Searching for Tina Turner - By Jacqueline E. Luckett Page 0,57

we can fix that.” Elizabeth pauses to read the rest of the letter. “Oh, he’s in for a surprise. A few surprises, I’d say. What’s the rest of your plan?”

“A friend is helping me look for work at a few art galleries. My photography. Other than that, I have no plan.”

“Are you waiting for your husband to tell you what to do? You do understand that he relinquished that privilege when he served you with divorce papers, don’t you?” Elizabeth’s chunky tortoiseshell eyeglasses slip down her thin nose. She pushes them back with the heel of her hand—something she will do every five minutes or so this and every time they meet—and washes down bite-sized chocolates with diet soda. “If your husband is as savvy as you say, then you better make sure you retain representation that can help you put a good plan together.”

Lena considers Cheryl’s rules. She chooses to stop counting the days since Randall’s been gone. Yanking her checkbook from her purse, she reminds herself of the most important rule: let Randall think he has the upper hand.

“I may have been some kind of victim before this,” Lena slaps a ten thousand dollar retainer check on Elizabeth’s desk. “But I’ll be damned if that’s what I’ll be from now on.”

f f f

Hours after meeting with her new lawyer, Lena sits at her desk ready to follow Elizabeth’s suggestion. Her business plan, loose family photos, scissors, and magazines are stacked in front of her. Tina’s book lies open, once again: I was looking, Tina wrote, for a truth of a future that I could feel inside of me.

Lena writes those words in broad letters across the top of a sixteen-inch square board. She picks up the scissors and begins: a camera, a bouquet of white rubrum lilies, the word MOM, a snapshot of Bobbie, Columbia’s campus from one of Camille’s brochures, Kendrick at five displaying his kindergarten diploma, his high school graduation picture, and a printout of a postcard with a scrub of bushes high on a hill encircled with the words Tina Lives Here; a ski lodge in Switzerland, Agra, and the Taj Mahal. She pastes the letters S-T-R-E-N-G-T-H across the bottom. This reminder shapes her plan and, she figures out, as she pastes on the last touch—a picture of Tina performing—that somewhere, somehow Tina Turner will be part of it.

When the first tingle of discontent began to nag at her, perhaps two years ago or more, Lena hired a feng shui consultant—an energy cleaner. The consultant emphasized the importance of keeping a living space positive regardless of negative interactions. In this new space, the only negativity is in whatever she has brought with her. Lena steps into the hallway, flexing her fingers all the while, and practices the motion she forgot to use when her relationship with Camille soured, when Randall began to favor early sleep over conversation, when Kendrick avoided her.

Standing in the middle of the living room, boxes still piled high against the walls, Lena rests her thumbs on the tips of the middle fingers of her left and right hands and considers the gesture she is about to make. The motion symbolizes a casting-off: doubt, fear, insecurity, disrespect—all those forces that threaten her well-being. Lena flicks those fingers, gently at first. Over the boxes, the couch, the few pieces of furniture haphazardly arranged around the room.

Through the entryway, the kitchen and bedrooms. To Kendrick’s new room, then Camille’s to banish their pain. Are they asking their father why?

Flick. Faster. Through the master bedroom. She can make it on her own.

Flick. Flick. Harder. To her desk and into every nook, every corner where frustration might hide. Lena blows out a long sigh and snaps to attention. Energy shifts. She is ready to fight.

Chapter 19

The waiting room is plain and without a distinct personality. There are no knickknacks, no university diplomas or certificates of merit, no assembly line or mass-produced landscape art. Randall enters the small area, sits on the chair perpendicular to Lena’s, and utters a terse “Good morning.” He scans a magazine while Lena stares at the words she wrote when Elizabeth spoke them this morning: victims let things happen; victors make things happen—you are a victor, Lena.

A husky, dimpled man steps from an inner office and introduces himself as Harry C. Meyers. His face, straight and serious, indicates his neutrality. He gestures toward a conference room and the two follow him into it. Reflex courtesy takes over as Randall signals that Lena