Every Closed Eye Ain't 'Sleep

by MaRita Teague

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

Synopsis

Having lost her one true love, the mature but stunning Isabella marries the starchy but well-respected pediatrician Langley Morrison, hoping he will care for her and her young daughter, Desiree. For years, things look perfect from the outside for the Morrison women, but cracks in the surface appear when Desiree, now a thirty-something, single but sassy professional, holds secrets that affect her relationships with her parents and with men. Armed with the dismal marriage prospect statistics for African American women, Desiree decides that she needs to help God out by embarking upon a dangerous online dating escapade. Isabella wonders if her faith can withstand her own broken marriage, revelations from her daughter, and a devastating diagnosis. Desiree questions if God really will give her the desires of her heart. Through it all, the mother and daughter journey to find the strength to push beyond the pain of the past, into an uncertain future with an all-knowing God.

Release date: September 29, 2015

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Backing out wasn’t an option.

For the third straight year, I didn’t say no to my secret crush, Lionel Banks, who naturally possessed a charisma rivaling President Obama’s. With aspirations to run for mayor, Lionel, the coordinator of the festival, treated every woman like the only one on earth.

Crush or not, I planned to run in the opposite direction of Lionel’s cool and easy swagger this year. That soothing baritone had done nothing to offset my third straight financial loss from participating as a vendor at the Harlem Renaissance Festival, even if the vendor fees assisted Huntsville’s inner city cultural arts program.

Enough was enough, I decided while putting the finishing touches on my booth area. This would be the last year. People wanted to buy ribs, grilled corn, and bootleg DVDs and CDs, not the handmade upscale jewelry I sold.

After hanging the final set of earrings up, I was struck by the massive chocolate-covered body headed directly for my booth. I held my sigh on the inside, and asked, “May I help you with something?”

“I believe you can, sweet sister.” He cocked his head to the side, scanning my curves.

I placed my hand on my hip. “What exactly do you need?”

His squinty eyes hid when he smiled, the twinkle of mischief narrowly escaped. In spite of his dirty sneakers, a definite turnoff, his amber-scented cologne wafted through the air just enough to send a quick tingle down my spine. The muscle man clouded my good sense, and overlooking his shoes became easier as I reflected on my lonely days and nights. In mere minutes, as I had done too many times before, I threw my graduate degree–toting, upper class–reared and etiquette-trained self out the window, relinquishing my power to the inviting smile.

The dark stranger pretended to admire my jewelry and casually picked up a pair of iridescent purple and gold chandelier earrings, my personal favorite.

“These some nice earrings. You make these, girl?” The jewels sparkled, gleaming in the blazing August sunlight. He dangled them and grinned, obviously feeling my gaze.

Nothing irritated me more than a brother who talked like a caveman. As a college English instructor at an HBCU, I loved when men used correct English; yet, I couldn’t deny that the man’s charisma held me in a trance. “‘Girl?’” I asked, looking behind me as if the mysterious “girl” would appear. “I’m nobody’s girl, but I did make them,” I said with enough attitude to run any sane man off.

He turned away grinning, holding his hands up. “My bad, my bad. Missus?”

I ignored his question and in a much too high pitch remarked, “Those took me the longest to make. Good taste.”

Muscle man scratched his gleaming bald head. “People do always tell me that I got good taste.”

I winced. Subject verb agreement is always a plus in a man but again I reminded myself that education wasn’t everything.

His grin widened as he rhythmically moved his head to the calypso jazz resounding through the park, flashing his too white teeth. I couldn’t help noticing that his top teeth were shades whiter and perfectly straight. The bottom row, the color of dirty snow, peeped through every now and then when he spoke. Had he whitened the top and not the bottom?

He flipped the earrings over to check the price and then gripped his chest as if he were having a heart attack. “Whew! You proud of these, ain’t you, girl?”

I looked away and folded my arms. “If you don’t stop calling me girl, we’re going to have a serious problem. My name is Desiree.”

He stepped back to examine the sign on the front of the table skirt. “Yeah, okay, Desi’s Designs, I get it,” he sang, mimicking my business name to the rhythm of the music. “Desi, nice to meet ’cha. I’m Taye, and I guess I’m gonna risk starvin’ next week ’cause I just have to buy these earrings. See, it’s my li’l sis’s birthday. She just loves this kinda stuff.”

