Page 31 of Lost In London

No one questioned me.

No one looked at me weird.

My thoughts were peaceful and my heart didn’t hurt.

There were times when I slept throughout both services without a disturbance. Someone, I knew who did it, would place a blanket over me and massage my scalp, comforting me into an even deeper slumber. Sometimes my nightmares kept me up for days and I couldn’t go to sleep. Didn’t matter that on the other side of my tufted barricade of a bed lay a man more capable to fight an army and had more weapons than a gun shop.

It never was completely enough to calm my nerves.

Hence my level of OCD to clean in the wee hours of the morning.

“Are you ready?” Running a manicured hand down the front of her coat, First Lady Aziza Cambridge led the way to the parking lot where her driver stood waiting with the door open.

Nowadays I wasn’t so loose lipped to call someone my friend. This past year alone taught me the true definition of the word and its meaning. However, I took great pride in my growing friendship with Aziza. She’s been more than a motherly figure to me but also that cloak of protection that soothed my mind when I slept in her husband’s pews instead of paying attention to his message.

“We’re going to the Red Rooster. Is that okay with you?” Aziza is what I liked to call a classic beauty. Not just because her peanut butter skin held a natural glimmer and her eyes were like a fresh pot of roasted coffee beans. Not just because she put my levels of fashion to sleep effortlessly.

I had such respect and a high level of admiration for the First Lady because she embodied her femininity with class, sexiness, and edge. Anyone that has been to Bishop’s church knows that he isn’t your traditional preacher. First of all, the man uncaringly totes a pistol and so do his ushers. At first, I thought it was because people may have sticky fingers when it comes to the offering basket. I quickly learned that it has everything to do with the man that he used to be.

“Yes, that’s fine.” Watching her send a text to her husband, letting him know that she was turning her phone on DND and she’d be back in five hours, I couldn’t help but smile. It’s been the same repeated cycle since she and I started going to brunch after the last morning service every Sunday.

Placing her phone in her purse, she turned in her seat and gave me her attention. For the next five hours, her attention would be mine. Trust me, I didn’t take a second of those minutes for granted. I exerted all my energy to get refilled by her in that short allotted time.

“Tell me what’s new in your world?”

“My parents are coming into town,” I blurted out looking down at the cross tattoo on my left wrist. Rubbed circles around it as my heart started to beat faster. “I know it’s harsh for me to say but I really don’t want to see them.” Taking a second to collect myself, I looked up and sighed in relief when I didn’t see judgment in her eyes.

Nodding in understanding, she looked ahead out the window before turning back to me. “I can understand that but don’t you think it’s time for you to have a conversation with your parents, so they know why you’re angry with them and they don’t assume it’s misplaced?”

Knowing my parents, they probably thought my anger was already misplaced. Thought that I was having one of my typical dramatic moments. My anger came from me praying for God to heal my heart and no healing took place. I’m tired, so damn tired of walking around hurting. For the last year, I’ve become a bag lady, carrying all my bags of past traumas and pain.

It’s exhausting.

It’s aged me.

When does it end?

So I prayed and asked God to heal my heart. All of a sudden, I’m dealing with things I thought I forgot or don’t remember ever happening. Having to truly forgive people I thought I forgave long ago when it was really me just saying it and burying it away.

“Yes, that’s the mature thing for me to do but I don’t want to. I’m angry with a lot of people right now. Angry with my parents, angry with my brother, angry with God, and so on. The list never ends.” I tossed my hands up shaking my head.

Reaching for her purse as the car came to a slow stop in front of the restaurant, she asked me a question that hurt my soul. “When was the first time you felt unsafe?”

I sat in my seat staring into nothingness as my mind did what it does best – transport me back in time and make me relieve some of the most painful moments of my life. This was another thing I was tired of – my memories hurting. Tired of remembering the pain rather than the good times.

Did I have a bad childhood? No. My parents loved us unconditionally and did the best that they could. It just royally sucked that the ignorance they had, the gaps of unsureness and learning they had as parents.

We had to suffer.

I had to suffer.

“London.”

Blinking out of the memory fog, I looked to my left to see Aziza and her driver standing with my door open waiting. “Sorry.” Grabbing my purse and putting on my shades, I stepped out into the humid afternoon heat and followed behind her into the restaurant.

Being a familiar face to the establishment, she spoke to the hostess asking for her favorite booth in the rear patio area. Our waitress was already bringing out glasses of water and baskets of bread by the time we were seated. We knew their menu from front to back and quickly ordered our food. Once we were left alone, I felt Aziza’s eyes patiently boring my way waiting for me to answer. One thing she had was patience.

A lot of it.

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