The Sameness Life of Nandi

by authorforgod

Nandi-Jeans last four years have been riddled and crippled with hurt and addiction. At the height of her life—fall her mother who was her rock in life passes away leaving Nandi in a more vulnerable state. With no compromise to leave her addiction, her marriage begins to crumble. At the pinnacle of her spiral Nandi is faced with one big life changing decision...

The Sameness Life of Nandi

A Novel 2014 ©

By Memory Bengesa

Contemporary Christian fiction with discussion questions and author commentary

"So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed." (John 8:36 ESV)

Chapter One

The firstweek of January 2014 St Louis, Missouri

The hardest thing in my life was admitting that today was coming.

The car ride home was the most silence my mind had ever embraced. What a difference from the last four years of automatic motion, the constant go-go-go. What complete chaos my life had been.

I knew this day was coming, but denial was easier than admitting the bold-faced truth. It's funny that I, of all people, had faith that God would spare her. Huh! God! Or the "higher power" or whatever you want to call Him. I thought He would allow her more time here on earth. After all, it would be for the benefit of His work, so she would say.

Sigh. "We're home honey," Brian said.

I could hear his voice, but I couldn't hear his words. It didn't take much for me to snap back to reality the minute Brian opened my door to help me out of the car. My body was hit by the cruel, icy wind that generally swept St. Louis in mid-January. I don't know how I'd survived the funeral that afternoon, but at this moment, all I was concerned about was getting inside the warmth of our home.

"Can I get you a cup of hot tea, babe?" Brian asked while assisting me with my coat.

"I just need to lie down." Suddenly weak, I walked slowly to the closest bedroom while Brian entertained the phone callers. I could not bear to talk or even hear my phone ringing. I know that people intended no harm, but these calls would soon cut into my last nerve. They were sorry for my loss, they loved her, they are there for me and she will be missed, blah, blah, blah.

No one knows how much pain you go through at the loss of a loved one. I know I am guilty of it too. I was always uncomfortable at funerals, thinking I was saying comforting things. But now I knew I was not comforting anyone. It's true that you don't know until you walk in the same shoes.

Brian walked in the room. I knew he was there because I could smell his cologne, even through the congestion in my nose. I knew the scent of my husband. The scent of security, the scent of stability, and the scent of protection lingered on Brian since our first date.

He sat at my feet as I curled up in a fetal position in the bed. I could not stop crying—I just couldn't. I'd been strong throughout the whole process. In that moment, I just wanted to bawl like a little baby…because nothing could stop my emotions and pain—not Brian, not my concerned family or friends.

He rubbed my back gently, with a hint of authenticity. I longed for his gentle strokes of comfort. How could this gesture feel so brand-new and real to me in my state of grief? This touched my emotions deeper. I can't tell you the last time I felt Brian's authentic touch...

"Babe," Brian said softly. "Do you remember when we first met?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. Through all my pain and tears, this man knew how to put a smile on my face. "You stalked me until I agreed to go out with you."

Brian couldn't keep a serious face if he tried. "What?" he hollered.

"You heard me, Mr. Stalker."

"Well—Nandi, after twelve years of marriage, I guess my stalking paid off."

Sigh. "You did something right." I couldn't help but mumble that. I couldn't believe it had been twelve years. They were not short years. They had more downs than ups. My feelings were reminders of those downs and ups, and my husband wouldn't like it if he knew I thought so.

"I'm going to get into some comfortable clothes and let you rest." Brian stood, kissed my forehead, and walked out.

I could feel him lingering at the door. My pain hurt him too. I knew he felt horrible because he couldn't immediately fix it as he would like to, being the problem-solver of the household.

When the door shut, my mind entered total darkness. The best thing for me to do was think happy thoughts, but I couldn't mentally take myself to my happy place. I just couldn't. . . .

My mind felt like an out-of-control carousel. It fixated on one thought then another, then another, and then that thought went round and round. I tried to pray. Yes, if I was praying, that meant it was serious. But all I could think of was Brian and her, or her and Brian. My heart beat faster and faster. I squeezed my eyelids shut to wash out my thoughts, but the more I tried, the more I thought of the funeral. And when I tried not to think of the funeral, I thought of my personal loss.

My head felt heavier by the second. I was reaching meltdown stage at the worst possible moment.

I wanted it all to disappear so I could get back all the good memories of my life.

Maybe the doctor's diagnosis was correct. . . .

When I think of Momma Jean's love and passion for God, I have to wonder how she remained so faithful to God until her death. Her cancer came and went for almost four years, and right when we thought it was all gone, it came back with vengeance.

Momma Jean never smoked or drank. She was a healthy-lifestyle activist. Her diagnosis of malignant cancer of the lungs was by far the most shocking news any of us had ever heard. What's crazy is that the day she told me about it, she had no tears in her eyes. That woman was a strong warrior. I was the one she had to control. I remember her soft, cuddling voice. "Don't worry, child. God is going to take care of me."

Those were her favorite words. No matter how old I was, she still considered me a child. I guess some things never change. But a lot of unanswered questions went down six feet with Momma Jean today—a lot of unanswered questions I was scared to ask.

I never dwelt on the questions before she died, because I never wanted to be one of those children who grew up expecting a great outcome from the answers of my mother's past. For instance, I've never known who my biological father is—or was. I had many questions about my life, but the main one had to do with my father. Never for one second did I consider asking Momma Jean who he was, because she made it her business to take care of me the best she knew how, and I didn't want to do that to her. She worked two hard jobs just to keep a roof over our heads and to make sure I made it to medical school. She never missed a day of work in her life.

So in the midst of it all, I didn't want to disrespect her by bringing up a memory of her past, even though it was an important piece of who I was. After I turned eighteen, I thought she'd tell me who my father was, but I wanted to let her decide.

The years came and went, and now she was six feet underground. She could never reveal to me the other half of my identity.

All I knew was that we moved to East St. Louis, Illinois, from Shuqualak, Mississippi, when I was ten. I remember that myself. As for my childhood, it was interesting a lot of days without Momma Jean. She worked two jobs and went to school, so the neighborhood pretty much raised me after we moved to Illinois. But back in those days, you could trust the neighborhood to do such things. Everyone on my block was an aunt or uncle but were no blood relation. They were free to discipline me if I was out of line.

What's crazy is that I don't remember ever meeting a blood relative in East St. Louis. I never thought to dwell on it, as my neighborhood and church had plenty of play uncles and play-aunts and cousins. I didn't have much to compare my childhood lifestyle to. I could not have told you what a "normal" childhood looked like.

My life changed after my sixteenth birthday. We moved from East St. Louis out to the county across the bridge—or across the river, as some folks would say—to Missouri. There we enjoyed an upgraded lifestyle. This new house had a working air conditioner and heat. I can't help remembering what a big difference it made during the winters and summers. In time, we even owned a fancy "ice-box," which I thought only the super-rich could afford. We'd never had one before. It took me a while to get used to the washer and dryer, because in Mississippi and in East St. Louis, all we ever used was the washboard.

What's funny about my growing-up years is that I never thought we were poor or without. Whatever I needed, Momma Jean got for me. What we didn't have, I didn't know about. Only when we moved into a completely different and diverse neighborhood did I realize how other people lived. That realization taught me a different perspective. We were poor when we lived on Tudor Avenue in East St. Louis, compared to our new upgrade.

By the time we moved, Momma Jean was finally done with her Ph.D. and had landed her dream job as a professor in the department of African-American studies at a local college. In a funny sense, I missed that little brick house in East St. Louis because it was my refuge from Mississippi. I missed the people who made up the neighborhood, although we had the smallest duplex on that street. Now my memories of Tudor Avenue, my friends, and my neighbors lay dominant in my head.

That neighborhood was what raised me not to forget the little white brick building we called church. Momma Jean wouldn't let us skip a service, making sure she was always off work on Sundays. One time, she had a bad case of pneumonia, and the doctors tried unsuccessfully to place her on bedrest. We attended church that Sunday, doctor or no doctor.

If I knew anything, it was that my Momma was smiling down on me from heaven. She had me later in life—in her second year of college. I got used to calling her Momma Jean because that's what the neighborhood kids called her, and their mothers called her Sister Jean. She never stopped me from calling her Momma Jean.

Now I couldn't get over the fact that I had just buried my beloved mother, the woman who kept me together with sound advice and tough love. My heart was heavy with emotion. Part of me was angry at this God she'd stayed loyal to. Another part of me feared I hadn't done as much as I needed to do for her when she was in remission. . . .

Chapter Two

Thirty years earlier in Mississippi

The year of my tenth birthday was sweltering hot, smack-dab in the middle of the Mississippi summer. I remember the sticky feeling of my sweat against my cotton clothing.

I awoke to Momma Jean and Lois going at it in a whispered argument. I pressed my ear against the thin, chipped wall to hear as much as I could, as I always did. But the harder I pressed my ear to the wall, the softer they whispered. I had grown accustomed to their bickering, usually over petty stuff.

Even now, after the funeral, I didn't know what relation Lois was to Momma Jean. But I know this for a fact: she was meaner than a three-legged dog. She looked mean, she smelled mean, and she was just mean. Truth be told, she scared me quite a bit. I couldn't tell you how old that woman was, but back in those days, she could have well been as old as Methuselah. At least, that's what I thought in my young mind because she looked so old—old and mean. It must have been the thinning, coarse, gray hair and crafted wrinkles on her face, representing both a hard life and endurance. Or the fact that she was one of the founding mothers at our little brick church might have made me feel she was ancient. Either way, I was not too fond of Lois.

Something about her scared me. It must have been her stoic-stern face and the raspy, loud voice. She was always on the grouchy side. If she'd ever had a smile on her face, I must have missed it. I never saw that lady's teeth; nor could I say I ever heard her laughter. No matter what I did, I irritated her.

Whatever the case, she was related to Momma Jean closely, it seemed. She always told me to call her Lois or Miss West. Momma Jean never formally introduced us or acted for a second as if I needed to know who she was. She was just Lois West.

She took care of me when Momma was at work and school. Well, taking care of me is an exaggeration. But I can say Lois West did what she could to take care of me. I used to hear the neighborhood and church kids calling her Grandma L. One day, I called her Grandma L., just like the rest of the kids my age, and mind you, I called her Grandma L. when she was cooking. Boy! You would have thought I had insulted her.

She whirled around. "What did you call me, little girl?"

Her voice was so raspy, it terrified me. I looked down and whispered, "Grandma L."

In an instant, she was across the room. She lifted my face, her palm tucked underneath my chin and squeezed the nerve endings out of my cheeks. Her grip was so tight, I thought she'd surely dented my cheeks that day. I couldn't help but tear up.

"Don't you ever call me Grandma. You hear me, little girl?"

I couldn't keep back my tears, and as she let go with no remorse, as usual, the back door opened. I knew it was Momma Jean. I was saved once again.

Full of hurt and pain, I bolted off toward Momma Jean. I didn't let her so much as step in the door before I buried my head against her thighs, hugging her tight around her legs.

I could not stop crying around the lump of pain in my chest. It wasn't the first time Lois had treated me this way. In fact, this was one of the few arguments I heard in person between Momma and Lois.

Momma Jean looked furious when she saw me crying, her left eyebrow raised up, her jaws tightened, her nostrils flared with every breath, I'd never seen momma this mad before. She kneeled to my level and whisked away my tears with her fingers and kissed my forehead and whispered in my ear as she hugged me tightly.

"It's okay, baby." Momma Jean's voice was so ever-soothing, it could ease any pain.

Then she stood and strode into the kitchen. Usually, Momma Jean commanded me to go to my room when these arguments erupted, but this time around, I trailed behind her.

"What is the meaning of this, Momma—I mean Lois." Momma Jean clapped her hand over her mouth after her slip of the tongue.

Lois never turned around, but she continued to cook and hum.

I knew Momma Jean was upset after I saw her put her hands on her waist and if her complexion was any lighter she would have been red in the face with furry…momma's chest danced rhythmically with every exhaled breath. She walked up to Lois and tugged her shoulder.

Lois spun around and pointed a steaming-hot wooden spoon, dripping red spaghetti sauce, an inch away from Momma. Even though Momma backed up quickly, Lois leaned into her and whisper-shouted at her. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but Momma stalked away, yelling, and Lois mumbled to herself like she always did.

Momma Jean grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the house. We went to our serene place, where we liked to go and hide out in such times—a little lake behind the church building. Whenever we went there, we always sat in the grass, and Momma talked to me as though I was an adult. She told me all her dreams and aspirations, and I listened because I knew she had no one else to talk to.

Our times at the lake were simple but priceless. My busy mom and I craved those times. The moment itself never lasted long, but the memory always stayed with me, even more so when Lois treated me meanly. Then I always took myself to my happy place with my Momma at the lake. Even now as an adult, I can't figure out what I did to Lois to make her hate me so much and treat me so meanly.

Once I was playing outside at the clothesline, running through the freshly washed sheets as Lois hung them up. Momma Jean always allowed me to play without touching any of the clothes. I guess she let me be me. But this particular day, without warning, Lois snatched the back of my shirt as I ran through. She was mighty strong for her age, and she pulled me toward her, tightening her grip on my collar. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop playing in these clothes, child?"

She didn't give me a chance to respond. All of a sudden, I felt her stiff sandal against my back. With every stroke, the pain increased.

When she was done, I ran to the room I shared with Momma Jean and buried myself in the covers. I grabbed the pillow Momma Jean laid her head on, and I could smell her scent. I closed my eyes, hugging the pillow tight, hoping she would get home soon. Whenever Lois beat or pushed or shoved me, I stayed in that room until Momma Jean got home.

When I was six years old, I was rushed to the hospital. I can't remember what I did because, like most days, it was nothing significant. I got the shoe, belt, switch, cooking utensil, you name it if I didn't put my toys back, if I didn't call her ma'am, if I looked at her funny, if I spoke or if I breathed too hard. On this day, I got the beating of my life. It was a thick, black belt with a lot of metal on it. Lois tore into my back, and with one stroke, the buckle caught the corner of my eye and made a big gash. All I remember was the blood dripping down my shirt and Lois running frantically to the neighbor's house, screaming for help.

Grandpa Thompson was home that afternoon. He was the neighborhood grandfather and the head deacon at the church we attended. He was also the kindest man I had ever known in my life and had saved me in a couple of beatings from Lois. After Grandpa Thompson heard what happened, he rushed over with his truck, picked me up, and took me to the hospital.

All the way to the hospital, he prayed and sang hymns. Between the praying and singing, he assured me that I was going to be okay. When we arrived at the hospital, Grandpa Thompson never left my side.

Momma Jean and Lois both arrived after the doctors patched me up. Those were my first stitches. Momma Jean couldn't stop holding me and crying. Lois, on the other hand, never came close to me. She never dropped a single tear down her cheeks, and she didn't apologize. Instead, she hovered around in the waiting area of the hospital. I felt as though she enjoyed every moment of my torture.

At that age, I was too naïve to understand what was going on. At times, I thought I deserved the beatings because I might have been doing something wrong. Looking back, I now know I did not deserve them. I didn't understand why this lady was so mean to me. What had I done to her? Why did I bother her so much?

I can't forget the day I called Lois "Grandma L.," my mother's soft voice comforted me. "Shh, child. It's going to be okay." Momma's voice was always soothing in my ears, and she always had something in her purse for me. That specific day after momma walked out of the kitchen yelling, she reached in and handed me some candy as we walked to the lake behind the church. After some time at the lake, we returned home and Momma told me to play outside. She would be right out, she said.

I did as she told me, and the next thing I knew, Momma Jean came out of the house, holding a suitcase. She had my comfortable shoes in her hands, and she cried as she sat me down to help me put them on. Then she stood, reached out her hand, and whispered, "Let's go."

I didn't know where we were going or what was going on. I do know Momma Jean never looked back as we walked down the dirt road, past the little brick church and to the main road. She did not say a word the whole time, and neither did I.

We hitchhiked for a ride and I fell asleep. I woke up in a bus, sitting next to Momma Jean. She never mentioned anything the whole entire time. Rather, she held me tight. She tried to cover up her tears, but her sniffling and gasping gave her away. I knew deep down that something was not right, but I could not put my finger on it.

Chapter Three

The secondweek of January 2014, St. Louis, Missouri

"Brian!"

"Yes, Nandi."

I couldn't help but cry since I was having a horrible nightmare.

"What's wrong, honey?" Brian shook me fully awake.

I couldn't talk. My tears had taken over my voice.

Brian reached for the nightstand on his side and turned on the light. I must have been fast asleep for a while because I did not remember falling asleep. The last thing I remembered was Brian handing me some Earl Gray and my over-the-counter sleeping pills. Everything after that was a mist until this horrible nightmare.

"I miss Momma so much. I want to go with you and the guys to clean out her house tomorrow."

He hesitated. "We already discussed this and we agreed that it was best for you to stay home and rest."

I fell back asleep then, not a word of fight in me.

The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed and the sounds of the microwave chime and ceramic plates clinking together. Surely Brian wasn't in the kitchen making all that ruckus. He gave me no choice but to get out of bed. As I neared the kitchen, my nose told me he was making my favorite breakfast.

He stood at the stove, his back turned to me. I couldn't resist embracing him from behind. Plus that way I could see what he was doing.

When we sat at the table with my favorite omelet and French toast, I had a refreshed love for my husband that morning. Every now and then, this happened to me, but other times I just didn't feel the love connection. Was there a professional diagnosis for this kind of feeling? Momma loved him, but now that she was gone, would we stay married? She was the glue that kept Brian and me together. The old doubt came barreling back into my mind: did I marry him because Momma liked him or because I wanted to be married to him?

"Let's pray." Brian's definition of saying grace was a morning prayer that included everyone and everything but the food. Most times, when it came time to eat, the food was as cold as ice.

"Amen." After only a few seconds, Brian concluded the grace.

"Amen." Wow! He must have read my thoughts. Either that or he was in a hurry.

"I'll be over at your Momma's house all day, getting her stuff packed up so we can put the house on the market," Brian said as he multitasked the meal to his mouth.

What did he mean? "Put her house on the market?"

He laid down his fork. "We already went over all this with your mother and her attorney, remember?"

The agitation in his voice made me more uptight. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

"Well if you hadn't been so—" Brian caught himself and crammed more omelet into his mouth, probably because he knew the conversation would not go anywhere.

"If I hadn't been so—what?" For a man who didn't like confrontation, he sure had a way that could work my nerves.

"You know what." He shoved back his chair and threw his napkin onto his plate. On his way to the door, he kissed my forehead. "I'm heading over to Momma's house. I'll talk to you when I talk to you."

Once again, he did what he liked to do most: flee the confrontation. That was fine, but one of us had to be the adult. I'd have to carry on.

My appetite was gone after he left. I gathered up all the plates and placed them in the sink. The inner me knew that without Momma, I might lose Brian. The stronger me tried to act macho as if I didn't care. I'd put on a show for Momma all these years. Now it was my turn to gain freedom.

Later, that evening

I lost the concept of time… after all, where did I have to go to track it? It felt like I had been sitting in my bathtub for a very long time. I knew it was night time because the sky looked starless and was silky dark through the small curtain— less window. I could feel my fingertips pruning as I sat in the now semi-luke-warm-freestanding oval tub—the tub that took Brian three months to install because he claimed he wanted a sentiment of the house he grew up in and being the cheapskate he is he took on the project, what's crazy is I can't remember the last time I took a long bubble bath but at this moment and time it was all I needed as I enjoyed my bottle of wine and thought of momma. I purposely grabbed mommas boom box before I soaked myself in the tub because I discovered the radio had Etta James CD Tell Mamma and all I wanted in that moment was the first song of the Album on repeat because Lord knows how many times I heard that one song play over-and-over. All I know is this was mommas favorite Singer in which I grew up hearing when momma wasn't listening to Gospel music and the song bore a connection with momma in whom I missed so deeply and I couldn't help but feel angry—angry at my life—angry because momma wasn't here and angry because I felt as though life was burying me in a series of unfortunate events. Maybe I really wanted to hear the song Tell Mama because secretly I was wishing I could tell momma—that maybe I am a drunk that's out of control…I just don't know anymore, where did I lose myself? Sometimes I feel as though maybe I am this addict but then I feel as though it's a cop out because most people like to drink and maybe I am just one of those people that like to drink after all what is an addict or a drunk? Why should other people tell me what drinking limitations are when they don't drink? All I know all my life is momma over extended her helping hand to help me overcome my "condition" as she labeled it and all I did was look momma into her eyes and give her false assurance that I was not a drunk and or I did not have a "condition," I wish she was here right now for me to cry on for help, I wish she was here for me to say I think she was right, oh! How I wish she was here conversing with me right now so that I can hear her sweet calming sound voice…I don't understand why she had to die. I feel so much intense pain in my heart, I feel so hopeless and helpless. I could care less if I drink my life away because I feel like I have nothing solid to live for, I just want my momma back—back in my life.

I must have dozed off because I did not hear Brian coming into the bathroom.

"Nandi," Brian said as he gently nudged my shoulder.

"Brian. When did you get home?" He startled me.

"A couple of minutes ago." Brian sighed and continued to talk.

"C'mon let's get you out of the tub."

Brian released the tub stopper and grabbed a drying towel off the rack and helped me up from the tub, I remember Brian holding onto me firmly around my waistline and asking me a million-and-one questions as he walked me to the bedroom but I can't remember what my responses were and I am not sure if it was the tire from being awakened or the bottle of wine I drank. All I remember was Brian tucking me in the bed after he walked me to the bedroom and seemingly everything else in between was a faint memory.

I could tell I was in between sleep because it seemed as though when I fell into a deep sleep Brian's voice would awaken me almost making me feel transient between dreaming and reality so-much-so that I don't know if I was dreaming or if Brian was actually saying something, either way, I could listen to his Barry White voice all day long. He held me tightly against his chiseled chest which was my sense of security and all I could do is nestle and sink in his chest like a newborn baby to its mother's bosom, he started retelling me one of his childhood stories about the disappearance of his pet Chihuahua, Mr. Ruffles. The same story he has told me over and over that I could finish telling it. The Palm Sunday, when this story took place, had apparently scarred Brian for life. A neighbor had been complaining to the landlord about the dog's barking. After church, Brian ran to the backyard to check on Mr. Ruffles, but the wooden gate was cracked open, and Mr. Ruffles was nowhere in sight. Brian knew in his gut that Mr. Ruffles was gone, and since that day, he never wanted anything more to do with pets. Mr. Ruffles was never found, so the family thought the complaining neighbor had opened the little wooden gate in the backyard. I have always just thought that little dog escaped all on its own since the latch on the wooden gate was loose. But perhaps Brian and his siblings didn't want to believe their dog would roam away and never come back. Who was I to say? I wasn't there and that was Brian's story. I let him stick to it after all I had heard that same version a thousand times it seemed.

"Are you sleeping yet?" Brian said softly into my ears just as I was starting to doze off again.

"Getting there."

"Are you coming with me to the midweek service tomorrow?"

Not that again. "You know how I feel about the people in your church."

"But it's my church—our church. I don't get it. What have they done to make you dislike them that much?"

"Not now. I'll go with you, and we can do this church talk another night."

His expression was unsettling. He always had a hard time keeping his feelings off his face. I reached forward to kiss his cheek and he backed away. Little things like that frustrated me.

Since I left home, I hadn't been a church person, mainly because it was now my choice and Momma was not forcing me to go. I'm not agnostic or atheist. I just have my own beliefs. In a sense, I am churched—out. We attend Brian's church because I know how much it means to him, a deacon. When Brian and I met, he was not into church and even said that he had been raised in the church his whole life and was churched—out like me. But once he started coming around, Momma somehow won his soul by inviting him to attend her church. From then on, it appears he had reconnected with a lost love.

I don't have anything against organized religion, as I like to call it but, I too have been in church my whole life and been around a bunch of hypocrites. Unlike them, I'd rather be free in knowing who I am than to be cooped up in some kind of happy-go-lucky persona. Brian wants me there as his "display" wife because the other deacons' wives accompany their husbands and families to church and every other church function.

How long had I been playing this role? For twelve years. I could win an Oscar for the best supporting actress.

"I will be in church tomorrow." I had to turn over and go to sleep because when Brian got on his disappointed high, he always started unnecessary conversations that generally led to arguments I didn't have time for—mainly because I wasn't in the right state of mind. And I just didn't want him killing my buzz.

Chapter Four

Next day…

This by far was one of the harshest winters I had experienced in St. Louis in a long time. Because of the snow, Brian had been working from home more than he liked. But no one could have predicted the forceful restrictions of Mother Nature.

This was one of those days when sleeping in was a luxury, even though I should have continued packing the rest of Momma's belongings. I wasn't sure how long it took people to overcome the grieving process. Would I ever get over it? I still called her cell phone just to hear her voice, and I would give anything to have one more day with her.

Brian didn't know that I had not deactivated her cellphone yet. It was the only thing I had left of her—my voice of reason all thirty-nine years of my life. If I took that away, I would have no other physical connection to her.

"Here's your morning dose of herbal tea," Brian said as he entered the bedroom.

I was glad to see he brought me some hot tea. He placed it on my nightstand and reminded me of my English college roommate, Patronella, who had introduced me to herbal tea. I, in turn, taught Brian so it could be to my advantage.

Brian sat on his side of the bed and kicked off his shoes.

"Looks like someone is trying to catch a nap on the job."

"That's easy when you're your own boss."

"True. How are the projects coming along?"

Sigh. "As best they can." Brian's voice had a distressed tone.

"Honey, we need to hire some help for you. The business is growing and you're working too much. The accountant already said we can afford to put at least two more architects on the payroll."

"Yes, but we haven't had time to put all the necessary information together for hiring. Besides, I want to use that payroll money to get our personal financial situation under control before I start hiring people." He paused, gazing into space.

After several moments, I asked, "What's on your mind?" I knew my husband's face when he became focused in thought, as much as I have known him for twelve years I know that he would want to do anything in his power to save a penny...

He smiled. "I'm in awe of God. Do you remember when I started my business proposal?"

"I remember helping you draft it. I also remember all the people who were against you trying to start your own business."

"And now those same people ask me for business advice." Brian paused while he shook his head and had a glazed look. "I'm glad I stepped out in faith."

"I am too."

"You know, if it wasn't for Momma Jean, I don't think I would have been courageous enough to pursue my business. That Sunday night, when I told her about my idea, her eyes lit up and she just smiled. She said, 'You better go on, boy!'"

Brian laughed before continuing. "I still remember her high-fiving me, then she went into a speech about entrepreneurship. She hyped it up so good that when I left there that night, I couldn't stop talking about it all the way home."

He scooted close to me. I couldn't remember the last time Brian and I just sat around in bed, not thinking of the cares of the world. This moment was perfect and almost felt like my first few years of blissful marriage before the disturbances of life.

"I miss Momma," Brian whispered as he squeezed my hand.

"I miss her too. She loved you like her own."

"Yes, she did." Brian caressed my hand and sat in silence.

I took another sip of my drink. "This tea is extremely good. What did you do differently?"

"I used the secret ingredient."

"How do you feel this morning?"

I really didn't want to tell Brian that I felt like crap and I was terribly hung over because that would be inviting an argument that wouldn't turn out favorable. "Besides my head throbbing, I'm doing well. This tea is helping soothe me."

"Good. I thought maybe you would be hung over."

It's that condescending tone that dug deep in my last nerve. "Don't start. It's too early in the morning for a lecture."

Brian sat straight up and faced me. "Why are you always on the fence?"

"I am not always on the fence." It becomes so annoying when he tries to act like a board-certified psychologist and the advisor to all my life's problems.

"Yeah? I don't appreciate seeing my wife like that."

The shame washing over me was more than I could handle. I knew exactly what he meant, but I didn't know what to do other than to play dumb. "Like what?"

"Look, I'm not going there with you." Brian released his hand from the embrace and stood up.

"Good! Because I'm not in the mood." All I can think is…here we go again, I don't care to hear what he has to say to me about my drinking...

"I'll be in the basement if you need me. We leave for service at five." Brian slid on his house shoes.

"That's too early."

"Besides dealing with all that snow on the highway, I also have to unlock the doors, turn up the heat, and shovel the walks." He started for the door. "I expect you to be ready."

That quickly, he walked away from another confrontation.

No one ever tells you the truth about marriage. Well, I take it back. Some divorced people have a lot of advice about marriage. There are books and classes and courses for married people, but at the end of the day, we should figure it out for ourselves. Then again, if someone had tried to teach me about the nitty-gritty of marriage, I would not have listened.

Brian came from a two-parent household, but I had known only one parent. I never had a father figure to look up to. Momma dated here and there, but I never really knew who the men were. Now that I'm grown, I understand that she kept them away until she felt secure enough in the relationship to introduce them to me.

Because of that, I met only three men. The first one was Phillip. He entered our lives right around the time we moved to East St. Louis from Mississippi. I knew something was going on when Momma's days seemed longer than usual. But the dead giveaway was the telephone conversations. They happened late at night and Momma's bedroom door would be closed. She usually left her door open, even if she was on the phone. I think she and Phillip dated for just a few months because it did not seem long before she was back to her normal schedule. I never got the chance to know Phillip. All I remembered was the day we went to the local fair. He picked up Momma and me early that day. That was the first time I placed a face to the mysterious man Momma spoke to every night. He was tall, stocky, and fashionable. He had a deep voice but his face looked gentle. I couldn't get over the glasses he wore. They took me back all the way back to the sixties. He must never have upgraded his frames from his first prescription. His eyebrows were thick, matching the abundant hair on his head. I had never seen a man with as much hair on his head as Phillip had.

At the fair, I couldn't help but notice Momma gloating. I'd never seen her continually smiling as she did. She looked like a child who knew only happiness. After the fair, Phillip took us for ice cream. After that, I thought he would surely be a match for Momma—until the next week.

All Momma did that week was come home and lock herself in her room, neglecting our routine of dinner and a little chat in my room. That week was particularly different. At first, I thought she was having her late-night telephone conversations with Phillip. But then the phone started ringing back to back, and Momma would holler, "I am not home."

I didn't understand. I thought Momma needed her space or something like that.

Reality set in when he popped over late one night, banging on the door. Momma came into my room and startled me. "I need you to stay in your room," she whispered.

I had been half asleep until I heard the pounding on the door.

"I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?"

I nodded, still in a sleepy daze.

Momma sprinted down the hallway to the front door.

I couldn't help myself. Being a little nosey, I slipped out of my bed and crept down the hallway. I stood near the door, tucked behind the wall so no one could see me. All I heard were Momma and Phillip going back and forth. It seemed as though Phillip was begging for Momma's time or something like that. All I know is that Momma was not having it.

"I can't do this anymore." That's all I remember hearing before Momma shut the door in Phillip's face. But I knew that wouldn't be the last of him.

I ran back to my room before Momma could catch me ear-hustling. I dove into my bed and pretended to be asleep. Momma came into my room, and I knew she was checking in on me.

For the next couple of weeks, Phillip continued to call, but we didn't answer the phone. It literally became a "we" thing, because Momma told me not to pick up the phone. And I did what she said.

She never again spoke of Phillip, and I knew better than to ask.

Mr. Kenny was my favorite among the three men in Momma's life. I was about twelve years old when Mr. Kenny came around. Of course, as with the other men, I most likely was introduced to him after he and Momma had established something solid.

Mr. Kenny was tall. He had broad shoulders and looked like a body builder. He had a full but neat beard, which he occasionally stroked when he talked. Mr. Kenny was not from the Midwest. I knew that because he had an accent unlike any I'd heard before.

When Mr. Kenny came into our lives, I thought he would be around for good. He used to pick me up from school. He made sure I did my homework and often helped me with it. If I wanted anything for school, he made sure I had it.

Mr. Kenny loved to talk. Sometimes when Momma had long days, he took me out to the local park on Fridays and talked to me about life. He was a smart man and viewed the world in a different way. It seemed as if everything in life was metaphorical to him, which went with his image. He seemed much older than Momma, but then again, gray hair doesn't always symbolize age.

I know deep down inside that Mr. Kenny loved Momma. I grew extremely fond of him. About the time, I got used to him spoiling me and Momma, he disappeared from our lives. I don't know who was more heartbroken: Momma or me. He even took me to my first father and daughter dance. He was the closest thing I ever had to a father. I can't lie. It was an awesome feeling.

Momma never mentioned what happened to Mr. Kenny, but she never told me her business when it came to her dating life. And I was too devastated and disappointed to ask what had happened to him. I thought for some time that I had done something wrong, and that was why he left without even saying goodbye. I thought maybe he didn't want to be with Momma because of me. I speculated so much because I still didn't understand life. How could someone come into someone else's life and give them hope and happiness, only to disappear without any acknowledgment? It took me twenty years to know the naked truth about some people, and that's when I forgave Mr. Kenny.

After Mr. Kenny, Momma didn't date anyone, at least she never brought anyone around, until I was seventeen. Then she began seeing Dr. Larry Bentley. He was one of Momma's professors, from what I gathered. I shied away from getting to know him. Instead, I wondered how long it would last.

He tried to form some kind of bond with me, but at that time, I was consumed with my own boy-crush drama. Besides, he wouldn't stay around. The other two men had left us, so why give this professor a chance?

It didn't help that he gave me a creepy vibe. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a 1970s hippy movie. I can never forget the tormenting smell of Brut. It was so strong, I could smell him a mile away. When I got home, I always knew if he had been in the house because of the lingering smell of his cologne.

His sense of humor was rather dry. I could clearly tell Momma was faking it when she laughed at his horrid jokes. Unlike the other two, he was short and scrawny-looking. He had a comb-over like no other. It always seemed as though he combed over three long strands of hair, and between those hair fibers, a silky and shiny scalp lay peeking through. His scalp was so shiny, you could almost read your future like a crystal ball. How could he be that much in denial about balding? His mustache was always discolored as though he was trying to cover his grays.

I didn't understand what Momma saw in him. They seemed like opposites. But he stuck around for the rest of my high school and the first two years of college. One day, I came home in my junior year of college, and Dr. Bentley was history. Momma never spoke of him, so I didn't ask. I never had a relationship with the man, so I couldn't have cared less about his whereabouts.

Chapter Five

That evening…

On any other occasion, I would have had an outfit in mind. But every time we went to Brian's church, I had to think hard and dig deep in my closet. He allowed me to be myself for the most part, but when it came to his church, he became somewhat of a fashion guru suddenly.

"Are you almost done, Nandi?" Brian hollered from the bottom of the staircase in the basement.

"Not quite."

I can't stand the feeling of being rushed…I knew what I was getting myself into when I gave that response. Within moments, he was going to pop into the bedroom, ready to go. Brian's thing was getting ready hours ahead of time.

"What's taking you so long?" he asked as he entered the bedroom.

"I'm finishing up."

He ogled my slightly low-cut dress. "Are you wearing that to church?"

"I was planning on it."

Brian gave a sarcastic laugh. "I know you have something else to wear."

"Like what?"

"Didn't you see the dress I laid out on the chair?"

If Brian could have his way, he would have me dressing like a presidential first lady—not so like a Michelle Obama whose style I fancy but Brian would rather have me looking more like a back in the eighties presidential first lady that wore two piece suits that looked to me like material from someone else's couch and or curtain set…not to forget the little matching hats and gloves too in which Brian would love to see me in the whole ensemble. "It's the midweek service. I don't feel comfortable getting too formal."

"It's not formal. Look at it." Brian lifted the dress.

"I don't get it. Why can't I wear what I want to wear?"

His jaw tensed as if he was having a lot of trouble keeping his cool. "I'm giving the sermon tonight and would like my wife to look decent."

It's so cute how Brian gets a little aggravated at me because I feel like he doesn't have woman—fashion sense…do not get me wrong, he is well coordinated when it comes to his wardrobe it's just in my department he lacks coordination— so I think. "You're insinuating that this dress is not decent?"

"That's not what I said."

"Momma bought this for me—"

"Yeah, I know. Momma bought the dress for you when she was in Ghana, and you know what? I love it! But not for tonight. It's not even February yet." Brian was in the mirror, tying his tie.

I was out of words. The best thing for me was to maintain my silence code.

Brian could hardly keep a straight face. "Look, if you want to wear your dashiki dress

in the middle of January, you can."

"This is not a dashiki. It's a hand-made Ankara dress, and you know what? It's fine. I'll wear the dress you picked." I just wanted to go and get it over and done with, and I had always known how important it was for me to look up to par for Brian at his church. "What do you mean it's not even February yet?"

Brian chuckled. "All I am saying is that dress is very festive." And he left it at that.

I knew exactly what he meant by "festive." He thought that because it's African, it should be displayed around black history month. I begged to differ. He knew how much I loved my hand-crafted tie-dyes and Ankara outfits, all thanks to Momma and her many travels back and forth to Africa. I felt they validated my mini FRO, and besides, they were fashionable.

Momma loved Africa. I was happy to see her living her dream of visiting different African countries and tribes. Something about her university studies and later profession made her yearn for a connection with the motherland. She managed to travel to ten African countries and vowed that when she retired, she would move to her favorite one, which was Mauritius. She dreamed of owning a bungalow right by the beach, and she dreamed of rekindling her travels to the rest of the African countries.

"Are you ready, Nandi?" Brian asked as he walked out toward the hallway, tightening and straightening his Eldredge tie knot. Brian had this thing about his ties, suits, shoes, and shirts. I don't dwell too much on it because even I do not get it. When we were dating, he always made a point of drawing attention to his different tie knots.

It took me a while to catch on. He always asked me, "How's my tie?" And I, being oblivious to the factor, always said, "It looks good."

I wasn't paying attention to his intrinsic fashion–tie tastes, the way his socks color-coordinated with the trousers that had to coordinate with some color of the dress shirt. Then, to top it off, depending on the day, season, and occasion, he wore a tie or bow tie. If a tie, he tied different knots for different occasions. And let's not forget the cufflinks that must match some color of the whole ensemble.

I admit it puts a smile on my face every time I see him all dressed up and looking spiffy.

"I am in the car," Brian hollered from down the hallway.

I knew that was my cue. "Coming."

I couldn't remember what I did with my Bible, and I knew Brian didn't like me using my iPad to reference scriptures. I didn't get that, but it was grounds for a never-ending argument, so I had to make one more quick stop down the hallway. When I'd gone through Momma's belongings the other day, I had seen her nice-sized Bible.

The drive to church was always somewhat interesting. Brian liked to meditate while listening to his gospel music. I, on the other hand, was always consumed by week's plans, which, quite frankly, consisted of drinking. Everything else came after that. So very seldom did we hold any conversations in the car.

"I'll drop you off by the door," Brian suggested as usual, which made no difference as he had to unlock the doors anyway.

After Brian parked the car he power walked to the doors of the church. "After you," Brian insisted as he unlocked the door and opened it. Then he rushed over to the alarm box and punched in his code.

"Have a seat in the sanctuary. I'll be outside putting salt on the walkway." He pulled his skullcap back on his head.

The sanctuary always smelled like fresh pine. I'm not sure if it was the well-kept pine pews or air freshener. Whatever it was, it smelled different, a good different. Even though I shied away from organized religion, I couldn't help but marvel at church buildings, especially the earlier ones, built in the 1800s and early 1900s. It amazed me how much effort and care was placed into the finishing of these buildings.

This one was built in 1908. The church has since grown, so they have expanded, but they managed to keep most of the sanctuary preserved with the beauty of the stained glass that illuminated the sanctuary. Had this church been smaller, it would have reminded me of the little white brick church we attended back in Shuqualak, Mississippi.

"Sister Nandi Jean Wilkerson!" A familiar voice echoed through the sanctuary and startled me.

"Reverend Doctor Bryden," I said when I caught my breath.

"What a pleasure to see you here with us today, young lady." The reverend drew in for a church hug, the one with the handshake between the torsos.

"Likewise, Reverend. I'm not so sure about the young lady part, though."

"Of course, you are! Anyone younger than I am is young." Reverend Bryden laughed.

"How have you been Reverend Doctor? I hope I am addressing you correctly. I never know which title comes before the other."

"You can call me Rev. That will do it for me." His contagious laugh engaged his whole body, his shoulders following the beat of the sound. The fact that he had a more upper body than lower made it that much funnier. I liked the Rev. You could tell he was truly about ministry. Momma respected him as well, as she knew him from Mississippi.

Reverend Bryden had to be close to eighty-five years old, but he looked no more than seventy. Through the years, I have known him, he has always been as kind as he could be, sincere and loving. He and his wife took over the church about forty years ago, Mrs. Bryden is in a nursing home, the hardest choice he could have made. But her dementia was getting worse, and she'd been hard for the church busy Reverend to take care of.

"Nandi, my door is always open if you ever want to come in and talk. I know the loss of a parent can be hard to come to terms with. Sometimes grief counseling can help you in that process." The reverend reached in his inner blazer pocket.

"Thank you, Rev. I'll take that into consideration."

"Here is my card and my direct office line. Please come in sometime to see me." Reverend Bryden handed me his card. Soon he became sidetracked by the entrance of the users. "Excuse me, Sister Wilkerson," Reverend whispered and started toward them. The inclement weather seemed to bring some folks into church earlier than usual.

"That's Deacon Wilkerson's wife." I could hear whispers coming from behind me.

"I think her name is Nancy or something like that. I know it starts with an N."

I couldn't help turning around to see where those curious whispers were coming from. Then I decided to greet the two whisperers, who happened to be the mothers of the church as they have been two of the longest faithful members and the title mother is befitting to their ages. "Mother Jones and Mother Johnson, it's nice to see you two tonight."

"Oh, baby, I was just asking if that was you," Mother Jones said softly, while Mother Johnson nodded in agreement.

"Yes, it's me, mothers." Here we go. Let the judgment start to shine brightly on their faces. That's how I felt sometimes when talking to some of these mothers of the church. Oh, they'll sometimes be sweet enough not to say much to your face, but the looks give it all away. Mother Jones and Mother Johnson have been faithful members of the church from what Brian told me, they have been with the church as long as the Reverend has been preaching at this church and they are the only two elderly people left hanging on to life as the rest of that generation has gone on to Glory and many the church goers now consist of the former generations adult children and their children.

"What you done, child—cut your hair?" Mother Jones asked. She has never known how to use her inside voice, so whispering for her is like regular low talking for some other people.

"I cut my hair so I can go natural."

"Natural?" Mother Johnson said in a condescending tone.

"It's the way to go nowadays." I tried reassuring the old-school, old-fashioned, women-should-never-cut-their-hair committee that I was fine with my choice.

"She lost her Momma." Mother Jones thought she was whispering to Mother Johnson, but I could clearly hear them.

"Oh, honey. How have you been holding up?" Mother Johnson asked.

"The best I know how." Mother Johnson suffered a stroke back in the day that left her paralyzed in the arm and leg—which never slowed her down because she still got around well by herself with the help of a cane of course. She must be well in her late eighties but her face always had a small smile and I know like momma if anyone else loved the Lord it was Mother Johnson.

"You keep that word close to your heart, you hear, Nancy?" Mother Jones said.

"Yes, ma'am." I reached in to kiss her on her cheek and give her a hug. "But it's Nandi."

"Oh, baby! You know what I mean," Mother Jones insisted. I knew I would always be Nancy to her.

"Don't be no stranger to the house of Lord, you hear?" Mother Jones hollered.

"Yes, ma'am."

And yes, the heads turned my way since Mother Jones is so loud. I had to take a few minutes in the bathroom before service started. Something about Mother Jones reminded me a little of Momma. Every time I thought I was making progress in my grieving process, I found myself in pitfalls of missing Momma. The church, the pews, and the mothers brought back memories of Momma and me going to church together.

The start of the service was what Momma lived for the most. She loved the praise and worship as much as she enjoyed the teaching. I couldn't but help hear a familiar song as I walked back to my seat.

I could tell Brian was looking for me, scouting toward the back of the church. He was trying to be sly, acting as though he was bopping his head and neck slowly to the right and to the left all while looking for me. I knew he was concerned about me as this was the first time I had been out of the house since Momma's funeral. He had already texted me four times since I went into the bathroom. Sure, I took a little longer than expected, but I didn't want to have an emotional breakdown on Brian's big night. I walked back to my seat.

"Are you okay?" Brian whispered in my ear.

I couldn't talk but just nodded as I listened to the praise singers belt out Momma's favorite song: Alas! and did my Savior bleed
And did my Sov'reign die?
Would He devote that sacred head
For such a worm as I?

At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away,
It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day!

If I had never known for sure that Momma was gone for good, I knew then, and that caused an overwhelming flood of tears to roll down my cheeks. Brian placed his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer as he rubbed my back. For a split second, it felt good to release my tears as the praise singers sang in their melodious voices.

Chapter Six

Twenty-eight years Earlier

Momma did the best she knew by raising me in the church. She made sure it was a big part of my upbringing, and she made sure I would carry it into my adulthood. Before college, I was sheltered by and covered in religion. I never questioned why we went to church because I saw how Momma believed in it. I never questioned the church and its structure. Those questions were taboo. All I knew was that if I sinned, I was going to hell. According to the preacher, hell was not a pleasant place. This always shot fear into me. Truth be told, my curious mind never ceased thinking of this "hell theory."

I used to wonder a lot about Adam and Eve. Were they in hell? After all, they sinned first. Or was there pardon for them because they were the first on this earth? Then I looked at the preacher man, preaching obnoxiously in the pulpit, and wondered deep down inside my naïve mind how he kept from sinning and if that was even possible.

My curious mind took me on numerous guilt trips because I sometimes thought I was going to hell simply because I wondered if the "man of the cloth" was a sinner. I didn't dare ask Momma if the preacher man ever sinned. Those were grounds for banishment. But my curious mind was proven legitimately normal when I was sixteen years old. All of a sudden, the once-thriving and growing church began to decline in membership. No one wanted to talk outwardly about the cause, but through the rumor mill also known as Bible study groups that Momma hosted at home, I heard chatter about the once obnoxious and hell-preaching preacher and his sinful ways. Supposedly, he had impregnated a young lady in the congregation, and the fact that he had been married for over thirty years made the situation way worse than just another man's downfall.

Even though I was in the study room, doing my homework, I couldn't help but ear-hustle on the latest juicy talk about the preacher man. Every time I sat in the pew and listened to him castigating the congregation about hell, I wondered how pure his cloth was. He was quite the flashy guy. His wrists, hands, and neck had more gold than all of Africa.

He kept himself well-groomed for an obese man, and every time he preached, he made sure he dragged out the last word of his sentences and always ended them with a strange gasping noise. Then he paused in his sermon, and the drummer and organist played his tune in sync, which seemed to be the cue for the preacher to run up and down the stairs as if he'd just won a million dollars. Then he got back behind the podium, panting, and he usually pulled a silk handkerchief from his exquisite robe with the fancy crosses embroidered on it.

At the end of the day, his clerical collar was drenched in a combination of sweat and heavy cologne. His wife and associate pastors were seated within his reach as he preached. It seemed like a well-orchestrated show.

While he preached, the associate pastors took turns standing up and cheering him on. His wife always sat up in front—gracefully, leaning slightly forward as though intrigued by the sermon. I couldn't see her face since half of it was covered by the shadow of her extravagant hat.

I didn't know much about his wife except for what I saw on Sundays. She seldom showed up for the midweek services, which was also a great conversation for Momma's Bible study groups.

The preacher's sermons always seemed to leave the small group divided. The same thing happened when the preacher fell into sin. The Bible study group bantered about the situation but didn't talk in depth. Some blamed the young lady for coming between the preacher and his wife. Momma blamed the devil. The rest blamed the preacher.

They always agreed to disagree and continued with the Bible study, no matter what issues were going on at the church Momma and I continued to attend. Even when we moved to St Louis, Missouri, we still attended that same home church in East St. Louis, Illinois. Something about Momma and her loyalty to that church still baffled me up to this day, even after the "hell-preaching preacher" had been sent packing on his way with his loyal wife by his side.

All I know is that my mind and thoughts of the once-pure world were now tainted with reality. Momma had worked hard to shield me from human flaws most of my life, but she wasn't ready to explain to me the truth of man's flawed nature. Even in adulthood, when we ran into some old congregants, Momma lowered her voice when they started talking about the church so I wouldn't hear their conversation. This confirmed to me that she was still trying to shield me from all human truths.

Little did she know that my pure eyes and ears were introduced to the cruel reality the day the preacher's affair ripped the church in half. It not only caused a drop in membership, but it also broke a lot of hearts and ended a lot of friendships. Most of my friends, whom I had known since we moved to East St. Louis, were from this church. When the affair was disclosed, all but one friend and her family stopped coming to the church.

Because of the differences in views, I could not hang out with or even see most of my friends. Sure, this preacher stomped the pulpit and embedded the fear of God in people, but his downfall only made me realize how human he was. If most adults had embraced him as a human, not a god, there might not have been such a tear in the church.

I was young and didn't understand a lot, but I knew we are as human as we could be. Because of that, I felt more aware of organized religion and less tolerant of church politics. Momma took me to midweek prayer, midweek service, Sunday service, and all the other extra-curricular activities that had anything to do with the church, despite whatever was going on in the church.

I never grew up particularly close to Momma. We shared a hint of connection and I respected her as my mother. But to say that I ever had a comfort zone in which I could talk to her about anything and everything would be a lie. I would have liked to have had that kind of mother-daughter bond. If we'd had that, I would not have been in some of the predicaments I found myself in as a teenager. I would have avoided some situations.

As it was, Momma's way of talking was a loving kind of threatening. She always said, "Boys are not good for you. All they want to do is get you pregnant, and if that happens, then you and your baby are on your own."

That was a scary thought for a thirteen-year-old, but it never stopped me from being boy-curious. Some of Momma's scare tactics drove me to curiosity. I knew she did the best she knew how as a single parent, but my desire for an emotional relationship with my mother drove me to most of my youthful mistakes.

For instance, even though the scare tactics had me thinking, I still couldn't help looking at the boys in school and being in tune with the change that was overtaking my teen body. All of a sudden, playing with my dolls and riding bikes with my friends in the neighborhood were no longer fun. Instead, I wanted training bras, and I worried about how my hair and nails looked. My school days were filled with rotating boy-crushes. The only person I had to talk to about it was my best friend. Together, we claimed the same celebrity or school boy crushes and lived for a day when we would say a simple "hi" to the boy as he walked down the hallway.

After school, when Momma wanted me to fill her in on my day's activities, I wanted to blurt out every detail about my confusing body changes and the boy-crushes. But I knew she'd merely tell me again what the boys are all about. She would encourage me to keep my head in the books. Then she would want to hold a prayer vigil complete with the holy oil. She'd anoint my forehead with it and then rebuke those boys away from me.

Besides, the last time Gary-Jon walked me home from school in innocence, Momma pulled up and asked me to get in the car. The ride home was tense. She lectured me about the kind of distraction boys are. Like a broken record, she always insisted, "all they want to do is get you pregnant." All I wanted was for my mother to act human for a second. I understood her concern, but she acted as though she was never thirteen years old and never looked at a guy and thought he was cute.

