The January Girl
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Grand Central Publishing Edition
Copyright © 2006 by Goldie Taylor
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This Grand Central Publishing edition is published by arrangement with Black Expressions, published by Madison Park Press, 15 East 26th Street, New York, NY 10010. Madison Park Press is a trademark of Bookspan.
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First eBook Edition: April 2008
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ISBN: 978-0-446-53649-3
Contents
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For Cornelius
For the many ways you continue to bless me.
In Memoriam
Wyart Taylor Jr. (1943–1973)
Christopher John Byndon Taylor (1968–1991)
Don Edwin Hughes (1959–2005)
“Give your love, live your life . . . ’cause you can never lose a thing if it belongs to you.”
—Abbey Lincoln, “Throw It Away”
CHAPTER ONE
She didn’t notice him get up. She didn’t feel him leave her side. He slipped out of bed, leaving a sudden emptiness in the tufted, satin-stenciled duvet, a trail of his warmth. It was just after 5:00 a.m., the second Monday in July. The sun would be along soon to burn away the haze and what remained of the cool night’s rains.
He showered first, then dressed in a smartly cut suit. A tailor-sewn, light linen with subtle striping was his choosing. The soft gray was set off with powder-blue lines and a matching breast scarf. He was a man of exteriors, and always had been, a man unafraid to tell the world that his best was better than theirs. And it was. He had been born to it, mostly, having inherited his father’s wealth and intellect. With his mother’s good sense, he’d keep it—safe from the eager fingers of a wife he couldn’t bring himself to love for more than a day at a time.
The home Jackson Gabrielle shared with his wife, Etienne, was an expansive, Mediterranean-style compound composed of several buildings, including a small stucco-and-stone cottage situated on the westerly edge of the lot. Larger and wider than the others along Habersham Drive, the tree-lined main avenue connecting Peachtree Battle with Tuxedo Park, the house was of a size and design that pleased Jack. Situated in one of the most exclusive enclaves in Atlanta, the Gabrielle estate sat just three blocks from the Georgia Governor’s Mansion, a stone’s throw from downtown but clearly a million miles away from the tossed-up high-rise condos and new money living in the renovated warehouse lofts.
Jack reveled in the notion that his lily-white neighbors were jealous. So what if they resented him? The source of his money was certainly no mystery.
His father had been a physician long before little black boys could ever dream of getting into more than a handful of medical schools. The late Dr. Leland DuBose Gabrielle was a surgeon, one of the best the country had ever known in his time, colored or otherwise.
At his mother’s urging, young Jackson had followed his father into medicine. There was a prescribed recipe, an ordered road set down by his mother, Naomi. His father’s wishes were codified in his last will and testament: Achieve more, get more money. Jack would not disappoint. But his father had died too soon, when Jack was just fifteen, just three days after his graduation from the ultraexclusive Westminster Academy.
If nothing else, Leland had left him with the art of dressing well, he thought to himself. He stood in the dressing room, snapping on a pair of pewter cuff links and knotting his vintage silk necktie. Both had belonged to his father. His custom-built closets teamed with fine tailored suits, silk ties, and Italian leather shoes. At forty-three, Jack had become a man of appearances and the world was his stage.
CHAPTER TWO
Jack adjusted the knot in perfect alignment with his neck in front of a bronze-framed mirror. He looked at the reflection and saw his wife’s outstretched arms behind him. Etienne’s perfectly manicured fingers reached gracefully in the shadowy bedroom, begging him back. He ignored the opportunity to embrace her immediately, but then gave in with just enough emphasis to let her know that he remained her husband, that his commitment to their waning marriage remained. Although he could not see her face clearly, he knew that it was still beautiful, still a wonderfully flawless visage even at this hour.
She wanted more, something he refused to give her. He didn’t need her anymore. He didn’t need to say it. Still, he let his wife wrap her arms around his neck. It was the sort of embrace that said she could forgive everything—that after fifteen years, it was worth another try.
“I’ve got to get to the hospital,” he whispered in his sugar-dipped voice. “Morning rounds.”
“What about lunch?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a speech at the medical school for a group of know-it-all, short-jacketed first-year residents.”
“Dinner?”
Etienne sighed and let herself go limp.
“I’m sorry. I really must . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. Just stay home,” she whispered. “Just today.”
“I gotta get to it,” he said, pulling away from the bed.
