“It’s done. It’s already done.” Rhonda walked back to the attendant.
“Who gave you permission to cut his body up?” Rolling his eyes in her direction, then peering over his shoulder, the attendant shoved a clipboard in Rhonda’s direction.
“Sign here. Your name and your relationship.” Without saying a word she signed the papers and left.
Running up behind Rhonda, Edna asked, “What do you think they will find?”
“Nothing. If my father mixed a batch of herbs to kill himself, they will never detect it in his system.”
Even at the thought that Daddy had taken his own life, Rhonda could not shed a tear. Several weeks later, when she received the death certificate, the cause of death was listed as inconclusive.
The plans for the funeral were, at first, elaborate. Cars, flowers, and a boat to carry his ashes up the Chesapeake Bay. But Daddy hadn’t worked steadily in a long time. He had no money and no insurance. Because of his discharge status, he was not entitled to any veteran’s benefits. When the family realized that there was little, if any, money to bury him, the plans were scaled down drastically. Rhonda withdrew every penny she had in her bank account to help bury her father. She called friends to furnish the flowers and the food.
Rhonda didn’t attend the wake, preferring instead to stay in the apartment and prepare the food. When friends and relatives arrived, Rhonda had everything ready. Many of the relatives had not seen Rhonda since the card parties in Aunt Nadine’s basement and the summers in Atlantic City. Some seemed surprised that Rhonda had survived to grow up. They were delighted that she had children. When she told them that she was now an African minister, they said, “That’s nice. What does that mean?”
Rhonda did attend Daddy’s funeral. She sat in the front row, holding onto Damon, Gemmia, and Nisa, who were very upset. Grandpa had been good to them. Rhonda showed and felt very little emotion through the ceremony, even when Grandma broke down and cried out loud. When it was all over, she went home and waited to feel something to cry about. It never happened.
Three days after the funeral, Rhonda had what she thought was a dream. The doorbell rang late one night after she had gone to bed. She thought she was dreaming and ignored the bell. When it rang again, she got up, put on her robe, and walked to the window. She looked out, saw no one, and went back to bed. The doorbell rang again. This time she went downstairs to open the door only to again find no one there. Had her feet not been so cold, she would have believed that she was indeed dreaming. She went back upstairs into her apartment and shut the door. As she passed the kitchen, she noticed that the light was on. She saw Daddy sitting at the kitchen table, holding a pencil.
She wasn’t afraid or even shocked. “Daddy,” she called out to him. He turned to look at her. “What are you doing here? You know that you cannot be here, Daddy. You must leave here right now.” Daddy put his pencil down, stood up and disappeared right before her eyes. The next morning, when Rhonda awoke, the light was still on in the kitchen and the pencil was still on the table where Daddy had left it.
A week later, Edna called to find out how Rhonda and the kids were doing. She said that while she was packing Daddy’s things, she had found a few items that she thought Rhonda might like to have. It took Rhonda a week to get up the courage to retrieve the pile of papers that had been rubber-banded together. On the top of the pile was a handwritten note. Rhonda decided to wait until she got back home to go through everything. Sitting at her kitchen table, she removed the rubber band and read the note that Edna had placed on top:
Dear Ronnie,
Thank you. If you ever need me, this is for you. 913 319 510 326 306 105 700 976.
Each number represented an address, a birthday or some significant date in her or her father’s life. The 700, for instance, was from the license plate number of the Cadillac Daddy bought after Rhonda had given him the numbers she got from Sarah in her dream. That was the clue that told her exactly what to do with the numbers. Whenever she needed money, Rhonda would go to the Off-Track Betting Office and place a bet on the Exacta, just like Daddy had taught her. It never failed; she always won.
I was ready now to leave the prayer room and get back into a tub of hot water and rose oil. It was just what I needed. Rhonda’s father never gave her roses. He never gave her a compliment. At the time of his death, he had never put his arms around her and told her that he loved her, or that she was his pretty little girl. Rhonda’s father abused and neglected her, and still she loved him unconditionally. Rhonda didn’t know it, but I knew it.