Maybe he wasn’t so bad, I thought, trying to grasp at words that wouldn’t come while slowly wrapping his earrings in tissue paper and a customized box. He couldn’t be half bad if he’d buy his sister a relatively expensive gift. I reasoned that even with his raggedy tennis shoes and poor grammar, he did have good taste. The earrings were the best I had on display. “Forty-four dollars and ninety-five cents,” I said, handing the box to him. I made a point to brush his hand as he took the box.

He pulled out his weathered wallet and gave me two twenties and a five. “Keep the change.”

I eyed him and shook my head. “Oh, okay then. I guess I can do a little extra for that whole five cents.”

Listening to the tingle inside, I whispered, “One minute.” I reached my hand out for the box, which he relinquished with ease. I wrestled under my table to find the box that held an assortment of ribbon and bows until I found the perfect piece of satiny royal purple ribbon. After taking entirely too long to knot the perfect bow, I returned the box. “Thank you for your purchase.”

His smile had me in an emotional headlock, and his refusal to walk away from the table made everything worse. I tried to cloak my nervousness in a nonchalant tone. “I can’t help you with eating next week, but I’m about to take a break. How about a hot dog on me?”

His silly grin said it all, so I asked the vendor next to me to watch my table as we walked to the hotdog stand.

I wasn’t a fan of canary yellow on men, especially dark-skinned men, but the bright shirt clinging to his body warmed me hotter than the sun. Although it did bug me that Taye had a habit of rubbing his two fingers down his imaginary mustache, he stared at me like I was the only woman on earth as we sat in the crowded food court area.

I groped for conversation, which fell flat in a sea of one-word answers.

“So, are you from Huntsville?” I asked.

“Nawww.”Tayewipedhismouth, perfectly content not to give up any other information.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“T-town,” he said with his mouth full.

I frowned, clueless.

“Girl, you ain’t heard nobody call Tuscaloosa T-town?”

He shook his head, but I was the one in disbelief. The word “ain’t” and a double negative? I had to remind myself that not even one man had even said hello to me in months.

I did like that he made me feel comfortable and pretty though. After a chili cheese hot dog, and an enormous funnel cake smothered in strawberries, whipped cream, and powdered sugar, he said, “I been trying to think of who you remind me of, and I got it.”

I wiped the powdery sugar from my face. “Who’s that?”

“Let’s see. Anybody ever tell you that you could pass for a lighter skin-ded Gabrielle Union?”

I nearly choked on my drink. I hated when my people added Ds to words; and I looked nothing like Gabrielle Union. The only thing we probably had in common was our height. At five feet ten inches, I often found myself taller than some men.

Otherwise, I had traces of my mama’s Lena Horne–like beauty. My hair, very long but more coarse than hers, fell across my shoulders, but my almond eyes, strong nose, and chiseled cheekbones were inherited straight from my father.

“Lips and eyes like an angel, and a brick house, too.”

“Brick house? You are too young to talk like that. You sound straight old school.”

“So, you like old school, Ms. Desi?” He surveyed my body and licked his lips like I was a piece of fried chicken.

“Well, not all old school is bad now, is it?” Flirting back with a man like Taye could be dangerous, but, as usual, I knew that I had the upper hand. Still, I heard Mama’s voice, telling me, “Don’t write a check that you can’t cash.”

Taye stole the remaining strawberry on my paper plate, and popped it in his mouth like we were a couple—and we were.

I had decided not to tell Mama about Taye, but changed my mind after the good time we had while taking her to run errands. Then, my plan to tell her fizzled when she caught me off guard.

“Honey, I know you’re probably still upset about the breakup with Jace, but I knew when you bought him those shoes that thing wasn’t gonna last.”

“Jace who?” I asked her with attitude. After a few seconds of silence, we both fell into a boisterous laugh, something we shared in common. I suddenly didn’t have the heart to tell Mama that not only had I long forgotten about my ex of several months ago, Jace, but I had also moved on to Taye.

“Desiree, you are something else, girl. You always have a man, but goodness, your choice in men is terrible.”

