When Willows Weep

by Charlay Marie

Genres: African American Christian; African American Women's Fiction; Family Life

Synopsis

Mark is a successful preacher and attorney who owns his church and has a seemingly perfect family. However, there is a secret he’s been hiding from his family for six years. He had a one-time affair with a black woman, who has just showed up on his door to reveal the child he knew nothing about. His perfect family is scattered as they all deal with his past sins. His wife, Claire, cannot accept his child into their home because she is afraid that it will cause the whole church to turn against them. Mark’s daughter, Sarah, once modeled her life after her seemingly perfect father, until she learns what he did. She goes on a downward spiral filled with rebellion and anger as she lashes out against everything she once believed in. Ciara, Mark’s six-year-old lovechild, has lost everything—her mother, her aunt—and now she is living with a new family who doesn’t want her there. Mark cannot believe his sin has resulted in the Lord’s wrath upon his family. He has lost his daughter, his wife, and now feels as if God Himself has walked away. Will Mark be able to realize that his love child isn’t a curse from God but a blessing meant to humble his family and bring them closer to His presence? If not, everything Mark worked hard for will wither away.

Release date: May 1, 2015

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

“My God,” I whispered to myself as I looked down at Ciara’s puffy cheeks, which were stained with tears. I felt the deepest type of pain. No six-year-old child should ever have to lose his or her mother to a car accident; no child should ever have to suffer the way she was suffering. This little girl had no one. She had never known her father, and now her mother, my best friend, was gone.

Dead.

I did everything in my power to keep the tears from clouding my vision as I drove. Lord knows, I didn’t want to die the same way Ciara’s mother had just died. The thought of the car accident made me want to stop my car and break down, but someone had to be strong for this little girl.

Ciara hadn’t said a word to me since the funeral this morning. I figured she was mentally drained from seeing her mother in that casket. What child wouldn’t be? The image of her mother lying in that casket made me weak. The sad thing was that this was only the beginning for her. Soon, children’s services would be knocking on my door, trying to take her to a foster home, trying to take her away from the only thing she had left. Me.

I was in the delivery room the day she was born. I saw those hazel eyes stare directly at me as she smiled for the first time. I was there for every birthday, every Christmas and Thanksgiving, watching her grow and experience the joys of life. She called me Auntie Tamara. She looked to me to help her through losing her mother, and I couldn’t even tell this little girl that soon she wouldn’t even have me.

Children’s services would take her from me. I had already asked around about the chances of me getting custody of Ciara, and none of the feedback had been positive. God knows, they wouldn’t let me keep her, not with my low-paying job, and the fact that my crazy ex-boyfriend was in jail for almost killing me didn’t help matters. I had also been sleeping on Candace’s couch for a week, having gotten evicted from my apartment. They would deem me unfit based on those reasons and would put her in a messed-up home with a couple who probably abused children and would feed her nothing but ramen noodles and white bread. She’d get put into a school in the middle of the hood and would probably be pregnant by fifteen. Who knew what trouble lay ahead for a little girl with no mother or father? The only thing I could do was pray that the good Lord covered her and protected her, even when she got snatched out of my hands.

If only there was something I could do to make sure she didn’t end up in the system. I wished there was a way I could find her father and take her to him, but I didn’t even know his name. I wasn’t even sure Ciara’s mom, Candace, had known the man’s full name. The only thing I knew was the story she had once told me about him and how they’d met.

He was a middle-aged white man, and she met him while she was at Montrose Beach, not too far from where she lived in Chicago. He showed her around, took her to dinner, and ended up in her hotel room. When Candace woke up that next morning, he was gone, but he had left behind a picture of the two of them, one they’d paid a photographer to take while they were at the beach. A few weeks later, Candace found out that she was pregnant.

I never did ask her why she never searched for him and let him know he had a baby on the way. I figured she didn’t know much about him or maybe didn’t care. Now I wished I had asked more questions.

“I’m sleepy,” Ciara said, tossing uncomfortably in her seat. I couldn’t tell if her puffy eyes were from exhaustion or crying. Maybe both. I reached over and gently rubbed her shoulder.