I knew that Rhonda spent so much time being angry with her father for what he had and had not done, she never took the opportunity to appreciate who he was. Daddy was a wounded little boy doing his best to raise his little girl. He could not do for her what had not been done for himself. He had never been taught how to love and therefore did not know how to express love to his children or to himself. I know that he did the best that he could. I could get into a tub of hot water and cry the tears that Rhonda couldn’t shed. She didn’t know about judgment and forgiveness. She didn’t know about unconditional love. Rhonda had spent her life yearning for something she already had: the best her father could give.
Unconditional love does not mean that you accept or condone mistreatment. It does not mean you excuse people their faults and frailties. It does mean you see them, accept them, and love them, despite the things you may not like about them. If Rhonda had known that, she could have learned to laugh with her daddy, to have fun with him when he was available. When he was not available to her, she would not have blamed herself. She would not have believed that she lacked anything she needed to get love.
Rhonda loved her daddy unconditionally. That is why she never talked badly about her father. That is why she kept trying to get his attention. When you give love, you want to feel that it is being reciprocated.
What Rhonda didn’t know was that love does not have to come from the place or in the same manner you give it. Nett was the love Daddy could not give. Ruth, Eddie, and her children were expressions of love. God’s love. Rhonda did not realize that no matter how bad it got, something or someone always came along to lift her up and love her. Not because she was special, but because she was lovable. Love always begets love. After all that she had been through in her life, she was not a violent, vicious, or malicious person. She always found someone to help, someone to love. She was so fixated on getting love in a certain way, from a particular person, she missed the love that was all around her. It was never enough. She could have filled the void by celebrating the love she was, and the love she had.
Rhonda had been taught love and loving require doing and getting. If you do this, you will get love. If you don’t do this, you will lose love. She learned that love was a bargain, when in fact, love is a principle. It is a state of being that we experience as what we do and how we do it. Because most of the people in Rhonda’s life inflicted pain on her, she closely associated love with pain, whether mental, emotional, or physical. Love hurt Rhonda. As a result, when she loved someone, she would hurt herself rather than hurt them.
As the scent of the rose oil filled the steamy bathroom, I was beginning to get clearer. I had been bargaining with Karen. I was doing and getting rather than loving unconditionally. She had shown up at a time in my life when I was in need. She was a tool being used by God to fulfill a need; she was a sign of God’s love. I didn’t owe Karen anything but love. And I did not have to be hurt to give her love. She was loving me in the only way she knew how, and it was up to me to determine whether or not it worked in my life. If it didn’t, I could love her and let her go, without malice or anger. I did not have to feel bad or get hurt in order to get what I wanted. All I had to do was love. Now I understood how that related to Rhonda and Daddy, and even to Karen and myself. What I didn’t understand was John. What in the world was Rhonda doing with John? I let my body ease down into the hot water in the tub before starting down that path.
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nbsp; The white clothes Rhonda wore during her first years in the priesthood always attracted people’s attention. Drunks on the street asked her to pray for them. Catholics asked if she were fulfilling a “promise.” Many of her Christian friends said they would pray that she didn’t burn in hell. Her colleagues in law school were too busy writing briefs or studying for the bar to notice what she was wearing. Rhonda was adjusting well to being back in law school. Nett was getting stronger, and the children were doing well. She was studying spirituality and feeling good in the process. And Rhonda had a new beau.
Adeyemi was Rhonda’s childhood sweetheart. She had fallen in love with him when she was thirteen years old. He was dating her girlfriend at the time, and Rhonda had learned to let her love for him lie dormant, believing they would never be together. Rhonda had kept up with Adeyemi through the years and knew that he was married and had five children. He had created a life of community work and political activism. He and his wife had been separated for about a year when Rhonda and he began working on a project together. Their working relationship soon developed into something more intimate. Adeyemi knew Rhonda was a priestess and sought her spiritual advice and counseling for his situation at home.
