Are You There, God?

by Theresa A. Campbell

Genres: African American; African American Christian; Christian Fiction

Synopsis

As a young woman in rural Jamaica, Dupree struggles to maintain a home for herself and the ailing aunt who is raising her after she was abandoned by her teenage mother. The effort of life with no electricity, running water, or money often leaves Dupree battered and bruised, but she refuses to be defeated. She might have been forced to grow up too fast, but she will not succumb to the wiles of the devil, choosing instead to rely on the power of Almighty God to help her through. After a brutal attack that takes her to hell and back, Dupree must reach for her inner strength once again to survive. Her journey for a better life leads her to Kingston, a city some people refer to as “Jamaica’s Sodom and Gomorrah.” There, she sees and experiences things beyond her imagination. Dupree seeks comfort in the arms of her Prince Charming—but he might just be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Caught up in a web of lies and betrayal, Dupree fights to save her life. In pure desperation, she seeks an answer to her question, “Are you there, God?” Will she be around to hear His response, or will it be too late?

Release date: January 1, 2014

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

Brown focused eyes hardened into small slits. Her nostrils flared open and her teeth locked tight behind folded lips as she held her head high and walked swiftly but steadily down the noisy school corridor. Dupree knew she needed to get away from them fast. She refused to give in to her anger or reveal the pain their ugly words were inflicting. Whoever said “sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you” was a big fat liar, she thought.

“Dupree is ugly like duppy.”

“Dupree is as black as night.”

“Dupree is an awful sight.”

Those were just some of the hateful words ricocheting off Dupree’s back as she hurried down a flight of stairs. But her haste never deterred the bullies who ran behind her singing their new Dupree rhymes, giggling, laughing, and jeering as they hurled bullets of venom words at her back.

Eyes burning from unshed tears, Dupree flew across the schoolyard, trying to avoid a collision with the many students and teachers who seemed oblivious to her distress. Finally breaking out into a sprint, she zoomed through the school gate, briefly glancing back to see that her tormentors had fallen behind. But she kept running like a bat from hell, until she got to the privacy of the narrow dirt track leading to her house.

It was only then that Dupree allowed the floodgates to open. With her back pressed firmly against a tall breadfruit tree for support, she deeply sucked some much-needed air into her dry lungs as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her woeful, wet eyes looked over the top of the trees in the farm below and stared at the flowing body of water in the distance.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Dupree whispered. “I’m so tired of this.”

Thirteen-year-old Dupree lived with her grandaunt on the outskirts of Falmouth Trelawny, in Jamaica. Her mother, Tiny, was only fifteen years old when she got pregnant with Dupree and dropped out of high school. She told everyone that she didn’t know who Dupree’s father was, and no one volunteered for the job, so it was left to Aunt Madge to take care of Dupree.

One week after Dupree’s birth, Tiny took off for bright lights and fast action in Kingston and was never to be heard from again. Aunt Madge, who didn’t have any biological children and had raised Tiny like her own after her sister Ellen died, was heartbroken when she left. Now she had another young baby to take care of and she took Dupree like her own daughter. Many people who didn’t know their history actually thought she was.

Later that night the crickets could be heard whispering to each other, the trees cast their shadows on the ground, and the stillness of the dark night hugged the small board houses in the closeness of its arms. It seemed as if everyone was on a sleeping journey far into a place filled with snores and steady breathing. Everyone, that was, except for Dupree, who lay curled up in a fetal position under her little metal bunk bed. The tears flowed freely down her face as she cried softly into her tiny arms. Her small body shook in agony as the pain in her heart became just too much for her to bear. She felt she was ugly because of her deep dark-chocolate complexion and her bullies at school did enough to hammer it into her head and her heart.

As Dupree cried, she prayed quietly, hiccupping between words, knocking on heaven’s door for a much-needed miracle. “Are you there, God? It’s me, Dupree, again, dear Father. Can you hear me, Lord? Please, God, I am begging you to make me into a pretty girl. I don’t want to be ugly no more, God. Please, please, God, I am begging you from the bottom of my heart.”

But as she wept, Dupree knew in her heart that God would not hear her prayer, because she had been praying every night for over four years now and nothing had changed.

“Juicy oranges! Fresh corns! Barbie yam, yellow yam, sweet grapefruits! Come and get it! For a small price, we have it!” Dupree’s small voice struggled to win the shouting match of numerous altos, sopranos, and tenor sale pitches and sale bargains of the many sellers and buyers, scattered all over the confined space like ants seeking fat.

