Steady Hands

Steady Hands

Samantha Lee

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2018 Samantha Lee

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to Arnold Kas, a good friend who I couldn’t have written this book without. Thank you for your help. It is also dedicated to the AMBW community. Thank you to those who answered my many ridiculous questions.

Acknowledgment:

Someone asked me why did I write this book? The only answer I had was this is the book of my heart. I love all races, and it warms my heart to see so many blended families in 2018. However, I know that it isn’t easy blending two cultures. There’s a lot of adversity and inherent challenges that are introduced into an interracial relationship. This book is about realizing those challenges, making mistakes, and coming out stronger. I couldn’t have done this without the AMBW/BWAM community. Thank you for your candid discussions with me about your experiences, fears, and challenges. We have a long way to go before the two races understand each other, release some of the negative stigmas on both sides, and see each other for who we are, human beings, existing together in this vast world, but I am confident we will get there.

We are all sharing the same air. We are all walking on the same planet. Just like the air we breathe, love does not discriminate. Who you fall in love with should not be restricted to one race or another. Be proud of who you are and share your values, experiences, and beliefs with others. Let us expand our worlds and push past the barriers that have long held us back. Open your mind to new things and people. Seek truths for yourselves. Don’t agree with everything you see or hear on television. A culture can’t be defined by a small sample that makes headlines or myths that hold little value in the grand scheme of things.

The hopeless romantic in me wishes you all a timeless love. Weather the storms, fight for the love you deserve and hold on for a great ride.

With Love and Thank You for showing/sharing your strength with me.

-Samantha Lee

Prologue

I hadn’t always been successful. I hadn’t always known I would eat every day, or even wake up. There was a time in my life that I was lost beyond my control and stumbling through life in a dreamlike state. Sure, like everyone else, growing up I wanted to live the American dream, have money, and be somebody, but I didn’t think that option was open to me. Growing up in urban, not suburban, America didn’t give me much hope. I didn't have hope because I lived in a hopeless situation. It was also hard to have hope when some of my schoolmates were killed in one drive-by shooting or another.

Now, at thirty-five, if I told my colleagues about my past, no one would ever believe me. They wouldn’t believe that I lived a life of fear throughout much of my adolescent years. But I did. Because my parents thought, alcohol and drugs should take center stage over raising me. Their habit wasn’t noticeable at first. It took a while for people to realize that something was wrong within the Spears’ household. There was a time when we appeared happy, but a rotting cancer was growing on the inside, killing what was left of the love we once shared as a family.

My parents were able to pose as functioning adults for years before the drugs completely took over, and they couldn’t function anymore. But I’m getting ahead of myself. If I am going to tell you my story, I have to start from the beginning.

***

My parents Donnel and Annette Spears were married in their hometown, Detroit Michigan and moved to Chicago Illinois, the next day. They didn’t have money or jobs. They didn’t even have job prospects. It was a dumb move, but I suppose being young and in love made everything, even stupid decisions seem like good ideas. I remember the fake wood table in the living room that wobbled when you sat something on it; precariously held a picture of my parents that was taken on the day they arrived in Chicago. My mother was beautiful. Her long straight black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that stopped at the middle of her back. She wore a one-piece cream jumper with a wide belt, which highlighted her hourglass figure. Her caramel skin looked flawless back then.

I wanted to look just like my mom when I grew up. I said that every time I looked at the picture, but I wasn’t blessed with her good looks. I didn’t hold that against her; not when there was so much she would do to me that deserved my resentment.

I digress, where was I? Oh, I was talking about the picture where my dad stood proudly next to my mom. He had a huge blown out afro, and a toothpick hung from his mouth. His arm was wrapped possessively around my mom, rightfully so; he leveled up when he married her.

Behind the two happy newlyweds was a red Chevy Monte Carlo. My mother told me, that car was his pride and joy. It ended up being their home for a while too. When my parents arrived in Chicago, they couldn’t catch a break, so they couch hopped with friends or slept in the car for a few months. Then my dad found a job at the local lock factory. He wasn’t qualified for the job. Even still, he somehow managed to get the job. Donnel Spears was a charmer. He knew how to talk to people. He could talk you into believing anything, most days he talked me into believing he would come home at night.

In a time where racial equality was still something being discovered, he was welcomed into many White family’s homes, because he wasn’t considered ‘One of them.’ Funny, how powerful a person’s perception could be. People’s perception of my father was that he was a church-going go-getter, who only wanted to provide for his family and be the best man he could be to his loving wife and growing daughter. In the end, they realized they never really knew him at all.

