Faith Alone

by Terri Ann Johnson

  After we ordered our food, we walked to our booth. The sparkles in the yellow tile caught my eye. Two afternoon sports prognosticators debated the latest rounds of the NBA playoffs on a plasma screen that had to be at least sixty inches wide.

  We couldn’t wait to bite into those chili dogs. As I wiped sauce from the side of Brian’s mouth, he looked into my eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  Dr. Price’s optimism must’ve been contagious. “Actually, not as stressed as before.”

  Creases formed on his forehead as he looked down at his food. I knew he was trying to ascertain the best way to proceed.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  “You know…” He took a deep breath. “We’ve been married for twelve years, knowing each other since we were in our mid-twenties. I’ve always respected your stance on not having children. I knew that God ordained our marriage and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

  I heard a but coming. He inhaled and exhaled.

  “But, we’ve never talked about Christian.”

  My heart raced, and I took a sip of water to calm it down. Brian knew my baby’s name melted my heart. After I told him about that time in my life, I reiterated that I didn’t want to regurgitate the story. He never mentioned it again or his name. Until today. No one ever said his name. My baby’s name.

  Before I could finish chewing what was left of the hotdog and ask him, ‘why are you doing this today?’ Brian slid his arm across the table and stroked my hand; a sign of peace.

  “Don’t get upset. I just think that before we begin this journey, we have to talk through the hurt and pain that Christian’s loss caused you.”

  I knew what he meant, but I was stubborn. Leaning back in the booth, I blurted my truest feelings. “What’s there to talk about?”

  I could see the compassion in his eyes. “I don’t know how to say this, but I believe that you may feel that having another baby would be like cheating on Christian.”

  He stopped speaking as if to let his words settle in. It was painful to admit, and I wasn’t sure if I would use those words, but Brian was hitting on something. My baby was stillborn. I had so many plans; plans for our future. Was it something that I did? Was there something that I didn’t do that caused the stillbirth? I was eighteen years old.

  Brian wanted to know, so I took him back to the summer of 1993.

  The guilt of getting pregnant almost stopped me from saying anything to my mother.

  Keyword: almost

  I knew that she loved me like she’d given birth to me. But I was still afraid to tell her. I wasn’t the only girl at school pregnant, but I was the one that people looked upon with pity because it wasn’t supposed to happen to me. They’d tell me; ‘bad things happen to good people.’ Once I told my mother I believed that she shared those sentiments.

  My baby hadn’t moved in a few days. “Mom I need to go to the doctor, I haven’t felt the baby move lately.”

  She moved but not with the volition that I would’ve liked to see from my mom. It was like she took me because I needed a ride.

  Once we arrived, they rushed me to the back, took all kinds of tests and did a sonogram. The doctor listened and felt. His widened eyes gave me the ominous news. He pushed my tummy. “Move on your other side, dear.”

  As he assisted me to my right side, I felt hot and light headed. I was sure the doctor thought that I had already fainted because he stopped speaking directly to me, and began using pronouns.

  “Her blood pressure has skyrocketed.” “We have to focus on saving her.” Saving her?

  Swerving in and out of consciousness or maybe dreaming, I heard

  what sounded like a rush of people. Through slits in my eyes, I saw nurses and doctors hovering over me shouting, “Anesthesia.” Then, “C-section.”

  After that, I must’ve fallen back to sleep because in a dream I heard the faint sound of a baby’s cry.

  A beeping sound woke me out of an unsettled slumber. I wasn’t in the same room. This one smelled so sterile. It was stark white except for the brown chair that my mother sat in.

  “Lachelle.” My mother rose to her feet making her way to my bed.

  As she grabbed my hand, a single tear rolled down her face. “Where’s my baby? I want to see my baby.”

  “It was a little boy, but he didn’t make it, honey.” My eyes must’ve asked, ‘didn’t make it?’

  “He was gone before we even got here.”

  With pain etched on my mother’s face, she continued. “Your blood pressure increased so quickly the doctors thought that we might lose you.”

