THE DESCENDANT

Based On True Events

THE DESCENDANT is book one of a trilogy of novels that chronicles the life of Penny, a present day intuitive and healer. It begins with the stories of the women who came before her, Vivian, Moms, Justine, and Vanita whose search for love leads them all on a path of controlling men, abuse, abandonment and broken dreams.

                The story begins with Vivian Cumberford a married paper bag socialite, who in 1904, post Victorian New York, does the unthinkable when she has a secret tryst with a very dark skinned but wealthy Bill Calhoun. Their brief and loveless union produces a raven dark skinned daughter named Ethel. Born an outcast in their fair skinned community Ethel is sent away, at age four, to live with her biological father Bill Calhoun.

                Abused and hated by her own father for the very same dark features he possesses, Ethel grows up searching for love and acceptance from anyone who will give it to her. In 1922 when she meets Theodore Winston Prawl, a West Indian rum heir, she believes she has found the love and acceptance that has evaded her entire life. Against his controlling mother’s wishes and her entourage of conjurers, Winston promises Ethel marriage and a ring so big, “she’ll need a tea cart to carry it.” With five potential heirs, a sixth on the way, and an impeding marriage proposal, Ethel’s dream of love, acceptance, and family seems to be finally within her reach until she receives word that Winston has been killed in a freak accident. At that moment, Ethel’s dream of having love and her will to live dies with him, and Ethel ceases to exist.

                Abandoned and grief stricken Ethel’s world spirals out of control, and she becomes another woman whose life purpose and identity is labeled for her only function in life. She is forever referred to as Moms, the woman with the trouble making brood. Alone, desperate, pregnant with her and Winston’s sixth child, and forced to make all of her children wards of the state, Moms makes a decision that she hopes will salvage her life and the life of her unborn child. When the child is born she places her daughter in a laundry basket on the steps of King James Episcopal Church with hopes of freeing one child from the loveless life that has possessed them all. However the baby is quickly claimed by her inescapable fate, in the form of newlywed Justine Johnson.

                Justine, who had taken a vow of celibacy after her husband sexually assaulted her on their wedding night, finds the abandoned child as she is leaving the church having just prayed to God to give her a child that she could love unconditionally. The miracle child inspires Justine to fulfill a dream that eluded her mother and enslaved grandmother, which is to create a woman who is completely free and independent. She places all of her hopes and dreams into her daughter who she names Vanita.

                For a time it looks as though the cycle is broken. Vanita is flourishing. At thirteen she begins to crave love too. Her adolescent innocence and curiosity sends her out into her school hallways looking at boys and dreaming of love in her giggling circle of peers. Just when Vanita thought she could have love, Edsel, Justine’s abusive husband, “christens her” with a rape filled with jealousy and revenge. The rape tosses Vanita back into the vicious cycle of ancestral abuse and sexual promiscuity.

                Now at the age of thirteen, Vanita is forced to resume the painful search for love her ancestors began. Her search comes to a screeching halt when at age twenty-six she meets John Chapple, a numbers runner with a bright toothy grin and florsheim shoes. Desperate to prove that she is worthy of love, and to create a family of her own, she gets pregnant. When John refuses to marry her, she gets pregnant again, with Penny.

                Born by an emergency cesarean with her umbilical cord wrapped tightly around her throat, Penny emerges into her mother’s chaotic world without a whimper. Spiritually and intuitively gifted with the ability to break the cycle of abuse, she arrives to lead those who will follow her to a place of divine independence. When Justine lays eyes on her granddaughter, she immediately knows that her granddaughter will exceed the visions she had of her before she was born, “…this little one will go far…She’ll set things straight and do what you and I could never imagine….This baby is our future. She’ll be the one.” With her spiritual abilities to heal and nurture, Penny seems destined to succeed.

                However when her father rapes her at the tender age of two and a half, the curse that is so deeply woven into the fabric of Penny’s ancestors’ lives seems inescapable. But by the age of four, Penny’s spiritual gifts and powerful soul emerges again right before her mother’s disbelieving eyes. With innocence and conviction Penny threatens her mother with the ugly truth of her parent’s abuse when she points a condemning finger at her mother and says, “I’ma tell.”

                In retaliation Vanita locks Penny in a closet to silence her. However when the pad lock on the door is mysteriously shattered and Penny tumbles out, Penny utters two words that shake Vanita to her soul’s core. Desperate Vanita tries one last time to silence her child as she sleeps, only to have Penny’s life restored right before her eyes. Unable to silence her child and rid herself of her ugly truth, she runs. Vanita packs a bag and runs off into the night leaving four and a half year old Penny, her sisters, and their alcoholic father to fend for themselves. With no grandmother or mother to protect her, Penny’s mission of creating a new legacy of freedom and independence rests solely on her ability to remember and remain connected to the divine. Is her soul strong enough to remember the truth to free herself and lead future generations to freedom?

The Descendant is now being published under My Portalstar Press. Printed and Ebook Copies of The Descendant will be available for purchase by July 30, 2019. If you'd like me to send you an email when the new printing is available please contact me via email: Masheri@myportalstar.com.
Thank you for your patience and support. In the meantime enjoy reading an excerpt provided below.