They sat in Adeyemi’s car one night after he had driven her home. He asked if he could kiss her. No one had ever asked! “I cannot be in your head and in your bed,” Rhonda explained. If he wanted her to counsel him, kissing was out of the question. It took him only a few seconds to choose. A few days later, as they were walking along, he reached out and took her hand in his. No man—not Daddy, Gary, John, or even Ray—had ever held her hand. Rhonda was thirteen again; all the love she had suppressed for eighteen years came rushing to the surface.
Adeyemi’s work brought them to Albany, New York. Rhonda was sitting at his desk in the State Capitol, when a secretary told her she had a telephone call. Thinking it was one of the children again, Rhonda answered, “What’s the matter now?”
“John is dead,” the unknown caller said.
“What?” Rhonda asked.
“I’m sorry. This is Pat, how you doin’? I’m sorry to bother you, but the kids gave me this number.” Pat was married to John’s cousin Paul.
“You’re not bothering me. I just can’t believe what you’re saying.”
“He died yesterday afternoon. He had an asthma attack on the A train.”
Rhonda knew that in many ways this was a tragedy. John was only thirty-six years old. He had a new wife and a two-year-old daughter. John was also the father of Rhonda’s daughter, Nisa, and he had helped her raise her children. But Rhonda had an irresistible urge to laugh. And as soon as she hung up, she did. When she told Adeyemi why she was laughing, he told her she was a disgrace. So she stopped laughing and started dancing. It was absolutely disgraceful. A priestess dancing all over the hallway of the State Capitol because the man who beat her for seven years was dead. Rhonda’s only regret was that she couldn’t throw a parade.
By the time she got home, she had regained her composure. She told the children and had difficulty reading their reactions. Nisa started crying, but when she noticed that Damon and Gemmia weren’t crying, she stopped. They all knew the truth about their fathers. Rhonda let them decide whether or not they wanted to go to the funeral. They all chose not to go. Rhonda went alone.
She went to the funeral home an hour before the family was scheduled to arrive. The casket was open. John had grown a beard, which Rhonda thought made him look quite distinguished. He was wearing a blue suit, which made him look much older. “This is it,” she said to herself. “Let me put an end to this right now.” Rhonda knelt down on the cushioned stool at the side of the casket. She looked at the flowers, the walls, and the ceiling; she could not look at his face. She told him exactly how she felt.
“When they told me you had died, I danced. I’m sorry, but I did. I was so glad to be rid of you. But now that I see you lying here, I want you to know how really sorry I am.” She lowered her eyes to his face and remembered something she was learning in her priesthood training: Always be grateful.
“Before you go, I wanted to tell you thanks. Thank you for teaching me so much about myself. Thank you for showing me how to defend myself. Thank you for giving me all the time I needed to learn how to take care of myself. I know you didn’t know that’s what you were doing, and neither did I. Thank you for Nisa. She is my precious baby, and you don’t have to worry about her. You know I don’t like your mother, but I will make sure Nisa gets to know her. Thank you for all the help you gave me raising my children when their own fathers wouldn’t do it. Thank you for the time you got out of bed and came out in the snow to fix the flat tire on the car I would not let you drive. Thank you for teaching Damon how to use his fly. Thank you for trying.”
When Rhonda realized tears were rolling down her cheeks, she put her hand on John’s hand, took a deep breath, and continued.
“I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. I know that you did the best you could. I forgive you for lying to me and for lying to yourself. I forgive you for abusing me and abusing yourself. I forgive you for all the women you slept with when we were together. I forgive you for leaving me when I was pregnant. I forgive you for all the things you accused me of doing. I forgive you for your inability to see how desperate and wounded I was. I forgive you for everything, and I ask that you forgive me. I forgive you, and I want you to rest.”
