Like a Sister(25)

“She was depressed.”

I flashed on Erin and what she’d told me. “Why? Because you’d broken up again? Erin said Desiree was fine.”

“Erin was too coked up to know.”

I yanked my phone from my jeans pocket, typing just as fast as I talked. “Black women, we don’t kill ourselves.” Yes, we die just as much as the rest of the population. From childbirth. Heart disease. Cancer. From accidents and diabetes and HIV. But not from suicide. I paused long enough to find what I was looking for. Then walked back over to show him. “There were more than forty-five thousand suicides in the US in 2016. Five hundred sixty-four were Black women. We don’t kill ourselves.”

He took the phone but didn’t glance at it. Didn’t accept my proof. “Then that’s five hundred sixty-four that prove otherwise.”

“No. Desiree was too vain.”

“To kill herself?”

“To kill herself like that. She’d check into the Four Seasons, run a bath, do her makeup, and down just enough pills so she looked gorgeous when you found her. She wouldn’t shoot up on a playground like a cheap hooker, especially since she was afraid of needles.”

He looked unfazed, used to upsetting members of my family tree. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost convincing. “Does it matter if you’re numb? She was upset she couldn’t get cast on another show. Felt alone. We couldn’t get our shit together. And she couldn’t talk to her family.”

I didn’t think I could get more mad, and yet. “For good reason,” I said.

“I doubt it.” He picked up my glass and drank. I was glad I hadn’t told him she was pregnant. He didn’t deserve to know. “They weren’t talking to each other,” he said.

They? Said family tree had only a few branches left. I knew she spoke with Aunt E on the regular. And Veronika took her cues from her husband, which meant one thing. “Desiree and Mel?”

He nodded while I shook my head.

“She saw him yesterday, for her birthday.”

“No, she didn’t.” His voice was emphatic, laboring over each syllable to make sure they came out perfect.

But he was lying. Desiree was a daddy’s girl. Still, I decided to humor him. “Fine. Tell me what happened.”

“Wish I knew.”

“Well, whatever it was, they made up. There’s a pic of them on her Instagram.”

Of his arm, but still. Mel hadn’t mentioned any falling-out when I was in his office.

Naut shrugged, took another drink. “The photo couldn’t have been recent.”

It had to have been. She was in that teal romper. Desiree didn’t re-wear clothes when lounging around the house—much less leaving it. And there was no way Mel could stay mad at Desiree. They’d have made up.

But if they hadn’t been talking, it was for a reason. One I’d never have the courage to ask Mel about. If Aunt E had known, she’d have told me. I could think of only one other person who might.

Zarah.

*



I took an Uber. It was late. I was tipsy, but I wasn’t foolish. Before I left Naut, I asked him about Find My Friends, but he didn’t have it enabled. He sent me off with a bottle of water and his phone number to make sure I made it to my destination safe and sound.

I left another message for Green, then mentally replayed my conversation with Naut during the entire ride downtown. Erin was right. Naut didn’t know what happened after he’d left for his gig.

Uneasiness bubbled inside me. I’d started the day wanting to know one thing: Why had Desiree been coming to see me? And instead of getting an answer, now I had a million more questions.

Zarah’s building was as tall and pristine as a wedding cake. There was no doorman this time. Just an intercom listing apartment numbers. I hit 301 and waved solemnly at the security camera. It took only a few seconds for her to buzz me in.

But when I finally got upstairs, I realized Zarah hadn’t buzzed me in at all. Her assistant was cute and Black, with flawless makeup and a long, straight lace front in the same trendy platinum color I saw all over YouTube but would never dare try myself. She introduced herself as Felicia.

“She’s been in bed since the doctor left,” Felicia said.

I nodded, not surprised that he’d made a house call. When you’re rich and famous, doctors come to you.

“I’ll get her,” Felicia said.

“No, I don’t want to wake her. I can always come back another time.”

But Felicia was already making her way down the lone hall. “No, she wanted me to get her when you stopped by.”

I looked around. It wasn’t only the outside of the building that resembled a wedding cake. Zarah’s apartment was white on white on white. Flow through and open concept, with a glossy white kitchen squeezed into one corner. The floors were a light wood she tried to hide under an oversize furry white rug. I knew from browsing her Instagram that it looked way better in photos than in real life.

Truth was, my objections to Felicia were solely home training. I had no desire to come back later. I wanted to talk to Zarah now, so I was glad she was willing to talk to me.

Then I saw her.

It said a lot about Zarah that even in oversize sweats, no makeup, and with her hair in a bun, she outshined me, Felicia, and probably everyone in a ten-block radius. She’d wanted to be a model when we were kids but never made it past five foot four. It also said a lot that she had managed to do it anyway, by launching a new makeup line designed specifically for women of color after struggling for years to match shades to her deeper complexion. Not that she needed it. Her skin came with its own filter, only disturbed by dimples when she smiled.