Paperback 359pages

NOTE: THE DESCENDANT can only be purchase directly from the author. Amazon carries only used copies at inflated prices.

SAMPLE CHAPTERS...

INTRODUCTION

How we see and experience life determines our reaction and actions.

I have come to learn that it’s all about perspective. Therefore, I want you to see what I see, know what I know, the story behind the story. Perhaps that will make a difference in how you perceive my family who you are about to meet. I am not trying to defend or offer excuses for their thoughts, words, and actions only insight into their souls.

I am able do this because I am not born yet. Like you, I am merely a voyeur watching the lives of others unfold. However my perspective will be a little different because my soul’s existence, at this moment, is simple, clear, and uncompromising. I am omnipotent and omniscient and candid. I offer no apologies for my knowledge or my abilities. I just am what I am without excuses. I am love. I am divine. This is simply the state of my being, for now.

In time my soul will be born into the physical realm and then all of life’s complications will take hold. The actions I will take will be a compilation of the lives and actions of my ancestors; the people they met and with whom they have enmeshed their lives. My life will be interwoven so infinitesimally within the fabric of their lives that my ancestors’ experiences will become part of my cellular existence and coded in my DNA.

I know this before I return, yet I still want to return because I am a Descendant. I am a true believer of the divine, that which cannot be seen, but is felt and known. I am by nature, a teacher with a specific task to perform in order to attain knowledge or understanding about an earthly experience for myself, while setting an example and teaching others.

Descendants in the physical realm, serve as a reminder of the divinity already within. Through my own painful earthly experiences I get to demonstrate to others how I am able to survive and transcend negative experiences by staying connected to my divine existence through faith, patience and compassion. I am a spiritual being having a human experience.

My greatest challenge will be remembering. It is the memory of my divine existence that will be my salvation. Without it, my soul can become lost, fearful, and unable to heal myself or teach others. You see, another purpose for returning to the physical realm is to evolve my soul with a new lesson while simultaneously testing my divine memory. Will I remember I am love in its purest form, and have love within me in and therefore need no one else to provide this basic nourishment? Will I remember that true power is power over one self and not in controlling or dominating others? Will I remember the truth that I and I alone create my own reality and that I have unlimited divine power in the form of free will to alter my destiny. When confronted with fear it is so easy to forget.

Nonetheless, I have already chosen my lessons, the experiences, and the people I feel will teach me best and challenge my memory the most. However, there is a lesson that I have not planned for myself; one that I must come to recognize and master. This lesson is revealed to me just before I am born, and then quickly forgotten as part of my challenge. It can only be remembered once I reconnect with my divine memory.

The story I am about to share with you is the evolution of my soul. I will do my best to remain silent and offer you no judgment on what you are about to witness, only my soul’s periscopic perspective about the choices each person chooses on their path.

While I know each choice that is made has the potential to affect my existence and my soul when I am born, I will not interfere or try to alter my ancestors’ decisions. All that I will do is pray, make an earthly appearance to inspire when I can, and try to remember the truth that I am love. I hope I am not too ambitious

Oh, and by the way, if you have opened this book, you are remembering. Mitakuye Oyasin! [1]

“The great soul is the person who has taken on the task of change. If he or she is able to transcend fear, to act out of courage, the whole of its group will benefit and each one, in his or her own life, will be suddenly more courageous.”      Gary Zukav    THE SEAT OF THE SOUL

THE LORD’S PRAYER

The white bar of Ivory soap floated in the red bath water, creating a silky, white swirl. My mother had finally arrived. Pulled from the murky water, she is silent at first. She doesn’t know how to breathe, so my grandmother taps her bottom to force a cry. Just as her tiny mouth opens, her first sound is quickly muffled by my grandmother’s sagging breast. One minute old and she is immediately taught that no one wants to hear from her – not a good start.

God has a way of tiptoeing into your life to save you from yourself. God doesn’t always show up in the same form, or use the same voice. However, if you get very still you can hear God and feel your heart flutter like a butterfly’s wing. That is how you know God is talking to you. God is using my voice right now. Despite all the noise surrounding her sanity, I am praying that my grandmother is able to hear God’s voice in my whisper.

“Save her….save her…” I blew my whispers of prayers into my grandmother’s ear.

Thus far, my mother’s reception into the world is a cool one. What little hot water my grandmother was able to use has become cold and unwelcoming. Pillows of steam from my grandmother’s smoldering arms and shoulders float upward toward the ceiling and cling to the single light bulb.

As I survey the predicament of my mother’s family, it is obvious my mother has chosen a difficult path for her soul’s lesson. I am hoping she will remember why she came back to experience life again. As long as I am on the outside looking in, I can inspire them with prayer and hope that they can both hear me and remember.