But that’s putting the cart before the horse. After a few months of working, my parents settled down in Washington-Heights. My mom took a job at the local daycare. They were doing okay. Then my mother found out she was pregnant. I don’t know if my birth heralded their demise or if they were already on the collision course to addiction before that.

My mom loved children, and she loved her job. Although, I’m not sure if she wanted children, or maybe she just didn’t want me. I never received the same care and affection she showed the kids at her job. Sometimes, I would look through the baby books at a picture of myself as a baby. I was fat and always smiling. That too would change.

The years went by; I can’t remember much of those first four or five years. But I do have a few good memories; one that I can’t seem to forget was when my dad brought a cake to my grade school on my birthday. I was in preschool at the time. He charmed the principal and teachers. They oohed and ahhed over him. Lizzy, you have such a good father, or your dad really loves you. You are one lucky little girl.

I guess it was true at that moment, but why didn’t they notice the holes in my shoes or the out of season clothes I wore? Or maybe how thin I was. Dad and I went home together hand in hand with leftover cake that day. Usually, I would take the bus, and my dad would pick me up at the bus stop. Often, I would get off the bus, and we would walk home. Dad would talk fast about many different things, and then go into the house and sleep. I watched a lot of television. Highway to Heaven and Perry Mason reruns were our favorite shows. I say our shows because, on the good days, he would watch them with me.

To his credit, Dad only forgot to pick me up a few times back then. The first time my parents forgot about me, my mom picked me up at school crying and apologizing. She pulled me into a tight hug and patted my body down as if she was looking me over for injuries. She kept saying how sorry she was and telling the Principal how terrible she felt. I think it had to be embarrassment more than guilt. If she could feel guilt, maybe she would have cooked for me more than once every few weeks. Instead, my dinner was whatever the kids had for lunch at her job. I don’t know if she stole those lunches she gave to me, but it didn’t matter, because they likely kept me alive.

When she forgot to bring home food, there was always a can of Vienna sausages. I remember cutting my fingers trying to open the lid many times. Dinner was up to my mother because Dad left for work hours earlier. Besides not cooking me dinner and throwing a bagged lunch on the table, she didn’t talk to me much. She drank from bottles she kept in a brown paper bags and slept. I watched more television.

At night, I watched the Cosby Show and Family Matters, but I hated both shows because those Black families appeared so damn happy. In the Cosby’s one parent was a doctor and the other a lawyer, their kids were fed, clothed, lived in a good neighborhood and received unconditional love from their family. It was disgusting. I was a Simpson person. I could get behind those antics. By this time, I was fluid in poor and stupid irresponsible parents, similar to the cartooned television show. But I never quite forgot about the Cosby’s, secretly, I wanted to be Rudy. We were around the same age. She was a little older. I thought she had a great life. I didn’t know much about life or money, but I knew if doctors made money; I wanted to be a doctor, make money, live in a good neighborhood, and be happy like them. I wanted to be happy like the Huxtable’s so bad that on the bad nights when I was hungry, and my mom was asleep on the stained floral couch; I would fantasize that Clair Huxtable, a beautiful, strong, smart, loving woman was my mom. She would feed me and hold me.

***

The seasons changed, and so did I. Soon, clothing became a real issue. The issue was I didn’t have any, now, things were getting worse within our small family. The cancer of addiction was spreading. My parents kept forgetting about things like winter clothes, school supplies, and most importantly feeding me. By now, I was a self-sufficient child. I knew how to cook a handful of things, I learned through trial and error. The error meaning burns, cuts, or eating burnt food, but without food, I couldn’t eat. Thankfully, the school fed me breakfast and lunch, so I went every day. I was probably the only student who hated the weekend because I didn’t know if I would eat.

Going to School was my escape, but I knew after the first big storm of my sixth-grade year, that I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t have the clothes to be outside. I tried. But I would get halfway to my bus stop and have to turn around because I couldn’t feel my toes. The holes in my shoes didn’t protect my feet. My body shook, and my teeth chattered from the cold and fast falling snow. I didn’t have a coat, boots, gloves, or a snowsuit. So, I stopped going to school at eleven years old. I decided to wait out the weather and return in the spring.

A few days passed uneventfully, and I heard a knock at the door, it woke me, but I didn’t move, because I was behind the couch. I had to follow my couch rules-once behind the couch; you do not move or say anything for any reason. This time it wasn’t hard. I hadn’t eaten because I wasn’t going to school. My body felt weak and to pass the time until my next meal and avoid the pains of hunger, I slept.

