Diary of a Mad First Lady

by DiShan Washington

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; Christian Romance

Synopsis

Michelle knows being the first lady of Mount Zion Baptist Church is an important and much-coveted position, so she always gives thanks for a dutiful husband and a prosperous life. But she also prays for Darvin to spend more time with her, talking about something other than Mount Zion's affairs.

Michelle's faith is further put to the test when the seductive vixen Daphne Carlton arrives on the steps of their church, determined to make Michelle's life a living hell so she can get rid of Michelle and assume her role as the first lady.

With Michelle representing the reputation of her husband and church, she feels the burden to respond in a prim and proper manner; but she knows that in real life, such behavior might not be enough to defeat an enemy once and for all.

How far is the first lady willing to go in order to stop Daphne?

Produced by Buck50 Productions

Release date: September 16, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Two years later

I awakened to the rays of sunshine peeking through the bay windows in my bedroom. Had it not been for the rumbling in my stomach, I would have dived deeper into the sheets, even after my alarm clock went off. But the fight going on in my stomach suggested that I better get up before what little was in it came out. This first trimester of pregnancy had been a good one, but every morning I woke up, I felt as though I had not eaten in ages.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, put my feet in my fluffy hot pink slippers, grabbed the matching pink terrycloth robe that was resting on my chaise, and headed to the kitchen. On my way out of the room, I noticed my husband’s empty spot in the bed. Since finding out that I was pregnant, I was no longer able to drag myself out of bed in time to attend the early morning service, and every Sunday at 6:30 A.M., my husband, Darvin Johnson, left the house to go and preach the 7:00 A.M. service.

I pulled open the door to the refrigerator to determine what I would eat. The pineapples and strawberries looked appetizing, but this morning I needed something more than fruit. Being just four months along, I was beginning to show a bulge in my stomach. If I weren’t pregnant, I would have rebuked the thought of what was to come next in hopes of getting rid of the “pooch”; but under the circumstances, I decided on beef sausage, two eggs, cheese grits, wheat toast, and some Cran-Grape juice. As I prepared my food, my stomach began dancing from the anticipation of what was to come. Both my stomach and I knew that my hunger troubles were about to be over.

As I sat at the breakfast nook of our kitchen with the plantation shutters open wide, I took in all that God had blessed me with on this beautiful Sunday morning. I hurried to finish eating because it was nearing time for me to start getting dressed. Because I missed going to the first service so often, I was never late for the second. My husband, being the prolific and astounding preacher that he was, enticed the crowd from the first service to stay for the second. He and the board members had been in constant talk about possibly going to a third service, but Darvin wasn’t hearing it. He was determined not to let the preaching gift be the cause of his early death.

I finished my food, put the dishes away, and then went into my oversized closet and contemplated what I was going to wear. Thankfully, my clothes were still behaving as they should, in spite of the pregnancy and slightly expanding waistline. I passed a row of St. John knits, a section of Donna Vinci, and stack of Manolo Blahniks to make my way to the “jean section” of my closet. I eyed the jean outfit that I was about to wear and laughed to myself. I was known for not being your traditional first lady, and I couldn’t care less that everybody expected me to be sharp every single Sunday. I also laughed because I knew that the deaconess was going to have a natural fit because I wasn’t wearing white today. It was first Sunday, communion Sunday, and this first lady was wearing a jean outfit. Like it. Love it. Leave it.

I trucked to the bathroom, took a shower, got dressed in a jean skirt that had a spray of rhinestones cascading down the right side, a black camisole, a matching jean jacket, and applied my makeup. I took one final glance in the full-length mirror next to my vanity, admiring the way the jean skirt tugged at my thighs, just enough for my husband to notice that my shape was still intact, and not enough for the “Mothers in Zion” to start the I-can’t-believe-she-calls-herself-a-preacher’s- wife gossip. Once again, I laughed to myself, because it wasn’t like I cared anyway.

Later on in my car, I opened the sunroof to my Navigator as I merged onto I-75. Spring was definitely in full force. The wind was blowing, the birds were singing, and I felt good.

I turned up my radio to hear the sounds of Kirk Franklin blaring through my radio. “Imagine Me” had become one of my favorite songs, and I couldn’t help but reflect over my own life each time I heard it. That song was followed by a song written by the praise and worship maestro in his own right, Mr. Fred Hammond.

I was jamming to the beat of Fred when I pulled into the parking lot of Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church. By the looks of the already full parking lot, you would have thought that I was a couple of hours late. Parishioners had already filled every empty space, and the parking attendants were directing traffic into the empty lot across the street that was being preserved for the next part of our building phase, the Mount Zion Youth Development Center. I drove to my own reserved parking space, remembering when the parking lot used to be only half full. Those were the beginning days, when we were struggling to keep members.

