The Metamorphic Journey Read online

  I opened the refrigerator. Stood there with the door open. Peeked my head in. The light shined brightly. There was nothing in the fridge to block the glare. No milk jug, no ketchup bottles, not even a package of cheese.

  When I heard Mommy crying, I told her it was going to be okay while listening to my stomach roar like a lion, desiring to be fed.

  I looked forward to the free breakfast and lunch I received at school. If I saw a classmate throwing away their food, I asked for it. I rolled it in a napkin and put it in the pocket of my jacket so Dustin and I could snack later when we got home. Nothing greasy or smelly.

  None of my classmates ever asked what I was going to do with the food. Nor did I offer additional conversations. I never wanted them to know.

  It was possible that the school breakfast and lunch would be the only meal we had until breakfast the next day. I shouldn’t say the only meal. Mommy made sure we had a package of ramen noodles or canned beef ravioli.

  On the weekends, Dustin and I were able to have six meals through the backpack program at our school. Aunt Helen and Mommy talked about how grateful they were for the foodbank’s donation.

  Dustin and I would frantically open our backpacks. Each weekend felt like Christmas. A new surprise. Sometimes a new mystery. We were unfamiliar with some of the food items included. We dumped everything onto the kitchen table and put meals together that lasted a few days.

  Despite not having breakfast or dinner, Mommy was able to eat a hefty lunch at the doctor’s office where she worked. Companies brought lunch every day of the week. Sometimes she packed leftovers.

  Aunt Helen wanted to help, but she was a struggling college student experiencing some of the same challenges. She visited and encouraged Mommy to get help from our local social services office. Mommy was reluctant to take time off from work. She told Aunt Helen that she did not think they would give her assistance because she worked two jobs. All of her money went to pay for our gas guzzling truck one of her coworkers gave her, rent for the trailer, and garnishments from bills that she and Daddy accumulated together.

  The dingy white trailer we lived in was long with chocolate brown shutters. The steps squeaked when you walked up and, by the time you reached step number three, you were fearful for your life. Once you were inside, you felt safe. It was the best Mommy could do.

  Although living in the trailer was home to us, it was difficult to get up every morning and boil pots of water, not for a hot dog or macaroni and cheese, but to bathe. I had to move fast before the water got cold again. I made enough water for me and Dustin to do a quick wash up before the big, yellow bus stopped at the corner three blocks away. Felt like a mile as we sprinted to the finish line while the blinking, red octagon folded against the side of the bus.

  Hot baths in the winter were the worst. Hot water was in front of us, but we shivered because we did not have adequate heat. Only space heaters in each room. They only heated the space right in front of them. Not an entire room nor our creepy trailer.

  In the summertime, we had our freshly boiled hot water in front of us, but we could almost bypass bathing because of the sweat that dripped off of our foreheads. We had no air conditioner either. Just a bunch of fans blowing hot air.

  All of this changed when Robert came into our lives. Mommy met Robert at the doctor’s office. She was an office manager, and he was the maintenance man. She worked late to tie up loose ends then came home for a few minutes to check on us before leaving to work her second job.

  Robert made Mommy smile. He eventually moved in with us. Began to fix the place up. We had heat in the winter and air in the summer.

  I heard no more evil stories about Daddy. Aunt Helen and Mommy only talked about Robert. Robert, Robert, Robert.

  …and

  the

  journey

  continues…

  Transformation

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Beauty for Ashes

  The situation I am in

  Has me at an ugly place.

  There are too many opinions

  On what will help me win this race.

  They say I would be a good mother;

  Time continues to tick-tock along.

  I don’t know whether it’s true;

  Suppose I get it all wrong.

  I am asking for strength

  From a God I cannot see.

  It is only Him who knows

  What is best for me.

  To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified. Isaiah 61:3 (KJV

  Section II

  The Caterpillar

  The egg transforms into a caterpillar. Not the prettiest stage of a butterfly’s transformation.

  Even though caterpillars are viewed as pests, their main purpose is to eat. Building up its stamina to prepare for the next stage.

  During the ugly stage of your life, you must “build yourself on your most holy faith” (Jude 1:20). The test and trials you have to endure will require a foundational belief in the only one who can keep you sane throughout the process.

  Continuous eating equates to continuous growth. As the caterpillar eats, they shed the skin they have outgrown.

  There is growth for you as well. You will outgrow people, places, and things that were a part of your norm.

  Learn all you can during this process. You will need the knowledge and wisdom for the next stage.

  After eating its eggshell, surrounding leaves, and continuously shedding its exterior, the caterpillar becomes one hundred times bigger than it started. So shall you.

  Keep eating.

  Keep shedding.

  Keep preparing.

  Keep growing.

  Naomi’s Flutter

  * * *

  Momma had me at seventeen, after she completed her junior year of high school. Grandma Lulu sent her away to live with Aunt Jessie, in Pennsylvania, until I was born. She did not want the neighbors to know Momma was pregnant. It won’t nobody’s business anyway. Even if they thought so.

