Marked at Birth

by Theresa A. Campbell

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

What do you do if people say you are born with the “mark of the devil,” especially in Jamaica where many believe in the spirits of good and evil? If you are Isabella “Bella” Pigmore, born with a birthmark so pronounced that she faces ridicule for most of her young life, you feel bad—very bad.
Growing up feeling like a freak, Bella clings to the only support she has, her mother. But when her mother dies under mysterious circumstances and she is left alone with her abusive father, Bella suffers dearly at the hands of the man who should protect her.
Leaving her hometown of Clarendon, Jamaica, behind, Bella travels to a new town, hoping to become invisible in a parish where she isn’t known by anyone.
But once again, the people she should be able to trust betray her in the worst possible way. Bella becomes a pawn in a twisted, treacherous plot with murderous ramifications. As her life spirals out of control, will she find the power and resilience to fight for the only thing that now matters in her life? Will Bella be
able to rise above her low self-esteem to realize that she is beautiful and wonderfully made in the image of God?

Release date: February 21, 2023

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Twenty years earlier ...

“I’m pregnant!” forty-year-old Agatha announced as she entered the living room, her grin stretching from ear to ear. “Burchell, after all these years, we’re having a baby.” She threw her handbag down on the couch beside her husband and lifted her hands in the air. “Thank you, Lord.”

“I thought you were a mule,” Burchell replied and took a big gulp of the cold Red Stripe beer in his hand. “I hope it’s a boy, because I don’t want another slut in my house.”

The grin fell from Agatha’s face, and she looked down sadly at the man she had been married to for ten years.

“Agatha, you can’t marry that nasty alcoholic man,” her sister, Dorothy, had told her a decade ago. “He’s going to make your life a living hell.”

“That man is no good,” a friend had warned her. “Don’t do it.”

“Oh, Burchell is a sweetheart,” Agatha had responded. Ever since she’d met him, he had always been the perfect gentleman and had treated her with so much love and kindness. Yes, he would drink a little too much at times, but he had never been violent with her. “He may look a little rough around the edges, but he’s as gentle as a newborn baby,” she’d told them. Agatha had lived to eat her words when a week after their wedding Burchell beat her into unconsciousness.

“The chicken is too tough,” Burchell had spat that day, using the fried chicken leg to slap Agatha in her face. “You can’t even cook a little fowl?”

Agatha had been hurt physically and mentally by the beating she endured. What had gone wrong? Was what everyone had warned her about really true?

Instead of it getting better, it had only got worse. Burchell beat Agatha almost every day for a variety of reasons—the food wasn’t cooked properly, the house was dirty, her clothes were too tight, she was flirting with the elderly man next door—or for no reason at all.

“Leave him,” Agatha’s friends had begged her countless times. “He is going to kill you.” But their words had always gone through one ear and come out the other.

“I’m not leaving my husband,” Agatha would tell them. “I’m the one who makes Burchell mad. I just need to do better.”

So for ten agonizing years Agatha had stayed in her private hell. She had sometimes thought of running away after yet another beating, but she’d quickly change her mind when Burchell cried crocodile tears of apology or bought her a gift to say he was sorry.

Now she was pregnant with their first child.

“What are you staring at?” Burchell barked as he stood unsteadily to his feet, his face twisted up and one hand folded in a fist.

Agatha jumped back from fright. “Nothing, Burchell. Sorry.” She quickly scurried away to their bedroom.

Nine months later, Agatha gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at Percy Junor Hospital in Spalding, Manchester. She named her Isabella after her deceased mother. Burchell was absent for the birth.

“That’s woman’s business, and I don’t have time to waste on foolishness,” he had informed Agatha when she went into labor that morning. “Just make sure you bring back a son, or don’t come back in my house,” he’d added before she was rushed to the hospital in their neighbor’s car.

He was just talking, Agatha reasoned in her head as she entered the house three days later with her daughter. “Once Burchell takes a look at your pretty little face with this beauty mark, he’s going to love you on sight,” Agatha cooed to the baby in her arms.

