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  The Monday following our return home, I woke early for work. Layne stayed in bed, her vacation extending several more weeks. Before I left, I bent to kiss her tanned skin and tousle her short hair. She opened her eyes.

  “Got any plans today?” I asked.

  She repositioned herself comfortably under the sheet. “No. I’ll be home. I want to finish that book.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tonight.” She went back to sleep. Or so I thought.

  Three hours later I received a phone call from an officer, who informed me that Layne had been struck by a vehicle that had flipped over a median into her car in a North Chicago neighborhood. She died instantly.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he muttered unsympathetically before mumbling additional information on Layne’s then whereabouts. I was left with a trembling phone in my hand, a shattered heart, and an unanswered question: what was Layne doing miles from our home just hours after she told me she’d be in all day? I hadn’t known at the time, and still had no confirmation, though now I assumed she had been headed to see Nina.

  Jenna was heartbroken when she returned to school in late August, leaving me in such an overcast state. I hadn’t shared with Jenna what had suddenly shadowed my spirit. She assumed my introverted demeanor was solely due to Layne’s sudden passing, not the discovery of the double life Layne had been leading.

  “I’m okay, Jenna. I’m okay,” I told her now.

  “You don’t sound okay,” she rebutted.

  I had had Jenna twenty years ago, at the tender age of sixteen, the same age at which my mother had had me. It scared me at times, the mirrored lives my mother and I almost led. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago, in my grandmother’s house, the same home where my mother was raised. My mother and father lived in the upstairs unit of the house, and I had a room downstairs with Grandma. Gangs and crime riddled our neighborhood: purses were snatched during the day, and gunfire crackled throughout the night. Young men succumbed to the seduction of their environment, while young women surrendered to the temptations of those same young men. My mother and I fell into that category.

  At fourteen both my mother and I lost our virginity to boyfriends who were four years our senior, and at fifteen we each became pregnant. Grandma, who refused to allow me to become the high school dropout my mother had been, cared for Jenna during my junior and senior years so that I could finish my courses. She wanted me to “be somebody.” In my family, unfortunately, the pinnacle of success at that time was a stroll across a platform stage in the gymnasium to accept a document for obtaining a minimum education.

  After high school I waitressed full-time in a nearby restaurant, where, above my minimum wage pay, I’d take in tips from sweet old gentlemen who came in each day for coffee while they read the newspaper, and from hustling twentysomething fellas who wanted to give me more than just their order. In the evenings Grandma and I would place my tips in a container box hidden in the corner of my closet; she didn’t trust “big ole banks.” Every two weeks I would cash my check at the local convenience store, buy an outfit or two for my growing Jenna, and save the rest. I knew then that somehow I’d escape my dark surroundings.

  At twenty I met Jimmy Sharpe. Jimmy was a young alderman with dreams of mayoral service. He had come into the restaurant, soliciting, on a late spring morning. I was off that Friday but had walked over with Jenna to pick up my check. If it hadn’t been for the perfect timing that day, I’m not sure what course my life might have taken.

  Jenna, always an eye-catcher with her youthful, round face, cinnamon skin, and reddish-brown eyes, caught the attention of Jimmy, who was busy chatting with Chucky, the owner of the restaurant, about flyers he wanted to leave at the counter where patrons paid their bill. He was a visionary with a plan of rebuilding broken neighborhoods and saving our youth before they got sucked into the “ghetto mind-set,” as he put it.

  “Look at this pretty little girl right here,” he had said to Chucky, pointing at Jenna when she and I left the back office with my check. “We can’t have this young baby ducking and dodging bullets and unable to play jump rope outside her house. We can’t have our young men locked up while our babies are having babies. It’s time for us to rally up and get our neighborhoods in check. Come on, Chuck,” he’d urged. Jimmy was allowed to leave his flyers.

  I was about a block away from the restaurant, with Jenna’s hand in mine, headed back to Grandma’s, when he called to me.

  “Miss! Excuse me, miss!”

  I tended to ignore men who called to me, most often in terms that suggested we were more than strangers who were simply passing one another on the street. But Jimmy seemed different. When he caught up to us, he paused a moment to take in a breath while straightening his bow tie. He wore a suit, and with his oval-framed glasses, he resembled a member of the Nation of Islam community, one you might see pushing fruit and newspapers on the corner.

  “You didn’t take a flyer.” He smiled and handed a white paper to me.

  “Oh, thank you.” I smiled back and then started to browse the flyer. Jimmy was part of a group of men and women looking to renovate and reopen a neighborhood center for our youth. His flyer described it as a place of refuge and safety. He wanted to present our young people with the gift of opportunity and growth, and he needed volunteers to bring his dream to life.

  “This is your daughter?” He nodded to Jenna, who tightened her small fingers around my hand.

  “Yes. This is Jenna.”

  Jenna waved bashfully, then covered her face to conceal a shy giggle.

  “How old are you?” he asked me.

  “Twenty.”

  “And how old is Jenna?”

  “She’s four.”

  Jimmy’s expression softened. “So you understand our need.”

