The Bold World Page 15

  Something had happened to Nain that separated him emotionally from his mother. Something bad, painful—too much to talk about, I assumed. He’d been drifting for a long time, just like me. I’d ask a few questions, about his family, very gently, careful not to be the one to cause any additional pain, and I’d hear the anxiety building in his voice and see the tears welling in his eyes. So I didn’t push. If he wanted to share whatever was burdening him with me eventually, that would be fine. But if he couldn’t put it into words, that was okay, too. I knew that if I were asked, I couldn’t have said exactly what had separated me from my mom all these years. But that pain was real and it had stayed with me—perhaps it would for my entire life.

  With Nain, I concerned myself only with the right now, the today, the face-to-faces we were having. What had happened before he stood in front of me and after he left were out of my control. But what I could put my hands and heart around were our moments together. We liked the same music, we both loved laughing, we welcomed more calm and love in our lives. And he liked my resolve: “You’re such a strong woman. If you were my mama, I’d protect you. Not that you need my help. Ha! But I’d do it anyway.” Nain, a little bit each day, was trying to make me his.

  It was obvious that he was a little broken by life—but not entirely broken. Just fractured, sad, beneath his gregarious smile and big almond eyes. He was awkward in this life, dying a bit in this life, but joyful and optimistic still. My heart opened up to Nain—I wanted to pour in him all my love so he could make it through.

  After that month of our talks in the car and his visits at the store, I knew that Nain was a part of me, he was mine—ours. Before it made any rational sense, before I said it out loud to others in the family, I knew, very deeply, that Nain was real, and the strength of our bond was beyond what I could put into words. I had no need for him, no obligation to him—rather, I adored him as if he were my own child. It wasn’t about what he’d done in the past or what he was about to do with his future, or anything other than his right now. It was him, as is, unfiltered, who grabbed me. His place in our family was just waiting for him to fill. Little by little, night by night, that reality became more clear.

  “What do we know about this kid? Who are his parents?” Joe challenged me whenever I brought up the idea of bringing Nain into our fold. All of his concerns made sense, in a logical kind of way. But something about Nain made more sense in a heart kind of way. Regardless of what Joe was expressing to me, I already knew that Nain was part of us. We were supposed to be family—that much was obvious. Joe, for his part, just needed to catch up and get to know him. And over time, through long conversations and hours spent playing basketball, he did, on his own terms. They’d talk about music, mostly, and sometimes about family. Between sharing laughs while shooting hoops on the West Side Pier, Nain also shared some of the sad memories he had of growing up—all with the grace and softness I knew him to have. During those afternoons, Joe witnessed what I’d seen whenever Nain came into the store, or sat in the car with me on Canal Street before jumping out into the night: someone special.

  Eventually, I met Nain’s birth mother and asked if it was okay that Nain join our family. I told her that we loved him, and that we were good people. Then, I asked if I could be another mother to her child. And without hesitation, she said yes. She could tell, she told me, how much Nain loved us. “He’s been calling the kids his siblings for a while now,” she mentioned. Although she didn’t understand it completely, she was willing to embrace it fully if it made Nain happy. I was grateful for her blind faith.

  It was then that Nain became our son, and we all became a family.

  While Nain became a part of our family in the most surprising of ways, looking back, it’s hard to imagine a time when he wasn’t with us.

  I call Nain the Gift. I’d always thought karma was the inevitable sum of your actions making their way back to you. Fate. But as I now understand it, karma is faith—when you believe in something even without reason. It is the exact moment when nothing is proven yet you still believe—and you keep moving with no specific purpose other than to find more love.

  It was Nain, the one who seemed to fall out of the sky one night and land in my busy, hectic world, who reminded me with such gentle force to find love, follow love, be love.

  Everything we do needs to be for love. I would lean, hard and deep, into that lesson in the years ahead.

