Seasons of Change

by Rena A. Finney

Genres: African American; African American Urban

Synopsis

Cassandra Price cut her family ties so long ago it's hard to recall life before she left the place she once called home. Living with the man of her dreams was all that really mattered, and it was worth emptying herself of the past. There was just one thing: it was all short-lived. Her best laid plans unraveled before the engine could cool on the 747 that landed her in sunny California. Now, twenty years later, she is summoned to return home for family's sake, and while she thought she'd never consider going back, it couldn't have come at a better time. Cassandra is determined to keep the terms short and use the time to orchestrate the next phase of her life. Blaine Warner is a total package, and every single woman's dream come true. He is in high demand in the small neighborhood where Cassandra has returned. Blaine has to check every woman that throws herself his way; that is, until he lays eyes on Cassandra. He envisions making Cassandra a part of his world, and is doing everything possible to get and keep her attention. Cassandra is standing at an emotional crossroads. She's not sure she's willing to risk her heart again for the love of family or for Blaine. One thing is for certain, though: she has to forever seal the door to a past that could tear her family apart.

Release date: February 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 336

Sample

Once upon a time I thought I had the ideal family. I didn’t consider myself to know a whole lot at my young age. After all, I was only eight years old. What I did know was, a lot of kids in my school, neighborhood, and church did not live in a two-parent home. I’d watch them at PTA meetings and other gatherings, and it always seemed like a part of them was missing.

Now, there was one girl who lived at the corner, right next door to Ms. Tilda, our church mother. Well, not really our mother, but she was the oldest woman in the church, and everyone who attended regularly called her Mother Tilda. Anyway, this girl told everyone she had two parents, except, I never saw her daddy. I always saw two women take her all over the place, and whenever I was close enough to hear her refer to them, I would hear her call both of them Mommy. All I could say was, she was one lucky girl. I didn’t know another soul in the neighborhood or anywhere else that had two mothers. I was happy to have both my parents living under one roof, and many people told me I was blessed. And I believed them.

My mother, Deborah Price-Taylor, was, to me, the most beautiful woman in the world. She was the color of the pecans that fell off the trees in the backyard of our house, the prettiest color in the world. Mommy’s hair fell over her shoulders in deep waves, and she was real tall, almost as tall as my Daddy. And, Daddy, well, many of my mom’s family members called him Slick Taylor instead of Ed. I used to think it was because of his slick black hair that he always wore combed back and parted on the left side. Then I thought it could have been because he dressed real fine, like the men in the magazines I looked at when I went to the barbershop with him. Daddy was always as sharp as a tack in his alligator shoes and sharp hats that matched his outfits. He was a real dark brown man with skin that felt as smooth as silk. My face and body color fell somewhere between their two colors and made me feel like the best blend of Deborah and Ed.

I didn’t fully understand what my cousins were saying when they called my daddy a first-class womanizer, but when one of them added one day that he chased after anything that had a skirt on, I decided that what they were saying wasn’t good. They had some kind of nerve. They didn’t know my Daddy and should have kept their noses out of our business. He was, to me, at that time, the best. Besides, he reminded us often, me and Mommy, that he worked hard on that big rig truck day and night to take good care of us and give us all the things we needed and almost all of the things we wanted. Dad would say, “Baby, your Mom folk just jealous ’cause I give y’all all these nice things,” so I learned not to care about what they said.

Church for me was mandatory, not that I objected; it was the opposite really. I loved church, and interacting with all the members, both young and old. Everyone said I always had a way with people and was quite the social butterfly. I wasn’t sure about the butterfly part, but I did like talking about anything to anybody at anytime, plain and simple. I’d been in church all my life, or at least as long as I could remember. Mom was on everything, constantly accepting any church-related invitation that came her way.

My dad used to come to church with us occasionally, but unfortunately as my mother’s duties in the church increased, his limited attendance dwindled, and the one-sided arguments between them took place daily.

Mom never argued and took her vows and spiritual position as a submissive wife very seriously, doing everything for him despite the name-calling. When there was no response from the daily one-sided shouting episodes, Dad started using his oversized hands to get his point across.

I knew it was awful, my mother’s tears and soft cries told me that her pain ran deep. But when it came to Ed and Deborah Taylor, I was too young to have a voice in grown folk business, so I didn’t dare say a word or utter one sound. As much as I wanted to, there was no way I could speak against what I knew was hurting her. That’s when the scale for me tilted from loving him completely to fearing that one day his anger would release its raging fury on me. Thankfully, it never did. I was never sure if it was because I was truly the apple of my daddy’s eye, or if Cassie’s constant presence in our home changed him.

Cassandra Price wasn’t just my first cousin, she was my best friend. She had moved in with us right after my Aunt Cindy went on to a better place. All because of death. That was always such a scary, terrifying word and one I never thought I would have to deal with in my young age, at least not up close and personal. But the word intruded upon us and upset everything we knew as normal. It stormed in on a whirlwind of anguish, misery, pain, and devastation, and made its unwelcome presence known within my family circle. It took my Aunt Cindy away with a horrible disease called cancer, which was just too big for her to fight. It left behind the closest person to me, with no one to call mom, and no one to turn the world right side up whenever things turned upside down. That’s where my mom, Deborah Price-Taylor, came in. She became the substitute, even though we all knew that, for Cassie, no one could totally fill the void. Now, there was no end to our time together. She was now a part of the Taylor family.