“Save her…save her…save her…”

My words now blow like fine, silky powder over my grandmother’s face. I look into her eyes and see that her body is still aglow with pain from birthing her sixth child; yet somehow she feels completely numb. How can that be? I look deep into her heavy eyes and wonder if she can see me? I want her to know that she is not alone. I am here for her. She looks away. I wish there was a pill for her to swallow that will rid her mind of her desolation.

With all that she has endured, it is understandable that she has forgotten that her free will enables her to create her own destiny, and that her life is created by a series of choices, and that no one has the final say on the outcome of her life but her.

As she nuzzles my mother to her breast with one hand, her free hand marbled with scared skin reaches for the bar of Ivory soap. I watch her eyes as they follow the soap. The bar disappears beneath her palm as she glides it across her skin, washing off bits and pieces of afterbirth that slide into the water. In the midst of her despair, she hums Brahms’ Lullaby, whose melody evokes a peace within her and floats her back a time when she felt safe.

That faint memory pushes a smile across her face. She hums louder, wishing that her daughter would open her eyes and look up to catch this vision of love. It’s not often that she gets to be in this loving light. She wants desperately for someone to see that she is a good mother, even if it is just for this moment. She needs someone to validate something good in her.

She rubs the thin bar of soap, which is now molded to the curve of her palm, across her daughter’s tiny back and legs. She then slides the thin wafer of soap with her pinky between her daughter’s tiny toes in hopes of waking her so she can perhaps remember this feeling of being clean and loved and untouched by reality. All that is needed is some water to rinse and bless her child for her impending life.

The faucet makes a low groan as she turns on the hot water. A cold reality gushes onto her legs. There is no more hot water. The super won’t turn the boiler on until 6 a.m. She cups the last of the tepid water and splashes her newest arrival.

“May God bless you, child.” Prayer is the only clothing she wants to dress her child in tonight. She wants to do one thing right. It feels good to be a mother, a real mother. Why couldn’t her life stay just like this?

The faucet’s handle squeaks in defiance as she quickly reaches to stop the coldness from entering her child’s life too soon. How different life would be if she could have hot water whenever she needed it. She takes a clean finger and strokes my mother’s face, wondering if my mother will remember her.

As if on cue my mother’s tiny arm stretches outward and pushes my grandmother’s finger away. It is as though she doesn’t want to be touched. My mother’s movement seems deliberate and hurtful, causing the familiar pain of rejection to rattle my grandmother’s heart and deny her any sense of love.

Looking down at her body, she notices the floating debris clinging to her again and splashes her body to wash it away. Instead, more debris clings to her. Just this once she would like to feel clean, warm, and safe. Why does life have to be so damn cold and dirty?

Unable to cleanse herself, she pulls the plug. The muddied water begins a slow-moving funnel down the drain. She sits still in the tub with her child pressed against her breast as the water level drops around her waist. She feels the gentle pull of the drain as it starts to suck, suck the dirty water away from their bodies. She drops her head back onto her shoulders wishing that all of her pain would disappear down the drain as well.

As the water level reaches her ankles, it gurgles and chokes. The bare bulb in the ceiling begins to flicker, signaling her to take one last look at her life because it is about to change. She quietly surmises that the tub she is sitting in is like a metaphor for her life – cold and messy.

For her, love is nothing more than a pretty balloon that pops the moment she touches it. There is still no man in her life, no one to love her. In her mind her five other children are now reminders of broken promises of love. The bulb flickers once more, then throws her into darkness. She snorts as she realizes that for the first time in her life, someone is keeping their promise; unfortunately, it is the electric company.

Sitting in a cold puddle of darkness, she is defiantly still with her newborn pressed against her breast. Her tongue clicks as she sucks her teeth in disgust. I can only do one thing – touch the bulb and restore light. In that moment, I can see flashes of angry memories of abandonment popping in her mind like firecrackers. Suddenly her arm reaches over the side of the tub for one of her shoes on the floor. Without a thought she hurls it at the light bulb causing it to explode. She can see me!

I look down directly into her eyes. She now stands defiantly as though she is ready for a fight and swings her leg over the rounded edge of the tub. This is a good sign. I have been following my family for two generations now and have witnessed this kind of intense resolve. Just when their soul seems scraped raw and bleeding with anger, they stand up and stare down the darkest moment of their life.

“Can you hear me?” I speak directly into her face.

“Save her…save her…”

She walks like a shadow through the darkness of her cramped, one-room apartment. I watch as she instinctively slides her body between the double and single beds that are shoved into one corner of the room.

“If you can hear me, say yes, I can hear you.” I am excited about the possibility of connecting. Her mother had the ability to hear. If she can hear me, this can change everything.

She finds an available corner of the sagging double bed and climbs in like a bird climbing into its nest. With my mother deftly tucked in the crook of her arm, she lays down amongst the tangled heap of her children’s arms and legs. Now there are five in one double bed – my grandmother, my newly born mother and three siblings. Next to them, the two older siblings sleep in the twin bed feet to face. There seems to be so many with so little. The strain of their lives is evident in the way my aunts and uncles sleep with their hands and arms covering their faces, as though they are shielding themselves from an impending doom.