“Burchell?” Agatha called out, but the house was empty. Burchell didn’t think it was necessary to take off from work to welcome home his wife and baby. “Daddy is at work, but you’ll see him later.” Agatha placed the baby in the middle of their bed in the master bedroom and lay down beside her. Soon they were both fast asleep.

“Woieee!” Agatha cried out loudly when a fist slammed into her jaw. Jumping off the bed, she went right into another fist to her stomach. “Burchell, please stop,” she pleaded.

Baby Bella woke up and began to wail.

“What’s that ugly little thing you carry into my house?” Burchell asked, slapping Agatha hard across the face. “Didn’t I tell you if it wasn’t a boy to not come home?” He pushed Agatha against the wall and pounded her repeatedly. “The little creature was marked by the devil. You don’t see that?”

“It’s a beauty mark,” Agatha managed to get out through bloody lips he continued to beat her.

“I’ll show you a beauty mark.” Burchell abruptly stop beating Agatha and walked over to the baby on the bed. He grabbed her up by one leg and dangled the screaming baby high in the air. “Now watch and see what I’m going to do with baby Shaka Zulu.” With a nasty grin on his face, Burchell opened his hand and let the baby go.

“Nooo!” Agatha had anticipated what he was about to do and had found the strength to throw herself on Burchell, but it was too late. The baby was in midair. With the skill of a baseball catcher, she threw herself across the floor and swiftly stretched out her hands to catch three-day-old Baby Bella a few inches above the concrete floor.

Her heart slamming in her chest, Agatha bawled, her screaming baby held tightly in her arms. Burchell had almost killed their daughter.

“Get rid of it, or I will,” Burchell warned before he exited the bedroom and headed to the kitchen, where his vodka was stashed.

It took a few minutes for Agatha to stop crying and then hush the baby. Her head was hurting as the scene of Baby Bella flying through the air kept replaying over and over again in her mind. “He was going to kill you.” Agatha rocked her daughter from side to side.

Slowly, Agatha stumbled to her feet, the baby still safely tucked in her arms. She sat on the edge of the bed and breastfed Baby Bella, muttering words of praise. “Thank you, Lord, for saving my daughter.”

As the baby hungrily sucked at her breast, Agatha stared down at her face. With Burchell being dark skinned and Agatha light skinned, Baby Bella had a rich chocolate complexion. Except for the left side of her face, which was so light, it looked almost white. But while Burchell saw the birthmark as the devil’s mark, Agatha thought it was unique and was Baby Bella’s beauty mark.

But in the superstitious small, rural town, some people reacted unkindly to Baby Bella’s noticeable birthmark on her face.

“Mama, look. The baby has two faces,” a little girl remarked loudly the first Sunday Agatha took Baby Bella to church.

“This must be a sign of some sort from the Lord,” exclaimed the neighbor when she came to visit Agatha and the baby.

“That’s a . . . uh . . . very interesting birthmark on the baby’s face,” said the teenaged cashier at the supermarket when Agatha stood in line with Baby Bella.

“It’s her beauty mark,” Agatha snapped protectively. Was she the only one who could see the birthmark for what it was?

With nowhere else to go, Agatha had no choice but to remain in Burchell’s house. Her only ray of light was her daughter, Bella, whom she watched over like a hawk.

When Baby Bella was one year old, she was a challenge to keep up with, as she had recently learned to walk. Taking wobbly baby steps, she wandered excitedly all over the house, with her attentive mother always close behind, encouraging her.

One afternoon Bella wandered into her father’s bedroom, and one of her chubby little legs knocked over an open bottle of beer that had been left on the floor.

“Get out of here!” Burchell screamed from where he sat on the edge of the bed, and the frightened baby began to cry. Angrily, he stood up and grabbed Bella by her arm just as Agatha burst through the door.

“Let her go!” Agatha yelled, punching Burchell on the arm that held Bella.

Surprised at his wife’s action, Burchell quickly let go, his eyes wide. Almost in a daze, he watched as Agatha scooped up the distressed baby and hurried out of the room. “I’m going to kill her later,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll show her I’m the boss around here.” He paced the floor, mumbling about what he was going to do to Agatha. “When I’m through—”

A loud sound and then a burst of pain cut him off.