  NINE

  Penelope

  WHEN JOE AND I FOUND OUT that we were pregnant for the second time, we were living in two different worlds. I was stationed in our loft in SoHo with Cassius and Georgia, and Joe was primarily living in a flat in London. His job in finance had taken him to England for three weeks out of each month, and to what felt like the other end of the universe. Our time zones were different, and our internal compasses were pointing in opposing directions. I was focused on motherhood to our children and on my store, while Joe was living in a world of numbers and decimal points, drilling down in his career, trying to keep up with the momentum he had set over the last ten years as a golden boy in his company of thousands.

  “Can you get away for a weekend and come stay with me, Jodie? London is just so cold.”

  “Babe, I can’t leave Georgia by herself with Ms. Nancy. You know how she gets. And Cassius was a nightmare on the plane last time. Plus, you know I’ve got the store…it’s way too early for the sales team to run it without me.”

  There were real reasons for me to stay put. My life, everything that mattered, was in New York City. Everything minus Joe.

  “Okay, babe. I get it…I’m fourth on the food chain, even after the store!” We laughed together because he was right, in a way.

  “Then I’ll see you in two weeks, babe. Love you.”

  We were moving in separate circles, experiencing life independently, and building up our careers from our own corners of the world. Consequently, oceans began to form between us. Our worlds were different, drastically different. Oftentimes a part of me wanted Joe to step inside my world and experience what I was feeling. In my world, children brought the most glorious revelations each day, and my new business felt just as alive as a new baby. At other times, I was so proud of Joe’s corporate accomplishments that I wholeheartedly supported his going as far and wide as his career would take him, even if that meant being away from us for a bit. He was mastering a brutal industry, one that often didn’t value or support Black men. Watching him succeed under those conditions made me love him that much more. And who was I to stop such a beautiful force of a man? We fought, but we also loved. Joe had successfully stabilized us as a family. I was less afraid. Before, I was a single mom with the notion of loss always swirling around in my head; now I was a mom several times over, an entrepreneur, and a partner to a man of action. I had so much respect for Joe, the man who brought me new life.

  But I missed him all the time. I’d fall asleep thinking about what his bed in London looked like at that very moment—envisioning how the pillows might be tossed or how the sheets hung off the bed. In my head, I saw him getting dressed in those early hours, choosing the suit and tie he wanted to wear, while I watched him from the bed, smiling. He used to get himself together so fast in the mornings, it seemed almost superhuman. As I stumbled around with the kids, in all of five minutes Joe would be showered, shaved, dressed, and heading out the door, a determined look on his face. His focus was on another level. I missed seeing that force moving through the house at seven A.M.

  The time apart had its advantages, though. I rarely had to get Joe’s input before making family decisions. As the only adult in the house, I could do pretty much everything as I pleased. I lined up all our shoes neatly at the front door; drawers remained color-coordinated, kitchen counters spotless, and the couch pillows perfectly situated, just the way I liked them. The kids and I ate the foods I chose—even if they were overpriced—and we read the books I pre
ferred, even if they wanted to watch movies all Saturday long. All the kid rules were mine to make up, and the order of the house was determined by me alone. I could sleep at night with my arms and legs spread wide across my bed if I wanted to.

  And in London, Joe was at peace sleeping late on the weekends, working long hours Monday through Friday, grabbing dinner and as many beers afterward as he wanted. Being apart allowed us to unleash more of our particular, individual ways.

  Those weeks in our own universes, going at life as we saw fit, allowed us to ease our way into a life together. Because this was all new for us: being partners, being parents to multiple children, and being the heads of a complex team. It had been only three years since we started seeing each other and our family had exploded in size, cutting the romance short in order to get right into the business of raising kids and building careers. With kids, there was no room for mistakes, or so it felt—so we moved fast and stayed focused on every area, except ourselves.

