My Soul Cries Out Read online

  “What’s wrong, baby?” My mother rubbed my back.

  “Nothing, Mommy. I love you. Thanks for coming.”

  “I love you too, baby. Now get some sleep.”

  That wasn’t likely to happen.

  11

  I arrived at the church a few minutes late for the meeting, hoping Kevin was already there. I didn’t want to be alone with Bishop. I tapped on Bishop’s office door and stuck my head in.

  “Monica, come on in. Kevin should be here in a few minutes.” Bishop continued working on whatever he was working on. I thought he’d apologize for how our first meeting went, and say something to make me feel better about him and the whole situation. He didn’t.

  A few minutes later, Kevin came in. He had on some black slacks and a beige wool sweater. He looked a lot better than he did the last time I saw him. Except for his eyes. They looked hollow and sad. I wanted to hug him. Well, the old him. The him I knew and married, not the one I now knew him to be. Did what I now knew change the essence of who he was? Was he really a different person?

  “Kevin, have a seat.” Bishop Walker turned away from his computer. “We should have prayer first, especially with the nature of the things we have to discuss today.”

  We stood in a circle and held hands. Kevin squeezed my hand. The squeeze said so many things. How are you doing? Please, forgive me. I love you. Do you still love me? Please, still love me.

  I didn’t squeeze back.

  Bishop Walker boomed in his baritone preacher voice, “Dear Heavenly Father, we come before You today asking for Your help and Your guidance. We’ve wandered into unchartered waters and we need You to be a compass to help us find our way home. Speak to us today. Give us Your wisdom and reveal Your perfect will for this couple, the choir, the church, and this, Your humble servant. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  His including the choir and the church in the prayer hinted I wasn’t going to enjoy this meeting any more than the first.

  We took our seats. I didn’t know whether Bishop had purposefully put our chairs close together, but I purposefully scooted mine away from Kevin.

  Bishop Walker cleared his throat. “I’ve met with both of you individually, and now I wanted us to come together to bring some resolution to your, uh . . . situation.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I’ve counseled couples for years with this type of, uh . . . situation. Not exactly with your specific . . . uh . . . circumstances, but adultery is an age-old problem. Unfortunately, as long as there are marriages, there will be adultery. The most important thing is how to get through it and move on. God doesn’t allow anything to happen to us we can’t bear, so I believe He’s allowed this situation to make your marriage stronger.”

  Kevin nodded like it made perfect sense to him. Maybe I was crazy, but to me, this went far beyond the issue of adultery. I decided Bishop would get ten more minutes before I left, so he better start saying something that made sense.

  “I mentioned to Monica that I was willing to do counseling with the two of you as often as necessary. It’s important for you to begin talking to one another again, and to make preparations for Kevin to move home because this will be very difficult to work out with you in separate locations.”

  I bristled. His ten minutes decreased to two.

  I must have gotten a wild look in my eyes because Bishop addressed me as if Kevin wasn’t there. “Monica, I know that’s difficult for you to imagine right now. Kevin has betrayed your trust, and it’s hard to think of putting the pieces back together. You’ll be glad to know Trey is completely out of the picture. I met with him, and he’s moving back to Philadelphia. He understands the seriousness of what has occurred, and is committed to doing whatever is necessary to get you and Kevin’s marriage back on track.”

  This was deeper than I thought. How did that conversation go? Leave or else?

  Bishop proceeded with his plan. “Kevin, I think at this time it would be prudent for you to step down as the director of the children’s and youth choirs. We’ll have Levi step in and take over those positions. He’s been asking for more responsibility, and I think this is a perfect opportunity for us to see what he’s made of.”

  Kevin sat up in his chair. “Why?” He was blinking fast like he did when he was angry or anxious. I wondered which one it was.

  Bishop folded his hands. “I’ve given it a lot of thought and prayer, and this is what I feel the Lord is saying.”

  “But why? You think I would do something to the kids? Just because I . . . uh, have a, uh, history doesn’t mean I’m a child molester. I would never do anything to hurt any child. How could you—”

  “I’m not insinuating anything of the sort. I simply think you’ll need all the time and energy you have to work on your marriage and to prepare for the album.”

  More blinking. I knew Kevin was both angry and anxious.

  Bishop Walker was probably afraid of what would happen if this info got leaked and he was asked to explain how he knew about Kevin, but left him in a place of leadership over children. It was deep to see what Bishop was really made of. I looked up at black Jesus on the wall as if to say, “Can you believe this?”

  I looked at Bishop. “I don’t think I’m ready for Kevin to move back in and for us to work on things. With my history, this is hard for me.”

  “Monica, the way things happened between your parents is no indication of how things will go in your marriage. I’ve put a lot of marriages back together over the years. You’d be surprised at the number of couples in this church you know personally who sat before me with this same situation.”

  “So you have a lot of men cheating on their wives with men?”

  Bishop shook his head vigorously. “No, not your specific situation, but adultery is adultery.”

  “I don’t know why I don’t see it that way.” What was the deal with the way they were both using words like “situation,” “circumstance,” “history”? Like the real truth was too hard to speak. They couldn’t say it, but they expected me to accept it?