“We’re almost home,” I assured her.

“I don’t have a home.”

“What?” I asked in surprise, almost pushing down on the brakes, which would’ve caused a multiple car pileup.

“I don’t have a home,” Ciara said again, staring out her window. “My home is with Mama, and Mama ain’t here no more.”

For the hundredth time today, tears began pouring from my eyes, making it difficult to see. I quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned it off. I turned as much as my seat would allow me so that I was facing Ciara, who was still looking out the window. She was such a pretty little girl, with curly hair, which her mom had always braided in two pigtails. She had big, beautiful hazel eyes that complemented her fair complexion. Her mom couldn’t step outside without people coming up to her, telling her how beautiful Ciara was. She was an angel, a blessing, and I just hoped whichever family took her in saw the rarity of her beauty as well.

Ciara was a gifted little girl; she always knew when something was wrong. She could sense people’s emotions without them even talking to her, and she had the wisdom of someone twice her age. I’d had to watch what I said around her ever since she was two years old, because she seemed always to understand what my words meant, especially bad words.

A word at church was spoken over Ciara about the fact that she had the gift of discernment. She would always be able to discern what was true and real and to sniff out any wolf in sheep’s clothing. This minister had also said that Ciara would one day change lives, and I believed every word. She’d already changed mine.

Letting her go was something I dreaded more than her mother’s death. The fact that I was powerless to help her hurt even more than having to give her over. Would Ciara blame me for not being able to keep her? The better question was, did I deserve the blame?

I took a deep breath. “Ciara, your home isn’t where your mommy is, but where the memories and happy times are. Do you remember that one time we had that ice cream fight with your mommy in the kitchen and we won? Remember that?”

Ciara nodded, with a smile, but it never reached her eyes.

“How fun was that? Mommy might not be here, but that memory is. All you have to do is think about all the good times with Mommy, and you’ll be okay. As long as you keep Mommy in there,” I said, pointing to her heart, “then she’ll always be with you, wherever your home is.”

My response seemed to satisfy her briefly, but her mood changed just as quickly as a cloud passing under the sun, causing the shadows to shift. I could tell she was growing sad by the way her shoulders slumped and her head rested against the seat in defeat. When she finally turned to me with glistening eyes, I patted her knee and tried to smile reassuringly. I could only imagine how fake it seemed, but I didn’t know what else to do.

“They’re gonna take me away from you,” she said softly. “I heard two women talking about it today. They said they felt bad because I ain’t got no family, and I can’t stay with you, because you ain’t blood. They gonna put me in another home.”

I was furious, beyond upset that some foolish women would talk about Ciara’s situation without first checking to see if anyone, especially Ciara, was within earshot. Here I was, literally driving myself crazy, trying to figure out what I was going to do about her living situation and how I was going to tell her, and she already knew. Although I should’ve been honest with her, I couldn’t. I knew Ciara would be able to tell I was lying, and yet I still couldn’t look her in the eye and confirm what she had said.

“Ciara, I’m not gonna let nobody take you away from me, okay?” I knew the lie would come back and bite me, but I couldn’t let this little girl worry. That was my job to do for the time being. I was going to find a way to keep her, and if I couldn’t keep her with me, I’d find out who her father was and send her to be with him. She’d be better off with real family, not with people who wouldn’t care about her.

And so I continued stressing over finding a way to save her.

Later that day, I tucked Ciara into bed and found myself sitting in Candace’s room with a bottle of red wine. I usually didn’t drink, but I found it necessary in order to deal with all my problems. I had been so concerned with trying, unsuccessfully, to find Ciara a home that I needed a form of release. I found myself sitting there for quite a while in a daze.

In a moment of inspiration, I began digging through her dresser drawers, searching through files, trying to find something that hinted at distant relatives or even Ciara’s father, but I found nothing. Candace was an only child who had never known her own mother. She had grown up with her grandmother, who had passed away on her eighteenth birthday. There were no aunts and no uncles.