There had been love, or at least a mutual admiration, in the beginning. At the time, he was in his first year of medical training at Morehouse and she was an undergraduate studying philosophy at neighboring Spelman College. Whatever brought them together then was gone now, rank and sour like spoiled milk.
He had first plotted his escape when Jack Jr., the first of their boys, was still a toddler, ambling about in his lace-up Buster Browns, attending some insanely expensive day school reserved for the children of the well-heeled and uncommonly rich. It was then that he’d met Thandy, the only woman who truly understood him. He figured leaving then would cost too much. The waiting turned to a meager brand of complacency, checkered with Saturday-morning Little League baseball, Cub Scout meetings, and Wednesday-night family movies.
Seven years ago, after Etienne threw a full bottle of cognac at his head, Jack got as far as his attorney’s office. But like a train running on time, Etienne told him she was pregnant again. Oh, the fruits of obligatory sex. A divorce, though long overdue, would have to wait.
After the bishop died, he put it off another year. Mourning her father’s death sent Etienne into a nosedive. She found solace in dry Belvedere martinis. One year became another, then another. While many of his colleagues were blissfully married to second and third wives, having parted with a substantial portion of their fortunes to pave their way to peace, Jack dulled himself with a near-constant work schedule and Friday-night stops at the Ritz-Carlton.
Mr. Elijah, his favorite bartender, reserved a corner table in the rear of the main bar. As usual, he delivered a double shot of top-shelf cognac, a glass of water, and a lime wedge. With every sip, he repeated the math in his head. Divorce was a costly affair, and for Jack that would mean millions, but more than that it would be an admission of failure, something Jack had never known. How much is too much?
CHAPTER THREE
He conducted the morning rounds on the ward, then went to his office. The waiting room was already beginning to fill.
He spent much of the day thinking about Thandy and the long weekends he used to have with her. There were days when they would drive five hours south to his summerhouse on Sea Island, an exclusive retreat where old money frolicked in the sun. The private beaches were reserved for those lucky enough to own homes or able to afford a night’s stay at The Cloister. Inherited from his parents, the Lion’s Gate estate stood triumphantly on the Black Banks River, just south of Pelican Point, where they watched the terns swoop and sway under the purple-ribboned sky.
She’d cook him a low-country breakfast of shrimp and grits or an omelet stuffed fat with crabmeat, shrimp, scallions, and peppers. He could watch her water ski from the private dock, then delight in her worldly ramblings until the sun came up. He marveled in every square inch of her drawn-butter skin, the depth of her caramel eyes speckled with bits of green that lit up when the sun hit them.
Between patients, Jack paced his office. He missed the warmth of the girlish laughter he hadn’t heard in over a week.
Thandywaye Malone was an exquisitely beautiful creature, steeped in grace, a sheer force of nature. He had dialed her cell three or more times a day, until it was disconnected. The house phone had been cut off, too. It was as if she simply evaporated into the wind. She’d had enough.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack stood for a moment in his antique-filled, oak-paneled offices overlooking the Atlanta skyline from “Pill Hill.” From his perch, high above a collection of the South’s most notable hospitals, clinics, and medical offices, he could see the full northerly perimeter of the city. On a clear day, Kennesaw Mountain appeared to the north and Stone Mountain to the east. It was the domain of someone who had long since arrived.
He admired his newly browned hands. The searing redness had given way to a warm afterglow. The island sun had been good to him. His light bright, almost white skin was now the color of caramel. The rich, warm tan had been costly, he lamented; his trip to Barbados was uncharacteristically imprudent. He’d been back mere hours before the proverbial shit hit the fan.
For her part, Etienne had been and remained coy about the matter, but the confrontation with Thandy had come like a lightning bolt on an otherwise clear and sunny day. After ten years, she had simply walked away. She had been his best girl, the one who preferred his heart to his wallet. He knew that now.
“Dr. Gabrielle,” a voice interrupted. “Mrs. Chapman’s chart is ready.”
His eyes drifted over the horizon, traced the treetops, and floated through the sparse clouds. The interstate below was choked with midday traffic.
“Dr. Gabrielle?” the voice gently demanded. “We’re an hour or better behind schedule. If you could just review the blood studies . . .”
Sandy Villines stood impatiently in the doorframe, cupping the patient file to her breast. She worried for him. The long hours with no lunch, back-to-back surgeries, and an endless string of weekends on call would surely ring defeat for a man half his age.
On any other day, he was able to work his way through any disappointment. But Thandy refused to be worked. The weight of her absence was surprising even to him. He missed everything about her.
