That love thing, p.1
That Love Thing, page 1
THAT LOVE THING
BAILEY WEST
That Love Thing
© 2023, Bailey West
Self-published
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, stored in a database and / or published in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Scriptures marked KJV are taken from the KING JAMES VERSION (KJV): KING JAMES VERSION, public domain.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Bailey West
LET’S KEEP IN TOUCH
For the Black Indie Community
PROLOGUE
“No! Mommy, no! Please! Don’t let her take me, Mommy! Mommy, I don’t want to go!” The little girl's pained screams echoed as the social worker grabbed her, taking her away from the apartment she shared with her mother.
“Mommy! I won’t be bad anymore! I’m sorry! Mommy!”
The young girl went on screaming and pleading. People in the area watched as the police assisted the social worker and the girl into a car.
“Mommy!”
Standing with her arms crossed, the mother released billows of smoke from her cigarette. She remained indifferent to the little girl's cries, her face expressionless and still void of compassion or empathy. She almost appeared to be relieved.
Once the child was securely in the social worker's backseat they’d pulled away from the building, the child’s screams became quiet sobs.
The child’s social worker weaved through traffic on the way to her next destination. She’d taken this trip with her passenger more than once. The origin was always the same, but the final destination differed each time. On multiple occasions, she’d witnessed the child’s love for her mother and her mother’s indifference toward the child.
Peeking in the backseat through the rearview mirror, she saw her little passenger holding her raggedy brown teddy bear while looking out the window. The little girl’s red eyes, runny nose, and tear-stained face reminded her of the devastating experience.
It broke the social worker’s heart that she had to remove the little girl from her mother’s house again. The mother couldn’t keep it together. Every time it appeared the mother was clean, sober, and ready to be a mother, the social worker, following her supervisor's instructions, would pull the little girl from a semi-stable environment and place her back with her mother. This time, a neighbor called after seeing the child digging in the trashcan, looking for food.
It was important for the social worker not to get her feelings involved with her caseload. However, this little girl being transported to her third foster home had found a soft spot in her heart.
Thinking of her own fertility issues, replaying the doctor’s announcement that she’d never conceive a child, she wondered how a mother with such a beautiful child could not love her enough to clean herself up for the sake of her child. It honestly infuriated her.
The mother’s flippant attitude when her daughter was removed was sickening. The conditions the child lived in were deplorable. Dirty clothes were littered throughout the small apartment. Old food was left out, contributing to the massive roach infestation. The little girl wore old dirty clothes that were possibly the clothes the social worker had dropped her off in a few months before.
“Would you like to stop at McDonald’s before I drop you off?” The social worker asked.
“Yes.” The little girl’s voice was barely above a whisper.
She ordered a Happy Meal for the little girl, hoping the warm meal would bring a smile to her beautiful face. It didn’t. She silently cried while eating her food.
“Things will get better,” the social worker assured her.
The little girl nodded and dried her tears. The social worker continued to hope this time would be different for the little girl. Maybe this time, she’d be stable with a family that cared for her, giving her mother time to, once and for all, clean up her act.
The social worker pulled into the driveway of a large brick colonial home. A man and woman were standing in the doorway.
After taking a deep breath, the social worker opened her door and then the car's back door. The way the little girl recoiled when she reached for her showed her fear of leaving the vehicle.
The social worker bent down to speak to the little girl.
“I know this is scary, but you’ll be okay. I’ve checked these people out; they will take good care of you. I will be back in a couple of days to check on you. I promise you’ll be okay. Do you believe me?”
The little girl slowly nodded her head. The social worker reached for the little girl’s hand, hoping she would offer it willingly. She did. She held her hand as she walked up the steps onto the porch to the awaiting couple.
“This is Edith and Albert. You will live with them for now.”
The little girl looked up at the case worker with a silent last plea. The social worker’s heart shattered into a million pieces.
“I’m sorry. This is home for now.”
An excerpt from Stolen Chocolate Box
By Bella Roe
ONE
GIABELLA JOY MONROE
"You are the only person I have, and I can't get you on the phone. What am I supposed to do?"
"You have Melissa. Melissa is paid to be there to help you."
"Melissa ain't family! I'm talking about my kids! I should be able to talk to you when I feel like I need to talk to you. I don't know if my breathing is worsening, and these doctors are saying everything is fine. I know it's not fine…"
I muted my phone, took a deep breath, and rolled my eyes. My mother was on one of her mental health rants. I could tell she hadn't taken her medicine, or her dosage needed to be adjusted.
After unmuting, I said, "The last time you were at the doctor, he said your lungs sounded fine."
