“Who the hell is this bitch he’s talking to every afternoon at 12 o’clock? And yes, I assumed it was a bitch because why the hell would he be calling a male friend every day at the same damn time?
And YES, I was monitoring his cell phone records – because I had a feeling. What would women’s intuition be if I didn’t use it? Duh.
“Oh, that must’ve been *Joan. She’ll be back from lunch at about 2pm,” one of her co-workers said.
“No problem. Thank you, I’ll call back.”
“So what are you talking to him about every day? Why are you on the phone with him? Did he tell you that he has a beautiful woman at home?” I’m quizzing the shit out of her. She was calm – as I would’ve been too if I was on my office phone. And I’m sure I blocked my number so she was caught off guard.
Basically, they were just friends and he was only making small talk about the lotto and telling her jokes. (Um hmm.)
“I could not ever talk to him again and I’d be fine. And if you notice HE’s calling ME.”
Needless to say, I went home and asked “M, who is Joan?” He’s propped up in bed, leaned up against a few pillows watching TV. Just chilling with feet crossed. Remote in hand.
“Huh? I don’t know nobody named Joan. Never heard of her.”
REALLY. Okay, I guess he thought it was okay to lie in my face. “You don’t know nobody name Joan??!!” I wrap both hands around his neck and start jerking his head back and forth.
“ARRGGghhhh, you gonna LIE in my FACE??!!”
I never heard a peep about her again. That was year three of our relationship. By year eleven, I had all but (almost) forgotten about her.
Wait, now I remember – not long after that “argument” he packed all his clothes in garbage bags. He was moving out.
My response: “You want me to help you pack?” Once he had everything bagged up in the bedroom, he lay down and went to sleep – with his clothes on. He lived out of those bags for a while, but never left.
Fast forward to August 2013 – year thirteen (two full years after we broke up). I show up at the hospital to see him a week after he has a massive stroke. There’s an older woman (“50ish”) — well hell, not old, but a lot older than me! — sitting by his bed. Her name is Joan. I don’t know
the bitch her from a hole in the wall. All I know is she has hereditary dark circles under her eyes that make her look like a raccoon, and she’s wearing cheap black shiny loafers. I also note that she has a muffin top bulging over her indigo-colored jeans, and stringy black hair.
I’m cordial to her when I tell her his mail still comes to my house. “Do you know where he lives? So what happened?” I’m quizzing her and she’s giving me the side eye. Not yet assuming that’s his girlfriend because she just told me she has no idea where the hell he lives.
And I myself don’t know where he lives because I had no reason to go to his house!
The second time I visit, she’s not there. I ask him “Is Joan your girlfriend?” He shook his head “no.” Okay.
Third time I visited, I start getting a bad vibe from her. I was sitting at his feet, flipping through a magazine and my heart started beating fast out of nowhere. Y’all know my spider senses went up. She was standing out in the hall – looking through the glass at me with her beady raccoon eyes.
His blood pressure starts rising and the nurse orders everyone out. “I need y’all to clear the floor for at least an hour. His pressure is going up too high.”
I get home that Friday night and check his emails (shit, I’m the one who set up the account although I hadn’t had any reason to check it. But now he’s paralyzed, without speech, and no one knows where he lives) — and come to find out, this chic is Joan – the one whose job I called many moons ago. She’s the one who is preventing him from seeing friends. She’s the one he sent roses for Valentine’s day this past February. She’s the one who thinks I’m going to take him back – the one who has his visitors’ list restricted.
Damn insecure scarecrow.