  Whenever Joe was home from London, we’d organize family dinners at our loft where his siblings and their little ones would come over and hang out for hours. There’d be an African dish and a Southern dish, along with lots of wine and talk. Furniture would shift haphazardly, a couch to the left, a table in the center of the room, all to accommodate the family. Inevitably a glass or two would spill—“Oh! Cha-laaay!” a brother would yell out, yet no one would make a move to help clean except me—I was always trying to straighten up. “Relax, Jodie, it’s pointless—my family is loud and messy. It’s the Ghartey way!”

  Often we’d take weekend trips to our house outside the city, sitting on the porch in the dark after we tucked the kids in, talking and laughing beneath the stars. Several years before I met Joe, he had bought the house with a dream of filling it with family and kids. There, we’d be reminded of everything we’d built together. We’d catch up not so much on anything in particular, but just listening to each other’s voice, getting reacquainted with each other’s rhythms. We’d go inside and Joe would wrap himself around me on a couch or a rug on the floor in the living room, and we would lie there, simply breathing together. In those quiet moments, it all made sense. We fit together perfectly. It was then that I’d relax into being his wife, no matter the lack of legal papers, no matter the distance, or the obstacles, or the frequent battles for control. Those moments reassured me that we were okay.

  And then in a week’s time he’d return to London, and I’d be reminded of another reality, one in which logistics dominated our conversations: How is Georgia doing in school? What did the pediatrician say? When should I book the next ticket for you to come to London?

  Being so far apart and dealing mostly in logistics was not what I’d wished for in the early stages of our relationship. I thought we’d be together in a park pushing swings, or at home on the couch laughing about how tired we were. But twelve-hour days at the boutique on my end plus the kids, and flights back and forth from London to JFK a couple times a month on his end, kept our schedules borderline insane. Most of the time I was physically exhausted, operating solely on adrenaline and relying on a mere three hours of sleep each night.

  I vacillated between loving my independence and missing my partner. Many a day, I felt like a single mom, wishing Joe nearer. But it was what it was, and at least we never wanted for anything. In fact, we had more than ever before. It was a time full of things, material comforts for our growing brood, but with not nearly enough tenderness between us.

  With thousands of miles in the way, we grew further and further apart. The love and longing that fueled our London reunions in the beginning were replaced by anger and agitation when Joe would come home. We argued over sex, mostly, or the lack thereof. After hours of picking each other apart, sex became the last thing in the world I wanted to do. Eventually, we transformed into something I’d seen in other couples but never thought I’d become.

  I constantly reminded myself: I could either have a busy husband who was tightly wound, or a deadbeat one. I preferred the first, so we’d just have to work around the complications and do our best to stay connected. If there were a few years when we were out of sync, so be it—we would have many years together to make up for lost time when the kids were older. Joe and I as individuals became the least important part of our equation.

  Looking back, that was probably one of my biggest mistakes—not believing in romance, and not insisting on it. We very quickly started to feel like a machine, letting the hard parts just fall by the wayside—not learning how to love each other entirely, as we were. Some nights I’d lie in bed with Georgia and Cassius curled up next to me, Joe thousands of miles away, and ask myself, “Who is this man I’m with?” And I hoped somebody—anybody—would answer back, because I truly didn’t know.

  One night, Amani came over to take me out to dinner. She helped me get the little ones fed and in bed and Georgia situated with Ms. Nancy. With all the kids taken care of, I had several hours to be an unattached adult.

  “All right, quick—let’s sneak out before someone needs you, Jodie.” Amani knew it was only a matter of time before our plans would be totally derailed by the round-the-clock demands of Mama Duty.

  “Okay, but wait, wait—I have this funny feeling…I think I might be pregnant.”

  “Noooo! You’re officially crazy. What would you do with another kid? What would Joe say?”

  She was right. Our hands were more than full. Adding anything else to the pile could very easily topple us over. We went into my bathroom, where I kept a stash of pregnancy tests under my sink. I peed. We waited. And as I had thought, I was indeed pregnant. Again.