"I don't care what he said! I know my body. I know when I'm not feeling like they're working right."
"Have you been smoking?"
“What the…What do…”
Her stuttering was a clear sign she was formulating a lie.
"What does smoking have to do with it but also no."
"Have you been taking your medicine?"
"Why, every time I call you concerned about not spending enough time with my daughter, you automatically talk about some medicine? Medicine don't cure everything! I'm not the smartest person, but I know what I feel right now is real."
"Mom, can you take a breath and think about the question I just asked? If you're having these feelings of panic and taking your medicine, the doctor needs to know the medicine isn’t working. I'm not dismissing how you feel."
"Yes, you are! You do that all the time."
"Do I?"
"Well, maybe you don't. The medicine makes me feel weird."
Scrolling through the Uber Eats app, I hoped the conversation would wrap up soon. I was starving.
"And then when I told the doctor the medicine made me feel funny, he ignored me and gave me more."
"He didn't ignore you. He listened, took notes, and adjusted your dosage."
"Well, it felt like he wasn't listening."
"Okay, Mom. I have to go. I have a dinner date."
"A date? With Jimmy?"
"Jimmy and I aren't together anymore. I tell you that every time you mention him.”
"Oh, that's right. You don't think you could've made it work with Jimmy?"
"I will talk to you later. Have a good evening," I responded, ignoring her question.
"Okay. Enjoy your date."
"I will."
I disconnected the call, rested my head on the back of the couch, and massaged my temples. Conversations with my mother always drained me.
“How is Shirley doing?” Neve asked.
“She's the same. It feels like the conversations are getting harder to get through.”
“She’s your mother, and you only get one,” Neve said.
“She was a terrible mother, and you, of all people, know it. Addiction aside, she still probably would’ve been crumby.”
“Don’t talk about your mother like that. You know I never allowed that.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“How is the new book coming along?” Neve asked.
“I’m about thirty-five thousand words in. My goal is between seventy-five and eighty thousand, so I have a lot more words to add.”
“Are you using the new editor for this book?”
“Yes, I hope she’s good. Her sample was good, but I’ve had people call themselves editors who have done me in. I’m giving myself a little extra time on the back end just in case it doesn’t go well with her. I miss you so much!”
“I know you do, but you’re doing so well. I’m always here if you need to talk.”
I extended my hand, desperate to feel her presence, but she remained achingly beyond my grasp like a cherished memory slipping through my fingers.
I slowly opened my eyes, emerging from m
Neve Monroe, my case worker with child protective services, became my legal guardian when I turned eleven. Because of my mother's issues with drugs and alcohol, I experienced the ups and downs of living in and out of foster homes. Neve was the mother I never had, but she never allowed me to talk badly about or disrespect Shirley, my biological mother. When Shirley was sober, Neve would take me to see her. Neve never left me alone with Shirley, but I spent time with her. At the height of Shirley’s addiction, my younger sister Ebonique was born. Ebonique was with Shirley more than I was, but Nique, just like me, was in and out of foster homes.
I did not hold my mother responsible for her addiction. I was cognizant of the circumstances that could make a young mother homeless and addicted. She stayed on drugs my entire childhood. When I turned twenty-one, she overdosed. No one knows how long she was down before someone found her. The paramedics were able to stabilize her and get her to the hospital. Shirley was lucky to survive the ordeal with minor brain damage and limited mobility. After that, she went into a long-term drug rehabilitation facility and finally got better.
Neve was diagnosed with a rare disease four years ago. She promised me she would fight it to the end. Although the disease was relentless, Neve fought until the very end. Losing her devastated my world. She was my biggest supporter and cheerleader. She rescued me from an unstable life and gave me stability and love.
I buried her and my relationship with my ex-Jimmy at the same time. To say that was a hard time in my life would be the understatement of the century.
Jimmy Abbott and I were together for three years. I met him while vacationing in Aruba. He was handsome, charming, and attentive. We were together all the time and enjoyed each other’s company. I’d met his family, and he’d met Neve, my mother, and my sister. After years of dating bums, I’d fallen in love with my forever guy. Jimmy checked every box on my husband wish list. Jimmy had a distinguished career as a high school administrator. He had multiple income streams, from real estate investments to his car wash and laundromat. He didn’t mind me being a self-published romance author and chasing my dreams.
Jimmy grandly proposed to me while we were back in Aruba on vacation. There was a whole set-up with roses and candles. A man playing the violin serenaded us while Jimmy got down on one knee and proposed. His friends, who had become my friends, cheered while Jimmy placed the large diamond on my finger.