Darvin’s innovative approach to ministry had ruffled more than a few feathers and had ultimately sent people scattering to find a more traditional church. Darvin and I persevered, and two years later, we had the fastest growing ministry in South Atlanta.

The parking attendants greeted me with warmth as I maneuvered my way into the space, and before I could turn off my engine, my armor bearers (known to some as amateur security guards) were already rushing toward me. I smiled, because while most first ladies saw this as an opportunity to take advantage of someone’s servanthood, I actually respected my armor bearers as being critical components who ensured that my worship experience was uninterrupted from the time I stepped foot on the grounds.

“Good morning, First Lady,” Chanice, my newest assistant, said.

Twylah, my armor bearer for the last two years, came right behind Chanice’s greeting.

“Good morning, ladies.” I put on my “first lady smile” and exited the truck. Thankfully, today was a good day, and my first lady smile was real.

“First Lady, Pastor is waiting on you in the back. Are you going to need anything before the second service begins?”

I looked at Chanice and admired the beauty of her humbleness. She had only been at the church for six months since moving from New Orleans, but she went to endless measures to make sure I didn’t need a single thing. God must have had me in mind when he made her, because she had definitely been a God-send. However, I didn’t miss the disgusted look on Twylah’s face.

She and Chanice had been having problems as of late, each trying to vie for my attention.

“No, Chanice. I won’t need anything right now.” They opened the doors to the sanctuary, and the cool breeze that caressed my face was welcomed, because either the blaring sun was hotter today than usual, or the pregnancy hormones were really kicking in.

My armor bearers and I went to our private area in the back so that I could greet my husband. When he’d left earlier that morning, I’d been so sleepy that I barely heard him leave. Now, I was fresh and in my right mind, and ready to see the man that made my heart skip a beat. Even though I knew that he was getting ready to go into the service, I had to steal a kiss from him.

As we were walking in, he was walking out. His two armor bearers dwarfed him in size and made me and my two assistants appear as midgets.

“Hey, darling,” I said in my most cheerful voice, and kissed him dead on the lips.

“Hey, baby,” he said in a tone that only I knew and understood. That “hey, baby” was more than just a greeting. It was a promise for later.

I cooed on the inside, and Chanice and Twylah didn’t miss a single moment of the passion that passed between us in a simple greeting. I turned to see their reactions, and just as I expected, their smiles were as bright as the sun.

An open display of affection between us was customary around Mount Zion, and my husband always made sure to keep it up. When Darvin first accepted the call to pastor, certain females got a little carried away with their infatuation of the pastor, and Darvin had to set the record straight and let them know who the only lady in his life was.

“Are you going into the office to get a bite before you come down to the service?” Darvin asked as Elder Tyrone helped him into his jacket.

“No. I had a big breakfast before I left home, and we are fine.” I proudly rubbed my stomach. Once again, my heart warmed, but this time at the thought of bringing our baby into the world in five months.

A couple of years ago, I thought that the Daphne saga would destroy my marriage, but God had turned things around. I was now living my life like it was golden, and savoring every sweet moment of being Mrs. Darvin L. Johnson.

“Okay, baby, I’ll see you in service.” Darvin kissed me once again before disappearing down the corridor that led to the main sanctuary.

I watched him float away into the harmonious sounds of the praise team, who were getting people into the mind to worship. I strode into the office, took a quick glance into the mirror, and just to make sure that my makeup was still as flawless as it was when I left home, I applied another smooth layer of the MAC Studio Fix powder and a fresh coat of Spring Bean lip gloss. After deciding that I was satisfied with my appearance, we went out of the office in the same direction that Darvin had gone just minutes earlier.

I entered the sanctuary to find that we were yet again at seating capacity. As I took my seat next to my husband, I surveyed the audience and noticed that some people were standing with their hands raised, and others just simply bowed their heads as tears flowed from their eyes. The feeling of thanksgiving exuded from the churchgoers, and once again, I felt a peace come over me. I, too, worshipped God in my own way, and concluded that all was truly well with my soul.

As the praise team brought their last song to a close, the crowd was in an uproar, sending praises up to God. But I noticed one lone individual sitting in the back of the church. I could barely believe my eyes. It couldn’t be her. Sure, she looked a little different with her hair longer, but even from a distance, I could tell it was her. To those who were unfamiliar with her, she was like any other parishioner coming to the worship service; but to me, she was my worst nightmare.

The glee that had filled my heart just moments before was replaced by a twinge of hatred, just at the sight of her. I knew that it was wrong to feel that way, but nobody understood the hell this woman had put me through—and I was far from forgetting it. As a matter of fact, it might have been safe to say that I was still mad as hell.

