“I’ve missed this,” Takira says, sitting down with her popcorn on the massive leather sectional in Canon’s living room. “Our girl time.”
“Me, too.” I cradle my bowl of blueberries and snuggle into Takira’s side. “I’ve missed you.”
“Canon needs to learn the rules of girl gang. You do not roll up and steal my best friend in a time of crisis. Does he realize you do have a place here in LA? And a roommate who is perfectly capable of making sure you take your meds and follow the doctor’s orders?”
“This is one of the few times over the last three weeks Canon has not been glued to my side. If he didn’t have this meeting with Galaxy he can’t miss, he’d be right here. I think if I told him I wanted to go home, he’d be like, ‘Sure. Gimme a minute so I can pack my bag.’”
“He got it bad, girl. That man is in love with you.”
“He is.” I can’t hold back a sigh. “And it is definitely a two-way street. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I’m just as gone over him.”
“Oh, that is evident.” Takira laughs when I punch her arm. “It is! I saw it the night we met him.”
“You did?”
“Girl, you could barely keep your eyes off that man. I thought you were gonna jump him at the table, po thang.”
“I was not that bad!” I close my eyes and crack one open. “Was I?”
“And remember when he called that first time and you almost maimed yourself?”
“You are literally cackling over this. I have no shame about it. My massive crush is now the love of my life, so everything is perfect.” My smile slips. “I mean besides the part where I’ve been in the hospital for approximately a quarter of our relationship and I need a kidney if I want to live to see our first anniversary . . . things are perfect.”
“Hey.” Takira loops her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “It’s gonna work out. Terry’s still making her way through all the tests, right?”
“Yeah, she and Mama had to go back, but Dr. Okafor is coordinating with labs there in North Carolina for the rest of the process. If she’s a match, there’s a transplant center not far from Clearview.”
“You’d fly there?”
“Yeah. The transplant is actually much harder on the donor than the recipient. If Terry’s a match, she won’t be able to travel right after the transplant. She’ll be out of work for up to six weeks. It’ll be better for her to be at home near her family. And she has Quianna to take care of, so getting stuck out here wouldn’t be great.”
“How were things between you guys when she was here?”
“It was . . . off and on. One minute I’d feel like we were making some progress, and the next we’d be at each other’s throats. There’s a lot we should have sorted through before now. It’s like a leg that should have healed a long time ago, and now it’s all rotty, but you can’t cut it off, so you still have to save it.”
“You do see me trying to eat, right?” Takira points to her popcorn. “And all this rotten limb talk ain’t helping.”
“Well you get my point,” I say, laughing and scooping up a handful of blueberries. “As much as I hate that I had to go on dialysis, even if just temporarily, I’m glad they came to see me in the hospital. We need to sort through some of this before her kidney is inside of me.”
“You guys considering counseling?”
“We actually are, which is something we should have done a long time ago, but counseling is part of the screening process before you donate. Usually just to make sure the donor is certain about giving up an organ and understands the risks, but for us, considering that we’ve been estranged, Dr. Okafor recommends we have at least a few sessions together.”
“And that’s if she’s a match, right?”
“Well, the counseling I think we need to do even if she isn’t. I’m open to that and think it’s overdue. I want to connect with my family again without this between us. I mean, that happened. We can’t undo what they did, and there’s a child, so there’s no forgetting, but you have to remember something before you can forgive it. Forgiving is harder than forgetting. Forgetting would be the oblivion of never knowing how you hurt me. Forgiving is accepting you hurt me, deciding that I’m going to keep loving you anyway.”
“And trust that you won’t do it again,” Takira murmurs. “Will you ever trust your sister?”
“I hope I can. We were soooo young, and both of us had emotions we didn’t know how to handle. You’re just a loaded weapon at that age. Old enough to drive and have sex and get into a bunch of shit that’s legal to do without a fully developed frontal lobe.”
“Where’s Brandon in all this?”
“I don’t care about him. I know that sounds bad, but he was a teenage crush I probably would have grown out of anyway. He got caught in the crossfire, but this is less about him than about restoring a relationship with my sister, and I hope, establishing one with my niece. If that can happen, it will be one good thing that comes out of this fiasco.”
“Speaking of fiasco, I’m here for this Housewives reunion show.” She points the remote at the television, frowning when nothing happens. “Damn this sophisticated technology. How are we supposed to know how to operate all this stuff?”
I take the remote and press the on button, bringing the screen to life. “That’s step one.”
“I hate you.”
“And yet, here you are. Now where do we find this debacle for the culture?” I start flipping through channels, pausing on a shampoo commercial featuring a stunning woman.
Camille Hensley.
She looks into the camera, her tawny brown eyes coy and flirty, and flicks a fall of long, shining, highlighted hair over one smooth, golden shoulder. She looks like every shampoo fantasy come to life.