My smile faded. I knew she would go on her usual rant about my string of unhappy relationships. I didn’t want to hear it. How was I supposed to know that I was only one of Jace’s many girlfriends?

“Mama, before you start in, you need to think about the fact that the problem is not me. Look at me. I’m professional and fine as—”

Mama interrupted, “Don’t say that.”

“‘Wine’ is not a dirty word, Mama. It’s in the Bible. Anyway, I’m trying to explain to you that it’s the men who are the problem, not me. I can’t help it if these guys lie and cheat. Do you understand the situation out there? All the good men are married, gay, or unemployed. How does a good woman like me navigate through all the mess that is out there?”

“That’s simple, Desiree. The Holy Ghost will let you know who the right one is.”

I wanted to tell her that the Holy Ghost didn’t keep her from marrying my stepfather, but Mama always saw all of my shortcomings and none of her own.

They thought I didn’t know it. But you can’t hide certain things from a child. Even as an eight-year-old I could read the forced smiles and frosty glares written across their faces. And by the time I was twelve, it wasn’t surprising when the pep in Mama’s step fizzled out like flat soda.

Strange thing was, raging arguments or raised voices never shook the walls of our home. Silence gripped the rooms with so much strength that at times I imagined that hundreds of the sparkling crystals suspended on the massive chandelier in the foyer would crash onto the floor or maybe even the too perfect wedding picture cradled in the glass frame perched on the fireplace mantle might shatter into pieces.

Nothing ever broke though. Except, that is, on the day I left for college. My stepfather, who I call Dad, opened the front door to take my bags out, and the wind blew, rocking the chandelier back and forth. One crystal tear fell, splitting into tiny pieces. A tense gaze locked Dad and Mama in place for a few frozen seconds. An ominous chill surfaced at the unusual occurrence. Somehow I knew that something had shifted and things would never be the same.

I had nearly finished packing for my freshman year in college. Mama had rushed in, clutching the frame to her chest, and then thrust it toward me as if it were a treasure. I hadn’t reached for it. She ignored my lack of desire for the picture of the two of them and dove into my suitcase.

“You just take this,” Mama said, rolling the picture in one of the many granny flannel nightgowns she’d forced me to pack.

While she fidgeted, nestling the picture between the fresh pack of pastel-colored underwear and her secret beauty weapon, a jar of Nivea cream, she fastened on a grin. A failure at the art of contrived smiles, I couldn’t drum one up to return the favor, even for Mama.

“When you get to missing us real bad and you feel like you can’t make it, remember that we’re praying for you and we love you, you hear me now? You’re gonna make it, Desiree.” Her body betrayed her words. The wet circles under her arms and weak tremor in her hands gave her away. Now I knew that she was either afraid I couldn’t make it without her, or afraid that she couldn’t make it without me.

Mama gripped my arms, and I melted into her much too tight and unexpected embrace, soaking in the smell of her almond-scented lotion and freshly flat-ironed hair.

I hated how she said “we” all the time. Not only had she forced my stepfather on me too soon after Daddy’s death, but she also had refused to see that the gulf separating my stepfather from me was wide and long. And just as my mother felt indebted to Dad for taking such good care of us, Dad has always been especially indebted to me for being the keeper of his dirty secrets.

While Mama tried to figure out where I got my sassiness from, I tried to figure out where her spark was. Why she didn’t do something about Dad was beyond me. Her spirituality had made her weak, and I refused to be a victim.

From almost the very beginning of their marriage they only tolerated each other. I, the go-between, buffer, and good daughter to both, stayed in the crossfire of the silent but deadly war. The weight of balancing the two of them bore my insides into almost nothingness, a faint reflection of the dysfunction between the two of them.

Mama, forever concerned with the outward appearance of things, didn’t know that the weight I carried registered much heavier than the extra pounds she was so concerned about me having. I felt at least two tons on the inside. Behind the perfect façade, our house had been a model case for dysfunction.

If I chose bad men, then as far as I was concerned, Mama’s as much to blame as I was.

Two smells I hated were ones that reeked of cheap cologne and a lowdown cheater. My husband wouldn’t dare wear anything inexpensive, but the stench of other women burned the insides of my nostrils. I couldn’t prove it and stopped trying years ago, but I knew. The only bit of satisfaction I got was that he had no idea that I was on to him.

