Wearing My Halo Tilted

by Stephanie Perry Moore

  Maybe I was selfish and immature for feeling that way. However, I saw no other way to feel. I’d change in a heartbeat if it’d make a difference.

  Later we went over to my parents’ house for a big Sunday dinner. My mother loved cooking for her children. Though my dad’s coarse joking usually got on everyone’s nerves, the large spread of two meats, five vegetables, and three desserts would be enough reason for any adult to ignore him.

  Stori and Starr loved going over there to see Mama and Papa and play in the playroom designed especially for them. My granddad loved having his family around him for Sunday dinners so that he could tell many stories of days gone by. During dinner, I couldn’t even play the role of Dillon and I being such a happy couple. When Dillon asked me to pass the hot sauce for his collard greens, I did so without looking at him. When he thanked me, “You’re welcome” never parted from my lips.

  After dinner, I helped my mother clear the table. For a while she and I cleaned the spacious kitchen in silence. But I knew that would change. She always piped unwanted advice into my life.

  “Shari, you know I can see you’re mad at Dillon. Whatever he did, you can’t pout like this.”

  I wanted to break the glass she just handed me to dry. My mom had a way of loving me that was unnerving. She always thought that she was giving me medicine I needed, but she always gave me advice that pushed me farther away from her.

  Drying the black-iron skillet, I looked at her and said, “You don’t even understand what’s going on in my family. You always think I don’t have a reason to feel anything other than happiness.”

  “Shari, you can’t expect marriage to be great everyday. And I know you. If things aren’t perfect you want to bail,” she said, as she stared out the window over the sink to the open field.

  I was fuming. Why was she treating me like a child? Those days had passed. If she didn’t notice my curves, I was grown. And I wasn’t going to live my life ignoring any problems that came my way like I’d seen her do over the years with my dad.

  She turned to me and said, “I don’t know what’s really going on with you and Dillon, but as hard as you think I am on you, I’m on your side. I know marriage can sometimes be crazy. But you have two little girls.”

  “And what does that mean, Mom?” I replied in despair as I went and took a seat at her table.

  “Those precious girls don’t need to be walking around here with one parent. You two need to watch what you say around them. Because little Stori told me she heard her dad yelling. I’m not going to ask what it’s about.”

  “Well, at least ask me if it’s true. You can’t just believe what my three-year-old daughter tells you,” I said rather sharply.

  “Girl, please. She’s too young to have made that up. She simply said what she heard,” my mother said, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Shari, you’ve got to make it work. It’s more than just you two.”

  I heard her but I wasn’t really letting her advice seep in. I nodded politely. As soon as Dillon was ready to go, so was I.

  As the next few days passed, it was more of the same at my house—me sleeping in one bedroom and Dillon in another. It seemed like it was just me in the marriage. My feelings were all that mattered. Maybe that wasn’t the Christian way to think, but I had to be real with myself. I was in a marriage that I didn’t really want to be in anymore.

  Every now and then, I caught myself thinking we could work stuff out. Sometimes he could be tolerable when he cut the grass, ran through the house chasing our girls, or cleaned the house from top to bottom.

  The work it out mentality didn’t last long though. He still wasn’t taking care of me. Did he ask me if I wanted a back massage? No. Did he bring me any flowers or offer to cook dinner? Please! And when he did come home from the campus, he was more into his children than wrapping his arms around me. It didn’t appear that he cared to save our marriage, which was more of a reason why I shouldn’t care either.

  I was so thankful for my college roommate, Josie Dennis. She had more sass than anyone I knew. I loved her silky milk-chocolate skin. And how come everything she put on looked like it was tailor-made for her size-four frame. Her relationship with God was not that strong. But she was a believer. Plus, Josie was a better person than most preachers around our town. My husband included.

  I was so happy she phoned me midweek to have lunch. She worked in corporate America and was holding down six figures. She was my only friend in Columbia, but one true girlfriend was way better than numerous fake associates. When we met to gobble up steaks, I was relieved I had a real forum to vent.

  “So your mama said stay with him though she knows he’s crazy, huh?” my girlfriend asked after I filled her in on all that went down.

  I nodded my head, chewing on my rare meat. Honestly, I was somewhat embarrassed. I was really considering heeding my mom’s advice. He could get mean again at any time. Why didn’t I have backbone?

  “See, that’s why I hate that old school mentality. Telling me because I have two kids I have to stay. Uh-uh. Girl, if it ain’t workin’, we are way too young to be tied down forever in a loveless marriage. Sometimes you just gotta show him. You just gotta walk out and let him know you can live without him. That’ll make him straighten up,” she said, cringing at the sight of my red meat.

  “Well, it also sounds like you don’t advise me to stay. But I’m not like you. I don’t make even close to one hundred thousand dollars. How could I support myself?” I said, throwing down my fork and knife.

  She placed her hand on my head and said, “You’re working. You’re writing books. You’re doing well enough to survive.”

  “Josie, I got one book out. I won’t get another advance until I turn in the next book and if it gets accepted by my editor. And the first book only made me twenty-five thousand dollars. My agent’s shopping deals for me. And even if I do get paid more on my next advance, I’ll have to pay taxes, my agent, my transcriber, and marketing and travel expenses. Really, I won’t see much more than I’m seeing now.”

