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A Heart Surrendered

By Joy K. Massenburge

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Chapter One
Sharonda pulled the lapels of her pink blazer together with trembling hands. Despite several attempts, the third button never slipped into the hole. Even if it had, she wouldn’t be able to lift her arms. The tightness pinched across her ample bosom.
“I hate Sundays,” she said through gritted teeth.
A door slammed from the hallway. Her mother’s shouts from her parents’ bedroom stopped. Dad had taken a verbal beating. He may be esteemed as the great Pastor Broddrick Peterson at the church, but in this house, until he was elevated to Bishop, First Lady Marianne would find something to nag about.
Sharonda sucked in her breath and tried again to fasten the resilient button. She exhaled in defeat. The jacket remained open and expose the matching camisole beneath.
Rather than rehang the two suits she’d tried on, Sharonda scooped them from her closet floor and stashed the garments in the back corner. After service, she’d fill a thrift store bag with everything too snug. That meant half of her wardrobe.
She eyed the hat box stored high on the shelf. Another something pink. Paste a label across her chest and she’d pass for a human billboard for Pepto Bismol. “Not today.” She grabbed her Sunday curriculum satchel and purse from the hook instead. Crossing her bedroom to the bureau, she placed her hand on her Bible and traced the lettering. Mother won’t approve.
Get the hat.
If Sharonda showed up at the car without her hat, Marianne Peterson would subject her to a tongue-lashing far worse than Dad had received earlier. Sharonda placed the Good Book in the crook of her arm and walked back to the closet. Dread weighed so heavy, her shoulders slouched with each step. Although a small thing, she would yield to reclaim a semblance of peace—something this family no longer shared.
Stretched, she nudged the corner of the hat box with her finger- nail, but only managed to scoot it further back. Again, she stretched. A pain ripped through her abdomen. Sharonda clenched her jaw against the scream straining to erupt. After the cramp subsided, she leaped. Her nail nipped the bottom and knocked the cardboard prison down from its lofty perch.
The box smacked her in the face. The wide-brimmed, sequined head-dress, and the newspaper stuffing dumped at her feet along with the Bible. Swallowing hard, she pressed a hand to her left cheek and clutched her stomach with the other. Please, not now. She ticked the weeks off on her fingers. Only three had passed. No time to check if her cycle had hit or change clothes. Sharonda turned at the movement coming from the opposite side of the room.
Her twenty-five-year-old sister, Janice, flopped onto her back and yawned from her bed. No telling what time she’d slipped into the house after a night of partying. She shook her head. Why did she still share a room with her sister? Approaching thirty, Sharonda should have her own place.
“Bag Lady, why scurry around so? Mom’s loud bellyaching got you doubting yourself this morning? Don’t worry, one look at you in that get-up and the saints will know you’re a good pastor’s daughter,” Janice said.
Sharonda pulled at the hem of her jacket. “Shut up and get your lazy behind out of bed. Time you attend service for a change.”
Propped on one arm, Janice frowned. “Nope. My make-believe days are over. You ought to join me and stay home. It’s liberating.”
“If emancipation is your goal, why are you still living here?” Sharonda snagged the scrunched newspapers, re-stuffed the hat’s collapsed dome, and then crammed it back inside the box.
“It won’t be much longer, then I’m out of here. What’s your excuse?”
Sharonda crossed her arms. “It’s best I live here.” She looked toward the prescription bottles on her dresser. “Mother worries about me. I can’t add to the stress in her life.”
“Worries about you? Or what she’ll have to do if you’re not here to answer her every whim.” Janice snorted. “Lost. I can see it now. Once you marry she’ll have you and your husband moved up in here.” She ran a hand over the pink wallpaper. “If you ask nicely, maybe Mom will let you redecorate.”
Everything matched—twin sleigh beds, comforters, lamps. Even the black ballerina wall décor to accent Janice’s dance recital pictures. Had mother ever stopped to consider what someone else wanted? The room would be yellow, bathed in the warm beauty of sunflowers if she had. An accent to the honor cords on display in Sharonda’s graduation shadow box.