This drew me further away from her. It made me shy away tremendously from boys because I started to worry that I was abnormal for feeling or thinking that way about them. Besides, Momma acted as if I was unholy for talking to boys.

Momma entrusted the church family and some neighbors to watch over me like hawks, which made me uneasy because I felt she didn't trust me. I guess she was becoming more and more concerned over me and the transition into my teens. But most days, I came home from school and was pretty much by myself at home. Momma wanted to make sure it remained that way until she got home.

She had a lot going on in her life after our move to East St. Louis. Between school and work, she stayed busy. It almost seemed as though she was out to prove a pervasive point, as if she wanted to shout out from the inside, "Look at me! I made it! I am educated."

Momma Jean might not have told me all her thoughts, but I am truly my mother's daughter. From her indirect conversations, I knew what mattered to her the most. I'm not sure if it was because she never had any kind of bond with her mother, but every time Momma wanted to address a serious issue, she always placed herself as the main character of the exemplary storyline. At first, I didn't understand. Then, the older I got, the more I realized that was her way of communication.

For instance, when I was deciding on colleges, she said that growing up in Mississippi was hard for her because no one ever thought she would make it through high school. Because of that, she set her mind on graduating high school with a high grade-point average, which opened an opportunity for large scholarships to a couple of prestigious Historically Black Colleges. Then people didn't think she was going to do well in college because then most women her age got married right after high school. College was not popular talk for girls her age then. But because people were placing another figurative obstacle in her path, she set out to prove them wrong.

That is my Momma. She never told me what she went through when she became pregnant with me. That happened while she was in college. But I can imagine it intensified her desire to finish what she started.

She always told me how important it was to go to college. I think that deep down inside, she wanted me to accomplish what she had aimed to accomplish. That way, she could silently show the world that "not only did I make it, but my daughter made it as well!"

Chapter Seven

Two months into 2014

Momma passed eight weeks ago, and I still had a hard time boxing up her belongings that were in my house. Not that I didn't want to—it simply felt so final. An empty room feels like pure life emptiness. Momma always used to say, "The best time on earth is the quality time people share with each other, doing nothing but the simplest of things."

This explained why Momma's down time with me included little things like walking to the park, going to the free museum, doing arts and crafts, having simple picnics, and sometimes putting puzzles together. We didn't vacation like some, because, during most of my earlier years, Momma was preoccupied with greater plans. So she insisted that once she was done with school and landed her dream job, we would gallivant the four corners of the world.

But by the time Momma settled in her dream job, she had other, greater plans. She wanted to settle in and make sure she knew all the ins and outs of her new career as the professor of African American Studies before we set sail. Once she became more and more comfortable in her career, I was in the later stages of high school and contemplating college. Every time she tried to plan a vacation, I was working or had plans with my friends for the summer.

My non-participation in Momma's trips never stopped her from enjoying her life and her career. In my teens and college, I did all I could to stay away from home, it seemed like, but never on purpose. Something about that freedom excited every bone in my body and made me feel like the free spirit I am. Momma's leniency was granted when I proved myself able to work and juggle good grades. Then she trusted me just an ounce more than she had before. In the midst of my crazy teen years, I managed to get a part-time job.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but I'd heard other kids jabber on and on in class about their "cool" part-time jobs. Momma never talked about me getting a job, and I didn't talk to her about wanting one because I didn't take it seriously. But one day, I walked into our high school career center out of curiosity, after the "working-class students" told me that the career center advertised jobs within the vicinity.

This was the first time I'd been in our career center. It was the end of my junior year. I had always seen the building and knew it was there, but I guess I wasn't curious about what they had to offer me in my freshman and sophomore years. I thought it was a place frequented only by juniors and seniors since it was also known for its college resources.

The minute I opened the single door to the career center, I was greeted with warmth by Mrs. Bakenfoth. She was "the career center." This woman loved every part of her job, and you could tell it. She was soft-spoken and stood every bit of five feet tall. She must have weighed anywhere from 120 to 130 pounds, but I bet if she got on a scale, she would have been five pounds over her natural weight because of her 80s "big hair" style. Her make-up favored her 1980s theme, and so did her fashion sense.

She guided me to the section of the building with job postings. At first glance, I found nothing that caught my interest. I decided that working wasn't my thing. As I started to leave, Mrs. Bakenfoth asked, "Did you find anything interesting?"

"Nothing." I knew I wasn't invested in finding a job I just came by to check it out and basically see what the hype was all about when it came to the career center because truth be told…working might seem stressful.

"That's too bad. What you are looking for?" Mrs. B. asked. "Have you ever worked in a restaurant?"

"No."

"Well, you're in luck. I was getting ready to post this latest job for the White Rabbit fine dining restaurant. They need food servers." She handed me a copy of the post. "Have you ever eaten there?"

Fine dining? Not a chance. "No, ma'am."

"Their food is to die for. It's a cute restaurant with a good reputation. You should give them a call." I could sense a warm glow expanding throughout her body as she spoke.

"Will do. Thank you, Mrs. B."

"Good luck," she hollered as I walked out of the career center.

I flung the paper into my backpack. This was the last week of school and the start of my summer, so my mind was mostly occupied with the adventures my friends and I would have in store for us.

That evening after dinner, Momma wanted to know my summer plans. I had forgotten about my career center visit. Momma sat grading her papers and talking to me about ways I could spend my time over the summer. "The new pastor and first lady would love as much help at church as they can get over the summer. Maybe you can give them a call and make yourself available to help them."

As soon as Momma suggested that I volunteer at the church, I remembered my career center visit as quickly as I had forgotten it. "Oh, yeah! I was at the career center today. I think I'm going to look for a summer job."

I doubted myself, but Momma wasn't leaving any room for options here. If I didn't come up with something solid, I was going to be at the church all three months of my summer.

"A job? Where is this job?" Momma raised her voice as she stopped what she was doing and looked at me with lines forming between her eyebrows. She stared dead at me as if in doubt.

Nothing against the new pastor and his wife, but if I left it up to Momma, she would have had me at the church 24/7 throughout the whole summer. I had to resort to something. "I'm going to apply at the White Rabbit fine dining restaurant."

She burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh, clapping her hands and stomping her feet at the same time. "The White Rabbit fine dining restaurant!"

I was completely lost. I felt as though I missed the punch line, but that laugh was Momma's way of not taking me seriously. "Yes, that's the name."

Momma fanned herself with one of the papers she was grading. "I know the name, child!"

"What's so funny about it?"

"It's not the name. The thought of you working is funny. But if that's what you want to do this summer, then I am all for it, as long as it's part time and will leave you time to do some reading." Momma half-shrugged and continued grading her papers. "Do you know it's a fancy restaurant?"
"Mrs. B from the career center told me that already."

"If they call you for an interview, you have to make sure you've dressed the part. This restaurant caters to the town's elite," Momma said, distracted in her grading process.

I knew Momma half-doubted I would get the job, so the next day, I made a special trip to the restaurant. In those days, you could walk in and fill out an application, unlike nowadays. I took Momma's advice and wore one of my church dresses.

Although this restaurant had a great reputation, it was smaller than I thought it would be. Its intimacy must have been what people sought. I was nervous because I had never filled out an application before. But I was drawn to the building's quaint exterior. From the outside, all I could see was a large patio with four tables and chairs, the tables set with coordinating linens. The inside of the restaurant was dim, and there was a fountain at the entrance. Every single table and booth had matching settings too, like the outside ones. A Doris Day record played softly in the background.

The manager greeted me, and after I finished filling out the application, he gave me a short but detailed interview. He said they would contact me with start dates and all the necessary information.

I left there confident, and I should have been, because when I got home I found a message from the manager. They wanted me to start as soon as possible. Oh, the memories.

After working there all summer and enjoying the environment, I decided to continue with a part-time position when school started back up.

The job was a catch twenty-two. Momma thought it would be just a summer job, so of course, she was all for something that would occupy my time. I initially thought I would give this part-time working thing a three-month trial period until I started to get fond of the people.

That first job taught me a lot about customer service. I had to deal with grouchy people, unsatisfied people, downright mean people, weird people, doctors, lawyers, judges, a few entitled celebrities, friendly people, and nice people too. At the end of the day, all I could do was smile and look them in the eyes. Mastering the "smiling and nodding" gesture wasn't easy because I had never dealt with these types of people before.

Once I made the decision to continue working throughout school, Momma became concerned because she thought my grades would go down. Because of that, I worked twice as hard to make sure they didn't. I saved all my little tips and paychecks. After six months of saving, I managed to get Momma the sewing machine she had always wanted. It appears that was her latest reunited fond as she had always talked about her sewing days back in the day.

She told me how her great-grand mammy taught her different patterns on her sewing machine. Momma never talked much about her immediate family, but she talked a lot about her great-grand mammy. She told me how the older woman used to spoil her and how she learned a lot of life lessons from her.

Brian stormed into the room I was in. "What on earth is taking forever? You've been in here a long time."

"You caught me off guard. I'm sitting here reminiscing. I wanted to box up some of Momma's stuff so we can take it to the church rummage sale."

"What's the progress?" Brian said with a small, delighted smile.

"None so far. I started to put the boxes together, then I started to think of Momma, and that made me think of my first job."

"Do you remember we have the meeting with the lawyers tonight?" Brian said with a look that told me he hadn't been able to keep the surprise from his face. "I'll be back to pick you up around six thirty."

I was anxious to get Brian going so he wouldn't stall and start an argument. I knew that brief pause and frown. He'd been deep in thought and, given the chance, he would have said something that would have led to an argument.

I never wanted to be one of those arguing couples, but each year, Brian and I seemed to do it more. We didn't want to, and usually, in the heat of the argument, Brian was the first to bail out. We became people who both thought our own opinions were better than the others. Because of that, we stood our ground, and it never went anywhere. Brian did so because he believed the whole "head of the household" thing. I did it because I felt obligated to stand my ground. Either way, we had more lame arguments than crucial ones, if there is such a thing.

Chapter Eight

Three months into 2014

The middle of March and it was still snowing. This kind of weather made us wonder what the spring was going to be like. Patronella and I usually took some kind of road trip around the end of March or beginning of April. It's been a tradition of ours since the first spring break that we roomed together. That year, she wasn't going home to England, and I was not going home, so we got all our saved money together and set sail for Kansas. It was a two-hour ride from Columbia, Missouri, where our college was. Kansas wasn't technically a spot for spring break, but it was where our money could take us. Besides, neither Patti nor I had ever been to Kansas.

Once we arrived in Kansas City, we checked into a hotel by the plaza. I had won some free nights at this fancy hotel at a trivia night. Our trip was relaxing, and we enjoyed our hotel stay more than anything else. We walked around the plaza with some other tourists and then later ended up at Gates Bar-B-Q. Patti had never had American barbecue.

The first time I met Patti, I didn't think we could ever form a friendship. She was from a well-to-do English family. Her father was a successful business mogul in England, her mother was a housewife, and Patti, an only child, had been raised in a home with two nannies and a gardener. I'd never heard of some of the elaborate after-school activities she talked about. I thought she was the epitome of the crème de la crème class, which was far from the way I was raised.

At first, I gave her the cold shoulder when she tried to get to know me. My own insecurities drove me to that. By the time I started college, my weight was 190 pounds, and I was only 5 feet 3 inches tall. I attribute my weight gain to the free meals from the restaurant where I worked or maybe the fact that I was never athletic in high school. Whatever the case, in a sense I was envious of her—and not necessarily of her background. She was unique, and not just her accent.

She was about 5 feet 2 inches tall and about 110 pounds, 25-inch waistline, thick, long, naturally kinky hair, nice toned body, and she wore a coat of the darkest, smoothest color I had ever seen. I couldn't get over her perfect nose and lips. Her nose was cute and small, her lips were full and yet even. A lot of people paid good money for facial features like the ones Patti had. If I had looked like her, I would have opted to model as a part-time gig.

She wore the biggest, whitest smile, which complimented her high cheekbones. Her British accent was fabulous, and she also spoke French fluently, as her parents were first-generation Haitian immigrants to England. After I got to know Patti, I saw her for the shy, humble introvert she was.

When Momma first met her, she was naturally drawn to her and considered Patti her other daughter. She loved to hear her British accent and loved the fact that she was wise for her age. I agreed with Momma—Patti always gave good, sound advice. She was a good example of responsibility, and that's how I knew she would go far in life. I had always considered her a great role model and figured the rest of her life would be great. Some people are destined to have a great life, and Patti was one of those people. I knew for a fact that, after college, she would soar like an eagle.

Eventually, she married Pierre, a Haitian-American born and raised in Chicago. His parents too were first-generation immigrants to America. Patti and Pierre met in Chicago at a West Indies festival. Their wedding was the greatest I had ever attended—a traditional Haitian wedding/white wedding combination, and by golly, it felt like a royal wedding. Patti and her new husband decided to make Chicago their home. Their careers rose to great heights.

We decided to continue to take a few days off in the spring and drive to neighboring states for pampering, relaxation, and much-needed catching up. We didn't see each other much through the year and didn't spend much time on the phone.

Brian was finally gone to work and the first thing I wanted to do while laying on my chase was to open my bottle of Moscato. My cell phone rang.

It was Patti. I'd never been so glad to hear her voice, and I gushed out my enthusiasm. "I was just thinking of our road trip this year and reminiscing about our first one."

"We've come a long way with this tradition." Patti laughed. "What are you doing?"

"Having a glass of Moscato."

"At 11 a.m.? I thought you quit drinking."

"I've quit many times and failed at it. There. I've said it."

"Are you still attending your meetings?" Patti's concern was thick in her voice.

It's so annoying when people think they know what's best for you. "Great. I hear it from Brian every day, and now you too."

"Hear what? I don't get it."

"Look, I don't want to go into it with you too about my drinking, meetings, rehab, and whatever else you have in store for me."

"It's your life and your marriage, and you're the one who asked me to help you stay sober—"

"Look, Miss I-got-it-all-together. I appreciate your concern, but I will be fine." The last thing I need is someone castigating me about what I do for my relaxation.

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Oh! Now you don't want to talk."

"Nandi! You've had more than a glass of Moscato. You are clearly drunk and I can't hold a civil conversation with you right now." The phone beeped as Patti hung up.

Now she acts like she knows how much I have had to drink, if it's any conciliation to her I did have a couple of Mimosas with my breakfast but heaven forbid I mention that to her—because then she will fully caption me as an alcoholic when all I am doing is living my life. "Hello! Hello!" No, she did not just hang up in my face.

Unsure what to do, I called her, intending to keep doing so until she picked up. But the more I called, the more it went to voicemail.

I threw my phone against the wall.

I was nineteen years old and in college when I had my first alcoholic drink.

Of course, it was underage drinking, but that's what we did on the weekends when we wanted to be "cool" and hang with the big kids. College, for me, wasn't necessarily proving myself in the popularity circles like in high school. In my freshmen year in college, I felt the need to prove myself as "grown."

I don't know where that came from, but it was my mentality. I was away from home, I wasn't so sheltered and dictated to, so my freedom was my responsibility. I would never have thought I'd drink or put any mind-altering substances in my body, mainly because Momma did a great job of teaching me that my body was my temple. The simple fact that I was raised orthodox "holy-roller" Pentecostal, in which it's a sin to look at alcohol, let alone indulge in a lifestyle of impurity through substance abuse, kept me sober for a long time. Believe it or not, some of those teachings saved me when I was in high school and my friends were smoking marijuana, drinking at house parties, or ditching school for their habits. I stayed focused then because I knew it wasn't my thing.

My tongue did taste an alcoholic beverage when I was sixteen years old at a house party. But I couldn't even swallow the drink. It tasted nasty, and I spit it out. I wondered how people could drink such bad-tasting drinks. I knew that would never be my thing, or so I thought. Even though Momma shoved Bible principles down my throat as scare tactics, I couldn't negate my natural, teenage curiosities. I felt as though curiosity was a teen embodiment.

Then, years later, I had this thing that has hurt my friends and burned some bridges. Brian did his best to help me, placing me in three different private in-patient rehabilitation centers. He shipped me off to those undisclosed rehab centers so the folks at church wouldn't know about my supposed habit. He was in denial as much as I was.

I agreed to go to treatment after my incident several years ago, Each time, I came out determined, wanting to experience sobriety at its height. But all rehab seemed to do was give me a few months of sobriety. Then some life-altering deal sent me to the deep end and found myself back at square one. I've been to the meetings, I have had a sponsor and all the good stuff. Momma knew of my problem but, as with everything else throughout my life, she reacted by having no reaction. She would rather pretend the problem doesn't exist or insist that I need some kind of spiritual deep cleanse.

I started as a social drinker in college, far from my Christian upbringing. But one day, I found out that I didn't have to think and or worry about anything when I was buzzing. After that, I did the best I could to escape the reality I'd been running from my whole life.

After college, I drank more and more—Alcohol was my new "happy place." I anticipated it every day, I thought of it when I wasn't drinking and I was happy when I got my first drink… I even started drinking alone. When Brian and I met, he had no idea how much I drank because I knew how to hide and conceal my drinking. He fell in love with the sober Nandi, who was visible and clean during the day. Then, when I was by myself in my apartment, at night I would self-relieve with a glass of wine here and there in moderation. I kept it to myself because that was my way of unwinding the day's events. I didn't think I was overdoing it, I felt as though I was a social drinker like any other person that drank and I didn't feel like I had a problem. I did my best to prevent Momma from knowing about my drinking because I didn't want to listen to her "going to hell" speech.

When I met Brian, I could go for days without a glass of wine. I didn't crave or need alcohol. I just chose to have a glass of wine here and there. My tolerance for alcohol increased after my marriage.

Patti was my college drinking buddy, but after she moved for her graduate program and then got married, she became some kind of saint. That's funny because, in college, she was the non-spiritual one. Then after college, she married a pastor, and of a sudden, she was a Bible-thumping, holier-than-thou preacher's wife. Life surely has a way of surprising all of us. But I'm happy for her life's turnaround. It's admirable and she is the role model I aspire to be like.

Initially, when Brian thought I had a drinking problem, he sent me to a Christian counselor. That felt like a disaster of its own. The sessions were interesting, but I can't say I learned much from them. I felt castigated. They acted as though I had all kinds of evil spirits within me. I know the counseling was Brian's way of trying to help me, like always.

I told the counselor that it seemed as though something had taken control of my head in which it caused me to want to drink. In some instances, I felt as though I became vulnerable to the counselors because I too didn't get it and because I let my guard down I almost feel as though I opened the door of condemnation pertaining to my drinking. Never again did I return to that counselor. He might as well have taken me to the village people and had me stoned to death by the holier-than-thou crowd.

By the time Brian took me to my first counselor, my waking thought was to have a mimosa or a bloody Mary. My day was consumed with the thought of drinking. I started with the mimosa or bloody Mary, and I ended with wine. One glass wasn't enough so I poured another, then another. Sooner than later, the whole bottle was gone.

Brian once shouted at me in anger, "Why can't you just stop?" He didn't understand that it's not a light switch you turn off and on. The Lord knows I've tried. I was a slave to my own mind. Something always steered me toward drinking. At times, I didn't even want to drink, but I still found myself drinking. I cried because I didn't want to drink, but I was drinking. I've prayed but it seemed God was ignoring me for all the years I abandoned him. I hoped, and I tried to stop. I went to many specialists with no results.

Chapter Nine

Four months into 2014

Her name was intended to be Brianna Jean Wilkerson.

Those were the best nine months of my life. Brian and I had been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years. One day, shortly after we gave up, it happened. That's part of life's mystery. I will always wonder why it happened that way. For years and months, I thought God knew I would be an inadequate parent.

As usual, Momma couldn't give me any emotional support. Her classic no-reaction-as-the-reaction was now a part and parcel of Momma. Every now and then, she threw in her casual phrase: "Pray about it." I wanted to tell her it felt as though God didn't hear my prayers. He seemed distant from me in the neediest time of my life.

Brian's solution was therapy, but I couldn't stomach another therapist, another Christian counselor, another psychological evaluation that left me wondering about my mental state. It all seemed too overwhelming, too much for me to handle.

"Nandi! I'm home." Brian's heavy footsteps pounded the hallway toward the kitchen.

He flung open the master bedroom door, stalked into the room, and shook my shoulder quite roughly. "What are you doing in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon? I told you we had an appointment with the attorney."

"I thought the meeting was this evening."

"I specifically told you it was after work." Brian reached for the empty wine glass on the night stand, brought it to his nose and, no doubt, I knew he smelled the alcohol. "What am I eating for dinner?"

I was enjoying the soft comfort of my pillows as I was propped up against them in a sitting position watching TV. "There are mashed potatoes and salmon in the fridge." I didn't have an ounce of energy to move.

"From last night?" Brian's voice rose to a ten on his volume box. Usually I would have gathered myself before Brian got home so I can freshen up, cook and play the bountiful position of wife but lately, Brian has been coming home in unpredictable times which doesn't give me enough time to clean-up my act.

"Lower your voice. If you're not hungry, you don't have to eat it." I just don't know what I have become…I feel as though my life is a mess, I hate who I am but I continue doing it, I don't get it...

"Ladies and gentlemen…this is what I am working hard for?" Brian said biting his jaws and clapping his hands. "The house looks like a mess it hasn't been cleaned in a very long time…and now I can't even get a decent meal. This is just great—Nandi!" Brian huffed as he threw his hands in the air.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Brian paced from the door to the bed and back. "You know exactly what it means. Our finances are upside down because I've been paying for all your treatments and extra counseling that our insurance won't pay for. I'm out there all day, busting my butt, to come home to a drunken wife and scraps from last night's dinner!"

"So, you've come home on your high horse?" I had to prop myself up for this conversation.

"High horse?" Brian's anger distilled down to a bitter laugh. "Does any of this mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does." I can't stand the feeling of being judged…I know I am not perfect and I know I have messed up in life and I feel as though I can't say anything right now that will make this be or seem any better… I don't know anymore, would it help if he knew that I hate what I am doing to myself and that I drink and don't even get any pleasure from it rather I drink but don't even have an answer to why I drink…it's not fun anymore…I want to stop but I don't know how and I don't know why I can't just be strong to walk away from it. The Lord knows I have tried and failed.

"Then why don't you act like it?" He slammed his fist on the chest.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to act like you care about life, I want you to act like you care about us, and I want you to care about your body instead of that junk you keep filling it with." He paused in his tirade and glared at me, all compassion gone. "Why are you crying?"

"I—I—" I couldn't find the words.

"What, Nandi? I'm listening."

"I want to quit. I'm trying."

"Trying what?" Brian's tone sharpened.

"I don't know. I need some time to think through life or something. It's all overwhelming. For the last several years, my life has been a big blur. I want it to change."

Positioned by the window with his body turned towards me Brian said. "How is it different this time?"

I wish I had the magic answer for him—I wish I could tell him what he wants to hear and it would come true but I couldn't…."What do you mean?"

"Every time you relapse, you promise to change. You promise to do better and you're always sorry. How is your sorry any different this time than it was the last time?"

"I know I've fed you empty promises. They weren't empty on purpose. I want to quit. I hate what is going on with me, and I would give anything to be normal and sober." I couldn't hold back my tears of shame.

"Then why won't you quit?" His sharp tone hadn't eased off a bit.

I wish he would quit nagging me. "I am trying. I don't know why I can't quit."

"I want to help you, more than you will ever know, but my help toward your recovery has cost too much—in more ways than one. You're not getting any better, and we can't keep spending so much money on something that's not working."

Deep down in my heart I want to believe his concern comes from a genuine place…I feel more alone in this than I have ever been, he doesn't understand why I can't just stop drinking and I don't understand why I can't stop as well…Lord knows I have tried. "I'm trying."

Brian shrugged his shoulders. "Well, your trying is not good enough."

"I get it. You want me to stop, to turn off the switch, and suddenly be an exemplary wife. Right?"

"Don't turn this around on me and act like I don't understand. At first, I didn't. But after all those meetings for family members of addicts, I know that you can't just stop. I've been more than willing to work with you through this process, but we're not getting anywhere." He raised his voice again and pulled his phone from his pocket. "This is causing a lot of stress and pain for me."

Like I wished this on my life. "I never wanted to be an addict—I—I—want different out of life right now."

"Do you really?" Brian asked, scrolling on his phone.

"I do." I am scared to fully admit that I want help because a part of me feels as though I won't succeed. I have tried rehab, counseling, and outpatient and still relapsed.

"Okay. For starters, you can figure out how we're going to pay this $50,000 to the mortgage company without losing our home. Then you can find a way to pay off the outstanding balances from the rehabilitation centers."

"If this is your way of reminding me and feeding my guilt trip about the funds I misused, then it's working. I get it. I was supposed to oversee all the mortgage payments and bill payments, but I failed us both on that and used it for myself and to feed my addiction."

Brian paced the room. "My intention is not to do anything indirectly. I want you to understand the enormity of this situation." He tucked his phone in his side pant pocket and folded his arms across his chest.

"I get it."

"Just get ready so we can go and hear what the lawyer has to say."

"Whether you believe me; I truly am sorry." Deep down inside I feel as though he doesn't believe me….

"If you are, then I suggest you hang out with the ladies at church more. Maybe then you can start to rebuild your relationship with Christ." Brian's voice lowered as he sat down beside me. "I have no doubt that you can beat this. I know you can be restored and overcome this monster, but you need to believe it as well."

All I could do was cry. I am sometimes disgusted with myself and my actions…I hate drinking but I continue to do so. Surely no other woman had such a loving and caring husband. Somehow, my conscience awakened at his kindness. As always, he was faithful to his duty to me.

The million-dollar question I ask myself repeatedly is always; How did I become this way?

I wasn't the only one struggling. With Momma gone, Brian's stress was intensified because now he didn't have any trusted person to vent to. Momma was the one he could be transparent with, even more than the people at his church. She had all the natural qualifications for a counselor, even without a background in education. He trusted her with his problems because he knew she would pray for him, and because he knew she was the only other person on the planet who could sometimes successfully get me to try to correct my actions.

Something about Jerry's office gave me the heebie-jeebies.

His little one-room office was nestled in a multi-purpose leasing plaza that catered to all kinds of random businesses. When I say, "all" kinds of businesses, I mean they had a shrimp and fish shack, an alterations store, a beauty supply store, a nail spa, a uniform store, a knock-off clothing store, and other little, bitty obscure offices.

"So, I have the paperwork all prepared for you to sign," Jerry said as he slid the paperwork across his desk towards Brian.

"Nandi!"

Jerry caught me off guard as I tried to peak a read on what Brian was signing. "Yes, sir!"

"How are you holding up?"

That question made me feel a little emotion stirring up because I knew that deep down inside Jerry was genuine and then I knew that he was really asking because he was mommas close friend and he missed her too. "I am doing ok, thank you for asking."

Jerry Nolan's law office was the only professional office in the whole plaza. My best guess was that he picked a budget-friendly office but not necessarily a client-friendly one. He had been a penny-pincher from the time I met him. Mr. Jerry, as we knew him back in East St. Louis, retired from the circuit court as a notable judge. Now he dedicated his later years of life to numerous pro bono cases. In my heart of hearts, I knew he could afford a better location if he wanted it.

After Brian signed the paperwork he gave it back to Jerry and Jerry walked out of the room, Brian and I were in silence, I on the other hand wondering why he needed my presence if he was the only one signing paperwork, Jerry returned about five minutes later with a folder and handed it to Brian.

"Here are your copies," Jerry said as he handed Brian the folder. "Do you have any questions for me?" Jerry asked while smiling generously.

"No. Not now." Brian said as he stood up.

I take it as that was my cue to get up as well.

"Nandi! I am so glad you came with Brian." Jerry said as he shook my hand.

"Thank-you Jerry, it's nice to see you too."

Brian shook Jerry's hand. "Thanks again judge for all of your help."

Jerry opened the door and escorted us out to the hallway. "You two stay blessed."

"You as well judge," Brian said.

Judge Nolan never married and never had any kids. Like Momma, he spent most of his years traveling the globe. Also like Momma, he graduated with a law degree later in life before transitioning to the bench as a judge.

I've known Judge Nolan since I was young. He was good friends with Momma, and he too lived in East St. Louis at one point in time. Momma met him at church and as two adult scholars, they immediately clicked.

When we need it, Brian and I seek legal counsel with Judge Nolan because Momma used him for all her legal cases. It wasn't easy, opening up to a man who'd watched me grow up and had expected nothing but greatness in my life. But Brian and I had no choice. Our personal finances were dwindling, and we needed all the free legal advice and representation we could get.

I tried to break the awkward silence on the car ride home. "So…was that all the paperwork for momma's house and stuff?"

Brian Nodded. "Yeah…some of it."

I can't stand it when I feel like he is being evasive about things. "What do you mean?"

"It means just that—Nandi," Brian said in an agitated tone.

"Ok! Excuse me for aski—"

Brian interrupted. "I am sorry babe…just got a lot on my mind and would rather talk about all of this when we get home.

Mr. Jerry had aged gracefully over the years. He was seventy-five years old but looked only sixty-five. He still bowled with his league and he still traveled the world. When I was younger, I secretly wished Momma and Mr. Jerry would eventually get married. Or should I say I wished he would be my father?

He was a prime example of a life turned around. Mr. Jerry knew no stranger, as Momma would say. Every chance he got, he gave his testimony, the one in which God delivered him from his worldly lifestyle. Every time he spoke of the events leading to his deliverance, he teared up and his voice cracked as he spoke. I'd never known a grown man with such passion for God. Whether he was out to lunch, dinner, or just hanging out, Mr. Jerry always stopped what he was doing and tapped into whatever stranger he zoomed into, flagging them down and talking about God. He was a bold Christian but not aggressive. I liked his approach better than the hell-preaching preacher I grew up on. Mr. Jerry's soft voice made him seem that much more compassionate and less intimidating. He had a way of bringing the best out of people, acted as a messenger from God sent to earth to save all of the humanity.

I wondered why Brian wasn't pulling into the garage. "Are you not pulling into the garage?"

"I have to run to the office really quick and get all this paperwork stuff together," Brian said.

"It's late, you should do all that paperwork tomorrow—"

"Look! I don't have tomorrow to do this it has to be taken care of as soon as possible, I will be right back."

"Ok—whatever!" I got out of the car as fast as I can feeling annoyed.

Mr. Jerry started his auto-detailing shop at age eighteen, using drug money as capital. He'd been a big-time dope dealer and held down a large portion of Illinois and Missouri back in the day. He nearly met his maker a couple times. Most of the people who ran with him were either killed by rivals or incarcerated.

He started selling drugs when he was twelve years old. He didn't know any better. The streets raised him when his mother was strung out on crack, and he never knew his father. Mr. Jerry talked about the hungry days at home and how he, the oldest child, had to do what he thought he had to do to make a quick buck and feed all five of them. None of the siblings knew their fathers, but they all knew their mother was an addict, too engrossed in her own addiction to raise them. She spent most of her time away from home, binging. Until age eighteen, she bounced from foster family to foster family, never knowing her biological parents. Then she resorted to working in adult entertainment, and to cope with her life's circumstances, she experimented with crack, the drug that eventually took a great hold of her. Her poor choices led to a string of unhealthy relationships with men who kept leaving her after she became pregnant.

One of Mr. Jerry's proudest foundations is the one he pioneered to help young mothers and women find themselves. Every time Mr. Jerry talked to me about his mother or his upbringing, I felt terribly sorry for him. He would have given anything to have a mother-son bond. I always knew he told me about his mother so I would not make the same bad choices in my teen years.

Chapter Ten

Easter 2014, St. Louis, Missouri

Mother Nature short-changed us that year and forgot to ease us off gently into spring as she usually does. Instead, we went straight from a harsh winter into the heat of summer. It seemed as though just a few weeks ago, I had been swaddled in turtlenecks and long johns. I should have become accustomed to this St. Louis weather, since I'd called St. Louis home for twenty-three years. But, truth be told, even after all that time, Mother Nature still amazed and surprised me. I learned to keep an umbrella in my car, along with a coat, a t-shirt, and a blanket all year round.

Easter was one of the hardest days for me, especially this year. I felt unmotivated to get up, probably because it was one of Momma Jean's favorite days on the calendar. Even in my grown, married life, this day brought great anticipation because Momma hosted one of the best Easter dinners ever, complete with southern, down-home cooking.

I tried to get Momma to open a family restaurant, but to no avail. And I wasn't Mommas only fan. The church and family friends also enjoyed Momma's skills and homemade pies. Sure enough, Easter is way more than great eats and fellowship. But of all the Sundays at Momma's church, Easter made me the happiest.

Each year, the church had a dynamic surprise speaker. Long ago, they embraced the idea of keeping the Resurrection Sunday speaker a secret from the congregation. That created great anticipation for the service. It also made Easter much more eventful for me as a kid. I could stomach only so much preaching and badgering about hell. But whenever the church had an outside speaker or surprise speaker, I was more than willing to go to Momma's church. She always wrote, produced, and sewed the costumes for the annual play. Afterward, breaking bread on Easter Sunday and talking more in-depth about the sermon made that whole experience lovely.

When I was a little girl, Momma went all out on Easter. During the two weeks before Easter, she made baskets for her Sunday school kids and gave them as gifts for their performance in the play. In mid-February, she spent most of her Sunday school time teaching the kids in her class a new Easter play—one that showed the true resurrection of Christ.

Momma worked hard to make sure everything turned out well. Like a great, organized orchestra, it always did. She thought it was worth every minute she spent to make the play perfect. My mother made sure the children memorized all their lines so her kids would understand the biblical meaning of Easter. Momma did not believe in the bunny, the egg, or the chocolate egg. She did not believe in buying Easter eggs or anything that reflected society's version of Easter.

I was eleven years old when I found out about the Easter bunny and Easter eggs. It happened to be the weekend before Easter, which was Palm Sunday weekend. Momma hardly ever let me spend the night at anyone else's house. But because my best friend and her family were members of our church, and because it was my friend Christy's birthday slumber party, Momma allowed me to attend.

Christy and I became friends at Momma's church in East St. Louis, after a rocky start. We attended the same school, but we didn't talk to each other until my family began to attend this church. I was in culture shock when Momma and I moved to East St. Louis from Mississippi. Although I was only ten years old, I noticed the difference between East St. Louis and Mississippi.

For instance, the children in school mocked my accent. They said I had an accent and yet the only thing I heard was their accents. When they found out I sounded different, they found other things to make fun of me about every day. According to them, I went from talking funny to looking funny to smelling funny to being just plain weird. My name didn't help my situation any. At recess, they chanted, " Nandi-dadi-funny-dadi."

I never told Momma because I knew she would tell me to pray for the children. Then she would remind me of the uniqueness of my name. According to Momma, I am named after one of the many beautiful wives of some Zulu king of Swaziland of some primeval era. If you ask me, Momma just wanted a name with an African ring to it and invented the story to go with it. But who am I to argue with an African American studies professor?

It took me a while to comprehend what I went through. As an adult, I know that children will make fun of anything that is out of the norm for them. But my first few years of school were rough. In third grade, I was scrawny, tinier than most of the kids in my class. If I can remember, I wore glasses. My lenses were thicker than the bottom of a Coke bottle, and they had an annoying thick, elastic band that braced the back of my scalp. That made my face look that much more pitiful, thanks to Momma's handy craftwork and her determination that I would never lose my glasses.

I was ten years old and was supposed to be in the fourth grade, but when we got to East St. Louis, they held me back a grade due to my poor test scores. I didn't know what was going on until about my sixth grade when it became more apparent that I was in a classroom that catered to children with educational and developmental needs.

The junior-high kids were one step ahead of the elementary kids in their mocking ways. They made sure to remind me of the program I was in, cracking jokes geared toward me and the friends I sat with in the cafeteria. Unlike the elementary kids, the junior-high kids didn't have any cute jingles. They just blatantly said whatever was on their mind, using no filter or sensitivity.

Ugly, Retard, Slow Bus, Snaggletooth—you name it, they thought of it. All kinds of hurtful names flew around the cafeteria at lunch time.

Another thing that made me realize I was in a special educational program was the fact that we stayed in one classroom throughout the day while other students changed classes. I was still naïve and it didn't mean much to me because I still didn't fully understand the relevance of the separation of classes.

Our teacher, Mrs. Winkler, seemed as though she skipped college and went straight into teaching after high school. She didn't look much older than we did. She was under five feet tall and very tiny—not an ounce of fat on her body. She tried her best to keep us engaged. Anyone could tell she was passionate about her job. Mrs. Winkler was animated when she spoke as if she was putting on a one-woman play.

My elementary and junior high school journey was a big blur. Momma used to get frustrated at me and the grades I brought home because she believed I was smarter than I was leading off to be. At times, Momma took me to the library and tried to cram a lot of work down my throat. We sat at the library for hours and hours, going over the same stuff until she felt I had it. This was overwhelming because I wanted to get it, but on the other hand, I didn't care. Momma always said, "Think about it. I know you got it. Just think."

Her frustration always built as she encouraged me to think. I guess this was her way of assuring me that I was a normal kid. Then again, any parent would think that of their child. Later, in high school and college, I got great grades, and I attribute that to my mother.

"Nandi!" Brian's stern voice awakened me as he stormed into the bedroom, holding the phone. "We're leaving for service at 9:30, and you have a call."

I turned over in bed to see him holding out the cordless phone. "Who is it?" I mouthed.

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "It's Patti."

"Tell her I'm sleeping," I whispered. She never calls this early, especially on a Sunday.

Brian laid the headset on the table and walked off toward the door. "Here you go."

I answered but I didn't want to talk to Patti.

"Happy Easter!" Patti said, giggling.

If I wasn't fully awake, then I was now thanks to the hollering over the phone. "Happy Easter to you and yours. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"That's no way to address your best friend."

She was right. I had to slowly sit up and give her my full focus without any caffeine—yet in me. "Why are you so chipper this early in the morning?"

"He rose today!" Patti said with throaty laughter.

He rose every Easter If I remember correctly so what's really going on? "You are never this excited about Easter."

Patti murmured. "Okay, you got me, but seriously, I'm excited. . . ."

I had to shift some more pillows on my back for extra comfort to prepare myself for Patti's news. "Excited about what? The anticipation is killing me."

"I'll give you some of the scenarios, but before I start, I want you to know that Brian is okay with everything—"

"Don't play games with me at six in the morning. What's going on?"

Patti Laughed. "I've planned our yearly road trip for the first week of May, and we're going to take as long as we need. I'm paying for the whole trip, and Brian has agreed that you should go." Patti stopped talking to catch her breath.

This sounded fishy. "Are you and Brian planning on dropping me off at some rehab somewhere?"

"What kind of person do you take me for?" Patti said.

If I know anything about Patti is the simple fact that she is a person that does things with a solid reason behind it for the most part…she has never paid my half on our past trips. "What's the catch?"

Patti Sighed. "Do you want to go?"

I would most likely be excited if I knew a little bit more about where we trying to go or where Patti wants me to go. "Where are we going?"

Patti's voice lowered. "I can't tell you which states we are going to—"

Something feels amiss…I have known Patti for a long time and she just doesn't do things to do them without a reason. "Why not?"

"You're my best friend, so I'll let you in on a little information. I've been putting together an experimental group—"

I knew it! Why am I not surprised? "I'm to be a guinea pig?"

"Not exactly. For my final Ph.D. project, I decided to conduct a year-long group experiment. So far, this has helped eight out of the ten. The last time I spoke to you, it dawned on me that I might be able to help you figure this all out—"

"Figure what out?"

"I want to use my background and this experiment to give you some answers to the lingering questions you have often talked to me about."

"You want to play the role of psychologist? Who's to say you can even help me?"

"Look, I might not be able to fix you, because I am not God. But this is way more than you're doing. Any bit of help is better than that." Patti's annoyance rang through her voice.

Off a sudden Patti wants to act like my savior…and I can't help but wonder when she will give up on me and realize I am not interested in her help. Now if she told me that she has had some kind of addiction maybe I would take her seriously but right now her help feels old… and I can't take her seriously because after all what does she know? Her whole life has been like a never-ending peach cobbler with each bite as imaginably sweet….

"I see what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it. I'll get back to you later tonight after Easter dinner. This is a lot of information to process, and the fact that you won't tell me where we're going makes me that much leerier."

"Okay, because I am a total stranger."

"Don't be sarcastic."

"You have my number. Call me when you're ready to grow up and take some responsibility." Patti's tone sharpened, then she hung up.

She just needed time to cool off. If I knew anything, it was that Patti genuinely cared about my wellbeing. All I know is Patti never came up with pointless plans. Something was cooking in her pot of schemes.

Chapter Eleven

May 2014

I remember bits and pieces of that horrible Easter night. I remember being upset at Brian and opening a bottle of Moscato. After a couple of glasses and a few bites of my tiramisu, everything was a blur.

I knew I was in an ambulance because the sirens were louder than I had heard before. Then a man asked several questions and I could hear him talking medical jargon with another man. His voice was what I remembered most of that ride: "Ma'am! Ma'am! How much have you had to drink?"

Then he yelled at someone else. "She's non-responsive. Call the ER and tell them it's possible alcohol poisoning. The patient is in an alcohol-induced coma."

Coma?

I could hear him loud and clear but, for some reason, I couldn't talk or open my eyes. After fighting inwardly, I blacked out, only to awaken to bright florescent lights and strangers in white lab coats, hovering around me.

"Nandi!" a female barked at me.

I still couldn't make my mouth move. I was secretly hoping I was dreaming.

"Nandi! Squeeze my hands."

By now, I couldn't move any part of my body.

Then I heard a machine going berserk. I felt myself convulsing while the same female voice yelled out for a doctor. Shortly after that, I blacked out.

"Rise and shine, sunshine."

I looked toward the unfamiliar voice and struggled to open my eyes. It felt as though I was awakening for the first time in my life.

Out of confusion I asked. "What am I doing here?"

The stranger's voice sternly spoke. "Honey, you were brought in two weeks ago, with alcohol poisoning—"

"What do you mean?" My body was in so much pain, it felt like a punching bag.

The voice of the stranger drew colder. "Your poor husband found you lying unconscious, face-down in your vomit."

The more I was coming to somewhat of a full awakening I suspected the stranger to be a nurse since she was in well decorated-color-scrubs. "I get all that. But how did alcohol poising become my diagnosis?" I couldn't understand how I wound up in the hospital.

The nurse clenched her clipboard in front of her as she walked toward the head of my bed. "Do you remember how much you had to drink that night?"

"No." I couldn't remember—and that freaked me out.

The nurse preceded to write on the clipboard as she spoke. "When the EMTs brought you in, you were way above the adult legal limit. You went into cardiac arrest a couple of times when we were trying to pump out the alcohol. Then you slipped into an alcohol-induced coma."

"Knock-knock." I heard the familiar voice and then saw a welcome face as the nurse left the room.

"Patti!" I was excited to see Patti.

Patti walked towards my bed. "That nurse is too cute!" Patti said as soon as we were alone.

The only thing cute about her was her bite-size frame, she stood every bit 4 feet and some inches tall…I personally thought she was a little on the cold side and kind of felt as though she was a little condescending. "I don't think so. You should've heard her condescending tone when she told me about Brian finding me unconscious."

"How'd you figure she was condescending?" Patti said while pulling up a chair.

Sigh. "Her tone sounded condescending." I might be drugged up but I know a condescending tone when I hear one.

"What?" Patti laughed hysterically. "What exactly did she say that made you classify her as condescending?"

Nice try…Patti wanted to turn this to a psychological evaluation. "Never mind. It's nothing."

Patti put her hand on my thigh and pried. "No, Nandi. I want to be careful not to do the same thing. That's why I'm asking."

Yup! I knew it…she wants a teachable moment so she 'won't do it' please-how annoying is that. "You think it's a joke?"

"Look, lady. Don't get flustered at me because you're mad at the nurse. Maybe you're exaggerating her personality."

In the awkward silence that followed, I knew that, if I didn't drop the conversation, she would chop into it like a sous chef chops into fresh produce. I had to shift gears fast or I'd get analytically dissected. But before I could even ask her about Pierre, someone poked his head in the door. His face was familiar, so I couldn't help but stare while I tried to retrieve the memory of that face from my mental archives.

Patti turned toward the direction I was looking. "Richard!"

She hollered as she bounded out of her chair and raced toward the man. "I'm sorry. I mean, Doctor Ashford."

The man chuckled. "You're fine, Patti."

An intense silence followed until Patti turned toward me, her face ashen.

"How are you feeling, Nandi?" Dr. Ashford asked as he walked toward me.

"I'm good. Thanks for asking. Why do you look so familiar?"

Before he could even open his mouth, Patti spoke for him. "Nandi, you remember Richard. Or should I say, Rick?" Patti gave me "the look" as only a best friend could.

"Oh, my gosh! Rick!" I couldn't help the giggle that flew from my mouth. "You look so different, I'm surprised Patti recognized you right away."

"And you look the same—you haven't aged a bit!" Dr. Ashford said with a small smile.

"Thanks. That's nice to hear, now that I'm in this dreaded hospital gown and lying in a hospital bed. How's your wife? Her name is Brittney, right?"

"Brittney and I never got married."
His pager went off, breaking the awkward silence.

"That's my cue." Dr. Ashford touched a button on the pager, silencing the alarm, and hurried toward the door. "Ladies, it was nice seeing you again."

"Wow! How bizarre was that?" Patti said when he was gone. "I'm perturbed that he couldn't stay longer."

"I'm surprised you recognized him, but I'm not surprised that they never got married. What goes around comes around."

"Oh, Nandi! You're rushing to conclusions. I'm surprised that I recognized him too, especially since he lost so much weight."

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. "Rick has always been a charmer. Did you hear him trying to compliment me when I know I clearly am not looking my best?"

"You know Rick has always had a thing for you. He'll always see you as beautiful."

"Too bad, so sad. He wasn't this cute back in the day."

Patti giggled. "He looks the same to me."

I can tell that life has taken its toll on him or maybe Medical School had the best of him, whatever the case is I can't help but to wonder why Brittney and Rick never got married. To feed my ego I really want to think it's because of what he did to me. "I don't think he looks the same to me."

"Must be the lab coat and the 'Dr.' before his name." Patti yawned as she spoke.

I looked over at Patti and could tell her face had tire all around it especially underneath her eyes. "You sound tired."

"I could use more sleep. This is a busy time for Pierre and me. Time is moving so fast and I have too many deadlines. That reminds me that I need a mini vacay." Patti smiled.
"Are you and Pierre going to England this summer?"

"Gosh, no." Patti was positioned by the window and gazing out. "We have too much to do here."

"What do you think about dreams?"

"Do you want my educated take on dreams or my spiritual belief?"

I was very hesitant to even talk to Patti about it because I felt as though she would sooner than late consider me senile. "How about a spiritual take? That psychological stuff throws me off."

"What did you dream of?" Patti continued to gaze out the window.

"What are you looking at?" I wanted to make sure I had all of Patti's attention.

"I'm just people—watching. This is a view to die for." Patti giggled. "Go on with the dream."

The only person I could freely talk to about my dreams without feeling judged and or any kind of way was momma. Patti came from a background that believed in dream translations whether if it were spiritual or ritually-she'd on more than one occasion mentioned to me about her mother's ability to understanding dreams. "Please don't call me crazy—"

"I think I've known you long enough to know that you are far from crazy and I certainly hope you don't hesitate to tell me anything because of how you think I might view it. You are my best friend and you should trust me with whatever information you want to tell me—ok!

"Ok, it's just that—"

Patti walked towards my bed as she spoke. "Just that what Nandi?"

"Never mind." The truth is I can't bring myself to telling her that in this dream I was running down this cobblestone road, yelling, 'I will die for Jesus.' The road was empty and narrow—kind of like ancient Rome from the movies. Then I looked back over my shoulder and saw two men in black clothing. Even their heads and faces were covered, so all I could see was their eyes. I was down on my knees with my arms up in surrender, and I continued to yell, 'I will die for Jesus.' My eyes were shut tight and I couldn't stop myself from saying it. I said it over and over and over, even though those two men had guns drawn on my back. Finally, I heard a clunking noise. I turned around and they had thrown the guns on the ground and were running the opposite way. Shortly after that, I awoke, and they said I had just come out of a coma.

I ended up telling Patti just a little portion of the dream…I knew she wasn't momma and I wasn't ready to hear what she would say.

"Wow." Patti sat down at the foot of the bed. "I'm speechless."

"At first, I tried to ignore it, but the more I ignored it, the more it kept coming to my mind. But I don't know what it means." Honestly, I don't know if I want to find out the meaning of the dream…I almost feel as though I am not ready for that translation.

"You got me there. It's amazing, though." Patti scooted close to the bed, grabbed my hand, and cleared her throat. "I really need you to go with me on this road trip."

"I don't know. . . ."

"I'm the only one left, other than your husband, who tries to protect your feelings and can tell you the truth," Patti said in a lowered voice.

A sense of dread came over me. "What do you mean?"

"Your husband has been moving stuff out of the house."

"What stuff?"

"Furniture, clothes, dishes, you name it. Everything and anything that belongs to y'all."

"I don't get it." I am afraid to fail at sobriety—again. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to face, I know what it's doing to me, to Brian to us as a married couple but I am deathly terrified of failing…what else is there if rehabs and counseling sessions didn't work for me before?

"Nandi, the bank has foreclosed on your home. I didn't want to be the one to tell you. But

you should consider coming on this road trip. You need time to air out, get the feel of a different environment. Besides, I want to help you overcome this beast." Patti squeezed my hand and smiled.

Foreclosed? "How is a road trip going to help me?"

"Do you trust me?" Patti spoke softly with a crackling voice.

I am confused and lost right now…I know it's all my fault, I mis-used our money and I mis-used Brains trust but can I actually do this sobriety thing? I don't know. "You know I trust you."

"Say yes to the road trip, Nandi." Patti's eyes filled with tears.

"Patti, don't do this to me. You know I don't want to go." My heart is torn. I am afraid I won't succeed.

"How long will it take you to realize you have a problem?"

Little does she know that I have more than one problem in my hands. "I am not in the mood for this kind of talk." It's so annoying to hear people castigating me over and over and over.

"Well, you're in no position to hang up on me or walk away, so you are going to hear it all." Patti reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue, but I wasn't sure who it was for—her or me.

"I need time to think it through." Why do I have to decide today? I don't get it.

"I gave you time two weeks ago, look where you ended up." Patti's voice turned harsh. "You and your husband are one paycheck away from being homeless, and Brian is stressing. You can't afford any more medical bills."

My anger shot to the top of my head. "Are you saying this is all my fault?"

"Well, Nandi, you're the one in the hospital bed." Patti's voice held as much agitation as her eyes did. "We're leaving on Memorial Day weekend. Brian has a suitcase packed for you."