There were dozens and dozens of wooden stalls that created a market maze. Some were leaned to one side in protest and others were piled so high they defied the law of gravity. Anxious sellers desperately in need of a sale screamed out offers at the top of their lungs. Some daring enough grabbed the arms of potential customers, pulling them in one direction, while another competitor pulled in another. Frustrated losers protested the freedom of choice, resulting in cussing sessions, some very embarrassing to Dupree and Aunt Madge.

It was a buyer-seller circus and Dupree and Aunt Madge were a part of the act, desperate to lose their goods in exchange for some much-needed cash—goods that were planted by Aunt Madge’s own hands.

Their little stall was rainbowed with neatly arranged fruits and produce of every color and variety, such as yam, bananas, sweet potatoes, breadfruits, sweet corn, ackees, oranges, mangoes, and grapefruits. It was like a guppy in a school of sharks. But what they lacked in quantity was made up by the high quality.

“Business is good,” Aunt Madge said as she watched their goods flying off the stall.

Aunt Madge was a small-time farmer who planted most of the food they ate and all they sold. She also raised a few chickens and a pig now and then. So Dupree was never hungry because she could always have found something to eat, even if it was an orange or a mango.

By society’s standards Aunt Madge and Dupree were very poor, but if you asked Aunt Madge she would tell you that she was one of the richest women on earth. Oh, yes, she was a child of God and her Father was the King of all kings. Aunt Madge was a very religious woman and she instilled these values in Dupree.

Then it happened.

When you think it’s peace and safety, it’s sudden destruction, came to Aunt Madge a few mornings later, her face drenched in sweat as pins and needles poked into every available pore. Her hands and feet lay lifeless on the bed as the unbearable pain fought to rip her apart, making it impossible to move. She was as sick as a dog.

Not hearing the familiar banging and knocking of Aunt Madge’s pots and pans in the outside kitchen before she left for the field, Dupree, who had just awoken, quickly jumped off her bed across the room from her aunt’s and in four quick steps was leaning over her in concern.

“Aunt Madge, are you okay?” she asked nervously as she picked up a lifeless hand, staring into her agonizing eyes. The only responses were deep groans and moans. As she watched her giant crumble right before her eyes, Dupree wept deep heartbreaking, soul-wrenching sobs.

It is said that when it rains it pours, because Aunt Madge’s condition went from bad to worse.

Dupree, assisted by Sister Nadine, took Aunt Madge to the hospital, and was told that she was suffering from a neurological disorder that gave her a stroke. However, without health insurance and little money, there wasn’t much done for her. She was given some pain medication and basically sent home to pray for a miracle.

As one sorrowful day dragged into the next, the life seemed to slowly drain from Aunt Madge. Her legs were like two stiff pieces of board, while her tongue stayed frozen in one place. She was unable to walk or talk, and was eventually bedridden. Now thirteen-year-old Dupree had to take care of herself and her aunt.

Ducking under low-limbed trees that grabbed at her face, Dupree waddled through the rough knee-high bushes, trampling on slippery, stained grasses, skipping over sharp rocks and swatting biting, annoying insects as she ran back and forth, huffing and puffing, collecting dry wood as the afternoon sun rained down mercilessly.

When her pile was high enough, she pulled both ends of the rope under the wood together and tied a tight knot. Groaning under the weight, she lifted her heavy load onto her head and gingerly made her way back home. This was a routine she did every few days and knew the woods around her house like the back of her hand.

They needed the dry wood for cooking because they could not afford a gas stove or the money to purchase coal from Mr. Weather down the road.

Once she arrived back home, over and over again Dupree raised the big machete over her head, and then brought it down hard, slicing through the big pieces of wood, creating a much larger pile of smaller pieces to fit under the cooking pot.

But it only took one missed second. As the machete sliced through the air rhythmically, when lowered, it missed the piece of wood intended and instead connected with Dupree’s big left toe. Blood spurted out like a sprinkler and quickly covered the surrounding area like a thick red blanket.

Grinding her teeth in agony, Dupree fell to the ground and wrapped her fingers around the throbbing piece of flesh. Unshed tears burned her eyes and her lips trembled uncontrollably but she willed herself not to cry. As the shock of the accident washed over her body, she struggled to stand up and hopped into the house to retrieve a clean old shirt. Ripping off a piece, she wrapped the cloth tightly around her injured toe, stopping the flow of blood and warding off an unwelcome infection. But as the pain wreaked havoc on her body, Dupree fought against it and went back to make dinner for Aunt Madge.

Rough, uneven boards held together by long, sharp nails and a few naked sheets of zinc on the roof, was the small outside kitchen. On a rainy day, the pouring water danced right on in, turning the dirt-covered flooring into a slippery, muddy slop.