Equipped with a passionless marriage, a career that never started, and not one grandchild to push on a swing, I did the only other thing I did that made my heart sing besides going to church and spending time with my daughter. With my garden tools in tow, I searched for the perfect spot to plant violet morning glories.

The grass, though wet and crisp with dew, never needed mowing. Langley did take care of some things, and in this case it was a lucrative contract for Redman’s Lawn Care to visit us every other week during the spring and summer. The robin’s egg sky, speckled with a dark cloud here and there from last night’s storm, painted the perfect canvas for gardening. Although it had begun to clear, from experience I knew Alabama’s humidity would soon smother the faint breeze, so I dug out the old straw hat passed down from what had to be generations of women in my family.

I waved to Pete, a ruddy, red-haired young man, who made a habit of waxing his Mercedes early every Sunday morning. His wife, Melanie, had complained to me, “Pete is a real piece of work. He wanted that car so badly, but the only thing he does with the doggone thing is wash, wax it, and pull it right back into the garage. Whoever heard of not driving a car, ever, Ms. Isabella? And why wash it on Sunday? I have to take the kids to church by myself.”

Pete probably liked waxing that car to relieve stress. I understood that because that’s how I felt about gardening, but I also knew Melanie’s pain. Getting my own husband to church had nearly been impossible. Langley viewed church as a big waste of time, especially at my church. The last time he attended, he yawned in agitation. “Don’t these people understand that there are other things people would like to do on their day off? My goodness, the announcements lasted for almost twenty minutes. Totally unnecessary.”

As I dug into the damp red clay, it relaxed me. Humming to the tune, “He’s the Lily of the Valley, the Bright and Morning Star,” I poured water onto the exposed roots and jumped, spilling way too much in the hole at the sound of my husband’s voice.

“Why would you plant those, Isabella? And if you just have to plant them, why there?”

I held my hand to my chest. “Langley, you just scared me to death.”

Without an apology, he stood, towering over me, impatiently waiting for a response that he wouldn’t get. I felt small, like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar once again. Staring at his perfectly pleated trousers and expensive Italian shoes, I caressed the heart-shaped leaves of the flowers, determined not to let him ruin my peace.

“Okay?” He blew out in frustration and drew his arm up to check his Rolex. “I’ve got to go, it’s getting late, but please don’t make the fence look country. We have the homeowner’s association to think of.” He began to walk away, mumbling something about how silly it was for me to cover up the fence we had paid so much for.

“When will you be home? It is Sunday,” I called after him, but not caring, only wanting him to acknowledge the error of his way.

Without turning toward me, he said, “You know I golf on Sundays at the country club. Late again. I’ll be back in time for the dinner party, of course.”

He didn’t dislike everything country because he married me and rarely missed an opportunity to golf at the country club. My husband was my cross to bear, and I was sure if Langley knew anything about bearing crosses, I’d have been his.

I, determined to buy more flowers to make the vines grow more densely up the fence, hoped that they’d be different than me and grow up and over the fence, not trapped and dependent on a stiff old board.

Things began to change for me in my late forties. Langley gently nudged me out of the office administrator position at his office, explaining that he had gained a level of success and stature that surpassed having his wife work as a secretary. I tried to protest, but Langley won, as always. I ignored the perky, young brunette who bounced into a position I had held for almost twenty years.

Langley encouraged me to rest and to enjoy the rewards of his hard work and my many years of helping his practice to grow. I threw myself into Desiree’s world, church activities, volunteering, and more than my fair share of shopping sprees.

I pushed the final roots gently into the soil and patted dirt around it. After pouring a little water, I prayed for sunshine and growth for the morning glories and me.

My phone alarm rang, signaling it was time to get ready for church service.

“Morning, Sister Morrison.” Pastor Kingston waved as he slipped his key into the side door of the church.

“Good morning, Pastor.” I held on to my hat, trying to speedily get to the door while he held it open. “Come on, Sister Julia, and Mother Butler. Let me get your bags,” I said, taking their purses. The crumbling cement in the parking lot, in desperate need of paving, had become an obstacle course for me but nearly impossible for the elderly women.

When we got up to the door, Pastor Kingston sighed. “I’m so sorry about that parking lot. Thanks be unto God though, because the paving company is coming early this week. We’re finally going to have a safer walk for everyone.”

