Monique

She walks with her head bowed, the stinging cold air now more tolerable against her nesh skin as she walks up a staircase and underneath a roof belonging to the grandest portico of the grandest mansion she’s ever seen. The neoclassical architecture and grand balusters make her feel as if she’s in the Capitol about to conduct a series of interviews with senators, although she was on the portico of a home off Calhoun street in Audubo – the most expensive neighborhood in New Orleans. Hands protected and warm underneath her gloves, Monique presses her index finger to the doorbell – an oval diamond set into what appears to be a case of ornately carved slate. The resounding sound is an unfamiliar melodious song that reminds her of the mellow tunes played during the intros of soap operas her mother always watched. Many different emotions enter and exit her psyche as she hears the footsteps of the lady to greet her -- she feels as if she’s in a dream. She clutches her little black book in her left hand for comfort. The $10,000 award isn’t even at the forefront of her mind. She cares most that she now has the chance to get the exposure she needs to achieve her dreams.

The wide and heavy-double doors swing inward, and the sight given to Monique is not one she expects, but she doesn’t break face. Growing up in the ghettos off Central street in Fresno, California could give a young black girl enough horrors for several lifetimes, and it had.

“Oh, you must be Monique Brown! It’s great to finally meet you.” the smile is bright, but Monique has trouble recognizing the lady before her. Could this really be her? Could this be..

“Denver Golding?” Monique slowly walks as the lady steps back and allows her entry.

“Yes, Please, come have a seat.” her voice is noticeably softer than the ones she’d heard in interviews. And that’s not the only difference. Her frame is smaller, more fragile. A soft and lavender colored dress drapes her slender frame that’s sharp at the shoulders from malnourishment.

Monique is greeted with the most immaculate interior she has seen of any home. She finds herself standing on smooth marble, which has a shining effect from the dazzling amount of sunlight entering the home through its many windows. Paintings, portraits, sculptures, etc. all rest within the tastefully decorated home. Denver turns her back and walks with a spring in her step, almost as if she were welcoming a long-lost friend into her home instead of a complete stranger.

“You can sit wherever you like. And please, help yourself.” Denver gestures widely, shining light on a humongous sectional made of black leather that seems to just barely fill the room. The sectional spans out like a rectangle without a top, and Monique heads to the center where she is most comfortable. Denver seats herself to the left, wincing in pain as she does so.

“And please, help yourself.” Denver points to a charcutier board resting atop the coffee table. Monique sets her little black book next to the board and helps herself to a red grape as well as a dollop of a creamy cheese she’s never seen before to break the ice; the taste is heavenly.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” Denver smiles lightly, “I know I would. But first, I want to talk about your story.” Denver gently leans forward, delicately picking up the black book. She holds and lightly strokes it as if it’s a sacred document. “I have read a lot of stories and have had to make a lot of difficult decisions for this competition, but your story, Monique.. it moved me. I see qualities in your story I have been trying to bring out in mine for a long time. Qualities that—”

Denver interrupts herself, emitting very strained, very hoarse coughs that shake her body and rattle her chest. She clears her throat and issues an apology before continuing, “Qualities that are so hard to write in a realistic way without some sense of perspective. Like the inner torment and complexity of your protagonist, Amelia. The terror of an unwanted and unexpected pregnancy is very real and could lead people to react in any number of ways. And even though this story has been told before, about a mother who is too young to care for her soon-to-come child and has to give it up to her parents while having to pretend to be the child’s sibling, I have not often seen the person on the giving end of this situation, rather than the receiving. You drew everything out perfectly. The emotions of your protagonist, the intense atmosphere between her and her parents for the rest of her time living with them, and the gray areas all your characters stood in that truly captured humanity for what it is – not black and white, but grey. You captured an entire lifetime of pain and experiences in only 10,000 words. Truly amazing.”

Mrs. Golding leans back, sweetly smiling at Monique and taking a few quick breaths as if the long flow in dialogue tired her. Then she coughs again, even worse retches than the ones before. It takes a few moments, but she calms, and the retches turn into a rattle in the throat that dies off but is sure to come back at any moment’s notice.

“What happened? I thought you got better?” Monique hates it if she comes across as crass or insensitive, but she’s seen this before, and she doesn’t want to believe it true, the fall of her biggest inspiration in life, but it was happening right before her eyes. I fuckin’ get it now. This is why Golding hadn’t been seen in the public eye for the last, year it seemed? She conducted few interviews, and released them as podcasts, not showing her face. She hadn’t done any book tours in months, and her social media accounts just seemed less engaging and more just sharing informative stuff.