“Argh!” Burchell grabbed his head and quickly spun around, in shock. A large frying pan had connected with the side of his face, almost numbing it. “Woman, have you lost your mind!”

“Leave my baby alone!” Agatha was breathing hard, her long hair flying around her face, tears running out of her wild eyes. “Don’t you ever put your hands on her again!” she screamed. She hit Burchell hard on the knee with the frying pan and was happy to see him buckle over.

Burchell was more stunned than in pain. He had been beating Agatha’s behind for years, and she had never fought back. Now she was attacking him in his own house? Of all the nerve. He threw himself at Agatha, but she jumped out of the way, sending him crashing to the floor.

“I let you mistreat me for years.” She hit Burchell hard on the back with the pan. “But I’d rather die than let you do the same to my sweet baby girl.” She wacked him in the head. Agatha proceeded to beat Burchell with the frying pan as if Bella’s life depended on it.

Burchell was in pain and was too weak and too drunk to go head-to-head with his furious wife. With his hands covering his head, he took his whupping with grunts, moans, and groans, swearing and calling Agatha every nasty name under the sun. “I’m going kill you one day for this, Agatha. I swear, as God is my witness.”

Agatha, on the other hand, felt rejuvenated from giving Burchell a dose of his own medicine. After all these years it was a mother’s love that had given her the courage to stand up to the beast who had been physically and mentally abusing her. “If you ever go anywhere near my Bella again, I promise I will kill you,” she hissed in Burchell’s ear as he lay on the floor.

Despite his threats, Burchell heeded Agatha’s warning for years to come. He had seen the fierce love she had for their daughter, and deep down inside he knew Agatha meant every word she’d said. So not only did he stay away from Bella, but he also left Agatha alone, at least physically. He still verbally insulted Bella and Agatha every chance he got. This bully wasn’t going down so easily.

“Mama and baby she-devil,” he’d sing, shaking his big head from side to side, as if he was performing onstage. “Miss horse and little kangaroo.”

Agatha had taught Bella how to swim when she was a toddler, so they often went to the river to escape Burchell. They would spend hours on weekends swimming and playing and enjoying their time while they waited for the washed laundry to dry.

But the nasty remarks kept coming over the next few years. Bella was constantly teased at school by her peers, starting in primary school and continuing all the way through to high school. She grew up feeling like an ugly freak, and as such, she was very introverted.

One afternoon after school was dismissed for the day, Bella, now finishing up tenth grade, walked out of her last class with her head hanging down. She hurriedly weaved her way through the groups of animated students, hoping to make it out of the high school before someone picked on her.

Bella made it outside, and as she passed by the drama room’s exterior, she heard loud music and laughter. She walked over to one of the open windows and peeked inside the room. There she saw a group of teenage girls trotting around in their swimsuits, wearing high-heeled shoes. The girls were contestants in the school’s beauty pageant, which would be held in a few weeks, and now they were busy rehearsing.

Bella looked at the girls from head to toe, but then her attention returned to their pretty faces. They were light, brown, and dark skinned, but each of them had an even-toned, smooth complexion, unlike her. As her fingers slowly ran over the white left side of her face, Bella realized these girls were what she was not. They were exquisitely beautiful.

“Hey, Bella,” said a male voice from behind her.

Bella guiltily looked away from the window and glanced over her shoulder to see three boys from her class standing behind her.

“Are you thinking of entering the beauty contest?” one boy asked, and the others chuckled. “I must admit your body doesn’t look too bad.”

“Maybe they’ll let you wear a bag over your face to hide the mark of the devil,” another one said, and they all roared with laughter.

Humiliated, Bella ran off and cried all the way home.

“Don’t pay them any mind, baby,” Agatha told Bella after she got home and related what had happened. “God made you special.” She kissed her daughter on the milk-white birthmark on her pretty face before pulling her into a tight embrace.

As Bella hugged her mother she thought, God made me special indeed. He made me into a monster.

“You’re beautiful, Bella,” Agatha whispered in her ear, running her hand through Bella’s long, curly hair.