Just when I was about to give up, the shimmering letters on the cover of a Bible caught my eye. I slowly picked it up, feeling a sense of relief. My last resort was usually God, and He was the only one who could help me in my time of need. I held the Bible in my hand, running my fingers along the gold letters, and smiled. Yes, God was always with us.

I sat on the bed and opened the Bible, and from it, a picture fell out. I picked the picture up from the floor and examined it. My good Lord, I was staring at the images of Candace and a white man, who seemed to fit the description of Ciara’s father that Candace had once given me. He was tall, with dark hair, and had a seemingly genuine smile. He seemed like the type of man one couldn’t help but like. His eyes were kind.

In the picture, they stood with their backs facing a beach, his arms draped around her shoulders, her smile big and goofy. I could see why she had been with him. They looked happy, like an actual couple. Seeing her standing there, smiling brightly brought tears to my eyes. I wished I could see her smile one last time, but this picture would have to do.

I turned the picture over and saw a bit of sloppy handwriting. The message read:


I practically knocked over my bottle of wine as I jumped up and down with excitement. I finally had a name and a face. Candace had told me she knew only his first name, but it was as clear as day on this picture that the mystery baby daddy indeed had a last name. She must’ve had her reasons for never contacting him, and for a moment, I wished I could ask her what those reasons were. I pulled myself out of that sad thought and focused on the man’s name. Mark Douglas. I was one step closer to making sure Ciara had a home. I grabbed my phone, went to Facebook, and typed his name in the search bar, hoping I’d find a match.

The house was spotless, my husband’s favorite roast was slowly cooking in the oven, I was wearing his favorite dress—the white one with the pearls sewn into the neckline—and my shoulder-length blond hair was neatly curled, with not a strand out of place. I was the ideal housewife. I was one of those women on the TV shows with a nice house and a cool, collected demeanor. A woman who stood strongly behind her husband and took care of her family’s needs. I was a woman to be valued and cherished by her husband, and yet my husband, Mark, still didn’t look at me.

Most days, Mark would come home from doing whatever being a preacher and a lawyer required of him, and he’d go straight for the food, take a plate into his study, and disappear until midnight. I spent that time trying to figure out a way to make him notice me again.

I’d recently bought new lingerie to wear to bed, but he hadn’t noticed. I even wore a new perfume. One time, I let the house go unclean for an entire week to see if he’d notice. Did he? Not at all. The housemaid got a free week of paid vacation for nothing.

God said a man was supposed to love his wife. One would think that my husband, being the preacher over our church, would follow this command as perfectly as he could. Looking in from the outside, people would think I got all the affection in the world. They’d think my family was happy and perfect, but then they’d all be wrong.

I did pride myself on being the preacher’s wife. Every Christian woman I knew in our suburb of Highland Park in Chicago looked up to me and tried to model her own marriage on what she thought my husband and I had. It didn’t help that I lied to these women. Sunday brunch was the perfect place to lie and brag about what my husband did for me. All the ladies would marvel at me like I was Martha Stewart herself... and I’d let them.

But they didn’t know how my house was crumbling, how my daughter, Sarah, hated me and would much rather live alone with Mark, doing away with me altogether. Thank God the neighbors never saw the look she got on her face whenever I walked into a room. Sarah blamed me for everything, even when it was obvious I wasn’t the cause, but they’d never know that, because Sarah knew to smile when people were watching.

Sarah and I had once been close, but that was before she hit puberty, when every other sentence she uttered was about how she loved me. I remembered how she used to run into my arms after school and spend hours telling me all about her day in a rush of excitement. The older she got, the farther the distance between us was.

I was good at hiding how my household was beginning to unravel. I was also really good at lying to myself about how willing I was to just give it all up. If I could walk away, I would; however, I was more concerned with my image and how others viewed me. I’d rather live in an unhappy marriage than leave it as long as others looked up to us as the prime example of how they wanted their marriage to be. We were Christians, after all.

The only thing that got me through my day was the false image I’d created of myself. I loved to live through other people’s high opinions of me, and sometimes I almost believed them. I almost believed I had a great marriage, a wonderful home environment, and a loving daughter who adored me. I almost believed that I was happy.

Almost.