Denver’s lips curl slightly, a sad smile. “Yeah, I thought so too.” She laughs, and it puts a sharp pain in Monique’s chest. “After everything, fighting even though I knew it would take a part of me.” She crosses her wrists over each other, holding them snug to her chest. “Taking my breasts wasn’t enough. The bastard had to come back in my lungs.” Denver pauses momentarily before looking at Monique, smiling. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to dampen your spirits. As you know, your story had to go through a few different people on my team before making it to the list of ones that are personally read by me. I trust my team entirely, and just making it through them is indicative of greatness. I was thoroughly impressed, and I’m not gonna lie, I sleuthed. I wanted to know as much as I could about the person behind this story. A google search didn’t reveal as much as I’d hoped, but I still found quite a bit! I’m sorry if you’re struggling to find my point in all my rambling, but I promise there’s a reason. There are several things I didn’t publicly announce about my `Dollar Per Word’ contest, and the first of these is that the 1st place winner, you, are getting two dollars per word, for 20 grand instead of 10.”

Monique’s jaw drops, this day seeming to become more and more like a dream. This ain’t real. It can’t be. She feels like a game show contestant, and she’s just struck the grand prize, with cameras all around her and people all over the globe watching.

“And this isn’t all, Monique. I am going to ask you the biggest thing someone could ask of somebody. I know your capabilities. I saw that your senior thesis earned you a full-ride scholarship to Yale and Harvard, and you turned them both down because you couldn’t afford to leave your family behind. You grew up in poverty, for lack of a better term, and you self-taught, paid for writing classes with money earned from your job, and rose above it. I couldn’t ask this of a better person.”

Monique isn’t liking the tone of this meeting anymore, and discomfort finds its way into the atmosphere, maybe only known to her. Now she knows why she’s really here, and she doesn’t get how it wasn’t clear before.

“I can’t do this, I’m sorry.” Monique stands, hands trembling, “I don’t know what you think this is or what you think I am, but I’m not gonna be your little trophy from the ghetto. You don’t know shit about me, and the way you view people like us shows it. So impressed. So shocked. I get how it’s supposed to feel, your little acknowledgements and awe, but it makes me feel like an animal in a zoo.” Monique gets up, turning on her heels.

Denver calls, “Wait! Please, it’s not like that at all!”

Monique keeps walking.

“I want you to finish my fourth installment of Eye of Idris!”

What? Monique turns around, looking at Denver for clarity.

Fresh and bright streaks of tears light up Mrs. Golding’s sun-spotted face, “I didn’t choose you for the reasons you think, Monique, and I’m sorry it came across that way. The truth is, I’m not going to make it the rest of the year. And I’m okay with it. I have lived an amazing life, filled with more fortune than I could imagine or deserve. I appreciate that my work took me somewhere, and that people have accepted and cherished it with open arms, but why should this… stagnate with me? Why can’t someone born without a silver spoon be granted the same opportunities? I didn’t just choose you for your circumstances, I chose you for your words! I chose you because I felt as if the world would be robbed if not touched by what you’ve created. Yes, I started the series, but I can’t finish it, and as crazy as it sounds, I don’t want to or even think I’m meant to. I want your words out there.”

Monique sits again in her previous spot, “How do you know what I can do? How do you know I can pull this off?”

“I know because I’ve read your work.”

“But I didn’t just come up with all that.” Tears pool in the corners of Monique’s eyes. “It happened to me.”

“So what? That’s a huge part of what art is. Human experiences and the emotions and perceptions they’ve left us with. The way you sent your message only shows your brilliance as a writer.”

“But what about you? Why have you just given up? Isn’t there something you can do?”

“There isn’t, unfortunately. It’s too advanced. Not even money can help. Accepting I have no control over that has been the most difficult thing in my life, as well as the most liberating. But I’ve taken control where I need to, and I won’t allow this sickness to take me how it wants. I leave for Amsterdam this weekend.”

“Switzerland?” Monique pauses, “You don’t mean..”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you can’t—”

“It’s not as it seems.” Golding takes Monique’s hands in her own, “I’m terminally ill, not mentally, and the doctors wouldn’t agree to it for any other reason. I would never choose this as a solution, but I’m glad it’s there for people like me. And I know my Reggie will be waiting for me on the other side.”

Monique shakes her head, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, death is just the journey after life…. So will you do it?”

“Under one condition.”

“Anything.” Mrs. Golding clasps her hand firmly.

“Let me be by your side, if you have no one.”

Denver Golding gives Monique Brown a smile fuller of life than she’d ever seen, and the two begin to discuss the work to be done.