Is anyone here? My name is Victoria White. I am with Child Protective Services. I am looking for the parents of Elizabeth Spears.

In my dazed and starving state, I dozed in and out, but I heard her. I am going to leave my card here. I’m sliding it under the door. Someone should call me as soon as possible. I remembered my last thought before oblivion took me under was, how? The phone had been broken for weeks.

After Ms. White, my parents came home. They dropped off a pizza and asked how I was doing then left again promising to come back in a little while. I waited five days, and the pizza had run out in three days. I was hungry again and couldn’t take it anymore. I convinced myself it was a good idea to go to the corner store and ask for food. I armed myself with a lid from an old can. It was jagged, and the edges were rusty. I thought if lids could cut my hands up so bad, surely this would be a good weapon against an attacker.

I was scared. I wasn’t very tall for my age. I was very skinny; my clothes hung loosely off my body. My pants stopped above my ankles, and my shirtsleeves stopped far above my wrist. It was still cold outside, but the corner store was closer than my bus stop. I could make it, even without a jacket and wearing my Dad’s shoes with no socks. I opened the door. A cold wind ran through my body. I wouldn’t let that stop me. I stepped onto the porch and looked down the street at all the sidewalks that weren’t shoveled, I began to doubt if I could make it, but I was going to try anyway.

I made it to the corner store, Betsy’s Place, and pushed the door open with fingers I couldn’t feel and a body that shook like a leaf in a windstorm. I stepped inside and stood off to the side. I wiped my face with my wet shirt. I had fallen a few times in the snow on the way to the store. Tears fell from my eyes from the pressure of the cold wind. I looked around the small shop. The aisles were filled with cakes, chips, cookies and candy bars. There were cold drinks in the refrigerated section along the back wall. Big fishbowls full of colorful penny candies were lined in rows on the counter where the shop owner was working with someone. I needed to talk to her, so I waited for her to finish. I also waited because I didn’t want anyone in the store to hear what I had to say. Even now, cold and hungry, I still had some pride.

The shop owner turned toward me. She had bright brown eyes and dark skin with a few wrinkles that lined her forehead, and streaks of gray in her hair. Hi, honey. How can I help you?

I looked around the small store. It was empty. Hello, can I please borrow some food?

What happened next saved my life. I will forever be grateful to this woman who had to have been sent by God as an angel, just for me, just like on the television show, Heaven’s Highway. She was my Michael that day.

She moved her large body quickly and came around from behind the counter and rubbed my freezing arms. Honey, you don’t have any food?

I shook my head.

Where are your parents?

I didn’t answer. I knew not to answer that one, so I simply repeated my well thought out question. Can you please borrow me some food? I am very hungry.

I never looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t know what she saw in me that made her move into action.

Come here baby girl; I will get you some food. When was the last time you ate?

I remembered thinking, innocent enough question, and maybe it might speed up the food delivery. A few days ago.

She flipped the sign that hung on the door from open to close and turned the lock on the door; that worried me.

Never mind, I will just leave now.

She shook her head. I only closed the store, so I can take you in the back and give you some real food. I brought fried chicken, okra, rice, and mac and cheese for my lunch. Something told me to bring a big lunch. It must have been the Holy Spirit. She grabbed my hand. Her hand was warm. It was almost as if her warmth ran through my body. Her warmth touched all the places that needed light and beat back the cold darkness within me. But that warmth didn’t reach the pain in my chest that started during the walk here. But I should have been grateful that I wasn’t cold anymore.

We walked into her office. She sat me at the chair behind her simple black desk. She opened a small fridge and pulled out plastic containers filled with food.

My name is Ms. Jenkins what’s yours?

Elizabeth, but my friends call me Lizzy.

Okay little Lizzy, let me go warm this food up. I will be right back.

I wanted to protest, but that was more food than I’d seen at one time in years, so I went with it. After a little while, as promised, she gave me a soda and a plate piled high with food. While I ate, she sat in a corner and prayed. It was a bit annoying. She could have gone back to her store. I was fine eating alone. I preferred it.

I heard a pounding on her store door and jumped, and dropped my fork in the mac and cheese. I looked toward Ms. Jenkins, she smiled. Keep eating honey. Let me check to see who that is.

I heard deep male voices. The walls muffled the words. I shrank into my seat. Most men