With only two hours before my grandmother has to deliver her next load of clean laundry, I make my last plea, “…Save her…save her…”

Suddenly she bolts up in bed and puts her face directly into mine.

“Leave me alone!” she throws back in my face. We are

nose to nose. It is clear she can see and hear me. The venom in her words pushes me back. Her bark startles Clifton, my mother’s oldest brother, who sits up in the twin bed next to them. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Clifton notices his new sister whose soft whimper is quickly plugged by my grandmother’s breast.

“She’s not getting my drawer,” Clifton mumbles. He punches his pillow and drops back into an angry sleep. My grandmother’s anger now chases me. Getting out of bed with my mother pressed against her breast, she puts her face into mine again.

“Who are you to judge me?” she shoots bitingly. “Go away and leave me the hell alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” Her fiery voice erupts into their darkness, scalding their ears with her rage. Her children tug on sheets, pillows and limbs to shield themselves from her insanity. Automatically, a low hum erupts from my core and love shields me from her blast of anger. I move further away to give room for her free will to flow. I must let her live her life to the best of her ability.

This is her life, her illusion to discern and grow from. The truth that I witness and know of has no purpose for her. We each have a view of her life, but the only one that matters is hers. My grandmother is suffering with a severe bout of divine amnesia. Anger, guilt, shame and distrust are devouring her memory of love. I am helpless to help her.

I have no choice but to direct my focus to my mother. Looking down on my mother’s doll-sized body, I recognize this will be the vessel from which my soul will emerge. Will my love be strong enough to end this vicious legacy?

“You are loved,” I send to my mother. Her eyes open. She is conscious. She hears me! Her small eyes are deliberately gazing into mine. She sees me! She wants me to know that she sees me. I smile and send her a wave of love, and she releases a whelping cry as though I have caused her pain. How can that be? Has she forgotten already?

I look into her eyes again and see a familiar foe emerging. Her soft, brown eyes begin to pulsate. Within moments, the serene purity vacates her eyes and they fills with a dark, cold and hostile muddy glare that I unfortunately remember too well. She is transforming right before me.

I watch as the peaceful glow from her birth begins to fade and a dull, waxy pallor begins to cling to her. A sense of dread pushes me back as her true identity emerges. It is painfully familiar. A heavy vapor envelops me. Before I can feel my thoughts, they escape my soul and resound into her existence, “Oh no, not again!”

My mother looks me directly in the eye and smiles with delight.

MOMS 1928

Her stomach was still cramping from last night’s delivery. The wincing on her face as she places my infant mother on the church doorstep is not due to a sad goodbye, but to an old pain that would not let go of her life.

            “No more, this will be the last one out of me,” I could hear her mumble to herself as she reaches the top step. My grandmother did not count on getting pregnant again. She did not believe that she had any love left inside of her to create another life. However, now that the baby is here she knows there is no room. Everything she has is spoken for. She and her five children have to share two beds in their one bedroom apartment. Each person has one drawer of a six-drawer bureau. There are only six plates, and she is still shy one fork. There simply isn’t any more room, any more food, or any more air for another life. These reasons make my grandmother’s decision to remove herself from her baby’s life while the baby’s mind has no memory of her at all, the right solution for them both. I am grateful she heard my prayers and is able to act selflessly. If only the same mercy had been given to her, how differently her life would have turned out.

            That hot and muggy summer day her own mother, my great- grandmother, Vivian Cumberford, was forced to give her to her biological father, when she was just four years old, is still painfully etched in her soul. At twenty four years old, although she is not able to remember what happened, she is still reliving the pain of that fateful day. Whenever her own children cry, she unknowingly hears the cries from her childhood echo in her heart, causing her to demand silence and sometimes strike at her own children to get it.

            When she was plopped, screaming, on the back seat of her father’s Ford Model A, that was the first moment her life began spiraling out of control. However she is not able to remember that. Instead any time she finds a sock in the wrong drawer or a child not in the right bed, she feels the hot leather of that seat cushion stinging the back of her thighs, which spins her into an emotional tornado that tears through her little apartment and the lives of her children. Once her emotional storm clears, her craving for control and order takes over and requires she return everything and everyone to their rightful place.

            As she pushes the rubber pacifier back into the baby’s mouth, she frowns. There are still no answers to pacify her pain. Moms still doesn’t remember anything about her childhood, other than what she has been told. The facts that she does know reveal nothing out of the ordinary.

Her mother was in a very respectable marriage when she was born. She has two older sisters, so it couldn’t have been a problem of too many mouths to feed. From what she was told there was plenty of room in the house, and there was something about a piano. Her sisters deny that there was ever a piano, but somehow she keeps thinking about a piano surrounded by laced curtains, drenched in sunlight.

As she stands on the top step next to the large wood doors of the church, the distinctive fragrance of lemon oil brings to life a memory she is unable to claim. In her mind’s eye there is a quick flash of love, as an image of a woman playing the piano with the lace curtains blowing gently around her. Who is that lady? For some reason whenever she sees that image a dull ache throbs inside her head. The baby erupts into a low whine and redirects her focus. She quickly plugs the noise with the pacifier and returns to her reality.