Standing on two cement blocks, Dupree added a few inches to her shorter stature to reach the height of the fireplace. As she peered into the big cooking pot, thick clouds of smoke quickly filled the small space, wrapping itself around her and lashing out angrily at her eyes, drawing a constant flow of tears as if she was crying. But using the clean towel she kept around her neck, Dupree wiped her face without losing concentration on the dinner she prepared.

Dupree tried to cook everything from stew pork and jerk chicken to red pea soup. That evening the delicious aroma from the chicken soup perfumed the air. Balancing a steaming bowl in her hand, Dupree slowly made her way up the shaky board steps inside the house to feed Aunt Madge dinner.

With great effort she lifted Aunt Madge into a sitting position and while one hand unsteadily kept her from falling, the other awkwardly placed two pillows behind her back to keep her upright. Perched on the edge of the bed, Dupree repeatedly blew cool air on a spoonful of the hot liquid before putting it to Aunt Madge’s slightly open, unmoving lips.

The long days turned into weeks and the exhausted weeks into months but there was no change. Was there a light at the end of the tunnel?

The water rapidly spurted from the standpipe into the waiting big bucket that sat on rocks below. Filling quickly, it ran over the rim onto the street. Immediately Dupree sprung into action and hurriedly turned the tap off. Using dry interwoven banana leaves, she created a big, soft cushion called katta and placed it on her head.

Taking deep, even breaths, with bended knees almost swiping the ground, two small hands reached down and daintily lifted the heavy bucket of water. Grunting and slightly swaying under the pressure, she stood up slowly and placed the bucket on her head, trying carefully to keep the cushion in place. But it slipped off and the weighty container landed on her bare head. Millions of firecrackers exploded in her head as the bucket fell off, spilling all the water all over her, before rolling to a stop in the middle of the road.

“Grrrrrrrr!” Dupree growled through tightly clenched teeth. Holding back angry, pain-filled tears, a soaking wet Dupree hurriedly retrieved her bucket before it got run over by a passing vehicle.

Face hardened with determination, she refilled her bucket, ignoring the drills pounding away in her head. Once again the cushion was placed on her head and slowly and carefully she lifted the heavy bucket of water. Barely breathing, she held her aching head still and gently placed the bucket of water on the cushion. Her lips widened in a big, victorious grin and she headed home.

Dupree and Aunt Madge had no running water, so she fetched water from the standpipe a few miles close to town, day after day, rain or sunshine.

It was a hot, humid afternoon and small drops of water spilled from the big plastic bucket that lay askew on her head as she walked slowly alongside the road. Even though it was a frequent sight to behold, a few people still stopped and looked at the small girl with the heavy bucket of water that was almost bigger than her.

Dupree’s head hurt terribly and her back felt like a piece of cedar wood as she occasionally swayed under the heavy load, but she kept her footing and held on to her bucket. Flipping and flopping, Aunt Madge’s old, torn-up slippers were no match for the unpaved, gravel-covered road, and the stones rubbed harshly against her toes, causing painful blisters.

But Dupree never stopped.

The water was poured into the big water drum located in front of their house, and making a U-turn, with a hand on her narrow hip, she made another three-mile trip to the standpipe.

Grunting and groaning by the seventh trip, Dupree was a few feet from her house when the wet, soggy slippers slid off some uneven stones. Too tired to break her fall, Dupree and her bucket went rolling down a steep incline. The bucket was in first place, and then Dupree overtook it. But not to be outdone it reclaimed its lead but only for a short while as Dupree rolled past a few seconds later. Luckily landing in a thick shrub, Dupree lay still, with her eyes closed more from gratitude and fear than pain.

“Gosh, if only I could just go home and get in my bed,” Dupree spoke softly into the air. “But the drum is not yet full and we need the water.”

So, reluctantly she got up and noticed her faithful bucket had stopped a few inches away from her. With the bucket in one hand, she used the other to grab on to grass and bushes as she wearily pulled herself out of the ravine and up onto the track.

Briefly glancing down at her busted knees, Dupree looked at the complicated map of ugly scars that made trails all over her legs and knees: the result of the many falls and bruises she suffered, but also a testament to her willpower.

And Dupree never stopped until the water drum was filled to the top with water.

It was another school morning and Dupree was running late as usual. She quickly fed Aunt Madge a simple breakfast consisting of a thin slice of hard-dough bread that she dipped repeatedly in a cup of lime leaf tea, to make it softer. It wasn’t very much or very nutritional but money was very scarce.

Things had gotten even more difficult for Dupree over the last few months. They had little food and no money because she wasn’t a farmer like Aunt Madge. Her aunt never spoke of any other relative except Dupree’s mother, Tiny, and no one knew where she was. Dupree felt all alone in the world and often wondered what would happen to her.