  “Monica, I’ve prayed long and hard, and I know this is what the Lord is saying. You’re going to have to trust and obey the voice of God through me.” Bishop leaned back in his chair. “Try to see things from a broader standpoint. Because of Kevin’s position, you can’t think only of yourselves when you make decisions. For things not to work out between the two of you would cause considerable stress on the choir, and on the church as a whole. Your life is not your own, and you have to consider how your actions affect everyone. It’s one of the sacrifices of ministry. This is not about you. This is about the work God is doing in this local church and in the body of Christ. Think of the lives we’ve reached with this ministry. Think of the lives that will be reached with Kevin’s album once it’s released. This is bigger than your marriage.”

  Well, well, well. We finally got to the real truth. God had to help me not say what I really thought. “Bishop, I appreciate you spending time before the Lord to get a plan for us—God knows I do—and I want nothing more than to be in the will of God. I guess my flesh won’t allow me to. Maybe I need to strive to walk in the Spirit more. Maybe the Lord will deal with my heart and I’ll stop selfishly putting my needs above the needs of the body of Christ. Until I achieve that level of spiritual maturity, I won’t be able to work on putting this marriage back together.”

  He nodded slowly. “All right, Monica. I can respect that. As I said before, it is of the utmost importance that we exercise discretion. Most church folk aren’t mature enough to handle this type of situation. Instead of praying for you, they’d rather gossip about you. You’re both so dear to my heart, I couldn’t stand to see you go through that. You have my word. None of this will go outside these four walls.”

  “I appreciate your compassion, Bishop. It’s good to know you care so much for us at such a difficult time, under such circumstances, in such a situation.”

  Kevin raised an eyebrow and gritted his teeth in an unspoken message to me to back off. He
was welcome to go along with Bishop’s little game. I wanted no parts of it. Not that I was about to go blabbing it to everybody. I didn’t want them in my business any more than Bishop did. I just didn’t appreciate him pretending it was because he cared about us. I wanted Bishop to be real—he didn’t want his church to split, especially since he was about to break ground for the new building.

  “I’ll be praying for the both of you. Monica, when you’re ready, let me know and we can start the counseling. I hope you’ll come back to church, too. You can’t expect the Lord to help you through this if you’re avoiding Him.”

  I’m not avoiding Him. I’m avoiding you. I nodded and smiled, picking up my purse to make my exit.

  “Sure would like to see you back in the choir. Things aren’t the same without you.” Bishop smiled.

  Kevin chimed in, “Yeah, it isn’t the same without you. I’m not the same without you.” He reached for my hand.

  “Yeah. Whatever.” I snatched it out of his reach.

  They both rose and started to speak, but their time was up. In our twenty-minute meeting, I had heard nineteen minutes too much. “God be with you both.”

  12

  Things went from bad to worse. I cried myself to sleep every night and functioned like a zombie during the day. I kept forgetting things at home and at work. Even performing regular daily functions was painful.

  Once, in the middle of the grocery store, I saw some Crunch Berries, Kevin’s favorite cereal, and burst into tears. The other shoppers must have thought I was insane. In the drive-thru at the bank, when the teller said, “Thank you, Mrs. Day,” I cried so hard, I had to pull over until I got myself together.

  I couldn’t listen to the radio in the car anymore. Gospel music reminded me of Kevin, and all the music on the R&B stations was about someone head-over-heels in love or broken-hearted from a relationship gone wrong. Everything on TV seemed to be about being in love or broken-hearted, too.

  I was all alone except for my good friends Tom and Larry. Sometimes, I wished the freezer was bigger, so I wouldn’t have to restock my ice cream pints so often.

  One night, I finally had to cry out to God.

  Please, help me. I feel like You’ve left me. I don’t know how to find my way out of this depression, and honestly, God, sometimes I don’t even feel like being alive anymore. I need You to help me. Do something, God. Please . . .

  A few days later, when I got home from work, I did my answering machine check. I had a message from Kevin, and another from my mother, checking up on me.

  The next message was short and strange.

  “Hey, Monnie, girl—what’s up? Check your email.”

  Was that Alaysia’s voice? Couldn’t be. She wouldn’t know how to get in touch with me. Sounded just like her, though. No one else I knew had a voice that tinkled with laughter and mischief like that.

  I went up to Kevin’s music studio and logged on to the Internet. When I opened my e-mail, there were forty-three new messages. At least half of them were from Kevin. A cluster of five, grouped together, caught my eye. They were all from [email protected].

  So it was Alaysia on my answering machine. I opened the first one.

  Monnie, your mother called me this morning. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Can’t wait to see you.

  I scrolled down some. It was an e-ticket . . . to Jamaica . . . for tomorrow morning.

  Classic Alaysia. Always coming to my rescue. I hadn’t talked to her in almost three years, and her first words to me were “Meet me in Jamaica.” What the email didn’t say was “I heard your life just fell apart, and I want to help fix it.” I wasn’t about to jump on a plane and fly across the ocean just to hear her say “I told you so.” Plus, I treated her so badly when I had last talked to her. I opened the next email.