“Dad is a candidate for the Suffragan Bishop vacancy. His chance can be ruined because of you and that selfish brother of ours.” Along with the hat, Sharonda retrieved her Bible and walked toward her side of the room.
“That’s stupid. Travis is a grown man. And I’m a grown woman. If the organization holds Daddy responsible for that, they don’t deserve his servitude.”
Balancing the large box, Sharonda dropped the container on top of her eyelet comforter along with the purse and satchel. She’d have to reorganize if she was going to get her stuff to the car in one trip.
Janice kicked her long legs free of the encumbering sheets as she sat up, stretching tall and lazy. Give her a scratching post for her unsheathed claws and she’d have the makings of a Persian feline.
The muscles in Sharonda’s shoulders bunched into a knot: dull pains radiated up her neck. “It’s our convention. At least come to the second service.”
“No.” Janice yawned.
“If not for our parents, then the family. Mother's showing signs of another mental break. Like it or not, she is the glue. Think about somebody besides yourself.”
“God’s in control. Ain’t that what you church people say?” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and wiggled her toes into cashmere slip- pers. “I’m finding my own way. Jesus already gave his life, so the church doesn’t need mine.” She shook her long wavy curls. “The Holy Roller lifestyle ain’t worth the sacrifices. And I’m not talking about those black sponge rollers you torture your scalp with.” Janice laced her fingers and stretched her arms overhead before relaxing them at her side. “Seems to me you’ve allowed that legalistic church to convict you to give up Mr. Wonderful. And don’t pretend he doesn’t exist.”
Warmth rushed through Sharonda’s core at the mention of Carl Ray.
“You gave up that fine man for what? This?” Janice fanned her hands toward Sharonda, from head to toe. She scoffed then hugged her pillow to her chest.
The grandfather clock in the living room chimed.
“I’ve got to go.” Sharonda strapped her Sunday school bag across one shoulder and the matching pink purse over the other. She gripped the hat box’s corded handle, tucked her bible under her arm, dropped her chin, and headed for the door.
“What you running from? Don’t give me a hard time about church attendance until you can look at me—without a sign of that old guilt— when I make mention of Carl.”
Sharonda halted as she gripped the brass handle. The coolness extinguished the fiery retort at the tip of her tongue. She turned to face her sister. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered, lifting her head.
Janice flung her pillow aside and approached.
Bed head shouldn’t look as good as it did on her beautiful little sister. Her silk chocolate nightie settled mid-thigh and accentuated lean curves and shapely legs.
“Stop it.” Janice put her hands on her hips.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You were sizing me up. Comparing. Tell me it ain’t so.” Janice hiked
her brow.
Sharonda blinked. Renewed images of her sister’s perfect body silenced any rebuttal.
“Stop being Mom, comparing everything and everybody. How you let that woman convince you Carl Ray’s fame changed how he felt about you is beyond me. He always wanted you for you.” Janice tapped Sharon- da beneath her chin. “Tell the truth. You love him. Why this sham of a marriage to Pastor Brice? You’re going to ruin your life to please Mom?”
“What Carl Ray and I shared ... It’s been over.” Sharonda looked down. “Juvenile affection at the most.”
“Liar.”
“Brice agrees to start a family right away.” Sharonda pulled her purse strap higher on her shoulder.
“He’s too old for you.”
“Seventeen years on a fit man is not that big of a deal. Not to me anyway.” Her stomach, riddled with fibroid tumors and endometriosis, constricted. Sharonda pushed a fist into her side.
“I’ve got to go. Can’t make Dad late.”
Janice thumped the box. “Your big hats, doctorate in theology, and frumpy clothes don’t fool me. The outer appearance may look like the missionaries on the front row, but my big sister is somewhere under those layers you’re packing on. When you come to terms with the Sharonda that’s human, you’ll be able to look me in the eye and tell the truth.”
“You’re so ... full of yourself.” Sharonda blinked away the tears stinging the corners of her eyes.
“Stop pretending to be someone you’re not.”