Suddenly an image of the beauty contestants with their pretty faces flashed in Bella’s mind. No, Mama. I’m not beautiful. Those girls are.

Agatha was Bella’s best friend, and the two clung to each other. Only to be permanently separated months later by death.

“Mama! Where are you?” Eighteen-year-old Bella entered the living room and threw her book bag on the long brown couch before she went in search of her mother. It was her first school day as a senior, and she was expected to graduate next June. “I’m home,” she exclaimed dramatically upon entering the kitchen, her arms open wide, a big grin stretching from ear to ear.

But the grin quickly fell away. “Mama!” Bella dropped to her knees beside Agatha, who was lying on her back on the floor, a pool of dried blood around her head. “Mama, what’s wrong?” She shook her mother’s shoulder, but Agatha didn’t move or speak.

Tears flowing down her face, Bella gently tapped Agatha’s cheeks. “Wake up, Mama. Come on! Stop playing.”

Agatha remained still, and it was then that Bella realized that her shoulder was cold and as stiff as a walking cane. As she stared down at her mother’s face, she noted that it was a few shades paler. It didn’t take long for her to realize her mother was dead. She had been to a few funerals in her lifetime, and she knew the pale, ashen look of death.

“Nooo.” Bella’s scream ricocheted around the kitchen, bouncing off the walls.

With snot and a small river of tears running down her face and dripping onto her mother’s lifeless body, Bella’s petite body shook from intense pain as she bawled.

Minutes later, as she sat on the kitchen floor, still wearing her light blue school uniform, Bella moved her mother’s head onto her lap. She ran her fingers through the long strands of hair as she softly sang, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”

Once the tears were all used up, Bella rocked her mother’s body gently for hours, until the sunshine gave way to darkness as night fell. Although she was hoarse from singing, she sang over and over every song she had ever learned at church as she remained sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark, with Agatha in her arms.

Later that night Burchell pushed the front door open and staggered into the house. He fired off some curse words after bumping his leg against the couch in the living room. After flicking on the light, he slowly made his way toward the kitchen. There he turned on another light, flooding the room with brightness.

His bloodshot eyes ran over his daughter, who was sitting on the floor, with his wife’s corpse in her arms. “So, the heifer is really dead, huh? Good riddance.” He turned around and made his way into his bedroom, then slammed the door shut.

Bella flinched at the sound of the door being slammed. As if coming out of a trance, she slowly moved her mother’s head from her lap, noticing how stiff her whole body was. She winced at the crick in her neck and the cramps in her legs and back as she pulled herself to her feet. Robotically, Bella walked into her mother’s bedroom and took a pillow and sheet off the bed. She returned to the kitchen, tucked the pillow under Agatha’s head, and covered her body with the sheet.

“I’ll be right back, Mama.” With that, Bella hurried out of the house and headed on foot toward the police station, which was approximately two miles away. She would have called, but the house didn’t have a telephone.

The tears returned as Bella walked to the police station, wrapped up in a blanket of grief. Upon arriving at the station, between sobs, Bella informed the officer on duty of her mother’s death.

“I’ll call the coroner,” the officer said to Bella. “Then another officer and I will return with you to the house.”

On the ride back to her house, Bella sat quietly in the back seat of the police jeep. She gazed into the night, replaying over and over in her mind the sight of her mother’s lifeless body on the kitchen floor. The only person who loved and protected her was no more. What was she going to do?

“Where’s Burchell?” asked one of the officers, the one who was friendly with Burchell, after parking in front of the house. They all got out of the jeep.

Bella pointed at the house and then walked ahead of the officers, who followed her in silence. Once inside the house, Bella noticed that Burchell’s bedroom door was still shut. She ignored this and led the officers into the kitchen, where Agatha’s body lay.

“Please step outside the room,” the other officer said to Bella as he pulled on the pair of white gloves he had taken out of his pocket. He pulled the sheet off Agatha and handed it to his partner. Leaning over, he pressed two fingers to Agatha’s neck and then said, “There is no pulse. She’s dead.”

