Page 11 of Not About That Life
Four
It’s a little different being at the Ferguson compound this time around.
The inside of the Ferguson compound emanates old money. Not the type where people got lucky and bought nice things. It’s the type where you keep your hands firmly by your side because you’re too damn scared you’re going to bump into a priceless artifact and you’re going have to sell your kidney to pay it off.
It’s a museum within its own.
As Ian’s niece and nephews play out on the spiraling front yawn with their cousins, I’m making my first guest appearance at their Thanksgiving. Adrienne and Emma are helping Ian’s stepmother, Elise, set the table, while Ian completely took over the kitchen. The rest of the Ferguson men are sitting around watching cricket in the theater. The servants have the entire holiday off to spend with their families.
I’m trying to find something to do and be a little useful so I casually wonder around the eclectic home. Lots of expensive furniture, priceless artwork, and state of the art equipment greets me from room to room. It’s a museum, library, and a bit of London charm with the sunny disposition of Los Angeles rolled into one. It sounds funny but it strangely works.
As I walk through the palatial estate, I see the silent but huge impact of Lula Jean. She’s on almost every wall throughout the home. I feel her presence in every room and I only guess she had a heavy hand in decorating it. The lighting is warm and inviting, not clinical. It feels like a home.
It reminds me of Ian.
Seeing how his mother decorated the family compound reminds me of why he decorated his home the way he did. He has a few eclectic and super-expensive items, but the home feels more like a lived-in one complete with a housewife, kids, and pets. I would’ve never guessed one of the world’s most eligible bachelors (well, used to be) lived there.
The sofas in one of the family rooms (since there are several) look comfortable and lived-in, though I’m sure they cost a small fortune. They’re not the typical leather sofas every person with new money buys. They’re covered with suede and I immediately know they’re the sofas that people purchase to look at, and not for anyone to actually sit in them.
I walk over to the window and silently stand next to it as I study the outside view. Neat rows of manicured grass stare back at me as the hot Pasadena sun beats down on them. The other Ferguson women are fanning themselves off and sharing the latest socialite gossip that would probably bore me if I entertained them.
I’m welcomed into the family fold but I feel strangely alone, like I don’t belong.
It’s not a race thing. No one has mentioned my skin color or make snide comments about me being black. It’s aclassthing and I’m very much aware of where I came from to who I currently am. I grew up rich, but I didn’t have a maid or a chef. My parents worked very hard to provide a good life for me and my sister.
But the Fergusons…this is a different tax bracket type of wealthy. Ian always had a maid, butler, and chauffeur. In fact, a maid comes by his home twice a week to clean it, though he prefers driving.
He’s never shopped in a mall and had Neiman Marcus and Geary’s credit accounts since he turned 18.
I, on the other hand, grew up in Baldwin Hills. We didn’t have a maid or a chauffeur. We lived in a very nice area of Los Angeles, and I could name some childhood friends who grew up to become rappers or athletes.
But let’s not get it twisted – if anyone was washing my funky underwear, it was me, not my mama.
I let out a sigh thinking about her. Every holiday is tough and it really doesn’t get any easier. Now that I’m effectively estranged from Sam, the holidays are even lonelier. I glance down at the ginormous diamond on my finger and I can’t help but to think I’m about to get married to the man of my dreams, have the wedding of my dreams, and I’m alone.
Don’t get me wrong; I love Adrienne and she’ll be my sister for life, but she can’t replace our mother. My mother was the one that taught me about boys from a young age, telling me to never ‘give it away to just anyone.’ She taught me about life, encouraging me to travel when I was young and childless.
She taught me about everything I needed to know about finding my way and becoming a woman. And I just only hope I’m a fraction of the woman she was.
I finally sit down on the expensive furniture I probably shouldn’t be sitting on, and I’m sure I’ll be scolded at by one of the Fergusons when they find out. I don’t even care anymore. The tears are in free-fall mode and I can’t stop them. Each time I wipe them away, more fall to replace them. I’m sure my makeup is smeared and my eyes are probably weed smoker red.
I just really miss my Mommy.
My shoulders shudder and I can barely breathe. I’ve shed numerous tears over my mother in the past years and it doesn’t get any easier. Every holiday is a stark reminder there’s a key member missing from our family. I can only talk to the sky for so long, visit her gravesite so much, and it just doesn’t get any fucking easier.
There’s a huge hole in my heart and she’ll never see her future grandchildren. She’ll never help me shop for the perfect wedding dress. We’ll never get into nonsensical arguments about Jordan almonds and why I can’t sit Aunt Gloria next to Fertile Myrtle Angie.
She’ll never help me prepare for my baby shower, nor would she ever be in the delivery room when I’m going through agony delivering Ian’s child. She won’t be there when our baby does arrive, with a proud smile on her face, telling me, ‘You did it!’
My mother is gone.
“Domi?”
Hearing Gerald call my name reminded me where I am and who’s around. I quickly stand up and try in vain to wipe the tears off my face and hope my eyes are somewhat presentable before I turn around. Just as I stand up and try to rush out of the room with a muffled ‘I’m sorry’, he stops me.
“Hey, hey…” He grabs my arms. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m not sure if you’re the right person to talk about this?” My words come out in harsh breaths as I’m trying to regain my composure.