  Momma returned to Promised Land. Never the same. She left me with Aunt Jessie. To raise for a short period of time. Not an eighteen-year commitment. Just until the dust settled. Let her go back to high school so she could graduate. Save her the embarrassment.

  Momma dropped out of high school two months before graduation. The city life was calling her name. Mr. Vernon said that was where the “fast tail girls” went. To the city. City life would get them every time. That party life. Far away from the two miles of Promised Land, South Carolina with no street lights.

  I was too young to remember any of this. I just knew Grandma Lulu loved me, in her own way. She always told me that she disciplined me for my own good. Many times it felt like anger and frustration. Maybe she was mad at Momma. I did not deserve all of those whippings with that brown, distressed-looking, thick leather belt with the brass buckle Grandma Lulu wrapped around her right hand before lashing me. That same belt probably ran my momma away.

  Why did she leave me with Grandma Lulu? Grandma Lulu already had thirteen kids. Yes, there was work to be done on the farm, but there were too many kids running around. No father to help take care of us. Just Grandma Lulu and a bunch of kids. Eight older than me. The twins were around my age, slightly older. The others were younger than me. Too many kids. Probably added to Grandma Lulu’s irritations.

  It all worked out though. We had a farm to maintain. Each kid had a responsibility.

  I was responsible for making sure all of the clothes were washed and folded. Too many clothes to wash on Saturdays only. I had to wash and hang them up before school. They were plenty dry when I got back. I folded them just in time for dinner. Before the daily evening church service.

  With all of the commotion us kids caused at Grandma Lulu’s house, I am sure those porch conversations
at Ms. Lorraine’s were interesting. The town’s news reporter. She loved to gossip. Talked about everybody. Told everything. But her own business.

  Momma escaped to the city so she could be free. I think she really went looking for Billy. That’s who the kids on the school bus said was my daddy. Billy Leroy Johnson. He was a ladies’ man and five years older than Momma. He promised her he would take her to the city after she graduated high school. That was before she got pregnant with me.

  Promised Land, South Carolina. Full of promises. Lip service. Promises rarely kept.

  Grandma Lulu prepared us for the big city that we all thought we wanted to live in. She told us that we had to be tough in this world. Maybe that was the reason she showed no affection. Too busy being tough. Probably impossible to love thirteen kids of her own and love me too.

  Besides, she had no man in the house to help raise us. Her first husband died in a train accident. Her second husband died in her heart when he went off to Tennessee to make a better living for the family. Or be with Ms. Sharon.

  Grandma Lulu had experienced a lot early in her life. A lot of broken-heartedness. There was not much left to give fourteen kids. Not much love. Not much promise. But we survived.

  After reflecting on my childhood, I realized I was not much different than the woman I missed and despised. Momma was seventeen when she had me. I was eighteen when I got pregnant. We were both young. We both escaped Promised Land, South Carolina. Momma to the city and me to South Carolina State University.

  I wanted to be different from Momma. I was not going to abandon my child for somebody else to take care of. I promised to love my child. I promised to hug my child. I promised to express my love so my child could feel it. I promised to tell my child its father’s name. There was promise in my land.

  Isabella’s Flutter

  * * *

  Could this be happening to me?

  An honors student?

  Graduating high school in a year?

  Mom had always told me no baby was coming in her house. Too many people there. Aunt Luciana and her two kids. Uncle Santiago and whoever he decided to bring over for the weekend. I can’t forget my worrisome baby sister and our Chihuahua Diamante, the pampered canine princess.

  Way too many people in our three-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. Thankfully, we were on the lower level. Too many footsteps for the upper level. The rental office would get complaints every five minutes if we were in the penthouse. My baby sister chasing Diamante around the linoleum kitchen table. Aunt Luciana and Uncle Santiago fussing about who would cook dinner, as if they were a married couple. All of the commotion would have had the neighbors thinking there was a town hall meeting to solve world peace.

  Each day, I looked at the brown paper towel wrapped pregnancy test that I clutched in my coat pocket after leaving the grocery store bathroom. The faint line stayed in the forefront of my mind. I wondered what it meant.

  The line was faint.

  Carlos was in the dark.

  My period was still ghost.

  I tried to do everything right. I protected myself. He wore a condom each time we had sex. Well, except when we went to the hotel on Johnson Street. He wore a condom but it slipped off. Maybe he was too rough. Too fast. Too good. The condom slipped off.

  Neither of us thought rough, fast, good sex would make the damn rubber balloon slip off. No worries. He immediately grabbed another one from his backpack. Yanked the package open with his teeth. We were back at it again. Rough. Fast. Good. It stayed on. No slip ups. No slip offs.

  We did all the right things. But two months passed and no Little Red Riding Hood. I knew I had to do something. I needed to know for sure.