From the kitchen doorway, Bella watched as the police knelt down and removed the pillow she had placed under her mother’s head. “Look at all this blood. She must have hit the back of her head. But the coroner will tell us more when he gets here,” said the first officer, the one who was friendly with Burchell.

“Let’s go and talk to Burchell while we wait,” his colleague suggested. “I have a few questions for him.” As he walked by Bella, he said, “We’ll be keeping these as part of the investigation.” He held up the sheet and the bloody pillow. “And please stay out of the kitchen.”

Bella went and sat on the couch in the living room. She rocked from side to side as she waited.

It took almost two hours for the coroner to arrive. He and his assistant were led into the kitchen by the police officers. Bella remained in the living room, where Burchell now sat slumped on the couch across from her, his face void of emotion.

Ten minutes later the coroner and his assistant stepped into the living room with the officers and gave everyone a preliminary report. “There is a deep laceration at the back of her head. She may have fallen and hit her head, or she was hit with a heavy object. I’ll know more once I do the autopsy.”

“I don’t want any autop . . . autopsy.” Burchell burped loudly as he shakily stood to his feet. “That woman was as clumsy as a one-legged goat.”

“Wait a minute, now. This is an unexpected death. I have to do an autopsy to find out exactly what happened in there.” The coroner nodded toward the kitchen.

“You cut open my wife and there will be trouble.” Burchell pointed his finger at the coroner, his bloodshot eyes filled with fury. “Agatha always said she didn’t want anyone to cut on her when she died.”

Bella sat and watched the exchange between the men, knowing she was powerless to do anything. She opened her mouth to speak but quickly closed it again out of fear. Why doesn’t Papa want them to do an autopsy on Mama? Just then Bella remembered the words Burchell had spoken when he came home earlier that night. So, the heifer is really dead, huh? What had he meant by that?

The coroner persisted. “This is my jurisdiction,” he informed Burchell. “I have the authority to perform an autopsy if I think there may be foul play.”

Burchell’s head snapped back and he sobered up instantly, as if he had been hit by a bucket of ice-cold water. “You think I killed my wife?”

“I’m not sure what happened to your wife, sir. My job is to find out how she died.” He glanced over at the officers. “And it’s their case to investigate.”

“Well, hmmm, we did question Burchell earlier,” one officer informed the coroner, “and the investigation continues. We look forward to receiving your report.”

The coroner nodded, and he and his assistant walked back into the kitchen. The two men placed Agatha’s body in a black body bag. With one of them at either end, they carried the body out to the van, Bella following close behind them. She watched them until the vehicle drove off with her mother, and she was still staring down the road fifteen minutes after the van had disappeared around a bend.

The homegoing service for Agatha was two weeks later. The service was held at the Frankfield Church of God. Bella didn’t say a word that day. She bobbed or shook her head when spoken to, going through the motions with lifeless, grief-stricken eyes.

Burchell, on the other hand, put on a performance of a lifetime. He howled and wailed for his dead wife, with snot and tears running down his face. With the exception of his few pals, very few felt any sympathy for him.

“Look at that fool acting like he care,” Ms. Gracie whispered to her husband. “I have a sneaky suspicion he’s the one who killed sweet Agatha.”

“I’m so tempted to go over there and give that wife beater something to cry about,” hissed Mr. Dufus. “Poor Agatha suffered at his hands for so many years.”

“He’ll get his soon,” the lady sitting beside him responded. “God is not dead.”

Agatha was buried that cloudy, gloomy, rainy day at Commissary Cemetery. That night Bella cried herself to sleep in Agatha’s bed.

“Get up!” Burchell poured the bucket of water all over Bella on the bed.

“Wha . . . what’s wrong?” Bella quickly sat up, water running down her face, her nightgown drenched. “What’s the matter, Papa?” she asked fearfully, wiping water from her eyes so she could see.

Instead of answering, Burchell reached down and grabbed Bella by the back of her neck and lifted her off the bed. “What’s wrong? I’ll show you what’s wrong.” He proceeded to drag the terrifying girl into the kitchen.

“That’s what’s wrong.” Burchell pointed to the emp. . .