Up until a few months before, the extra bed in my room was empty and only slept in when my parents allowed me to have a sleepover. Then, the comforter and canopy cover matched the one on my bed perfectly. But Cassie didn’t like the color pink all that much, so Mom changed it to purple and I didn’t mind at all. Everyone in the family always said we were as alike as two peas in a pod. I never understood what they meant, but they would laugh when they said it, so I knew it had to mean something good.

We arrived at church dressed in our puffy dresses, customary fold-down lace socks, and black, shiny, patent leather dress shoes. As was the usual routine, we went to the rear of the church and into the room elementary-age kids used for Sunday school.

“You want a Now and Later?” Cassie leaned over and handed me a grape Now and Later. She knew it was my favorite kind. It was hers too, but she only had one grape and one watermelon and offered me the better of the two.

I took the candy and smiled at her as the taste of grape filled my mouth. “We better eat these quick. You know we not suppose to have candy in church.”

She nodded her head, affirming that she knew, but rolled her eyes, letting me know that she didn’t really care. That was Cassie. While I was scared to do anything aside from what I was told I could do, she was the daring one and did the opposite of many of the things she was told.

“I know. You don’t have to remind me of that every Sunday.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. I wanted to tell her she was right, and that every Sunday she still brought candy, when she wasn’t supposed to.

We listened to the Sunday school lesson after all the kids were seated and quiet. I watched everyone in their own worlds, whispering and drawing on pieces of paper. The time went by slowly, because no one really wanted to answer any questions. Of course, both Cassie and I had spent many hours with my Bible scholar, Mom, and we knew almost every Bible character and could recite as many Bible verses as the grown folk at church. Heck, we lived church even when we weren’t in church. But we remained as quiet as the others.

“Little Sister Gabby would you like to end our Sunday school with a prayer?” Sister Jones walked over and reached her hand toward me.

Everyone at the church called me Gabby, which my mom dubbed me, when she realized I was a little chatterbox. I remember my mother telling me that my grandmother said it was because I had an old soul. I didn’t ask what that meant. Just assumed it was a good thing to have.

I stood beside Cassie, who was grinning from ear to ear, obviously glad that I was the one put on the spot and not her. There was a Bible verse that referred to being ready, and today, like so many other days, she wasn’t. Whenever she was singled out, Cassie would bashfully decline and promise to do it next time. Cassandra “Cassie” Price could be a true dramatic piece of work when she wanted to be. I’d double dare anyone else to say that about her, but I could because I’d earned the right as her best friend.

“Yes, I sure can.” I playfully rolled my eyes at Cassie before Sister Jones turned back toward me.

On top of knowing as many Bible verses as any grown person in church, I could pray just as well. Mom had taught me well. I wasn’t always eager, but she’d taught me and Cassie to always have a willing spirit. At least one of us remembered that lesson, ’cause, when it came to Cassie, the lessons had sure enough fell on deaf ears.

After I carried out Sister Jones’ request to pray, I helped out with the collection and handed it over to the ladies who handled the Sunday school finance business. When I had finished those tasks, I joined the other Little Saints choir members, who were seated in the front two pews of the choir loft, directly in front of the minister of music. We would be singing a couple of selections at the request of the pastor.

I sat back against the hard surface of the pew seat and took in my surroundings. The sanctuary was large and newly remodeled, with enough seats for all the people that came to enjoy the weekly services. There was so many more people than when I was younger. It seemed people liked the preaching, the singing, but not many of them liked offering time. They must not have heard the pastor tell us offering time was happy time. I watched some of them slip out past the ushers, toward the bathroom, their index finger up, but I never saw them come back in.

I waved back at some of the members who waved and smiled at me. My face was always plastered with a smile, and even when I didn’t feel like it, I put on a happy face. It came from years of practice and watching my mom interact and exchange pleasantries, regardless of how she felt, or the mood she was in. It was as if she got up in the morning with her mind made up to be jovial, and she expected me to do the same, regardless of what I felt deep down.

Sunday school ended, and I watched as bodies began running back and forth to make sure everything was ready for praise and worship to officially begin. The organist keyed up the music to let the team know it was time to get in position.

After a few minutes, the usher stationed at the side door to the pulpit opened it wide, and everyone stood up as the deacons, ministers, and the armor bearer walked out slowly, making way for the pastor of Mt. Calvary Baptist Church. Adorned in a purple pastoral robe accented in gold braided trim, the pastor took the rightful place behind the large cherry oak podium and began singing along with the praise and worship team.

The new girl, Robin, looked up at my mom, who entered the sanctuary wide-eyed from admiration, and then she leaned over with a toothless grin on her face and whispered, “Don’t you want to be just like your mom when you grow up?”