"Wait—what?" This was moving way too fast for me.

"That's right. I'll be over by your new place Friday morning before Memorial Day."

"So, you had this all planned, and yet you still wanted to hear my take?"

Patti smiled. "I was just giving you time to get used to the idea. It's going to happen, one way or the other."

Chapter Twelve

The pre-intervention, May 26, 2014, St. Louis, Missouri

I managed to drive to St Louis from Chicago late last night which gave me a chance to check into the hotel where I could pray and go over my mental preparation for the next day that I plan on picking Nandi up. Truth be told I was feeling very anxious and nervous at the same time so I didn't get that much sleep because deep down inside my heart I knew that Nandi can beat this but my fear lies with whether she will want to get in the car or not and for that I am highly anticipating the move of the Lords strength and power.

The next day I arose early for prayer. After I freshened up I headed over to Nandi's place. I knocked on the door and Brian answered the door. "How's the new place coming along?" I said as I walked in.

Brian closed the door behind me. "I'm adjusting. Your girl, on the other hand, is still trying to get used to the smaller space."

"It doesn't look as bad as Nandi made it out to be." I looked around the foyer area in which the foyer was a name but not the space. The space resembled part of the living room and part of the kitchen entrance. The home that Nandi and Brian lost had a custom double wide "for-real" foyer with about a good distance from the front door till you see the first room in the house.

Brian chuckled. "I can imagine what she told you." Brian led the way down the short hallway. He pointed toward the remainder of a couch set. The great room had only enough space for the loveseat, a coffee table, and a small television table.

No wonder Nandi exaggerated about her new place, coming from a 5000-plus square-foot luxury home to an 800-square-foot, one bedroom apartment. It was livable but not to Nandi's standards—a major downsize.

"I'll get her for you. You know how she is." He disappeared behind the door that faced the living room.

Here we go again. I eased onto the loveseat. These two were still trying to hide their bickering, but they had apparently not gotten used to the smallness of the apartment yet and didn't realize that I could hear every harsh word they spoke. Maybe I should intercept rather than wait an hour for them to finish their argument. I stood and moved to the bedroom door. "Are you guys okay in there?" I didn't know what else to do. Lord, please let her say yes.

"We're fine," Brian hollered.

I felt uncomfortable with their argument so I decided to go to the car. "You don't sound fine to me. I'm going to wait in the car." I knew that would get someone's attention.

The minute I walked out the house, Nandi stalked up behind me with her purse on her shoulder. She didn't look too happy, but at least she was going along.

I unlocked the car from a distance, and Nandi power-walked past me. She got in and slammed the door. Then she put on her sunglasses, fastened her seat belt, and folded her arms in front of her chest.

I couldn't but help but stop and talk to Brian, who carried Nandi's suitcase. "Is everything okay?"

"She's just throwing one of her tantrums. She'll be fine." Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills. "Here, this is all I have. Take it."

"I can't." I shoved the money back at him. "Nandi knows this trip is on Pierre and me."

"I won't let you all take care of my wife without me chipping in—"

Nandi honked the horn, and I took advantage of the interruption. "Time to go. I can't take the money. Sorry."

When Brian had the suitcase in the car and I was buckled into the driver's seat, he crossed to Nandi's side and bent down to her level. She ignored him, looking straight ahead.

I lowered the window.

"Don't I get a goodbye kiss?" Brian asked.

After an awkward silence, Nandi rolled up the window.

Brian stepped back, his face a stone.

An hour into the trip, I adjusted my seat and sat up—right. The reclined position felt hard on my back. I started messing with the radio, aggressively scanning through the stations and to no surprise I couldn't pick up a good station—well…a station I enjoyed that is. "How can you sit in dead silence?" I forgot How Patti was crazy about her silence in the car. It was her belief that the car ride was a time to disconnect from the "world" and a time for her to "connect" to "God" but this wasn't going to work since we had a long road trip ahead of us.

"You know how I enjoy the quiet," Patti said calmly.

Unfortunately, I remember. "Well, I don't. Is the radio broken?" Ugh. I felt so annoyed and the static in the radio was driving me crazy.

"Maybe we can talk instead."

Ha! Patti couldn't have picked a finer time than now. "I don't feel like talking. Don't you have a CD I can listen to?"

"Nope." Patti shook her head from side to side without even trying to look around.

I reclined my seat this time mid-way and not all the way back. Sigh. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, let me see—"

"I am not talking about my drinking." Thought I would establish some ground rules before we started this supposed talk session….

"That's not what I was going to say."

I felt the pressure to come up with something to talk about even though I wasn't in the mood to talk. "Then what do you want to talk about, Miss Psychologist?"

"Was that a hint of sarcasm?" Patti said before finishing off her sentence. "You know what, Nandi? I've known you all these years, but we don't really know each other."

Here we go with this fluffy stuff…what is this? "Kumbaya" moment. "What do you mean? Of course, we know each other." I think at this moment I would rather settle for the NPR station because it's the only station we are getting repeatedly in the scanning rotation.

"We know each other from college and thereafter, but we've never talked about our lives before college. We've never tried."

"I get it! You want a Dr. Phil episode."

The rental car had an annoying dingy—cigarette smell and I guess the little round no smoking sign in the middle of the console didn't stop the smoker….

"Something like that. I want to get to know you and hope you don't mind learning about my upbringing too."

I always think it's amazing how non-city folks live. Out here in the middle of nowhere with the next neighbor being between their many acres of soybeans and or corn or livestock… I know they most likely have serene lives without the hustle and bustle of a big city life. I would rather gaze out the window and pretend like I am watching a movie in fast forward than to talk. "Why do I feel as if I know where this whole charade is going?"

"Where is it going, Nandi?"

"You don't want to hear my input on that." I feel like I am going to break the radio scanner button because something must give—other than a conversation.

"No, I want to hear it all, because I value your thoughts." Patti insisted.

I couldn't hide my agitation, the radio, the scene, the smelly dingy car now a conversation? Ugh—super annoyed. "What do you want to know about me?" I guess she wants to hear how I wasn't fortunate enough to grow up with my dad and or how I didn't have maids and gardeners in a mansion….

"What do you remember from your childhood?" Patti smiled.

Sigh. "After Momma and I moved to East St. Louis, they held me back a grade because I wasn't learning."

"How'd that make you feel?"

"It was tough. I didn't fully comprehend what it all meant until about the sixth grade when everything became more apparent. I felt as though I let Momma down. She spent the little time she had trying to teach me all she could, and I knew she was doing it because I was in the slow children's class—"

"Now we call it special needs and developmental education." Patti wanted to rectify that, even if that was all she could accomplish with her today.

"I knew it as the slow children's class. During my tenth and eleventh years, I tried to adjust to the environment and get used to leaving everything behind." Oh gosh…I hate saying that name so I mumbled. "Lois West." I quickly glanced out of the window.

Compassionately Patti spoke. "Who is Lois West?"

"Trust me—you don't want to know."

"I feel a little sassiness." Patti chuckled as she spoke. "Maybe I do want to know."

All I could think was to exercise my breathing techniques because this was a part of me I wasn't willing to share freely. How do I tell her in the sixth grade the special-needs educational program brought back lots of feelings about Lois West? On one hand, I felt as though I was letting Momma down. On the other hand, Lois West's words kept surfacing in my ten-year-old mind. That woman was always telling me that I wouldn't amount to anything and that I was a poor excuse for a girl. I knew I didn't want to talk about Lois because I always wind up emotional.

"Lois West was some crazy old lady from my childhood." It's safe to say that without reliving her memory. Which still mad me tear up.

"I'm sorry, Nandi."

The last time I cried like this I was drinking myself through the thoughts. What's sad is I never told Momma all the things this evil lady said and did to me. I always just got angry. At that point, nothing mattered to me, not the school nor homework. I never knew why she didn't like me, and I never knew who she was in relation to Momma. I reached into my purse, pulled out some tissues, and blew my nose. Then I put on my sunglasses and adjusted my seat to sit upright, I clenched my purse, and let my tears fall on my cheeks and down my shirt. I didn't wipe the tears or the running nose. Instead, I wanted to cry in silence.

Patti simply gave me my space.

The more it festered in my mind the more I felt angrier. How can an adult be so cruel to a little child? What did I do to her? I reached for my crinkled tissue and tried to straighten it out. Momma had no idea what was happening. So many times I tried to tell her, but I couldn't. When she moved us to East St. Louis and I found out I would never see Lois again, I was thrilled. I can't recall how old I was when I was first exposed to her mean hand, but I remember I accidently spilled juice on the kitchen floor. . . .

I dug in my purse and pulled out more tissues, my fingers trembling. Lois West often called me stupid, clumsy, dumb, waste of human breath, idiot. The day I spilled the juice, she beat me with a small leather belt for a long time. First, she made me take off my pants and panties, then she grabbed the belt and beat me over and over, calling me stupid and dumb. "Like your Momma," she said. Of a sudden I felt a big lump in the back of my throat, my mind had triggered the bitter memories of Lois at the wrong time. I remember at one point and time I had boils and welts on my butt for some time. Momma didn't know because Lois bathed me. My teacher sent me to the principal's office, and he put me in detention because I couldn't sit on the wooden chairs. I couldn't tell my teacher why I couldn't sit down. So she thought I was being defiant and sent me off to the principal's office. I couldn't swallow this lump down because I knew if I did my tears were going to come spewing down like a waterfall…. "When Momma found out I was in detention, she was upset at me. But I still couldn't tell her what happened because I knew the only one who would face Lois's wrath was me."

I had to stop talking for a second because my emotions were getting the best of me, I was sniffing, wiping the tears that recklessly flowed down my cheeks. my shirt looked as if I had spilled water on it, but the dampness was nothing but a soaking accumulation of my tears of pain.

"Nandi, I'm so sorry you had to experience that."

"I am too." My nose felt heavy with congestion. "That's what I felt like when I was held back a grade." I couldn't help it but to gaze out the window, drawing deep breaths helped me somewhat come back to reality. "It made me feel like the stupid, dumb idiot that Lois had always called me. I thought I couldn't possibly be smart and that Lois was right all this time. I wish I could have told Momma, but I didn't start to come out of my shell and embrace my learning ability until high school."

Chapter Thirteen

Twenty-seven years earlier

My bitter relationship with the rain came during my teen years. Before then, I loved to sing in the rain, play in the rain—I loved everything about the rain. Thunder and lightning were to me like a well-played symphony. After the lighting, the thunder followed suit with a great, big, bold, confident boom. The skies rumbled and echoed, so much so that sometimes I stopped what I was doing to look into the sky and make sure no clouds had fallen to earth.

After that, I tarried in my excitement, waiting for the breathtaking sequential lighting and thunder performance. I lollygagged and danced in the rain with my imaginary dance partner. Nothing inside or outside could steal my joy.

Of course, Momma wouldn't be happy if she found out I didn't wait the rain out. But Momma was at work half the time, and the rain was my friend. It was marvelous—and innocent. Momma couldn't stand it when I played in the rain. I think that was mainly because she had to mop up the drips that left a trail after I came inside from a play date with the rain. "Now how many times have I told you to wait the rain out, young lady?" Momma would say while trying to exercise her stern voice with her index finger pointed at me. I simply looked down to the floor, silent, and she picked up my chin with her open palm and stared at me.

My only defense was silence. I gave Momma a good thirty to sixty seconds before her heart broke in sympathy. Then she sighed and drew in closer to me. She picked up the hem of her apron and wiped my face dry off the water that seemed relentless because my hair stored water in it like a camel's hump. Every time she managed to wipe the water off my face, trickles came streaming down my face from my fine, kinky curls.

That frustrated Momma more. Whenever she started talking under her breath, you knew she was upset. "You must be the only kid in America who loves the rain so much!" The rest I couldn't make out because she rambled too fast and under her breath so I would not hear her. Then she took my book bag and sent me to the bathroom to take a hot shower. I was excited to reunite with the water once again.

I often wished Momma would enroll me in swimming lessons. As much as I loved being in the water, I would have been good in the pool.

Around my thirteenth year, things started to happen that would rip to shreds my relationship with the rain. After that, it took me twenty years to come to terms with the rain. Momma didn't know about this because she worked so much. She was probably relieved that I wasn't playing in the rain anymore. The thing I loved most from Mother Nature quickly became the thing I'd forever hate. For the longest time, rain signified sorrow, anger, and resentment. Now when it rains, I just get a little depressed because of the events that took place in the rain—events that took my life on a total 360.

I remember it as if it was yesterday. I knew nothing about coming into my teens, let alone becoming fully developed. By the time I was thirteen years old, my breasts were coming into full maturity. I remember the pain of them coming in. I felt that something was changing in my body, but I couldn't pinpoint it. I found out how tender my breasts were as they were growing in when one day at school, I accidently bumped into an open door, and by golly! I thought I'd been stabbed in the chest.

I tried to tough out my tears, but that didn't work. I went into total hysteria with my hand on my chest at first. The more I tried to soothe the area by rubbing it, the more tender it felt. I ran into the girls' bathroom and into the stall. I slammed the door. All I could do was stand there and cry as though I had been hit. I cried as though something terrible had happened. What was the meaning of all this?

I wanted to be normal again, to be rid of all this mumbo-jumbo of pre-teen development. I couldn't stand the puberty part of it either. That was way too disgusting for me to fathom. I definitely didn't want to experience my menstrual cycle.

Unlike some, Momma wouldn't let me watch the teen development video in health class. So I got sent to the library at those times and did busy work. Momma didn't think I needed to know where babies came from or why teens develop or how they develop. Now, as an adult, I understand her thinking. She must have thought the videos could have perverse consequences, that I might play on my curiosity. Sometimes I think Momma's overbearing ways were fueled by her faith. But at the time, she merely told me, "You're too young to watch such videos. They won't help you with anything right now."

But she wouldn't talk to me about what I was going through either. So my answers came from unreliable sources: my friends. You never know how creative a child's mind is until she starts to fabricate a story. But the result was that I brought myself into my teen years. I wish Momma would have told me a little more about it. Self-discovery of the teen hood was a shock.

I knew my body was changing, but I didn't grasp how. I just knew that one day Momma gave away most of my clothes and insisted on getting me a new wardrobe. Any thirteen-year-old would have been excited, but this turned out to be a shopping spree with Jesus. All of a sudden, my dresses were long and loose. All my pants were baggy. Every time I came out of the fitting room, Momma looked me up and down and shook her head. "Get a bigger size." "It's too tight." "Your butt is showing." "Your hips are showing." "That's too tight—your breasts are showing." She went on and on, not satisfied until I was dressed like Moses coming down from Mt. Sinai.

It seemed as though my body had developed overnight. When I looked in the mirror, I couldn't tell much difference, but when Momma looked at me, she could.

On that day in April, I did what Momma had instructed me to do if it rained. I'd had a long day in school, and I had extra math homework and some make-up tests to do that evening. I was eager to get home and get it done before Momma Jean got home. Nonetheless, I waited out the rain as Momma had told me.

Most of my friends were already gone because they rode the school bus. I always wanted to ride the bus, but we lived too close to school to be a part of the bus program. The hardest thing for me to do was to stand under the awning, my body itching to be united with the rain drops. I felt as though I was going through withdrawal symptoms. All I could do was edge the front part of my shoe past the awning, just enough to get a little sprinkle on the tip of my shoe and my ankle.

What kept me under that awning was the fact that it was Monday, and Momma had flat-ironed my hair the day before for church. Taking care of my hair was no walk in the park. I had a head full of untamed, natural hair that made a chia pet look puny. It took Momma a couple of hours to get my hair as straight as a Barbie dolls. But Momma was determined. "No child of mine is going to look a hot mess at church." I knew that one rain droplet would shrink my hair all the way back to my scalp and would ignite an endless speech from Momma.

As I waited out the rain, Alana came out from her reading class. She was a grade ahead of me, but I knew her from my street. She came over and stood by my side and started conversing with me. I had always seen her here and there, but we had never spoken. She always walked home with her group of friends, and I walked with mine. But on this particular day, my friends had walked home without me, since they enjoyed playing in the rain. Waiting out the rain was a hard decision for me, but I didn't want to listen to Momma's fussing.

Alana offered me a ride home, saying her older brother was coming to pick her up. I knew of Frank as well. They came from a big, rough family, and even now, I couldn't tell you exactly how many siblings she had. One of the sisters, Marie, used to do Momma Jean's hair. Donny, the firstborn, was in the penitentiary for killing someone over twenty dollars at a dice game. Rumor had it that all Alana's siblings had different fathers and that there were more children in Alana's family but the state had taken them away. Alana's mom, or Miss Rose, as I knew her, seemed frail. She was tall and lanky, with scars on her face and throat and a mouth that looked like a puzzle book. Some of her teeth were missing, some were stained in colors unknown to teeth, and the rest were missing slots on her gums that bore a strong reminder of the teeth that used to live there. Every time she talked, her upper lip curled in disdain. This made me wonder if she was happy at all about life.

Growing up, I never knew what was wrong with Miss Rose, other than the fact that she seemed different and always isolated herself and her children from others. I now realize she might have done that to protect her children and herself because even the common church folk looked down on her. No one talked to her at church, even though she made an occasional effort at conversation. One time, Alana and her brother offered me a ride home as we were all talking with Miss Rose after church. Momma cut that conversation short when she grabbed my hand and pulled me away, not acknowledging Miss Rose or Alana. I thought it was rude of Momma. Then I began to notice other church folk isolating themselves and leaving right after church let out.

Over the course of time that we lived in East St. Louis, Alana and I became somewhat close. Frank continued to give us rides home when it rained. Momma never knew because she never bothered to ask, but she must have thought I was waiting out the rain at school. For all I know, Momma must have been relieved that I wasn't playing in the rain anymore.

Chapter Fourteen

Road trip 2014

The most important thing for me as a friend on this road trip was to show Nandi how much I truly supported her and wanted the best for her because I almost feel as though she might have had doubts about my motives and I know through my degree that trust is an issue among addicts.

"Are those raindrops on the windshield? There goes my day!" Nandi exclaimed.

"Don't get all depressed on me now." It's a good thing we are in the car throughout this summer storm.

Sigh. "I know this is random, but what was it like, growing up with a father in your life?" Nandi asked.

Her sigh matched my own. "I don't know what to tell you because I don't have anything to compare my life to. Besides, he was gone half the time, so I often didn't feel like I even had a father." I tried to cover that blanket statement of hurt with my nervous laugh but who was I fooling?

"I'm a bit shocked at that."

Nandi was on to me. "Since we are in the truth-mobile, being honest with each other on this road trip, I admit that yes, that's the way I feel about my father." I paused to breathe. "People think I grew up with the ultimate lifestyle, but I didn't. Now that I am older and wiser, I know that most of those things were a front. My parents put on a great show, acting as though we were living it large. Don't get me wrong—my dad was and is a wealthy man. But he invested minimal time in his family."

"Why do you think he stayed away so much?" Nandi was fidgeting with her hands.

Talking about myself and upbringing has never been an easy one for me. where do I begin to tell her that the truth is: He had another family out there. At first, he spent the weekdays with us, but then we got only his weekends. Before Mom told me about his other woman and kids, I was oblivious to his absences because Mom always enrolled me in extra-curricular activities after school. I thought Dad was traveling on business.

I had no idea of my mom's pain. Now that I'm married, I can only imagine it. They're still married and he's still the same. When I found out about my father's other family, I was in my last year of high school. I'd planned to attend Oxford University, but the news was so devastating, I wanted to leave England altogether. I never wanted to go back. My emotions took me on a wild roller coaster ride. I had looked up to this man my whole life, and now he had the nerve to abandon my mother and me in such a manner?

This was almost too much to take in the thought of it all over again brings my heart beat to a palpitation—a palpitation of a fear of being abandoned by a man I looked up to and l loved. I can't help but not to shake the feeling of my own husband walking away… I'm not a perfect Christian. After I forgave my father, it took me many years to meet them. It was easy to forgive my father but physically hard to forgive the circumstances. For the longest time, I walked around angry at my father's other family. But after I met them, I realized it wasn't their fault. I had wasted years, being angry at them because my father missed most of my birthdays and school performances. But he had lied to the other woman as well. She had no idea that my father was married and had a child. My forgiveness process was complete when I met my father's other family. Before then, I walked around in bitterness, anger, and resentment. That was one of the reasons I stopped going to church when I started college. It had nothing to do with God but everything to do with my dad.

"Long story short my dad had another family out there." I couldn't tell her my heart's pain due to fear of old feelings surfacing. "See! I didn't grow up in a perfect family unit like you thought."

"Oh. My. Gosh. Patti…I am so sorry to hear that. I had no idea."

"It's OK. It's the thing of the past I don't like dwelling on too much." By reassuring her that I was over that part of my life I was assuring my own heart.

I had to blow my nose before I could continue. "Even as a grown woman, I find it hard to embrace what happened and what is. I have taught on biblical forgiveness and embracing and loving those who hurt you, but for some reason, it's easier to teach on it than to experience it."

"I'm sorry Patti. I am just trying to process this all in."

"No need to be sorry—It's the story of my life." I kind of understand my life today because in a sense I feel as though my dad's decisions taught me a lot about life and God. Forgiveness is so powerful that the lack of it can cause things to happen to us later in life. For instance, I was so broken that everything that happened to me during college seemed to be a direct reflection of my anger, bitterness, and resentment.

"I feel so bad that happened to you. But forgiveness—huh! What do I know? I'm just an alcoholic." Nandi said begrudgingly.

"That's not true," I said to assure her.

Nandi gazed out the window as though in deep thought. "If it's not true, then what is?"

I had to think real hard for an honest and yet not so complicated response. "You're not the only person in America who's bound by something. Some people are bound to money, some are bound to caffeine, some to food or other substances. Anything can enslave you if it takes a higher priority in your life than God does."

Nandi glanced over at me and cleared her throat and softly said. "What about you? What are you bound to? Or have you ever been bound to anything?"

I could hear the doubt in her voice as she asked the question and in my mind, I felt as though she might have perceived me as a perfect human because every now and then she knew how to throw in the 'Miss Perfect' sarcasm notation to our varied conversations-truth be told, I don't know if I was ready to indulge her with the "for-real" me. What would she think then? After all these years, she has viewed me in a certain light now to throw in me from my past would almost feel as though I've been dishonest all these years (even though we have never tried to know each other in-depth before this moment). "Oh, no, missy. This is not about me." I wiggled in my seat a bit trying to avoid her question.

Nandi agitatedly spoke. "Well, then, we might want to establish some more rules and regulations."

"The ones we have in place are fine." I quickly insisted.

Nandi narrowed her eyes at me. "I get it. It's all about the alcohol, right?"

"It's not that. It's just that I'm not sure if I'm comfortable sharing this with you-yet. Don't get me wrong, I can tell you anything, but . . ."

"Then tell me!" Nandi paused to catch a breath. "I get it. You want to know all about me and yet you don't want me to know about you. If we're best friends as you say, this doesn't make sense."

"Okay, fine," I said. If there was one thing I knew about Nandi was the fact that her temper was like a bullet in the gun chamber ready and willing to dislodge at any moment. The reason why I don't like talking about it freely is because the first few years of my marriage were rough—on me, that is. I didn't think Pierre and I were going to make it until my co-worker invited us to her church. We eventually went because I could feel myself dropping into a deeper slumber than I had when we first got married. "I connected with the pastor's wife, and you know how hard it is for me to trust people. The purging of my soul started months after First Lady Loretta started working with me—"

"Purging?"

"Yes, like you, I battled a stronghold, this thing that kept me bound to sin. No matter how much I hated it, the other person, and myself, I still did it. I prayed for it to go away. I thought I was going to be this way for life."

Nandi's mouth was wide opened as her voice became louder. "Wait! Your marriage was in disarray?"

"Oh, honey. Disarray is not even the word. I know the hand of God saved my marriage."

"What was this thing that bound you?"

This would be the first time I would talk openly about this. I could feel my palms sweating and my stomach knotting up. "I'm trusting you with my deepest secret." I drew a deep breath, my knuckles white as I gripped the steering wheel. "At-one-point-I-was-a-sex-addict." I said is so fast hoping she didn't hear me. And at first, I really thought she didn't hear me because she did not say anything back, that minute felt like an hour.

"Are you pulling my leg?" Nandi looked at me with disbelief.

I exhaled softly as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. "I am dead serious," I exclaimed.

Nandi was shaking her head from side to side slowly. "I am having a hard time believing you." She said with a crackling voice. "I mean I am sad for you-I really am but…I just can't wrap my mind around it. I mean you are so perfect to me." Nandi raised her left index finger and wiped the single lone tear.

I had a feeling she was going to take this a little rough. "You don't believe women can be sex addicts?" I said with a light smile to lighten her up.

"I don't believe you could be a sex addict. I am sorry I am getting all emotional it's just that I would have never guessed for a day in my life that you had a struggle in life."

I didn't know for sure if Nandi was hurt at the fact that her perception of me all these years had just been dismantled or I wasn't sure if she was emotional because she felt a connection to my pain as an addict.

"Well, I was." I rest assured her without a doubt in my voice.

My father's brother, who lived in Haiti, visited us most summers. At first, when it happened, I didn't think much of it. I was confused, thinking it was normal until it started to happen frequently. He used to have me sit on his lap. Then we played all kinds of secret games. As I got older, the games changed. When I was about thirteen, a sex-abuse counselor came to our school to talk to us about normal and abnormal behavior. Then I knew something was wrong. I couldn't believe I had been so blindsided to the truth. The games, the weird touching, the weird look on his face, the awkwardness, the secrets—they should have been enough to give it all away.

After that, I repressed the events that had taken place between the ages of nine and twelve. Then I started to repress all my memories. My dad's brother did something illegal in England and was banned from returning when I was twelve. I should have been happy about that, but I wasn't. By the time I was fifteen, my body started feeling all kinds of ways I could not describe. I know now it was deception of yearning to be touched. At first, I was angry because I was disgusted with my own thoughts. I had nightmares about him, and I awakened from these nightmares angry.

By the time I was sixteen, I was fully sexually active. The boys could do nothing to satisfy me, so in a sense, I never knew why I did it. I never liked the boys. I was embarrassed to talk about it, as all my friends were virgins. I lost interest in church and church activities because I felt as though God had allowed my uncle to violate me and leave me vulnerable. By the time I moved to America for college, the addiction had completely taken over, and I was at my wit's end. I was so embarrassed and ashamed that I would have traded places with a prostitute because they got paid.

"Patti—why didn't you tell me you were going through this in college I could've tried to help you," Nandi said with a concerned tone.

"If it makes you feel better I couldn't discuss it with anyone…I was too ashamed and afraid of being judged…." I wiped my free flowing tears with the back of my right hand and struggled to talk through my tears.

"I worried about the pain it would cause my parents and friends if they knew or, worse yet, what if I contracted an incurable sexually transmitted disease? Then I met Pierre and I thought he would help me. But I was terribly wrong. The bondage put my marriage in jeopardy." The truth of the matter was: Pierre wasn't enough for me and my needs. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt this man who genuinely loved me, so I fell into a deep depression. We tried marriage counseling and marriage workshops, but they didn't work. Finally. " We began attending the church my co-worker invited us to, and the pastor's wife there spoke life to me."

"Oh, the one you invited me to back in the day?" Nandi said as she cracked her window open. "Exactly! You have a good memory." My eyes started to open to the truth. I realized my addiction had escalated when I came to America. By then, I was so angry at my dad for not being there for Mom and me. I grew much angrier and more bitter when I found out he wasn't there because of this other family.

"It's fine now-Nandi," I said hoping to dismiss this tense conversation. I thought that if he had never been with this other family he'd created, then I would never have been sexually abused by his own brother. If dad had been around, I'd have still been that innocent virgin I needed to be, and I wouldn't be tussling with my flesh's desires. I was bitter about the bits and pieces of a horrible memory that played in my mind like a sporadic movie preview whenever it chose.

"You know what-Patti?" Nandi softly said as she adjusted her seat to an upright position. "What a familiar place…for so long I wondered if I was weird or abnormal to want to wash out my memories and thoughts of my life but here you have it my own very best friend had the same exact feelings…I don't know whether to be happy or sad, happy that I am not weird but sad because you went through a lot."

"I know it's like information overload. I thank you for listening." I spoke while admiring the green crops that decorated the acres of land. Back in the day before I knew how to forgive my father, my anger would turn to hate and I went for periods without talking to my father. The more I resented my father, the angrier I became. My emotions were like an out of control Shanghai Maglev. And when I got married, nothing changed within me. That was hard. I was tempted to feed into my addictions, fighting my thoughts and raw emotions. At times, I found myself on chat lines, flirting online with other men while I was married. Had my friend's invitation to church come any later, Pierre and I would be divorced by now.

"I gotta confess something to you, Patti." Nandi took in a deep breath and released. "I don't know how you survived it all to live to tell me. Looking at you I would have never imagined that life once took you down the old-dark-alley-"

"Girl—all I have to say is by the grace of God! Because after First Lady Loretta started working with me, I started to feel slow changes. She stuck to me like white on rice, and I tell you, she has a sense of being led by the Spirit." Because Lord knows that there were times when I didn't want to be bothered, she showed up. When the enemy slapped me so hard that I couldn't pick myself up, she would show up. I finally surrendered my life to Christ. I was done. I was fed up, I felt dirtier than a recycled kitchen rag, I hated myself, I hated my body for what I was subjecting it to.

I took a swig of my water and cleared my throat as I continued to talk. "The enemy had managed to blind me in deception, but only when I confronted the pain, hurts, and anger of my past could I transition into a healthy relationship with God." The reality is: transformation didn't happen overnight. It took a couple of years and even now, I am still growing in the Lord. But I can tell you that I am nowhere near where I used to be. I was born again and delivered from sex addiction.

"I hope you don't think I am trying to sound facetious—or anything like that but…do you think or feel like you are totally normal again?" Nandi mulled around the question.

"You know what Nandi? Today, I can enjoy my husband the way God created me to as Pierre's wife." Gosh, that was a sentiment that was worth framing. "Now, in my job, I specialize in addiction because, like Lady Loretta, I want to pour into someone else's life. That is why I can relate to you and what you are going through, and that is why I want to help you as much as I can. You see, I am not perfect, after all."

Chapter Fifteen

Twenty-Five Years Earlier

Freshman year in high school was a doozy. I spent it trying to get comfortable with the somewhat-new body that was bestowed upon me over the summer, courtesy of Momma Jean's gene pool and ancestral lineage of curves. My full-figured upper front made me look like a high school senior instead of a mere freshman. I had a hard time embracing the whole high school concept, which was quite different from what I had imagined. I had fantasized that it would be like Saved by the Bell. But my fantasy was met with sheer disappointment as the harsh reality of real-world high school hit me.

My first class was a great beginning to the rest of the classes to follow on that first day of high school. Mrs. Nash was by far a different kind of science teacher than I had ever seen before. She wore a loose leopard-print, long-sleeved shirt with a black tank top underneath. She had loose black pants to go with the top ensemble. Her hair was cut in a short bob with one side a little longer than the other. She had light pink streaks in her jet-black hair, a small nose ring, and multiple earrings lodged on the creases of her earlobe that made her ears look as if an earring convention was taking place there. Her lipstick was a boisterous cherry color that complemented her gothic-mom, used-to-be-in-a-rock-band-wanna-be look. I initially thought high school was my official cool place to be if the rest of the teachers were like Mrs. Nash. I always had fun in her class, and I even learned a thing or two, despite how she looked on the outside. Most times, I wondered what Momma Jean would think if she saw Mrs. Nash. I bet Momma would go all "holy and sanctified" on Mrs. Nash without even trying to get to know her. You couldn't judge a book by its cover when it came to Mrs. Nash. She was smart, funny, and articulate. She had a heart for teaching and you could tell she had the students' interests in mind. The only creepy thing about Mrs. Nash's classroom was the glass case that housed the albino python named Bobo. It took me an entire semester to get used to that. I still get goosebumps thinking about that humongous snake. Every now and then, when Mrs. Nash was feeling generous, she let all the snake enthusiasts take turns feeding Bobo some mice. Just the thought of it still makes my blood quiver. Most of the snake enthusiasts in my class were boys. How they thought they were macho, handling Bobo the gigantic albino python. At any rate, Mrs. Nash helped me develop a keen interest in the science world. Because of her, I began to learn with an open mind.

I didn't have many friends from junior high, so I tried to make new ones in high school since I was in a different state. I recognized Clara, a girl who lived down the street from me in my new neighborhood. She was in three of my classes, and in all three classes, I made it a point to sit next to her that first day of high school because she was the only student I knew.

My second-period teacher, Mrs. Hall, was the health teacher. Unlike Mrs. Nash, Mrs. Hall was soft-spoken, about 5 feet 4 inches tall and maybe weighed 190 pounds with most of it in her belly. When I met her on the first day of class, I thought she was pregnant. But that was impossible because she looked every bit of sixty years old.

Mrs. Hall was a good, old-fashioned teacher. She wore a floral skirt that looked like an old lady's curtain set. Her white chiffon long-sleeved blouse had embroidered lapels, and every top she owned seemed to have the world's thickest shoulder pads. She always slouched forward when she talked, and she wore white pantyhose. I don't know if she got them for free or if she wore the same ones all the time, but come rain, sleet, summer, or fall, she had on a pair of white pantyhose. Her hair was always pulled back in a neat bun, reminding me of the Pentecostal ladies I used to see going door-to-door on Saturday mornings.

In a sense, I felt sorry for Mrs. Hall. My first day in her class was a taste of how far she could go with the students, and in her case, it wasn't far at all. She was so soft-spoken that Deshaun and Terrill's conversation in the back of the classroom echoed off the walls. Mrs. Hall paused, cleared her throat, and looked directly at the chatterboxes. They quieted down because everyone had turned to see what she was looking at.

The minute she opened her mouth to continue her lecture, there went Deshaun and Terrill.

"I am not going to tell you boys to be quiet once again," Mrs. Hall said in a soft voice.

One of the boys said something slick that I didn't hear. In no time, Deshaun stood and went off to Mrs. Hall.

The room was filled with gasps of disbelief. Mrs. Hall couldn't defend herself because Deshaun's voice was so loud. I'd never seen a dark-skinned woman's face turn as close to red as I did on that day. I thought Mrs. Hall was going to let him have it, but instead, she set her hands on her hips, shook her head, and marched off.

For a moment, there was the silence of a classroom full of kids who did not know how to react. Then that silence was broken by the two troublemakers. "You see that, dog-man? She crazy."

They continued to laugh as if they had just served justice.

Then their laughter was broken when an overwhelming presence entered the room. Of a sudden, we all froze in place. The man stood in the front of the class with such ominousness, the room was gripped by a cold silence.

"Deshaun Mitchell and Terrill Lloyd, come to my office," Principal King said.

Finally, those two would get what was coming to them.

Mrs. Hall stood right beside Mr. King, a smirk emerging from the creases of her mouth as if she had conquered the downright overtly machismo teens on her own.

Mr. King was not your ordinary principal. He was a scary-looking ex-Military. I think he sometimes forgot what environment he was in because he treated some students as though they were army privates in boot camp. He stood tall like a Hyperion tree, his arms mimicking big, strong branches. He walked as if conducting a drill, each foot aggressively planted before the other. Rumor had it throughout high school that he was not a force to be reckoned with. Because of that, only a few tried and all failed. I don't know what happened to Deshaun and Terrill, but I do know that they never returned to Mrs. Hall's class, at least not when I was there.

The lunch bell finally rang. The only conversation among the freshmen was Principal King's intervention.

As I headed toward the back with my tray, I saw a familiar face. Clara waved me over. Of a sudden, I became excited because I wasn't going to eat lunch by myself like I thought I was. Sitting next to her was a girl from one of my classes. Clara introduced me to Andrea, and unbeknownst to me, I began a friendship with my two soon-to-be high schools best friends.

My last class on my first day of high school was a breeze. It was ceramics with Mrs. Reese. If I thought Mrs. Nash was different, then Mrs. Reese topped it off.

Everything about Mrs. Reese creeped me out. Her classroom looked like a movie set from the 70s with its little tie-dye banners that had "happy" sayings on them. She was dressed in a long, flared skirt with a matching tunic. Mrs. Reese was hard to understand because she tended to shift conversations in the middle of a sentence. "Ceramics is the joining of your hands with the clay what a beautiful dove I wonder if it's going to rain but remember ceramic is the joining . . ." To make it worse, she fidgeted with that dread-awful fake orange Hibiscus that hung snug behind her right ear lobe. I never understood the concept of that flower's position.

If you acted busy in Mrs. Reese's class, she had no issues with you. It was an easy class and a good way to end my first day in high school.

When the day was over, I couldn't decide if I missed junior high. I did miss the comfort of junior high, but I surely liked the feel of high school. Even though I was only sixteen years old, I felt that I was becoming and that I could handle, but not so much as Momma Jean could.

Chapter Sixteen

Road Trip 2014

The last time I traveled down on highway 55 was when momma and I left Mississippi and the only reason I remember was because I couldn't pronounce the town Sikeston. "When you were battling your addiction, were you afraid to die?" I had to ask Patti the nagging question in my mind.

"There was never a day I didn't think about it. It scared me to know that if I kept it up, I might die in my own fleshly desires. The scary part about addictions is knowing that you don't want to live that way anymore, but can't stop doing what you hate," Patti said boldly.

"I know you and Brian care about me, and I'm sorry for being apprehensive about this trip. But the truth is that I don't know how I ended up in this predicament."

"Oh, hon. It is part and parcel of the trials and tribulations of life. But from now on, we must go forth and not dwell on why it happened," Patti said as she exited highway 55.

"Where are you going?"

"To get gas and something to eat."

Patti pulled the car over at the gas station in Sikeston, Missouri, and headed to the store. When she returned to the car to pump the gas, I couldn't help wailing over my life. It was painful in the moment to face my problems and situation in a sober mind frame…I was really craving some wine.

Patti opened the passenger door. "Oh, Nandi . . ."

Sniffling through tears, I accepted the tissues Patti pulled from her purse-I hated for Patti to see me like this. "I'm tired of it all. Every time I think of quitting, I feel as though I can't. At times, it's been easier to act as if I don't have a problem. Sometimes I act like I've quit and then I secretly drink. But it seems that my tolerance keeps increasing the more I try to act and not be myself."

Patti murmured encouragement while rubbing my back.

"Why me? Why did I have to go through this?" The lump in my throat was solid. I could feel the tears coming on strong. "I was a straight-A student in high school and college. I graduated at the top of my class. But I still have a hard time comprehending why all this is happening to me."

"It's okay. I'm here to help you, and we're going to get through this." Patti shut the passenger side door, pumped her gas, and then positioned herself back in the driver's seat. "Are you hungry?"

"No." I didn't have an appetite to eat. I wanted some wine, some liquor, something with an alcohol percentage in it.

"I grabbed a bag of snacks. If you need anything, let me know." Patti said kindly.

I hate feeling this way. I hate being sober. It almost makes me face my reality without ease. I want to stop drinking, but then I think of all the celebrations I'll have to skip. And how about life itself? Maybe I do have a problem. The counselor said I do, and the private rehabilitation center confirmed it, but I can't quite accept it. . . I get it, but I don't. Did Momma know I had this issue? Or was she in denial? She was there for the whole court trial so surely, she knew. I had a feeling this wasn't going to be a great night. Maybe I should've stayed home. . . .

"Nandi!" Patti hollered.

"Huh? What?" Patti's voice startled me.

"Oh, my goodness. Are you okay?" Patti's right hand was on her chest to the left side as though she was clenching her heart and trying to stop it from coming out of her torso.

"I'm fine, why?"

"You were in such a deep daze, I thought you were getting ready to jump out of the moving car," Patti said, looking as if she was trying to fight back laughter.

I shook my head left to right and trying to figure out how long I had been dazed. "I was in deep thought, that's all." I tried to play it off.

"Do you care to share?"

I pointed out the window. "Look at the pretty dairy cows. Do you ever wonder why only the black and white cows are dairy cows? I mean after all, don't all cows have udders?"

"Stop switching topics," Patti said with a smirk.

If I told her the truth about my incident eight years ago, she might confirm that I have a problem and, frankly speaking, I didn't feel like hearing her mouth about it. We'd been on the road for close to three hours, and yet it felt like an eternity. Then again, I'd always confided in her. Maybe I didn't want to tell her because I was ashamed of what I did, but if she found out later, she'd be even more disappointed in me. Maybe I should stall our conversation. . . .

"Have you spoken to Pierre?"

Patti laughed. "Nice move, but I know what you're trying to do. No, I haven't spoken to my hubby. Now can you be the open book you said you were going to be-it's not fair, I just told you my biggest secret-now your turn?"

She has a small point in that she trusted me more than enough to tell me her secret but I also feel like I didn't know her secret until today and it's not like I have ever told her she had a problem with her addiction like she tells me about my drinking. "I never said I wanted to be an open book. I did say I didn't care to be your guinea pig."

Patti muttered. "Be a good sport then and play the guinea pig."

Ugh. If she wanted to know that bad, I would have to tell her. "Remember my accident eight years ago?" I reluctantly asked-secretly hoping she wouldn't remember.

"The one that messed up your tendons and stopped you from practicing medicine."

This was going to be awkward. She remembered precisely. "Do you remember my best friends from high school?"

Patti coiled her mouth to the side and shouted. "Andrea and Clara."

"Yes—well…."

I don't even know how I can even begin to tell her that eight years ago, . . . Crazy Clara came down for my thirty-first birthday. At that time, Brian knew I drank casually. He has never been a fan of any drinking, as it's against his religious beliefs. For the first four or five years, I thought I was doing a good job covering my trail. Well, except one incident earlier in our marriage, right after we buried Brianna. That was when he found a few empty bottles of wine. I managed to convince him they were helping with the grieving process, and he bought into it. From that day on, I became more cautious of what I did with the empty bottles. Brian worked long, hard hours, trying to establish his architectural business. By the time he came home most nights, I was passed out drunk. I had a good regiment going on, so no one can fault Brian for not knowing sooner. I always managed to take a shower and then douse myself in perfume. I brushed my teeth, gargled with mouthwash, and went to bed with a cough drop in my mouth. I was methodic and calculated up until my accident. That weekend, Brian wasn't comfortable with me hanging out with Clara. They did not get along, and I was in a hard place. I hadn't seen Clara in years, ever since she moved to Atlanta. So I thought it would be an awesome time to meet up with her. Momma Jean was never fond of Clara or Andrea. She always had bad feelings about those two, but who was I to say differently? They were my best friends, and in my teen years, I thought Momma Jean didn't know anything about my friends. Clara came to the house to pick me up in her rental car. I could tell she had reached her limit of drinks, so I drove us to the restaurant, my favorite sushi place in Maryland Heights. We sat there and talked for hours. We talked about everything, we ate one sushi roll after the other, we drank sake wine, we laughed, we giggled. For a while, we forgot we were grown-ups, so much so that the next act didn't seem like a very grown-up decision. Since Clara had been drinking longer than I had, I offered to take her to her hotel room where her husband was. It was the stupidest thing for me to do. After I dropped her off, instead of calling Brian, I figured I'd drive myself home. After that, all I remember is waking up in the hospital. I knew I was in deep trouble. It felt like a bad nightmare. I just wanted to go home but I couldn't. Brian later told me that I hit a median on the highway and the cops had to take a chemical blood test from me since they found empty bottles of alcohol in the car. I tried explaining to Brian that they were not mine. And they were not. I knew better than to drink and drive in the car. I never before that day would have thought of driving drunk. But apparently, my blood alcohol level was triple the legal limit and I was facing DUI charges. I would never drive with open containers of alcohol. I'm a medical doctor—or was one. But it's taken me this long to understand how much I messed up my life. Brian was disappointed and hurt, our home was cold tension for the next two years while Brian paid the court fees, lawyers' fees, and all the other fees associated with the accident. Momma—she was Momma. But I knew she was disappointed in me. I wish I could take back that day, that night. I wish I had listened to Momma and Brian. I was in and out of court, I was given three years' probation, my driver's license was revoked. I had a record and there went my license to practice medicine. I went from being a new, young MD to nothing overnight. Two years earlier, I lost all I looked forward to, so what was left of me? I couldn't practice medicine, so all those years of school and money went down the drain. I get that I placed myself in that predicament, but sometimes it's too much to handle. I'm surprised Brian hangs around. He won't forever. At this rate, I'll soon have nothing to live for. I have no spiritual connection, I am hurt, I am angry, and I am an addict. I have lied to my friends about the accident as I lied to a whole lot of my work colleagues because I was too embarrassed to own up to what I had done….

"Yes-well-what-happened-Nandi?" Patti insisted.

"Huh—what?"

"You paused after you asked me if I remembered your friends Andrea and Clara…it's as if you were in oblivion or something. You were just gazing out the window mouthing off and I thought you were gathering your thoughts till five minutes later you didn't say anything!" Patti giggled.

"Oh—I'm sorry. Never mind…I don't really feel like talking about it right now."

Patti shrugged her shoulders. "It's cool…I am here for you, Nandi. We are going to get through this together," Patti said softly. "It wasn't easy telling you what I had to tell you so I respect it if you need time."

Thinking of the pain, I know Momma Jean felt after my accident made me even angrier at myself for what I did. It was hard for me to face that part of my life sober. My mother didn't raise me in such a manner, and yet I put her in a predicament that made her tell a white lie to her church folks and friends who wondered what happened to Momma Jean's doctor-daughter. It's sad that she couldn't be candid with anyone in her church circle without the truth becoming the latest, juiciest gossip. More than once, I thought my drinking days were over. I would think I was done with that, but I couldn't stop drinking. In this state, all I wanted to do was run into a church building and wail at the alter with no one there to ridicule. When Sister Kara was struggling, she sat in the third pew from the back, close to the aisle, and rocked in all directions. Any innocent bystander could tell she had no control over her movements. Her face bore relentless wrinkles, more than all the mothers of the church combined. She barely spoke; rather, her top lip sunk into her bottom lip due to her upper teeth being gone. Her mouth moved without control, as though she was chewing gum, and she fanned herself with a big, flamboyant fan all year round. The last I heard of sister Kara was at Momma's Bible study group. I pretended to do my homework, as I always did, all the while ear-hustling. They said she overdosed on crack and was found in an alley in Brooklyn, Illinois. The way the Bible study group went on about Sister Kara made me feel as though I could've easily been in such a discussion. I knew why Momma Jean never told a soul about my alcohol use and accident. . . .

Chapter Seventeen

Twenty-Four Years Earlier

Sixteen years old—finally! However, for me, there was nothing sweet about turning sixteen. I get that it's sometimes called "sweet sixteen" because of the innocence of the age. But life had given me its realities early—realities that I couldn't even talk to Momma Jean about because of her fixation on religion that called everything real and practical as evil.

By the end of my freshman year, I had formed a solid bond with my two besties. That summer would mark the development of a bond stronger than a Boy Scout knot. I never had any close school friends in my whole life until I entered high school, and the idea of friendship tickled me. Growing up, I had been stuck with some church friends whose mothers were Momma Jean's friends, so everything we did was so churchy and church-influenced that even the play dates seemed staged. But with Clara and Andrea, I could be myself. I could shout from the mountaintop that I was absolutely and perfectly human. What a relief. Clara and Andrea also had celebrity boy crushes. They liked the same music I liked, which my church friends thought was secular and meaningless. Where had these two been my whole life?

The summer after my freshman year was an exciting adventure. Clara, Andrea, and I finished our freshman year with a breeze. During our school lunch breaks in the last few weeks before summer break, we concocted our summer plans.

Momma Jean didn't, particularly like Clara and Andrea. She always said, "Something about those two doesn't feel right in my spirit." Like any sixteen-year-old, I thought Momma knew nothing about my friends. At that time, I felt as though she didn't understand them because they did not attend our church. They attended their own churches, but their denominations were not good enough for Momma Jean. She used to say they had watered-down doctrines, unlike our Bible-thumping, holy-rolling church.

At any rate, my newfound friendships were as much a plus for me as they were a minus for Momma. For the last few years, I had looked high and low for someone to affirm my normalcy. Since I found no one, I started to believe I was crazy. I gladly traded my old church apocalyptic-talking friends for my two new friends who liked fashion, boys, hair, make-up, boy bands, and all kinds of movies.

Clara was raised by her grandmother, who happened to be financially well off. Supposedly, Clara's grandfather had acres and acres of land and lots of businesses that liquidated after his passing. Clara had no memory of her grandfather because he died when she was just a baby. Her grandmother was one of the few women of her day to become educated and have a professional career. She always wanted the best for Clara, so much so that she ended up spoiling her rotten. I always thought that was guilt-driven. The older woman felt it was her responsibility to make sure Clara had anything and everything she needed since her parents had been incarcerated for years. Her mother was about eight months pregnant when she was sentenced. Clara never had a desire to visit her parents, and she never talked much about them. She always called her grandmother "Momma," since her grandmother was so young. Clara has always had a strong, defiant personality and because she was spoiled her whole life, she thought the world owed her because she was Clara.

Andrea, on the other hand, was Clara's shadow. Ever since I met the two in the cafeteria, Andrea has been protective of Clara. She was also jealous when Clara paid attention to anyone else. They had been best friends since the fourth grade, and Andrea wondered why I could come into their inner circle. Hence, Andrea and I had a love— hate relationship. We managed to be cordial when Clara was around, but nothing in the world could pair Andrea and me together. Clara had to be around me for me to tolerate Andrea and vice versa. It took me a while to understand Andrea. Suddenly having friends for the first time, I had to adjust.

One day in my freshman year when we were at lunch, I pointed out Chris, my first high school boy crush. Clara said he was cute and then Andrea followed suit. If Clara said the sky was red, but it was clearly blue, Andrea would agree that it was red just because Clara said it. Being so shy, I wouldn't dare approach, Chris. Our boy crush frenzies were all in fun. Or so I thought until the following week when I came back to school to find Andrea in Chris's arms. I was crushed. How could she do that to me? Sure, I wasn't planning on talking to him ever in my life, but he was still my boy crush. Andrea had violated a friend's code. Unbeknownst to me, this violation was only the start of our feud.

Andrea couldn't stomach the fact that Clara's birthday and mine were in the same month. She also hated the fact that Clara lived in my neighborhood. After she pulled her stunt with Chris and later got ditched after a week, and the senior boy had used her body to fulfill his lustful desires she was back to square one with a big hole in her heart. Of course, Andrea didn't tell me what happened, but Clara did. I couldn't help but chuckle over it. Andrea didn't talk to me that whole week. I came to understand that Andrea and I would always be on a "beg to differ" friendship level…one in which if I said the sky was blue she would "beg to differ" and say it's pink, and she would always be in competition with me. But I never competed for Clara's friendship. Rather, Clara befriended me. She's the one who kept the friendship going, despite knowing that Andrea wasn't fond of me. And our interesting friendship gave us some memorable moments.