Sharonda glared. “Until you experience the pain I suffer, don’t you dare preach at me.”
Janice wagged her manicured finger. “No matter how many church services you attend, we both have a reservation for the lake of fire. Liars and revelers.” Janice cackled. “This party girl is having fun getting there. What do you stand to gain for your piety? A lifetime serving Mom and Dad? Marriage to a man who loves the thought of being the next pastor of New Hope more than desiring you? That would be a waste, sis. Now look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have feelings for Carl Ray.” Janice cupped the side of Sharonda’s face.
Her heart skipped at the mention of Carl Ray. Sharonda’s gaze climbed a path along Janice’s long neck to her dimpled chin. She took in her sister’s full lips. Her gaze stopped at the bridge of Janice’s pert nose.
“Told you.” Janice snorted. “You’re no better than me.” She turned, swishing her hips from side to side as she returned to her bed. She shook the sheets, then crawled between them with her back to Sharonda. She had the audacity to hum.
Sharonda tried to drown out the lonesome lyrics. What’s love got to do with anything. She fled from the room, stopping outside the door.
“So what if you turn thirty in three days?” Janice yelled. “Have the hysterectomy and adopt. But if you close the door to a future with Carl, don’t be mad if I open it.”
Her sister’s mocking laughter riled her. Sharp pangs shot through the very womb that threatened to steal Sharonda’s hopes to ever carry a child. She stepped down the hall, through the modest house to the sound of a honking horn.
“I’m coming.” She paused, placed the hat box on the hall table, then charged out of the house.
Mother’s stately profile, decorated in a single plumed hat, filled the passenger side. The driver’s seat of her parents’ Mercedes remained empty. She sighed with relief that she’d beat Dad to the car. She slowed her pace, heated from the extra exertion in her three-piece suit. She worked to get all her bags to one side. Stuffing the Bible in with the curriculum, Sharonda peeled her jacket away from damp skin. Moving everything to the opposite side, she freed herself and folded the blazer over her forearm. Sharonda climbed into the back seat, behind her mother, and closed the door harder than necessary.
“Sorry.” Not really. She flung her jacket across the leather upholstery and tugged at the waistband of the Spanks rising up over her stomach rolls as she fought to breathe.
Mother turned in her seat. “I thought we agreed you’d wear blue. Pink is a poor accent to my magenta.”
Sharonda pulled at the hem of her camisole. “Wardrobe malfunction.”
“And where is your hat?” Mother lifted her too perfect nose. Everything about her petite and sassy while Sharonda took after the Peterson women—big boned and reticent. “Not that I miss seeing the box strapped to your arm.” She used her First Lady of New Hope Church voice. Opening her compact, Mother faced forward and dusted Rich Bronze powder on her smooth skin. She followed up with a precise dab of gloss to her lips.
Mother accomplished her natural beauty appearance with help from the MAC cosmetic counter. Illusions of perfection were her masterpiece. Sharonda had been her reluctant apprentice for years.
She crossed her arms. “My hands were full.”
Mother capped the gloss and flung the container in her purse before she reached out and tilted the rear-view mirror, stared. “If you got in a habit of wearing the hat instead of carrying it around like a piece of lug- gage ...” She popped her shiny lips. “Problem eliminated.”
“But my head hurts when I wear it all day.” Sharonda sounded like the sixteen-year-old who had gained another ten pounds and lost her mother’s approval. “And besides, I don’t have a safe place to store the hat when I pull it off.”
Mother gave a dismissive wave over her shoulder, “Hurry. Run in the house and get your head covering before you make us late. Silver. Gold. Something to offset all that pink.”
Sharonda wrung her hands in her lap. “Can’t I just go without it this time?”
“Where did I go wrong in my parenting? You know what is expected of the first family.” Mother threw her hands up. “And it’s convention time. The elders require a woman’s head to be covered. Of my three children, I wouldn’t think I’d have to explain to you the importance of setting a good example. First your sister left the church. Then your brother moved out. What are we supposed to do without a minister of music? We’ll lose the band. Our congregation will split.”
