I Almost Forgot About You by Terry McMillan Read Free Book Online

years, because I have yet to see the point of it, but I understand you can find just about anybody on here, even though until today I haven’t been looking for anyone.
    I’m shocked when I see a photo of someone who looks like I did about ten years ago. I think Frankie put that picture of me on here when she signed me up. I forgot I had cheekbones. And only one chin. And a wig that wasn’t synthetic; it was actually my hair. I looked happy, I looked good, and I can’t remember why.
    What will I say if I find him? “Remember me from the seventies? We spent some time together.” That sounds lame, like I’m still stuck in the past. And what if all he says is yes? What if he has nothing else to say to me? What if he thinks I’ve only gotten in touch because I’m trying to hook back up after a thousand years? But then again, what if he’s still in the Bay Area and happily married and would love to see me, maybe introduce me to his wife and kids (which I would love), or what if he wants to meet for a latte after thirty-four years? I forgot all about the possibility of seeing him in person. Shit. He would probably think I’ve let myself go. But I have.
    According to Frankie, people put their whole lives on Facebook, so I should be able to see what he’s done with his. I hope he finished college. But what will I tell him about me? That I’ve gone through two husbands? (I wouldn’t admit to being traded in for a newer model or take any responsibility for being a bad judge of character.) That I’m a little on the fuller side and I also dye my hair intense auburn to avoid looking at the gray? That I’m an unhappy optometrist looking to make a career change when most people are thinking about retirement? And lie that I’m in a serious relationship but we’re just taking it slow? And what if he asks what made me get in touch with him after all these years? What in the hell will I say that would make any sense?
    I hit Escape.
    Then Sleep.
    Abraham’s going to have to wait.
    —
    Wanda just had to open her big mouth and tell Violet what I’m planning to do, which is why Violet chose to leave me a long, sensitive voice-mail message:
“Have you lost your damn mind, Georgia? You must have. This is about the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. What do you hope to gain from it? I say leave the bastards exactly where they belong: in the Relationship History Book. Of course I’m sorry to hear about Raymond, but if I were you, I’d think twice about selling my house in this fucked-up economy. But you have yet to take any good advice I’ve given you, and I don’t expect you to start now, so forget everything I just said and do it your way. Bye.”
    I’m forgetting it right now.
    I go back on Facebook and type in Abraham’s first and last names and push my chair away from my desk two or three feet and look down at the floor while my heart pounds like a jackhammer. When I glance up at the screen, I cover my mouth, because I only see one black face and he’s a teenager.
    I feel somewhat relieved.
    But then, as if I’m on autopilot, I decide to Google his name, except this time I include his middle name, which I didn’t even know I remembered. Well, I’m pretty sure Abraham wasn’t a soldier in 1898, and he didn’t drive a tractor-trailer in North Carolina, nor did he play the jazz trumpet with Jimmy Smith, and I’m hoping, for his sake, that the parking-summons warrant waiting for him in Alabama isn’t his.
    —
    “Maybe Abraham is dead, too,” Wanda says. We’re getting off the Sausalito exit right past hundreds of houseboats, where Violet has lived for years. Black people don’t live on boats. We live on land.
    “Don’t say that,” I say.
    Wanda’s driving, which is a mistake, because she’s not good at staying in her lane. “Everybody can be found somewhere on the Internet.”
    “Apparently that’s not true.”
    “Did you ever meet any of his relatives?”
    I shake my head.
    “Not even his mama?”
    I