The summer after our freshman year was a hoot, or so I thought at the beginning. We thought we were invincible. The thing I had most in common with Clara and Andrea was our body shapes. Some folks thought we were all kin, with different complexions, of course. Yet we were just friends.

Not only did we have all the other cool elements of teen stuff in common, but the other girls also reassured me that my body was normal for a freshman girl. That summer, we birthed a whole new level of friendship as we spent more time together. Clara's house was a meeting place, open to anyone who wanted to come. Momma Jean was not fond of my new friends, mainly because they were not "church friends," but she trusted any word Clara's grandmother said. However, strict Momma Jean didn't know that Grandma Betsy was the most lenient guardian ever. That summer, my alibi consisted of hanging out at Grandma Betsy's house and acting as though we were inventing the next summa cum laude scholars in their basement. In reality, all we did was goof off, watch TV and, when we got bored, we would escape to the local mall a few blocks from Clara's house.

We thought we had it all figured out. Of course, Grandma Betsy never questioned Clara. That girl knew the right words to say to her busy grandma. She also knew that her granny was an education advocate, so every time we came over, Clara brought out some books from Grandma Betsy's home library. We all gathered around and acted fascinated with the books. Then we headed to the basement until Grandma B was gone for the day to a fundraiser, board meeting, shopping escapade, or whatever was her activity for the day. She always stayed gone all day. One could see how Clara could easily get lonely by herself in the big 5000-square-foot home.

Grandma B. must have known we were up to no good. But she must have been happy, knowing Clara had company, so she could do what she needed to do while Clara was occupied. Either way, it all worked out for the benefit of both sides.

My summer was off to a great start as I hung out at Clara's. Unlike her, we had basic cable. Momma refused to get anything more because she felt all my energy should be spent on books, not the tube. I loved being friends with Clara because her home was a mini vacation spot with wonderful plush amenities. I got closer to Clara over the summer because Andrea was not usually allowed to hang out with us. I guess Andrea's parents knew more than I did at that time.

At Clara's house, we would generally hear the garage door opening, then we would hear it close. Then we would peek through the blinds that faced the driveway. When we saw Grandma Betsy driving off into the street, we were free. We usually moseyed around the neighborhood, ate, swam, or watched TV. Momma was strict about me visiting other people's houses. But Grandma Betsy's involvement in the community, along with her age, made Momma think the older woman was strict. I wasn't going to be the one to break the bad news to her because I needed permission to hang out at Clara's as much as possible.

That summer, I was introduced to my first boyfriend. At least, I called him my boyfriend. Whenever Andrea came over, she spent hours on Clara's landline, gloating. Then she and Clara talked forever about the boys they considered boyfriends. At first, I thought it was just a fantasy.

Then one day, Andrea came over with a backpack. She was spending the night at Clara's, but that Friday afternoon she had plans for us. Obviously, Clara had been down this road with Andrea before, but this would be my first time so I had questions. The more I asked, the more agitated Andrea became. Then Clara whispered, "she's gotta come too, so you have to call them and let them know."

Andrea huffed as she glamorized herself in the bathroom. Then she slammed her straightening iron onto the counter and grabbed the phone. I was watching her, so she turned her back and lowered her voice. I couldn't catch what she said.

She hung up the phone and walked toward the hallway glancing at Clara. "Are you happy?"

Clara knew Andrea's personality and never seemed bothered by it. Instead of responding to her, Clara grabbed my hand and pulled me into her bedroom. She sat me on a stool facing the mirror of her vanity, and I watched her through that mirror. Then she opened her huge closet, one that held more clothes than I knew any one person could have. She rubbed her bottom lip, pausing as though in deep thought.

Moments later, she began to choose outfits and lay them on the bed. With that done, she undid my pony and proceeded to give me a makeover. She fluffed out my hair, sprayed it, and fluffed it some more. Clara then opened a fancy-looking box that looked like a mini toolbox. "Close your eyes."

I did, and then I felt some cold lotion on my face. She brushed something across my cheeks, eyelids, and browse. She slicked gloss on my lips and told me to rub them together. "Open your eyes."

I opened them slowly, fearing the unknown. I'd never before experienced such art.

"Oh, my gosh, Clara. I look different." I was surprised at how pretty I looked. I didn't look like myself.

"Do you like it?"

I loved it. Clara handed me an outfit to try on. While I was in her bathroom, Andrea came into her room and asked if we were ready. I heard her fussing at Clara for bringing me along, and I heard Clara standing up for me.

After I had the outfit on, I opened the door and startled Andrea. "Wow! Don't you look different!" she said sarcastically before stalking off.

Clara was all dressed up, and no one was telling me what was going on. Because I had just found out Andrea's true feelings about me tagging along, I decided not to ask but to go with the flow and act as if I was cool with everything. But I had no idea how much trouble we might get into in those pretty clothes.

Chapter Eighteen

Road trip 2014

By now we had just entered the great state of Arkansas.

"When are you going to tell me where we're going?" In my mind, I had a few guesses but I knew Arkansas wouldn't be one of the correct guesses. I just couldn't see Patti taking me to Arkansas. Though I must say, Arkansas is a hidden beauty, years ago, Brian and I visited Branson Missouri and we decided to go through Arkansas as a tour…we ended up in Bentonville Arkansas the home of "Wally world" or Wal-Mart as it's known. The ride in Arkansas was absolutely breathtaking. And yes! I would do it again.

"I know how much you love surprises," Patti said sarcastically.

"You know I hate them. I was just thinking. When did it hit home that you had a problem-I mean did you have a rock-bottom?" Supposedly from my rehab, everyone has a bottom…."

"I hit rock bottom after I'd been fighting it for a while. Poor Pierre was clueless. Early in my marriage, I used a lot different online chat rooms—"

"Like-on-line chat rooms?" Not what I was expecting to hear so I immediately stopped playing candy crush on my phone and listened in.

Patti continued to talk cautiously. "Yes. I had been chatting with a fellow named Dean, purely flirtation. He fed into my sex addiction. The more we chatted, the more I felt my flesh burning up, as though my urges were on the verge of an outburst—"

"So, there was an urge you couldn't control in other words?"

By this time my phone was in the cup holder and I had repositioned my body to face Patti mainly in the surprise of what she was saying.

Patti gave out a nervous laugh. "I had been trying to self-restrict myself, but without the power of the Holy Spirit in me, I eventually caved. One day, Dean decided we should meet up at a local hotel, and I agreed."

That was something I would have never imagined Patti being capable of. "You were not scared?" I would be deathly terrified to be that spontaneous after all the ID channel scares me enough.

"Well… I feared getting caught by Pierre. Now, mind you, Dean had been offering to pay for the event in the hotel room, and I repeatedly told him I wasn't going to take it. I was not going to become a prostitute." Patti was rubbing her right palm on her jeans all while trying to multitask the air vents as she continued to talk.

"Addiction is cruel. Now that I think about it, I was determined to meet up with Dean. Here I was, a married woman, and I didn't even think about how my husband would feel or what this would do to my marriage." Patti said with remorse.

"I am Shocked-Patti! Not shocked in a bad way, but shocked that you were actually in that predicament." I don't think a person that's not an addict can begin to fully understand how one thing can be so bad for you but you want it anyway despite the consequences.

"It gets worse," Patti said as she paused to sigh. "My flesh wanted what it wanted, when it wanted it, and that's why it's so dangerous to be held captive by your flesh."

I know that story line way too much. "Unbelievable..." I was speechless. In a sense, I kind of understand now why Patti is passionate about helping me. Only if she knew I am not against her help but more so afraid of my own will power… in a sense, I am afraid of failing again.

Patti was gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands at the 12 o'clock position if the steering wheel had a voice box it would tell her that she was choking it. "After I agreed to meet Dean, I arrived at this rinky-dink motel-no-tell out in the middle of nowhere. I texted Dean and he texted me with the room number. I walked up to the door, and right before I knocked, something told me to walk away and go home—not to do this. Patti stopped talking and shook her head. " This time I repressed that inner voice. I felt as though I was burning, so I went ahead and knocked."

"Oh-my-gosh." My eyes widened as I gasped for air…it felt like a very intense movie.

Patti's voice sounded somber. "Just the thought of it all makes me sick to my stomach, now that God opened my eyes to the truth. I think about all kinds of potential scenarios that didn't matter while I was bound."

"It does sound scary," I said.

"What if he was a serial killer? What if more than one man had been in that room that day? My goodness! I thank God for saving my life—"

"Honestly that could've been the case but I am glad it wasn't." I couldn't but help to hear what she'd been through…almost sounds unrealistic.

Patti sighed before continuing to talk. "Anyway, Dean opened the door, looking as dashing as he had in his on-line pictures. My pulse raced, but I thought it was because I was nervous. I walked in, and when Dean closed the door behind me, two men with police badges came out of the bathroom and arrested me for solicitation of sex—"

"Are you serious?" My heart was palpitating faster and faster at the sound of Patti's story.

"Yes—girl…this nightmare was the reason I could empathize with what you are going through. I didn't criticize you because I knew the shame and humiliation you must have felt." Patti said sorrowfully.

"Look at you today though. You rose above it!" That on its own gave my heart a glimpse of the "maybe" I too can beat this.

Patti glanced to her left of her window and drew her eyes straight forward. "In my case, even though I was bound and my brain was foggy, God was calling me. After I was booked in jail, I was allowed a phone call. I was two and a half hours from home." I was perplexed by what Patti was telling me. "Wow." Is all my mind could think to say. "Because of my shame and guilt, I couldn't call my husband. What was I going to say to him? I knew then that my marriage was over. I was scared, alone in a tiny jail cell, and I needed someone to bail me out." Patti took in a deep breath and released with her shoulders following the exhale. "All I could do was cry, and in the midst of crying I prayed, 'God, if you bail me out, I promise to change.' I didn't know what else to say. I had not prayed in a long time, and I had done so much wrong that I didn't believe God would respond to my prayer—"

"I almost sometimes feel like that…like I am this dirty—filthy rag and God might not want to be bothered by me—"

"That's not true—Nandi. The devil wants you to believe that…when I was in that jail cell From time to time the officers checked in to see if I was ready to make my phone call. But I still couldn't think of a soul to call. Then God decided for me. While I paced my jail cell, I suddenly reached into the back pocket of my jeans. It was so automatic, it had to be God."

I started to adjust my seat belt because for some reason or the other it felt as though it was gripping across my chest too tight. I am amazed at how convenient God can be to Patti. Though I feel left out in the shadows of a so quote and quote addictions by this God Patti boasts of, I often wonder where this God is? I wonder if I too can freely talk of Him like Patti joyfully does some day….

Patti continued to talk with excitement. " I pulled out a business card my co-worker had given me—the pastor's card. Mind you, I hadn't been to his church yet. I kept putting off my co-worker every time she invited Pierre and me. Now, out of desperation and hope, I hollered that I was ready to make my call. If nothing else, I wanted the pastor to pray for me and give me sound advice.

"You were not nervous at all? I know I would have been terrified to call a stranger…."

Patti threw out her nervous laugh. The same nervous laugh I remembered from college when I first met her. "No, I wasn't—especially at that time…I tell you—what? Desperation can make you do bold things, my friend." Laughter filled the air.

"Ok−ok−ok…then what happened after you dialed the number?" Patti knew better than to leave me hanging.

"Once I was in the phone room, I dialed that phone faster than I ever had in my life. I didn't have much confidence that anyone would be home since it was Friday night, but the phone rang three times, and then an angelic voice answered. my heart started to race a little faster, I simply asked for the pastor—"

"Look at you! Aren't you the bold one."

Patti chuckled. "The lady asked my name, probably because she could tell I was crying. When I told her, she got excited, as though she knew me and had been expecting my call. She asked where I was and if I was okay, and her warm concern reminded me of my mother. That made me cry even harder, because I knew how disappointed Mom would be if she knew where I was."

"Aww. Patti."

Patti shrugged. "It's ok—really…the officers hollered that I had one minute left. The lady told me she was the pastor's wife and asked me again where I was. I told her and she said she would see me in a couple of hours. The officer came back in the room as Lady Loretta said, 'Keep praying, child. God is a healer. I'll see you soon.'"

"I think that was really sweet of her—"

"Yes, it was…I waited for her in that cold, dingy cell for what felt like an eternity. I had never been in jail before. As I sat there, I started to feel convicted. I realized that my flesh was in captivity as well. I felt cold, lonely, sad, and filthy. I thought about these things and said a little prayer here and there like Lady Loretta advised."

"Did you really believe that she was going to come?"

"The funny thing is I believed it in my heart but soon the quiet of the hallway was gone, as other prisoners were booked into their cells after nightfall. All sorts of people became my cellmates, from the drunken belligerent to those high on some kind of substance to prostitutes. Then I started to second guess my belief in my heart—because after all…why would a stranger even try to rescue me?"

It feels like we've been in this car for a very long time…my head hurts most likely from that dingy cigarette smell or maybe my headache is from an accumulation of dingy cigarette smoke, crying and a very boring non-scenic route…the only one that seemed to be enjoying this emotional ride was Patti.

Patti's voice lowered. "Then the truth hit me. What was I doing there? I didn't belong there. The thought weakened me. No one likes to look truth in the face. I, of all people, wasn't ready to face it. But because God revealed it to me in that moment, I knew I needed to change. I did not deserve to be confined like this—so I thought."

Like momma, I always wondered if people feel a tangible God or is it more so like a warm and fuzzy feeling on the inside when they "feel convicted." "What exactly did you feel? You mention God a lot but I know I don't have that kind of relationship with this God—"

Patti grew a big smile…the kind of smile folks draw up after you ask them to talk about their children. "Funny you ask Nandi. I didn't think I had a relationship with God either at that time but telling you of my story today as a person with a relationship with God I know it was God then." Patti's big smile persisted while continuing to talk.

"I never thought I was better than anyone else, but I knew jail wasn't for me. My life was both sad and happy as I fought a monster no one else could understand. How could I have had such lack of control over this stronghold?"

"Sounds all too familiar," I added.

"While I wailed in my thoughts, I heard the keys of freedom jingling as an officer came down the hallway. Then I heard my cell door being unlocked. I lifted my head to look toward the door. The officer said, 'Someone posted your bail. You're free to leave.'"

"Oh wow!"

"Yes— I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Half the battle was seemingly behind me, but I still had a court date. So, either way, whether I liked it or not, Pierre was going to find out. I signed my paperwork and received my personal possessions, and the officer escorted me to the freedom door. In the lobby, Lady Loretta and Pastor Barrows greeted me warmly."

"I literally can't believe that they came!" I should say I am thoroughly impressed…they must be some old-school saints like momma and they grew up with…those saints were truly devoted, committed and genuine in the cause.

"I know—right. My sense of freedom was amazing. In time, when I was delivered from my addiction, I felt that same freedom, a thousand-fold, magnified by the power of God. Lady Loretta and Pastor Barrows took me back to the hotel, where I retrieved my vehicle, and then they treated me to dinner."

"All in one night?" I asked. A small delighted smile grew on Patti's face. "Yes, all in one night. After my rough ordeal, I was so hungry and felt so indebted to them that I agreed to a meal with them. We drove back to the city."

Of a sudden, the clouds in the sky seemed to become darker and darker as though we were driving into a fierce wall of the Nimbostratus clouds in which I really didn't care for in that moment. All I knew to look out for during these summer storms was Emerald green clouds and or funnel clouds…momma always said those where the Tornado clouds.

Patti leaned toward the steering wheel and looked up into the sky and continued to talk as if everything was fine. "When we made it to the restaurant ninety minutes felt like eternity…they of course, had genuine concern and questions of my life and for the first time I couldn't help it but to finally open up to someone about some of my life and all that was hidden in my heart which felt really good." Patti paused and shook her head lightly from side to side. " I offered to pay back the bail money, but they wouldn't accept it. I ended up donating to the church that Sunday instead. They invited me to service on Sunday, and Pierre and I went. Afterward, they met with Pierre and me and helped me tell him all about the situation. My salvation stemmed from that conversation." Patti sighed.

"I don't even know what to say Patti except for the fact that I would have never guessed that your life was like that…." It's crazy how this revelation of Patti gives me a whole new perspective.

"I know it's not your typical road-to-Damascus transformation, but it's what led me to seek this Christ everyone talked about," Patti said.

I was stumped. "I had no idea this had happened to you."

"It's a part of my past I choose never to reminisce about," Patti said calmly turning the air vent towards her.

"I always thought you and Pierre had life all figured out and didn't have any struggles."

"Nope! We're as human as the next couple. The only difference in our lives now is the power of the Holy Spirit that resides in us and the fact that God is our first love."

"How long did it take for the urges to go away after you started attending church?"

"You see, God is not a God of instant results, rather of long-lasting results. Even though I had started my walk with God and attended church, Bible study groups, and women's meetings, the enemy didn't stop attacking my flesh. Instead, he increased the heat. The more I prayed, the more the enemy attacked, wanting me to believe everything would be better if I went back to my old ways."

"In my mind when I hear people talk about their 'redemption' or 'coming to Jesus' moment I almost think that they have experienced something tangible."

"Not so quite-Nandi. I wish it were that easy but it's not tangible. It was a crucial battle for my life. Lady Loretta helped immensely, interceding and praying for me. I know the effectual, fervent prayers of the saints helped me through my addiction. But to say I was delivered overnight would be a lie." Patti chuckled while turning up the air. "After I accepted Jesus as my Lord and personal Savior, God started to work slowly with me, starting with my mind. He transformed my thoughts, my actions, and my ways. Months after I surrendered my life to God, I was baptized, and after that, my life completely changed—"

"Changed as in?"

Of a sudden Patti's voice was high in excitement. "I felt the power within me unlike any other. It took me a couple of years to be delivered completely from my addiction. But after my baptism, I walked in salvation and in truth. The power within me lit me up every time I talked about God. But the enemy still fought day and night, trying to pull me back into my addiction." The once excited tone started to fade out as Patti's voice cracked. She stopped talking as though trying to fight the emotions that lay dominant in her heart and instead reached for her water bottle which she took a big swig of before continuing to talk. " First Lady Loretta had already started working with me, helping me to overcome. I knew that even in my darkest moments as a baby Christian, I had to stay connected to God and the church—no matter what," Patti said.

Chapter Nineteen

24 Years Earlier at Clara's house

After my makeover, I felt pretty and confident. It's funny how a few dabs of makeup and a different hairstyle can make a girl look utterly different. I was amazed at the glam on my face. At the time, I wondered if that was the reason Momma Jean never wanted me to wear makeup.

I headed down to Clara's basement and let the two longtime best friends figure out whatever it was they were trying to figure out. The minute I sat on the couch, I heard a car honking. Clara and Andrea came running down the stairs, giddy looks on their faces.

"C'mon, let's go," Clara said, grabbing my hand.

I wanted to blend in so Andrea wouldn't question my tagging along, so I went with them. Outside, we saw a super cool-looking car. My heart raced faster than ever before, not only because I didn't know what was going on, but also because I didn't know the people in the car. Momma Jean had warned me umpteen times about getting into cars with strangers, and I froze in place. Having fun girl times at Clara's home was one thing. Leaving the premises was another because Clara's grandmother didn't know we were going out with boys. She would not approve.

My mind raced a million miles per second. A barrage of "what-if" scenarios swarmed my mind worse than bees to a honeycomb. And amid my chaotic thoughts, Clara and Andrea ran toward the car and zipped over to the driver's side, where the window was rolled down low. Andrea stuck her head in the car, and somehow, I knew she was talking about me. If looks could kill, I would have been struck down dead that day.

At the sound of Clara's voice, I snapped back to reality. By the time I looked in Clara's direction, she was calling me over to the backseat, where she sat with the door open. I picked my way toward the car, wanting to go but not wanting to get caught. I paused and glanced back toward the house. Clara reassured me that it was okay.

By this time, Andrea had already positioned herself in the front passenger seat. All I could hear from the two in the front were some snide giggles, which pushed me to act brave. I took in a deep breath and stepped into the car and closed the door.

The driver turned and glared at me. "It's not shut tight."

Of course, Andrea had to laugh at me as if I didn't know what I was doing.

Her sarcastic laughter made me mad. I flung open the door and banged it shut again. I can't lie—I had a bit of an attitude toward Andrea. I had never cared for people who put me in the spotlight or laughed at me or made me the butt of a joke. When they did, old, repressed memories of being called stupid and dumb by Lois West always resurfaced.

Clara could tell I was upset. She sat in the middle of the backseat. To her left reclined another boy I had never seen before. Clara placed her arm around my neck, reached toward my ear, and whispered, "She's not worth your angry energy."

And Clara was right! After she said that to me, I became less tense. I gazed outside the window and felt much better. Clara was what I considered a true friend. But how was I to know if she was a loyal friend or not? At that age, I had never had a true friend.

We drove around the neighborhood, and I'm not going to lie—it was fun to be seen in a luxury car. I'd never been in an Audi before. It must have been the boy's mother's car because the license plates read MRS RN. We left the neighborhood and pulled onto the highway, windows down and the stereo blasting so loud, we couldn't hear our own voices singing to the music.

We soon arrived at what I thought was our destination: a big mall that high school kids frequented. We thought we were cool when the Audi pulled up in the parking lot where most of the teens were. We got out, Andrea and James who was the driver heading in the other direction and Clara and Marcello going another.

And I was left behind—the third wheel.

I should have gone home when Andrea made a fuss about me tagging along. For ten minutes, I sat alone in the car with the windows down, then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I didn't recognize the boy, but he was trying to talk to me. I couldn't hear him over the sound of the stereo, so I hopped out of the car.

When we were a couple of feet away from the car, he said, "My name is Steven but you can call me Steve. What's yours?"

Who was this dashing boy? I looked behind me at Clara, and she waved and smiled.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" I said. Steve laughed hard before explaining himself. "Clara must have forgotten to tell you I was coming. I'm Marcello's friend."

He must have realized he'd lost me right at the start of his sentence. I had no idea a third boy was coming to our gathering. I was surprised that Clara pulled a fast one on me.

Steve invited me to his car, and that scared me. My bag of "what if" scenarios came flying open in my mind once again. I had no idea who this boy was, so why did he think I would go and sit with him in his car? "I don't feel comfortable with that. Let's hang out here instead."

"Don't say no until you've seen the car."

When I agreed to look at it, his face lit up like a Fourth of July sky. He led me toward his car, and I followed. It was parked right next to the Audi, so I felt a little safer. When he leaned against his driver's seat door and started to talk about himself, I heard most of what he said, but I was more intrigued by his car than by him. It looked like a model from Knight Rider, except it was red and it didn't talk.

The boy talked enough to make up for it.

He was a senior at the rival high school. I found out all the sports he played and the college he planned to attend. He even told me what his parents did for a living and where he worked part time. This boy did not leave a stone unturned, talking about his life.

He asked little of me and I was glad because I was shy and didn't know what to say to him. This was the first boy I had ever come face to face with, and it was awkward for me. The rest of the boys in my life had come only as close to me as my daydreams.

The few minutes we spent outside Steve's car felt like an eternity, until my moment of bliss was interrupted by Andrea's nagging voice, insisting we head back home. As shy as I was toward Steve, I wasn't ready to end this real-life dream. He smelled so good and was so tall and handsome, I could have listened to him talk about himself for the rest of my life.

"Let's go!" Andrea hollered.

I grimaced. That voice irked me.

I said goodbye to Steve. At least I'd had a chance to be in the presence of a handsomely dashing senior.

Steve touched my arm, stopping me. "You're so pretty—I'd like to take you out sometime. Can I have your number?"

Did he want my number? I panicked, trying to stay cool. No way could I give it to him. I might have made him think I was cool, but Momma Jean was not cool. If Steve called me, she would douse me in holy oil and torture me with Bible verses for the rest of my life. But Steve was so cute and had such a cool car. He thought I was pretty and wanted to take me out. . . .

My brain felt as though it was crushing from information overload.

Then Clara brought me out of my thoughts, handing him a scrap of paper. "Here it is."

This couldn't be happening.

Then I remembered that Momma Jean came home late during the summer. I felt safe for the moment, but I knew this newfound eye-delight couldn't last beyond summer.

After our ride dropped us back at Clara's house, we couldn't help but huddle up in her room and talk about the boys. Marcello was Clara's boyfriend, she claimed, and James was Andrea's. Apparently, Steve was Marcello and James's friend. He had just gotten off work and had driven to the mall. Life makes more sense when we have clarification.

What an unusual day it had been. I wore makeup for the first time, met a boy who was cute and real, took a spontaneous drive through the neighborhood—and I enjoyed every part of it! I was ready to do it again. With Momma getting off work late, we stayed up late, giggling and talking. We got so carried away that I forgot to wash off my makeup.

When the doorbell rang, we were all delirious from exhaustion. I knew it was Momma Jean at the door, so I grabbed all my belongings and headed out.

After a good ten minutes of silence, which made me think she knew all I'd done that day and almost made me confess, she said, "What's that on your face?"

I had forgotten all about the makeup being on my face, so I automatically answered, "Nothing." It was an honest mistake, but she thought I'd lied to her.

After riding the rest of the way home in silence, we went in the house, and Momma headed for her room. She came out with a face mirror and pointed it at me. "Nandi Jean, look at your face. What's that on it?"

When I looked in the mirror, a heavy knot formed in my stomach. There was no undoing this chapter of my life. "It's fun makeup. We were just playing around, Momma."

I could hardly muster out the lies. I deserved what was coming to me.

She yelled, paced the floor, and shook her head in disbelief. She prayed and prayed for me and she tried to wipe off my makeup with a wet towel.

"Momma, we were just playing." That is all that would come out of my mouth.

Momma Jean shook her head in disappointment. "I told you I didn't care for your unchurched friends."

After she cleared all the makeup from my face, she banned me from hanging out with Clara and Andrea for the rest of the summer.

I was devastated. How could Momma act that way over a little makeup? I didn't see the big deal. I'd seen women in church with makeup before, so why did she think it was evil? Or did she think it was evil? I wasn't sure why she despised makeup, and I was taken back by her punishment.

That summer, my perspective on most things changed drastically. I think it all had something to do with the fact that I had crossed over the threshold of honesty with Momma. Now, for survival reasons, I had to say whatever she wanted to hear. And I did, if it benefited me. I called them white lies—bending the truth slightly.

I never thought I'd be one of those kids, but Momma gave me no option.

Chapter Twenty

Road Trip 2014

The further away from St Louis we got the more I wanted to be back home…it's one thing anticipating a road trip knowing where you are going and it's another thing being on a road trip and not knowing where you are headed.

"What is your deepest, darkest secret?" Patti asked.

If I blurted out Brianna to her then I know she would have a follow-up question that my emotions are not even ready to think off and let alone speak of...

"I'd have to think about that. What about you?" I tried to digress.

"I can't say I don't have any, but I don't want to talk about them today." Patti tried hard to contain her laughter.

"But you want to ask me about my secrets?"

We simultaneously burst out into laughter.

"Tell me something Patti…how is your relationship with your father lately?"

Patti gripped the steering wheel a little tighter before speaking. "It could be better. It's not that I don't love him. I do." Patti paused and sighed before continuing. "I don't know if he will ever change. Not a day goes by that I don't pray for him to change his lifestyle. My poor mother still hangs in there, strong as ever. I used to think they stayed together because of me, but when I went away to college and they continued their marriage situation, I knew my mother loves my father. What's crazy is that I often ask God why He is taking forever to answer my prayers for my dad."

"Miss Holy and Sanctified is losing faith?"

"I didn't say that. It's natural to have questions." Patti said defensively.

I have often wondered what devout Christians do or if they do anything when they feel like their prayers are not being answered. "What if he doesn't change?"

"He will. Even though I have a million and one questions about him, I know God will turn him around." Patti always reminded me of momma's faith. Momma just knew without a doubt…nothing could sway her any other way in her belief.

"This is random, when are you and Pierre going to multiply in family?"

Patti cackled with laughter as though I'd said a joke. "Whenever God decides to bless us. I'm psyched about being a mother for my husband's children. Every now and then, I think of what their names will be and how we will raise them."

"'Them'—as in multiple children?"

"A few dozen." Patti laughed.

"What are you all trying to do? Start a reality show?"

Patti shrugged her shoulders. "We might! But seriously, we wouldn't mind three or four children, because Pierre and I know how it feels to grow up wishing for siblings."

"I did too."

"That's right. You too. What about you and Bri—" Patti caught herself and looked at me in remorse. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay. . . ." By now I know that people may have forgotten or some people might not know of the miscarriage. It used to bother me before until Brian helped me understand people mean no harm or mockery by asking such a question.

The car filled with an excruciating, awkward silence.

"Wow, look at the sunflower, blossoming in the wild. . . ." Patti's obvious attempt at changing the subject made the tense situation even worse.

"It's fine. It's just that . . ." I don't even know where to begin even if I was to begin to tell her.

Patti's tone grew concerned. "What is it? Talk to me."

"Well, as you said, it's natural to have questions for God. For the longest time, I questioned God about my miscarriage."

"I would have had the same questions if it had been me," Patti said with compassion.

"Did I do something wrong, something that made me undeserving of a child? I had to crack the window a bit to get fresh air and clear my mind of the memory of pregnancy.

"Brian truly loves you. You have a good husband."

It's not what I want to hear right now—but she does have a point. "I know he does, and I don't know how he can be so patient with me. Some wives are not sleeping right now because they don't know where their husbands are or who they're with." My chest felt full of emotion just by realizing in my sober mind how good my husband is—his goodness is something I feel I have neglected to recognize and that stinger pierces deep into my heart. Some women are stuck in an unhappy marriage, some are being abused. Yet I have a husband who not only loves me but tries to keep me happy. He tried his best to help me through the miscarriage ordeal, but his words couldn't cement to my internal pain. Every now and then, I feel her feet pressing against my belly button. I know that sounds crazy, but I feel it. All I ever dreamed of was being a mother. It's funny how life happens. Sixteen weeks into my pregnancy, I was the happiest woman alive. Then, in the blink of an eye, my happiness turned to sorrow. I knew that morning when I awoke that something didn't feel right. Again. It was a strong gut feeling like no other, but I went into denial. I minded my business all day until Brian got home late that afternoon. The craziest thing was that baby was drawn to her father's touch. From the moment I first felt her little kick, she responded to Brian's hand on my belly as if she knew he was her father. They had a connection. When Brian got home and talked to Brianna and rubbed my stomach as he always did, I tried to convince myself that she was just tired. Or maybe she was mad at Daddy since he had been away on a business trip the last couple of days. He asked if she'd been kicking that day. Then the stone-cold, gut-wrenching truth hit me in the face. I hesitated to answer because I wasn't sure if her inactivity was my imagination or if I was losing it. Honesty is a cruel thing to face in the moments of disappointment. I remember shaking my head, and the next thing I knew, he grabbed his keys, my purse, and our insurance cards. Then he grabbed me. He didn't even give me time to change from my maternity pajamas. In the car, I started to feel faint. I rubbed my belly profusely and talked to Brianna, telling her everything was okay, that we loved her, that we would take care of her.

When we walked into the emergency room and the nurses came out with a gurney and whisked me off to the back, I knew. No one was saying anything to me. I demanded answers and all I kept hearing was, "we need you to relax." How can anybody relax while someone's sticking big IV needles in their arm? One nurse was pumping up a blood pressure cuff on my arm, and then someone dashed into the room with a portable ultrasound machine. All he said was that he was doing a routine ultrasound. I said, "Yeah, right." Brian paced in the background. When the sonographer was done, he packed up his machine and headed for the door, speaking not a word to me. But Brian wouldn't let him out. He went back and forth with him. The sonographer insisted he couldn't release results, but he did assure Brian that our physician would come in to talk to us soon. I could hear my husband praying under his breath. Then I started to feel faint and weak, and I blacked out. When I woke up, Brian was by my side. I felt as though something was wrong. I rubbed my belly and….

"Patti, please pull over." I couldn't get my door open quick enough… I had to prop my feet out on the ground to connect with the earth as I breathed in some fresh air.

Reliving my memory, I felt sick because I could smell the hospital's foul odor of sadness when the doctor dished me out a cold plate of sorrow. The thought made my stomach drop, my pulse race, and my hand's sweat. My throat tightened as though I was in a chokehold, fighting for breath.

"Nandi, are you okay?" Patti grabbed an empty fast-food bag from the backseat. "You're hyperventilating. Breathe in and out of the bag."

I could feel my chest heaving, I could hear Patti's voice, but I couldn't speak. My airway seemed constricted. I could feel the soft wind from the speeding vehicles on the highway, and my heart felt as though it was getting ready to jump out of my chest. If this is how it feels to die, then I don't want to feel it.

"Father, I pray you touch Nandi right now, in the name of Jesus. Give her strength to fight through this. Touch her mind and her heart, and let her say yes to You, God. Please give her total salvation and deliverance from this bond. Free her mind from past hurts—"

"Patti! You can let go of me now."

"You scared the living daylights out of me. One minute, you were sitting at the edge of the seat with your feet outside touching the ground, and the next minute you started to hyperventilate and slide down." Patti helped me stand up. "I pulled over in a dangerous spot. Let's go and grab a bite at the next restaurant we see. Do you need help getting in?" Patti said while holding my car door open.

Feeling weak and nauseated I could barely speak. "No, but food sounds good. I'm getting hungry."

All my energy had been sucked right out of me. I knew I had a hard time thinking about Brianna, but I had no idea it would hit me this hard.

At the restaurant ten minutes later, we ordered sandwiches and my mind wandered back to the time that Dr. Ochoa walked into my room, our eyes met from the doorway. She said I had an early pregnancy failure. That's a nice term for a miscarriage. I saw tears in her eyes, but I knew her profession didn't allow her to grieve with me. She knew the joy of motherhood—she has birthed seven children and, together with her husband, she has nurtured and raised all seven to the best of her ability. When she came in, Brian was turned toward the window. He was in mourning too, but he wouldn't allow me to see him in his most vulnerable moment because he knew one of us had to be strong. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel anything. My heart wouldn't allow me to feel. All my feelings left me at my moment of denial, when Brianna was still in my womb and I didn't feel her kicking. Every word Dr. Ochoa said was slow and distorted. I looked at her dead in the eyes, my mind struggling to process her words. I was still drugged up so I didn't know whether this was a nightmare or reality. All I knew was that they could have left Brianna in my womb, and I would have been perfectly fine, knowing my child was still with me. I often wonder which one of us she would have grown up to look like. Either way, I know she would have been a beautiful, spirited person. While Brian fixated on baby books, I researched the best private schools and dance studios because I thought I had it all figured out for my little Bree. When we found out she was a girl, I went into full mom mode. I wanted her to learn to ride a horse and play piano or violin. . . .

Chapter Twenty-one

Twenty-Three Years Earlier

Steve and I had survived hanging out with each other for some time. I couldn't tell you that I was in love because love was an unfamiliar language for me. I liked talking to Steve but I can't say I was all in at that time. Rather, I kept it going because Clara and Andrea kept it going with their boyfriends. I didn't know what a boyfriend was. I kept Steve within proximity just to say I had a boyfriend. I didn't want to be the only one at lunch not talking about a boyfriend, so Steve was a good prop.

The hardest thing was keeping Steve a secret from Momma. I'm surprised we went undetected all those months. Lord knows how many times I wanted to tell Momma about Steve. But every time she talked about one of her friends' daughters talking to boys, she said the girl was fast. Momma did not believe in dating. She believed young people should court and then get married. And courting should always happen after people got settled in their careers.

Before I met Clara and Andrea, I thought that was the Christian way and that it would get me to heaven. Small wonder that I thought I was abnormal for having feelings for the opposite sex.

I never thought I would keep secrets from Momma or lie to her. And every Sunday, our pulpit-stomping, hell-preaching preacher reminded us that we would burn in hell because of the lies of our mouths. But he had told the biggest lie of all times. It was a shock to me to learn at age sixteen that his cloth was not so holy after all. Would he be exempt from the burning process of hell? Surely not.

It had been a year since the malicious scandal broke loose in our church and ripped the congregation apart. I was still trying to comprehend the reality of the truth. Unlike some, I thought the preacher was being framed. But Momma and I ran into him at the mall with his very-pregnant current wife, also known as his former mistress. It was an awkward moment. Momma Jean gave me some change and told me to go to the candy machines.

Little did she know that the candy machines were within my line of sight. I inquisitively watched their conversation. I knew my Momma's gestures when she was mad, and all I could see were hands flying all over the place and head bobbing. How I wished I was a fly on Momma's collar so I could hear the conversation. It abruptly ended when the former hell-preaching preacher grabbed his now-wife's hand and stalked away from Momma.

Momma turned around as though looking for me, so I averted my face and acted as though I was window shopping. The ride home was the quietest ride I'd had in a long time.

Momma didn't speak all the way home. That was a first. When we got home from the mall, she went to her room, and all I could hear was her praying. She hollered at the top of her lungs and wailed in prayer. I tiptoed toward her door and pressed my ear to it because I was concerned. I had heard Momma before, hollering in prayer, but this seemed different. I couldn't make out all the words through her cries, so I went back to my room to finally mind my own business.

After the prayer, Momma seemed normal again. She made dinner and we talked. I often wondered what the truth was behind the scandal. Sure, I'd come face to face with the truth in the mall, but I wondered if some of the rumors swirling among the saints were true. If anyone had the latest news, it would be the church folk. The paparazzi had nothing on the saints.

Supposedly, after the hell-preaching preacher impregnated the young church member, the board voted him out of his position. I heard that was not why the church split in half like a tattered piece of fabric. The split occurred because the hell-preaching preacher was going to divorce his wife of over thirty years and was going to marry the impregnated young church member. The board and all voting members wanted the preacher to stay married to his wife and end the affair. When he refused, the church was left with no option but to remove him from his position.

Half of the church members stayed, and the other half left, hurt and disappointed. Momma and I stayed because Momma had sentimental attachment issues. We'd joined the church at its start, and she had invested her talents in raising up some of its ministries. She had built a great reputation and had bonded with the pastor, his wife, and their family. The church was the only family Momma and I had. Because of that, she was determined not to leave but insisted that the devil had gotten a hold of the preacher. The church needed to pray, she said.

Everybody there was in emotional turmoil because he had founded the church. Most the members were charter members like Momma.

As for me, the effects of his action included the loss of great friendships. That hurt me because, at such a young age, I was in a battle I never signed up for. This left me in a deep quandary of faith. If a preacher can stumble, then what about a person like me?

Other than that, my eyes were wide open. The church I thought was so perfect was flawed and filled with imperfection. This led me to wonder if the rest of our beliefs, such as courting after establishing oneself in a career, were also perfect imperfection filled with untrue realities. I wondered if the adults just made that up to discourage what would follow if teens dated early. Then temptation would be imminent and things such as pregnancies and all other supposed sins would be on the horizon.

Would it have been better for Momma to tell me to wait to court until I was older so I would not fall short? Or was career-courting a true Christian mandate? After the church split, I had all kinds of questions. Either way, I was being awakened to more realities. The perfect and pristine world Momma had worked so hard to maintain in my mind was crumbling down, and no one could reshape it. Not Momma, not the hell-preaching preacher, and certainly not me. Momma didn't want me to realize this yet, but the church was flawed, its people were flawed, the preacher was flawed, and guess what? I must have been flawed too. Talk about a rude awakening.

Our church was never the same after they voted the hell-preaching preacher out of his position. He married the impregnated woman and he resigned from preaching. I didn't even know a preacher could do that until I heard the rumor mill speaking of it. I always thought that once a preacher, you will always be a preacher. But his abdication from the title surely meant he was done.

I wondered if he felt guilty for what he did. Then I realized that remorse was as far from his heart as the east is to the west. He proved that himself by not apologizing to the congregation.

The church tried a few preachers, but you could still feel the thick cloud of tension within the church. After the hell-preaching preacher packed and left without a trace, we could all feel the competition among the remaining church members who prided themselves as candidates. These church-members-turned-candidates felt they were called to lead the church. This stirred the whirlpool of tension deeper while we waited for a full-time preacher.

Those who acted as interim pastors found themselves in battle with those who wanted the position full-time. By the time the church hired their first permanent pastor, the tension was so thick among the members that you could cut it with a pair of scissors. It was strongest among the leaders who held interim positions and the new pastor. Those ferocious interim wanna-be-full-time-preachers of the church managed to chase away the new pastor before the ink dried on his contract. After that, several more came.

The longevity declined with each hired pastor, which led me to question the position even further. Even if I was grown and lived per God's highest standards and held all possible credentials for the position, I wouldn't have wanted it on a silver platter.

But who was I to say? I think the members of the church were so hurt that, rather than letting another stranger into their pain, they wanted to try to fix the hurt by promoting one of their own. I wouldn't want to be responsible for a broken church, at least not our church at that time.

I never heard Momma talk about the drama at the church. Rather, during all the drama and position ego, Momma was more isolated. She stopped hosting Bible studies at home. Instead, she read more of her Bible by herself, and I saw her in prayer more than ever. Amazingly, the hell-preaching preacher's former wife continued to attend the church with her family.

The church later merged with one of the local megachurches in town as a solution to the leadership issues. It was awkward at first, attending such a big church, but Momma and I adjusted better than some of the remaining members. With this transition, our old church lost yet another batch of members, because they wanted to remain a small and quaint church. Momma thought it was a healthy merger because the church was struggling financially, barely keeping the doors open after the first loss of membership. She said that if the church continued without solid leadership, more members would leave, which could cause the church to close for good.

Steve was my current voice of sanity during the madness of church and school. The church drama was no excuse for my behavior, but it was the cause of my way of thinking. Sometimes, when Momma had to work late, I let Steve pick me up, knowing very well that I was never to have company at the house or leave home after I got in from school. But all care was now on the side bench. This was Nandi's time. Even with that, all Steve and I did was ride around the neighborhood. Sometimes we went to the park and walked and talked about life. Other days we grabbed some food from the cheapest fast-food chain in the neighborhood and just sat in the parking lot to eat and talk without a care in the world. Then I headed home, threw on clean pajamas, and acted as though I had been home the whole day.

Before that time in my life, I absolutely, positively couldn't lie to Momma, no matter the circumstance. The words of the hell-preaching preacher had been dented in my memory. However, at the awakening of the scandal, I lost a piece of myself—the piece that knew the difference between a lie and the truth. After all, he had been living one big lie, so what was the truth anymore? Was there truth? The truth tunnel in my mind slowly deteriorated.

I had held an excruciating, horrible secret from that day when I was thirteen years old. So, in a sense, I was holding a lie in my heart. Or was it not a lie since, although the events happened, Momma never asked me about it and I never told her? Whatever the case, I felt as though it was a lie.

When Momma made it home, she always checked on me before she went about her business. If I was up, I said I'd had a great day and was doing my homework all evening. The more I got away with it, the more it escalated. When Momma's work schedule changed, I had to devise a plan to spend time with Steve.

I was about to do the scariest and most drastic thing I had ever done. Of course, I thanked Andrea and Clara for being the source of the idea.

Chapter Twenty-two

Road Trip 2014 Memphis, Tennessee

We arrived into Memphis late and I was exhausted for some reason or the other that all I wanted to do was sleep.

The Morning light rose high and the morning breath filled the atmosphere…it was another day I found myself grateful just to wake up…yet not fully remembering my dreams and or if I even had a dream.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Patti asked. "Any withdrawal symptoms? Shaking, weakness, or nausea?"

"You really think I'm a full-blown alcoholic, don't you?" Am I an alcoholic or not? I didn't have anything to drink so far and I feel fine so I don't understand why people feel as though I am this drunk slob.

Patti laid her magazine on her lap and sat upright with her back leaning on the headboard. "That's not what I said. I'm merely using my experience to navigate myself through your recovery."

"I'm fine." I was rather annoyed.

Patti flung her covers and moved her legs and planted her feet on the ground. "Great! They serve breakfast until ten, so I'll meet you downstairs after you take a shower."

Downstairs in the hotel restaurant thirty minutes later, I looked at my watch patiently waiting for Nandi. Nine forty-five. C'mon, Nandi. I had to flag down a waiter and order an omelet and dry toast to go for Nandi. She'd barely touched her dinner the night before so I was really hoping she would have an appetite this morning.

When the waiter brought the to-go bag, I headed back to the room I was sharing with Nandi. That girl had better be showered and dressed because we need to go over the day's plans.

I inserted the key card in the door and crossed the threshold only to find Nandi still underneath the covers.

"Nandi!" I shook her aggressively. "I thought you were getting ready to meet me for breakfast when I left the room?"

"I was. . . ." Nandi mumbled.

"What?" I leaned closer to Nandi's muffled voice from behind the covers to hear her closely.

"I said I was! Leave me alone." Nandi scowled.

I knew something wasn't right. I flipped off Nandi's covers and of a sudden I was hit with a familiar stench. "Have you been drinking?"

Nandi snatched back the covers and pulled them over her head. "Go away!"

"Oh, my gosh, Nandi! I smell alcohol on your breath." I dropped to my knees to look underneath the bed. Finding nothing, I went into the closet and pulled out Nandi's bags.

Hearing the commotion Nandi peeked from underneath her covers. Nandi must have heard me going through her belongings, she jumped out of bed and stormed toward me. "What do you think you're doing?" Nandi shouted as she aggressively snatched the bag out of my hand.

My grip was stronger than that of a drunken Nandi, who could barely stand.

"Nandi! Let go of the bag!" I became quickly annoyed at her effort and I felt my chest heaving and my breathing became loud and deep. I usually got this way when my temper trigger had been ignited and it had been a very long time since I felt this way…I snatched the bag from Nandi's weak grip and dumped its contents on the bed.

"What are you looking for?" Nandi screamed.

"Back off, Nandi." I sifted through the belongings all while trying to shield Nandi from my way which made me feel as though I was playing professional defense for the National Women's Basketball Association.

" Have you lost your mind—Patti?" Nandi could barely hold herself up as she slurred her words.

I found what I was looking for and I held it up and it was an empty bottle of vodka. "You promised me!" I felt my skin boiling from within my body.

"I didn't promise you anything." Nandi hiccupped after her slurred speech.

"Where did you get this?" I was beyond furious. If anger had a barometer mine would have been way over the normal reading.

Unfazed by my anger, Nandi stumbled back toward her bed and crawled under the covers. "I got it from—" Nandi paused to belch and then laughed. "—the store."

"You think this is a joke? Do you think this is for me or Brian?" I was very upset.

"No . . . and I don't care anymore."

The last time I felt this angry was in college and Nandi had just unleashed an emotion I did not care to surface and I was afraid the next thing to come out of my mouth would bother her emotionally because I really didn't have anything nice to say. "One minute you say you want to change, and the next minute you binge on a big bottle of liquor. What do you want me to do? I'm getting tired of trying to help you if you don't want the help." My voice started to crack, I had to gasp for air, wiping my nose I continued to talk. "Don't you see that you are way more than this thing?"

Nandi shrugged carelessly underneath the covers. "Maybe I'm meant to die like this."

Overwhelmed with pain and anger, I had to leave so I grabbed my phone, my purse, my sunglasses, and my car keys and headed to my car. Once I was inside my car, I speed-dialed, unable to keep my overflow of emotions inside. Please pick up. . . .

"Hello, beautiful," Pierre answered in his stern tone.

"I can't do this, babe," I said, trying to stop my voice from cracking.

"Do what? Is everything okay? Where y'all at?"

I took in a deep breath. "We're safe. We're in downtown Memphis. She's laid up in the hotel room, drunk as a skunk, and I am trying my best to help her—"

"Honey, listen to me. Remember, this is your ministry. God orchestrated this ministry and you are in a spiritual warfare. Grab your Bible and let's read Ephesians 6:10-12. You should know this by heart."

I grabbed my Bible from the back seat and I opened it to the verse, we read it together.

"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places."

"This is what your ministry is up against—spiritual warfare. It's easy to forget because Nandi is not one of your clients or members, but she is close and dear to you. Not only are you trying to help her, but you are also emotionally connected to her, and you want to see her healed and set free like others you have helped, right?"

"Right . . ."

"Honey, God has ordained you for this. You've come too far to give up on her. She needs you. I know it might not seem like it, but she does. It's not Nandi you're up against. This thing that's holding her is spiritual, so you have to pray for the enemy to be loosed and for her eyes to see the truth—"

"But I can't-do-this—"

Brian interruptedly spoke. "Yes! you can…Listen to me. Once she knows the truth her heart can receive Jesus and her mind can accept deliverance. The enemy knows what you're doing, and he is trying to discourage your efforts. Remember, before you planned this trip, you and I fasted for thirty days for Nandi."

"Yes, we did, and God will honor that." As I remembered our sacrifice.

"Okay, then this is what needs to happen before the breakthrough. Let's read verses 13-18 together."

Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. Stand therefore, having fastened on the belt of truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace. In all circumstances take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one;and take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, praying at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert with all perseverance, making supplication for all the saints.

"Amen! How are you feeling right now, babe?" Pierre said with a smile in his voice.

"Much, much better." I felt my heart slowing down to a regular pace and my ears were not hot so I knew I was cooling off.

"Good! Now understand that God is faithful. Do you believe Nandi will be healed?" Pierre Said.

"Yes!" I felt a gush of fire in my heart—almost like new hope

"Do you believe Nandi will be saved?"

"Yes!"

"Do you believe God will deliver Nandi from her bondage to alcoholism?" Pierre spoke with authority.

"I know God will set Nandi free, for the word says in John 8:36, 'So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.' And I believe the word! The fire has just lit back up in my soul." I felt joy.

"I know how frustrating it can feel sometimes, and that is why you have to stay prayed up. I've been fasting from the day you both left, and I will continue until the day you get back. I talked to Brian the other day, and he's in agreement with me and is fasting with me. We get together each morning to pray for you and Nandi—"

"Thank you, babe. I need all the prayers I can get."

"Your welcome hon. Before you go back in the hotel room, ask God to show you how to help Nandi and for the Lord's will to be done over her life. Come against the opposition. Plead the blood of Jesus over you and Nandi, and when you get back in the room, get your anointing oil out of your purse and anoint her forehead and pray for her. Anoint her bags, her clothes, and pray."

"I will. How has Brian been holding up?" I was hesitant to know.

"He's pressing through it. Before he joined me in the fast, he was ready to throw in the towel— "

"No—divorce?"

Pierre sighed. "Yes, but joining me on this fast and in prayer has helped ease his mind a little bit."

"Thank goodness, because that would absolutely crush Nandi. I know she sometimes thinks she'd be fine without Brian, but I know she loves him and would be devastated if Brian went that route."

Back in the hotel room five minutes later, I found Nandi sound asleep and snoring. I took my bottle of anointing oil from my purse and anointed Nandi's clothes, shoes, and bags. Then I applied some oil lightly on Nandi's forehead, and Nandi didn't move. I kneeled beside Nandi's bed and whispered a prayer of love and thanksgiving. Then I began to pray for her.