When Rhonda felt as if she had no more to say, she leaned over and kissed John’s cheek. John’s mother, Mildred, and her sister Dorothy were coming into the parlor as Rhonda was leaving. Mildred didn’t speak at all. Dorothy glared at Rhonda and said snidely, “Well, look what the cat dragged in! What are you supposed to be? We know you ain’t no nun.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Millie. How are you, Aunt Dottie?” Before either could respond, Rhonda walked away.
She saw John’s wife standing at the entrance to the funeral home. “I’m Rhonda and I’m sorry for your loss. This is my number. If you ever want the children to get together, please call me.” Again, Rhonda walked away without waiting for a response. She stopped just outside the door to see if she had any more tears to shed, tears she did not want to take home. She didn’t.
Rhonda almost fainted when she saw a letter taped to the front door of her apartment. She knew the rent was due. But the letter was from the Department of Human Resources and requested that she report to the Federal Office of Investigation to answer charges of welfare fraud.
On her first visit to the office, Rhonda found out that Sharon, Nett’s sister, had placed a trace on one of Nett’s disability checks. An investigation revealed that the check had been signed and cashed at a time Nett was hospitalized. Rhonda had nothing to hide. She explained that she had cashed the check, just as she had cashed many of her mother’s checks, to pay the rent. She told the investigators that she had used the money from the check in question to rent an apartment so that Nett could live with her. Sharon, apparently, had failed to share that information. The investigator informed her that her actions were illegal and that she could possibly go to jail.
Rhonda was explaining that her mother knew she was cashing her checks, when one of the investigators asked, “Where is your mother?”
“She’s at home.”
“Home where?” Rhonda gave him Nett’s address.
“It is our understanding that that is Lynnette Harris’s address. We want to know your mother’s address.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mrs. Harris’s sister has informed us that Mrs. Harris is not your mother. She is your stepmother.”
Rhonda turned Nett’s favorite color of “puke green.” They offered her some water. When she refused, she was told to return in two weeks with a copy of the lease and proof that Nett had lived with her. Rhonda went directly to Nett’s house.
“Did you know that Sharon is trying to have me arrested?” Nett was silent. “Do you know that if I get arrested, I cannot practice law in th
e State of New York?”
“Sharon wants her money back. She needs her money.” Nett was referring to the money her sister had willingly contributed to the private-duty nurses hired to care for Nett.
“She’s trying to ruin my life! If I am arrested on a federal forgery charge, I cannot practice law!”
“She needs her money, and blood is thicker than water.”
Rhonda was speechless. The only thing she could do was stare at the woman sitting in the wheelchair before her. This was not the Nett she had known and loved. This was a woman who would not, could not see her. This was not the Nett who had kissed her, cared for her, stood by her, and had promised Rhonda she would someday be somebody. To keep herself from feeling too bad, Rhonda told herself that she did not know who this person was.
“I’ve got to go,” Rhonda said, trying to decide if she should kiss this woman good-bye.
“Okay,” Nett said. “Would you ask Damon to bring me some pizza?” Rhonda left without responding.
I slid further down into the tub and remembered how hard Rhonda had prayed that night. Once again, her heart had been pierced. She hadn’t heard anything about her mother in so long, she actually believed that Nett was her mother. The mind is wonderful. It lets us believe whatever we need to believe in order to survive. It can block out pain and information that might send us into overload, or shut us down. Rhonda’s mind had blocked out a great deal of information. Now, as she began to pray for clarity and guidance, the information surfaced. But she still had not learned to accurately discern it. Rhonda was still looking on the outside. The truth she needed was on the inside.
Father forgive them, for they know not what they do! She was being punished. Not by other people, but by herself. Rhonda was not punishing herself for anything she had done but for what she believed. She still believed that she deserved to be punished. She still believed that she was not worthy of love. What Sharon had done reinforced what Rhonda believed about herself. I could clearly see another pattern that had emerged in Rhonda’s life. It was a covert pattern of which Rhonda was unaware. In order for something good to happen, something bad had to happen first. During the times when Rhonda should have been her happiest, there was always something bad lurking in the shadows. She would not allow herself to enjoy the fruits of her labor.
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