Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,2
in an unstable world.
At the age of eight, he had decided he would never be like his father, an unreasonable man who got religion and a sure sense of self-righteousness about two years after he left Randall and his mother; though he did return to take care of his son after Randall’s mother died. Randall had basic needs: kids who believed he could do no wrong, the love of his wife, a little attention, a lot of sex.
He pointed his finger at his wife and, for all his smarts and degrees, the wrinkle in his brow proved that he did not understand what had caused the change. “Lena is the one with the problem. She has everything she could want.”
“I love my husband. I love my kids, my home. I do not love that they have come to define me or that what I have has become more important than who I am.” She twisted her wedding ring as if the large replacement suddenly itched the finger that she had worn a ring on for twenty-three years. “My spirit, what makes me me, is dying.”
Randall leaned back deep in the wingback chair. Before that one gesture, before the lips pursed, the brow wrinkled, she thought she saw a glimmer of understanding, of empathy. He made a loose one-handed fist beneath his chin and moved his head up and down as though they had all day, not fifty-five minutes. Lena knew that move and all his moves; she could write the dictionary on Randall’s unspoken commentary. That one meant checkmate. Lena wanted to point out that his reaction was typical of what was wrong with their marriage lately: the more important Randall became at TIDA, the more he disregarded explanations based in emotion.
“I love you. I love our family. But, I’ve given myself away, slowly, freely, and now… I want myself back.” Lena dug her fingernails into the sides of her chair, and somewhere in the back of her mind it became clear to her why they were so frayed. “Otherwise, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“This is the same conversation we had last week, the same conversation we keep having. It’s circular. It hasn’t gotten us anywhere and, quite frankly, if I have to hear it again…” Randall made finger quotes in the air. “I’m going to lose my mind.”
f f f
On TV speeding police cars in the midst of a freeway pursuit replace Tina’s interview. Their shrill sirens mask the space the phone static fills. Lena switches the phone to her right ear and measures two fingers of Drambuie into her empty glass with her left hand.
By the end of that session Randall offered Lena an ultimatum, and now she shudders under the pressure, the urgency to make a decision. She opens her planner and darkens another dated square of the calendar. That square, and twenty-six others recklessly colored in with black ink, creates a stark disparity between what was, what is, and the five white squares left in this month. Five days left to get her act together. Five days to decide if she even wants to get her act together.
“I wish…,” Lena says, wanting Randall to understand her change of direction, her altered focus. Not away from him, just closer to herself. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know there are plenty of women who would be very happy given the same set of circumstances.” Randall huffs, and Lena imagines his body twitching like it does when he gets mad. Legs first, then arms, then left eyebrow. “I did what you asked. I sat in front of that wimpy-assed therapist while you complained about how unhappy you are, how I won’t let you play with your photography. I told you. If you’re so unhappy, take the time that I’m gone to figure out what you want.”
“I want us, and I want me.”
“It’s almost dawn. I’ll talk to you later. And don’t forget Kendrick’s prescription.”
In the second it takes to realize the phone call is over, Lena’s armpits dampen with icy sweat as a quarter-sized spider skitters across the pillow where Randall’s head should be. She worries where this damn thing has come from and questions if this is a sign her husband will never nestle his head in that spongy spot again. The spider’s blackness, its scampering pace, forces a frantic search for newspaper, tissue, or shoe. She snatches the daily planner beside her, holds it so the contents won’t spill, and whacks the spider