"May your will be done in her life. Touch her tongue until she no longer desires alcohol, and open her eyes to the truth. Heal her, save her, deliver her. Set her free to walk in Your will. Devil, I command you to get out of her body, out of her life, out of her mind, and off her tongue, in Jesus' name. Holy Spirit, ignite a flame of righteousness in Nandi's heart, in the name of Jesus. Amen"

Chapter Twenty-three

Twenty-Three Years Earlier

I'll always remember my sophomore summer break. The besties and I had finished another semester well. Despite Momma's feelings about Clara and Andrea, we still hung around together closer than a doorknob to a door. Momma's punishment of banning me from them didn't stick. When we came back to school to start our sophomore year, it appears we had never been apart. If it wasn't for Steve, I would have felt Momma's punishment more painfully, but Steve was a great distraction.

After Momma caught me with makeup on during the summer of our freshman year, she no longer trusted me. It was going to take a long time to gain a smidgen of it back. So during my sophomore summer break, I started telling Momma what I thought she wanted to hear. That way, I got to hang with Clara and Andrea and Steve. Steve was now out of high school, attended a local college, and still worked.

I was the only one among my friends who still talked to the three boys from our freshmen year. Clara and Andrea changed boyfriends like a girl changes purses. I never understood what that was all about, but Steve still worked to my advantage as a great prop. I still had not felt a love bug for him, but I was comfortable with him and his ways.

Three weeks into the summer, I had barely seen Steve, but my girls kept me so occupied that I didn't obsess about him. That sophomore summer, Clara found someone to make fake college identification cards for us.

After the incident in the summer of my freshman year, Momma didn't want me to spend the night or hang out at Clara's home. So the only way I could hang out with them was to do what they had inspired me to do before. We spent the night at Andrea's house only one time the summer of my freshman year before Momma banned me from hanging out with them. Andrea wanted us to meet with James, Marcello, and Steve, so she devised a sneaking-out plan. That would go down in history as the scariest thing I had ever done because Andrea's parents scared me straight. Their strict, stern ways would put any correctional officer to shame, but amazingly enough, this wasn't scary enough for Andrea. She always said, "Oh, well, if I get caught, at least I had my share of fun."

With that kind of example, Clara and I jumped on the bandwagon like a couple of foolish teens. That night, we snuck out of Andrea's bedroom window and tiptoed out to the driveway, where James and the rest of the boys waited for us. My heart felt as if it was going to jump out of my chest. James drove us to the ice cream parlor and bought some cones. Then we went to the drive-in movie.

Everyone else seemed relaxed, loud, and giddy. I was tense, checking my wristwatch every few minutes to make sure it wasn't getting too late. By the time we headed back to Andrea's house, it was two o'clock in the morning. I had never been up and out that late, except for a few church events. The only times I had ever been out that late was for all-night prayers. James pulled up past Andrea's house with his headlights off. We got out of his car and took off our shoes. We avoided the driveway, but the neighbor's rowdy dog sniffed us out anyway and barked.

Clara screamed, apparently startled. We dashed through the driveway, and the garage light sensor switched on. The next thing we saw was Andrea's parents' bedroom light coming on. I had never been so scared in my life. I grabbed my chest to make sure my heart was still in there, but all I could feel were the aggressive palpitations of my heart.

We grabbed each other's hands and ran toward Andrea's window. The ferocious-sounding dog next door shook the frail fence while barking. I had never seen that dog before, but it sounded huge and ready to eat us up.

Andrea popped half of her window screen open and dove into her room as if she had done it before. Clara followed suit and, out of fear, I dove in too.

The room was dark, but I could hear Andrea's parents in the hall. Andrea quickly shut her window. Clara was already in bed, still in her clothes, shoes, and makeup. Andrea grabbed my hand and guided me to her bed, then she pushed me toward it and jumped in after me. She grabbed her cover in the nick of time and threw it over her head. I closed my eyes and faced the wall.

Clara was pretending to snore when Andrea's door flung wide open. I opened my eyes and all I saw on the wall was their imprinted shadows. I quickly squeezed my eyelids tight in hopes that when I opened them again, her parents would be gone or I would find that this was all a nightmare. My nightmare theory vanished when the lights came on and all I could see was the pinkish color of the back of my eyelids.

Andrea's parents stood there whispering, and I whispered too, but mine were prayers. If they pulled back the covers, they would see that we had been out. That would have been the last breath I would have taken here on earth, especially once Momma found out.

Andrea deserved an Oscar that night. She acted sleepy and disturbed by the light, so her parents switched off the light and closed the door.

Sweat beads dripped down my forehead faster than raindrops on a window. If dogs could talk; the neighbor's dog would have ratted us out that night. But, as scary as that whole experience was, it was exhilarating too—like a bad rollercoaster ride. And it helped me to discover the art of playing James Bond at home. Because of that, I managed to hang out with Steve all summer after Momma was asleep.

Soon Clara had our fake college identification cards. Of course, we immediately concocted a plan for the first time we'd use them. Since I couldn't spend the night at either Clara's house or Andrea's house, we decided that they would pick me up at home. By then, Clara had a car and a license.

We planned to hang out on a Friday night. Clara had heard about a college spot that was supposedly frequented by all kinds of cute college boys. So, that night, we synchronized our watches and waited for our 11:30 p.m. meet time. Clara would park her car down the street from her driveway and wait for her grandma to fall asleep by 8:30. Then she would get ready and come out to pick me up first since we lived close to each other. We would pick up Andrea by midnight.

The first part of the plan worked. Once we'd picked up Andrea, we were off to a supposed great night, with not a care or concern in the world. My mind and heart had been hardened as coal even the thought of being caught didn't bother me.

I don't know what made me act like a full-grown woman. But we hit the highway, jamming to our music. We had already role-played a couple of times so we'd know how to act if security questioned our IDs. We weren't too concerned about it because Clara and her cousin had tried these fake IDs before with no trouble.

We finally arrived at a cheesy-looking club. The music was utterly loud, and the outside scene was quite intimidating with real college kids hanging out on the curb. The lines to enter wrapped around the building, but that didn't stop three immature, determined teenagers from walking toward the door.

Clara had her professional-wanna-be makeup bag. As she parked, she convinced me to get in the backseat while Andrea, who was already made up, went to stand in line.

Clara was so good at what she did that my mini makeover session seemed to last only five minutes. When we were done, Clara handed me a bag of clothes. By now, I was a pro at changing in the car. I slipped out of my pajamas and into the dress Clara gave me.

When Clara and I were done with the car makeup session, we joined Andrea in line. This would be the first time I would ever walk in the doors of a nightclub. Clara had already coached me through and through. Make sure you look confident. Straighten your shoulders, walk tall, and just smile or flirt with the security if he seems to take long looking at your ID. If anyone had the ability to make you feel confident, it was Clara.

Soon we reached the front of the line. Andrea was first, I was in the middle, and Clara was in the back. I started to feel nervous when Andrea gave the security her ID. As he looked at it, he kept glancing over at me. Or maybe I was just paranoid. I surely hoped the makeup made me look that much older.

After looking at Andrea's ID, he signaled for her to enter. Then it was my turn. I walked slowly, mainly because Clara had given me a pair of her heels. I handed him my ID. He looked at it, he looked at me, he looked back at the ID, and he looked at me again. By this time, my heart was thumping so hard and fast that if he stared long enough, he could have seen my chest heaving. I smiled and then he flipped the ID to look at the back. He pulled out a flashlight when a voice came over his shoulder microphone. The guard stepped to the side with my ID in his hand and responded into the shoulder mic.

Then he rushed back to me, handed me my ID, and waved me inside. He took off running into the club, and another security officer came to the door. That was a close one. Supposedly, a fight had broken out in the club and, as head of security, he had to attend to it.

When Clara was cleared at the door, she led us to our table. I must have died and gone to a different planet. People danced carelessly all around us. Some hovered at the edges of the dance floor, watching the live entertainment. With each step, we could feel the vibrations of the loud music in the soles of our feet.

We arrived at our table, sat down, and looked cute. A few boys tried stopping by to talk to us, but we were so preoccupied with the abundance of college boys that we dismissed those who tried to get to know us. Clara and Andrea loved the attention and chose to use it to their advantage. I, on the other hand, played the part of having a boyfriend, even though Steve wasn't a real boyfriend.

Clara went to the bar and bought us some soft drinks. She made sure the bartender poured them in cocktail cups. We did not drink but we wanted to act as though we were grown and we were drinking some fancy-schmancy cocktail. So we sipped the watered-down sodas as though we were classy ladies.

Clara and Andrea ate up all the attention. I think they got it simply because of the itty-bitty skirts they had on. They had the guts to wear them, but I didn't. My dress was knee-length but still felt uncomfortable. It felt as though it had been spray-painted onto my body. Clara picked it out for me because she thought it brought out my supposed "curves."

This must have been Andrea's greatest payback. When she came back from the bathroom, she grabbed my hand. This wasn't a common gesture from her.

I followed her through the maze of human bodies until we got close to the restroom. By this time, Clara scurried along behind us, asking a hundred questions. When we got close to the restroom, Andrea pointed to the far corner. I looked because I thought she might have been trying to fix me up with someone. As I adjusted my focus, I recognized a familiar face.

It was Steve. Making out with some girl.

My heart broke. Then I felt indignant. He had told me he was too tired to hang out with me that evening and that he was going home to sleep.

I knew I wasn't in love with the man, but he was my "boyfriend-prop." He had grown on me, and I was in deep like with him.

I felt frozen in time. My anger and tears accumulated at the same time. Clara grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me away from what was happening in the distance, but I wasn't having it. I needed to confront Steve in my pain.

Without rational thought, I walked toward Steve and stood next to him as he was on this girl's face. When he looked my way, his eyes widened. He knew he was busted.

I couldn't do anything but fold my arms in front of myself and give him an evil stare. The girl looked at me as if I had lost my mind, so I had to clear the air. "This is my boyfriend." That ought to do it.

She said, "We've been together for two years. He's my boyfriend."

Those words brought the club to a Jerry Springer moment. Clara tried to pull me away from them, and Andrea kept egging it on. Initially, I didn't have a problem with this girl. But then she got up in my face and started a yelling match. Steve totally disregarded me and tried to pull this drunk girl away from me.

Andrea was acting like a hype man on stage, stirring things up more and more. The next thing I remember was fists flying between Andrea and this girl. I knew Andrea was not defending me. She just loved to fight whenever she got the chance.

The commotion escalated when this girl's friends jumped in. Clara and I tried to pull Andrea away, but by then, it was too late. Andrea had straddled the girl and was giving her the ultimate smack down while the girl tried to cover her face. Andrea was so much in the moment that she didn't feel Clara and me trying to pull her off the girl. She also didn't feel the girl's friends kicking her in the sides.

The two girls were on the floor as though they were in a boxing ring. As far as I could tell, Andrea was winning. Then all of a sudden, the big, buff security guards ran over and ripped the two apart.

Chapter Twenty-four

Road Trip 2014

"Nandi!" Patti shook me, hard. "You're having a nightmare. Get up and let's pray."

Still disorientated, I had trickles of tears under my eyelids. "I was having a horrible dream."

Patti sat close, held my hands, and began to pray. Fifteen minutes later, Patti got a glass of cold water from the bathroom and handed me the drink.

"This tastes good." I was beginning to get my bearings again after the dream. "What time is it?"

"Exactly 2:30 in the morning."

It couldn't be. I'd been asleep for hours. "Can you hand me my purse? I have a major headache."
"More like a hangover," Patti said sarcastically but retrieved the purse.

"Please don't start with me."

"I'm just stating a fact," Patti said while digging in my purse. Finally, she pulled out two bottles. "You're still taking these?"
Sigh. "Not really."

Patti said inquisitively. "Well, they're in your purse and the bottle is open."

"What do you want me to do, just stop taking the prescription my doctor gave me?"

"I never said that. But you told me you'd discussed it with your doctor and that you were slowly going to wean yourself off them."

"I took them only once since that refill, and I've been fine. I don't need them."

"Do you believe that?" Patti said as she sat at the foot of the bed.

"I don't know."

"I understand." Patti opened her Bible.

"I get it. That psychology degree of yours has taught you a lot about depression. But trust me—you don't understand."

"You know what? My understanding of depression is not based on my degree. It's based on my own experience." Patti flipped the pages of her Bible, and I couldn't tell if she was looking for a passage or just marking time. "You're not the only person with a diagnosis of depression."

"Well! Excuse me, but you've never told me that."

"Why do you think that, even as a psychologist, I offer to pray with you and help you to understand God? I've been on antidepressants since I was thirteen years old, after the whole ordeal with my father's brother. By the time I was thirteen, I felt filthy—"

"Are you serious?"

"I am dead serious. I felt I had no reason to live. I hated myself and because of that, I felt sad all the time. I had no joy, no friends. I was just angry. I often wondered if I was the one who instigated him coming on to me. That thought snowballed in my mind until I could hardly get out of bed and go to school. My mother tried her best to get me involved with tons of after-school activities, but they never gave me any happiness—"

"I didn't know you were on anti-depressants as well—Patti." I felt bewildered-almost as though I was meeting my college best friend for the first time.

"It's ok. I didn't expect you to know. My parents were so fixated on their marital issues that all my mother knew to do was to send me to the shrink. In those sessions, they started to medicate me with antidepressants. Unlike you, I was dependent on these pills until the day of my marriage when I was twenty-eight."

"What do you mean?"

" I accepted who I was and that I was clinically depressed, like you. Before coming to Christ, I tried to wean myself off the meds. Some of them made me feel like a zombie. I was so addicted that, by the time I hit my twenties, I had maxed out the prescribed dosage."

"I am speechless. Looking at you and your life I would never have guessed it." We have more in common after revealing secrets to each other than we have out of common.

Patti laughed. "I am glad I didn't look like I was on antidepressants…I went through a week's supply in days. My body became tolerant of the dosage. My doctor was onto my addictive behavior and wouldn't prescribe more than I had to take."

"What happened when you ran out?"

"On the days I ran out, I felt like crap and a drug fein. While I waited to get my prescription refilled, I self-medicated with alcohol and some over-the-counter stuff. When I was out of my pills, all I wanted to do was sleep."

"Huh." I am slowly processing the information given to me without judgment because Patti has never judged me. "Remember in college, when I stayed in my room for days? That's when I was thinking of suicide. I thought that if I could just end my life, I would be much better off than I was in the moments of darkness. Those were the moments when I had no medication—"

"I had no idea. I am glad you never went through with it because I would've been devastated to lose such a great friend."

"Now that I have been saved, delivered, and healed, I wish that my mother had taken me to church or even prayed over me before taking me to a shrink and accepting everything he said." Patti sighed.

"No, you wouldn't have wanted that! Trust me." When I told Momma about my diagnosis, she dismissed it. Then suddenly, I was finding grease spots all over my house, car, clothes—you name it. There was anointing oil all over everything. I think she and Brian were in cahoots. Momma thought my diagnosis was the outcome of not getting proper grieving counseling after Brianna's death. I believe she might have been onto something because I was fine all my life, but something happened to me after the loss of my baby. When I sought out professional help, they diagnosed me with depression and anxiety. I hadn't had a panic attack in a long time until the other day when I was thinking about Brianna. I can't even set foot at her grave site without having a panic attack, so I just don't go. For years, I have drowned myself in alcohol so I don't even think about her. But when I'm sober and I think about her, I climb into a whole different cloud. My heart beats fast and my mind is overwhelmed with thoughts—bad thoughts. My heart is filled with instant pain and that in itself takes me on a downward spiral. I think about suicide every time I think of Brianna—when I'm without alcohol. I have nothing to live for. I wasted all those years pursuing a medical degree, just to prove to the world that the special education, the held-back-one-grade student was smart after all. Now I can't practice medicine because of my bad decision in life. I spent a whole lifetime wanting to be a model wife and mother. When I got married, I came alive. When I became pregnant, I was even more alive. But now I have no medical license, I have no children, and my marriage is frail, barely hanging onto the last strand of hope. "I can't do anything but blame myself for all these mishaps," I whispered.

"No, Nandi!" Patti interrupted a sweet fierceness in her eyes. "It's not fair to blame yourself. Life happens, and you have to understand that it gives us all kinds of experiences for a reason—"

"I'd love to know the reason."

"I believe things happen so we can get even closer to God through faith. To blame yourself for what you consider 'mishaps' is to enslave your mind. You can't be free in your mind if you think you're the number one source of blame—"

"Even though I feel like I caused everything to go wrong?"

" I understand why you could easily blame yourself, but that is not what life is all about. Things happen and we have to figure out how to deal with them, how we can learn from them, how can we grow from them, and mainly how can we move on healthily with them."

"I guess it's difficult cause I have always just thought that I—"

Patti raised her voice. "You are not the one to blame. Lady Loretta once told me that the difference between a Christian and a non-believer is hope. When hit with life circumstances, the Christian has hope to help. But when non-believers are faced with life circumstances, they have nothing to pull hope from."

The hardest thing for me to do is to believe in God. I know He exists and all that good stuff, but it's hard for me to have hope and faith because I often wonder what kind of God would allow bad things to happen. Or, in my case, why did God allow me to go through what I went through? I was raised in the church, but I didn't choose to go. If you lived under Momma's roof, you went to church. That's why, once I hit college, I felt free as a bird! On my very first Sunday away from home, I didn't attend church, and it felt good. It was so relaxing. Momma wasn't there to force me to attend church and I could finally sleep in.

"God is a God of love. He has granted mankind free will. God doesn't force us to love Him. Rather, He gives us the ability to choose, which is fair because He wants us to love Him freely without anyone forcing us."

"It's always been hard for me to digest the fact that God has given us the ability to choose."

Patti Scooted closer to me from the foot of the bed. "You can better understand the mind of God by having a relationship with Jesus Christ. Maintaining and securing a relationship with God will allow you to understand the conditions of life and why some things happen and some things don't." Patti placed her phone on the nightstand and continued to express with her hands-I love seeing her talk about her God. She becomes so animated. "Besides, if we lived in a perfect world where nothing bad happened, we wouldn't need God, because we wouldn't need hope, faith, and belief."

"There you go, being all deep on me."

I would never have admitted it, but our laughter felt good and timely.

Finally, Patti yawned. "It's four in the morning. We have to get back on the road after checkout, so let's get back to sleep."

I flipped my bed covers. "I never had any idea that you suffered from depression. Can you say you're completely free from it?" I am amazed at how some people seem to overcome some things and yet some other people keep struggling.

Patti reached for her Bible and opened it again. "When I was going through my harsh ordeal and all that jazz, Lady Loretta made a prayer cloth for me for my depression. I had never told her about it, but here she was, ministering to me about depression and anxiety—"

"Not the Bible-again…." Once Patti picks up the Bible there is no sleeping, she will read from it and exercise her desire to preach at the same time. It was late and my eyes were heavy.

Patti stood up with her Bible open as though she was in church. "Lady Loretta read Acts 19:12 to me, which helped me understand the prayer cloth. Then she embroidered two scripture verses on my prayer cloth: Psalm 34:18-19."

"Momma always had one of those prayer cloths."

"Yes. Lady Loretta advised me to keep my prayer cloth in my medicine cabinet and read it every time I took my medication. At first, I didn't understand the whole prayer cloth thing and reading the verses, but every time I opened my medicine cabinet, I read the scripture verses—"

"Let me guess. It was just like magic!" I was tired and delirious.

"No—silly! But! Slowly but surely, a different kind of strength was bestowed upon me. It's been twelve years since I took an anti-depressant pill. I want to give my prayer cloth to you so you can keep it with your meds—"

"Aww. That is so sweet. Now can we go to sleep?"

Patti chuckled. "Not yet. I almost forgot to tell you about the scripture on the back of the cloth. I memorized it as well, and that one instantaneously became my medication each morning. Proverbs 12:25. The idea of this anointed prayer cloth is faith. Rather, it has been anointed in prayer, and all that is required is your open faith." Patti started pacing up and down with her Bible in her hands. "Remember the Bible story of the lady with bleeding issues? She knew that if she touched Jesus' garment, she would be healed." Patti paused in mid-thought as she pointed at a verse in her Bible. "Mark 5:25-34 highlights the events of the lady's healing. When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought that if she touched his clothes, she would be healed. And she was. Immediately her bleeding stopped." Patti walked towards the nightstand and picked up a glass of water and sipped some water and laid the cup down and continued to pace. "In my case, when my body's tolerance increased and was used to my prescribed dosage, I couldn't sleep. When I ran out of meds, I asked other doctors to prescribe a higher dosage. I couldn't function without pills. That's hard to fathom, but there I was, meeting Lady Loretta and Pastor Barrows for counseling." Patti sat down on the love seat. "It's important for you to understand and believe, like the lady with the bleeding issues, that your healing is coming. I see the lady's issue as a metaphor. Before salvation, I lived in shame, hiding my secret from everyone. I was humiliated by my sex addiction." Off a sudden, I heard quietness and I thought she was finally done preaching when I heard. "You might feel ashamed of where your drinking has taken you or how society will judge you because of the supposed mishaps alcohol has caused in your life. But understand that the lady with the bleeding issue was also humiliating. She was considered impure and unfit to participate in religious rituals. Imagine being in her shoes and having an embarrassing issue that no doctor could figure out." Patti stopped talking abruptly then she yawned loudly as she continued to talk. "It had to be costly, going from doctor to doctor with no solution. It was for me. I can only imagine her frustration, shame, and isolation. I don't think she touched Jesus' cloak because it was the happening thing to do. I think she believed in her heart that this was her healing, and thus she was healed." Patti closed the Bible, tucked it under her pillow, and switched off her nightstand lamp. "Your healing is coming. Just believe. Good night." Patti rolled over.

Chapter Twenty-five

Twenty-Two Years Earlier

Exactly five months had flown by, and the memory of Andrea was as distant in my mind as my memories of growing up in Mississippi. Our summer events had led to several catastrophic repercussions.

After the crazy fiasco in the nightclub last summer, Andrea was detained by the barrel-chested, buff security guards. Clara and I wanted to come to her rescue, but that wasn't happening because we risked placing ourselves in a nightclub while legally underage. Soon the local cops were called in, and Clara and I were hit with a difficult decision. Well, Clara was the one who would have to face this decision head on. We weren't supposed to be in that nightclub, to begin with, and we could face legal consequences if we waited on Andrea's situation to dissolve.

As the officers gathered around Andrea and the other girl in hopes of collecting statements, Clara and I dissolved into the crowd. We sneaked out the back door and headed home, hoping for the best for Andrea. But, frankly speaking, she had placed herself in that predicament.

Little did I know that vindictive Andrea was not done with me.

Clara felt horrible about leaving Andrea, so after she dropped me off at home, she headed back to the nightclub. I couldn't afford to get in trouble again for the second summer in a row. So I snuck back in the house, undetected as usual, and quietly changed into my PJs. I went to bed and had a hard time falling asleep.

Part of me was relieved to be indoors, away from the nightclub fiasco, and that Momma would never find out. But another part of me was battling with the reality that my eyes had just seen. I tried denying the fact that Steve had been all up in some other girl's face. But the more I reenacted the scene, the more it became apparent that it truly had been him. Between the imaginary reenactments, the girl's voice kept piercing my mind. We've been together for two years.

Our so-called relationship was a lie. How had I not seen this coming? I'd spent a lot of time with him, so I did not anticipate the outcome. I didn't love Steve, but I was in like with him, and I wasn't ready to let go of our relationship. For some sick reason, he gave me a sense of sanity in my world. With him around, I felt as though everything was okay, as though I was okay. He gave me hope, his sense of humor kept me fond of him, and his affection was so warm and innocent that I felt invincible.

How could I have been so blind? I gave him my honest self, and yet he gave me his false self. All his plans for us had been a lie. Every feeling he expressed to me must have been a lie too. The more I thought of his two-timing ways, the more piqued I became. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, wanted him to know how I was hurting.

I wanted him to feel my hurt. The more I thought about Steve acting as if he didn't know who I was, the more hate I felt in my heart. If dating or being in relationships was all about lies, hurt, and betrayal, then I didn't want any part of it. Maybe that was the reason Momma was single for the rest of her life.

Steve was the fourth guy in my few years on earth to hurt me emotionally. First, Mr. Kenny lied to me, and I was mad at him for leading me on and giving me hope of having a father. I'd thought that, after all these years, I had gotten over his disappearance. But now I realized that all my emotions and anger toward Steve spiked from Mr. Kenny's disappearance. The saddest part was that I was more naïve then than I was now. Up to the time Mr. Kenny left, I believed that adults didn't lie. So I looked up to him. I yearned for him to be the father I never had, and he treated me like his own. I cherished the time he spent imparting wisdom to me. He even took me to my first father and daughter dance.

I would have been okay after he left if he had taken the time to say goodbye. But instead, he seemed to fall off the planet. Momma never knew for a second how his disappearance affected me. But of course, like Momma, I had to put on an I-don't-care face and move on with life. That was my first official heartbreak.

The hell-preaching preacher man was number three on my list of disappointments by men. Even though I didn't know him personally, I felt he had deceived me. For a while, during my tender years, I looked up to him. Even though his sermons always ended up with someone going to hell if they didn't repent, I listened, and he managed to scare me straight. When he fell back on his word, I viewed him just as I viewed Mr. Kenny—irrelevant and nonexistent. I quickly discovered that the adults and male role models I once looked up to were not so perfect, after all. No one ever told me that adults were flawed. I thought they had no blemishes and their words were their bond, as Momma would say. Unbeknownst to me, these two managed to shed a dim light on my childish mentality. When they disappointed me, I learned the truth about adults which helped raise my mind up quicker than I would have liked.

I dismissed my biased opinion of adults when Steve became the focal point of my life. I thought an angel had dropped off that good boy at my doorstep. Then I saw that the angel was nothing but a dark angel. Why didn't I know it would hurt like this?

But there was no way for me to know because he was my so-quote-and-quote first boyfriend. Maybe Momma Jean was onto something with her idea that Christians should court once they've begun their careers. If I had, I might have been better equipped to deal with heartache. All I knew was that I never wanted to feel like this again. It made no sense for me to feel so badly over Steve when I didn't care for him like that. No, my struggle was the fact that I had been lied to and cheated on. That stung the worst. And if the stinger of betrayal hurt this badly, then surely its venom would leave me emotionally crippled.

I learned an early lesson. I decided to focus on my books like Momma said. She would be proud of me but there was one thing I hoped for the most. I yearned to lie on Momma's lap like a little toddler again and wail my heartache to her. I yearned for her to stroke my hair and comfort me as she used to when I was younger and scraped a knee or an elbow. I yearned for her voice of comfort, her compassion, and mostly her assurance that I was going to be okay. I wanted to hear her say I should not worry about Steve.

But I knew how Momma felt about boys, so I didn't dare bring up Steve and what had happened. If I had, she would have said the same thing she always said. I told you so. You should be focusing on school. Wait until you're settled in your career. Blah, blah, blah.

No, in my brokenness, I did not have the patience to hear her prove her point to me. I wished Momma was like the mothers on TV. On the sitcoms, mothers sit down with their daughters and counsel them about boys, music, and life in general. I knew it was Hollywood at its finest, but it seemed so real. I wished Momma was like them. That way, she could have kept her high religious expectations but leaned more toward reality.

I could never forget one episode in which a mom was so cool about dating. She even helped her daughter shop for a prom dress. I escaped reality and released my mind by watching those sitcoms. They also helped me know that, when I have a daughter one day, I want to be like those mothers. I want to talk to my daughter about boys and not shut her down as though they are some killer virus. I want her to know that she can come to me at any time and vent what's on her heart and that I will guide her, not judge her. I want her to know above all that I am human, not some super-cosmic, supernatural human being who cannot relate to every season of her daughter's life. I am going to be a sitcom mom when I grow up.

The day after the fiasco, I could hardly sleep. As soon as I did finally fall asleep, I heard a loud knock followed by a gust of the wind from the rapid opening of the door.

"Nandi Jean!" Momma hollered at the top of her lungs. "Get up right now! You have some explaining to do, young lady!"

I hadn't seen or heard Momma this angry in a while. I was still in a sleepy daze, so as I got up, I tried to think of any chores I might have neglected that could have her fuming so hard on a Saturday morning.

"What?" I asked as I kicked off the covers.

"Who do you think you are talking to, little girl?" Momma paused in her huffing and puffing, then she muttered under her breath, "Lord Jesus, give me strength."

She leaned against the wall, hands folded in front of her chest and nostrils flaring. "I just got off the phone with Connie Mitchell. Is there something you want to tell me?"

The last name rang a bell but the first name didn't. I was in a daze of exhaustion, my sleep robbed by my thoughts. "Who?"

"Don't play games with me, young lady! Andrea's mother, that's who."

Wow, was the room spinning? I almost had a heart attack at age seventeen. Then everything started moving slowly. Momma must have been talking about the previous night's events. I tried to come up with a good, sustainable lie, but I was too tired to think.

"Is Miss Connie okay?" My words rushed out before I had a chance to process them. But by the time they rang in my own ears, I knew I had to stall because, in my deepest gut, I knew where this was going. I wasn't ready to handle the wrath of Momma Jean.

"Don't play games with me, child. You know exactly what's going on."

"What are you talking about, Momma?" I loved giving her a blank stare in her moments of seriousness.

"I am not playing games with you." When momma got upset her big Bantu nose flared out and her eyes widened the veins in her neck thickened with an indentation on her skin. "Where were you last night?" Momma insisted while yelling.

If I hadn't been up before, I was by now. There was nothing pleasant about Momma's interrogation. I was in a conundrum. Since I didn't know how much Momma knew, I needed to be careful not to say too much. My best strategy was to bait her and throw out misleading questions so she'd tell me what she knew. I should've known I'd need to wear my floatation device because Andrea wasn't the type to sit alone in a sinking ship. Everyone in it had to go down with her. She was the most vindictive person I ever met, and she had apparently decided I was to be the one to drown with her. As though making me watch Steve making out with that girl wasn't enough for her.

I shook off those thoughts and tried to concentrate on staying afloat, with or without Andrea. Where was I last night? If I say I was at the movies, she'll ask what time I went, since I was supposed to be home. I had to say something, but not the club. If she brings up the club, I will deny being there.

"Young lady, I am waiting for your response," Momma all but shouted.

I froze for a moment. "The movies."

By now momma was pacing up and down with her hands folded across her chest. "That's not what Connie said."

"That's where we were—me and Clara." I cringed inside. Not only had I told another lie, but I brought Clara into this too.

"Connie Mitchell told me you were at that worldly college nightclub with Andrea."

My mind raced in my panic. "Me? No, ma'am, that wasn't me. You know Andrea doesn't like me. She'll say anything to get me in trouble." I focused on the pink flannel sheet I'd kicked to the foot of the bed, unable to look Momma in the eye while telling a blatant lie.

Momma gave me the head shake of shame as her head shock from side-to-side. "Nandi! I told you about them little fast girls, but you don't listen to me. I wasn't born last night. I know you were down there with them."

I had no response. I was busted. Thanks to Andrea, I had no rebuttal for this case. Momma always took everyone else's word over mine, so I had already lost this case before she walked into my room. Yes, I failed her again. But I wished she would let me explain before she automatically assumed I was responsible for whatever people said I did. If a total stranger called and said I stole something, she would believe the stranger before asking me. That was our one-way relationship.

"I'm sorry, Momma—"

Momma gave me the head shake of shame once more. "Your 'sorry' is wearing its course on me. This is not the way I raised you." She gave me her sternest look, the one that always warned me something worse was yet to come. "You know better. You are never to communicate with Clara or Andrea again. Ever since the three of y'all got together, you've been nothing but trouble—"

"It's not true, Momma!" The moment the words escaped my lips, I realized I must have lost my mind, interrupting Momma. But I was sick and tired of her blaming my circle of friends for my actions. No one forced me to do anything I didn't want to do. I freely went, without pressure from anyone. But Momma was in so much denial that she still viewed me as an innocent angel who was being corrupted by some "worldly girls."

"Did you just interrupt me?" Momma cuffed my chin and tilted my head back so she could look at me.

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry—"

"All that sassiness comes from hanging out with those unchurched girls." Momma released her grip and headed for the door. Then she looked back. "You are grounded for the rest of the summer. Get ready so I can take you to the library. All you are doing for the rest of the summer is reading and writing book reports for me."

She stalked off and shut the door.

I would rather be in detention for the rest of my life than to spend time reading and writing book reports. That was the cruelest punishment I had yet received in my entire life. No friends and no Steve to take my mind off my punishment.

This was going to be a long summer, thanks to Andrea.

Chapter Twenty-six

Road Trip 2014

"Rise and shine, sunshine." Patti seemed to be hollering right next to my ear.

I turned over in my seat and adjusted the pillow under my head. "How long have I been sleeping?"

Patti took a sip of her coffee before speaking. "About two and a half hours. You must have been wiped out."

"I'm exhausted. I can't believe the sun is still up."

"We've only been on the road a couple of hours."

It really for felt like we had been on the road longer than two hours. "Where are we?"

Patti's voice piqued. "Take a guess."

"The middle of nowhere?" I rose from my reclined position to gaze out the window. All I could see was a field of goldenrod from afar. "Oh, no. Please tell me we are not in Mississippi."

But I knew we were, and that realization made my heart pound harshly. Surely, we're not going to hang out in this dreaded state. I slammed on my sunglasses, the bright sun already giving me eye strain. What if Patti was taking me to Lois West's home?

I feel as though I was still dreaming. I had agreed to be Patti's experiment for her group study, but I was not ready to face Mississippi again.

"Calm down, Nandi. We're heading over to Madison. I need to make a little stop there, and then we'll be on our way."

"Madison! What for?" My stomach turned as if I'd eaten at a bad Mexican restaurant. I didn't recall Patti ever saying she knew anyone in Madison. I didn't know anyone there, and I didn't recall Momma talking about that town either. I sensed a skunk in this plan. Patti was up to something, and that bothered me. I had no idea what she was up to, and that made me even more uneasy.

"Trust me, Nandi." Patti leaned forward to turn up the volume on the radio.

"Oh, my gosh! Turn it up some more." I sang along.

Patti interrupted the singing. "For a second, you sounded almost like Deniece Williams."

"My voice is kind of raspy right now, but I see you still have your sense of humor."

"Honestly, your voice is pretty."

"I sang soprano in the choir from a young age. It's not like I had a choice. Momma was the choir director for some years, and she insisted on having a strong soprano section. Even at the tender age of nine, I could hold a note for a full six measures, thanks to her."

"Well, one of these days, you'll be able to use that gift in a church choir somewhere."

What was she thinking? "Sure, whatever you say." All I know is that Momma Jean, with all her holy and sanctified talk, loved her some Deniece Williams. The first time I heard Momma play Silly in the house was right around the time she broke up with Mr. Kenny. Ever since then, I noticed a pattern. Whenever she went through a breakup, that song seemed to get her through it. I remember that after my ordeal with Steve, all I wanted to do was listen to Momma's tape of that same song through my headset.

Memories . . . Absorbed as I was with early childhood memories, I couldn't help but recline my seat and trust my best friend. The name Mississippi had left a sour taste in my mouth because of the pain I endured at Lois's hand. But I couldn't neglect Mississippi's magnificence as I saw it through my now-grown eyes. This place was pristine, modestly green, and clean. From afar and along the roadsides I saw some of Momma's favorite collectibles. Goldenrod still stood tall and fierce in front of all the dark-wooded green trees, adding color among weeds. Some goldenrod grew sporadically and others grew together, but their randomness on the side of the highway was perfect. And the black-eyed Susan's—if you saw one, you saw others. When we moved to the suburbs in Missouri, one of the first things Momma did was to plant some black-eyed Susan's in the backyard. During blossoming season, she spent all her free time feeding her plants so they would grow. And grow they did. Momma was so obsessed by black-eyed Susan's, she decorated her kitchen with them. Her wall borders had big, fancy cutouts of black-eyed Susan's, and the kitchen table linens were yellow and black. She purchased some fancy paper napkins that had black-eyed Susan's on them, and I was never allowed to use them. On the two-seater kitchen table surface, Momma had black placemats and sunflower-yellow ceramic dinner plates. Black bread plates sat upon them, and she arranged silverware wrapped up in the black-eyed Susan paper napkins, rolled up fancy and held tight by a golden napkin ring. The salt and pepper shakers sat in the center of the table, both with black-eyed Susan print on them. Even the kitchen floor tiles and the towels that hung on the oven door had black-eyed Susan print on them. Needless to say, I had become an expert in spotting black-eyed Susan's from afar.

The GPS advised us loudly that our destination was on the right.

"What are you thinking about?" Patti asked as I pulled myself out of my daydreams.

My mind was still preoccupied with glorious moments of Momma and wildflowers, but I wanted to keep those to myself for now. Instead of answering, I continued to scan the horizon, looking for more yellow and black. Then we turned onto into a long driveway. "Are we lost?"

"Why would you think that?" Patti laughed at what must have been confusion on my face.

"Just the fact that we are pulling up to a grand estate. Neither of us knows anyone who would live in a house like that in Mississippi. I just don't want to get shot for trespassing."

The sound of laughter filled the car. "Shot! Girl, please—you watch too much TV. It happens that I kind of know the owner of this home. Trust me." We parked near the white-columned antebellum neoclassical home that looked like a plantation mansion…it was all intact and pristine, the outside of the house was covered in a snow-white color without a dust of dirt on it, you could tell the owners must have gone to great lengths to preserve its prestige. Patti unfastened her seat belt and stepped out of the car. "C'mon, missy. Let's go."

"Wait. How well do you know these people?"

Patti grabbed my hand. "I am not having a full-blown conversation with you outside these people's home. That would look awkward. Besides, they're probably watching us."

"Give me a second. And I hope this isn't a crazy surprise. You know how I hate surprises."

"What are you doing?"

Whoever it was we were going to see must have been someone of the well-to-do so I took the next necessary measure. "Fixing my hair."

"Your hair looks fine. Let's go."

Trudging up the walk, I passed the most perfectly manicured lawn I'd ever seen. The topiary was amazingly done, and the entire exterior of this house looked like something from a home magazine. And who knew grass could take on such art patterns?

The house sat far from the road, and the drive was U-shaped and made of cobblestone. Near the front doors stood an elaborate fountain. The last time I saw water dancing in a fountain like that was on the strip in Las Vegas.

Who decorated like this? A giant fountain on a huge lawn in front of a mansion—whose house was this, anyway?

As we approached the front porch, I decided that the owners of this home had great taste. It took Patti and me a few moments to find the doorbell, mainly because we were wowed by the intricate details of the glass art on the beveled door. By the time Patti finally rang the bell, we could hear footsteps from afar, and then a silhouette appeared through the glass door.

"Who is it?" an elderly female voice asked between the echoes of a tiny dog bark.

"It's Patti and Nandi," Patti yelled back.

The front door eased open. The woman inside looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. Slender and of average height, she looked absolutely stunning. If I didn't know better, I would assume Patti had brought me to an etiquette class, because this woman had the appearance of an etiquette teacher. Her makeup was natural and complimentary to her features, her hair was salt-and-pepper but mostly white in the front. Her French roll was full and had a perfect side bang that hung close to her right brow but was long enough to be tucked into the French roll, creating a slick, professional look. She wore fuchsia lipstick that complemented her wide smile and white teeth. Her outfit shouted "presidential first lady," except she wasn't in the White House. She had to be older than she looked. I guess this is what rich people look like up close.

"Ladies, come on in." She said as though she was expecting us.

We entered a foyer that was big enough to be a bedroom. She locked the door behind us.

"My name is Cecelia, but Nandi, you can call me Aunt Cecelia." Her voice cracked a bit as she approached Patti with a formal handshake.

"Aunt Cecelia?"

The woman paused and grabbed the glasses hanging around her neck. She slid them on and peered at me. "Yes, you're Nandi. Look at you—all grown up." She hugged me tight and then stepped back, tears in her eyes. Grabbing me by the hand, she invited us into the living room.

The hallway to the living room was long and hung with photographs and oil portraits dating from fifty years ago to the present. One photo captured my eye. I had to stop dead in my tracks. "Is this Momma?" I couldn't help it but ask.

"That's Jean and that's you as a baby. You must have been about three years old." Cecelia paused and wiped a runaway teardrop from her cheek. "I told myself I wouldn't cry when I saw you."

As emotional as this woman was, I wondered if she was a real relative or a "play" aunt like others I'd had all my life.

When we were all seated on Victorian-style furniture, my new aunt poured out her heart. I couldn't process it all at that moment. I knew it would take the time to comprehend today's events.

A soft knock on the living room door startled me, and then a white-haired man stuck in his head. "Can I get y'all anything to drink?" He had a deep southern accent the one you heard from a southern born-breed-and-raised folk.

My aunt had a butler? I wasn't sure how many more surprises I could handle today. Patti and I asked for water, and "Aunt" Cecilia requested sweet tea.

Then as the man stepped away, she called him back in the room. "This is Mr. Boe. He is a great help around the house. He is also my driver since my eyesight is failing me. Mr. Boe has been a member of our family household for twenty years." She waved an elegant hand toward Patti and me. "This is my niece—my only niece, Nandi Jean, and her beloved friend, Miss Patti."

He gave us a polite nod. "Miss Nandi, it's a pleasure to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you and your mammy."

"My late husband, Charlie, hired Mr. Boe years ago, on a whim. Nandi, you would have loved your Uncle Charlie. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. He gave me the best sixty years of my life." As Mr. Boe retreated, presumably to get our drinks, Cecilia pointed to the picture albums on the bookcase that lined the fireplace wall. "Grab the first three albums and sit next to me. I will show you your family."

Chapter Twenty-seven

Twenty-one Years Earlier

My junior year of high school was my most memorable because, in many ways, I was living a carefree life. And that hadn't been the case for a long time. Sure, I was still under Momma's roof, but I enjoyed the freedom of having a part-time job. My job was my scapegoat. I knew that, if I maintained my grades, Momma would stay off my back. Therefore, I worked hard to juggle the two so I could live my carefree life.

The summer before my junior year, I managed to stir up enough guts to take my driving test. Unlike some, I was never one of those teenagers who knocked at the license bureau door the moment I turned sixteen. Instead, I took my time because a driver's license wasn't a license for me to drive Momma Jean's car. Besides, Clara was all the chauffeur I needed.

I enjoyed earning money at the fine-dining restaurant. If anything, I mainly enjoyed the people I worked with. They were by far the most humorous people I knew. I had no idea work could be fun . . . except when I had to work holidays. I felt like an adult- the supposed for real working class when I put on my restaurant uniform.

Even though Momma had forbidden me to see Clara, we still hung out almost every weekend when I left work early and after school when I wasn't working. At this point in time, we mainly went to watch movies and or meet up with the some of the juniors at someone's house party.

I can never forget the house party we went to the week of my eighteenth birthday. I managed to take off from work that Friday in November so Momma wouldn't know I was out partying.

Clara and I had big plans. We were going to go to a block party, then end up at an underground club. It would be my very first time to attend an underground night club, Clara already explained to me that the word underground in reference to the club means hidden so not necessarily underneath a building. This will be Clara's second and or third time. Both of us were a year older than our classmates and we were as in tune with each other as conjoined twins.

That Friday after school, I went to Clara's house, then we went to the mall to kill time, eating at the food court and window shopping. I had my party outfit in my backpack, but while window shopping at a chic store, I saw a pair of black leather pants. The mannequin also had on a red tank top with a black fishnet, long-sleeve top over it. Next to this outfit lay a pair of ankle- high shiny red boots.

I had to have the whole outfit. One of the luxuries of making my own money was shopping for my own clothes. I no longer had mother-dear to tell me what I could and could not wear. I bought whatever I wanted, whether it was "holy" or "worldly." Without hesitation, we walked into the store.

That eighty dollars was spent fast. I felt good that I'd bought myself a birthday present.

Clara and I spent more time doing nothing in the mall until it was time to head to her house. There we hung around, watching movies until it started to get a little dark. Then we started to get ready.

Clara was now experimenting with alcohol. While I was getting ready, she was busy stealing grandma B's liquor from her bar collection., I don't think grandma B drank any of it. She mainly served it to guests. For every shot Clara stole, she replaced the clear liquor with water and the darkish liquor with apple juice. I'm surprised that after all these years, grandma B didn't realize it.

Another perk of having a job was that I was able to buy my very own makeup collection. By now, I had become more than a car makeup artist. Every morning, when Clara picked me up for school, I quickly and accurately applied my makeup in the car. Since I was now buying my own clothes, I also changed in the car and showed up at class in whatever I wanted to wear.

I might have been living carefree, but Momma still had her ways. If I didn't feel like hearing her lecture me about the world, then I had to take drastic measures. Her views on makeup and dress hadn't changed. Makeup was for fast girls, according to her. As for the dress code, she'd rather have me dressing like a pilgrim than wearing what I wanted to wear.

I was thrilled with my brand-spanking-new outfit. I felt fierce and sexy, and my brown eyes complimented the rest of the ensemble. I knew I would be the designated driver that night since Clara had already started her own personal party at her house.

It wasn't hard to tell which house was hosting the party. It was the one with the loud music and no empty parking space. We had a little distance to walk, and when we finally made it to the house, we were directed to the basement.

I had never seen so many teenagers in one basement at one time. We recognized some people from school, mainly some jocks, cheerleaders, and wanna-be socialites. The music selection was on point, so loud that I could feel the vibrations of the bass under my feet.

Clara wasted no time warming up to the crowd and dance floor and finding something to drink. I always enjoyed sitting back and watching the others dance and socialize.

Soon it was ridiculously hot in the basement, so I stepped out to cool off. The backyard held a few people, some passed out drunk on the grass, some making out in the shadows of darkness, and others smoking what didn't smell like tobacco.

This was the life. Happy birthday to me.

I gazed at the stars, but my moment was robbed by a gentle nudge on my right shoulder. I turned and saw Greg Graham, a senior football jock.

"Can I stand here with you?" he asked.

In disbelief of his question, I slowly said. "Sure."

One minute I was merely enjoying the breeze, and the next minute this pile of human hotness grabbed my attention. Suddenly it felt hot, or maybe it was just me. . . .

"Are you having a good time?" Greg asked with a stunning smile.

Still trying to figure out if he is really talking to me I responded slower than before. "Sure. And you?"

"It's cool—something to do, I guess." A moment of awkward silence passed. "My name is Greg. What's yours?" He moved in for a handshake.

His step forward sealed my doubt. Oh-my-goodness-he really is talking to me… I shyly stepped forward and extended my hand to meet his hand. "Nandi." I could barely speak because I couldn't believe this was actually happening.

"Nandi?" Greg chuckled.

He thinks my name is funny. I should've said something else.

He took a sip of whatever was in his red plastic cup. "That name is too cute. I can remember that."

Wait—what? Oh, my gosh. He thinks my name is cute!

"So how come you're not inside dancing?" Greg asked.

"It's too hot in there. I just came out for some air." A good quick line so I thought.

He mused. "I hear you. Who you with?"

"My friend Clara."

"Clara Gibbons?" Greg hollered,

"You know her?"

"Who doesn't know party-life Clara Gibbons? Matter of fact, she's in the basement talking to my friend."

I had to agree with him on that…."That's Clara all right—party-central."

"So, what are yall up to after the party—if it ends?" Greg's laugh warmed me even more.

In order not to look desperate, I had to come up with something fast. "I think Clara has plans for us."

Greg guffawed. "I bet she does. Hey, when you come back down to the basement, I'd like a dance with you, if that's cool."

I cleared my dry throat. "Me?"

Greg drew his longest and most dashing smile, the smile that said no-woman-turns-down a-guy-like-me kind of smile. "Yes, you. Are we on?"

"Uh, sure." It's getting hot out here again.

"Cool. I'm going downstairs to check on my buddies. See you then." Greg walked backward toward the patio door, his gaze still on me.

What in the world just happened? Greg wanted to dance with me?

"Nandi!" Clara hollered from the patio. After I answered, she headed toward me. "Are you okay out here?"

I gently shrugged my shoulders still in ponder of the Greg-factor. "I'm cool. Guess who just talked to me?"

"Who? Jesus?"

She must really have been buzzing. "No, silly. Greg."

Clara took a puff of the cigarette that had been slowly wasting away in her hand. "Greg Graham, the senior football jock?"

I shook my head up and down aggressively trying to maintain my cool. "Yes! He wanted a dance or something." I played it off like I wasn't stoked.

Clara ashed her cigarette. "Or something? Girl, you better go down there and dance with him."

I wanted reassurance from my friend to make sure I still wasn't dreaming. "No chance. He probably has a million and one girls in that basement. I'll pass."

"Girl, you are something else." Clara laughed and then gave me a little push toward the car. "You ready to head out to our next destination before the police come and shut down this party?"

The Sad truth was I feared that it was all a high school joke so instead of going to dance with Greg I decided to head out with Clara and leave the mystery of the what-if behind me. "Yeah, I am."

Clara threw the cigarette down and stomped on it to light it out as she blew the smoke in the air. "Let me go and grab my blazer, and we can go to the club," Clara said as she started back toward the patio door.

Once Clara had her blazer, we headed to the car. On the way, we heard a man's voice from afar, calling my name.

Clara and I both turned back, startled to see Greg jogging toward us.

"Oh, snap. What does he want?" Clara chuckled.

Greg caught up to us quickly, his breath fast from running. "Are you just going to leave me hanging?"

"I didn't think you were serious."

"What makes you say that?" Greg asked.

"I don't know." And I really didn't.

"Ok. I get it," Greg said.

"I'm leaving you two love birds to talk," Clara said. "Nandi, can I get the car keys? I'll be in the car waiting for you."

"Greg, that's my cue to go."

Greg grabbed my hand. "Can I at least get your number?"

If my skin had been any lighter he would have been able to tell how much I was blushing. "I'll give it to you when I see you at school."

Greg loosened his grip to form a handshake between us. "Okay, fine. Let's shake on it."

"Remember, you shook on it." Greg smiled.

I was smiling so hard my cheeks were hurting. "I'll remember. You can let go of my hand now."

Greg laced his hand with my hand which made me feel like some high school sweethearts that had been dating since the freshmen year. "I'll walk you to the car."

As we ambled along the street, I could see his lips moving but I couldn't hear what he was saying because my mind was too preoccupied as I wondered about his intentions.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Road Trip 2014

Everything moved in slow motion, hindering my comprehension, as I grabbed the photo albums and sat next to this stranger who called herself my aunt.

"I'll be right back. I'm going to step outside to call my husband," Patti said.

As if this situation wasn't weird enough on its own, now the only person I knew in this house had just walked out and left me behind with this lady.

"Move those cushions, honey, and scoot closer to me," Cecelia said.

