Chasing Sophea

by Gabrielle Pina

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Literary Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Acclaimed author Gabrielle Pina delivers a moving tale that reveals the soothing potential of family love to heal life’s deepest hurts. Michael’s wife Dahlia seems to have it all—a successful career, a devoted husband, and a loving daughter. But something sinister troubles her tortured mind. When Michael discovers her eccentric mortician father and the other bizarre characters on the plantation of her estranged family, he becomes convinced that Dahlia’s past hides the key to her unstable present.
“Pina … delivers strong characters and an intricate plot.”—Booklist

Release date: February 19, 2009

Publisher: One World

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

It was happening again: that feeling of being adrift in her own body, mystified by the simplest of things. Like a mourned lover, it had crept up on her out of nowhere, intoxicating her senses, and she struggled to remain focused on the task at hand. But what was the task? And how long would it be before she remembered—seconds like before or hours? Days perhaps. Unfortunately, time for her had become much too easy to lose.

Dahlia paused at the light on the corner of Colorado Boulevard and Orange Grove and wondered where she would end up this time. The signal changed, horns sounded, and still confusion in all its glory danced around in her head, spinning and twirling with reckless abandon. She was aware that she was somehow off balance, but she was at a loss for how to identify the cause of her difficulty. If anyone were to ask her, she wouldn’t know how to adequately articulate how she felt without sounding like she was in desperate need of a padded room and wrist restraints. No, there was nothing to be revealed to anyone about these random spells that were beginning to occur more and more frequently. She would work through them—lean into the curve, so to speak—and in time, this one would pass just like the others and she would be no worse for wear. Wrinkled a little, yes, but not shredded into countless pieces—not right now, anyway. Dahlia pressed her foot on the accelerator and followed the gold Mercedes in front of her onto the 134 freeway. Today she’d go west toward Los Angeles, toward the ocean.

Oftentimes during moments like these, Dahlia reached for an emotional anchor to weigh her down and keep her grounded—a fond memory to calm her insides—but memories good or bad hid from her religiously. She guessed they lingered in her mind trapped in tight spaces unwilling to make an appearance. She longed to remember what it felt like not to be nearly hysterical twenty-four hours a day, but she didn’t have the energy to go chasing after any phantom recollections. Lately it seemed she didn’t have the energy to do much of anything—work, play, or love intensely the way she used to. Her life was escaping from her in minuscule increments day by day, and God help her, sometimes she wanted to simply turn herself off, give in to the pressure and be done with breathing already. But she was stronger than that. Or at least that’s what she always told herself in the midnight hour when thoughts of suicide attempted to seduce her.

Last night had been more of the usual tossing and turning, screaming and sweating, and this morning her depression was compounded by the lone gray hair she discovered languishing in her punanni as if it belonged there, as if it were finally home. She’d gasped in horror and imagined herself at ninety years old napping in a wheelchair smelling of Bengay and peppermint patties. She’d grabbed tweezers and plucked wildly, trying desperately not to cry in front of her amused husband. He’d laughed, of course, and teased her until that heavy feeling in her chest subsided. “Welcome to my world,” he’d said with a broad grin, and she did feel better for a while or at least until she walked out the door. He was good at that, though, making her forget herself at times. But now even he couldn’t control what was happening to her, and neither, it appeared, could she. She blinked back tears and rummaged around in her purse for Excedrin, Advil, or anything that would make her head stop aching. “No,” she whispered. “Go away.” But the pain persisted, and she kept driving, oblivious to the sugarcoated life waiting for her on the other side of town.

Chapter 2

“Dahlia, baby, it’s time to get up. I don’t want you to be late again.”

“Late for what? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve taken care of everything. All you have to do is shower, dress, and get in the car.”

Dahlia pressed her face deeper into her goose-down pillow. It was so fluffy and obviously new, but she didn’t remember buying it, and Michael—or Milky, as she liked to call him—would never purchase such a luxury. Normally she would be up, out the door, and on her way to the Coffee Bean for a nonfat pure vanilla ice blended. This morning it didn’t seem to matter that she had thirty-odd students at Pasadena City College waiting impatiently for her to give a lecture on God knows what. Lying in bed all day daydreaming seemed preferable to actually opening her eyes or even moving. Maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t move, kept still like the dead, he’d have mercy on her and leave her be for a moment longer. She wasn’t ready. Why couldn’t he tell that she wasn’t ready? Couldn’t a woman be depressed and suicidal in peace? Jesus.

Still somewhat oblivious to Michael’s pleas for acknowledgment, Dahlia continued to think about the benefits of remaining buried under a mountain of hand-stitched quilts until the familiar intrusion of cool air jolted her back to the now, to the what is. Real life began to tickle the underside of her toes and disturb the cozy cocoon she’d managed to create for herself. Like yesterday and the day before, Michael had removed the covers and proceeded to swing her legs over the side of the bed as if she were a disobedient child. Despite her budding anger, she decided that she should be grateful for the distraction. If it weren’t for him pushing her forward lately, she’d be a mess, an absolute zombie stumbling around Pasadena proper in Jimmy Choo shoes.