  After what seemed like a minute, I asked the question that I knew the answer to.

  “Can I see my baby boy?”

  While stroking my forehead, she shook her head. “He’s gone, honey.” I turned my head toward the window and thought about the toes that I couldn’t count, the hair that I couldn’t stroke and the cheeks that I couldn’t kiss.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. As I picked up a napkin to dab them, Brian gently stroked my other hand. I smiled, letting him know that I was okay.

  “I just think that it’s time to mourn him. And time to talk to him; tell him how much losing him hurt. Tell him how much you love him and that you’ll never forget him.” Brian hesitated before continuing, “I think the perfect way to begin is by visiting Christian.”

  At this point, I didn’t know what to say. I placed my elbows on the table, folded my hands and rested my forehead on them. Seconds passed, which seemed like minutes. I raised my head, and with what felt like tears flowing from my mouth, I responded. “You can’t be serious. You want me to visit his grave?”

  “No, I want us to visit him. It will be the beginning of the healing process.”

  I had never thought about visiting Christian’s grave. Not even after twenty-three years.

  “We can do it. And with God, all things are possible.” This. Man. Here. He was willing to help me process my way through the stillbirth of a baby that he didn’t even father. Did they still make men like him? I looked at Brian, I mean really looked at him, seeing his strength, his optimism, and his fortitude.

  Brian picked up our trays. “Let’s go home, we’ll talk more later.”

  “Okay, I’ll run to the ladies room.”

  “I’ll bring the car around to the front.”

  Before I entered the bathroom, I watched Brian as he walked toward the door. His five foot, nine frame fit his sweatsuit nicely. The muscles in his arms…OMG. I loved this man.

  After washing my hands, I looked into the mirror and smiled. For the first time, I saw hope in my eyes. Brian gave me hope, and I believed that this would happen. I’m having a baby.

  Before I left the bathroom, I touched up my lips with a little more color. Colorful is how I felt and when I got outside, I wanted Brian to see the difference. He needed to see my optimism for our future. I couldn’t do this without him. He’d been my rock, my helpmate. His strength transferred to me and as long as he was my man, I knew I’d be good.

  As I pulled the ladies room door open and walked toward the front door, I heard a man scream, “You looking at dat nigga?” The angered scream came from outside.

  As I got closer to the front door, I looked outside of the huge rectangle window as did everyone else. As Brian leaned against the passenger car door waiting for me to come out, a young man confronted a woman, and in an instant, I made the assumption that was his girlfriend.

  Without giving her a chance to respond, the fury in his eyes must’ve traveled down his arm and into his hand because he cold cocked her in the face.

  After that, the world moved in slow motion.

  Brian leaped in an attempt to catch the woman but her legs withered and she dropped straight to the ground. Brian knelt to assist her, but, the man grabbed Brian by the back of his sweat jacket. “Get off her.”

  Brian broke loose from the man’s grip and landed an upper cut. His attacker stepped back and threw a jab,
that would’ve landed on Brian’s left cheek, but he blocked the blow.

  Dre ran past me toward the door. “Somebody call the police!”

  As if I became a statue, my legs wouldn’t allow me to move, but my eyes never left Brian.

  Before Dre crossed the threshold of the door, we heard a loud boom. Everyone in the restaurant scurried for cover.

  Before I could scream, “Briiiiannnn,” he hit the ground and I heard Marvin Gaye croon, Mercy, mercy me.

  Chapter 5

  It was a May day that rivaled the heat of August, and the main chapel of Divine Restoration Christian Ministries was standing room only. DRCM hadn’t seen a crowd like this since Deacon Moss had passed away a few years ago. We knew Brian’s funeral would be crowded, but this turnout spoke volumes about the man Brian was.

  Keyword: was.

  That thought made my mind drift back to his final moments.

  As Marvin Gaye continued to croon, I watched the man pull out a gun and then, I was almost sure that I saw the bullet as it careened toward Brian’s chest. Brian’s back hit the ground and that was when I was able to move my legs. I ran out the door, knelt down beside him on the sidewalk and cupped the back of his head in my hands.