Neve was diagnosed shortly after we set the date for the wedding. I didn’t want to have the wedding while she was sick, so I tried to push it back until we were more familiar with her condition.
Jimmy and I argued for hours about changing the date. He didn’t understand why I needed to change the date when, in his words, Neve wasn’t even my real mother. I lost it after that. I didn’t understand how he didn’t understand how much she meant to me. After discovering that Neve’s disease was terminal, I knew I had to move back in with her to provide care. That caused another argument. Jimmy didn’t understand why I needed to be in the house with Neve. He said the nurses could handle her care.
I was given an ultimatum to either move back in with Neve and end our engagement or plan the wedding and get married. That ultimatum seemed unreasonable, but it only took me a second to decide. I called off the engagement and moved back in with Neve. She meant too much to me to let anyone else handle her care.
I loved Jimmy. His self-centered attitude and flippant actions were too much for me to handle. Three months after moving back in, Neve passed away. When I stood over the grave to throw a rose in for my Neve. I also threw one in for my relationship with Jimmy and his fake-ass friends. None of them stayed around after we broke up.
“I got an email today about the Indie Love event. You’re invited,” Kalisha, my assistant, said. “Let me pull it up.”
Neve had been my pseudo-manager, staying on top of all the correspondence and deadlines for my self-publishing business. When Neve got sick, I hired Kalisha, who had been a God send. She took care of everything related to my business. She kept my calendar, handled my correspondence, and traveled with me.
“Here’s the letter, Kalisha said and handed me her laptop.
Dear Bella Roe,
I hope this letter finds you well and in high spirits! I am writing to invite you to Indie Love-Sable Falls, which is going to be an epic celebration of literature and creativity.
We have been huge fans of your work for a long time and would be absolutely thrilled if you could join us.
Your books have touched the lives of so many, and we would be grateful to have you as part of Indie Love.
Indie Love promises to be a fun and engaging affair with enthusiastic readers and other brilliant authors.
Please let us know if you can attend, and we will make all the necessary arrangements to ensure that your experience is pleasant and seamless.
Thank you for considering our invitation, and we hope to hear from you soon!
Warm regards,
Indie Love
“Oh, this is exciting! I’ve wanted to do this event for a while, but every year I have another obligation or some reason I couldn’t attend.”
“I don’t have anything on your calendar, so you can do it if you want to. The tour starts right after Indie Love,” Kalisha said.
“Yes, I am looking forward to the tour.”
One of my dreams was to have my books on the big screen and in a live theater. I wrote the stage play for Stolen Chocolate Box; my novel based on my childhood. I had no idea what the process was to get it on the stage, so I received many no’s before I finally heard a yes.
When I saw the play for the first time in full production, I sat in the audience and cried the entire play. At the end of that performance, the cast invited me onstage to say something. I don’t remember what I said, but I said it while I fought back tears. It was amazing to see all of my hard work pay off.
After the play, the cast and I anxiously waited for the reviews from the critics. They only had great things to say. We knew we had a hit on our hands.
“Do you want to do Indie Love?” Kalisha asked.
“I do. I think it will be fun.”
“I’ll type out a quick response and send it,” Kalisha said.
Indie Love,
Thank you for the invitation. It would be my honor to participate in the Indie Love event. Please let me know the next steps.
v/r
Bella
“Okay, that’s sent. Now let’s look at this schedule for the play. They want you to speak in some cities, and in others, they want you to sign books afterward,” Kalisha said.
“That sounds like fun and a lot of work.”
“The producers will handle ordering the books and having them there. All you have to do is show up ready to sign.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“I’ve scheduled some calls with the stylist to make sure you look good in every city, and I’ll have a makeup artist. Do you want me to have a stylist for Indie Love, too?”
“No, I think I can pull something together for Indie Love.”
“Alright, I ordered you a salmon salad. Go ahead and eat that because you have a video chat in two hours, and we don’t want you in there hangry. I’ll get the media room set up.”
“Thanks, Kalisha.”
“No problem.”
“Let’s talk about why you’ve chosen the indie publishing route instead of signing a traditional deal,” Rosanne asked.
“The short answer is, I like what I do and how I do it. I don’t want to give someone oversight of my work. I’m not good with deadlines and waiting for things to happen. I want to control all of that. So, I self-publish. Not saying that’s how traditional publishing works for everyone, but I’m giving you my reasons why I don’t.”
I was doing a virtual interview about my latest book, Affinity Love. Rosanne was a popular book blogger who had contacted me about interviewing me on my release day.