My husband’s nudging sliced through my thoughts. I turned and glared at him because in that moment, I didn’t want to be jolted from my anger. Surely, this woman had come back to terrorize me. But this time, she would meet her match. This time, I wouldn’t pray as much as I did before, because when I prayed, God normally spoke some sense into me. I didn’t want any sense; I wanted to kick her butt, because I was one mad first lady.

My eyes were so fixed on the woman who had interrupted my flow of worship that my husband practically nudged a hole in my arm, trying to get my attention.

“Michelle,” he said as quietly as he could.

I jerked my head around and gave him the coldest stare. “What?” I shouted back through gritted teeth, and this time, a fake smile.

“What are you doing?” The puzzled look on his face matched my own, as I was trying to figure out why he was asking such a stupid question.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We are the only ones still standing.”

I followed his eyes to the congregation, and sure enough, we were the only ones who were not seated. The announcement clerk was reading today’s announcements, and I could hear a few people whispering among themselves, no doubt trying to figure out if something was wrong with us.

My legs were as heavy as steel, but I forced my limbs to slowly move backward as I sat down in my seat with embarrassment all over my face. I turned back to my husband’s questioning eyes, and I knew that I had to give some sort of explanation for my behavior.

“I’m sorry, baby. Believe it or not, Daphne is sitting in the back of the church,” I managed to get out.

“What? Daphne?” he said as his eyes scanned toward the back of the church. “You must be mistaken. She’s in a mental institution, baby. How could she be sitting in the back of the church?”

“I don’t know. If I knew that, I wouldn’t be so flustered,” I said. Suddenly, it came to me. Daphne’s two years in the mental institution were up.

“Baby, don’t worry about Daphne. Even if it were true that she was here, there’s nothing she can do to you here. Before she even gets close, an army of people will be there to stop her.”

Did he just hear me? She is here.

And, obviously, she couldn’t be stopped, because she was sitting in our church. I wanted to scream this to Darvin, but he had already turned his focus back to the service. I know it had been two years, but was I the only one who remembered just how subtle and conniving this woman could be? It was these traits that landed her directly into our lives.

Her desire to be intricately involved in the ministry matched our own need to have more volunteers. With her passion and willingness to work and make unending sacrifices, she quickly stood out from among the others.

While most were talking, she was busy doing. I had accepted her against my better judgment. As a result, she’d dined with us. She’d shopped with me. She’d spent long hours talking to my husband about various ways she could help us improve the ministry. She’d traveled with me to my speaking engagements and had served me just as if she’d been called by God to do specifically that. And in all of that, I was too blind to see that she wanted to be me. Her plan included taking over my life. As me.

Trying to figure out my next move, I sat looking at Daphne as she swayed softly along with the choir that was now singing J. Moss’s “Forgive Me, Oh Lord.” I knew that it was wrong to think it, but I just didn’t want God to forgive her. I wanted her to pay for every single thing that she had done to try to annihilate my life. Sure, that wasn’t the Christian thing, but I was mad. And there weren’t too many Christian-like thoughts coming to mind right now.

“Baby, you’ve got to snap out of it,” Darvin said as sweetly as he could. “Don’t let the devil steal your joy.”

What did he just say? Was he being the husband or the Pastor right now?

If he was being the husband, then that was the wrong thing to say, and if he was being the Pastor, then he’d better find someone else to give a word to, because I didn’t need it. Not that one anyway. Because the devil was sitting right in the back of our congregation, and she had already stolen my joy.

The rest of the service went by in a blur. I was extremely agitated that the joy I had when I started the day had been replaced by dreary gloom. My stomach was starting to feel upset, and I felt like I was about to hurl every morsel of my breakfast onto Darvin’s tailored suit. He was sitting there looking so good in the charcoal gray suit that he had chosen to complement with a smoky gray shirt, matching tie, and black gators. And if that weren’t enough to make him look as if he’d just stepped out of fashion heaven, the salt-’n-pepper hairs that were peeking out of his goatee were sinful enough to drive any woman to hell if she wasn’t careful.

Admiring my husband and his delightful taste in clothing took my mind off Daphne, but only for a moment. My pleasure was short-lived, because I returned to my previous thought. Why was Daphne back?

My eyes swerved back to the place where Daphne was sitting, but she was no longer there. I blinked, making sure that my contacts hadn’t become dry, thereby giving me the illusion that people were disappearing. What I did see clearly was Darvin taking his place at the wooden podium to deliver his sermon. I turned and saw my two assistants sitting behind me. I saw Mother Hampton dozing off to sleep in the Amen corner, and I saw Deacon Brown following suit, his snores becoming a part of the amens and hallelujahs.