  Brian made a futile effort to say my name.

  Although I heard the sirens blazing in the background, I still screamed. “Somebody get help!” I kissed him and kissed him, and I kissed him some more. My tears covered his face.

  I heard the screech of tires; the ambulance coming to a halt. I also felt Brian slipping away. His eyes opened for a final time, and we locked gazes. Then he seemed to fall asleep. The paramedics moved me out of the way, but my spirit knew Brian was gone. I let them do what they needed to do, but I rubbed the top of his head.

  As the paramedics moved Brian to the ambulance, Dre whispered to me. “I’m going with you to the hospital. Do you want to ride with me?”

  After shaking my head I was able to utter. “I’m riding with Brian.”

  “Then I’ll meet you there.” He responded.

  After what seemed like not quite an hour, a young African- American man, dressed in blood-stained scrubs came into the waiting room.

  Dre and I jumped to our feet.

  “Are you Mrs. Jackson?”

  Before I answered his question, I asked him a question. “Is my husband…?”

  “Mrs. Jackson, I’m so sorry. But, your husband didn’t make it out of surgery.”

  Brian was pronounced dead at the Washington Hospital Center on Monday, May 30, 2016, at 2:25 pm.

  If there was a line drawn in the sand of my life, I’d say that there was my life with Brian and now my life after Brian.

  The sound of the paper church fans waving back and forth brought my mind back into the sanctuary that only seated three hundred and fifty people. It was filled to capacity. The overflow room in the basement was opened to accommodate our guests. I’d never seen so many children at a funeral, and most of them were crying. I recognized most of Brian’s players. But they all seemed to become one wearing their green camouflaged t-shirts emblazoned with Brian’s handsome face with angel wings set on a background of blue sky and white clouds.

  I was holding up okay until at least twenty boys came up to the pulpit. The spokesman for the group was Trey Johnson. When he first started playing for Brian, he was a little terrorist to the other boys. Brian kept saying, ‘All he needs is some guidance.’ Brian stuck close to him as he aged and perfected his skills.

  After wiping the sweat from his forehead, Trey pulled a piece of paper from his pants pocket, but after glancing at it, he folded it up and placed it into his shirt pocket whispering to himself, but loud enough for us to hear. “I can do this from my heart.” Then his voice projected into the microphone. “Hello everyone. My name is Trey Johnson, and we are here to express how much Coach Brian meant to us. Personally, I could call him any time of the day for advice. I’m not only talking about football advice; I’m talking about life. My father wasn’t around as I grew up. But, Coach Brian was that father figure who spoke life into my dreams. I may not get the opportunity to play in the NFL but I am on a four-year academic scholarship, playing football and I’m a leader with the Student Government Association at South Carolina State University.”

  The church erupted in applause.

  Once the applause settled, he finished his tribute, looking directly at Brian’s casket he spoke through tears. “Coach B, the time, the guidance and the love won’t die with you. I’ll continue to give to my little brothas just like you gave to me.”

  Trey was exactly what Brian knew he could be; a model and mentor for the younger boys.

  Trey continued. “A few of the younger soldiers want to speak.”

  Brian’s football team was named the Northeast Soldiers. Trey began to lift a little boy up to the microphone, but a deacon brought a step stool up and sat it behind the podium.

  He blew into the microphone before starting to speak.

  “Hello, my name is Isaiah Glover, and I am one of Coach Brian’s soldiers.” That’s when his sobbing began. Trey and a few others consoled him. He continued. “Coach B was like a father to me. He made me laugh, and he helped me do better in school. I’ll miss you, Coach.” He turned and hugged Trey.

  Allowing my chin to rest on my chest, I closed my eyes after seeing one of the teenagers grip the hand of one of the younger boys.

  Brian's legacy would live on through these boys.