Sitting next to her felt awkward because I'm the type of person who needs time to open up to strangers. I got it that she was my newfound aunt, but I was still puzzled. One minute I was binge-drinking my sorrows away in a dingy downtown-Memphis hotel, and the next I was being waited on in a mansion in Madison, Mississippi.

Why had I allowed Patti to take me for such an adventure?

Mr. Boe walked in then, carrying a tray filled with our drinks.

"Nandi, move that newspaper from the coffee table for me, please." Cecelia leaned forward, a line appearing between her eyes. "Be careful with it, Dee-dee."

"Excuse me?"

Cecelia's voice carried with gentleness. "Just place it on the bookshelf, honey."

"No, I mean, what did you call me?"

Cecelia paused and then laughed. "Dee-dee."

Mr. Boe served the beverages and left as Cecelia sipped her drink. "Is everything okay, Nandi, honey?"

I felt a thirty-second life-movie-preview play within my mind that brought back memories. "I'm fine. It's just that the last person who called me Dee-dee was Momma."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stir up sad feelings."

"The last time she called me Dee-dee was the day we left Mississippi. After we arrived in Illinois, she called me D." I cleared my suddenly dry throat. "I really miss her."

Cecilia whispered. "So, do I. I've missed her and you more than you know. Come sit down with me." Cecelia spoke softly and paused and took a sip of her tea. "You're as beautiful as your momma. I was hurt deeply when I found out she passed, and I did not even know it."

I could sense that Cecelia was bothered by mommas passing I knew for a fact that she had been trying to hide her tears from us since we got here. "How did you find out?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know, but somehow, I felt I had to.

Cecelia placed her drinking glass on the coffee table and turned her knees towards me. "I had been looking for you and your momma for the past thirty-seven years."

"Thirty-seven years?"

"You were only three years old the last time I saw you and your mother. That's when we took the picture in the hallway." Cecelia reached for some tissue and blotted under her eyes. "I didn't know if you were alive or what had happened. Lois neglected the correspondence, by the time we caught up with Lois you and you momma had left her home and she didn't know where you were at as well. The only thing that eased my mind for a short time before I turned back to worry again was the next-door neighbors."

"Grandpa Thompson?"

"Yes! You remembered." Cecelia laughed.

"That man saved my life more times than anyone would ever know."

"He was an awesome man." Cecelia reached for her tea and sipped, then she used her tissue to wipe her lipstick stain from it.

I almost feel as though Cecelia is my missing link to the puzzle of my father, even though I am scared to ask her about my father I am more fearful of her response…what if she doesn't know my father then I am back to square one or worse she might know of him but not know where he is…I think this is one of those moments in my life where I feel I almost have to ask and be willing to accept whatever her response is.

I waited for a few minutes to pass while we sat in silence before asking Cecelia the million-dollar-question. "Do you know my father?"

Cecelia laughed. "Do I know him? Of course, honey." Cecelia stopped in mid-sentence and scooted all the way back onto the couch and gently laid her arm on the armrest with her elbow on the armrest she laid her chin in her palm. "Let me ask you something. Has your mother ever mentioned me?"

I hadn't anticipated that response. "Momma never talked much about her upbringing. The only person she spoke much about was her great-grand mammy who taught her basic life lessons like sewing, cooking, and reading the Bible."

Cecelia repositioned herself and tucked her hands on her laps and laced her fingers together. "Your mother went through a lot. Her own mother died while giving birth to her, and because of that, your mother was raised by Imogene Hendricks. Imogene was her great-grand mammy."

Mr. Boe peeked in the room. "Are y'all doin' fine." He said.

Cecelia gracefully nodded her head and continued to talk. "She was the sweetest lady ever, but by the time your momma was born, Imogene was getting up there in age. She raised your momma the best she could while also raising her sister's abandoned children."

Cecelia paused to inhale and gently exhaled. "Imogene was a busy mammy, and she worked hard to provide for all four nieces and nephews plus your mother. Willie is the oldest and last we knew of him was years ago. We heard he was somewhere up north. Deidra was the second born, and she has since passed." Cecelia stood up and walked towards her bookshelf. With her back turned toward me she continued to talk. "No one knows what took her life. Back then, everything was ruled as a heart attack, but Deidra was only in her early thirties when she passed, so I don't think it was a heart attack. Hedrick was next. Poor lonesome soul, he was different—always stayed to himself and drank like a fish." Cecelia's voice became louder as she continued to shuffle through her bookshelf. I couldn't help myself but to get up and help her look for whatever it is she was looking for. "What are you looking for auntie?"

"l will know it when I find it honey. Thank you." Cecelia said while rearranging and shuffling her books. "He was stabbed in a bar fight and died at age twenty-five. The poor thing never lived to repent and never lived to be sober enough to understand life. And the last we heard from Francine, she was in Alabama." By this time, Cecelia had stacked books on the floor, scooted some to different parts of the bookshelf. "No one knows where Francine is. Ever since her last two divorces, it's hard to track her down, and she's never come to see the rest of the family down here either." Cecelia looked at me and said. "Help me down child" as she extended her arm to me. I grabbed her arm tightly and she gracefully went on her knees and started moving the books out of the lower shelf.

"Then we have your mother, Jean-Marie, the youngest of all the children Imogene raised, but the most ambitious. Imogene tried hard to convince the other children to go to college and make something of themselves, but none of them did except your momma." Cecelia released a warm laugh into the atmosphere and clapped her hands at what she had just said. "Your momma was young, ambitious, and pretty. Your momma's mammy was half Creole, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, but her folks migrated to Mississippi too long ago for them to trace their lineage to Louisiana." Cecelia had managed to take the whole bottom shelf of books out and was flipping through them. "I knew for a fact that your momma was going to be someone in life until she met Morris—your father. Your momma was married to Morris for four years. Your father came into the marriage with a son from his previous marriage—"

"Wait a minute. A son?"

"His name is Morris Junior. Things didn't go well in your parents' marriage, which ended up in a bitter separation. In those days, the church and society frowned on divorce. It wasn't something a woman did naturally." Cecelia started to pack the books back on the bottom shelf.

"So when your momma left your father when you were about three years old, Lois West and I went to pick up Jean and you in Mobile Alabama and brought y'all back to Mississippi with us."

Cecelia picked up a dusty looking encyclopedia and shook it aggressively and a vintage photo came flying out. "There you are!" Cecelia shouted with Joy. "Get me up honey." Cecelia reached her arm up towards me and I helped her up. Cecelia fixated her eyes on the photo as she finished telling me the story. "Then Lois asked your momma and you to live with her, even though I was ready to take y'all up north with me and Charlie. But Lois thought it wasn't wise to move a whole family of four up north without knowing how things would turn out." Cecelia sighed with her eyes still appended to the photo. "So we agreed that you and your mother would stay in Lois's care. But if I'd known then what I know now, I would've just moved y'all up there with me."

I scooted closer to Cecelia to take a peek at the photo. "Where is my father?"

Cecelia's eyes never let go of the photo. "Honey, I can't even tell you. Last I knew, he was in Alabama somewhere."

"What about my brother? How old is he? Is he still alive?"

Cecelia shrugged her shoulders. "I think he's still alive. I can't tell you where he lives. He was three years older than you. Your father was highly upset at the way your mother left him, so he made it hard for your mother and Lois to see Morris Junior."

"Who are all them people in the photo?"

Cecelia wore a proud smile as she handed me the photo. "This here is your family. Your mammy, pappy, brother, Uncle Charlie and I." Cecelia placed the photo in my hands and placed her hand on my shoulder as she walked me towards the sofa. I couldn't take my eyes off this vintage nostalgic photo, the questions I had about my father's looks were all in this photo…I definitely have my father's nose, brows bottom lip and undeniably his Hershey's chocolate skin tone, Cecelia and I sat close on the couch and I couldn't take my eyes away from the photo as Cecelia continued to talk. "For the longest time, your father and brother bounced around from state to state. I don't blame your mother for leaving him. I would've done the same thing if I'd been in her shoes, but Lois held a grudge against your momma for a long time because your father is Lois's only son. Lois thought if she took in your momma and you, she might be able to convince your momma to go back to Morris." Cecelia drew a sigh. "Your momma was concerned because it looked bad for the small church in Alabama where he preached—"

"Wait. My father is a preacher?"

Cecelia shook her head. "Not anymore."

"I don't understand."

Cecelia adjusted her posture and sat upright. "You're a grown woman now, and I think you can handle the truth. You deserve to know, and besides, I might not be here tomorrow." Cecelia sternly said.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't want to worry you, but I want you to know the truth about your family." Cecelia picked up her glass of ice tea and took a sip.

"Are you—all right?" I had to ask because I could sense something in her tone.

"No, I'm dying. A few years back, my physician found a stomach aneurysm. All they can do for me is monitor it through diagnostic scans. Each year, it grows and there is nothing they can do for me—nothing my money can do for me."

"I don't understand." How can this be happening and I just met the lady? This is not what I expected.

" I hired a private investigator to look for you and your mother. I never stopped thinking about your wellbeing. Now that Lois West is deceased and your mother's grand-mammy is too, I knew that you'd never find out the truth about your family if I didn't tell you."

"What about surgery?" My mind was stuck on fixing her medical condition, I had already failed momma because I didn't do enough for her and as an MD (used to be) it weighs heavy on my heart.
Cecelia cleared her throat. "I am not a candidate for surgery. My age and other health problems place me at a high risk. No surgeon in town would dare touch me. But to me, that is fine. God has granted me the best life on earth I could ever ask for, and you being here tops it all off." Cecelia smiled. "Oh, Dee-dee, cheer up!"

"Have you gone to a city for another opinion? Maybe I can talk to my colleagues and get referrals for you"

Cecelia gracefully spoke. "No, but I will be fine. God is in control."

"What do your children think about it?"

Cecelia snickered. "Charlie and I never could have any children."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Cecelia seemed unbothered by my remark. "Don't be. Everything happens for a reason."

"When Momma found out about her cancer, she, too left it in God's hands. I used to think she was either crazy or had a lot of faith. As I watched her health decline, I wondered where this 'God' of hers was."

Cecelia raised her hands around and waved her arms in a circular motion. "He is all around. In our toughest times, He is right beside us. And in our toughest times, we should lean on Him." Cecelia scooted toward her coffee table, picked up her Bible, and put on her glasses. "Do you know the story of Job in the Bible?"

All I could think about was here we go again with this Bible stuff. "I know there is a Job in the Bible somewhere, but I couldn't tell you the story."

"Fair enough. I will read one passage and your assignment tonight is to read the whole book of Job." Cecelia licked her index finger then flipped through the pages. "Aha! Here is my passage. Now listen to me. 'His wife said to him, "'Are you still maintaining your integrity? Curse God and die!'" He replied, "'You are talking like a foolish woman. Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?'" That's Job 2:9-10." Cecelia closed the Bible. "And that is your assignment for tonight before you lay your head down."

The living room door opened slowly and Patti came in before I could answer Cecelia.

"Is everything okay at home?" Cecelia asked Patti.

"Yes, ma'am. My husband likes to make sure we are fine." Patti said, sitting on the couch.

Cecelia lowered her yawn. "Well, ladies, it's been a long day. Nandi and I didn't get a chance to look at the photo albums, but we can do that sometime this week. I'd like you to stay in my guest rooms."

"We can't do that—" I said without thinking even though the lady is technically my relative.

"I insist. I'll be heartbroken if you decline. Besides, Nandi and I have a lot to catch up on." Cecelia laughed.

"That's okay," I said. Someone had to answer her because all Patti did was look at me as if I drove myself here.

Cecelia stood up. "Great! Well, let's get ready to head out to dinner. I'm going to treat y'all to my favorite southern-down-home-restaurant, and when we get back, I'll show you to your rooms."

Chapter Twenty-nine

Twenty-one Years Earlier

That evening, we left the basement party to continue our birthday celebration at the underground club. Clara knew the DJs who hosted the underground clubs, so she could get us in even though we were underage. I was eager to see what this "underground nightclub " was all about. After all, Clara talks about nothing but these massive parties that go on all night in the club. My mood was pretty good since I knew we were going to the underground party without Andrea because we all know what happened the last time the three of us tried something illegal. I was so glad Andrea was behind me.

On each birthday, I give myself a little theme. All throughout my eighteenth year, I promised myself that I would not think about my earlier life. I chose instead to live in the moment and embrace my future because dwelling on most of my life's events tended to bring me down and slow my life down in terms of hope. I had one more year of high school, then college. I was excited to go away from home. Nothing against Momma, but I think I was at peak season to fall off the branch of the tree. Unlike me, Momma was going to take my going away to college hard. That was natural since the two of us had never been apart for long periods of time since I was born.

The minute we arrived at the club, I was taken back. I knew Clara had a few drinks in her system, so I questioned her directions as I drove. This would be my first time at an underground party, and all I could see was a parking lot among abandoned warehouse buildings. Clara pointed out the parking garage. Once we left the car, I heard nothing but silence. I was used to events where the music and people could be heard miles and miles away.

"Are you sure this is where the party is, Clara?"

"Yes! For the last time, I'm sure."

I was nervous, mainly because I hated parking garages. They creeped me out. Maybe some of the criminal shows I watched had a lot to do with that. The garage was partially lit and had a pungent smell, like old nasty trash and urine. It reminded me of an alley.

As we walked toward the elevator, I couldn't help looking over my shoulders. Clara was fine, but that was probably due to the liquid courage in her body.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon—" Stupid elevator couldn't get to us fast enough.

"Nandi!" Clara hollered.

"What?"

"The elevator is coming. How many times do you have to keep pressing the button?" Clara looked around the garage. "Oh, I have to pee."

"Well, I hope you know how to hold it."

"No, I don't. I have to go," Clara said, running off into the dark.

"Clara!" I hated it when she did that. "The elevator is here."

"Hold it! I'm almost done," she hollered from a distance.

Clara emerged from the dark and, truth be told, I was a nervous wreck. I was hoping she was fine and that nothing would happen to her, and I was hoping that nothing would happen to me. "Oh, my goodness, what is that smell?"

"Calm down, girl. It's an abandoned elevator."

"Abandoned? Why are we on it? Is it safe?"

"Safer than walking down that staircase in the dark."

The elevator jerked and made a weird cranking sound. I thought for sure we were stuck.

Clara reached forward and pried the two doors open. "We're here! Follow me."

We walked down a winding hallway that was filled with tons of graffiti. It didn't smell any better than the elevator, but the building had clearly been fully functional and well-kept at one point in time before rambunctious teens tore it up. The lights in the hallway flickered, but Clara pulled her mini flashlight from her purse and led the way as though she was leading us to freedom. I could tell we were getting closer and closer to our destination by the sound of the music. The closer we got, the louder it became.

We arrived at the door. It seemed odd to me that there wasn't a long line of people. In fact, there was no line at all, which raised a question in my mind. Surely Clara hadn't taken me to one of her drinking and drugging holes.

Clara knocked on one of the two metal doors. A small compartment slid open and all I could see was half a face, because the moment this little compartment opened, it shut again, quickly. Then we heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Someone pried open one of the doors, and Clara walked in first.

When I walked in behind her, she was whispering in the ear of one of the guys, and he was nodding. The men looked as though they had just escaped from the penitentiary. Their muscles had muscles, and their faces had muscles as well as their bodies looked like art boards filled with colorful tattoos. They signaled for Clara and me to come in, then they went back to their conversation.

After a few steps, we ran into another door. Clara opened it, and my eardrums were overwhelmed by the volume of the music. I stood in shock at the number of people in this dome-shaped building. It looked like thousands on top of thousands. This massive room was dark and well-lit with digital disco-looking balls and rays of anonymous lighting, in sync with the beat of the music. Thick fog filled the massive dance floor.

I had never seen so many people dancing so energetically on such a huge dance floor. Clara grabbed my hand and whisked me through the thick body of people. She navigated through the crowds as though she knew exactly where we were going.

When we reached the DJ booth, the security there let Clara through. I eagerly stood in anticipation of her return. I kept my eyes on her the whole time she was in the booth. She talked to the DJ in a flirtatious manner, then she reached into her purse and handed him something. Then he slid an object into her purse.

It looked highly suspicious but my focus was immediately distracted by some guy who got up in my face with some intrinsic dance moves. I thought the joke was on me and he was trying to be funny until he leaned in and whispered in my ear.

"Are you rolling?" he slurred.

I stepped back in confusion and he danced off into the fog.

"Hey," Clara hollered over the loud music as she interrupted my moment of awkwardness. She grabbed my hand and walked me over to the makeshift bar. We found two open seats, and we sat down and ordered water. Then we walked toward the back of the warehouse to a more secluded area. The makeshift bleacher seats looked like a lover's lane or make-out section, except it wasn't explicit. There was something wrong with the imagery my brain was receiving, but who was I to question? Just a girl in the mix of this underground party shenanigans. What had Clara gotten me into?

"Would you like one?" Clara opened a plastic bottle that held little white pills.

"What is that?"

"Do you want to try one?" Clara smiled as though she didn't hear my question.

"No. I'm good."

"Okay. I'm going to take one to start with, so please watch me and make sure I'm fine. Don't leave me alone." Clara laughed.

"What are you taking?"

"It's just a pill that makes you feel good. I have three more if you want one."

"No, thanks."

I watched Clara take a pill, but I had no idea what it was. Within fifteen minutes, she was dancing sensually on her own. The next thing I saw was the DJ guy. He sat behind her and gave her a shoulder massage, whispering in her ear. She wouldn't stay still. She continued to dance in her chair and stroking her hair gingerly.

At that moment, the blinders slipped from my face. There was something to that pill Clara took right before acting weird. The lover's lane above us had something to do with the pills as well. I realized that the guy who danced right in front of me earlier was most likely high on the same pills. There was no way all those people on the dance floor could dance as energetically as they did for such a long time on natural energy.

I knew I had to keep a close eye on Clara.

As crowded as this old warehouse was, there was poor air circulation, and I felt dehydrated for some reason. The makeshift bar was around the corner and out of view from Clara, but I couldn't leave her by herself.

"Are you doing okay?" I asked her.

"I'm thirsty. Do you have any more water?" Clara swiped at the sweat on her forehead.

I shook my head.

"I'll get you girls some water," the DJ said.

This solved the problem. I didn't have to leave Clara by herself.

While we waited for our water, Clara looked like a cat, stretching the different parts of her body. A few times she tried to be Wonder Woman, leaping from one seat to another, and I had to calm her down.

I was glad when the DJ came back with water. It was so refreshing and cool. Clara managed to sit still after a glass of water, but when I drank mine, the room began to spin. The music was louder than before. People moved in slow motion. I felt weak.

Then, all of a sudden, I felt a burst of energy. Clara seemed ready to go to the dance floor, and I went along. I felt as though I was walking on a cloud.

The minute our feet touched the dance floor, the music overtook my body. My shyness was obsolete. I was on top of the world. Then the people around me started to look distorted. I don't remember anything after that.

"Good morning, sunshine!" an unfamiliar voice said.

"Who are you?"

"Jeni. Your nurse for the day."

"Where am I?"

"You're in the emergency room."

Emergency room? I tried sitting up but my whole entire body felt as though I had just fallen out of a four-story building.

"Relax and let the medication kick in," Becky said as she walked toward the door.

"Poor thing. She doesn't even know where she is. She's lucky to be alive," a female's voice said from behind the curtain.

"The other one is in a coma. We don't know if she's going to pull through or not." A man stuck his head around the curtain and peeked at me, then he shut it. I could still hear him talking behind the curtain. "She's slowly coming out of it."

The curtain opened again. "Nandi?" he said.

"Yes." I felt so weak.

"My name is Officer Smith. My partner and I have few questions to ask you," he said. "Do you remember where you were last night?"

"Sort of." I was still confused at what was going on.

One of the officers said. "We need you to tell us where you were and what happened."

Life as I knew it would be over if I told them I was in an over-twenty-one underground party. How much time would I have to do for that? "Am I going to get in trouble?"

The compassion in the gray-haired officer's eyes nearly broke me. "You and your friend had no business in an underground party with alcohol and drugs, but now we're investigating your rape and assault," he said as he flipped his palm size notebook to a fresh page.

"Wait. Rape?"

Surely, I was dreaming and this was a nightmare.

He hesitated. "I thought the nurse had already spoken with you."

"No. I wasn't raped."

"A rape kit proved otherwise. I know it's hard to grasp this information, but that's why we're here, so we can catch the man who did this to you."

"You have the wrong person." My tears of anger couldn't help themselves. They rolled down my cheeks. "You have the wrong person! I wasn't raped!"

"Calm down—"

"I wasn't raped. I want to go home." I started ripping off the tape that secured the IV line to my arm.

The nurse ran into the room at the signal of the officer's partner. "Nandi, you cannot take the IV out of your arm. You're weak and need lots of fluids in your body."

"I want to go home."

"You can soon, but not just yet. You're a victim of rape—"

"Stop saying that! I just passed out at the party."

"Officers, can you give us some time alone, please?" The nurse said, looking at the two cops.

"Take your time," the lead officer said as they walked out to the hallway.

The nurse sat on the edge of my bed and put her arm around me. "I know it's hard to come to terms with what happened, but your friend is fighting for her life as we speak. Whoever assaulted you gave y'all some bad drugs that caused your friend to overdose. They caused you to pass out and led to you being taken advantage of."

"I didn't take any drugs." My weakness now paled in comparison to my confusion.

"Then someone must have put drugs into your drink without you knowing it. Did anyone buy y'all a drink or hold your drink for you? Did y'all leave opened drinks unattended at any time?"

"Oh—my goodness." The horror of realization felt worse than the confusion, and I wailed like a child. "How could he do this to us?"

The nurse hugged me tightly. The officers must have heard me crying because they dashed back into the room.

"It was the DJ. He gave us some water and right after I drank it, I felt funny, but I thought that was just because it was hot in the building. How could he do this to me?"

The nurse rocked me back and forth like a baby. "It's going to be okay. The police will find him and bring justice to your pain."

Little did she know that there wasn't anything justice could do for me and my stolen innocence.

Then all of a sudden, I felt disgusted with myself. What if I was pregnant? How would I explain this to Momma? Why me? "Where is Clara?"

"She's in a coma. The rest is under investigation."

No . . . "Is she going to make it?"

"I don't know. I can't tell you what's going on with your friend due to privacy laws." The nurse said as she wiped my tears off my cheeks.

Chapter Thirty

Road Trip 2014 Madison, Mississippi

I knocked softly on the door that evening. I couldn't help myself but poke my head through the door crack. "Hey, you. Can I come in for a second?" I asked Nandi.

"Sure, you can. I'm just oiling my hair. Wanna help?" Nandi exclaimed while parting her hair.

I walked towards Nandi. "I see I came in the nick of time. Boy! Your room is much fancier than mine." I couldn't help but notice the difference in décor from room to room. I know Cecelia had to have paid someone to maintain such unique and elegant decor.

Nandi dipped her index finger in the jar of coconut oil and reached for her scalp. "I thought they were all the same."

I sat down on the bed next to Nandi who was sitting on the floor. "Yours has a king-size bed and enough room to do Pilates in. It looks like this room is a part of the Buckingham Palace. Mine is cozy and intimate, kind of on the nostalgic side. My room almost looks like it could be a set from an old Western movie."

Nandi carefully pressed the chunk of coconut oil that lay steady on her index finger in the middle of the parted hair. "I think you're exaggerating!"

I bent down towards the floor and reached for the jar of coconut oil and placed it on the bed. "No, I'm not. It's a cool room, though I can tell that someone took their time out with all the old picture frames and matching fixtures to make the theme in my room come together." I dipped my index finger in the solid coconut oil and scooped out a dime size portion. "Everything in my room fits the motif—even the handmade quilt on my bed." I started applying small portions of coconut oil on the back of Nandi's scalp.

I couldn't but notice the sudden silence Nandi grew. "Are you okay?"

Nandi shrugged her shoulders. "I guess." She said solemnly.

I could tell something had been occupying her mind. Her sudden quietness often and her blank gazes every now and then. "You guess what?"

Nandi huffed. "I guess I'm as okay as I will ever get. Everything so far is not quite linking up, I met a relative but only to find out she can die at any moment…I suppose the good part is I had a visual picture of my father."

I picked up a wide tooth comb to create some more parts in the scalp for oil. "I understand what you mean." I couldn't help it but release a sigh.

Gasp. "It's just—I don't feel much like talking." Nandi insisted.

"Okay." Given the circumstances, I didn't anticipate her new relative having such sad news…not what I would have liked for Nandi especially after the fact that her mother passed away not too long ago.

Nandi whispered. "I'd like to know how you and my supposed aunt Cecelia arranged this."
I had managed to oil the back portion of her head and I was lightly massaging the hair. I don't think right now would be the perfect time to tell her: Pierre was helping Brian clean out Momma Jean's home, they found an old box in the basement. When they opened it, there were all kinds of papers on top. Pierre started going through the supposed papers and found momma Jeans marriage license, Lois West's address, and several letters from Cecelia Worthington. In that same box was a family Bible that had a photo in it. The picture was of Momma Jean back in the day, and she was holding a little baby, whom we speculated was Nandi. A man stood next to Momma Jean with his arm affectionately around her shoulder, and a little boy stood in front of him. Brian didn't know what to do since Nandi was still emotionally frail from the loss of Momma Jean. Brian asked Pierre to take the box with him to Chicago. After a couple of weeks, I borrowed his car and saw this filthy old box in the backseat. I grabbed it, thinking it was trash. I started to go through it, the bottom came loose and the Bible hit the floor. Then a bunch of wrinkled papers followed. I picked up the Bible to flip through it and saw the picture. At first, I thought that was Momma Jean's brother or relative standing next to her. I started to read some of Cecelia's letters to momma Jean, and then I saw the marriage license and it dawned on me that the man in the picture must have been Momma Jean's husband. I knew something had to be done because now I had questions. I remembered that since college, Nandi always wanted to know more about her family, especially her father. So I searched for Cecilia on Google and located her that way. I was ecstatic as though it was my family I was looking for. I talked to Brian, and he agreed that it would be great for the two of them to meet.

Nandi turned her head towards me. "So how was this meet-Cecelia-thing organized?"

"I don't think it makes a difference right now to know. Trust me." I felt bad that I had brought her this far for yet another disappointment. 'Hi. I am your new aunt and I can die at any moment now.' What a friend I am… unraveling the people connected to this would only make the situation worse and maybe even create a trigger for her.

"Let's just say I knew this was important for you." We were finally done with the whole head greasing-thing. I couldn't help myself but start plaiting her hair.

"How did Miss Cecelia respond to your request?" Nandi asked.

"The minute she found out who I was and that I knew your mom and you, she started calling me almost every day, just to make sure we wouldn't back out of coming."

We both laughed. "That's amazing, but thank you for finding my relative. It means a lot to me at this stage of my life. I wish Momma Jean was around to know that I found her."

I was relieved to hear that she was grateful to meet her aunt and that I hadn't completely failed her. After I neatly placed four rolls of plaits my belly was growling.

"Aren't you hungry?" I asked.

Nandi shook her head no. "We just came from dinner."

"I know but that was hours ago, and you didn't eat." I was trying not to be a complete psychologist because I knew how fragile she was and I didn't want to upset her.

"I didn't have an appetite," Nandi said in a lowered tone.

"Nandi not having an appetite is like Southern California having blizzards in winter."

Nandi stood up and stretched. "Maybe I'll eat the rest of my food tomorrow."

"Have you been shaky, weak, stomach cramps, or any other side effects?" That part of my career I couldn't help. It was her safety first so I had to know. As there are many dangers in weaning some people off alcohol cold-turkey.

"Here you go again, acting as if I'm a good-for-nothing alcoholic." Nandi stalked off into the bathroom.

"That is not what I said. I've worked with a lot of—"

Nandi closed the bathroom door and shouted. "Lot of what—addicts like me?"

I don't understand why she becomes so defensive (psychologically I have an understanding) but I guess what she doesn't understand is my sincerity. I'm her best friend, not her enemy, not her boss, not the world. I'm not here to judge her or look at her funny or categorize her like the world will do. I am genuinely concerned. I love her and want her to be whole. I'm an ex-addict who is familiar with withdrawal symptoms and how the enemy can use them to one's disadvantage. "I have experience. Don't you forget that!" I hollered out of frustration.

The bathroom door came flying open and Nandi walked towards my direction.

"I overreacted. The truth is, I didn't feel hungry today at dinner because, for the first time in years, I had food in front of me without any kind of wine or cocktail. I'm not going to lie to you—it was hard." I walked towards her and embraced her. "Oh-Nandi" Nandi buried her head on my shoulders and begun to sob. "If Cecelia hadn't been at the table, I would've ordered a whole bottle of wine for myself. I tried taking a few bites of my food, but it felt weird to eat without any alcohol. I realized something tonight that I've denied for twenty years. I'm an alcoholic. It must be true, right?" Nandi gasped for air.

I felt a sigh of relief belch out of my chest. Could this be our day of change? Thank you, God! "Oh, Nandi, it was a hard pill for me to swallow when I realized I was a sex addict. The truth does hurt but it also serves as the start of a healing process." I grabbed on tightly to Nandi and allowed her to let all her tears out on my shoulder.

Nandi tried talking through her tears. "It's as though I could literally feel my skin burning up tonight. A rush of heat blanketed my body, which made me tense. If you ask me about the conversation at the table tonight, I won't be able to tell you a thing. My body was there but my mind was eyeballing the other tables as I watched other people enjoying their drinks."

I walked Nandi to the bed and sat her down. "We are going to beat this thing together," I assured her while rubbing her back.

Nandi leaned her head on my shoulder and started to sob again. "The more I watched other people, the more my flesh seemed to feel hot. I tried drinking as much water as I could, but my mind was fixated on having a drink."

"I had no idea Nandi…."

"I am honestly glad we didn't stick around there too long because I could've easily flipped a switch had I been there long enough. I hate that feeling, the feeling of wanting to drink and then the feeling of hating myself in the morning when I wake up with a nasty hangover, disgusted with myself."

"It's a vicious cycle in which I know you can beat." I had to assure her and make sure she did not feel defeated.

"I was like a revolving door. I got tired of breaking my own promises, and I got tired of drinking, but not enough to stop on my own. I didn't understand that. So many times I sat at home drinking and drinking and drinking and secretly wanting to stop—wanting to stop while I was drinking."

"I understand more than anyone knows, and I am here for you."

Nandi raised her head to reach for some tissue on the nightstand. " I have secretly wished to be normal. Normal, to me, was being able to stop after a glass or two of wine. I used to wonder why I suffered from so much lack of control because I have known people who have drunk their entire lives, but the alcohol has never consumed their lives." Nandi started pacing the room shaking her head.

"I used to want to be normal too—and I know you will be free from all this."

"I don't understand how some people can drink in moderation. I used to yearn secretly for things normal people do, simple things like taking a walk in the park, riding a bike, going to the theater sober, bowling, singing in the choir again, playing sports, going to the gym, going to a concert."

I stood up and walked toward Nandi and wrapped my arms around her. "S-h-h-h. It's going to be ok." I know she was going through it and my best bet was to listen to her.

Nandi spoke with her mouth pressed against my shoulder. "I've sat down on the basement stairs with a paper and pen and written down things I want to do when I quit drinking. And yet I still never viewed myself as an alcoholic. I was lying to myself. But something deep down inside of me kept hinting that I couldn't keep living like this and expect to have a future."

All I could do is squeeze Nandi tightly against my body…the genuine I am here for you type of hug. "Something deep inside was convicting me, trying to pull me to sobriety, even though my flesh had its own agenda. It's kind of scary to know I've been drinking for twenty years. I look back over my life and wonder what happened. When did it all take place? I was the girl who didn't drink, then I became the party drinker."

"We cannot figure it all out. We just have to take it one day at a time." Nandi stepped back and walked to the bathroom while she was talking. " Back in the day, a glass of red wine would do me in for the whole night. Now I need a bottle or two with a few shots of liquor to top it off. All these thoughts stem from my dinner experience today. I don't think I would be dwelling too much on my own drinking if I'd had a drink today." I walked towards the bathroom. "But I didn't. Not having one made me more aware of my drinking. I have never told anyone this, but a few years back, Brian kept getting on me about my drinking, so I went to an outpatient rehabilitation center for an evaluation." I leaned against the bathroom door frame and watched Nandi rinsing off her face. "Initially, I went to prove to Brian that I wasn't an alcoholic. After the initial evaluation, they insisted I have a consultation with a counselor that same day. I gladly did it because I thought it was standard procedure. I expected to hear that I was fine and Brian was just over-caring, but that is not what I heard." Nandi reached for her face towel and dried her face and looked in the mirror. She gazed at her face as though looking at it for the very first time. With the white small face towel, still, in her hands, she spoke while looking at herself in the mirror.

"The counselor was amazed at the amount I drank per day. She had a lot of concerns and she insisted I start rehab as soon as possible. I didn't think there was anything wrong with the amount of alcohol I drank. I hesitantly signed up for outpatient rehab so Brian would not know."

Nandi laid the towel on the sink and walked back into the room and sat on the bed. I followed right behind her. "It was an eight-week program. The first week was tough but I managed. The second week was even tougher, but I managed then too. I completed my program, they provided me with a great sponsor, and I even started attending meetings. I was on a roll and I was determined." Nandi reached for her bonnet that was underneath the pillow and placed it on her head. "Eight months later, Clara came to town and what happened? I relapsed. She didn't know—no one knew I had finished rehab. After my relapse, what happened? I got into trouble with the law, lost my driver's license, lost my medical license, and from that point forward, my whole life plummeted." Nandi opened the bed cover and got underneath the covers sitting upright with her back to the headboard. "I am so sorry to hear that." I said. "Don't be. What did I do that was so bad, other than lacking self-control, that God had to take it all away within a few years? First, it was Brianna, then my career and my reputation. I was so angry, I didn't set foot in a church for years. Instead, I decided to prove to people that I was not an addict. I started decreasing my alcohol quantity while increasing my alcohol percentage intake." Nandi was twiddling her thumbs. "This was my way of moderation. Instead of two or three wine bottles, I drank one with shots of liquor. Instead of one wine bottle, I bought one bottle of liquor and drank it straight because, in my mind, I was not an alcoholic. In my mind, the world had turned its back on me, and I was out here to fend for myself." Nandi yawned before continuing to talk. "Over the years, Brian invested a lot of money, sending me to rehabs, but I wasn't ready. I went for the vacation and the drugs they gave me to calm down my supposed withdrawals. I agreed to go to the rehabs to make Brian happy so he would get off my back, but deep down inside, I wasn't sick-and-tired-yet."

Chapter Thirty-one

Twenty Years Earlier

My senior year couldn't come fast enough. High school was like a mixed bag of skittles that brought the good, the bad and the so—so experiences. I hadn't expected that. After all, my imagination had led me to anticipate exciting high school years. I think I set myself up for major disappointment. What happened to all the cute boys who were supposed to be fighting for my attention? What happened to that cool café, where all the cool high school kids spent most of their time?

I was drowning in stone-cold reality. Middle school had hyped high school as the next best thing, but when I got there, I found out it was just another school system. Now I was ready to get out of high school and get it over and done with and out of my hair. I wanted to move on to the next level. This time around, I learned a great lesson, which was not to over-expect from college. That way I wouldn't be disappointed.

High school taught me some life lessons I would never have known otherwise. I learned that some kids will be mean and nasty no matter what you do. For example, a few months into high school, right around the time I started to hang around Clara and Andrea, I met a girl named Nichole.

I'll never forget her because, as naïve as I was and as desperate as I was for friends, she really deceived me. She was my walking home buddy. The first week, I noticed that we walked toward the same neighborhood, so I decided to befriend her on those terms. Initially, I thought she was cool to talk to. She was pretty and she hung around the larger group of popular sophomores at lunch, so I knew immediately that our friendship would be on a walk home basis only.

This was cool with me because I knew I was not on their level, and it didn't faze me. I was a freshman, just trying to get the gist of high school. But Nichole's friends were a bunch of filthy rich spoiled brats, which led me to wonder how Nichole even made the cut. But that was none of my business.

Nichole lived in the next block over from me. Our neighborhood was a fairly modest suburb, but at lunch and during school, she hung around with a crowd who lived in the ritzy part of town, the "Gucci-Burbs." Walking home with Nichole every day after school made me feel as though I was somewhat a friend of hers. After all, she confided in me and she looked out for me just like an older sister would, teaching me all the ins and outs of high school.

I was fond of Nichole until she found out that I hung around Clara and Andrea at lunch. That didn't sit well with Nichole. Initially, she didn't say anything to me about it. I was never sure why this was a problem with her since she was not inviting me to her inner circle of lunch friends. I remember hearing her make little snide remarks about Clara and Andrea, but it never fazed me. I was trying to figure out my first few months of high school.

Three months turned into six. Suddenly, after my freshman summer break, when Clara and Andrea and I became close, Nichole became a different person toward me. For instance, in the past, we met after our last class of the day and then walked home together. But that fall, Nichole made no mention of us meeting up. Then, when I saw her on campus, I waved at her, and at first I thought she didn't see me. Before long, I realized she was deliberately avoiding me. I wondered what I'd said to her to make her do that, but little did I know that it wasn't what I said but what I was doing.

I found that out the hard way. One day, a few of her lunch buddies confronted me. I was walking home from school and noticed Nichole with some of her friends, Sherika, Monica, and Page, standing at the end of the street. I felt uncomfortable, but it was too late to cross the street as there was a median in the middle and no crosswalk. The thought of turning around and going back to the light to cross the street and thereby avoid them seemed drastic. I had started to think it was all in my head, and perhaps Nichole didn't have a problem with me. With that in mind, I trudged toward the three girls.

As I approached them, I could hear them talking loudly and laughing. But as I met them, I heard dead silence and I felt cold stares. After I passed them, I heard whispering. I automatically started to walk faster.

Then I heard Nichole's voice calling my name.

I stopped dead in my tracks, took a deep breath, and turned around to see the three girls walking toward me.

"I heard you've been talking about me," Sherika said.

Monica and Page backed her up.

"Me?" My mouth quivered. I knew not to mess with Sherika. But I had never talked about her to anyone. I'd heard a lot, though—about the many fights she'd won, in which the other girls had walked away with broken teeth, bloody noses, and black eyes.

"Yes, you." Sherika folded her arms over her chest.

"It's not true."

"Nichole told me you were keeping my name in your mouth, and she wouldn't lie to me."

Behind her, Nichole agreed with every word.

Utterly confused, I dug deep in my mind to see if I ever said anything to Nichole about Sherika, but I knew I never did. I was stumped and I think my look gave it away.

"Next time I hear you talking about me, I will deal with that mouth—personally." Sherika snapped her fingers left, right, up and down and walked off with her two biggest fans right behind her.

I walked home alone, never wanting to come back to school. I had never been in a fight in my whole life, nor had I ever had an issue with anyone at school. The most that ever happened was when the kids made fun of my name or my big hair or sometimes my freckles. This high school stuff and drama that had just surfaced in my life put a new spin on high school.

That night, I could hardly sleep because I was so hurt. First, I couldn't understand why Nichole made up such a lie about me. Second, I couldn't get over Sherika's threat.

In class the next day, I confided in Clara, who in turn told Andrea. Come to find out, Andrea was plotting a vengeance fight against Sherika and her friends. I wasn't sure at that time where Andrea fit in all this drama, but she was determined to confront the sophomore girls. I honestly didn't want anything to do with the drama. All I wanted was to get back my days of ease. I was tired of walking on eggshells.

I didn't get mad at Clara for telling Andrea because I knew they had been best friends before I came into the picture. Then I found out that this issue with the three sophomore musketeers had been eating away at fight-hungry Andrea for some months, and now she had snapped.

Several months passed after Sherika threatened me. I had no choice but to keep going to school. Thank heavens, no danger seemed to be coming my way from the Three Musketeers. That's the name Clara, Andrea, and I decided to call them since that is what they thought they were.

Their cold stares still made me uncomfortable, though, especially the ones that came from Nichole. But I learned to deal with them. I made it a point not to look their way or even acknowledge their presence in the hall.

Before the winter break, I was so excited about my favorite holiday approaching that I forgot about the Three Musketeers. I had also forgotten how Andrea had been contemplating a day of her own in the wrestling ring with Sherika. But one day, when we were at our lockers in the hallway, Sherika tripped as she walked by us. Andrea happened to see it, and she laughed so loudly and hysterically that everyone in the hallway turned around to look.

Without a missed beat, Sherika turned and shoved Andrea against her locker.

As though she had been practicing her boxing skills, Andrea swung at Sherika.

The next thing I knew, the two of them were tussling. Andrea grabbed Sherika by her long braids and tripped them both. Andrea ended up on top of Sherika in a straddle position and took off on her as if the other girl was a punching bag.

Sherika must have felt overpowered, covering her face with her elbows. Both Clara and I tried to pry Andrea off, but she was glued on Sherika like Krazy Glue on paper.

Finally, the school police came to Sherika's rescue. The two girls were whisked off to the office. They were both suspended but our Christmas break served as the majority of their suspension time.

I never saw Sherika again. I heard that her mother sent her off to live with her father in New York.

As for Andrea, I think she won the title she always wanted to win, which was "The girl who beat up Sherika."

I needed to leave high school in the past—soon.

High school also taught me to grow a thick skin. There I discovered that people will lie about you or not like you just because you're being yourself. I quickly developed a shell. The sensitive Nandi died off the first year of high school.

The Three Musketeers were not the only girls who had an issue with Clara, Andrea, and me in high school. Plenty more didn't like us, but we didn't care. Plenty talked about us but no one ever confronted us after the Sherika-Andrea fight. Unlike other girls, we kept our little circle small for a reason. And because we didn't welcome anyone else, the other girls always had something to say about us through the rumor mill, which never surprised us.

Small wonder when my guidance counselor, Mr. Plummer, offered me two options at the start of my senior year. I was relieved. Surely now there was light at the end of this tunnel! I received a note, asking me to sit down with Mr. Plummer that afternoon. I had not seen my guidance counselor since the start of my junior year, so I was a little taken back. Every time I'd sat down with him before, it was about my grades, college preparation, and all the other boring stuff to do with academics. I wasn't interested in hearing that again.

I braced myself for the conversation with him after school, after the bell rang to dismiss us from the last period. I ambled to the office and was surprised to see a few more students waiting to see Mr. Plummer as well. I signed my name on the sign-in sheet and sat down to wait.

The hallway was quiet when suddenly his door flung open, and Amy, a girl from my third-period physics class, ran out of his office, crying. She slammed the door and raced down the hallway toward the exit.

I couldn't resist chasing Amy down to see what had her in tears. When I caught up to her, she couldn't even talk. She was covered in tears. The few words she choked out were something about not having enough credits to graduate.

Immediately, a sick feeling hit my stomach. I couldn't say much to her other than, "I'm sorry to hear that."

Amy left the building and I headed back toward the hallway outside the office.

Within minutes, another girl came out of Mr. Plummer's room. She too was in heavy tears.

My mind began to race. The last time I talked to Mr. Plummer, I was doing well with my academics. But as I watched one student after the other leave the office in tears or with disappointment on their face, I had to wonder if he'd give me the same news he gave Amy. Maybe I wasn't going to graduate either.

This was going to crush Momma Jean.

And all I wanted to do was leave high school. It would be torture to spend any more time here than necessary.

Finally, my turn was up. I dragged my feet as I entered the office. At least I was the last student on his list, so I wouldn't be so embarrassed when I walked out with tears on my face.

Mr. Plummer offered me a chair close to his desk. All I could do was sit on its edge. Mr. Plummer started fidgeting with his computer, all while asking me about my senior year so far. I answered haphazardly, as that was the least of my concerns.

"All right. Here you are." Mr. Plummer paused as if in deep concentration, staring at the computer screen. Then he rolled back his chair, stood, and walked toward the filing cabinet. He sorted through the folders in the cabinet, whispered the alphabet. Then he pulled out a folder. "Ah! Got it."

I couldn't handle waiting any longer to hear my sentence. "I guess this means I'm not graduating high school."

Mr. Plummer sat back down at his desk, clasped his hands in front of himself, and looked at me over his reading glasses.

"What makes you say that?"

"Amy told me what you said to her. I assumed I wasn't graduating either."

He laughed until his heavy jowls shook. Which I thought was kind of rude.

"Not hardly. You're a straight-A student with a 4.0 GPA. That makes you one of the outstanding students of your class. I called you to my office to offer you two options this fall. You've earned enough credits to graduate. You can either graduate early, after winter finals, or you can take electives during the second semester." Mr. Plummer smiled.

Graduate early? No more drama, no more waking up at wee hours in the morning and going to class all day, no more popularity contests, no more gossip, no more boy fights, no more cat fights, no more being torn down to bring someone else up, no more downright mean and nasty girls, no more meaningless competition with other girls . . . no more high school!

"Yes! Yes, I want to graduate early, right after winter finals."

Chapter Thirty-two

Road Trip 2014

I knocked on Nandi's door and then opened it an inch, peeking through the crack. "Are you up? Miss Cecelia is making breakfast for us. She told me to come and get you."

"I'm not hungry." Nandi said from underneath the covers.

Here we go again. "C'mon, now. You didn't eat supper last night, and now—"

"Leave me alone! I'm not hungry and I'm not coming down for breakfast."

I closed the door and headed to the kitchen. This was going to kill Cecelia.

In the kitchen, Nandi's aunt bustled around, turning bacon in a pan and stirring the rice. "Where is Dee-Dee?"

"She's tired and wanted to sleep a little longer." Despite Nandi's rudeness, I couldn't tell this poor old lady what her niece was going through. Knowing that Nandi didn't even want to come out the room and see her aunt—that would tear the older woman apart.

"I understand," Cecelia said. "Grab that extra apron on the pantry rack, dear. Then wash your hands and tie on that head scarf. You can be my sous chef." Cecelia chuckled.

This was going to be fun. "Yes, ma'am."

"Honey, you can call me 'aunt' too. Ma'am is too important—sounding for me."

"Okay, auntie."

Cecilia pattered me on my cheek. "There you go. You got it, baby. Now grab that sack of potatoes in the bottom of the pantry and wash them. Do you cook at all?"

"That depends on your definition of cooking. I make lots of instant meals."

"Oh, no, baby. That's not cooking. I'll teach you a thing or two about cooking from scratch. Before you leave here, you'll know how to make some hearty, good ol' home cooking."

"I'm here to learn!"

"The potato peeler is in the dish rack. You know how to use it, right?"

"Yes, I do." I got to work on the washed potatoes.

Cecelia took a seat at the table and gazed out the window. "Dee-Dee looks just like her dear momma. I bet she has a great big heart like her momma too."

"She does." At least, she used to.

"Her momma was a strong woman. I thank God for finally teaching me how to let go of the guilt I felt all these years." Cecelia got up and started toward the sink. "Now I'm going to show you how to make the world's greatest breakfast potatoes."

"I've often wondered about her mother's early life and how she became so strong."

Cecelia grabbed a wooden cutting board from the dish rack. "Nandi never mentioned anything to you about Jean's upbringing and marriage?"

I shook my head. "I don't think Nandi ever knew her mother was married. She has always wanted to know more about her father. If she knew her mother had been married to Nandi's biological father, I don't think she would question his existence so much." Truth be told I didn't think that was in my job description to dish out that extra part. I love Nandi dearly but I know her relative can do a much better job explaining to her about her parents.

"True. Jean had no business telling her daughter the awful details of her marriage anyway. As painful as it was for her, it would be twice as painful for Nandi. I understand why Jean never told Nandi about her marriage or her father. I knew Jean and I know she withheld the information to protect Nandi."

"I read some of the letters Momma Jean had in the box. It didn't take much for me to sense that something had gone awry," I said as I sliced the peeled potatoes.

"They went awry, all right. I just hope she can find it in her heart to forgive me for coming into her life later than sooner." Cecelia looked out the window again, her mind seeming to drift. Then she turned toward me again. "Heat that oven to about 375 degrees. Then open that spice rack and get out all the spices on the top shelf, and some of my secret sauce as well."

A creaking sound came from the back door.

"Mr. Boe!" Cecelia hollered.

"I brought you fresh cucumbers. The wife made sure I picked a big basket of them," Mr. Boe said, depositing the produce on the counter. "She's home making my favorite breakfast . . . unless you have some work for me around the house. Or do you need a ride to town?"

"No, I have these two young ladies by my side to help me. Right, Patti?" Cecelia smiled and then stepped to the counter and admired the cucumbers.

"Yes, ma'am, Auntie."

"Patti, on the dining room table is an envelope with Mr. Boe's name on it. Grab it and bring it here, you hear?" Cecelia said while seasoning the potatoes.

I headed toward the dining room, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation I assumed wasn't meant for my ears.

"She ain't from around this part of town, is she?" Mr. Boe asked.

"No, she was born out there yonder. I think she said England or somewhere around there where the Queen is from. She's been in America for a while now, though she hasn't lost all of her accent."

"I noticed."

I hurried back in the kitchen, not wanting to hear anything else. "Here you go." I held out the envelope.

"Give it to Mr. Boe for me, baby. My hands are dirty."

He took the envelope and bid us goodbye.

"Mr. Boe is the best thing that ever happened to Charlie and me." Cecelia paused. "Why don't you start setting up the kitchen table. The only thing we're waiting on is the potatoes. And Nandi." Cecelia's laugh seemed forced.

"I don't think Nandi will come down anytime soon. She seemed tired." It's a little disappointing that Nandi is treating her aunt in such a way.

Cecelia gracefully smiled. "Poor thing. It doesn't take much to see her heart and mind are troubled." She stood and started out the door. "I'll be right back. Make yourself at home. I have some juice in the icebox, so go ahead and pour yourself a glass."

A full thirty minutes later, Cecelia returned a Bible in her hand.

"It smells good in here. The potatoes must be done," Cecelia said as she placed the Bible on the kitchen table and walked over to the oven. She used the tail end of her apron to lift out the potato pan. She set it on a placemat in the center of the kitchen table, sat down, and folded her hands.

"I can say grace," I said.

When I was done, we loaded our plates. Cecelia took a big forkful. "Are you sure Nandi doesn't want to get up for breakfast?"

Avoiding eye contact. "Positively sure." I said.

"Then let's eat. We'll save her some food," Cecelia said while dishing some food onto her plate.

"I've never had such an interesting breakfast."

Cecelia raised her cloth napkin and wiped her mouth and swallowed before speaking. "What's interesting about it?"

"Well, I've never known anyone to eat white rice, potatoes, sausage, and bacon for breakfast."

"Oh, honey! It's the best thing in life. You put a little butter and a little sugar on the rice, and your tongue gets a taste of heaven!" Cecelia said in an animated tone.

"I'll bet."

"Where are yall headed after you leave Mississippi?" Cecelia asked after taking a bite of her food.

I took a swig of my apple juice. "I was hoping you would help us find Nandi's biological father." I was really scared to ask her but it had to be done.