“Maybe you should take another vacation,” Sandy said.
“I think I’ve had enough sun.”
Jack sighed and gave her a weak smile.
He took the thick folder, leaned against the corner of his mahogany desk, and skimmed through the laboratory reports. He already knew the story.
Three years ago, Sonja Chapman first visited her family physician complaining of searing headaches, nausea, and exhaustion. Some days, the young mother was so weak she could not stand. Rest and over-the-counter pain relievers were prescribed, but the symptoms continued. A ration of Phenergan was ordered to manage the nausea.
Unison Healthcare had turned down the primary physician’s numerous referrals to see a specialist until she was found unconscious in her bathroom after suffering a grand mal seizure. She was rushed by ambulance to Duke University Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina. The tumor was by then the size of a golf ball and located close to the motor strip.
A team of oncologists ruled the demon inoperable and likely malignant. Its location excluded a pre-op biopsy. Even the most gifted surgeon could damage the motor strip and leave her fully paralyzed. Depending on the level of aggression, they advised, Sonja would have four months to live. Her husband, Fred Chapman, a broad brick of a man who drove a dump truck on double shifts for Carolina Mulch & Erosion Solutions, cradled his wife in his arms and wept.
The young couple prayed.
Their answer was Dr. Jackson Gabrielle, a celebrated cancer surgeon practicing five hours south in Atlanta. The following evening, Sonja and Fred had arrived by helicopter and checked into Northside Hospital. Sandy had been there to greet the gurney on the landing pad. Jack had taken one look at Sonja’s medical history, scrubbed, and gone right to work.
CHAPTER FIVE
He’d closed his eyes and felt her bare skull with the tips of his fingers. He’d marked a spot with a purple marker, then kept feeling, working his way around her head. He’d feel, then mark, then feel, and mark again. The surgical assistant had prepared a table of tools including drills, bone cement, various scalpels, and sutures. A nurse had scrubbed Sonja’s head with a foamy antiseptic.
Jack performed an awake craniotomy using a brain-mapping technique pioneered by his father. The procedure allowed Jack to talk to Sonja while he operated. As he opened her skull, she guided him away from critical tissue. The monster was an aggressive grade-four glioblastoma multiforme tumor, a devastating sight even for trained eyes. Once he was certain he could excavate
the mass, he nodded to Sandy, who opened the stereo cabinet and turned up the volume. Prince’s hard metal guitar screeched from the speakers. The louder, the better. The thick bass line lulled Jack into a comfort zone. His hands steadied and he went to work.
I never meant 2 cause u any sorrow . . . I never meant 2 cause u any pain.
As the music blared, Jack focused his attention on the tumor.
The bleeding stepped up. He steadied himself and used hemostatic clips to stop it.
As the music segued to Jay-Z’s hard rhythms, he reached inside and withdrew the fleshy mass. The surgical nurse placed it in a bowl of sterile saline. Another rushed it off to the lab for a biopsy. Jack examined the impacted section of the brain. Satisfied there was no significant damage, he began closing the incision. When the tissue was secured, he used titanium screws to fasten the skull into position, then began pulling the scalp down. He took a deep breath and sewed it into place.
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one!
Six hours after they started, Sandy turned off the stereo. Jack emerged from the operating room triumphant and snapped off his latex gloves as if he had conquered all of Mesopotamia. When Jack entered the waiting room, Fred Chapman was already on his feet while the rest of the family remained frozen in their seats. The two men shook hands. Jack got right to the point.
“Mr. Chapman, we believe your wife’s tumor was one hundred percent resected. We do not expect many physical deficits, and those that remain are likely to heal entirely over time. Your wife had a glioblastoma multiforme. We performed a postoperative biopsy to confirm it.”
“It is over?”
“Mr. Chapman, your wife is in good shape. She’s stable. I cannot say for certain, but I believe we got all of it.”
“It is over?” Fred asked again.
Jack softened. “It is difficult to know. A year or two will tell us. In over seventy percent of the cases treated, regrowth can be expected.”
Fred’s shoulders sank and slumped.
“Mr. Chapman, believe me when I tell you that you and your family have just been given a great gift,” the doctor explained, placing his hand on Fred’s chunky shoulder. “Promise me that you will live every day as if it were your last. Dance like nobody’s looking. I can’t promise you another day, another month, or another year. But I can promise you that in a little while she will wake up the happiest woman alive when she sees your face.”