  As another young man moved to the microphone to speak about the virtues of my husband, I opened my eyes and stared at my belly. Brian’s legacy was speaking at the podium, but I carried his true legacy inside of me. I placed my hand on my belly and wondered: what about our baby? Could I do this on my own? I wasn’t sure because every child needed a father. A boy needed a man to emulate, and a girl needed a man to show her how to be treated. Would our baby grow up resenting being raised by me, a single mother?

  The mayor was the last person to give remarks. Mayor Bowser prided herself on knowing most of the grassroots community leaders.

  “I came today to pay my respects to one of the pillars of this community. But, the young men have said it all. There is no greater testament to the man Brian was, than the testimonies of our future leaders. I can’t attend everything in the city, but I had to be here today. Brian was someone who I could call to represent me. I’ll miss him.”

  As the mayor spoke, my feelings ranged from depression, anger and grief. During the days that had passed since his murder, those emotions kept me from focusing on the details of planning Brian’s funeral.

  But, I thank God for my girls, Tracy and Vanessa.

  Tracy, sitting on my right, wiped my tears. Vanessa, sitting on my left, encouraged me with gentle rubs on my back.

  Tracy was my oldest friend and Vanessa, my sorority sister, flew in from L.A. Without them, I wasn’t sure what would’ve happened to Brian. They’d gone with me to the funeral home and arranged everything there. Then, they’d picked Brian’s suit, the purple and white flowers adorning his casket and designed the layout for the colorful program. They stood by me, wiping away every one of my tears, knowing all of my feelings. Well, not every feeling — they didn’t know about the baby; if I was gonna tell anyone it would’ve been them. But, I had to get through this week before I could tell anyone.

  The one person missing was Brian’s mother. As the choir stood to sing Going Up Yonder, I thought back to the only thing I was able to accomplish last week which was visiting her at the assisted living residence. Since I’d lost my mom in my twenties, Mrs. Jackson, or ‘Ma’ as I affectionately called her, treated me like a daughter, never calling me her daughter-in- law. I felt that I needed to visit her face-to-face to tell her, although her memory had started deteriorating three years ago due to Alzheimer’s.

  The sunlight filtering through the window shade reflected on Ma’s cheek. The steady pace of her chest moving up and down told me that she was having a peaceful day. After I tripped over
the leg of the chair, her eyes shot open and they stayed open without blinking.

  Turning her head toward the sound, I walked closer to the bed. “Ma,

  how are you?”

  The compassion on her face told me that Brian had already been here to visit his Mom, telling her before I could.

  Reaching up for my hand, she whispered, “Lache…” A single tear escaped her eye.

  “I’m okay, Ma. How are you?” I sat there for a minute, processing what I’d say, stroking her hands. “Ma, Brian’s with God now.”

  Her lips turned upward, a slight smile. I stood and stroked her soft, white hair a glowing contrast to her cocoa complexion.

  I lulled her back to sleep with one of her favorite tunes, my rendition of I Won’t Complain.

  After I knew she was sleep, through a sea of tears, I continued to sing.

  “I ask a question, Lord, why so much pain?’

  Walking around her room ensuring that everything was in place, I continued to sing.

  “But He knows what’s best for me.”

  By the time I got to “So I’ll just say thank you, Lord, I won’t complain,” I was curled up rocking myself back and forth in the comfortable, plush chair that Brian had purchased and carried in here a few years ago.

  I composed myself and wiped cold water over my face. Tracy was waiting outside to take me home and I didn’t want her fussing over me.

  Leaving the room, I heard Keisha before I saw her. “Has anyone checked on my mama lately? Y’all just sitting around here doing nothing.”

  Keisha had a knack for telling everyone what they should do but couldn’t seem to find her path.

  “And look at you sitting over there looking like a broke down Beyonce. You ain’t come to work to be cute, did you?”

  “Keisha.” I called out in an attempt to stop her rant. These employees treated Mrs. Jackson like she was their mother. Keisha’s antics could cause that to change.

  “Oh, I should’ve known that you’d be here before me. Don’t you think my mother should’ve heard about her son from her real daughter?”

  Her venom spewed more than normal.