            With no man on whom she could rely, and one hand’s worth of children already walking, already trouble to feed, Moms realizes she is beyond desperate. She has done all she can to systematize her life to make it manageable, and to keep it from slipping out of her hands.

Although horribly scarred and calloused, her hands are her tools for financial resource. She cleans houses during the day, and washes laundry at night. When her left hand isn’t in hot water washing clothes or scrubbing floors, she uses it to keep track of her children by assigning each child to a finger. That is the only way she can remember their names.

            Clifton, her oldest, is still a big thumb sucker, so he was the thumb. Jared, who always pokes his index finger in his food to taste it, is the index finger. Francine, the tallest of them all, is the middle finger. Selma, who is just a hair shorter than Francine, became the fourth finger. Finally Florence, who in comparison to her sisters is so petite, is Moms’ pinky.

There are no more available fingers with which to raise another child. Her right hand is unavailable because she is keeping that hand free for herself.   So, on a warm and breezy September night Moms places, what she believes is, her last baby on the steps of King’s Episcopal Church with a hope that another pair of hands would appear and lighten her load. Looking down at the little bundle her eyesight becomes blurred by a rising rage. Suddenly her baby is a load of clean laundry she is dropping off. She is able to turn and walk away as though her job is done. Stepping off the bottom step onto the sidewalk, she wonders if her mother ever felt as desperate as she feels now.

                                                                                                             ***********

Born Ethel Henrietta Cumberford in December 1904, to Jack and Vivian Cumberford, an English professor and well-known pianist, Moms was a sight to behold for their little “paper bag society”. It wasn’t because her mother named her after the President’s Roosevelt’s daughter and the famous actress Ethel Barrymore. Nor was Ethel infamous because of extraordinarily beauty, like her two sisters Maime and Katherine. Ethel’s notoriety was based on a simple observation. Ethel did not have the same fair, creamy skin or silky soft hair as her sisters.

In comparison, Ethel’s physical characteristics were alarming. The small, but elite, society to which the Cumberfords belonged had a very strict policy. While other paper bag communities required that the skin could not be darker than a brown paper bag, the Duprey chapter required that their residents’ skin must be two shades lighter or risk exclusion from the Duprey elite social gatherings, and education and employment opportunities. The fear of being exiled into a common and low class world of menial employment, racism, and racial violence was always great.

Ethel’s birth jeopardized Jack and Vivian’s very existence. Her skin, dark brown like bitter baking chocolate, was a major violation. Add to that Ethel’s dark, thick, curly, borderline nappy hair; a nose that seems to span fully across her face; and big round dark eyes, and her offense surpassed any leniency that could ever be granted. Nothing about Ethel resembled the Cumberford’s dainty and more delicate features. It was inevitable that people in their community would be lining up to demand an explanation. However, they would have to wait because Jack was the first in line. Upon seeing his baby, Jack said what was only natural to him.

“This is not my baby,” he announced as he grabbed the nurse’s arm. “If this is someone’s idea of a joke—,” he threatened.

“Mr. Cumberford, that is your child,” the nurse said firmly.

“That did not come out of my wife!” he spat at her. The level of anger spewing from him startled the newborns on the other side of the nursery glass window into belting cries.

“Mr. Cumberford, lower your voice. You’re in a maternity ward!” He spun away from her holding a fist over his mouth to keep from striking out.

“You don’t understand,” he said not mincing his words. “There is no way I could have fathered that child.” The nurse, whose skin was gingerbread brown, knew where he was going with his words. Her professional demeanor vanished.

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but ain’t nothing wrong with that baby. You and your kind are the problem. Breeding self-hatred is what y’all do. It’s bad enough we have white folk putting us down or hanging us from a tree. We don’t need a taffy-colored Negro standing by holding the damn rope!” With those words the entire area was silent. Even the babies had stopped crying. The nurse’s chest was now heaving against his as she pressed him against the wall. He peered to his right and saw how everyone was staring at him. He had caused the worse possible scene, and called attention to the problem he needed to hide. The nurse took a step back and reclaimed her professional manner.

“Now if you would like, I will go find the doctor for you.”

“Yes, go get the doctor,” he ordered. She put both hands on her hips, cocked her head, gave him the evil eye, and humiliated him further.

“Say please,” she scolded.

“Don’t you take that tone with me. I know the head of this hospital. I will report you.”

“Go ahead, report me. I’m the head nurse and a damn good nurse at that. Whether you know it or not, this hospital needs me, and you need me. You’ve got no other hospital to go to,” she reminded. He dropped his head and noticed her worn shoes. They had been polished and new laces put in. He felt her dignity and felt hard pressed not to acknowledge it.

“Now, would you like me to get the doctor for you?”

“Yes…please,” was all he could say.

“Why don’t you go over to the desk, get yourself a cup of water and pull yourself together,” she instructed. As she turned to leave, his words caught her.

“Excuse me,” he began. “Did my wife see the baby?” he asked fighting back tears.

“Yes, she did.” Her eyes narrowed demanding he choose his words carefully.

