Something She Can Feel

“That would never work today. Girls would be acting up just so no one would pick them,” Ashley admitted, and we both laughed.

“Well, I guess that’s why we stopped having the dance.”

The door opened and Sister Davis entered in a flurry. A stack of paper was in her arms and an envelope hung from her mouth. Ashley immediately got up to help her mother.

“Thank you, angel,” Sister Davis said when Ashley took the envelope from her mouth. She leaned onto the desk to take a break.

“What’s all this?” I asked, getting up and taking up the little space that was left in the office.

“Some papers your father asked me to bring in here to you,” she said.

“Oh ...” I scratched my head and looked around the room for more space.

“I know,” Sister Davis said, looking with me. “We need to get you more space.”

“That would be good.”

“I’ll put a bug in your father’s ear about that. You’re doing such a fine job, I’m sure he’ll see to it. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s completely ecstatic to have you here.”

“I know,” I said. While I told him that the time I spent in the office was certainly temporary, just a way for me to get out of the house until I figured out what I was going to do with my life, my father couldn’t stop telling me how happy he was with the situation. He popped in every hour when he was at the church to make sure I was okay and insisted my work alone had changed the face of the church. This was hard to believe. But what was an easier reality was the positive effect my presence was having on our relationship. While things would never be perfect between us because of the complicated past, the situation allowed us to see each other more clearly. He wasn’t the perfect daddy and I wasn’t the perfect daughter. And we’d just have to move on like that.

“Oh, I almost forgot again,” Sister Davis said, pulling a pink pad from her pocket. “I keep your father’s messages here ...” She thumbed through a few pages and then stopped. “I got this message for you on Monday.” She licked her index finger and stuck it to the page to lift it and tear it out.

“What’s this?” I took the message from her.

“Some guy who keeps calling and leaving messages for you on your father’s line,” she said. “I couldn’t spell his name—it’s on the bottom line ...” She reached over and pointed to scribble at the bottom of the page. “Quinkoo?” she sounded. “Is that it? Kwaku?”

“Kweku?” I said.

“Yes, that’s it. He’s called three times. All in one day. Said it’s urgent.”

“Really?” I said, looking at the number and SonySOULjourn written beneath it.

Kweku’s voice, mellifluous but still directive in the way that only an African male’s accent could be, had a way of sticking to me. On the plane it echoed in my mind like a drug, pulling me to open up and let go. And now, after speaking with him over the phone on my way home from the church, it was dragging me someplace else.

The urgent matter, he’d explained after his assistant forwarded me to his cell phone, was that Kweku wanted to make good on his promise. He’d meant everything he’d said on the plane about my voice and wanting me to contact him when I got home to set up a meeting. And when I hadn’t called, he decided to try to get in contact with me the best way he knew how. The new Sony imprint was looking for a defining voice, a lead for the image it wanted to share with the world. He couldn’t promise anything, but he could set up a meeting where key people would hear what he’d heard in Amsterdam. All I needed to do was get to Atlanta and bring my voice.

“What’s on your mind, Journey?” my mother said, lumping another serving of vegetables onto my father’s dinner plate. He looked at it and immediately shifted the section where the vegetables lay away from him. “You’ve been staring off into space since we sat down.”

“Probably got the West Nile from the mosquitoes in the backyard,” my father said. “I told you to stop sleeping out there.”

“She doesn’t have West Nile, Jethro.”

“I want to sing,” I said. Ever since I hung up the phone after telling Kweku I’d consider meeting him in Atlanta the next day, I’d been thinking about it and feeling a need to do what I’d just said.

“Okay,” my mother answered and it was in her face that she’d expected me to give the common answer we’d learned to give as adults when something was on our minds that we either didn’t want to share or hadn’t figured out—“I’m fine.”

“With the choir?” my father asked. “Because you know any one of them would love to have you back and—”

“No, Daddy,” I stopped him. “I mean, go out and sing. Not in the church. I want to be a singer.”

“Well, how are you going to go about that?” my mother asked with her words patterned carefully.

“I spoke to my friend today—someone I met in Ghana ... well on the plane and he’s working for a record label in Atlanta. He wants me to come and meet with some people.”

“When?” my father asked.

“Tomorrow.”