  I did not know where to go. My school nurse? My pediatrician? My mom?

  Nope, not my mom.

  I was sixteen and lost.

  There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn. No one to talk to.

  Talk to Carlos? No, I could not talk to Carlos. He thought the pregnancy test was negative. Three whole weeks since I took the test in the world’s smallest bathroom stall. One bold line. One faint line. Nobody knew but me. Nope, I could not talk to Carlos.

  What did he care?

  His life was not ruined.

  He had already graduated high school.

  My life? My life was over.

  My dream of becoming an exchange student was over. The University of Chester in England would not be my new home. Yes, they decided to send me an application packet. But they did not know I would be pregnant six months later.

  I received that packet and daydreamed about exploring a new country. Until the possibility of being pregnant consumed my thoughts. I tried to refocus and think about life after high school on a college campus.

  Far away from our noisy, crowded, three-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment.

  Far away from the heartless bullies at school.

  Far away from Carlos.

  Far away from the baby growing inside of me.

  Daydreaming about the University of Chester and England kept my mind off the reality I had to deal with.

  Oh, England. The huge buildings with the pointed tops, especially the one with the round clock inside of it.

  Oh, England. The place of Shakespeare’s birth. “To be, or not to be, that is the question.”

  Oh, England. I love fish and fries. Or fish and chips as they call them.

  University of Chester.

  England.

  History.

  None of that would be my reality if I was pregnant.

  One day, I had overheard Alejandra talking to her friends about her sister going to a pregnancy place to take a free pregnancy test. Why did that catch my attention? Alejandra was a motor mouth, and I was not pregnant at the time she mentioned it. Had no thoughts of being pregnant.

  Alejandra usually talked to hear herself talk. Most of the time, I did not listen.

  That day? That was the day my ears keenly heard what she said. Not knowing that I was storing the information for future use.

  There were times when I would feel the pregnancy test in my coat pocket and considered asking Alejandra for the name of the place. She would not have cared that I was eavesdropping. She never cared who gave her attention.

  If I asked her the name of the place she mentioned months ago, would she remember? Would she freely tell my business like she told everyone else’s? Because that was her style.

  I decided not to ask Alejandra. I could take care of it myself. Just look up a few places that helped pregnant women in crisis. Hoping I could get some help.

  It was too late to call anyone. I could not sleep. Too much on my mind.

  It was dark outside. None of my family members were awake. Silence. Complete silence. Dead silence.

  Nobody to talk to. Except the movement in my stomach.

  I stepped outside of the apartment and made the call. Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center, twenty-four-hour helpline.

  I had kept this secret too long. I needed to know for sure. Too many days. Too many nights. Too many memories of the faint blue line.

  My imagination took over. Nonstop thoughts about little arms and legs. Little fingers. Little toes.

  “Thank you for calling Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center. Joyce speaking, how may I help you?”

  Everything stopped. I stopped. Talking stopped. Movement stopped. Frozen. Lifeless. Stunned. I started to hang up.

  Joyce? I didn’t know Joyce. Joyce didn’t know me. Should I say something?

  “Hello? Heelllooo?” Joyce sounded like a sweet, patient lady.

  I had to respond.

  “Hello,” I whispered.

  Tears began to stream down my face.

  I felt all alone.

  I had a secret.

  Nobody knew.

  Not even Carlos.

  Calm down.

  I had to calm down so Joyce could hear me. Understand me. Help me.

  Joyce helped me calm down. She spoke slowly. Treaded lightly in asking quest
ions.

  “When was your last period?”

  Silence.

  “Has it been a month?”

  “No, it’s been a couple of months.”

  She asked more questions and encouraged me to call the Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center in the morning. It was morning when I was talking to her. 3:23 in the morning.

  She told me what time the Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center opened. I mentioned I would be in school at that time. She told me what time they closed.

  I wanted her to look at my stomach, through the phone, and tell me I was not pregnant.

  How was I going to get to the Geneva Pregnancy Resource Center? No car. No money. Nobody to go with me. To comfort me. To help me. I didn’t even know where it was.

  Joyce asked me one last question before ending the call.

  “What will you do with the baby if you are pregnant?”

  Speechless.

  I had no words.

  Have it?

  Give it up for adoption?

  Abort it?

  Heather’s Flutter

  * * *

  Robert made me and Dustin smile too. He took us to amusement parks. We were not hungry anymore because he filled the refrigerator every Saturday. He even knew how to cook. No more ramen noodles and beef ravioli.

  This helped Mommy out a lot. She did not have to worry about whether we had eaten by the time she arrived home late at night. She flopped onto the sofa after a long day of working two jobs, and Robert fixed her plate. Warmed it up in the microwave and handed it to her as she chatted about her day.

  He would tell her that our homework was completed. She walked past our doors and saw us sleeping. Fake sleeping, in my case. They turned off the lights and the TV. Went to bed. Repeated the next day. I laid there until I drifted off to sleep.