“Did she say anything?”

“No, she just fainted,” the nurse answered coldly. She turned on her slanted heels and disappeared through the small swinging door.

As he sipped on the cold water, he felt it enter his mouth and travel down his throat into his body making him feel like he was completely hollowed out.   It was as though he was watching the whole scene from a distance and this nightmare was happening to someone else.

Vivian heard every ugly and frightening word in her sleep. Her eyes still heavy from anesthesia had every reason to stay close. She didn’t want to open her eyes and see the horror and shame she created. She certainly didn’t want to see the look on Jack’s face when she held the baby. The mere thought of it made her to want to stop breathing. Death would be an easy escape and a just punishment for what she did.

Lying in the recovery room, the acrid scent of cold alcohol stung her nostrils and reminded her there was nothing in that hospital that would be able to sterilize her. Jack will probably never touch her again. What she did was a sin greater than anything she could find in the bible. There will be no escaping the society’s cruelty. How ironic. For most of her life she had been part of that cruelty; her finger was one of many condemning fingers that pointed out the differences in others, and her voice was part of the whispers of hatred that pricked the ears of others just like her daughter.

God was punishing her for her sin and her punishment was commencing immediately. In her drug induced sleep she heard the nurses talking around her.

“I heard that molasses is running from her vanilla tree,” a nurse pushed out between tight lips. The nurse’s voice was of an older woman. She spoke soft and slow. She could feel the nurse’s warm breath fall on her cool face. Her breath smelled of coffee and pound cake.

“Girl, I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I put her baby in her arms,” a younger voice squealed with delight.

“It serves her right for playing in our sandbox, uppity high yella bitch.” This voice was hard and cold and her words hit Vivian’s ears like bricks.

“Ssssh, girl, somebody’s going to hear you.”

“If they do, they’ll be thinking the same thing as me. Now she can see what it feels like to be one of us. Hmmp-high yella bitch. I wish she would open her eyes. I’d tell her to her face.” With those words Vivian opened her eyes. The image of a cocoa skinned woman began to take shape. She was fuzzy at first, with two heads. When the nurse saw Vivian was awake, her face quickly disappeared. The older voice woman suddenly leaned in with a polite smile on her face.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Cumberford.” The nurse’s voice was suddenly gracious as though they were in church together.

Vivian’s face immediately became contorted with pain.

“Your baby was born breech. The doctors had to operate. Do you understand what I am saying?

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Good.”

“No I heard you…all of you…Shame on you…all of you…” The nurses froze. The young nurse quickly left the room.

“I heard you…”

“We didn’t mean nothing by it. It’s just talk,” she tried to explain.

“Speak for yourself. I meant every word of what I said.” Before Vivian could focus her eyes, the woman was standing directly over her and looking down at her. She wore a garish red lipstick that glowed against her smooth caramel skin.

“Now you’re one of us. That’s what you get for playing in our yard.”

Vivian could feel the nurse’s venom as it was spewed in her face.

“Corette that’s enough! This poor woman has been through surgery.”

Vivian wished she was still numb and couldn’t feel anything, but the anesthesia was wearing off. Her body felt like someone was pushing swords through it. She could feel her hands trembling underneath the sheet. Hot tears pushed up in the corner of her eyes and slid down her cold cheeks. The nasty tone that woman sprayed in her face was the same tone her mother would used when she pointed a condemning finger, only now it was directed at her. More tears started ran down her cheeks.

“You think I care if you cry,” she scolded dumping her words like rocks onto Vivian’s face. Vivian looked onto the round face hanging over her. She was like an African sculpture she had once seen and was too afraid to admit that she liked it. Despite the woman’s hatred she was somehow able to find beauty in her full lips, and large brown eyes.

“I hate you for how you made me feel my whole life.” Unable to escape or turn away Vivian reconciled that she was now in her own private hell.

“I hate me too,” Vivian countered. Her words pushed the woman back.

“You insult this patient one mo’ time and I’ll report you,” the older nurse’s face was clean and glowed. Little dark moles sprayed across her face like freckles. Her firm words caused her soft face to furrow and pleasant eyes to suddenly swell. Corette wadded up her bed sheets in her arms and quickly left the room before anyone could see the tear that was ready to leap from her eye.

The older nurse took Vivian’s pulse and stared at her watch. Vivian locked her eyes on her, but the nurse would not look down. When she was done, she gingerly placed Vivian’s hand back under the sheet and turned to leave but Vivian grabbed her. Ironically Vivian found the nurse comforting even though her round face had suddenly become clenched with shame.

“I’m so sorry for what I said. If I hadn’t spoken no one else would have said anything. Now I know two wrongs ain’t going to make what is going on between us right, but we can start with you and me,” she added remorsefully.

“I wish you were my mother,” Vivian whispered back before the pain from the operation speared the core of her soul. Her nails dug into the nurse’s dark flesh. Vivian felt a cool clammy sensation enveloping her, and wondered if she was dying. Her eyes were becoming heavy again, her teeth started chattering, and she felt as though she was drowning in cold water. She didn’t want to die alone. She didn’t want to die carrying her secret.