  I nodded without a word.

  “I’ll see you at the meeting, then?”

  I thought of Jenna and her future. Our future. I thought of Grandma and her desire for me to make something of myself. I knew I could start by helping others to make something of themselves also.

  “Yes.”

  Over the next several years my life changed dramatically. I continued to waitress while I saved money. On weekends, Jenna and I would walk to the developing center so I could help clean, paint, and organize donated supplies. For the first time in my life, outside the grim walls of Grandma’s house, individuals with a passion for life and betterment surrounded me. They had the ability to see more for the woman in the grocery store with a patterned scarf on her head, walking in slippers, with a baby on one hip and another latched to her leg. They saw a person who possessed the ability to become anything she wanted to be if given the chance. I was drawn to their desire to uplift.

  A year and a half after the beginning of our venture, the project was complete. Jimmy’s dream was manifested when the We Are One Neighborhood Center opened its doors, offering such services as after-school care and tutoring for elementary through high school students, and recreational venues, including a small basketball court and a game room. The center operated primarily through the efforts of kindhearted and attentive volunteers. The staff was minimal, and Jimmy wanted me to be a part.

  “Join us,” he said one day, after we had locked up the center. “We need a front desk person. Someone as sweet as you to welcome everyone in. I’m sure we can match whatever you make with Chuck. Jenna is about to start first grade. Surely, she can come to the center after school. Come on, Taryn,” he urged with the same tone he had used with Chuck the year prior. I was honored, and I welcomed the change. We Are One had been my place of employment ever since.

  Jimmy and I continued to work closely together, and I began to learn the mechanics of a nonprofit organization. And as the center’s programs expanded, so did my duties. Jimmy told me I was naturally gifted in business. He complimented the creative ideas I shared with him regarding new services and programs the center might offer, and he trusted my task-oriented mind to help see them through to fruition. He
flattered me with praises of my ability to connect with the kids who entered our doors, some timid and shy, and others aggressive and obstinate. Though I remained fairly reserved in demeanor, with the children, I thrived. I had unknowingly found my calling.

  Grandma died when I was twenty-four. She left her home and a small life insurance policy to me, which pissed my father off, as he was convinced my mother would be the beneficiary. He didn’t take his anger out on me; he had never vented his frustrations in my direction, only in my mother’s. As they grew older, their fights became less frequent, sparked only by events that involved money, such as the loss of Grandma’s inheritance. Jenna and I took over the first floor of the home, and while I considered kicking my parents out, I didn’t. I loved my mother, and at the time I couldn’t bear leaving her alone in my father’s hands. Though most of my life we remained distant, thanks to a cracked ceiling against a creaking floor, my heart soared when I’d catch her in moments of happiness. Her smiles sprouted like sporadic rainbows after a storm. You didn’t expect them, yet nonetheless you marveled at their beauty.

  One day two years later, when I was twenty-six, Jimmy and I were preparing the conference room for a meeting with the board of directors. That evening we expected three new members in attendance, all of whom Jimmy had met and whose bios I had typed and prepped prior to their arrival. There was Benjamin Thompson, a personal injury attorney, Marcie Wells, a real estate agent, and Layne Jackson, an assistant English professor.

  Layne’s profile stood out the most, particularly her statement that she wished to be a part of an organization that helped individuals who had grown up less fortunate than she had. I had studied her photo, a professional shot of her in a navy business suit, and I had wondered how differently this thirty-year-old’s life was from mine. She wasn’t attractive or unattractive, yet she was strangely alluring, nonetheless. She had a full, round face, large, heavy eyes, and a flat, but straight nose. Her lips, wide, pouty, and shiny, led to her smile, which I felt was her best feature. She had the straightest, whitest teeth I had ever seen. Her relaxed, confident expression exuded happiness and enthusiasm, sentiments I rarely saw in any adults aside from Jimmy.

  I was still in the conference room, alone at that moment, when Layne arrived first. Jimmy had retreated to his office to take a call prior to the meeting. I was in the rear and had just poured myself a cup of water before I planned to go greet attendees at the front desk.

  “Hello,” she said with my back to her.

  “Hi,” I replied, startled, spilling a few drops of water. I turned around and went to shake her hand.

  “Layne Jackson,” she told me.

  “Taryn Dawes.”

  She peered at me, as if attempting to extract my thoughts via telepathy. I stared at her too, though I learned later that we had been intrigued for entirely different reasons. Layne tried to analyze if I was interested in her, while I was more curious about her background. I had asked Layne over the years why she felt I could have taken a liking to her in five seconds’ time. She had assured me that attraction was instantaneous; it was there or it wasn’t. We had never agreed on that topic, as we hadn’t on many.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “I work here.”

  She appeared surprised; her expression shifted to curious. On board meeting days I wore something from my usual casual wardrobe. She eyed my above-the-knee black skirt and white blouse and then studied my shoes. Understanding swept over her face when she realized my black pumps came from a low-end department store, in contradistinction to the designer heels on her feet. She nodded subtly, but I caught it.