What I didn’t see was the person who had just occupied the last seat on the back row. Beads of sweat began to rise on my face like condensation on the outside of a cold glass of water. I tried to think positive and not believe that something bad was about to happen as Darvin began his sermon on faith.

“Church, we’ve got to believe that no matter what we go through, no matter what situations we face, God is right there,” he said.

Hmph. Where was God when that psycho Daphne was trying to kill me?

Bad memories flooded my mind. Among the many things she’d done to sabotage my life—running my car off of the road and poisoning my food—convincing a locksmith to change all of my locks, leaving me to stand outside in below freezing weather at ten o’ clock at night trying to get into my own house, was just low-down and dirty.

God, I know you’re always there, but I have to wonder sometimes if you’re always looking.

Darvin was deep into his message before I started to listen again.

“When you can’t do anything else, put your trust in God! Believe that He will make a way out of no way! Believe that He will turn your darkness into day!” Darvin proclaimed. “Why do I want you to believe today, saints? Because if you believe in God’s Word, I’m a witness that it can and will change your very life!”

Darvin spoke with power. He inspired and had people standing on their feet, shouting praises to God. Mother Hampton, who had been asleep just minutes earlier, was now tearing down the “amen corner,” stomping her size 13 shoe, and hoisting all of her 325-pound, six foot three frame up and down. The ushers took their positions behind her as if they were about to go to battle. Getting Mother Hampton under control was no easy task, and it took an army every Sunday to finally calm her down. By the end of her weekly show, her hat always ended up sitting on top of one of the deacon’s heads. It was all that I could do not to burst out into laughter, because if no one else thought that Darvin’s sermons were rousing, he could always count on Mother Hampton for a little extra affirmation.

Darvin had brought his message to a close and was now, through outstretched arms, extending the offer for anyone who was not saved to come down to the altar. Just as every week, ministers dressed in black suits joined him. They began to walk down the aisles with their arms open wide, as we all stood to our feet and began to pray that someone would give their life to Jesus.

I closed my eyes and remembered the day that I’d made that decision to receive salvation. This element of the service was the most important, because it was always a possibility that someone in the midst was between life and death.

I heard a thunderous applause erupt, symbolizing someone had chosen to take the walk down to the altar. But just as abruptly, it came to a halt. I opened my eyes to see Daphne waltzing to the front of the church. And if looks could have killed, she would have died right before she took the last step that had her facing my husband.

I looked at Darvin because I knew that the sweat on his face had made an appearance for two reasons. One: he was tired from the sermon. Two: he knew that if Daphne couldn’t contain herself with the little bit of sense that she had, his pregnant wife would be making the front page of the Atlanta Journal- Constitution before the sun could greet the morning.

“Ms. Carlton, is there something that you would like to say to the church this morning?” Darvin asked.

Darvin reluctantly put the microphone closer to her mouth so that everyone could hear her speak. Everybody at Mount Zion knew how this woman had tried to destroy our lives, and from the looks on their faces, they were wondering why Darvin was even taking a chance on allowing her the opportunity to cause further destruction.

“Yes, Pastor,” she said. “I want to first thank the Lord for my being here today, and I want to thank you for giving me this opportunity to say a few words.” She looked pointedly at Darvin. “I came up here, Pastor, to ask you and First Lady Johnson for forgiveness. I never would have expected things to get out of hand, but somehow they did. So, on behalf of me and my family, we want to formally ask your forgiveness and the forgiveness of this great church.”

Darvin’s eyes had reduced to mere slits. He was probably thinking the same thing that I was, which meant she would definitely not get away with this little charade. The nerve of that little heifer! She was good. She thought that she could play the Lord-have-mercy-on-me card, and that everyone would come rushing to her side, praying for her—declaring destiny over her life, casting out all the demons of her past so that she could walk in the newness of life. Well, she was sadly mistaken, because nobody was about to do no praying up in here if I had anything to do with it. And I was fully aware of the nonsense I was thinking, because the church is where you should come to get healing; but she wouldn’t find it today, not at Mount Zion Baptist Church. Not at the church where my husband was the pastor. Not at the church where the first lady would tolerate no hussy like Daphne Carlton continuing with this insane woe-is-me act.

I’m glad that Darvin found the words to finally speak before I did.

“Sister Daphne, we—”

She interrupted, but not before I noticed the look of confusion on her face. “Pastor, I’m sorry to interrupt.” She hesitantly glanced around the church as if to search for the remainder of her words. “But I’m not Daphne. Daphne is in the care of my mother back home in Florida.. . .