“God is good!” Mother Butler huffed. “He knows what you need when you need it! Oh, Mother Jenkins comin’ in in a spell. She gonna need some help now.”

“That’s right, Mother. He is good,” Pastor said, sounding more encouraging than the lines around his tired eyes revealed. “I’m going to send Deacon Whitlow out to help the other ladies in, no worries.”

I was just one in a sea of women without husbands at church. Some were widowed. Some were single. Some were like me. I hated being in that number, and I did have it better than some. Langley did show up on Easter and Christmas. Like all the others, I sucked it up and came to church faithfully anyway.

Purpose and hope filled the pews, at least most of the time anyway. In the small, dingy white building, in desperate need of a makeover, I felt alive and useful. There was always something to do.

I loved the members with the ferocity of a mother bear, but detested the condition of the building, which had been deteriorating at an alarmingly steady pace. Our building fund drive had been going on for years, but we always ended up having to invest in some other maintenance problem. There weren’t enough chicken dinners we could sell to get the place in good condition. Whether it was a leaky roof, toilets that overflowed, the peeling paint on the walls, or a broken hot water heater, the church needed major renovations. Still, Pastor Kingston kept a positive attitude, always making sure that the church remained warm in the winter, cool in the hot Alabama summers, and, most of all, safe for all the parishioners, which was no easy feat.

The neighborhood had changed so much over the years. What used to be a safe, clean, and peaceful environment had become crime infested, ripe with drug use and theft. Pastor Kingston made sure that the trustees put hefty money into beefing up the security system.

After teaching my young women’s Sunday School class, I rushed upstairs to get up to the sanctuary in time for praise and worship. While holding on to the rickety banister of the dimly lit, narrow staircase, my heel sank into a small hole in the aged wooden floorboard. I tried to stop myself from falling backward but couldn’t.

“Sister Morrison, you all right now, I got you.” Sister Wanda, a lanky but strong young woman known for her raspy voice and four-inch heels, deflected my fall, gripping me under my arms. The pain that shocked me between my arm and breast took the wind from me. I got my bearings, and pushed her away, maybe a little too abruptly.

“Thank you kindly, Sister Wanda. Honey, you’re a lifesaver.”

She belted out a hoarse laugh. “The good Lord is the one that saved you, but”—she bent down and pulled my shoe out of the crevice—“He didn’t save your Stuart Weitzmans.”

I lingered a bit on the top step, holding my chest.

“Sister Morrison, are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“I have this pain here,” I said, pointing Sister Wanda to the area where the pain seemed to be radiating. “I’m sure it’s nothing though.”

“Oh, Lord knows I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m mighty sorry if I grabbed you too hard. People always talkin’ ’bout how small I am, but you a little bitty thang yourself.”

I drew in a quick breath. “Now, Sis, I don’t know about all that, but I do know you don’t have a thing to be sorry about; in fact, I’m thankful to you. I could’ve really hurt myself something awful. The Lord has a way of taking care of His own.”

“Yes, indeed He does, Sister Morrison.” Sister Wanda rushed to the nearest closet for a folding chair. “You sit down a spell, Sister Morrison.” She rushed to the kitchen.

By then, the throbbing pain dulled a bit.

My best friend, Alice, came toward me with a glass of water. “Sister Wanda just told me you nearly broke your neck. You okay, sugar?”

“I should’ve known that girl was gonna get you. I’m fine, but look at this shoe.” I dangled it, exposing the mangled heel.

Alice threw her hand up in the air. “Better the shoe than you. Besides, I told you about buyin’ them fancy shoes. When you gonna have some sense and dress like me?” She pointed her finger down to her practical comfort shoes, and we both laughed. I swatted her off playfully. One of the reasons that Alice and I were such good friends was because we’re both comfortable in our own skin.

The pain subsided and nothing helped it more than a good dose of praise and worship. Even though Missionary Blithe worked my nerves in every missions meeting, I had to give her credit. Nobody could lead praise and worship like that woman. She knew exactly how to get the congregation in the mood to praise. Why she couldn’t stay in her lane was a pure mystery to me. God gives people gifts. Most of the time, it’s as clear as day what He’s given them to do, but they want to do something else. God gave her that voice to sing, and she just wasn’t called to fuss at the homeless for taking one too many canned food items from the food pantry.