  “Shari, I hear you, but the only thing I’m saying is you need to find a way. You’ve got to make Dillon understand that you’re not going to live like that, ’cause you see men dog out women, leave women, and cheat on women because they feel that we are just weak. And you are not weak, Shari. You have a degree. And if you gotta do something other than write them books, girl, you need to figure it out. Don’t let that man hold you hostage. Particularly when he ain’t treatin’ you right. You’ll be in that house and continuing to be unhappy, and the next thing you know your girls will be bitter kids. You’ll pass that stuff on directly down. You might as well leave. If y’all are supposed to be together, then shoot, it’ll work out. However, if you want the same results,” she leaned in and sternly said, “keep on doing the same thing. Be a fool and stay.”

  I dropped my head. I was a wimp.

  “Maybe I need to back off and not tell you what to do. I won’t push. I just love you, girl. You’ve got to do something different to make him stop that. Live in an empty house for a while. He’ll get the picture. He just can’t treat you any kind of way. I don’t know, girl, you might get out there and not want him back.” She was smiling. “There are plenty of other men that will treat you right. Can’t you just imagine a hunk treating you special and making you feel really satisfied.”

  She was a mess. But maybe she was right. Some changes in my marriage needed to occur.

  Josie went on to tell me that her insecure husband was trippin’ as well. She made more money and he was resentful. It seemed to say, united in matrimony may not be in the cards for either of us. As we headed to our cars, we gave each other a warm embrace of encouragement. That let me know that if I did make a bold move, Josie would be there.

  After talking to my mother on Sunday and then my girlfriend on Wednesday, by Friday I was really confused. Do I stay or do I leave? Do I stay for the kids or do I think of what’s best for me? I needed some counseling.

 
; Thankfully, my scheduled lunch with my pastor’s wife, Mrs. Kindle, who also happened to be an author as well, was perfect. I never had to hold my tongue with her either. I was just amazed that over the years she and I had spent so much time together. I’d grown to love her and depend on her so much. Her answers were never as rigid and one-sided as my mom’s. Nor were they as out there as my girlfriend’s. They were sort of well thought out and actually in the middle. As we talked in-depth about my marriage, her counseling gave me a clearer perspective.

  “It sounds to me like you’re saying you still do love your husband. You admire all he does for your family. There might be a few things you need to work on with his physical appearance, because that’s making you less attracted to him. But all in all it seems like he’s the one you love,” she said.

  “I do, but lately it feels like I don’t.”

  “Don’t confuse frustration for not being in love with him. There are certain things that you want him to do that he’s not doing. Before you decide you need to leave, Shari, I’d say make a list of the things he’s doing right. Then write a list of the things that irritate you. Also, make a third list of what you think would be idyllic between the two of you.”

  “And then what am I supposed to do with these lists?”

  “Sit down and go over them with him.”

  “Believe me he’s not gonna do that. Anytime I voice my opinion or say how I feel—I don’t know. He’s just not gonna do that.”

  “Don’t think negative about it. You’ve gotta really get at the root of what’s bothering you. Maybe after you two talk, if things still aren’t resolved before you look at him leaving or you leaving, maybe you guys should have professional counseling with my husband.”

  “Please. Dillon wouldn’t sit with Reverend Kindle. It’s a great idea and I know that’s what we need to do. We do need counseling, but he’s just—I don’t know. He says one thing, and then he does another,” I said, gritting my teeth, wishing this wasn’t so. “He’ll communicate with everybody else maybe, but he won’t even talk to me. Why can’t our life be perfect?”

  Our server came and gave us our pasta. I ordered a shrimp Alfredo dish, and she had a marinated chicken over a bed of fettuccini. As we ate, we made the conversation a little lighter. She said life is far from perfect for most of us. She talked about her son who had recently gone to jail on drug-related charges. She told me about her younger son who had just gotten married, but was already having problems getting along with his wife.

  “These young people are rushing into marriage,” she told me. “He didn’t need to marry that girl in the first place. He’s trying to be the president of a college and she dropped out of college years ago.”

  I always thought her world was perfect. You know being the pastor’s wife usually meant always having things together. But then she confided that women in the church want private prayer with her husband for anything but prayer. Then I started to realize that I would be all alone. Maybe it was too soon for me to make a decision about whether I was to leave or stay. Dillon and I had issues that needed to be dealt with. But hey that was okay.

  As if her discerning spirit felt my confusion, she held my hands and said, “Lord, please guide this lady. She’s got a good heart. She needs Your help with her marriage and with her writing career. Lord, You are precious and we honor You. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

  I didn’t expect things to automatically be changed with my marriage. But for some reason I did have hope that I never felt before. Maybe I wouldn’t have to leave. Maybe things were going to be better soon. God could work miracles.

  It was June 18th, my thirtieth birthday. It seemed like it should be such a happy time, but I had no plans. There was no real reason for me to celebrate. I didn’t make much money as an author but I was thankful for the few pennies I did bring in. Dillon and I agreed that I could put that money into myself. Therefore, from 8 AM to 2 PM everyday, Stori and Starr were in day care, and I needed to be productive. But as I sat behind my big mahogany desk in my leather swivel chair, fit for a president or CEO of a big corporation, I couldn’t come up with one word.