“Dahlia, I want you to talk to a doctor about this.”

“Milky, I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“You’re always tired, Dahlia. You go to sleep and wake up tired. And frankly, I’m tired of you being tired. I want you to make an appointment to see someone today. I mean it. I spoke to Stan and got the name of a good doctor.”

“Are you attempting to tell me what to do, Milky?”

“Something is not right here, Dahlia, and we have to find out what it is. Maybe you have chronic fatigue syndrome or—” Dahlia interrupted before he prattled off an endless list of possibilities that could explain her exhaustion. He was a lists man. She’d learned early on in their relationship to ask questions that had only one answer if time was a consideration because Michael was always prepared with countless options. If only he wanted to be a game show contestant, they’d be millionaires by now.

“If this has anything do with last night, I just didn’t feel like it, okay? The world is not going to end because you didn’t get any from your wife.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Dahl. Are you intimating that I care more about having sex with you than I do about your health? Or perhaps you think I enjoy making love to a vegetable? Woman, you must be losing your mind.”

“Fuck you, Michael.”

“I’d love to oblige you, baby, but unfortunately at the moment there’s no time and my desire has waned considerably. Make the appointment, Dahlia, or I’ll make it for you.” Michael turned her head to face him. “And, yes, in case you don’t understand me, I am now officially telling you what to do.”





Dahlia stared at herself in the mirror for quite some time after she dressed. Michael’s voice seemed to be emanating from everywhere, echoing from her brain, bouncing off the hand-painted tiles in the bathroom . . . You think I like making love to a vegetable? . . . You must be losing your mind. What the hell did he know, anyway? Everything in his life had been perfect, no glitches or unexpected bumps in the road, just smooth sailing for him and his precious family. Well, no matter what Michael said. Today, she sensed, was not a good day, and she knew instinctively that once she stepped one foot out the door, it would immediately begin to rain on her head. She’d say the hell with it and stay home if Michael weren’t hovering, waiting to see if she made it to the driveway. It was only a matter of time before he began to follow her to work or slapped one of those steel contraptions around her ankle like she was some runaway convict.

She fought her first impulse to drive through the alley, sneak back into her own house, and hide underneath the covers until the oddness passed. It wasn’t anything she could put her finger on exactly. It was simply a feeling of bewilderment that she couldn’t quite shake. What was happening to her? She used to be able to move from one day to the next with some semblance of comfort. Living, breathing, and loving had never been this difficult. She had a family to take care of, classes to teach, and a business to help run. Those were her priorities, and whatever was happening to her had to take a backseat. So what if she was fatigued? She’d been fatigued all her life and had managed just fine, thank you. She didn’t need some quack to tell her to take a vacation and get more sleep. She’d always managed to expertly cover her tracks when these random spells hit and interrupted her structured life of details.

She’d have to pull it together so Michael could relax and stop worrying so much. She needed to make him believe that everything was all right. This time she managed to convince herself that he was simply perturbed because she hadn’t returned his affections last night or the night before. Was there some law against a wife being too exhausted to make love with her husband? She assumed that after eight years of marriage, he’d understand that her lack of desire was merely temporary and had nothing whatsoever to do with him. Men were always so dramatic and impatient. They constantly believed the world revolved around them and their needs. Nevertheless, she intended to make it up to him. As soon as this latest spell passed, she planned to seduce him, intrigue him, and make him fall in love with her all over again.





Dahlia surveyed her restless class and began collecting assignments from the previous week. Many of her colleagues were baffled about her decision to teach; they considered it a waste of time. “It’s not like you need the money,” they’d say. “You can do anything you want.”

“Exactly,” she’d reply with a smile. She adored teaching and considered it to be something of an art form. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and even below-average students thrived under her tutelage. She had built a successful public relations firm, sold it, and discovered that she still required another venture of sorts to keep her focused, so she began teaching part-time at the city college. She felt calmer—for a while, anyway—and almost normal.

“All right, all right. Settle down, people. I’m here. My apologies for being late again. It was unavoidable.” Dahlia didn’t much remember what she lectured on after that initial greeting or how long she stood in front of the chalkboard before the unthinkable happened.

She convinced herself that if she just kept lecturing, no one would notice the warm fluid swirling around her leg, quickly fanning into a bright yellow puddle on the floor. She closed her eyes and willed the entire class to disappear, but when she opened them, they were still there, staring dumbfounded.

“That’s enough for today,” she whispered in a small voice, yet no one budged.

And in that moment, the lesson plan in her head vanished, and there was nothing left to recall, no witty anecdote to share, and no new innovative assignment to give. The class remained unmovable, almost appearing cemented to their desks, waiting for the next scene, the next act, or the inevitable conclusion to a play gone wrong. A tense moment passed, and in that space of time, she couldn’t remember why she was there. After peering into startled eyes peering back at her, she decided that there was nothing left for her to do but leave, simply disappear as quickly and unobtrusively as she had arrived. And so, she reached for her purse, grabbed her briefcase, and made damn sure that her cocoa brown suede coat never grazed the miniature pond creeping hopelessly across the floor.