“You know that’s a weave,” Takira says waspishly. “I mean, I make my living off extensions, so I ain’t trying to hate, but she walk around like she—”
“Shhh! I want to hear.”
The commercial is actually almost over, so we only catch the tail end of what she has to say.
“And I’m so honored to offer this all-natural product for us,” she says. “Designed with black hair in mind. Give it a try and in no time . . .” She twirls, the long hair fanning out in a shimmering arc. “Beautiful.”
The commercial changes into another for dishwashing liquid, but I can’t stop seeing all that beautiful hair. That flawless skin. Involuntarily, I reach up to touch the headscarf I’m rarely without lately. I’ve lost so much hair, I don’t even want to look most days. I’ve lost hair before and it’s always grown back, but never this much. And the rash has spread everywhere. I find myself hiding my body from Canon, and I hate it.
I’ve never thought of myself as vain. I work in an industry where physical appearance and image are important. I’ve always taken care of myself, exercised because I wanted to be healthy, but also because my job requires it. With my body under attack—a cellular sedition where my own antibodies are the enemy—my skin, hair, and confidence are the casualties. In a relationship with one of Hollywood’s critical darlings, I can’t help but feel exposed and in some ways . . . wanting.
He had Camille.
He was with her.
She wanted him enough to pitch a foolish hissy fit when he walked away.
Does he ever look at me and wish . . .
I have to stop this vicious cycle of self-doubt. It’s as harmful as the disease itself.
“Gimme that remote,” Takira says. “Lemme find the reunion.”
She pauses on one of those entertainment channels. We both gasp when my face comes onscreen.
“Ahhhhh!” Takira squeals. “Look at you, Neev!”
I remember this crew coming on set. There’s a clip of us recording one of the dance sequences. The camera closes in on me flying through the air, gliding across the floor, doing the lindy hop.
“Oh, my God.” I cover my mouth, stunned and disoriented to see myself this way. The enormity of this opportunity hasn’t sunk in until right now. I know it’s a huge break, of course, but we’ve been grinding for months. I’m not famous. I’ve spent most of my time in LA on set, working ten to twelve hours a day. And the little bit I’ve done venturing into the city has been undisturbed by paparazzi or fans because . . . who am I? No one really knows me yet. Seeing myself this way, on television, feels like an out-of-body experience.
“Canon Holt found Neevah Saint when she was an understudy on Broadway,” the entertainment reporter says. “It’s not clear when their relationship turned romantic, but we found out about it a few weeks ago when Camille Hensley, A-lister and Holt’s former girlfriend, revealed she had been denied the chance to audition for Dessi Blue, Holt’s latest biopic, which has been years in the making. According to reports, production has been shut down indefinitely because of an undisclosed illness Ms. Saint has been hospitalized for. We wish her the best and hope this film still makes it to screen. It would be a shame if it doesn’t.”
“Still makes it to screen?” Takira huffs. “Of course it will still make it to screen. There are only a few scenes left to shoot. They need to check their sources. That’s not even in question.”
“I bet the Galaxy executives are asking Canon those very same questions right now,” I say ruefully. “Camille said they never wanted me for the part, which . . . of course, they wouldn’t. They’d want a big name, not a no-name. And now it looks like Canon cast his girlfriend and it’s all gone south. Ugh. This is a mess.”
“It’s a mess in your head, but the reality is we have a spectacular movie almost completed, and when everyone sees what you did as Dessi Blue, there will be no question Canon made the right call casting you.”
I manage a flimsy smile. “You think so?”
“I know so.” She aims the remote and keeps flipping. “Now you ’bout to make me miss my Housewives. I need my ratchet fix, so hush.”
I eat my blueberries and drink my water and midway, get up to take my evening dose of medications. Is this the rest of my life? Pills and labs and flares and hospital stays?
Every day that ends with me still breathing has ended well.
Remy Holt’s words from The Magic Hour bounce around in my thoughts even after Takira leaves and goes home. Alone in Canon’s big, empty house, I wander into the studio. Running my fingers carefully across her Nikons and Kodaks and Canons, I feel her spirit so strongly I wish I could ask her advice—wish I could have just a few minutes of her time.
And then I remember that I can.
Canon’s full documentary is online now, so I pull it up and watch it from beginning to end, ninety minutes of wisdom and fearlessness. Knowing her son is the one holding the camera makes the way Remy looks into its lens—with so much love and pride—that much more meaningful. Over the course of the documentary, she goes from standing on her own two feet and running to the edge of the pier, to wheeling herself, holding her camera with increasingly shaky hands. But she never fades. The fire, the fight, the zest for life never vacates the dark eyes that seem, even years later, to see right through me.
“Tomorrow,” she says from the screen, from a wheelchair precipitously close to the edge of a pier, “is the most presumptuous word in the world, because who knows if you even get that. Yesterday, spilled milk and old news. You can’t do nothing about how you messed up or fell short or didn’t do yesterday. Even when you mess up and make it right, it has to be done today.”