  “What’s it like to work here?”

  “I love my job. It’s a wonderful feeling to give to the community and to help these kids.” My response was shorter than I preferred as it looked like Layne had already lost interest in my answer. “I read that you’re a professor,” I stated, turning the attention to her.

  “I am.” She shrugged casually, a weak attempt at modesty, not a drop of which, I eventually discovered, existed in her list of qualities.

  I checked my watch. We still had six minutes before the meeting officially began, and though I wanted to greet members up front, as I always did, Layne’s arrogance aroused me in an unfamiliar fashion.

  “Tell me more,” I said.

  It was as if Layne had committed her speech to memory. She rattled off her life résumé, first informing me that she was born in a wealthy and prestigious Chicago suburb. As a child, she already knew she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps and enter the field of education. Her father, who had then recently retired, was a successful managing partner with an insurance company.

  Layne attended private school and excelled in her courses, receiving honors and awards in English. She prided herself on winning her first spelling bee at age six. At twelve, she ventured into sports. She was a talented member of her school’s volleyball team, and in high school, she was the star player on the softball team. She received both her undergraduate and graduate degrees from well-known schools on the East Coast and had been back home in Chicago for the past three years, pursuing her doctoral degree in education. All those details Layne spewed in the matter of four minutes. When she finished, she stood straight and proud, as if awaiting my applause.

  One might think I would have found Layne intimidating, considering the severe differences in our backgrounds, hers in the upper class and mine in the poverty-stricken streets of South Chicago. If anything, I became more intrigued. She was unlike anyone I had ever met.

  “You’ve been fortunate, Layne. You’d be an inspiration to the kids at our center. I look forward to you serving on our board,” I told her sincerely. I checked my watch again. The after-care program down the hall would be closing soon, and I needed to grab Jenna. “I have to get going. I’ll see you next month.”

  “I hope so.” She smiled.

  The following month Layne again arrived early. We chatted in the conference room, and that time she inquired about my background. I felt comfortable with her and opened up to her about my experiences growing up with Grandma and the abusive nature of my parents’ marriage. I told her how I met Jimmy, and informed her that I had a ten-year-old daughter, who, like Layne, had a fondness for reading and English, her favorite subject.

  A few days after the meeting I received a package at the center. Inside were two books. The first was for me, an impressive and thoughtful fictional story about a young mother who overcame the adversities of her upbringing and soared as a successful businesswoman. The second was for Jenna, a Mark Twain classic. When I called to thank Layne for the gifts, she invited me to lunch. After lunch, she asked me to dinner the following night. Then she wanted to have lunch the next day and dinner once again. I had no idea Layne was flirting with me. I didn’t recognize her gentlewoman behaviors as anything other than kindness. She opened doors for me and helped me order from exotic menus at the restaurants we visited. She surprised me with a pair of strappy summer heels with the same designer logo as hers.

  Over a two-week time frame she introduced me to my first spa, for a massage, manicure, and pedicure, my first taste of wine, and my first Broadway-style musical in the theater district downtown. Before Layne, my life and my world had centered mostly on a five-mile radius on the South Side of Chicago. Maybe I should have known she was courting me, but I had nothing to compare her actions to. I had never seen a man woo a woman. My boyfriend-girlfriend experiences were limited to frequent walks to fast-food joints, followed by trips downstairs to a basement mattress, when I was fourteen and fifteen.

  I had had sex with a few neighborhood men before I got pregnant with Jenna. Though Grandma loved me as my primary caregiver, no one in our house, especially not my parents, concerned themselves with my whereabouts, and I was able to come and go as I pleased.

  It was Marcus with whom I enjoyed sex the most. He was the only guy who slid his tongue between my legs before sliding his curved penis inside me. Secretly, I h
ad always hoped he would skip penetrating me, because the only thrill I received was when he held what he referred to as my “pearl tongue” between his fingers and sucked and licked with his fat tongue. I hadn’t been intimate with anyone since Jenna was born, and although I knew same-sex relationships existed and women did exactly what Marcus had done to me, I was oblivious to the fact that Layne was pursuing me.

  I didn’t consider this possibility until Ms. Sheila, an older woman who volunteered at the center and cared for Jenna when I needed a sitter, suggested it to me as I prepared for another evening out with Layne.

  “That woman is liking you,” Ms. Sheila told me in a tattletale tone.

  “Layne? What do you mean?” I picked up my purse and retrieved my lip gloss to do a reapplication.

  “She’s a homosexual, honey. Don’t you know who the homosexuals are?” Ms. Sheila eyeballed me behind her bifocals.

  I laughed. “Ms. Sheila!” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I have a surprise for you tonight,” Layne told me after I got into her car and settled into the cream leather seat.

  I smiled like a schoolgirl. No one had ever taken such time and energy to make me feel special the way that Layne had. She drove us to her condo near Lake Michigan, where we had a catered candlelight dinner on the balcony overlooking the water. It was one of the most spectacular moments of my life.

  “This is beautiful,” I told her. “I don’t want this night to end.”