“Mrs. Cumberford, let go so I can get the doctor for you,” the nurse pleaded.

“I’m so sorry…” Vivian gripped her harder.

“Mrs. Cumberford, I can’t get you help if you don’t let go. You’re might have milk fever. Let me get the doctor for you before you...

“Forgive me,” fell off Vivian’s tongue. Just before she dropped off into unconsciousness she saw me. With her last strength she reached for me.

Her fear was ripe and intense. Its dank fog was swirling and rising from her feet.

“Do you want to see?” I asked her. My words blew the sent of roses into her face melting the fog into a luminous warm glow.

“She’s beautiful…” she said gazing at me.

“Mrs. Cumberford...”the nurse began shaking her. I wanted to show her quickly and return her before it was too late.

“Would you like to see?” Her soul was rising towards me. I took her hand just for a moment. My light showered her face. She was radiant and in love.

“Angel, I see an angel…beautiful…” she murmured. Her eyes now warm and translucent glistened with a new hope. A joyful tear sparkled as it released from her eye and glided down her face. She felt me. As we stood by her bed together, she turned to look down at her body, and watched the nurse scurry out of the room.

“Take me with you,” she pleaded.

“Not now,” I urged and pushed my aura outward so that she could return. I watched as her essence fell back into her body like thousands of feathers.

As I pulled away I could see her eyes fluttering. She was in a deep sleep where she would remain until she was ready to wake up and face Jack.

                                                                                                         ***********

Jack had to think fast. Jeffery Kendall, his friend since age seven, would be coming to the hospital to bring him a cigar. They both believed Vivian was going to have a boy, and therefore planned a small gentlemen’s celebration together. What would Jeffery think of the baby? Dread lay heavy in his stomach like a bad meal. He felt he had let Jeffery down.

His hands were now ice cold. His feet, though numb, were heavy and unmoving like blocks of concrete. How was he going to explain Ethel’s legitimacy to their family and friends? He couldn’t even explain it to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to take responsibility for a child that he didn’t believe was his. Yet the thought of Vivian being with another man was beyond his capacity. His narcissism wouldn’t permit her to be with any man but him. There had to be another explanation for the nightmare he was in.

“That damn doctor better have an answer!” he growled to himself. He was disgusted with his life at that moment, and needed to blame someone for the catastrophe wrapped in that nursery. Forgetting where he was, and who he was, he looked up to the ceiling to scream at God. “Tell me what this is about dammit! You tell me what this is about!”

“Jack? Jack!” A firm hand grabbed his shoulder. “What on God’s earth has happened?” Jack spun around and saw Jeffery Kendall’s vanilla face red with embarrassment. Jeffery who represented the ideal paper bag candidate stood before Jack reminding him how imperfect his newborn was. Jeffery’s physical attributes were flawless. His unblemished vanilla skin; ruler straight brown hair; hazel eyes which perfectly complement his skin; and his five eleven slightly muscular frame, made him the envy of many of his fellow socialites. Looking into Jeffery’s face, Jack could only feel how miserably he had failed.

Jeffery, on the other hand, could only see how pain had twisted Jack’s face. The last time he saw that look on his childhood friend was when Jack’s fifteen year old dog, Chance, died. Panic seized Jeffery.

“What’s wrong with the baby?” Oh my God, is Vivian all right? Jeffery didn’t know which question to ask first.

“Vivian is fine,” Jack offered.

“Did something happen to the baby?”

“Yes,” Jack admitted. At that moment his mind opened and the words ‘recessive gene’ popped into his thoughts.

“What happened?” Jeffery asked with his eyes welling up with tears. Jeffery had been excited about Vivian’s third pregnancy. He had two girls and Jack had two girls. Unfortunately, his wife developed female complications and couldn’t have any more children, which ruled out the possibility of a son to carry on the Kendall name.

When Jeffery learned Vivian was expecting, he was thrilled that he would be able to secretly experience raising a son with Jack. When Jack asked him to be Godfather to the unborn child, and participate in its rearing, Jeffery was ecstatic! He had to fight back tears of gratitude that he would still be able to fulfill his dream to father a son. Now that it appeared his dream was fading right before him, he refused to hold back and let his tears run freely down his face. He wanted to ask, but he was terrified to even say the words.

“Did the baby die?” He felt like he was choking to death.

“No it’s alive.”

“Thank God. Thank you Jesus.” Jeffery released as he collapsed on a small wooden bench across from the nursery window. He looked up and saw Jack’s face was still contorted. “Then what’s wrong? The baby is alive, so it can’t be that bad. Where is it? Is it a boy?”

“It’s a girl,” Jack responded with resignation.

“Oh.” Jeffery said dropping his head in disappointment. He suddenly perked up. “Well it is a healthy girl, isn’t it?”

“Well she’s healthy for her, but not for us.”

“What? What does that mean? You’re talking in riddles.”

“She was born… with a…recessive gene. It affects the color of her skin,” Jack explained choosing his words carefully. The words and the explanation seem to suddenly remedy the disgust he had been feeling. It was the only explanation that made sense.