Cecelia stopped chewing and froze in place. "You can stop right there. I can't help you do that." Cecelia forcefully shook her head.

"But it would mean everything to her—"

Cecelia held her palm towards me like an officer stopping traffic. "I understand that she wants to know all about him, and I have no problem telling her, but I don't think she should meet her father." Cecelia picked up a glass of water and took a sip.

"I understand it was rough. I read the letters. But I think—"

"You think? Who are you—Dr. Phil? Or Oprah?"

Ouch. I didn't see that coming but ok. "Of course, not. But ever since college, she's talked about her biological father. I think meeting him might bring healing or closure. I understand your hesitancy, but she needs this."

"No, you don't understand." Cecelia exclaimed.

One thing I hate is contradicting my elders, but this woman didn't know what she was talking about. "But I do. I read those letters, and Momma Jean never responded. Something painful happened when Nandi was a little girl, and whatever it was, it tore a lot of hearts and built animosity. I get that. But we have no right to rob Nandi of answers she deserves if we know where she could get them."

"No one could understand. Especially not you, just from reading those few itty-bitty letters. I'm not afraid of the past." Cecelia squirmed while tugging on the bottom of her blouse.

"Then what is it?"

"I'm afraid for her to meet …" Cecelia drew a deep breath, "—her father."

Chapter Thirty-three

Nineteen Years Earlier

Finally, I walked the college campus grounds. Momma Jean was nowhere in the vicinity. All I could smell in the air was the aroma of freedom and the real sense of being grown.

I had been in college for a month. It was as real as it could get—quite a change after all my daydreams about it. My experiences tasted like a bag of Skittles, each flavor representing one of my new experiences.

I was fond of my Psychology 101 professor. I can see myself in her: strong, bold, knowledgeable, and serious with a hint of humor. Watching her, I lived vicariously through her, imagining where I want to be after college. Something about being a college grad tickled my fancy. I felt both eager and motivated to make it all the way through to medical school.

Even though every night that month challenged me, I couldn't give up on myself, because this was all I had. If I failed at this, I'd have to move back home with Momma and live under her bureaucracy of high expectations. That alone was reason enough to make it.

A month earlier, I sat next to Tammy during orientation. She and I seemed to have something in common, and it was a breath of fresh air to know she was a couple doors down from my dorm room. I was both anxious and excited to be a college student and make new friends. Clara and I were still friends, even though I had moved on to my next phase in life. However, I wondered how long our long-distance friendship would last. Clara's next phase in life was either to get married to one of her boyfriends or to party her life away until she couldn't party anymore.

Our relationship was somewhat tattered after the underground party. Neither of us wanted to talk about the events of that night. At that time, the DJ who drugged us was Clara's close friend. I testified against him in court. When I found out Clara didn't press charges or testify at the trial, I felt bitter toward her. All I could do was keep my distance from her while trying to maintain some form of friendship.

I knew it wasn't her fault, nor was it mine. Things happened and it got out of control. But I couldn't understand why she didn't testify or press charges against a person who almost took her life—and mine.

I did my best to forget that night, but it was hard. My childhood nightmares returned. Momma was acting differently toward me too. I realized I'd let her down again, but why couldn't she bear with me instead of judging me in my time of pain?

So, I walked onto that college campus, open to new friendships—not too many. I wanted to meet someone who could keep me on track and help me through it all. It took me years to realize how unproductive my friendship with Clara was. She was manipulative, but we both benefited from the friendship in one crazy way or the other. At that time, the friendship was convenient for me as well, I guess. Knowing that made me more particular about the people I allowed into my bubble in college.

When I met Tammy, I felt at ease. She seemed like the girl next door, without a blemish of sin in her blood. She was sweet, kind, funny and, above all, helpful. I think she took pride in knowing she was mentoring me, in a sense.

I didn't particularly care for my two roommates. It was the first time in my life that I would have to share my common living and sleeping area with strangers. Tammy didn't care for her roommates either, so we spent lots of nights in the cafeteria or at a café somewhere downtown, doing our homework and chatting.

I'd thought I was going to be away at a four-year resort. I was wrong. College homework was literally a workload. The only thing I missed about high school was the work, which was minor compared to college. I was grateful that Tammy was the kind of focused student I aspired to be. Without her, I wouldn't have developed a study schedule. I wouldn't even have known how to study on my own.

Tammy had three older siblings who had succeeded in this college thing, so when she started college, she was mentally equipped. Momma, on the other hand, mainly told me to keep my head in my books and to stay away from "them boys," as she called them. Even though Momma had her strict, holy, sanctified parenting ways, she was quick to brag, especially at church, about my early high school graduation, my 4.0 GPA, and that I was going to be a doctor.

The more Momma Jean bragged on me, the more I felt the pressure to succeed. In a sense, I felt guilty for the things I put Momma through in my early teen rebellion stages. I thought of the nights she stayed up waiting on me and then tried to believe the lies I told her. Or the days she missed work so she could sit down with the principal and beg him to give me one more chance. Or, worse, the day she came to the hospital only to find out I had been violated.

Her face showed her pain. Sometimes, at night, she yelled at me with tears of pain in her eyes. She walked off as though she was done with me or had given up on me. Now I finally heard Momma Jean express her pride in me. She told anyone who would listen, and that was more satisfying to me than cake and ice cream.

Momma called me almost every night the first two weeks of college, just to hear my voice, she said. I knew she was having a hard time dealing with the fact that I was away from home. I had known she would take it hard, but I hadn't realized how hard. I thought she would be fine because she had been dating Dr. Larry Bentley. I thought he would take up all her time, so she would worry less about me.

All our phone conversations were alike. Momma asked, "How was class?" I always answered, "It went well." Momma finally caught onto me. She started asking me what I learned that day. Then she had the audacity to correct me when I reiterated my lessons. Her corrections came naturally as if she were the professor. I think this behavior was her way of reassuring herself that I was learning something.

Every now and then, she and Dr. Bentley popped in over the weekend. We always went out to eat or hung out somewhere downtown. It was nice to see her when she visited. One thing Momma and I had in common was our dislike for my roommates, even though her reasons were different than mine. Momma Jean didn't care for them on a religious level.

Brandy looked like a cast member of "The Adams Family." This creeped me out because she reminded me of the lonely group of high school classmates that most people thought were queer. They generally wore dark clothes and trench coats throughout the year. The girls wore heavy, dark, gothic-looking makeup. They roamed in small groups, quiet but noticeable.

My other roommate, Leslie, was snooty and took life too seriously. She aspired to become a lawyer like her high-profile lawyer daddy. She expressed a lot about her upbringing and how she had a position waiting for her in her father's firm after she passed her bar exam. Whenever Leslie opened her mouth, all that came out was "my father," "my mother," or "my maid." As if Brandy or I cared. Leslie had a mean streak and a nasty attitude.

As pretty as she was, she was untidy. I worried about cockroaches infiltrating our room because Leslie always left a trail of food on the floor and stale food on the counters. Brandy left all her hair brushes, curling iron, combs, and makeup all over the bathroom counter. Not to forget her dirty clothes, trailing the whole dorm room. I'd never been a neat freak, but I was cleaner than they were. I couldn't stand being in our dorm room or eating there.

We had nothing in common, and we were not friends. Momma Jean grew concerned about my living arrangements, and she understood that, as a freshman, I had to have two roommates. But she knew the dean, so she pulled some strings and promised to make other arrangements for next semester.

That was the best news Momma Jean ever gave me. I could tough it out for a couple more months. Besides, Tammy helped me through it.

It took longer to get into the swing of college life than I'd anticipated. I liked two of my professors and enjoyed their classes. Besides my Psychology 101 class and professor, I liked Introduction to Theatre. I loved the energy the professor carried in the class, and I loved the internal freedom she taught me. Something about that class gave me a sense of tranquility. It was my last class of the day and always left me twice as motivated than I'd been all day.

My other professors were boring, spoke in a monotone, had a squeaky voice, were too demanding, or were flat-out bossy. I wondered why they were even on the payroll. At the end of the day, I was doing what I came to do, which was to learn.

Oddly, I missed Momma every day, and I missed our home church. I never thought I would say that, but I did. At first, I felt awkward, using my Sundays for study instead of going to church. Then I realized that I liked the perks of self-responsibility that came with being away from home.

Although I missed our home church, I didn't miss it enough to go to church on campus. On some Sundays, I worked on homework and studies. This likely wasn't a Momma Jean-approved choice, but I was finally getting the hang of making my own decisions.

Chapter Thirty-four

Road Trip 2014

I knew something was bothering Nandi and just from my past tendencies and recovery, I knew it would be rough for her I tried to do my best to keep a close eye on her.

"Nandi!" I yelled from behind her bedroom door. "Open up."

"Leave me alone!"

"Open the door for a second, please." I was becoming a little nervous not knowing Nandi's current state of mind so to calm myself down I paced up and down the hallway until I heard the door crack open. I stopped immediately and Nandi stalked back to her bed without even acknowledging me.

"Look, I understand how everything is hard to deal with right now, but my main concern is your stomach. You didn't eat supper last night. It's almost 3:00 in the afternoon, and you still haven't eaten or come out of this room." I reminded Nandi. "I know you hear me, and I want you to know that I'm on your side. I am not your enemy. I came up here to tell you some good news."

"I don't want to hear any news," Nandi mumbled as she buried her head into the covers.

Sigh. "I understand." I sat down at the edge of the bed.

"You keep saying that, but I don't think you do." Nandi shifted positions while her head was still buried in the covers.

"I do understand but if you want to explain, then be my guest. I am all ears."

"My entire life has been a lie. One second, I hate the fact that Momma never told me about my biological father. The next minute, I can't hate my own mother, especially since she is six feet underground." Nandi uncovered her head. "I don't know how I feel about this man who is supposedly my father. Why did he take my brother and leave me and Momma Jean to fend for ourselves?"

I scooted closer to Nandi's head. "Stop right there. We don't know what took place back in that day. We can't make assumptions based on a picture or the little we know. However, it's natural for you to have mixed emotions. Maybe your father will be able to fill in the missing details since—"

"My father?" Nandi interrupted, her voice cracking. "I don't know if I want to see him or know him. Momma worked hard to help me get where I am, without his help, so why let him get involved in my life?"

I tried to pry the cover from Nandi's head so I can see her face but her grip was strong. "Nonsense! Utter nonsense! You are filled with emotions right now, so I will let you sleep on it tonight and see how you feel tomorrow. I know that deep down inside, you want to meet him. That's all you talked about in college. And remember how much money you and Brian spent doing that genealogy research and hiring an investigator to track your biological father? Remember that?"

"I remember, but—" With the back of her hand, Nandi wiped tears from her cheeks.

The truth of my life is the year after I was saved, I wanted to confront my father. It wasn't easy since I knew only my mother's side of the story of his other family and his infidelity. I, too, had mixed feelings. My guard was up, keeping me from forming a relationship with my dad. Although he lived at our address, he wasn't physically present most of the time. For years, I drowned my emotions in my sex addiction because I couldn't face the fact that I hated and resented my own biological father. That knowledge was too difficult to handle with a clear mind. At that time, I didn't know that was what I was doing. But after I was delivered and had learned a little about addictive behaviors, I discovered I was trying to fill the void that my father's love was supposed to fill. I looked to men to accept me and to love me. The only way I thought I could love a man was to give them what I thought they wanted, which was sex. Because that door had been opened through the channel of molestation by my uncle, I found my flesh desiring sex more and more. As I continued to think about my father's ways with my family, I began to hate him. I blamed my sex addiction on my father because if he'd been at home with Mom and me, his brother would never have violated me and taken my innocence. When my life spiraled out of control and I surrendered to Christ, I couldn't understand why I was still bound to thoughts of sex, or why I couldn't forgive my father. I prayed and cried for God to help me forgive, but I couldn't. All day long, I told God I forgave my father, but I still had a knot of hate in my heart. I knew this because I still avoided him. Months later, God laid it on my heart to visit him. I was so torn that I couldn't bring myself to see him. So I ignored God's prompting and decided it was a crazy thought. But the more I tried forgetting that thought, the more it tugged at me. Finally, God used my husband. Pierre surprised me with a single ticket to England to visit my parents. I knew then that it was time. I hadn't told Pierre what God laid on my heart, so I knew it was meant to be. I prayed the whole way there. I wanted peace. I phoned my mother and told her I was coming for a brief visit, and she was elated. When I arrived at the airport, both my parents were waiting for me. My father came toward me first, and when he hugged me, he started to cry and asked me to forgive him. Each time he repeated his plea, his grip tightened on me. Then something shifted in the atmosphere. I cried as I never had before. That load lifted off my shoulders. I felt lighter and suddenly, during a busy airport, an illuminating peace came into my heart. I knew that was what God wanted to happen. I didn't want to confront him about anything anymore. If I had left England that day and never learned why my father had another family, I would have gone in peace. I was satisfied. I had officially forgiven my father. I was freed from unforgiveness.

During my visit in England mom came in my room, she looked dismayed and I thought she was going to mope and cry about my father's ways as she had always done before. I braced myself because I didn't want any more information about my father. I didn't want it to take away from the love and forgiveness I had just restored. She sat in the rocking chair by the window and started to rock while gazing out the window in a creepy silence. Every now and then, she glanced at me as I packed. Then she gazed down as though in shame, and then back out the window as though in thought. Mind you, the whole time I was home, she kept to herself as though she had something on her mind. I knew that if it was crucial enough, she would tell me. If she didn't, I didn't want to pry because my mother is a big-time pity-seeker. But this night, she got my attention. I stopped packing, sat on the edge of the bed, and asked her what was the matter. I knew I might regret those words. I didn't know if I was ready to hear what was on her mind. I didn't want anything to dampen my mood. At first, she said it was nothing, so I stood up to continue packing. Then she must have changed her mind. Her Haitian-British accent thickened as she told me to sit down. The tone of her voice told me the news was not going to be good. I sat down in anticipation and fear. I honestly thought the worst that could happen in that moment was for her to tell me she was not my biological mother. I'd already heard the worst: the divorce threats, the unhappy tales of a mother whose husband had gone AWOL from home, the heartache my father caused her, and so on. But she had come up with something new to take me down from my happiness high.

My mother told me something had been on her heart for the longest time. When she said it was time for her to come clean with me, she scared me. I was too anxious to let her beat around the bush, so I asked her if she was dying—if she was not my mother. Then she asked me to forgive her for what she was about to tell me, and I freaked out. Had she committed a crime? My irrational thoughts became vibrant in my mind. I was getting ready to tear up when she sprung the news on me like an anchorwoman reporting breaking headlines.

She proceeded to tell me she wasn't entirely honest with me about my father. I felt as though I was on the Jerry Springer stage and she was getting ready to unleash the unthinkable on me. I thought she was getting ready to tell me that the man I had just forgiven at the airport and loved wholeheartedly again was not my biological father.

Mom rocked back and forth in the chair as she stared at me with blank eyes for a moment. Then she started to babble, telling me she was young and didn't know any better. If she'd had another chance, she would not do it again. She grew up in poverty back in Haiti and wasn't going to live like that in London. I could tell she was about to unveil something outside my measure of belief. You know trouble is coming when an individual starts a conversation by bringing up what they should've, could've, and didn't do. Deep insight was on the way.

Her parents feared for her life. They thought London would be too much for her to handle, and her older brothers envied her and put her down at the same time. They told her she wouldn't last a month in London before she'd return to their island. She was nothing but a small-time, country island girl, and the city would eat her alive. Because of their discouragement, she set her mind to make it in London. She refused to fail and let them be right. After she arrived in London, she got in touch with the Haitian community and bounced around like a soccer ball from one family's home to the next. It was hard for families to take care of themselves, let alone a stranger. She worked odd jobs to make ends meet, but the money was only enough to pay for her lodging and a little food. She lasted six months in London, all on her own. Every time she managed to call Haiti, she fabricated a story of success, even though she was miserable. She didn't want her parents to worry so she stayed strong. Then she met Francine. Francine was an elderly Haitian woman who owned a maid services company, and she offered mom a job. She was a kind woman and took mom under her wing, caring for her like a mother.

They had an impressive clientele list, serving the elite of London. Mom marveled every time they worked in a mansion, and she pretended she was cleaning her own house. She knew that she would someday live in such a house and have such a lifestyle. But she didn't know that would happen sooner than later. The biggest home on mom's list belonged to my father, Sean-Paul Barbeau. Mom wondered why a single man had such a big house, but that was none of her business. One day, Francine couldn't make it to Mr. Barbeau's home, so mom had to go alone. Francine warned mom that he was a bit of a flirt. That was okay because my mother just wanted to go in, do her job, and leave. Besides, he was always gone when they got there to clean. The butler let her in and she cleaned with all her heart, enjoying her freedom. Then she turned around and there was a tall Haitian-British man, staring at her. He insisted she continues and not mind him, and she tried her best to do so. But he followed her from room to room, and when she had finished cleaning, he paid her and added a very generous tip. From that day on, he made subtle advances, but mom remained professional. Finally, he asked her out. At first, she was taken back, even though she knew he had an interest in her. She told Francine about it. Francine discouraged mom from dating him because she'd heard through the grapevine that he had a wife and children back in Haiti. However, mom thought Francine was jealous, like her brothers, who wished her failure. Besides, she thought that if it was true, she would have seen pictures of his family, since she'd been cleaning his home for months.

Chapter Thirty-five

Fifteen Years Earlier

Some things in life you cannot shake off. You cannot shake off the difficulties life throws your way, or the unseen challenges life ambushes you with. In my case, I couldn't shake off the thought of failure. Failure had never been an option for me or for Momma Jean. After I was born, Momma spent her life making sure I would never fail.

That was a lot of pressure for the only child of an over-achiever. In a sense, I understood why Momma was that way. I never knew much about her upbringing, but it was evident that she was out to prove a specific point. The point was a mystery to me, but because of it, I lived in a pressure cooker for success.

My junior year in college dealt me a bad hand. I went from being a straight-A student to a dwindling B-minus, teetering into the Cs. This made me nervous, so I kept telling myself that I had only one more year of school, then I'd be off to med school. One more year and that was it! But the more I told myself that, the more my grades dwindled.

At this time, Momma was consumed with her breakup with Dr. Bentley. I thought it was perfect timing because it would keep her from dwelling on my grades.

I was of legal drinking age and spent most of my junior year at the downtown bars. I hopped from bar to bar just to ease the feeling of lack, and so I would not dwell too much on my future.

Then I began to question whether I should go to medical school. I didn't know if I wanted to go or if I was going just to make Momma Jean proud of me. I felt a strong pull to drop out of college when it got more and more difficult for me to wake up and face my classes. The more I thought about dropping out of college, the more my memory took me down the harsh path of the early childhood failure that brought sorrow to Momma Jean's face. Even though I was too young to comprehend, I could tell that Momma was hurt by the social stigma of my special classes. The very thought of her own child being in a special education class was killing her. I knew this because we spent so many days in the library, Momma trying to tutor me and at times losing her patience. She often mumbled, "No child of mine is going to be in no special education class."

Momma Jean was smart and intellectual, but when frustrated or angry, she could get country in a heartbeat. I guess that came from her upbringing in the backwoods of Mississippi.

During my junior year hardships, I met a man at the school library, when I was looking for a tutor. He was not particularly my type, but something about him captivated me. His nerdy and quirky ways drew me. For the first time in a long time, a man managed to make me laugh and smile. Don't get me wrong; I dated my share of college men. But I was living in the moment when it came to dating. I had no plans or intentions of getting married or even having children because I had too many wounds that couldn't be mended by another line of lies from another man who was just trying to sleep with me. It was kind of weird because I enjoyed their attention, but deep down inside, I resented men. I liked hanging out and drinking together, but that was as far as it went. Of course, Momma Jean had no idea that I was dating or hanging out with men. If she had, she'd have been on campus every weekend.

Richard Ashford was by far the funniest nerdy guy I had ever met. I enjoyed all the time I spent with him. He brought out the best in me. Before I met Richard, everything in my life was gray. I had lost hope of going to medical school and didn't even want to be in college. But hanging out with Richard, or Ricky, as I called him, made me value college.

Ricky was on his way to medical school as well, so that made life that much easier for us. Instead of hanging out at the movies or bars, Ricky wanted us to spend time in the library or studying in his dorm. Initially, I was nervous about hanging out alone with him in his dorm. But he was by far the most respectful college guy I had met. He was almost like a girlfriend. We talked about life, we laughed about life, and he talked about his future goals and ambitions. When he did that, he melted my heart. He was breaking down my reservations regarding marriage and children. Ricky was the type of man I would consider marrying and having a family with.

He was smart, focused, ambitious, and funny. We studied into the wee hours of the early morning with nothing but laughter and caffeine. How had I been fortunate enough to meet this man?

At that time, Patti and I had busy schedules, so we seldom saw each other. When we did, we never covered everything we wanted to talk about. But three months into hanging out with Ricky, I finally managed to have brunch with Patti one Saturday. She was my longtime, trusted roommate, and I wanted to tell her about this wonderful guy I was talking to. When I brought up the subject of Richard Ashford, Patti got a surprised look on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

"Did you say, Richard, as in Ricky Ashford?" Patti's look of suspicion sent a wave of panic through me.

"Do you know him?"

She hesitated. "Well, one of my sorority sisters is engaged to a Richard Ashford, but it could be a completely different Richard Ashford."

"That's likely true because he mentioned he was single."

"And it's a common first and last name."

We ended our brunch on a sad note. Patti's comment stuck with me for days. Could there be two men with the same name on campus?

The next time I hung out with Ricky, I asked him if he was dating someone or was engaged. He denied both. I took his word for it and continued to bask in the glory of our time together.

Weeks after my brunch with Patti, we decided to catch up with a movie on a Saturday night. I wanted Richard to come with us, but he was going home for the weekend.

Patti's favorite movie theater was in the next town over. She liked the spacious seats and large rooms that were better than the rinky-dink theater near the campus. So, that Saturday night, we made a trip to the next town for dinner and a late movie. We purchased our tickets, in deep anticipation of the chick flick. Inside, Patti ran into one of her sorority sisters coming out of the bathroom.

"Brittney!" Patti hollered.

Brittney turned around and they did the fancy handshake/hug thing. Then Patti introduced us.

"I'd better look for my fiancé," Brittney said, looking around.

"Richard is here with you?" Patti asked.

"Yeah, I think he is still in the bathroom."

Patti glanced toward the restrooms and then grabbed my arm and pulled me in the other direction. "We'd better get going. We want to grab some good seats."

"Richard!" Brittney hollered and waved him over.

He focused on his wrist watch as he walked up.

"Babe. Look who's here!" Brittney chuckled.

Richard lifted his head and turned toward me and then froze.

"Remember Patti, my sorority sister? And this is her good friend Nandi."

Richard looked as though he had seen a ghost. He nodded and whispered. "Nice to meet you."

"I have to use the bathroom." I started toward the restrooms but could still hear them talking about me. How could this be happening? And how could he have fooled me that way?

"Nandi," Patti hollered as she walked into the bathroom.

"How could I be so stupid? Can we go home, please?" I begged Patti.

"Let's talk about it in the car," Patti insisted.

I grabbed my purse and power-walked toward the exit doors, wanting nothing more than to reach the car as fast as I could.

"I am so sorry," Patti said as she unlocked the doors and we got in.

"How could I be so stupid?" It felt too good to be true. My whole life was planned around us being the ultimate Mr. and Mrs. Doctor couple and in the blink of an eye I find out he's been cheating on me…I am in pain. It almost feels as though someone reached into my chest and ripped my heart out and plopped it on the ground and stomped on it.

"It's not your fault. You didn't know." Patti snapped on her seatbelt and roared out of the parking lot.

"I should've known! What a jerk! How could he lie to me like that?" I couldn't help but cry.

"There is no way you could've known. He's a jerk and it's not your fault."

"I am so sick and tired of men lying to me. What's wrong with me, Patti?" Do I have a big stamp on my forehead that says 'feel free to hurt me?' I don't get it.

"Oh, Nandi. It's not you. It's just a bunch of insecure boys who haven't taken the time to know themselves."

I was very upset. "Of course. What could he see in me? His fiancée is all prim and proper. She looks like a Barbie and I look like a Cabbage Patch baby." I bit back the tears that wanted to pour from me like rain. "I never want to see him again. I don't want anything to do with any man, ever!"

Richard Ashford was a bittersweet memory. He brought a lot of pain into my life, but he left behind a will of perseverance. Because of that, I was determined to make it to medical school. Ricky took my heart but I was not going to let him take my future too.

I was done with men. I just wanted to get these first four years of college behind me. My weight spiraled out of control, and I started to feel insecure about my body and myself. Because my relationships with boys and men had consisted of lies and disappointment, I was done giving my heart to people who didn't deserve it. My church life ceased to exist on campus. I went to church with Momma when I visited so she could get her bragging points in. But I spent the rest of my junior year and all my senior year seeking other paths of fulfillment.

By now, I was convinced there was no God. If there was a God, then my life would not be so painful, and I wouldn't be treated like a second-class citizen. Why waste my time praying only to turn around and get hurt again? I understand that Momma tried to create a foundation of faith in me, but she didn't understand that the God she wanted to instill in my life let me down a long time ago. Where was God when I was five years old? When I was six years old? When I was seven years old? When I was eight years old? When I was nine years old? And where was God when I was thirteen years old? Or when I was eighteen years old? Where was this God in all my times of pain and hurt?

I got more help from the campus therapist than I had ever gotten from anyone. At least she could refer me to the right people for the right help. I knew that the gray cloud I generally felt over my mind was not a figment of my imagination. For the longest time, I didn't understand why I felt so down and out when nothing bad happened. Until I started my sessions with the campus therapist, I never understood why I sometimes wished my life would end instantly or why I thought of ways of taking myself off this planet.

Chapter Thirty-six

Road Trip 2014

I hugged Nandi's spare pillow to my chest as I leaned back against the headboard beside her. Debating in my mind what I wanted to share with Nandi and what would be beneficial information to share with her. I knew overloading her with my family dysfunction wouldn't be enough to encouraging her to meet her father.

I drew a deep breath and tightened my grip on the pillow all while in deep thought of this caption of my family's "dysfunction." I always knew my mother was strong, but for the first time in my life, I saw her weakness as she prepared herself to tell me her secret. By then, I had imagined the worst of bad situations. She rocked back and forth, gazing out the window. Then suddenly, in a frightened, cold voice, she sprang it on me. She had made a crucial mistake out of selfishness and pride. She didn't want to believe Francine when she'd said my father was married, so she ignored all the red flags that popped up like the overextended trips he took to Haiti while they were dating. She justified the fact that he never took her with him to Haiti. She was not going to fail. She thought she'd found a great provider. She fell in love with my father for all the right reasons, but because he was a man of great status, she was automatically drawn to security like she had never seen. She became pregnant with me and my father married her. This was her proudest moment. But my father was absent throughout her pregnancy, and I was born while he was in Haiti. Now I know that he was in Haiti with his family, his wife and kids. Then she told me that all these years, she'd told me wrong. I was so confused until she said that in truth, my father was married to a woman in Haiti, and my mother was his mistress. And worse, she knew it was true but she became pregnant on purpose, thinking he would surely marry her and leave his wife and children for her. I was at a loss for words. All those years, I was bitter at my father for not being with us, when he was with his real family. Then I realized that my mother was a homewrecker! What was going on? This was not what I traveled to England for. My head spun out of control as I tried to process the information. Then she begged for my forgiveness. All I remember asking her was how he could be married to two women. Apparently, in Haiti, he had a traditional marriage to this woman. In England, he and my mother had a court marriage. she feared that I wouldn't forgive her, but the bare truth was that he was a great man caught up in a love triangle. He tried his best to put his children first. Mother said that after they got married, Papa spent more time in Haiti. She was crushed because she thought giving him a baby would draw him closer to her and would make him leave his Haitian wife and family. But it only made him spend more and more time in Haiti. And she used her hurt and pain to win my love and affection. She said she did that because when I was five years old, her folks back in Haiti heard about her. They disowned her, as she brought shame to her maiden family name. Haiti was a small island, where most people knew each other. My father's wife found out about me and confronted my grandparents. She asked my mom's parents to talk to her into leaving Papa alone. Because of that humiliation, my mother vowed never to go back to Haiti. And because of her hurt and pain, she said nasty and mean things about my father to me, causing me to believe my father was a trifling, two-timing, sleazy dog. I told my mother I needed time to process all the information she'd given me. I extended my stay and retreated into isolation that evening, nursing my mixed feelings. I love my mother dearly, but I was mad at her for lying to me all this time about my father and not revealing her own selfish choices. I was hurt at the thought that I was nothing to her but bait. I started to wonder if she even loved me. Perhaps she was being selfish, hoping still to win my father's whole heart. I didn't come out of my room that whole night and the next day. I asked God to reveal to me the meaning of my emotions. He came through, laying truth in my heart: That is why you came with a willingness to forgive. Subtle and small was the Lord's voice in my heart. I got up from my bed and lifted the Lord's name in prayer. As I cried, the chains of anger, hate and unforgiveness toward my mother came loose. I knew then that God didn't send me there only to forgive my father. He also sent me there to forgive my mother and to pray for her. Those were by far the hardest twenty-four hours of my life.

Several moments had passed by that we'd been sitting in Nandi's room in silence when of a sudden Nandi whispered with hesitation and weighing her words with caution for their implication. "You know what? I think I want to meet my father."

I gasped and was trying to contain my excitement. "I know it will bring you long-awaited closure. You've been missing that for a while, and you at least deserve to know more of your background, since Momma Jean's gone."

"You're right." Nandi sighed. "What else do I have to lose."

She is right she has nothing at all to lose. I am at a point in my life where I am purposely choosing to let things go before they grow bad fruit. Am I ashamed to be the child of a mistress, a homewrecker? Yes, I am, but that doesn't mean I love my parents any less. Do I regret anything about who I come from? I have no control over that, so no, I don't. I am the person I am today because of who I came from. I chose my husband carefully because, even without knowing that my mother was a mistress, I purposely decided not to have a silent, miserable marriage like hers. The grass was not any greener on my side, just because I technically came from a two-parent home. But something in me wouldn't allow me to tell anyone about my family dysfunction. Nandi has no idea on how blessed she is. Sometimes we all look at other people's lives and draw a picture from what we know or see, but if I'd told you that I would rather have grown up in a home like Nandi's she wouldn't believe it.

I love and respect my parents, but even without a father figure, Nandi had the genuine love and support of her mother. She had a different method of raising her, but she loved her and was involved in all aspects of her life. Momma Jean might not have raised Nandi the way she desired, but she gave her the fundamentals she needed, like church and school. She gave her a sound foundation. My parents did the best they knew how for me too. When I met Nandi, she thought I was spoiled and stuck-up. But when she got to know me, she understood I was far from the imagery she saw. I used to want to grow up normal, under the radar of high social class. I yearned for an average life, one without glitz and glamor. My father was gone physically and emotionally and my mother was gone mentally and emotionally. She spent most of her time making sure I was in illustrious after-school activities so she could chit-chat at tea time with her all-girls club, the Who's Who of Europe. I spent a lot of time bouncing from boarding school to boarding school. When I was home, I went to an etiquette class, equestrian training, swimming lessons, chess lessons, and forced play dates with the other socialites' children. I would trade all that for an average, normal, grounded life.

No one knows what it's like to lie in bed and hear the two people you love the most, my mother and father arguing and physically fighting. I used to put my pillow on my head, blocking out my mother's blood-curdling screams when the physical fights broke loose. The pillows muffled out a little of the sound, but it didn't help with the nightmares I endured every night. You wouldn't want to be raised in a home where the word 'love' was used only on the holidays and affection was desolate.

Suddenly, the room's cold silence was swept away by a knock at the door.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Mississippi 2014

Cecelia entered the room without waiting for an invitation, and for some surprising reason, that didn't bother me at all because something about her spirit reminded me of momma Jean.

"This afternoon, Mr. Boe took me to my favorite area right outside of town to pick a fresh batch of wild black-eyed Susan's." Cecelia flopped down on the window seat, near the head of the bed.

That made me smile. "Momma Jean had a crazy obsession over black-eyed Susan's, as anyone could tell by looking around her kitchen and backyard."

"I remember that," Patti added through her laughter.

"She likely got that from me," Cecelia said softly.

The room was quiet for a moment.

"Aunt Cecelia, I need to ask you something." I was reluctant to ask the burning question in my heart. "How am I related to you?"

Aunt Cecelia had a graceful small contagious laugh she did that convinced me in her former life she must have been an etiquette teacher. "I knew that issue would surface sooner or later." Cecelia drew a long, winsome breath. "My late husband-Charlie is Lois West's half-brother. Your biological father is Lois West's son and only child."

An uneasy feeling crept up on me from the inside. "Wait! Do you mean to tell me Lois West was my grandmother all this time?"

Cecelia sighed as she looked away. "Technically, yes." She hesitantly said.

So, I should say I was very surprised by this discovery. Never in a million years would I have ever thought I was related to her. "What do you mean, 'technically'?" I needed clarification. It was one of those moments where I heard what she said but I still wanted her to repeat it again hoping my brain could get extra time to process all the information.

Cecelia had her head down as she spoke in a lowered tone. "I know she didn't seem like a grandmother to you, and I am sorry for that."

"Sorry for what?" I couldn't help but ask. She wasn't there.

Cecelia raised her head and looked at me. "I told my husband we needed to take the two of you up North with us." Cecelia hesitated. "God bless his soul, he was just never the confrontational type. At that time, we were newlyweds, and I didn't want to drive a wedge between Charlie and his half-sister, Lois."

"That's understandable auntie," I said.

"They grew up apart. Lois's mother was initially married to Charlie's father until Lois' mother died during childbirth. Some years later, Lois's father married Charlie's mother, and Charlie was born. He had pleasant childhood memories, but Lois would beg to differ, especially after her mother passed. Lois claimed that Charlie's mother was mean to her, but in reality, her biological mother was physically abusive and unloving to her from the time she was born."

I adjusted myself to sit upright on the edge of the bed close to Cecelia. "It's making sense now that you mentioned it."

Cecelia shrugged. " Charlie's family thought Lois was a troubled, defiant kid, and that's why she never got along with Charlie's mother. Lois grew even more bitter and distant when her father passed. He left all his property, land, and money to Charlie's mother."

"Wow! That must have hurt." It felt like this discovery of Lois was getting that much more interesting. I reached over to the nightstand to take a sip of water.

Cecelia walked to the bathroom and reached under the sink and pulled a vase as she spoke. "That will be the straw that broke the camel's back. After the funeral, Charlie didn't see Lois again until way later in life. I'm pretty sure Lois had bitter feelings about it. For all I know, something troubled her deeply. I never could quite put my finger on it."

I walked towards the bathroom to help her place the few Black-Eyed Susan's in water. "It's all making sense to me on why she was the way she was even though it shouldn't be an excuse."

Cecelia nodded her head in agreement. "For years after Lois surfaced with her son, she harassed Charlie, wanting a share of the land, properties, and money that was willed to his mother. Lois felt it all belonged to her and her son. Charlie never gave her anything, and she became even angrier. I knew something wasn't right in her spirit."

I couldn't contain my laugh. "I know for a fact that something wasn't right in her spirit."

Cecelia dried her hand on the hand towel and patted my cheek. "Oh, honey. I used to tell Charlie all the time, but he was quick to dismiss my thoughts of her. Probably because of guilt over what his father did."

How many more surprises would this so-called aunt have for me today? "What did you think of Lois?"

Cecelia let out a pretentious loud laugh. "Oh, honey, through deep spiritual discernment, I knew for years that something was not right. I wondered how you and your momma were doing in her care. My concerns were confirmed when we finally moved back to the South and Charlie and I stopped at Lois's house."

"That must have been when momma and I had just left or something."

From the bathroom, Cecelia grabbed my hand and led me to the foot of the bed and sat down with me. "Yes. You and your momma were gone, and Lois claimed she didn't know why. But as Charlie and I left Lois's home that day, we ran into Mr. Thompson."

Grandpa Thompson! My all-time lifesaver. "I loved that man."

Cecelia drew a pleasant smile. "A true man of God he was. He gave us your address in East St. Louis, but by the time we got there, y'all had already moved. Charlie and I looked for you two, but no one knew where y'all had gone. This lets me know that Lois West had been up to no good because it was not like Momma Jean to fall off the face of the earth." Cecelia's voice faded as she lowered her head and shook her head.

Lois West. Who'd have thought her name would ever come up again? Especially now.

Cecelia inhaled deeply and exhaled. "I'm sorry, Nandi, for leaving you and your momma the way we did," her eyes brimming over with compassion.

"It's okay. Things happen and that was life." It's good for me to know that I am ok today. Now even though I know if Lois was standing here in front of me today I would feel very differently about her. "I just never understood—"

"Never understood what?" Aunt Cecelia asked.

I couldn't hold my tongue. No use causing more pain. "Nothing." I couldn't say it.

Aunt Cecelia turned to place her hand on top of my hand. "You can tell me, baby."

I chanced a quick glance at Patti who had been sitting on the Bay window looking at aunt Cecelia and I like a tourist watching a touristy site. So much had already been revealed today, I might as well finish the job. "I never understood why Lois was so mean to me. I tried calling her grandma L like the neighborhood kids did, and boy, she tore up my butt with a belt just for saying that." I had to stop talking because that name was enough to cause tears at the cusp of my eyelids.

Cecelia squeezed my hand. "That it wasn't your fault, baby."

I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks. "Whose fault was it then?"

"Oh, honey." Cecelia scooted close to me and directed my head into her chest, seeming to struggle to hold back her tears. "It was no one's fault. She grew up in a violent home, and she was violent toward her son and you too. She didn't know any other way."

"She beat me if I didn't finish all my food. She beat me when I went outside to play. She beat me when I looked at her. She beat me for no reason!"

Cecelia rocked back and forth as she stroked my head. "I wish I had known that then. I wish I could have helped."

I couldn't stop crying. I felt an enormous amount of heaviness in my throat and chest. "No one can say anything to take away the pain that evil woman caused me. I'm still afraid to sleep in the dark, because of some nights, when Momma was out late, I woke up to a cold leather belt striking me across my back, neck, arms, and face." Of a sudden, I couldn't stop the tremor that started in my spine and worked its way down my arms and legs. "I thought I was an awful child because I spent most of my childhood being beaten by Lois. I can't understand how she can be my grandmother and yet treat me the way she did. She treated me as though we were no relation. Even a stepparent will treat their stepchild with much more love and dignity than Lois gave me."

"I know, honey—"

I jerked my head away from Cecelia. "How do you know? You were not there!"

"I'm sorry, honey. Please forgive me." Cecelia broke down in tears.

Patti handed Cecelia and I some tissues and walked back to the bay window to sit down.

"My life is so messed up! I lost the only person who ever genuinely loved me or cared for me. I am trying to deal with these emotions without alcohol for the first time in a long time, and it's not easy. Every night, I have nightmares about the things I never wanted to face sober. And now, here we are, talking about the woman who paved the road of hurt and pain in my life."

Cecelia squeezed my hand. "It's time to regain your freedom!" Cecelia said with boldness.

"I just don't want to hear another 'sorry' from anyone. I've made it thirty-nine years without an apology, and I plan on making it the rest of my life without anyone's apology or sympathy."

Cecelia laid a pillow on her thighs and lowered my head to it. I couldn't help myself but to lay like a newborn baby on this fluffy pillow as Cecelia softly rubbed my back, Cecelia signaled for Patti to hand her the throw blanket which she used to cover me. Then she started whispering a familiar song—oh how I had wished to be laying on mommas laps one more time. Patti sat on the other side of the bed and joined Cecelia in the song:

Alas! And did my Savior bleed
And did my Sov'reign die?

Would He devote that sacred head

For such a worm as I?

At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away,

It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day!

Thy body slain, sweet Jesus, Thine—
And bathed in its own blood—
While the firm mark of wrath divine,
His soul in anguish stood.

Cecelia and Patti repeated the song over and over. The louder they sang, the louder I cried, and the louder I cried, the louder they sang.

"Why did Momma have to die?"

"Rest up, my child. Your soul is troubled." Cecelia stroked my hair while Patti continued to sing.

I felt in that moment I was fed up of living like I was. Life seemed so overwhelming. "I don't want to live anymore."

That brought out a rise in Cecelia. "Devil, you are a liar! I cast you out of her head in the name of Jesus. You have no dominion over her life because of the blood of Jesus!"

The more my mind dwelt on my life the more I felt defeated. "I can't go on with life, Auntie. I just can't. I've failed myself, my mother, and my husband. I have failed, period."

"Nonsense!" Cecelia yelled.

Immediately, Patti went into a loud prayer, and Cecelia started praying with Patti.

Early the next morning, I felt like I had been run over by a train my whole body was in pain. I sat straight up in bed. Had last night been a dream? "Aunt Cecelia?"

"Shh. It's going to be okay." Aunt Cecelia stood from the recliner next to my bed.

I was looking around to figure out if it was a dream or reality. "What's going on?" Cecelia spoke half-awake. "I think you were having a bad dream, dear."

"It was bad."

"In the name of Jesus, I bind and loose the yoke of infirmity and evil illusions from Nandi's life," Cecelia said in confidence.

I still felt tired. "What time is it?"

Aunt Cecelia glanced at her watch. "It's 4:30 in the morning."

"I've been sleeping that long?" I reached over for the glass of water on the nightstand. "I dreamed …"

Cecelia was going in and out of sleep on the recliner. "What is it, honey?"

"Nothing. You don't have to sit up here with me all day."

Cecelia smiled with her eyes shut. "Yes, I do, honey. We are in this together."

"I don't get it. What are we in together?"

"Nandi, you don't know much about me, but you can count on me being by your side every step of the way. One look at your face told me you have a troubled mind and an unrestful soul. I love you, and the devil is after you. But he's going to have to knock me down to get to it because I won't let him win." Cecelia pulled her throw over blanket to her knees.

I actually believe my aunt. Which feels good.

Cecelia got up and retrieved a Bible from the nightstand drawer. She sat beside me on the bed. She flipped through the thick book for a moment. "Here we are. John 8:36 says, 'If the Son, therefore, shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.' If you believe Jesus died for your sins on the cross and you personally ask Him to come into your heart, you can be set free. God has much in store for you. Otherwise, why would you struggle with your flesh's desires?" Cecelia paused and glanced over at me, I was in tears. "God wants to set you free. You were not created to live a miserable life. We serve a living God who can heal you from the inside out." Cecelia leaned over to the nightstand and grabbed the box of tissues and offered me a tissue. "Sure, Lois planted a distasteful seed of deceit in your life, and throughout your life that seed has grown so much that it brought chaos. But now you stand a chance of starting over, starting afresh and cleansed in the blood." Aunt Cecelia gazed at the ceiling as she closed her Bible and laid it on her lap.

Start over? How many times had I already done that? What would be different this time? I was speechless. I pulled the covers over my head and pulled up my knees into a fetal position.

Cecelia cleared her throat. "I have something to share with you."

"What is it?" I was hesitant in response because I didn't know if my mind could process any more information.

"Your great-uncle Charlie was not saved his whole life. Matter of fact, he was a full-fledged heathen when I met him. But you know what?"

"What?"

Cecelia smiled big. "I knew there was more to him than his captivity. And I knew he came into my life for a reason. Now, mind you, I was saved as a young girl. When I met Charlie, I knew better than talking to an unsaved man, so I prayed and interceded for him." Cecelia grabbed a tissue from the tissue box and wiped the single escaped tear off her cheek. "At that time, he was harassing me and trying to date me, but my momma and I were not having it. I decided to get up early every morning, get down on my knees in my room, and wail before the Lord. I didn't know what initially drew me to praying for him, but now I know it was the Holy Spirit." Cecelia groaned as she rubbed her hand on the Bible that was on her laps. "I didn't like Charlie, but I prayed for a whole year, and then Charlie started coming to our church. I knew then that the effectual, fervent prayers had set him free. Your great-uncle-Charlie went from being a drunk and tobacco-smoker to a preacher at our church." Cecelia gazed at the cover while plucking the lent off the cover. "After that, he asked for my hand in marriage, and I accepted without a doubt. You see, God had been preparing me to intercede for Charlie's bloodline. The strongman of alcohol is deep-seated in your father's bloodline. It had taken root generations ago and it continues in that line today." Cecelia raised her voice in excitement. "I want to break and dismantle the strongman of addiction in your bloodline, Nandi. Just like Charlie, you can be set free. Now, I don't know what all is going on with you, but I know what the Spirit has revealed to me. This is no second-hand information."

I turned towards my aunt, questions bombarding my mind. Was this possible? Could Aunt Cecelia pray over me as she had for Uncle Charlie? Could I be set free?

Cecelia softly shook my shoulder. "Your infirmities and strongman are hindering what God has for you. You might have tried taking your life a couple of times, but you didn't succeed because God has greater plans for you. Your addiction has held you in bondage from the truth, but God says you, like Charlie, will be set free!"

Chapter Thirty-eight

Road Trip 2014 Alabama

About three hours after Aunt Cecelia announced we were going to Alabama to see my father, the female voice of the GPS told us we had reached our destination. Patti pulled the car into the drive. The house was a small ranch-style that almost looked abandoned, with its grass long like a national parks. In it lay bits and pieces of bicycle parts, dolls, and other toys. The front porch was stacked high with boxes on top of boxes, as though the garbage truck hadn't been to that house in years. On the other side of the house in the grass close to the driveway was two rusted old mobiles whose tires looked like they hadn't tasted tar in years.

"I'm as apprehensive as you are," Aunt Cecilia said.

I doubted that was possible. "I still can't believe we're here."

"I didn't want you to come at all, but the Lord has been dealing with me about this whole proposal." Aunt Cecelia held her hand on the seatbelt for a moment as if she still wasn't sure. "I'd rather protect you from anything you might find out here, but now I realize I can't make that decision for you."

I hadn't seen aunt Cecelia nervous like this since meeting her. She seemed like a very cautious person and weird enough I was more concerned about her than her concern for me.

Aunt Cecelia's voice had a little quiver. "He doesn't expect us, so I want to pray before we go knocking on the door." Aunt Cecelia bowed her head.

After praying, we sat in silence for a moment. Then I smoothed my hair and checked my lipstick in the compact mirror.

"Are you ready to go?" Aunt Cecelia asked as she finally pushed the seatbelt button. When we had all exited the car, Aunt Cecelia led the way up the porch stairs. At the door, she raised her hand to knock. She paused before her knuckles touched the door, then she gave a soft knock. She waited a whole three seconds and then announced, "No one's home."

Patti pushed her way to the front of the door. "Let me do it." Patti knocked harder and longer.

A groggy-sounding, bass voice answered. "All right, all right, all right. I'm coming!"

The door flew open and there stood an unfamiliar, barefoot woman. Although it was two in the afternoon, she wore a moth-eaten morning robe that looked as if it used to be white but had lost numerous fights with the stain remover. It didn't take much thought to realize that she had received the bass in her voice through prolonged smoking. It was so deep that, if I had been talking to her on the phone, I could easily have mistaken her for a mister. She had a pear-shaped body that stated, "No healthy lifestyle ever lived here." She had noticeable facial hairs, and it was hard to guess her age, since her wrinkles seemed due to a rough life, as opposed to age. This woman was every bit of 4 feet 11 inches tall. Her teeth were discolored, most likely from smoking and coffee, but she was not ashamed to smile through the discolored teeth and the rotted ones too.

"Isn't it early in the week for y'all to come out?" the lady behind the bass voice said through the screen door.

"Were you expecting us?" Aunt Cecelia asked.

The lady forced a laugh. "I never anticipate y'all." She coughed as though she was coughing out a hairball. " Y'all godly witnesses, right?"

Aunt Cecelia burst into laughter. "No, we're looking for Morris West. Does he live here?"

All of a sudden, the bass-voice lady dropped her smile and narrowed her gaze. "Who wants to know?"

"His daughter," I said.

The lady looked at our faces one at a time as though taking a scan of our faces to store in her brain zip-folder as she opened the screen door. "Daughter?"

Aunt Cecelia stepped forward and offered her hand. The woman merely looked at it, so Aunt Cecelia dropped her arm. "My name is Cecelia, I am Morris West's aunt, and this here is Nandi and Patti. We're not sure if we are at the right address." Aunt Cecelia said with such eloquence.

"Why didn't y'all say that in the first place?" The lady laughed.

"Say what?" Aunt Cecelia asked.

"That you was kin to Chuck. Whenever anyone asks for Morris, we think they're from the government, wanting to get in our business." She stood back and opened the screen door wider. "Come on inside. Chuck went down to the store. He'll be back shortly."

"No, we'll wait in the car," Aunt Cecelia said, casting a glance in the house.

"Oh, no. I can't let no kin to Chuck sit in the car when he's got chairs in here," the lady said with a deep Southern accent.

Aunt Cecelia looked back at Patti and I and signaled for us to go in with her.

Three cats followed us into the living room. The woman went in ahead of us and removed the stacks of magazines and clothes from the couch. She patted it with her hand as if to get all the dust particles out.

"Have a seat. By the way, my name is Sylvia. Can I get y'all anything to drink or eat?"

I panicked for a moment at the thought of consuming anything prepared in that filthy house.

Aunt Cecilia came to the rescue. "Oh, no. We're fine, thanks."

"Make yourselves at home, then." Sylvia pulled a box of cigarettes from her morning robe pocket. "I'll be right back. If you need me, I'll be out on the back porch."

The minute we heard the screen door slam, I leaned around Patti on the couch, where we sat like birds on a telephone line. "Aunt Cecelia, who is that lady?" I whisper shouted.

Aunt Cecelia looked around to make sure the coast was clear. When she established we were safe to talk she whispered back. "Oh, child, I have no idea."

"We're in the heart of the ghetto," Patti whispered. "Do you think my car is safe out there?" Patti chuckled.

"Honey, I can only pray for it to be safe. Other than that, I couldn't tell you. This neighborhood gives me an uneasy feeling."

"This whole house gives me an uneasy feeling," I whispered back. "What is that smell?"

"It must be a mixture of animal pee and all else that goes on in this house," Aunt Cecelia said, perched on the very edge of the couch.

"I know. This house is filthy!" Patti grimaced. "Do you think we're at the right house? She calls him Chuck, but you call him Morris."

Cecelia looked around again before talking and whispered. "I think we are. If I had gotten the address from anyone other than Mr. Boe, I'd doubt it, but he wouldn't lead us astray. I do remember that Lois used to call him Chuck."

Something black and ugly crawled by my foot which caused me to let out a little scream before I stomped on it.

"Eww! Was that a roach?" Patti asked, her face pinched as if it had crawled across her lap rather than the floor.

"Calm down, ladies," Aunt Cecelia said, not moving a muscle.