Missionary Blithe eased her way into the slower-paced songs, gliding us right along into worship, but I did have to close my eyes so I wouldn’t think about all the things Alice and I talked about. Alice swore that Blithe thought she was Dottie Peoples because so many people told her that she sang just like her. I guessed she figured she’d steal Dottie’s hairstyles since she about had her voice. Dressed in her rhinestone-embellished suits and clear-heeled pumps, Missionary Blithe had her hair perfectly sculpted and gelled. None of her sweating or jumping around moved the large weaved bun on top of her head. Me and Alice always joked, “Just like a tree planted by the waters, her hair shall not be moved.”

Gossip wasn’t my forte and I knew it wasn’t godly, but when Alice and I started going good, we got carried away if we both weren’t prayed up. I kept my eyes closed, determined to stay focused on the Lord and away from “Dottie.”

Just as I lifted my hands in praise, I felt the familiar sting in my breast area I had felt on the stairs. I thought maybe Sister Wanda had caught hold of me a little too tight. Or maybe I’d pulled it in the garden. I didn’t know, but I eased back down onto the pew.

“Hey, Mama,” Desiree whispered as she slid beside me. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I whispered, “but why are you always late?”

“Oh, Mama, relax. I’m here in time for the message. I just wished I could’ve missed these doggone announcements,” Desiree whispered back.

Missionary Purdy read the church announcements, nearly rocking me to sleep. We had invested in getting a big screen for announcements, and they flashed while she read. I truly didn’t see the point in the big screen if she was still going to read them anyway. The church administrator had tried to tell her that they wouldn’t need her reading services anymore, but she cried like a bee had stung her. Pastor Kingston stepped in, and we all had to continue to see and hear the twenty-minute announcements every Sunday.

“You look nice, Desiree.” I tried to set it up so that I could tell her that her cleavage was showing. She would take it the wrong way if I didn’t let her know that I thought she looked nice first.

“Thank you? I know that it’s coming, so what’s wrong with me, Mama?”

“I didn’t say nothing was wrong.”

“You set me up for it though. Go ahead.”

Desiree got on my nerves. I wouldn’t tell her about her cleavage or anything else with that attitude.

Her long hair hung down in waves so long that she could almost sit on them. Many people told us our hair was just alike, but hers was prettier, making it the envy of women, black and white. I only wished she didn’t have to act like it. Don’t get me wrong. I was glad that she was confident, but she’s overweight. She called herself a curvy girl, but she needed to accept that she’s too big. It just wasn’t healthy, and she certainly shouldn’t have flaunted it the way she did.

With peppermint breath, she whispered, “Thanks, Mama. I got this jacket from that boutique we like on Bridge Street. It’s so cute.”

How Desiree went from teaching Sunday School, singing in the choir, heading up the Pastor’s Aid committee, and the list went on, to a late bench warmer was something I couldn’t understand. When I tried to address it with her she got an attitude, and she got it honest, because I got an attitude right back with her. I knew she needed the Lord, and not just for show.

Pastor Kingston stood at the podium, signaling for the musicians to quiet. “I have a question for the congregation today, one that I want you to ponder before you answer. Is there such a thing as too late?”

I nudged Desiree. She rolled her eyes.

Pastor Kingston continued, “Some people say that it’s better to be late than never, but I’m here to remind you that, yes, there is such a thing as too late. Get your Bibles and turn to Matthew 25. We’re going to read the Parable of the Ten Virgins. The title of today’s message is entitled ‘Too Late.’”

Pastor Kingston’s anointing to preach God’s Word allowed him to reach everybody. At the beginning of the message, I just knew that this one was for Desiree, but by the end of it, the Holy Spirit let me know that it was just as much for me as for her; so much so that it scared me.

Some overweight women spend their time dieting, depressed, and disgusted, but not me. I was proud of my curves, even if Mama didn’t see the value in them. Her petite politeness had gotten her very little in the relationship department. I was comfortable in my own skin, and if a man wanted to be with me, he had to love all of me as is.

As Mama and I ate lunch at the food court in the mall, I . . .