“What? You mean the baby has no color.”

“No. She has color.” Jack wanted it all to stop right there.

“Then the baby is okay?”

“No.”

“No?” Jeffery was searching Jack’s eyes for the truth.

“This wasn’t my fault,” Jack defended. “She has a recessive gene…”

“Jack, what the hell is wrong with the baby?”

“She is dark as night,” Jack confessed. “She is so dark and she doesn’t look anything like us.

“It can be that bad,” Jeffery offered.

“No, it’s bad, real bad,” Jack said with his voice growing strong with anger. He buried his face in his hands and faced the wall. He wanted no one to see him, especially Jeffery. “How could this have happen to me? I was so careful about choosing the right woman. How did this happen?”

When Jeffery heard that question his mind jumped to a rumor that floated with the cigar smoke at their gentlemen’s club. When he first heard the rumor, it seemed so preposterous that he put it out with his cigar and left it with the ashes in the ashtray. His heart pounded alerting him that he was nearing a truth he didn’t want to know, yet alone tell his closest friend.

“Sometimes things happen for a reason and we have to learn how to carry on.”

“How? How do we live with this?” Jack demanded.

“One day at a time. You’ve got your friends behind you.”

“This is going to kill my mother,” Jack muttered leaning into Jeffery’s ear as though he was revealing a secret.

If the truth doesn’t kill you first, Jeffery thought to himself. There was nothing left for them to do. The deed was done and the seed had been sown for destruction to take root in their little society. Jeffery decided the man responsible would be held accountable for this violation when the time was right. For now Jeffery wanted to focus on damage control. He needed to get Jack out of the hospital and far away from the truth.

Unless a miracle presented itself Jack and Vivian would have to live with their ugly truth alone. He would lose his best friend. He was certain that Jack would be shut out from their society, and that he would be forced to cease all communication with him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a white uniform scurrying towards them.

“Mr. Cumberford. Are you Mr. Cumberford?” The nurse’s eyes were wide with panic.

“No, he is,” Jeffery was all too happy to direct the trouble to Jack.

“Mr. Cumberford, the doctor would like to speak with you.” She was professional but curt. Jeffery knew something had gone horribly wrong.

“What’s wrong? Did the baby die?” Jack asked. His wistful tone, made the nurse take two disbelieving steps back. When Jeffery heard those words, he prayed in secret for it to be true.

“No, it’s your wife. Please follow me.”

“My wife?”

“Please Mr. Cumberford the doctor needs to speak with you,” she quickly turned on her heels and walked brusquely back down the hall. Jack turned to Jeffery with tears welling up in his eyes.

“I’ll be here if you need me.” Jeffery hugged him then pushed him away. “Go.”

“I owe you my life,” Jack exhaled as he moved away choking back tears.

“I’m here for you Jack.” Jeffery said valiantly. He watched as his childhood friend walked away with a soldier’s stride. He loved Jack like a brother. However he didn’t believe that his love would be strong enough to withstand the condemnation Jack was about to receive. He knew he did not want to live in exile with him. As he watched Jack go through the swinging door he knew he wouldn’t be able to give up his life for Jack. He buried his face in his hands so he could pray for a solution but all that came to him was anger.

It was Jack’s fault that he didn’t control his wife. How could he have been so damn careless! What happened is Jack’s mistake and not his. Why should he suffer? After all, he was only a good friend and not his accomplice. Now he prayed that Jack was enough of a friend to leave him alone and not bleed his problem onto him. However he realized without Jack his life would have a big hole in it.

His mind began racing for alternatives. If Vivian dies, we can easily take care of the baby. Adoption is a respectable solution, and no one would ever know that she was ever born alive. We could say they both died in delivery. It’s not uncommon. “If Vivian lives…if Vivian lives…” His mind couldn’t get beyond that concept. I watched his soul torment itself over a solution.

“God help us! For Christ’s sake help us,” he muttered between his teeth.

I heard him pray for help. I touched him to join him in prayer, and I could feel Jeffery’s heart racing. I send him a surge of hope and a small smile draws across his face. He raised his head and sniffed the air. A faint sweet scent of roses brushed his nose. He was receiving my love. This was the only answer I knew. What each person did with it was beyond my control.

I watched him as he inhaled again, but this time more deeply. Even though the situation had not changed he brightened with new hope. Had God heard him? He quickly sat down on the bench, clasped his hands together, rested his head on them, and closed his eyes. I touched his head to listen.

God, show me the way…show me the way…show me the way…show me the way…show me…show me… I emerged in his mind as the image of his grandmother’s smiling face.

Waves of comfort washed over him. As a child he always saw her as the miracle worker. There wasn’t a problem that she couldn’t turn into an opportunity. She was an expert mediator and she was ingenious when it came to handling men, especially if business was involved. If there was one person who could find a solution, it would be her, Mrs. Samuel Chase. As their matriarch, she had become an expert at removing stains from the fabric of their little community. She had a lot of experience with dirty laundry and making everyone look clean.