Grace (BWWM)

Chapter Three

"Good morning, Joe," the woman says when I open the front door. Like usual, her dark brown complexion kind of just shines. Or maybe it's a glow of sorts. Her hair is in an afro, one side parted and swept back some. She wears a dress and has a tray of what must be food in her arms, a purse slung around her body. Earrings hang like droplets from her ears, and at first, I wonder why she seems dressed to the nines, but then I recall what day it is.

"Good morning, Grace," I say.

"When have you last been to church, Joe?" Her Nigerian accent is not thick, but it is apparent, and it sounds at home coming from her. It's pleasant, but I have also learned that the accent does not come alone. Nigerian women seem naturally bold and tough. It's not a fake strength for show, but a strength that says one has been through a number of experiences and made it through the other side much different. I've quickly learned that this boldness is why she is approaching me like this. The others have decided to give me some space, thinking I'll need it. But Grace? No, it's like she doesn't know what the word means. I hate that but I also love it; when she sweeps in, she leaves me much better off than when she came. I also know that's because we've both lost our life partners. She understands in a way no one else does, and though that is unfortunate, I appreciate that. I really do.

"When?" I ask, taking a moment to answer, but I don't really need it, and I can tell that she knows I'm stalling. I finally shrug. "The funeral," I say, and she nods as if she knew. I feel my hackles rise at that.

"I've been busy, Grace. You know that I have work, and I need to work on staying in shape," It's been just one week since she came by last time and we went grocery shopping. An eyebrow raises at my excuse, and I feel irritation build up within me, but I try to tamp it down as best as I can. I'm still not eating right, and my sleeping pattern is an absolute mess. It's starting to affect work, and I'm just trying to stay together with all of this. I feel like I'm on a collision course to crash and can't change the path—but I'm trying. I'm trying and I'm failing and I just . . .

I'm struggling.

"You know I have a lot on my plate," I say, my hold on the door handle tightening. So what if I've missed a few months of church? So what? I've got all of this to deal with and I don't even know what to do with the darned chair in that corner, haunting me. I covered it up, but it's like a gaping hole in the room that you can't help but look at. It's so noticeable, and I can't escape the sight of it. That's why I can't stay in this place for long. Anything that can get me out, I run with it. So work has been helping with that, and my morning, and evening jogs. I also jog at the crack of dawn when I can't sleep. I've even picked up another project I should have finished with years ago. It was something Sherry was looking forward to.

"What is your schedule like today?" she simply asks. And there it is again—that need she feels to just come in and do this. I want to fight it, I want to push back and tell her that I don't need her kindness or her help. I can do this by myself. I want to shout that at the top of my lungs. I want to shout it until it becomes a reality. But I know now that it's not true. I can't do this by myself. I can't.

I stare at her for a bit, the anger leaving me as I do. She gently takes hold of my hand, just holding on as that ugly anger leaves me. I feel myself deflate, and I feel exhausted.

"I need help, Grace," Tears well in my eyes. In the moments I'm not running from reality, it seems like it's just an awful cycle of red-hot anger, that's so completely unlike me, as are the exhaustion and tears that don't take away the hurt. "I really need help," I plead. And once more, I'm glad that she understands me and what I'm going through.

Grace nods, her expression kind. She gives me a gentle smile that acts like a balm for these wounds of mine. I've been acting like I'm alright and most people don't prod, so I've been able to keep up the charade outside the house. But there's no way for a wound to heal if you hide it, and I'm seeing that.