I looked directly at the girl, who was a few years younger than me, and before I could answer, my mind stilled. I considered her question, and thought about my life.

I blinked and reached to rub my eyes. My body shivered, it was so chilly in the room. I couldn’t believe how cold I was.

I glanced over, expecting to see Cassie spread out in the bed. Instead, the comforter was at the end of the bed, and her robe was missing. I thought maybe she would have been snuggled between Mom and Dad, leaving me all alone down the hall to fight off the bogeyman, but when I tiptoed to their room and slowly opened the door, all I saw was my mother sleeping on her back, snoring softly.

As I made my way to the stairs, I started to get scared, thinking that someone in the family had taken Cassie to live with them. The thought made me speed up. I started down the steps and stopped midway when I saw Daddy in his recliner near the fireplace. His chair was facing the staircase, but his attention wasn’t focused on who could be coming down the stairs.

I moved back a little to make sure he didn’t realize I was out of bed when I should have been fast asleep, and saw Cassie sitting on his knee with her head down. Maybe she had been crying and my dad was telling her that everything would be all right. That had to be why he was rubbing her back with one of his big, wide hands, while the other hand was wrapped around her body.

Instead of going to them, I leaned forward slightly so I could hear what they were saying. My heart skipped a beat when I thought of the worst. Maybe he was telling her that she couldn’t live with us anymore, or something more horrible that I couldn’t even imagine. I couldn’t stand the thought of Cassie being sent to live with someone else when she needed me to take care of her. I pressed my head against the opening in the rails, not wanting to miss a word.

“Cassie, you’ve got to keep our secret. You are special to me, and I love you so much.” Dad placed her head on his big shoulder. “No one would understand, so you can’t tell a soul.” He kissed her cheek.

Cassie wrapped her arms around his neck, but it didn’t look like the first time. It seemed they were familiar with the touches and feels that should have been awkward.

They had not displayed this kind of show for anyone’s eyes, yet here they were, cuddled up, and Cassie’s head was where my head was so often. I didn’t want her head to be there. I didn’t want her in his arms at all, because not only was I sharing, my mom was sharing.

But there was something else. I didn’t want them to have a secret, because secrets weren’t good. And from what I could see, the secret between my best friend and Daddy wasn’t good. Why else would it be talked about in the dark?

I couldn’t move. I covered my mouth, wanting to make sure no noise would come out. Why was my daddy holding Cassie like that? And why was he telling her he loved her, when he never ever told my mom that? I needed to know, but yet I didn’t want to know.

I knew my dad thought the world of me and called me his sweetie pie, but he had never uttered the words I love you to me.

That night their secret became my secret. As a result, I wrestled with what had been revealed in plain sight, and what held me captive in those moments of time, and what truth existed that I didn’t know, and could never, ever accept.

Snapping out of the memory, I gathered a visual picture of my mom and coupled it all with the personal facts that had become our family history and the threads that held the Taylor family together. She was a beautiful lady, and everyone was so drawn to her. She in turn treated everyone with so much compassion and showered them all with love. It was so easy to love her. Everyone did, or at least, that is what I thought.

I breathed deeply and then exhaled. I spoke loud enough for Robin to hear me and soft enough not to bring attention to myself and have one of the ushers chastise me for speaking, or have my mom see my lips move and give me the no-talking-in-church speech later.

“A little. But mostly I want to get married, have kids, and be happy all the time.” I started to look away and added, “With no secrets.”

Robin looked a little confused, but there was no time for another question. Pastor Deborah Price-Taylor was asking the congregation to stand.

Nine Years Later

I was only eight years old when my mother died, and I went to live with my Aunt Debbie, Uncle Ed, and my cousin and best friend Gabby. We were inseparable, two peas in a pod, closer than close, and a lot closer than most. Gabrielle was my “shero,” always thinking and believing that she was charged with coming in to save my day or help me make sense of the drama I often encountered. Some of it was my doing, and other times I carelessly walked right in with my eyes wide open. It was like seeing the bright, blinding light, hearing the high-pitched music that played right before the white girl in the scary movie got whacked and hearing a voice saying, “Don’t walk in! Stay away!” And what did I do? I blinked my way through the light, turned a deaf ear to the Freddy vs Jason tune, ignored the voice and words of caution, and walked full speed ahead right into some mess. And yet Gabby was always there, from our adolescent days up until now. Most of the time she succeeded in getting me out of various situations and ordeals, and other times . . . well, let’s just say, I was a true piece of work.

In the first few years after my mom died, I wondered if she would have been able to save me, if she would have been able to make my day or pick all the pieces up and put them back together again and in the right places. I wondered if my mom, Cindy had been equipped with some type of genetic “mother glue” that could seal my inner emotions and keep me from coming completely undone. Who knew?

Aunt Debbie tried her best to be the mother figure I needed, and God knows, she gave me all the love that an aunt could give. Many days she was able to help me make sense of an otherwise crazy world. I challenged h. . .