I looked towards the screen and whispered. "It's disgusting in this house, and these cats are creeping me out. They keep purring and looking at us as if they want to devour us." Maybe coming here wasn't such a great idea. "Can we at least sit outside?"

"And get bit by a snake?" Patti shuddered. "There's no telling what inhabits that long grass." We all couldn't help it but laugh at the situation.

Our conversation was cut short by a barking-coughing sound from the back porch. When it had persisted for a good thirty seconds, I stood and headed toward the back porch. Even though Sylvia was filthy, I couldn't let her choke out there. I poked my head outside. "Are you okay? Can I get you some water?"

"I'm fine, hon." Sylvia snorted up some phlegm and spat-shot it out into the grass. Then she took a long drag from her long, unwashed cigarette. "You look like your father. Your nose, those eyes, and that complexion."

"Thank-you," I said calmly while half distracted.

I turned and strode back into the living room, the woman's words still banging around in my brain. How could she say such a thing?

Chapter Thirty-nine

Alabama, 2014

"I think that's Morris," Patti said, her voice betraying excitement that I didn't feel.

I stood and paced the living room, biting my nails.

"That's just what your momma used to do when she was nervous." Aunt Cecelia scooted herself further to the edge of the couch, clasped her purse, and sat upright.

"What are they doing?" Patti asked as she continued to peek out the window.

I crossed the small room in four strides. "Who?"

"Your dad and Sylvia." Patti moved the drape out of her way. "Oh, never mind. They're walking this way now. She might have been telling him he has visitors or something."

Patti left the window and sat next to Aunt Cecelia. "Nandi!"

"What?" I startled and spun toward her. "You scared me half to death."

"Sit down." Patti said as the front door opened.

I sat on Aunt Cecelia's other side, all three of us gripped with silence. Then we heard footsteps—a strange halting gait that sounded like a wooden-legged pirate—in the hallway. The steps stopped briefly at the doorway to the living room.

When Aunt Cecelia exhaled as though bracing herself, I leaned into her and grabbed her hand.

A tall, skinny man, whose right leg told a story of amputation at the knee joint who was supported by crutches, stood in the doorway. He looked at me, then Aunt Cecelia, then Patti. He held a long can, its top visible over the brown bag it was in, and he lifted that bag and guzzled its contents. Then he started toward the recliner opposite us. His crutches were missing their rubber grips, so every time the crutches hit the wooden floor, they made a thudding noise. At the chair, he used one crutch to shoo the cats away, and with the same swipe, he knocked aside the clothes that were strewn on it. When he'd positioned himself on the recliner, he lay his brown bag and its contents on the overly used lamp table.

Sylvia came running in without her morning robe this time, wearing instead a pair of stained jeans and an oversized, wrinkled t-shirt. She had a cigarette and a lighter in her hand.

"This here is your kin—"

"I know who she is!" His voice was deep and raspy and angry.

Sylvia turned around and headed for the back porch.

The living room filled with an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Aunt Cecelia broke it.

"Ladies, can you excuse Morris and me for a minute? Perhaps you can visit with Sylvia outside."

I stood and left the room first. Then Patti followed, and we headed toward the back.

Patti started to shut the door when Sylvia gave her a pointed look. "Leave that door open. The screen is enough."

Patti's eyes widened, but she did as the woman said. She looked around and then waved toward a bench positioned at the edge of a makeshift garden. "Is it okay if we sit on that bench?" Patti asked.

Sylvia nodded, a cigarette hanging out the side of her mouth.

By now, I felt as though we were invading enemy territory.

Sylvia crushed her cigarette butt beneath her heel and then picked it up and threw it into an overflowing makeshift ashtray. Then she sat next to me on the bench.

"What happened to my father's leg?" I asked.

"They amputated it, due to his diabetes. That was years ago—before we met—"

The sound of shouting inside the house interrupted her. I rushed to the door, where I could hear.

"You know she's your daughter." Aunt Cecelia's voice floated through the screen.

Morris's sarcastic laugh shot right through the screen door. "I don't have no daughter. All I've ever had is a son."

"Stop right there. You know you have a daughter. When you came in, you admitted you knew who she was."

"Yeah, well." His loud slurred tone made her imagine an ugly sneer on his face. "Who's to say she's mine?"

"Unbelievable." Aunt Cecelia's voice rose as loud as Morris's. "After all these years, you still deny her. I would have thought by now you would—"

"Would what?"

This was beginning to sound dangerous. I turned to Sylvia. "I think we should go inside and check on Aunt Cecelia," readying myself to stand up for my aunt.

"I think you should let them talk. They're adults," Sylvia said.

"But—"

Sylvia grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard. "Let them be, child."

I sat back down. For once, I wished I could pray. For my aunt, of course. Not for myself. "So, we understand that Nandi has an older brother?" Patti asked.

Sylvia touched her lighter to the tip of her cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind. She squinted one eye as she took a long drag from her cigarette. "You talking about MJ?" Sylvia said, exhaling smoke with her words.

Patti was waving her hand in front of her face as to deter the smoke from her face. "Yes." Patti said.

Secretly I wished Patti and Sylvia would end the conversation because my eyes and ears were fixated on the hollering inside the house.

Sylvia laughed then had a coughing fit. She patted her chest, snorted through her nose, and spit some phlegm out on the grass. "His name is Morris Junior," Sylvia said around the cigarette hanging out of her mouth. "MJ been in the pen for the last ten years that I've known Morris Senior."

My brother—in prison? Surely not. "Pen—as in penitentiary?" I asked.

"See there. You're not so high society as I thought you were. You know some street lingo." Sylvia laughed and took a drag. "Yes. Pen, like a penitentiary."

Something in me had to know what my brother did. "If you don't mind me asking—"

"He murdered someone." Sylvia chuckled.

What was wrong with this woman? "Murder is not funny." I insisted.
"I know it's not. I'm laughing at the look on your face."

Could this situation get any worse? "What do you mean he murdered someone? Who? I mean how? Why—"

Sylvia held up one hand. "Let me stop you right there before you lose your mind. I wasn't there, but word on the street says it was a drunken driving accident. MJ was high and drunk, traveling on one of them back roads when he lost control and went head-on with a family in a minivan. I heard that the impact of his truck sent that minivan spiraling down the embankment and only the father survived."

"Are you serious?" Patti interrupted Sylvia.

"Serious as a heart attack. He's in the pen for three life terms. The momma in that car died on the spot. The two young children, ages seven and three, were airlifted to the nearest hospital and lost their lives that night. I heard that your daddy liked to drink back in the day, but after this, all went down, he stayed drunk."

"No, it can't be …" Nothing going on in that house could be as bad as what I was hearing out here. I moved back to the door and listened in again, hearing Aunt Cecelia's voice.

"I thought by now you would have come to terms with life and could acknowledge the other child you created with—"

"With who? Have you come here today to badger me about the mistake I made years and years ago?" Morris slurred.

"Mistake!" Aunt Cecelia hollered. "I don't even know why we came here. Some things never change."

"Did you think I was going to be excited to see you, of all people, here in my house today?"

Aunt Cecelia heaved a huge sigh. The couch creaked as if she was standing up.

"That's right. Leave."

In the silence that followed Morris's rude comment, I imagined my aunt's shocked, hurt expression. Then footsteps sounded again as if she was moving close to him again. "How do you think your uncle would feel, knowing you're talking to me like this?"

"The greedy old man is dead, so I don't care what he would think."

"You are a shame and a disgrace to your family. How dare you call your late uncle greedy after all he did for you?" Cecelia's voice lost all its previous gentleness. "We bent over backward for you. All you did was take everything we gave you and waste it. You betrayed your own flesh and blood in the worst way ever. You've stolen from us, lied to us, and guess who still stood by your side? Your greedy uncle and I when your own momma disowned you. Unbelievable! You need deliverance."

At the sound of her footsteps nearing the door, I scrambled away, so my aunt wouldn't see me eavesdropping.

A moment later, Aunt Cecelia stormed out of the house. "Ladies! Let's get going."

As we said our goodbyes to Sylvia, Morris stumbled into the yard and propped himself against the doorframe. "You know I was supposed to get that money and land. Unk C. left some of that to me," he slurred.

Cecelia acted as though she did not hear him. The more she ignored him, the more pugnacious he became.

We started toward Aunt Cecelia, ready to leave. Morris moved quicker than I would have thought possible, in his condition, and blocked the walkway to the car. Aunt Cecelia grabbed my hand, and I grabbed Patti's hand, and together we plunged right into the muddy yard at the edge of the walk.

Morris continued hollering, following us to the car.

"Nandi, Patti, get in. I will be right with you." Cecelia said in a calm tone as she stood in a mud puddle by the rock driveway.

"Come on. Let's just go," I pleaded.

"We will, baby, in a second. I have one more thing to do." She stood to her full height and looked Morris in the eye. "What are you so angry about?"

"I'm not angry. You the one who was yelling at me and calling me all kinds of names—"

"I am not arguing with a drunk. You need help!"

"I don't need help. I just want my fair share of my uncle's money."

"Your uncle never owed you anything. You failed to meet the conditions under which you would receive an inheritance from him. Therefore, you get nothing from your uncle or me." Aunt Cecelia turned her back to him, opened the car door, and got in. "Let's get out of here."

Patti placed the car in reverse and drove us out of Alabama without one of us turning our heads back.

After a time of silence, Aunt Cecelia finally spoke. "I'm sorry you two had to see him in that condition. That was why I was so reluctant to bring you here. Are you okay, Nandi?"

I nodded but couldn't bring myself to speak or look at my aunt during the entire ride.

Chapter Forty

Mississippi 2014

We arrived at Cecelia's home, I still couldn't manage to speak. I grabbed my purse and headed upstairs to my room, leaving Patti and Cecelia to say what they would about me.

"Do you think Nandi overheard her father and me?" Aunt Cecelia's voice traveled up the staircase.

I slammed the door, not wanting to hear more.

I packed my bags and then I laid on the bed, unable to stop my tears. I needed to get out of here. And I needed answers. Why did I even come with Patti, to begin with?

The door opened, and my aunt and Patti walked in. Aunt Cecelia sat beside me and placed her hand on my shoulder.

"I don't understand. I want the truth." I demanded.

Aunt Cecelia sighed. "Where do you want me to start?"

"With Momma Jean's marriage to that man. With my brother. Why did Morris disown me? Is he really my father?" Even though the conversation was between aunt Cecelia and Morris I can't help but feel really hurt by some of the things Morris was saying. I feel as though I have hit a brick wall and this road trip was a waste of time.

"I don't want to hurt you any more than you already are." Cecelia said with compassion.

Ha! I huffed. "It's too late. The damage was done long ago."

"Then let's start with your late great-uncle Charlie since you want to know everything. It's your right to know the absolute truth about your family. I believe that, through God's help, you can rewrite the direction of your bloodline." Aunt Cecelia rubbed my back, just as Momma Jean used to. "When I met your great uncle, he loved to drink, just like your pappy. But I didn't know that until after he was saved and gave his testimony in church. After that, he made it his business to help Lois and her son—your father—to find salvation in Christ." Cecelia exhaled and softly spoke. "Years came and went, and finally Lois was saved. She took your father to church every Sunday and to weekday services. She was fired up for God, but Charlie and I knew that something within her hadn't been healed. She needed deliverance. This is not judgment. It's discernment." I couldn't but help the look Cecelia had on her face. Her mouth was slightly frowned and her eyebrows slightly drooped. She reminded me of a mourner at a funeral. I could tell that she was bothered by what she was saying…all this time she had been here for me and it was now my time to sit back and listen.

"Charlie and I spent years fasting and praying for her and believing God for her breakthrough. Some event in her childhood must have turned her into an angry person. She took out her rage on your father. Back then, there was no Child Protective Services where Lois lived." Cecelia stopped talking abruptly and then I heard a gasp. "Morris spent his summers with us, just to get away from his mother. We spent many visits talking to Lois, but she never wanted to listen. Later, she cut us off from seeing Morris. This is when everything went south. Charlie and I did all we could to see Morris, but because we were not his parents, we couldn't take her to court." Cecelia's voice cracked, I could feel her hand shaking on my back as she rubbed my back. "We had no way to prove she was an abusive, unfit mother. So we kept our distance. We were hurt but we continued to pray and fast for Lois. When Morris turned eighteen, he married Morris, Junior's mother. At that time, we reconnected with Morris without Lois's permission. Everything was great." In all this, I can't help it but feel sorry for my aunt. I feel like she has carried this in her heart for all these years. "We loved Morris's first wife and he was proving himself to being a good father. So Charlie hired him to work in one of our businesses, as Charlie and I prepared to move up North. Morris accepted the position and worked tirelessly helping Charlie and me. We were proud of him." Cecelia let out a delighted laugh. "You would never believe me if I told you that your pappy was the best organist in all of Mississippi—at least the church and I thought so. He also helped Charlie and me start our church. Life was good until his wife died while giving birth to their second child." Cecelia looked up towards the ceiling with her mouth sucked in she took in a deep breath through her nose. Then she blurted out.

"Then the baby died a few days later. All of that was too hard for Morris to comprehend. Charlie and I did our best to support and counsel him, but he was devastated. Stella was his high-school sweetheart, the only woman he ever loved. Morris raised Morris, Junior with the help of his mother. Years later, your mother started visiting our church."

"Oh. Wow." I said. What else could I add to that…my heart is broken from mommas passing and to imagine my father lost his wife and child makes me feel kind of sorry for him. "Shortly before your mammy became a member, her great-grand mammy passed away. It was too hard for Jean to remain a part of the church she'd attended with her great-grand mammy. So she decided to find another home church, one without the memories of her loss, and she came to our church. We were conveniently located, close to the university she was attending." This is the kind of story I had always wanted to hear. For a second I used to hope momma would trust me enough to tell me such a story…I wanted to know the narrative of how my parents met and I wanted to hear how that moment was. "Your momma loved to sing and she was blessed with a beautiful singing voice. We had only two choir members, as we had just pioneered the church. When your momma joined our church, she coached everyone who had a desire to sing. Before long, she had a decent choir." Cecelia couldn't hold back her giggle. "As she worked alongside the musicians, she caught Morris's attention. Soon they started courting. They got married, and one year after the wedding, your momma gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, whom she named Nandi. Your pappy wanted to name you Melissa, but Jean was headstrong about naming you Nandi." Cecelia chuckled. "You were a happy family—at first." Cecelia's tone quickly turned somber.

If I leave here today I will be happy knowing exactly how my parents met. Not what I imagined but this beats not ever knowing. "What happened?" I asked.

"We had no idea where your parents' marriage went wrong or how long things had been in array. I felt bad that I was not intuitive enough to recognize how rocky the marriage had become. When your momma finally had enough, she came to Charlie and me for counseling. We had a hard time believing that Morris would treat your momma as she said he did." Cecelia lowered her tone. " Charlie and I did what any other loving relative would do—or so we thought. We encouraged her to stay with her husband. We didn't know the severity of the situation in her home because whenever we saw Morris, he seemed like the same Morris Charlie and I always knew—happy-go-lucky." Cecelia removed her hand away from my back and folded her arms on her chest. "We did finally confront him about his marriage, but he denied the allegations. He fooled me, he fooled Charlie and, for the longest time, he fooled his own momma. I guess when he returned home from work, he drowned himself in alcohol. Then he barraged your momma with hurtful and mean words." I hate to admit it but it is making a lot more sense to me…I am understanding why momma didn't want to mention him. "I don't know how long he had been self-medicating with alcohol, but I felt horrible for not believing your momma initially. By the time Charlie and I intervened, we had found out that he had stolen substantial amounts of money from our businesses." I sat up straight thrown back by what Cecelia was saying. My father was not only an alcoholic but he was a thief too! I didn't know how to digest it all. I mean one part of me is happy knowing I didn't grow up in such a home but the other part of me is dwelling on the fact that this man's blood runs deep in my veins. "That's when we realized he was not the same Morris we'd known when he was a boy. Your momma left Morris, and Lois took you both in. Morris had run off to Alabama to preach, from what we heard. Lois's home was convenient for your momma because it was close to the university she was attending."

"To preach? A thief and alcoholic?" I was aggravated at this news. I don't understand.

Cecelia forced a laugh. "Oh-child! I highly doubt that's what really happened…Lois allegedly stated that's what he did but knowing Lois she said it to make him look good like she didn't know that Charlie and I knew of his drinking and thieving ways!" Cecelia released her hands from her chest and laid them on her laps with her fingers laced together. "Charlie and I wanted to take you both North with us, but Momma Jean had a full scholarship, and Lois promised to take good care of you two. I had no choice but to believe Lois since she was your biological grandmother." Cecelia paused and sighed as she gazed out the window.

"What did Morris mean when he said I wasn't his daughter?" A part of me wanted to know but not really because I feel like that was mean of him to say.

"Oh, honey. Your father is slowly but surely losing it, and we need to pray for him." Aunt Cecelia's tone sounded soft and confident. "You're his daughter." She affirmed her response with a stern head shake.

"Then why would he say that?"

Cecelia removed her glasses and tilted her head down as if in shame. "I have no explanation. That's a deep-seated issue from his days in his mother's hands. Lois never claimed him as her son until later in life, and when he became a full-fledged drunk and removed himself from the church, Lois stopped claiming him once again." Cecelia's voice sounded sad. "We didn't know how she abused him, physically and mentally, until years later. Stella was the only person your father felt safe with. Then she passed away, and he never recovered from the loss. He might even have retreated back into his memories of growing up in Lois's house, judging from some of the things Jean mentioned to Charlie and me." All this time I faulted momma for not talking to me about my father and only to realize given the circumstances I wouldn't want to talk about him too. "Your momma was a strong enough woman to put up with your father all those years. She did not intend to hurt you when she kept you from your biological father. Your momma faced a lot, and knowing Jean, she must have thought she was protecting you. But parents can make mistakes, and all I can say is that it would be wrong for you to hold a grudge or resentment toward your late mother. She did all she knew to do—"

"I don't understand why she didn't tell me the whole truth."

Cecelia sighed. "Baby, that is easier said than done. The good Lord knows that the truth can be hard to handle or even speak of. Let me ask you this: would you have believed your momma if she'd told you your biological father was an abusive drunk and that she left him to give you a better life?"

I think she might be on to something. "No! I wouldn't have."

Cecelia shrugged her shoulders and raised one eyebrow. "Then I hope you understand why your momma shielded you from him in the first place. The pain you're feeling right now is exactly what your loving mother didn't want you to experience."

It's odd because I understand but I don't. I still feel like I would have been entitled to know who my father was. "It's okay for her to decide whether my biological father is important in my life?"

"I never said that. But I did say that you cannot get angry about your late mother's actions. You also can't get mad at your father. You wanted to meet him, so you met him. I, of all people, would have loved for it to be under different circumstances. But your fairy tale does not end like that. This is as real as life gets." Cecelia stood up and walked towards the window. "Morris is still my nephew, whether through marriage or not. He is my kin and I love him dearly. All I can do for him now is pray for him—pray that the strongman of alcoholism will leave him while he can still repent. All I have is you. I have lived long enough to see what the bondage of alcohol has done to your family." Cecelia went into a daze with her eyes fixated passed the window. "By all goodness, Nandi, I am counting on you to be the generational curse stopper, the one who declares an end to this curse and bind it for good." Cecelia said in a monotone voice.

"What do you mean—curse?"

"Hand me that Bible on the nightstand." I reached for the Bible and stood up to walk towards Cecelia, she leafed through the pages and then, presumably finding the spot she wanted, she shut the Bible with her index finger holding her place.

"Before I get into generational curses, I want to ask you a few personal questions. Understand I am not here to judge you, mock you, or make fun of you. Since you've been here, I merely felt in my spirit that you are troubled, and God has revealed a couple of things to me. I want to help you the best way I know how. Is that okay?"

Chapter Forty-one

Provenance

"What kind of relationship did you have with Lois?" Cecelia asked.

That was about the last thing I had expected my aunt to say. But as much as I didn't want to revisit those days, I had an odd feeling that I needed to before I could be healed. I breathed a prayer for help—a surprise in itself. "What relationship? I had a relationship with her leather belts, shoes, and iron cords. Not with her."

Cecelia sat down by the bay window. "Okay, you had a relationship with her belts. I get that. How did she treat you? And how did that make you feel?"

I don't know why I get agitated when I talk about Lois. "Oh, no. I know where this is going. At first, I thought I could talk about it, but now I don't know. I've already told all those therapists and counselors about it."

Cecelia had her index finger lining on her chin like she was getting ready to get her picture taken. "About what? What are you so afraid of talking about?"

Ugh. So annoying. "I am not afraid of anything. It's just that—"

Cecelia drew a cold stare at me that made me feel weird. "It's just that what? Child, what hurt you so badly that you now bend forward in defeat like this?"

"What are you talking about?"

Cecelia sighed. "I could smell your hurt from a mile away. I could sense your pain since you arrived here."

"Now you know me? You know my whole life history. Is this what you and Patti have been up to?" I hate the feeling of being judged especially when the people don't really know you.

Cecelia drew closer. "Aunt Cecelia don't need to talk to nobody to know that something is troubling you. Now, if you quit being so defensive, I might be able to help you. I can guide you and perhaps counsel you so you won't waste the rest of your life, living on yesterday's hurts and pains."

My heart broke at my Auntie's caring words. My tears fell afresh. "Nobody other than Brian and momma has ever genuinely cared for me like you have done these last couple of days."

"That is why you can talk to me. Let me help you."

"I don't know if anyone can help me anymore. My whole life is a mess. I don't even know how and when I got here, but I am here. I might not have a husband when I get home. I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life." The sober reality of my mess hurt me deeper than I could ever imagine because for years I hadn't allowed myself to feel.

Aunt Cecelia turned towards me and used the back of her hand to wipe my tears away. "Don't speak like that. You'll have a husband when you get home. That man loves you enough to have stayed around this long. He ain't sure gonna leave you when you get back." The confidence in this older woman's tone gave me a little hope. But not enough to say:

My journey in life started at the home Momma Jean and I shared with Lois. She beat me for everything I did or tried to do. She called me all kinds of awful names. Many times, I wanted to tell Momma when she got home, but I thought Momma wouldn't believe me because, after all, I was just a little child. I can still see Lois's face today, filled with so much hate for me. When we arrived in East St. Louis, all Momma did was work and go to school. I thought she didn't like being at home with me, and that was why she stayed away. But when I got older, I realized she had to put food on our table and keep a roof over our head, and that her absence was not her way of staying away. I got that. But even when I was older, Momma Jean and I never connected. On rare occasions, she told me she loved me. Those times were so rare that I never knew what affection or real love was. When I was thirteen years old, a neighborhood boy named Frank molested me. Initially, I didn't know what it all meant. One day, he and his sister gave me a ride home from school. I had been waiting for the rain to pass. After that, I thought I could trust him. I knew something was awkward when he started coming to school just to pick me up, and not his sister. At first, I believed his lies of concern, until one day when he drove me to an abandoned field. He parked the car and forced me to put my hand in his pants. I was terrified because he told me he would kill me and Momma Jean if I told her. I believed him because he had spent time in jail. For the next several months, he picked me up every day and drove me to the field and put his hands up my skirt. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't know who to tell. I was so glad when he was locked up for good. I finally felt safe.

If I'd told momma what happened to me, she would have deemed me unholy. She would have blamed me for everything since I was not supposed to accept rides from anyone.

"I understand if you despise talking about Lois. But understand that we naturally tend to make certain decisions based on our past. Since Lois often told you negative things about yourself, then you probably began to live that reality. Not purposely, but unconsciously. I am not placing blame on anyone in specific but on the words released into your life at such an innocent age," Aunt Cecelia said as she placed her reading glasses back on her face.

I still was uncertain on how much to tell. "As far as Lois is concerned, I have memories of horrible events that I don't feel comfortable talking about. These memories are of events that happened from the time I was five years old all the way up to my tenth birthday." It's hard for me to articulate the verbal and physical abuse without feeling as though I'm going to lose my mind. I've had nightmares almost my whole life. On my eighteenth birthday, some guy and his friends raped me and my friend Clara. It sucks that my mind can freely play these horrible clips in my head whenever it wants to. The worst part is being sober. I really need a drink.

"Excuse me one second," I said. I had to go to the bathroom for some type of space. I raced into the bathroom and closed and locked the door. I had an emotional outburst in which I could not control. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my knees against my chest I tried rocking myself back and forth to calm myself but that didn't help.

"Listen to me, Nandi. It's going to be okay, you hear? Open the door, honey," Aunt Cecelia hollered, rattling the doorknob.

Over the sound of my own voice, I heard Patti demanding to know what was going on.

"She locked herself in the bathroom, and she won't come out," Aunt Cecelia said with a wavering voice to Patti.

"Let me try," Patti said. "Nandi, open up right now!"

The doorknob rattled again, over and over.

"No! Why … why? Oh, God, why?" I hollered through my tears.

The banging and rattling finally stopped. Then the door flung open, and Patti stood there, apparently having picked the lock with a quarter as she always had when we used to lock ourselves out of the dorm. Patti walked in the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, close enough to me to rub my back. Aunt Cecelia shut the toilet lid and sat on it and grabbed my hand.

"What has got you so upset?" Aunt Cecelia asked.

"It's like she never cared." I felt a thin sense of unreality take over my mind. "When she looked at me in the hospital, she was just cold and stoic. I was sure that, deep down, she blamed me for the rape—both mine and Clara's."

"Who never cared?" Aunt Cecelia asked.

"Momma. I lay on that cold hospital bed in shock, in physical pain, but she never once came close to me to embrace me or empathize with me." Instead, she just stood there in silence. When we left the hospital, she never once talked about it. I knew I had let her down in the worst way possible, although all I ever wanted was to make her proud of me. But the more I tried, the more I failed. I didn't want to be a medical doctor, but I felt bad that she had spent most of her life's savings for me to attend college and medical school, so I went. Even after that, I still let her down.

The only person I thought I had was Clara, until the accident. Momma never liked Clara and Brian never cared for her either, but I felt as though she was one of the few who cared for me. Little did I know then that she was all about her own selfish agendas. I should've known she was not a true friend when she chose not to testify against the DJ who raped us. All I ever wanted was a mother who loved me and taught me about life and wouldn't judge me for my flaws or think I was a heathen each and every time I fell. I just wanted her to reach out her hand and guide me through life and tell me that she would love me no matter what career path I chose or no matter what I did. I have felt like a complete loser most of my life. Lois never cared for me, Momma could be bothered less by me, and the boys never really cared for me either. Lord knows, I had reached my wits' end in college when I was dogged out by a boy for the umpteenth time. I couldn't do it to myself anymore. I had no God. I spent many months in depression. I tried killing myself multiple times but failed. The only thing that could help me cope was alcohol. When I took a shot or a sip of alcohol, it always radiated to my spine first, and my head became instantly light and free of care. I didn't experience so many nightmares, and I didn't want to kill myself anymore because all I wanted to do was drink.

"I just wanted momma to be proud of me and to act like she loved me."

Cecelia opened her Bible to the page that her index finger had been holding in place. "You have experienced a lot in your life, and the only way it can get better from here is to understand that God loves you. He sent His son to die for you and me, paying our sins in full. John 8:36 says that if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed. Do you believe Jesus is able to set you free from all your hurt, pain, disappointment, depression and bondage?" Aunt Cecelia continued to flip through her Bible.

"I guess …"

"And it also says here in Romans 10:9-10, 'Because, if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes and is justified, and with the mouth, one confesses and is saved.' Do you believe that, Nandi?" Cecelia asked.

I nodded my head, barely able to find my voice. "Something has to give. I can't live like this anymore. I want something new, and I believe it, Aunt Cecelia. I believe Jesus can help me!"

"Amen!" Cecelia hollered. Then she laid her hands on my shoulders and prayed for me.

"I will take you to my special friend Billie tomorrow," Auntie said when she finished her prayer. "She has a ministry based upon deliverance, and there I will tell you more about generational curses, now that we have had this talk."

Epilogue

A Year Later

Never in my life had I imagined a life so complete, a life so happy and peaceful. Aunt Cecelia was the best birthday present I'd ever had in my life.

Three weeks after Patti and I left Aunt Cecelia's in Mississippi, my aunt passed away. Her abdominal aneurysm ruptured while she was asleep. The news was sad but as a new believer in Christ, I was at peace, knowing she had gone on to be with the Lord. It was unfortunate that Brian never got a chance to meet her, but she left me the most valuable gift of living afresh in Christ. For that I thank God.

Before Patti and I left Mississippi, Aunt Cecelia introduced me to Billie. She and I have had a great spiritual relationship. Billie helped deliver me after I surrendered my life to Christ, and God has taken away any desire of alcohol from my mind and tongue. I can't believe that, after all, the professional help Brian got me, the only step I needed was one big step toward God. And I finally accepted the fact that I was an alcoholic.

Aunt Cecelia had been right. I was in spiritual warfare. Especially when it came down to my bloodline. Aunt Cecelia loved to recite Ephesians 6:12 and Lamentations 5:7. I started to think those were her two favorite Scriptures, but now I understand that she was preparing me for freedom from the sins of my forefathers and foremothers. She wanted me to be ready to fight spiritually for the bloodline that uncle Charlie died fighting for. This made sense to me since Lois West's father died as an alcoholic, my own father was an alcoholic, and Uncle Charlie was too before he came to Christ. Morris, Junior, my half-brother, was an alcoholic and then I was an alcoholic.

When Aunt Cecelia explained generational curses and familiar spirits, I couldn't do anything but awaken to a whole new level of truth. I knew if I kept going and drowning myself in alcohol, I would be bound for good. Then I could easily end up in jail or worse—dead. I am grateful that Aunt Cecelia helped to open my eyes to the truth after I told her of my life's hurts and pains. No one wants to face the fact that they have lost their way and now they depend on substances to help them cope. But the more we try to deny life's hurts, pains, and disappointments, the more the seed germinates and could possibly turn into an oversized weed of bondage.

That's what happened to me. All my life, I watched Momma cry in prayer. I watched her praise God as though she had lost her mind, but today, as a saved and delivered Christian, I understand why Momma was that way. God's love is so comforting, and His unconditional love despite my flaws makes me fall in love with Him. Which has also taught me to love my husband.

Salvation is a journey, not an overnight haul. I am learning to enjoy every step of the way. Aunt Cecelia gave me her Bible before we left Mississippi, and I read it every day. When I returned home, I was baptized in water. Shortly after that, at our church revival, I was baptized in the Spirit.

I never saw the direction my life was going, but God knew. Shortly after Aunt Cecelia passed away, her lawyer traveled to St. Louis to meet with Brian and me. Surprisingly enough, she willed to me all her estate, including over two million dollars. Brian and I were caught off guard by her generosity, and I knew then why the Lord had laid a great vision on my heart without releasing the source of the finances. I was able to start an addictions ministry that deals with divine intervention and deliverance. I have partnered with Billie to accomplish the work at hand.

Patti and I are as close as ever, and I frequently assist her and Pierre with their ministry. Brian and I paid off all our debtors, and Brian built us our dream home west of St. Louis, in the valley. He hired more employees for our architectural business.

The highlights of our marriage were when we renewed our vows. Shortly after that, I found out I was pregnant. Just the other day, we found out it's a boy. We have agreed to call him Isaac. His middle name will be Charles, after uncle Charlie.

One of the greatest lessons Aunt Cecelia taught me was the power of forgiveness. When I realized that I had to forgive myself first for all that has happened to me, I felt an enormous weight lifting off my shoulders. Then Aunt Cecelia walked me through forgiving others. I forgave my late mother for using all her past hurts and pains to support a lie. I also forgave her for shielding me from my biological father. I forgave Clara. Though I didn't realize it, I blamed her, not myself or my alcoholism, for messing up my medical career. That was a big revelation.

I forgave all the guys who had broken my heart. I forgave Mr. Kenny for walking out on me and Momma. I forgave those who violated me, molested me and raped me. I forgave Lois West for the pain and hurt she inflicted. Above all, I forgave my biological father for disowning me and for what he did to my mother even before I knew him or knew it. I forgave my father for his ways. I forgave him for never desiring a relationship with me.

Shortly after all this forgiving, my father came looking for me. He had nothing but the clothes on his back. His longtime girlfriend, Sylvia, had left him. He had nothing—no money, no shelter, no food. So Brian and I took him in. Taking care of him was the least I could do for my biological father. He has become our latest deliverance project, though he still struggles with his addiction. But we stand united in my home in prayer over his soul. I will not allow the devil to claim his soul.

The End

Dear Beloved,

What a journey. I was in tears in some parts, I smiled in others. I was disappointed in some parts and happy and relieved in others. I thank God for the great blessing of revelation.

Like you, I was surprised with every chapter. I believe in the Holy Spirit's guidance which, makes every chapter a beautiful surprise. This book took me on an incredibly emotional ride. I learned some amazing truths, which I would like to share.

Nandi allowed me to look at my own life and re-evaluate some missing links from the chain of my life's journey. I was saved some years ago. Before my salvation, I had always been in church, but for family reasons. Church was simply what my family did on Sundays. Growing up, I never had my own personal relationship with Christ. So when I moved out on my own at age twenty-two, I stopped attending church.

After being absent from church for years, I came back to the one source I knew: Jesus. Once I was saved, I eventually received water baptism. Then I received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. It was an amazing feeling, and most of my experience with Holy Spirit baptism is detailed in my memoir, Born Again Afresh: How Struggling Christians Can Get Back on Track. It was wonderful to know that I now had a personal relationship with God through Jesus.

But although I was hungry and saved, I fought an inner battle. After salvation, I thought in my naive mind and from what I saw among some "Christians" that strength was what Christians were all about. So, with that ignorance, I walked around thinking I had victory over my past. Little did I know, I was in denial of my past. Nandi helped me understand how crippling denial can be. Denial is the first cousin of deceit, so small wonder that I still struggled with an addiction.

Like Nandi, I was an alcoholic for nine years. But even during the darkest and loneliest moments, I still believed God would eventually redeem me and deliver me of my addiction. Nandi and I have totally different backgrounds, but we share a common aspect of addiction. My denial process began when I was thirteen. A group of boys sexually violated me. Naïve and not understanding, I tried to move on with my life. I didn't know that something really bad had just happened to me, and I chose not to think about it. In one sense, I repressed any memory of it.

When I was fourteen, the cousin of a close friend sexually violated me. I was still naïve and now confused. Once again, I chose to deny it. What made it worse this time was that, when I told my close friend what her cousin did, she did not believe me. That taught me not to tell anyone anything. Sometimes the truth is hard to hide, but through the pain, I tried to conceal it and act normal.

That worked until the age of fifteen when I was raped. It was hard to accept the fact that my innocence had been taken. I wanted to be a virgin when I got married. So I denied all the sexual violations. In denying them, I carried a seed of denial and repressed horrible memories that would eventually grow and eat me alive.

From the age of fifteen to about seventeen, I had suicidal tendencies. After being raped, I wanted to take my own life because as much as I was in denial, I felt deep down inside that I would never be the same. I hated myself and wanted out of this world. My many attempts at suicide failed, thank God.

When I was eighteen, I was in a toxic relationship, one that was filled with mental and physical abuse. That was when I also discovered the numbing effects of alcohol. His abuse didn't bother me as long as I was drunk, then I couldn't feel anything, physically or emotionally. That relationship finally ended, but as the seed of denial grew, so did the deception.

For years, I felt insecure, due to years of hearing I was fat, ugly, and that no one would ever want me. I lived a life of hate, both self-hate and people hate. My repressed memories box opened wide and led to much more self-destructive behavior.

Then came my salvation.

I realized I had not confronted my past, and because of that, the door was still open. The more I tried not to think about it, the more it germinated in my mind. I couldn't look my past in the eye since I was sober. Instead, I simply denied all the events that had transpired. I drank those memories away (temporarily). This caused the door of denial to open further and the thoughts of deception to occur. Therefore, even early in my salvation, I still struggled with alcoholism.

Only when I was completely delivered did God take the desire for alcohol away from my tongue, my mind, and my life. In the nine years of bondage, I had done everything I could think of to overcome alcoholism. (That is, I did the humanly possible, not the spiritually possible.) I checked myself into an outpatient rehabilitation center, only to relapse multiple times. My drinking became worse. My life was heading in a deep, downward spiral because of the seed of denial.

I understand that the good word (Bible) tells us to press toward the prize of the high calling in Christ Jesus (Philippians 3:14). I also understand that some saints have used this Scripture as a buffer, acting strong and denying the past. They then ignore the deep issues of the past that affect them today in their walk.

I am not asking you to dwell in the past or to subject yourself to past pain, misery, and pity. But like Nandi, some things in our present behavior are a direct reflection of our past. And like Nandi, we can return to the source and origin of our pain. Then we can start to heal.

In returning to the source, I am not asking you to seek answers or solutions. Rather, the source serves as a gateway of closure. I am free today and speak freely of my past pain and hurts because I confronted my past. I am no longer in denial of what happened to me. Instead, I live free in all truths, and the truth has set me free.

Perhaps you don't face alcohol abuse today. Maybe your struggle is with nicotine, pills, marijuana (weed), sex, pornography, gambling, adultery, prostitution, hoarding, food abuse, insecurity, jealousy, homosexuality, malice, manipulation, drugs, or something else. Many things can hinder us from a complete deliverance and closeness with God. Like Patti's mother, you might have a painstaking secret that you've hidden in your heart and denied to your children. Maybe you have been married multiple times, and it's never your fault but always the other people. Perhaps you've denied the issues lying dominant in your life, and they keep you on a search for the next best thing. Maybe you have been in numerous tumultuous relationships, so you don't feel you deserve marriage or a man who can love you like Christ loved the church. And that has made you "Miss Independent." Yet you secretly cry yourself to sleep at night, wondering what is going on with you and why no one will pay you any attention. You might have chosen to marry the wrong person or for the wrong reasons so that marriage didn't last. Deep down inside, you hold bitter resentment for a man you knew was never interested in you. After you purposely trapped him by having children with him, you deny your involvement and blame everything on him. You tell the children he is a deadbeat, and yet you are just as liable. Your denial and lack of accountability are turning your life to deception.

Maybe you have made crucial mistakes in life but deny them. (I am a woman too. I have been there, done that, passed that.) Maybe you experienced trauma, heartache, pain, or hurtful situations in your past, and they hold you in denial of your past and cripple your deliverance process and closeness with God. Hear me out, ladies! Never dwell in your past. Never live in your past. Never create pity for your past.

Through my efforts and through Nandi's life, I learned it is crucial to understand the missing link in our connection with God. I realized before my deliverance that I did not want to confront my past. I wanted to be healed and saved and never think about my past, but the more I tried not to think about my past, the more I abused alcohol. I had never talked to anyone about these events in my life, let alone talk to myself about it. It was easier to deny the events, but that drove me to the edge of drowning all my emotions in alcohol.

I have lived here in the Midwest for some years now. The winters are no joke, compared to Southern California and Zimbabwe, where I was born. Some people take great pains to place plastic around the inside of the windows of their houses, or they buy devices that close up all the cracks, so the cold air won't seep in through them. The living room won't get warm in the winter if the front door is cracked open. You must physically walk to the front door and shut it if you want a warm house.

Likewise, as long as you are in denial of your past, you have opened the door to your past. You cannot expect to walk in full victory from your past if your door is cracked open. The pastor cannot shut the door to your past. Neither can his wife, the choir, or the church members. You should get up and physically shut the door to your own past.

You may believe you are over your past. You might be a strong Christian woman, blessed and highly favored, walking in victory with the Lord. Well, like you, I thought my door was shut. I too thought I walked in victory over my past. But I surely wasn't walking in victory with a door cracked open while I battled alcoholism. You can deceive yourself into thinking the room is getting warmer while the winter draft seeps through the door crack. But you're the only one who will believe that. Your guests won't. Likewise, you can convince yourself that you walk in victory over your past, but you're the only person being deceived. Be mindful because as denial is a first cousin to deceit, bondage is the mother of deceit.

I realized my door to my past was not shut because I couldn't talk freely about it. We don't want to boast about the past, but we do need to be able to talk about all our events. John 8:36 says, "So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed." Without a doubt, I had surrendered my life to Christ, but I was not free. Deliverance had to happen first. I couldn't talk about the sexual, mental, and physical abuse, the alcoholism, or all the other childhood issues I experienced. I thought if I kept them locked deep in the back of my head, I was over them. But I was not over them.

You don't have to discuss all your past with anyone, but you do need to discuss it with God. Sometimes, in order to leap from denial to reality, you must physically go to the source of your hurt, pain, rejection, and abuse. Then confront them to fulfill closure. You must be a victim before you are a victor, and the only way you can be a victor is by confrontation. You can say, "This happened to me, but I forgive the people who caused my pain. I also forgive myself for holding onto it. From now on, I walk in Christ as a victor, not the victim. I now slam shut the door to my past. I lock it and throw away the key."

In some cases, we need to seek Christian help from a close friend and/or counsel from leadership in the church. We must choose our counselors wisely, praying and seeking God's direction and discernment. I shared my story with you because I no longer live in my past. In fact, I live far from my past in true strength as a victor and not a pity-seeker.

God's work is only starting in you. His deliverance process will restore you. Remember to confront your past, because sweeping things under the rug will only cause a mound of obstacles later. Confront your past through forgiveness of self and others. Close the door and move forward. I am now more deeply free than I ever would have imagined. I thank God for the blessing and pray that you too are blessed and freed.

"So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed." (John 8:36 ESV)

"Saying to the prisoners, 'Come out,' to those who are in darkness, 'Appear.' They shall feed along the ways; on all bare heights shall be their pasture." (Isaiah 49:9 ESV)

Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress. (Psalm 107:6 ESV)

Group Discussion

Please share your answers at your own discretion, with discernment.

Was there a time in your life when you felt the following seeds; seeds of insecurity, seeds of forgiveness, seeds of doubt, seeds of abandonment, seeds of loneliness, seeds of anxiety, seeds of depression and or self-worthlessness? Please share with the group how you overcame these seeds, how you felt before overcoming, and how you felt after overcoming. Also, please discuss the possibility of never overcoming.

1. Unresolved issues with spouse, friends, and/or family

2. Negative seeds implanted in you in your childhood by a family member or friend

3. A feeling of disconnection from your family and/or friends

4. A major disappointment

5. Doubt/self-doubt

6. Denial (what was the truth?)

7. Justification that overshadowed truth

8. Resentment toward a situation or person. How did the resentment start?

9. Friends whom your family considered a bad influence. How did you handle it?

10. Hurt, pain, trauma and tragedy. What have they taught you?

11. A friend or family member mis-using your trust

12. Insecurity. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being very secure and 1 being very insecure, how do you rate your own security? Why?

13. Betrayal. How did it make you feel?

If you could give someone in your group today a word of non-judgmental encouragement, what would it be, and why?

Author Commentary

Seed

The beginning of something which continues to grow and develop (Merriam-Webster Online)

Our birth is our "seeded" moment. From that time on, some of us will face harsh realities and courses in life that can either grow our seed of life or stunt it. Others might even face non physical death of their seed of life.

We will all encounter people who will purposely or non-purposely plant bad seeds in our lives. If you are a child of God, don't worry about it. Through prayer, that which was meant for bad can be turned around for your good. Nandi opened my eyes when she followed her seed of life. So I decided to share with you some of the bad seeds I picked up.

In chapter one, a physical death occurs that plants a bad seed in Nandi. As a result of the unresolved issue, she feels hopeless, alone, and betrayed.

In chapter two, Nandi's memory of her upbringing in Mississippi germinates her seed of life. All that Lois West has done to her and thinks of her will, from this moment, grow as a bad seed.

In chapter three, Nandi's seed of life begins to root, and that leads to her disconnection from reality. Because of her feelings about the death and her traumatic childhood, she accepts being physically disconnected from reality and her husband.

In chapter four, Nandi remembers her disappointment in men, starting with the men introduced to her by her mother. Nandi's seed, initially planted in her in Mississippi, develops into disappointment.

In chapter five, her disappointment germinates into doubt.

In chapter eight, Nandi is entwined in the roots of denial. By now, she has denied all that has happened to her since childhood. Her only escape is alcohol. For her to admit to the excessive use of alcohol would be to accept the truth of all her reality since she was five years old. Denial is the door frame to deception. Once the enemy has an individual in denial, he knows he can then open the door to deceit. Nandi is an addict, so her deceit manifests as denial of the quantity of her alcohol use and the fact that she is an addict.

In chapter eleven, we see Nandi's wake-up call of reality. Her drinking has put her in a coma. And yet, the deception still grips her strongly. The enemy will bring her from the threshold of denial to deception. We typically justify then understand that the enemy has deceived our thinking.

In chapter nineteen, Nandi's seed of life germinates as resentment toward her mother. This is mainly because of the influences of her friendships with Clara and Andrea. She is reminded of her mother's death. Nandi's only hope of a motherly, healthy relationship died in chapter one. Because of that, her heart is filled with a hole of the mystery of love, nurturing, God, and life.

In chapter seventeen, we see the tip of teen experimentation for Nandi. Her childhood is plagued with worse memories than good, so making and keeping friends is important to her. Because of that, she settles for peer influences her mother disapproves.

In chapter twenty-one, Nandi is reminded of her life's tragedy. As long as she dwells on those tragedies, she continues to drink. Drinking helps her momentarily avoid her past pain.

In chapter twenty-five, Nandi's seed has grown into a tiny plant. In her early but fragile stages, her disappointments keep stunting her full growth. Her every move reminds her of her disappointments. She begins to develop trust issues.

In chapter twenty-seven, her insecurities hinder her seed of life. Because of Mr. Kenny, her mother's gentleman friend, neglected to say goodbye to Nandi, she thinks she's not good enough for other men. Small wonder that, when Byron approaches her, she doubts his intentions toward her.

In chapters thirty-four and thirty-five, Nandi encounters the deepest root: lie after lie after lie. When a child discovers her parent's lie, the child experiences betrayal that can push her toward resentment. There is no such thing as a good lie, a small lie, a white lie, or a protective lie. Let the truth set you free. Many of Nandi's problems have their roots in the fact that her mother never sat her down and told her the truth. So Nandi's feelings are mixed and she is torn apart, which gives her more excuses for her alcohol abuse.

In chapter forty-one, Nandi confronts her past. I recommend that everyone who has gone through tragic and traumatic events should revisit their past. We don't need to dwell there, but we need to visit so we can move forward. Look the past in the eyes and confront it so you can be set free of your fear. Some people may argue that they don't fear their past. But understand that the fear I am talking about is the mind-crippling kind, not the "monster in a dark alley" type. This silent fear makes your heart race when you even think of your torment, trauma, and/or tragedy.

I confronted the events of my childhood. It wasn't easy because, for years, I feared them and ran from them by drinking myself to sleep. But because of my relationship with Jesus Christ, I can be honest with myself. I can look at my life and understand that, yes, some messed-up stuff happened. And because of that acknowledgment, I walked into deliverance and was spiritually healed from alcoholism. Today, I talk about my past freely and without fear or anxiety, because that's exactly what it is now—my past.

My testimony is simply that—my testimony. What happened to me won't necessarily happen to others. If you are an addict or know of an addict who is medicine-dependent, doctor-dependent, and/or therapy-dependent, please work with the professionals to help you or your friend to full recovery. Always consult the professionals in your life.

If you wonder if you are an addict or are simply ready to quit, please research rehabilitation centers nearest to you. They will point you in the right direction. You can also seek pastoral counseling and find Christian rehabilitation centers online. Sometimes, talking to close friends and family will help as well. If you have any questions for me, please visit my blog page at .com. Thanks!

Acknowledgements

I thank God for the privilege of ministering in writing. I give Him all the glory, for my hands are mere tools used for Him. I am truly humbled to be a servant of God.

Amai na Baba Bengesa (Mother and Father)

I was sixteen years old when my parents decided to relocate the entire family to the great United States of America. This was overwhelming, both physically and mentally. I never imagined that our family would ever leave the grass roots. After all, my parents were doing well in our home country, so why move?

The answer to my question came years after we arrived in America. I am who I am today because my father and mother stepped out of the known into the unknown. Their faith, strength, sacrifice, and hope serve as continual reminders that anything and everything is possible, despite your background.

I thank my parents for sacrificing all they had and all they knew for our future. Mom and Dad, you are my heroes. You always told us the sky was the limit. Mom, you repeatedly reminded us that "we are in the land of milk and honey, and we can become and do anything we put our minds to—after we put God first in our lives." Because of that, I am forever indebted to you both. I love you and I appreciate all you have done for us.

Munyaradzi

My older, smart, and wise brother, I have grown up my entire life trailing in your footsteps because you have always led me on a straight path. I could never replace you, even if I had a choice because you have taught me more about life than anyone else ever could. Because of that, I love you and respect you for who you are.

Nomsa

My younger sister, what can I say? You are awesomely, fearfully, and wonderfully made! I've always admired your fashion sense, and you highlight my days with your witty ways. I can always count on a good laugh when I talk to you. You are a smart, strong mother, and I look up to you. I love you much.

Nokuthula

Baby sister number one, the poetry writer of the family and the queen of the finer things in life, I am proud of you for your life accomplishments and your spunky attitude. Love you always.

Elizabeth-Mufaro

Baby sister number two, you are my little one and are a life inspiration and a great writer. I look forward to reading more of your writings soon. I thank God for what He is doing in your life, so young but very wise and discerning! May you serve God all your years to come. I knew you were special when Mom and Dad brought you from the hospital. Love you much.

K.C.M.

Your love is honest, pure, kind, patient, genuine, forgiving, caring—your love is love. You encourage me to hold on and persevere in the things I am passionate about. You support me when we are close, and you support me from afar. Even when I want to quit, you encourage me. Your words always bring wisdom and motivation. Your help is timeless and yet priceless. God purposely placed you in my life. You are a blessing and a great support system. Your positive reinforcements are always on time, and I thank God for you always.

Lady Harsley and Pastor Harsley

Words cannot express how much I love you two. You are amazing people of God, and my relationship with God today is a direct reflection of your great leadership. I thank you for always being genuine and genuinely loving. You have never given up on me, even when I wanted to give up on myself. I love you both for being you.

Christy

You are an angel sent specifically into my life for such a time as this! You are a great person to work with and an awesome mentor—who has taught me a lot about honing and growing my craft. You are a true representation of a person that exemplifies a life in the fruit of the spirit, you have sown deeply into my life in a tremendous way—in which I am excited to watch the fruit of your labor grow within me, I continually pray that God will always bless you and your ministry a hundred-fold.

Many people have helped me through prayer and words of encouragement, and for that I am grateful. I love you all and I promise I did not leave out your name on purpose, but if I listed everyone who helped me, I would be writing a whole new novel. Love you all for the support. Above all, God sees and knows who you are.

Catherine Rankovic

Words can never express how grateful I am for your help. I appreciate your professional input, integrity, passion and excellence. Thank You.

.com

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