I Left My Back Door Open Read Free Page A

my man.
    When I opened the door to my artsy-fartsy-rehab condo, my talkative cat greeted me as usual. I imagined that my orange and white fur child was cussing me out for not being there to feed him at the exact moment that he wished to eat. I set his bowl on the glazed countertop.
    â€œHave no fear, your spinster’s here,” I said, even though technically I wasn’t a spinster, because I’d been married before. It didn’t matter to Langston, just so long as I was reaching for the cat food.
    I sighed, glancing at the copper pots and pans hanging overhead. “Langston, sometimes I envy you. It’s hard to be black and female.”
    My cat’s unsympathetic green eyes seemed to say, “I’m not in the mood for a pity party.”
    After feeding Langston, I checked my voice mail. The first message caused me to drop the bills and birthday cards that I was sorting through. It was Dr. Hamilton’s British accent informing me that there was an opening in the incest survivors’ support group at my HMO. Would I please give her a ring back?
    I felt my body tense up at the mention of the word incest. I didn’t want to think about it, let alone sit in a group and discuss it. I’d called the hospital at a weak moment, right before Christmas. I was having nightmares again, and the holidays were harder than usual. My stepfather was in intensive care in a St. Louis hospital. I was debating whether to confront him about what he’d done, before he died.
    It was also almost ten years since my mother passed. Last Christmas, my younger sister, Alexis, was busy with her son and new husband in Philadelphia. And my older brother, Wayne, and his family were tucked away in Matteson, a Chicago suburb. Although I was invited to three parties, I still felt very much alone.
    I never got the deathbed confession that I fantasized about. My stepfather died the morning that I was scheduled to leave for St. Louis. He left this world without ever admitting to me that he used to come into my bedroom at night, blowing his whiskey breath in my face, whispering that he needed to check my oil.
    It gave me a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, just thinking about it. But I didn’t know why Dr. Hamilton was still bothering me. I told her when she called in March that I was no longer in crisis mode, that I wanted to put the past behind me.
    Dr. Hamilton had accused me of being in denial. She insisted there was a time bomb ticking away inside of me and that one day it was going to go off. I told Dr. Hamilton that if and when that happened, I’d give her a call. And hope she could fit me in.
    The only other message was from my best friend, Sharon. She was returning home after a sabbatical year. She’d resume her college teaching position here in the fall. But girlfriend had the whole summer to play. She left her flight information on my voice mail, and added that she had something to tell me when she saw me. She hoped I wouldn’t wig out. Her voice didn’t sound excited, but it didn’t sound sad, either. I wondered what it could be. Maybe it had to do with her fifteen-year-old daughter, Tyeesha. But if T were pregnant or something, Sharon would be much more wigged out than I would be.
    Maybe Sharon had finally found Mr. Right. But why would I wig out about that? Maybe he was white, or half her age. I wouldn’t trip on his color, if he were a nice guy. After all, didn’t Sharon say that any of the black men in Seattle went for white women? I’d heard that was generally the case in the western states. What was a sista to do?
    I would be a tiny bit judgmental if Sharon were dating someone young enough to be her son. I’d just have to wait and find out when I picked her up at the airport next week.
    I stared at the stainless-steel refrigerator door, covered with picture magnets, comic strips and my niece’s and nephews’ artwork. I was determined not to open the