  “He’s gonna lose it,” I said, still sitting on the toilet. “This is not what we need.”

  Right away, I nervously dialed Joe in London from the bathroom. It was one in the morning his time, so I thought maybe he wouldn’t answer the phone.

  “Hullo?” His voice was thick with sleep.

  “Oh! Umm, hey, babe. So, listen…We’ve got another one on the way….I’m pregnant.” I waited for the worst response. There was a momentary delay and then, “Cool, baby.” I let out a sigh of relief.

  “I mean, having another kid, this is crazy,” he went on, “but I’ve always wanted a big family. Maybe this one’s going to be a girl! I’d love a girl.” He sounded happy and excited. Maybe this was what we needed.

  Joe and I counted our blessings over the phone that night. We had so much to be thankful for, maybe it was time to start really seeing all the good we had. A new baby was coming. Despite all the difficulties, and all the miles between us, we both felt the shot of optimism coming from inside me. Suddenly, all the pressures weighing on us seemed small and surmountable. This baby—any baby—was without a doubt the greatest gift we’d ever give each other.

  Two months later, we learned from the doctor that Joe was right—we would be having a baby girl.

  Not long after we heard the news, Joe and I stayed up late talking on the phone. I filled him in on my latest doctor’s visit, which, for the first time in my last two pregnancies, was filled with nothing but good news. “She’s growing perfectly, no complications. The doctor says she’ll be much bigger than tiny baby Cassius, but nothing compared to chubby baby Georgia!” I laughed, thinking the idea of a round, healthy baby girl would make Joe smile. After bed rest with Cassius, we were both a bit nervous about this pregnancy.

  “This is ridiculous, living in London while you’re in New York. I’m coming home. I need to be there for our girl.” It caused trouble at work for Joe, coming back when everyone wanted him to stay in London, but he didn’t care, and neither did I.

  We began tossing out different names to call her, maybe Gloria like my grandmother, or Maude or Zora or Madonna or Baldwin. I’ve always liked names that sound old—they come with history. Girls with those names know what they want. They like to kick around the dirt while wearing frilly dresses, a
nd dig up worms after playing with their dolls. They’re sly and mischievous. I wanted all those things and more for our new little girl. For the first time in a long time, Joe and I were both on the same page, excited and without anxiety for the future. Another pretty, opinionated girl would round out the family just right, and I could relax, knowing exactly what to expect.

  I remember thinking, This is going to be a piece of cake—I know girls like the back of my hand. I had beautiful hand-me-down dresses from big sissy Georgia that I couldn’t wait for the baby to wear. I was looking forward to endless girl chatter while we sat for hours detangling our curls in the bathroom—another “mini-me” to snuggle and giggle with.

  When it was finally time, I felt our daughter’s arrival before the doctors did. Normally active, doing somersaults inside me, in the days leading up to her birth this baby was unusually mellow, and it felt strange. I lay on my back in bed one morning and poked at my belly, trying my usual method of exciting her into action, but she barely responded, just slowly shifted her position.

  “Joe, something’s wrong. Baby’s not moving.” I demonstrated with more poking.

  “That’s because she’s tired, babe. It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, let the poor girl sleep.”

  I knew this wasn’t just a sleeping baby, so I followed my instincts, got dressed, and went to the hospital alone to figure out what was going on. I was quickly examined, told to calm down, and advised to come back again in the morning. So I did, and was told once again to go home. That night I lay rigid in bed waiting for the sun to come, and at the first signs of light I went to my personal doctor, who didn’t work on weekends, determined to get some answers. Within minutes of being hooked up to a monitor, I learned that the reason for the baby’s slowness was because she couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating her with each contraction. “Go immediately to the emergency room. Your placenta doesn’t have enough oxygen to support the baby.” My doctor, normally full of jokes and smiles, was deadpan serious. “Don’t stop to make a call, don’t do anything else. Just get yourself checked in. You need to have her immediately.”