If Only You Knew by Denene Millner Page B

appointment, and secretly disappointed that they wouldn’t have complete and utter quiet while they enjoyed their massages. Each disrobed in silence, wondering what, exactly, was so damn important that it had to be said over the din of the classical music, which, if the masseuse was worth his or her salt, usually put Lauren to sleep. A nap is what she wanted; Keisha’s voice was not.
    â€œSee, isn’t this nice, girls? The three of us here, enjoying one another’s company?” Keisha said. If the girls were listening closely, they would have heard the slight hint of sarcasm in her voice.
    â€œYeah, lovely,” Sydney said.
    â€œSwell,” Lauren added.
    â€œCome on, girls—it’s not often you and your mother get to sit and enjoy one another. Every mother should get to enjoy her daughters, don’t you think?” she asked.
    â€œOh, no, you’re right, Mom,” Sydney said as her masseuse rubbed her hands vigorously to warm the oils. “This is nice.”
    â€œYeah, you know I don’t mind spoiling my babies,” Keisha said. “You may be seventeen and looking grown, but you’re still my babies. And I would do anything for you.”
    God, shut up already, Lauren said to herself, wishing she could say it out loud.
    â€œBut I won’t tolerate any disrespect, you know what I’m saying?” Keisha asked, her voice growing dark. “I was raised to know that children have their place—you know, ‘Don’t speak unless spoken to’? ‘Do what I say’? My personal favorite was ‘Stay outta grown folks’ business.’ Lord, my mama sure did believe in that one, hard and strong.”
    Lauren’s ears perked up; she knew something wasn’t right.
    â€œThat’s why I invited the two of you here today, to give you a review of all the lessons I’ve learned over the years—particularly my favorite one,” Keisha continued, her voice slightly muffled as her massage therapist dug into her shoulders, forcing her head deeper into the pillow cradling her face. “Stay outta grown folks’ business. Simple concept. Easy to do. But for some strange reason, y’all act as if it just doesn’t apply to you. So I’m here to set it straight. It does.”
    â€œMommy, what are you—” Sydney began.
    â€œOh, no, sweetie, it’s Mommy’s turn to talk, your turn to l-i-s-t-e-n. Isn’t that what Beyoncé and them said? ‘Listen,’” she sang off-key. “Oh, wait, though, my jam was that Keisha Cole song, ‘Let it go, let it go, let it go,’” she continued tosing. “Yeah, nice strong messages in them there songs. Listen, and let it go. Both of you should try it.”
    The smell of ylang-ylang and vanilla wafted into Lauren’s nostrils, a quick reminder that she was not dreaming. Her mother was really in the massage suite at Le Madeleine, bugging the hell out of her and laying down messages about as sinister as an Abu Ghraib CIA interrogation. If the masseuse wasn’t pushing down on her back so hard, and she wasn’t afraid that her mother would slap it back down, Lauren would have lifted her head to get Sydney’s attention. Instead, she lay silent. Still, she could hear Sydney’s breathing over the music.
    â€œYour father—Altimus, not the scumbag I had two babies with—has done nothing but be good to you, love you. Every stitch of clothing you have on your backs, every piece of leather you have on the pretty little feet you use to push the gas pedals in the cars you drive, every expensive handbag you dangle from your dainty little arms? Altimus bought those. Not Dice. Not Lorraine. Not Jermaine. Not any of those bastards. That’s all Altimus up in your closets and in your driveway and in your wallets,” she said sweetly. “You better recognize.”
    â€œMom, what are you talking about?” Sydney said,