  Best friends are forever, no matter what. Stop tripping and start packing.

  I had to smile. Alaysia always knew what I was thinking. I guess things hadn’t changed. What really hadn’t changed was her complete and total lack of understanding of how the real world functioned. She’d never had to work, so she didn’t understand I couldn’t just get on a plane tomorrow and leave work for a week. I clicked on the next email.

  By the way, I talked to Dr. Stewart this afternoon. She was more than glad to give you the week off. She’s such a dear. Have you started packing yet?

  My face cracked into a broad grin. Jamaica? What would I wear? I had a few sundresses and some shorts I hoped would still fit. I hadn’t put on a bathing suit in ages. I clicked on message number four.

  We’ll shop when we get there. Just pack what you have and come on. Don’t worry, I won’t make you buy a thong.

  God, I missed her. I clicked on the last message.

  I miss you too, girl. Now get your big butt up and pack. You have a plane to catch in the morning!

  What else could I do? I packed.

  13

  The stewardess escorted me to first class. After I got settled, she came back to ask if I wanted anything. I was almost tempted to opt for the mimosa she offered, just to take the edge off, but got plain orange juice instead. The bouncy Caribbean music playing overhead and the lilt to her Jamaican accent already made me feel far from home. As the plane took off, tears of relief slid down my face. It felt good to be getting away from my life. I had to stop crying, though. I should be salt depleted by now.

  I couldn’t wait to see Alaysia. I had so many great memories of friendship with her.

  We met our freshman year at Howard University. When I arrived at my room in the freshman quad, she was already there, unpacking her stuff. I brought the standard dorm fare—bed-in-a-bag, trunk full of junk, clothes, and, of course, my Boyz II Men poster. Alaysia was doing some serious decorating. She had an African mud cloth bedspread, several African statues and masks, framed art, and matching mud cloth curtains.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I took a few liberties in decorating.” She held out her hand. “I’m Alaysia, like Malaysia without the ‘M’.”

  “I’m Monica.” I looked around the room. “Wow, this looks great. You make my half of the room look bad. I think my baby blue comforter set is gonna clash miserably with your African print. I’ll have to see if I can find something in black.”

  “Not a problem.” She went to her closet and pulled out a matching African mud cloth comforter set. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind. If we have to live in the dorm, we might as well live in style.”

  I went from staring at the room to staring at her. She was beyond gorgeous. I couldn’t tell what she was—black mixed with Latino or white or something. She had to be at least five inches taller than my five feet five frame, and had perfectly smooth, peachy cream skin. Her salon perfect hair was straight and long—kind of a russet brown color. Her body was perfectly proportioned, with all the right curves in all the right places.

  Great. Fat girl gets to be roommates with supermodel.

  “What do you think of this for your side of the room?” She held up what I later appreciated to be a Romare Bearden print.

  “Yeah, it’s nice. You sure you don’t mind?”

  “It’d be too cluttered if I hang another picture on my side.”

  Alaysia moved the pictures, masks, and statues as if she had to get them just right. “Where are you from?”

  “Baltimore. Born and raised. What about you?”

  “A little bit of everywhere.” She looked around for somewhere to place a black and white photo of a beautiful woman who had to be her mother. They had the same face, only her mother was much darker. “My mom was originally from New York, but wanted to be a singer, so she moved to Paris, like Josephine Baker and Nina Simone. She met my dad there. He’s from Morocco.”

  No wonder I couldn’t tell what her nationality was. Morocco. Wasn’t it in Africa somewhere?

  “I lived back and forth between New York, Paris, and Morocco all my life.”

  I was glad my parents dropped me off in the hall with my stuff and left like
I begged them to. I’d hate for them to be going on and on and babying me in front of this worldly girl.

  She kept explaining like I had asked for her life story. “My dad was going to college in Toulouse—it’s in the South of France—but came up to Paris to ‘play’ on the weekends. He heard my mom singing in a nightclub and instantly fell in love. They got married when he finished school, and I came along soon after. We lived in Paris for a while, but my mom died when I was twelve.”

  “Sorry. That must have been terrible.”

  “It was. She drank herself to death. Her career never took off, and she got real depressed. My dad was never the same. He would stare at me with this sad, ghostly look in his eyes and call me by my mother’s name. He brought me home to his family in Morocco, but I was . . . well, black, so that didn’t work. He finally shipped me off to my mom’s parents in Brooklyn and I lived with them for a while. My grandparents were so cool. They were activists during the Civil Rights Movement. They’d never admit it, but I think they were involved with the Black Panthers.”

  Alaysia continued organizing the décor while spilling her history. “We were a happy family until my grandmother had a massive stroke. My grandfather couldn’t take care of both of us, so when I was fifteen, I got sent off to this all-girls’ Christian boarding school run by a bunch of religious fanatics.”

  I was ashamed as I told my bland story about growing up with both my parents in the same house, with the same set of friends, going to the same church, doing the same things. The only interesting thing was the number of times my parents had split up and gotten back together. Even though she was open about her life, I wasn’t about to tell that.

  “I guess my life has been pretty boring.”