Rushing into her class a few minutes after the last bell had rung, Dupree was late again. Her teacher, who was in a deep discussion at the head of the class, stopped abruptly and gave her a stern look as everyone turned their attention to her. Deeply embarrassed, she crept to her desk in the far right corner.

“I’m so glad you could grace us with your presence, Dupree,” Miss Scrabbie said loudly. “We are truly honored.”

A few students snickered loudly and some giggled in amusement.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Scrabbie. I’ll try not to let it happen again,” she told her teacher humbly before taking her seat. Miss Scrabbie gave her a final warning look before she resumed her class discussion.

Dupree loved school despite the many obstacles she faced. In fact, if her bullies would let her be, it would have been one of her favorite places to spend her time. School for her represented knowledge and she grew up knowing that knowledge was power.

Dupree was twelve years old when she took the Common Entrance Examination. This was taken by children in Jamaica as part of the admissions process for academically selective high schools, usually at an average age of eleven. She passed with flying colors, claiming a spot at Falmouth High School. She still remembered the pride and joy in Aunt Madge’s eyes as she congratulated her.

“From the second you were born, I knew you were special and would find favor in God’s sight,” Aunt Madge told her as she hugged her tightly. “My baby, always remember you are the head and not the tail,” she imparted to Dupree. “You can be anything you want to be because you are very smart.”

Tears clouded Dupree’s eyes, and she rapidly blinked them away before Miss Scrabbie or any of her classmates saw her vulnerability.

Dupree was in one of the “bright” classes, which were filled with the most brilliant students, and she was very competitive in all her classes and exams. Though teased by some and isolated by others, her classmates and teachers had learned to recognize and appreciate her intelligence and ambition to succeed. Her life may have been spiraling out of control but Dupree was determined to get a good education.

I need to get a scholarship to a good college, Dupree thought as she tuned out Miss Scrabbie’s voice. And after college, I’ll get a wonderful, high-paying job so Aunt Madge and I won’t want for anything.

Nodding her head absently to what was being said by Miss Scrabbie, she continued her internal plan for the future. We will live in a nice house with running water and electricity, maybe get a big television and a VCR. I’ll get some beautiful furniture and nice, new, fashionable clothes for Aunt Madge and me. I’ll also get—

“Ahem.” The annoying sound interrupted Dupree’s thoughts.

She glanced up guiltily and saw Miss Scrabbie standing over her desk as the entire class looked on in anticipation. Let the show begin!

“Are we still among the living, Dupree?” Miss Scrabbie asked smugly with a smirk on her face.

“Hmmm, yes, ma’am. I am, ma’am.” Dupree was flustered.

“Good to know, my dear,” was the sarcastic response. “Would you be so kind as to answer the question I asked you a lifetime ago?”

The entire class fell silent. Miss Scrabbie was showing her claws and poor Dupree was her prey.

“Hmmm, could you please repeat the question, ma’am?” Dupree asked softly. “I’m sorry for not paying as close attention as I should. It won’t happen again, ma’am.”

The one-sided fight seeped out of Miss Scrabbie like a punctured tire as she looked at the humble young girl before her. At a time when teachers were being abused physically and verbally by rude and obnoxious students, Dupree was a rare find.

“Please read chapter ten tonight and answer all the questions at the end of the chapter,” she relented and stiffly walked away. Dupree breathed a sigh of relief as the bell rang and Miss Scrabbie dismissed the class. She had escaped, for now.

Two years had passed since Aunt Madge took sick and life for Dupree was still a constant struggle.

“Dupree! Dupree!” shouted Deacon Livingston, a long-standing deacon at their church and a lifelong friend of Aunt Madge.

Dupree had just finished giving Aunt Madge her bath when she heard someone outside calling her. She looked through the small, dilapidated front window and realized it was Deacon Livingston and she got excited. She knew he was there to give her groceries and some money to get a few items for herself and Aunt Madge.

Deacon Livingston was a distinguished member of the community and owned the only mega supermarket in town. Really dapper in every sense, he enjoyed the finer things in life that his wealth afforded him. This was evident by his flashy vehicles, his bright pink- yellow- and red-colored expensive three-piece suits, matching felt hats, and the trailer load of mistresses. Of course, these were all sisters who needed prayer and counseling, or so he told his wife and the curious others.

A real creep in his own right, Deacon Livingston was nonetheless a very generous man. He was always giving a helping hand to the less fortunate people in the community who needed it and Dupree and Aunt Madge were now desperately in need.

His wife, Mrs. Livingston, was jus. . .