never really spoke to one another. Yeah, we’d get through the day-to-day, negotiating compound and complex sentences within each other’s presence, but these were all empty, demandless developments. Jamison would tell me that my cell phone was ringing in the den or ask me if I needed anything extra when he was going to the store, but other than that, the only smiles or laughter we shared was when our heads were pointed at the baby. If he’d seem to crack a smile or belch so hard his little body would shake, we’d laugh and look at the beautiful thing we’d made together with great pride and love. But that was it. The “talk” Jamison wanted to have never happened. When the baby came, it seemed impossible. It wasn’t that I wanted to be the perfect family and pretend Coreen never existed. Instead, I was afraid of what I might do next.
The thought of the whole thing, of everything that was going on in my life outside of Tyrian made me feel like I was going to start screaming again and I did not know if I’d have the ability to stop. I was sure I’d lose control of myself again and the thought of that happening in front my child frightened me.
But that didn’t stop me from feeling what I was feeling. When Jamison would walk into the house, my head would be full of questions. Not necessarily about whether he’d seen Coreen, but about how many times he’d walked into the house in the past after having been with her and wrapped his arms around me, and slept in my bed with her still on him. The thoughts stung me and, to be honest, I was simply afraid to really open that can of worms. So instead I’d roll my eyes when he walked into the room. Turn my back when he was getting ready for bed (he’d had sense enough to take up residence in one of the guest bedrooms). And mostly pretend he wasn’t around.
But little, helpless babies who can do nothing when they are first born grow every day, and with each day, Tyrian seemed to want and demand more from us. He needed us on the spot, together. Or he’d cry and cry. Isabella couldn’t calm him, Aunt Luchie couldn’t calm him, and he hated my mother; but whenever Jamison and I would sit together and play kissing games with his hands, our son with the piercing eyes would sit quietly and soon drift off to sleep. It seemed Tyrian had another plan for his parents, and while we were trying hard to live with each other by living apart, Tyrian wasn’t having it. “He’s been here before,” Aunt Luchie said once as Jamison and I were forced to sit on the couch in Tyrian’s view. “He’s got an old soul. You can see it in those brown eyes.”
Tyrian just laid back in his carrier, his eyes half-focused on the two of us and if one even seemed to shift to move, he’d break out into his little pleading cry—even if he was asleep.
Our son was making our six-bedroom house quite small, and avoiding one another was becoming difficult.
When Jamison came in from a meeting he’d had with a new landscaper, I was sitting on the couch in the den, watching Tyrian nurse as I enjoyed doing seemingly every minute of my life. While my mother was strongly against breast-feeding, claiming it was completely crass to do in public, everyone at the hospital kept saying it was “best for the baby,” so I decided to give it a shot, for the first month or so anyway. Plus, one of the nurses let me in on a little secret, that the baby weight went faster when you breast-fed. This news came just as I was on the fence about the whole thing. But while I couldn’t decide, I was desperate to lose weight, so breast-feeding it was. This was no easy task, especially at four in the morning when both Tyrian and I wanted to sleep, but Aunt Luchie, who’d been staying with us to help out, insisted that I feed him on the clock, sleep or not.
“You two okay?” Jamison asked, poking his head into the den to ask his usual stupid question for the day. It was amazing how nearly everything that came out of his mouth sounded asinine to me now. Of course we were okay. We were sitting in the den, quietly. What did he think was going on?
“We’re fine,” I responded flatly and smiled at Tyrian, who stopped sucking when he heard his father’s voice. “Your mother called about an hour ago. Right after you left.” Isabella told me that the witch had called. I wasn’t answering the house phone.
“I know; she called my cell phone. I went over there to see her.”
I just shook my head. This was extra information I hadn’t wanted nor asked for. He knew we weren’t communicating like that. I didn’t care about his comings and goings. He didn’t seem to want to tell me where he was going when he was on his way to see Coreen, so why should I care now?
“She wanted to talk about Thanksgiving, next week,” Jamison added, introducing a conversation without my participation. In fact, he walked past me and sat on the other side of the couch.
“Okay,” I said, moving Tyrian from my breast and to my shoulder to pat his back.
“She thinks we should have it here . . . the dinner.”
This simple announcement would’ve been accepted in any other household, but at this time and in this place it sounded like the announcement of an execution, a machine gun firing into a crowd. Tyrian punctuated his father’s words with a resounding belch. I felt his little body shake on my chest, and while I wanted to strike out at Jamison, I knew I couldn’t. I simply closed my eyes and prayed for patience. Jamison knew damn well that I hated having Thanksgiving with his mother. Those kinds of relationships just weren’t suited for holidays. Jamison and I had spent six of the first ten years of our marriage at my uncle’s house in Augusta with my mother and the other four times we were apart, as he’d gone to be with his family. This was also how we did Christmas, Easter, and any other holiday when black people felt a need to gather around the table. I couldn’t stand his mother and I wasn’t about to start pretending now. Not in my own house. I married the man, not the mother, and I was in no mood to put on a show. Not even with my son in the room.
“Here?” I said finally, my eyes still closed, my mind still in prayer. “We’ve never had any holidays here.”
“Why not? We have the space. A formal and informal living room, two dens, a media room, kitchen, six bedrooms, it’s the perfect place to have a big family Thanksgiving like I used to have when I was young,” he said. “We can invite people from both sides of the family. So everyone can come see Tyrian. A lot of people haven’t seen him yet.”
“He’s only two weeks old.”
“He’ll be three weeks then, past the time when the doctor said we can start letting people come over.”
“Tyrian, where are you?” I heard Aunt Luchie calling from the kitchen. She’d taken to calling his name throughout the house whenever she was on her way to him. “Don’t hide from your Aunt Luchie.”
Jamison and I sat frozen, our eyes averted as if we didn’t want anyone to know we’d been speaking.
Aunt Luchie appeared in the living room, fully dressed in an overcoat.
“There you are,” she said to Tyrian’s back. “Hiding in here with Mommy and Daddy.”
She came over to me and gently took him from my arms.
“Off for our first official walk,” she said, obviously trying her best to ignore the tension in the air.
“Oh, no, he’s not ready yet. He could catch a cold,” I said, getting up from the couch.
“Child, sit down,” Aunt Luchie said so forcefully I had to sit down. “It’s a beautiful day outside and this child has four snowsuits. He’s no more likely to catch a cold than any of us if I wrap him up right. Plus, it’s time he got some real air. And that you two had some quiet time.”
“But I was just about to—”
“To do what?” she cut me off. I dared not say anything. Aunt Luchie was usually smiles and hugs, but when she put her foot down, that was it. I was angry, but not crazy. The last thing I wanted in my house was an angry old black woman. Her eyes went from me to Jamison, just begging us to say something.
“It’s settled then,” she said. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so. After that, I’m sure he’ll be exhausted; I’ll take him right upstairs for a nap.”