  I knew I had to write something down on paper. I was only halfway through my novel that was due to my editor a month ago. My untraditional way of writing books was dictating it all on tape. It was an effective one when I actually had something to say. But on those days when nothing came to mind, nothing was put on tape. I was getting further and further behind. The book had to get done. My little assistant, seventeen-year-old Malika Avery, a rising senior in a nearby high school, lived not too far away in an apartment complex.

  Lord, I silently prayed, if I could just have one birthday wish it would be . . . Okay, let me at least be honest with you. I want more than one birthday wish. I need to finish this book. I need the desire to spend more time with my girls. I’m sick of being depressed. And Lord, I’m so unhappy. I need a miracle in my marriage. I woke up this morning and Dillon was gone. No “happy birthday,” no kisses, and not even a small good-bye. I don’t know what to do. I keep on panting after him. But not again. This morning I am thirsty for You. Fill me up, because I feel so drained and so empty. Though today I’m only thirty, it feels like I’m eighty. Help me, Lord. Give me some good—

  The loud ring of my office phone interrupted my prayer abruptly. I twirled my chair around toward where the computer and fax machine were located and took my left hand and placed it over my heart. My chest skipped a few beats when I noticed it was my agent. She was well-known, and I’m still amazed that she had taken me on as a client. But then again it didn’t surprise me that much. She worked with my pastor’s wife and I believe Mrs. Kindle pulled a few strings and got her to take me on.

  My first novel, Luv Right or Git Left, hit the Essence bestseller’s list. Word of mouth was making it fly off store shelves. Even though I was with a small Christian publisher, my distribution placed the book in mainstream bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Borders, mass-market stores like Target or Wal-Mart, and most Christian bookstores like LifeWay or Family. Released last year, it had sold almost fifty thousand copies. For a new author that was very good. So my publisher was eagerly awaiting the release of the next one.

  “Don’t answer the phone,” I said out loud to myself, although I knew I had to.

  My book was a month late and I was nowhere near finishing the first draft. It wasn’t like I’d been on extensive tours or anything, but I did have a new boss. Starr was a year old now and I knew when I signed the deal that I’d be having a baby. I felt more depressed than I thought. Whoever said that creative writing was a way to cope with life was lying.

  Truth be told, a part of my depression was because I had wanted a boy both pregnancies. I never considered myself one of those ladies who were into girly stuff. After all, I married an NFL player. I liked sports and I think deep down I was closer to my dad than I was with my mom. I just didn’t think female bonding was possible and I guess in some ways I shied away from totally giving my all to my girls.

  But as so many people have told me, every time I looked into the eyes of my precious daughters, I realized God knew what He was doing. I was handling the barrettes, bows, dolls, hula hoops, ballet, and tap. I knew even my husband had wanted Stori and Starr to be Dustin and Dawson.

  “Shari, are you there?” she said when I pressed the speaker button.

  “Hey, Tina.”

  “Dear, it rang eight times. I can never get a hold of you when I want to. I called yesterday and you hadn’t responded. We can’t operate like this, honey. You need to respond more promptly and be more accessible.”

  “I didn’t get your messages, sorry.”

  She spouted off sassily, “Well, you need to check them. Do something.”

  “I’ve been really, really working on the book,” I said, looking up in the air as I knew to myself that that wasn’t the truth. “Okay, I’ve been really trying to work on the book, but nothing is flowing. I have true writers block.”

 
“Well, you need to get to working. But, honey, that’s not why I’m calling.”

  All of a sudden I sat up in the chair, took the phone off the hook, and listened intensively. “What’s going on? You’re not calling about the new book?”

  “No, baby,” she said.

  I could imagine her making things happen very comfortably from her big New York office. She was probably sitting back with her feet up on her desk, laid back in her, even bigger than mine, chair. I really admired Tina for all she had accomplished. I just wished she wasn’t so hard on me. A lot of people said that was for my best interest.

  Even Mrs. Kindle felt that though Tina got results, her harsh tactics could be toned down. Yes, she was the agent, but she wasn’t my mom. Every time we talked she was ordering me around. I was intimidated. However, I knew she was able to make me the impactful author that I wanted to be. Her message was always blunt. I guess if I was going to continue to deal with her, I was going to have to get a little more backbone.

  Breaking my thoughts, she said, “You remember what I was telling you about before?”

  “Yeah, the play guy?”

  “Yes,” Tina said. “I told you he was interested in buying the rights to Luv Right or Git Left.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Probably like in January.”

  “Yeah, what about that?”

  “Well, because I didn’t want to come to you until I had something really firm to bring to you, it seems we’ve struck a nice deal. Not only will you get a nice payment for the acquisition, but the play Luv Right or Git Left will go on the road in a month.”

  “What?” I said. “That’s so soon.”

  “I know, girl, but it seems they’ve been rehearsing since March. The presales were strong enough for them to stop trippin’ over money and close the deal. They’ll have a packed house.