She flashes a wide smile, so much like Canon’s an invisible hand squeezes my heart.
“Whoo, child, today we can work with. It’s all I have and this thing.” She bangs the wheel of her chair and then bangs her chest. “And this thing, this body, won’t take away today. The only thing you can do with today is make it count, because soon it will be tomorrow. And I already told you about them tomorrows. Better todays make better tomorrows, and if you don’t get tomorrow at least you had today.”
For the entire documentary she has been all smiles and sunsets, but it’s near the end. She’s near the end, and tears fill her eyes.
“This body is a shell,” she says, her voice sober. “No matter how beautiful or what size or how healthy, every single body inevitably returns to dust. It is not your legacy. It is not what you leave behind.”
Her eyes shift just above the lens, to the man holding it, and her smile returns. “I love you, Canon,” she says, addressing him directly by name for the first and only time during the documentary.
And you can see it in her eyes, the pride, the assurance that he is what she has done. He is what she leaves behind. He is the best part of her legacy.
“That’s enough for today,” she says, turning away from his camera and lifting her own to the sun disappearing into the ocean. “I’m getting tired.”
It’s the final sunset. A montage of home videos and photos follows, revealing her life beyond the piers. We see Canon at birthday parties and first days of school and graduations, and his mother is there in every frame. Watching the documentary, seeing her obsession with sunsets and chasing magic hours, one could be fooled into thinking her art was all she had. Canon’s choice to include the rest pulls out the camera for a wider shot of her life beyond her art. Her life with him.
Hers was a race that had already been decided, a race against time, but the beauty was in how she ran. And I think that’s the point. Every single one of us is in that race, and a race against time is one you’ll never win.
But how will you run?
It’s not an existential question of immortality, of living forever, but a challenge of numbered days and what we do with what we have. It’s not a string of todays that become yesterdays and aspire to tomorrow, but living like there is no guarantee. Living with an urgency to say what needs to be said, do what needs to be done. To no matter what, live with what you’ll leave behind in mind.
I want to reach through the screen and touch her in hope that her zeal, her assuredness of life in the face of a diminishing future, would rub off on me. I wish I could turn back the clock, find them on one of their piers as the sun dipped into the ocean to thank her for all she sowed into the remarkable man her son has become.
Some days I feel like that powerful, vibrant girl, the painted butterfly who flitted through the Savoy Ballroom, the wind of trumpets beneath her wings. And some days I’m that broken ballerina from Dessi’s jewelry box, my twists and turns a lurching revolution to a song composed from dust and regret. One thing I’m sure of. On any given day, the look in Canon’s eyes never changes. It’s as constant as the refrain of rising and setting suns.
I’m still sitting in the middle of the studio floor, staring up at the Polaroids of us he pinned to the line, when he comes home.
“Hey.” He leans against the doorjamb, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” I smile, gesturing to my laptop on the floor in front of me. “I was just watching your mom.”
“My mom?” He walks over, sits on the floor beside me and peers at my screen. “Oh. Wow. I haven’t looked at this in years.”
His eyes soften and a smile crooks one corner of the stern line of his mouth.
“She was something else,” I tell him. “I see so much of her in you. It’s funny. When I was diagnosed, I only thought about the fear of dying, of living a life that was somehow less than what other people lived. Your mother embodied the opposite. She seems to become more fearless. The more the disease tries to change her, the more she becomes completely herself.”
“That’s it exactly. I think my mother was one of the earliest examples I had of looking beyond the surface. When we would go out sometimes, as her disease progressed, I would catch people looking at her with something like pity. And I would just think, you have no idea who she is. That she gets stronger every day.”
“Is that why you look at me the same way no matter how my appearance changes?”
He studies me for long, silent seconds. “No, baby.” He caresses my cheek with his thumb, smiling into my eyes. “That’s just love.”
His words, spoken with such surety, untie the last knots of anxiety and self-doubt tangled in my thoughts. He’s right. When you love someone, you truly see who they are beyond the surface. And whether I look like the headshot I proudly passed all over New York when I auditioned, or I look the way I do right now, I have to see and love myself beyond the high gloss. That first taste of unconditional love and acceptance—we should feed it to our own souls.
I reach up to pull the headscarf away, and then I peel off the sweatshirt covering the silk camisole I wear instead of a bra. For a moment, the air kisses my skin, cools the heated plane of my self-consciousness, and then, under the heat of his stare—an equal, unwavering mix of love and desire—I grow warm. I lean back on my palms and stretch my legs in front of me. I am battered. This body is a battlefield, and my limbs, once flawless, carry the scars. I trust, I hope that they will fade in time, but I must accept who and how I am right now.
Today.
“You said before that you’d like to photograph me,” I say.
“Whenever you like,” he replies, his voice soft, subdued.
I connect my eyes and his by a single thread of no turning back and nod to the cameras displayed on the wall. “How about right now?”
