well. It was the pain in the ass I had not banked on or put into my plans of the second half of my life with Mason. But neither was him laying in a hospital like a vegetable. Neither was having the deal with his mother and her constant calls and text messages asking me about his affairs that she could not get to. It was all too much. I opened the fingernail polish on the balcony, hoping the open space would rid the fumes from nauseating me more and feeding my headache. I was wrong. Bad move. The bottle spilled onto the glass table as I brushed pass it running for the bathroom. I made it to the front of the door, inches away from the sink and toilet.

A knock at the door broke me from the four legged dog position I was in, with my body heaving over the pool of vomit on the floor. I couldn’t respond and the maid service assumed I was not in the room and let herself in.

“Ma’am. Are you okay?” Her latino accent came across my mind as mumble jumble as I barely made out the words. “Here, let me help you to the bed.”

She cupped her arm around my waist as I lifted to my knees. Reaching for the rag I’d dropped, she stopped me. “Leave it. I will get you a fresh one. Let’s just get you up from the floor.” In the bed, she placed a cool rag on my forehead and a glass of fresh water with another glass of ice cubes next to it. She put a straw beside it as well.

“I am so sorry for the mess.”

“Shhh. You just rest now. It is okay.” She pulled the covers up like a mother tucking a child. She looked to be about the same age as me, with hard work and difficult times painted into her eyes beneath a bad application of mascara and eye shadow. “I’m just glad I came to check your room when I did. Are you here by yourself?”

Why did she have to remind me? Why was I not here in the arms of Mason, letting the breeze kiss the afternoon dew left behind by morning lovemaking? Why was I in South Beach, a place he had wanted to go to for years, without him? I’d visited Miami several times, for both pleasure and work, which made it easy for me to pass the story off to Darrell about needing to be here for four days to attend a conference. “Yes, I’m here by myself.”

“Oh its such a beautiful place, I can’t imagine being here alone.” She spoke loudly to me from the bathroom where she was cleaning up the vomit. “All of the palm trees and the pretty ocean. Its so nice. And at night, all the dancing and food.” She walked to the cart she had in the hallway outside the open door for a different bottle of cleaning fluid then returned to the bathroom. “I would just bring my man to a resort like this is and we would…”

“Have five more wild kids like the ones you already have running around!” A voice from another latina cleaning lady shouted into the room from the hallway. The both laughed. Even I laughed from the bed.

“Colleen please. This lady is resting.” She yelled back to her coworker. It was then that she looked up at me from the floor where she was on her hands and knees and I saw the depth of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Its okay.” I sat up to take a sip of the water then remembered my phone and all the vibrating text messages. The sound of the reminder alert had faded into the background of the rolling ocean waves. I through back the covers and swung my feet around to the floor.

“Oh no. You should not get up.” She was up from the floor and beside the bed before I was fully standing. “You need your rest.”

“I need my phone.”

“Let me get it for you.” She held the covers up for me to slide back under them. “Where is it?”

I pointed to the balcony. When she stepped outside she noticed the spilled fingernail polish. Handing me my phone, she winked at me. “Crimson Coral is a very sexy color.”

“Oh goodness. I’m so sorry. I forgot all about the mess I made out there.”

“No worries. I have nail polish remover in my purse. I can clean it up after I finish the room. You don’t worry about anything. You just rest.”

I couldn’t. Not after the first message of my phone flashed before my eyes.

My life was over.