Leaving my roast slowly cooking at home, I headed to a five-star restaurant, and as I walked inside, I took in the aroma of the food, the wine, and the expensive cologne. I had a standing brunch appointment with some church members, and we met up at this restaurant every Sunday, shortly after church. We had a small church, with one service that started at eight and was done by eleven, giving us the time needed for our Sunday brunches. I took a look at myself in the long mirror just inside the restaurant doors. My knee-length white sundress looked lovely paired with the blue heels and the matching hat I wore. I’d chosen a new necklace, one that complemented my pearl neckline, and a brilliant diamond bracelet I’d purchased at Saks, knowing it would impress the ladies.

I felt confident in my outfit as I spotted my group of friends gossiping at a reserved table. They all wore white dresses but differed in their choice of hats and their finest jewelry. As I approached, trying with great effort to look as though I had no troubles, they each smiled.

“Claire, where did you get that mesmerizing bracelet?” Susan asked from across the table adorned with a white tablecloth. Her auburn hair was pinned into a fine bun, allowing her diamond earrings to stand out. On one of her fingers, she wore a ring bigger than my own wedding ring, one her fourth husband bought her a few years ago, and she would always wave her right hand when she talked so that she flaunted her ring in front of everyone. She had a pinched face and an airy disposition fit for a queen. Susan always noted what everyone else had, what jewelry they were wearing or what designer outfit they had on, and tried to outdo them.

Jen, who sat uncomfortably beside her, was the exact opposite. She didn’t care about anything materialistic and spent most of her time reading romance novels because of her lacking love life. Her hair was dark brown, thin, and straight, and didn’t do anything to complement her huge eyes and skinny figure. She usually wore a flowered dress, white socks, and black dress shoes, so this white dress was a definite improvement. The other girls once joked that she would make a better nun than usher of our church.

I focused my attention back on Susan as I touched the bracelet on my wrist, taking a seat at the table. “It was a gift from my husband,” I lied, pleased with the looks of approval given around the table.

“What did you do to deserve this bracelet?” Susan asked, seemingly pleasant, but I could hear the sharp undertone in her voice that pointed to jealousy.

“Nothing.” I smiled evenly at her. “My husband is just wonderful.”

“Reminds me of my third husband,” Susan began. “He’d buy me all types of jewelry for no reason. I used to think it was the sweetest thing, until I found out he was cheating and bought me jewelry only to cure his guilt.”

Everyone around the table gasped, hanging on to her every word, but I understood why she’d said that. She was trying to belittle me, to insinuate that my husband was a cheating man.

“Of course, I divorced him and married Henry,” Susan continued. “He doesn’t buy me a thing, and I prefer it that way. I have enough money, from my divorce from number three, that I can buy whatever I want without the help of a man.” She took a sip of her tea. “It’s a rather beautiful bracelet, though.”

“Thank you,” I told her, giving her my kindest smile, although I was experiencing a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wouldn’t let her know how much her words had affected me. “I’m glad that I don’t have to worry about infidelity. My husband loves me and thinks I’m the greatest blessing from God.”

“As it should be,” agreed Carol, who was sitting next to me. Carol happened to be the most genuine and Christlike of all the women I sat with and seemed to oppose Susan as much as I did, although we had never actually stated that out loud to the others. “It says in Ephesians chapter five, verse twenty-five, that a man is supposed to love and honor his wife. It only seems fitting that a preacher would be the one who lives by this the most.”

Susan turned her nose up, obviously irritated by Carol’s Bible reference. “All I’m saying is that men have motives. It’s never just because he wants to. He’s either guilty about something or wants to butter you up to ask for a motorcycle.”

“Here comes the midlife crisis story,” I heard Carol say under her breath just as Susan opened her mouth to speak once again.

“My second husband used to buy me gifts just to ask for something in return. ‘Oh, hey, honey. I bought you a new dress.... Can I get a sports car?’” Susan said, laughing to herself and not caring that no one joined her. We’d all heard this story before.

I tuned her out, focusing on my husband and infidelity. No, my husband didn’t buy me gifts because he was cheating. He bought me gifts only on special occasions, meaning most of the thing. . .