Sharonda exited the car to escape her mother’s rantings—an event occurring way too often these days. Being the preacher’s kid came with too many demands.
She trudged back toward the house. Pushing through the door, she banged her arms still laden with the purse and Sunday school satchel she should have left in the car. How had her organized day turned into such a tangled mess?
“Aren’t you headed in the wrong direction?” Dad passed her on his way out.
“Sorry, I have to grab my pink hat.” At the decorative hall table, she yanked the box’s cord on her arm, disturbing the ceramic angels. She reached out to realign them, stopped. Forget it. She spun around and hurried out. Once in the car, she clicked her seatbelt as they backed out of the driveway to maneuver through the sleepy neighborhood. Her parents’ idea of being late would put them at the sanctuary over two hours before the first service.
Minutes into the half-hour commute, her mother twisted around to face her. “Why are you so quiet? Are you ill?”
“Enjoying the scenery, Mother.” She bit her lip and adjusted her skirt, not sure if the discomfort at her waistline was emotional or a flash- flood warning. She ran a hand over her abdomen. No time to be bedridden today.
Her mother faced forward. “Good. There’s too much on the schedule for me to handle by myself. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Mother’s praise fell flat on Sharonda’s tired ears.
Tired of being Mother’s go-to person. Tired of her own needs being over-looked. Tired of being.
They passed the Jefferson spread. Sharonda loved how the big house and barn was set in the middle of rolling green hills. On so many acres the Longhorns seemed to be roaming free.
She envied them.
Too soon, Dad parked in his designated spot to the right side of the church.
Sharonda lagged behind her parents’ entrance into the vestibule and down the hallway that led to the administration offices.
A melodious rhythm rose from the music room, a familiar voice accompanying the key’s major chords.
Startled, she tripped.
Her satchel fell from her shoulder and clattered against the tiles, dumping her Bible for the second time. Strewn at her feet—study notes, jacket, and Sunday school workbooks. She laid a hand over her chest to calm her racing heart.
Mother turned and rushed to her. “Baby?” She yanked the lace-trimmed hankie from her purse and blotted Sharonda’s forehead. “Broddrick, it’s happening.” She turned a worried expression toward her husband. “Look at her. She’s clammy. Sweat’s beading her top lip, and her arms are full of goosebumps.”
Sharonda ducked out of reach. “Mother.”
The music from the praise team practice room—which caused her violent reaction—faded.
“I’m good. Probably too many layers. I’m wearing the new girdle you suggested.” She mentioned the garment to distract her mother’s busy hands.
Dad cleared his throat, then walked down the hall. Any mention of what he’d refer to as mother-daughter stuff was his signal to escape.
“Go adjust yourself, then.” Mother tucked a soft curl beneath her hat as if one dare stray under her watchful care. Unlike Sharonda’s thick flat-ironed hair which she still struggled to tame. “However, if it’s your menstrual, you and Brice best consider an earlier wedding date. It hasn’t been a full three weeks since your last episode.” She trailed the path to- ward Dad’s office.
“Hmph.” Mother better be glad she still agreed to marry the missing-in-action preacher. No need in rushing into a life of misery. But then, wasn’t he her only chance at having a baby? She stamped her foot, sending the papers at her feet in all directions. Who had taken her brother’s position as minister of music?
She hiked her skirt and strong-armed the tight Spanks. The elastic at her stomach lowered enough for her to bend and collect the scattered curriculum.
“Let me help you.”
Her head lifted in the direction of the intrusive bass. That voice belonged only to one man—a sculpted work of art—and the owner of the melodious sound that had come from the music room.
Carl. Ray. Everhart.
He knelt beside her, shoved the last book into her bag. Offering a warm smile, he stood before she could react and helped her up.
Sharonda stared into eyes that reminded her of glowing embers in a fireplace on a cold winter night.
Carl Ray hugged her. “It’s so good to see you. How are you, Sharonda?”
She wrapped her arms around his narrow waist. A cloud of the sweetest spices washed over her senses—deep, sensual, and earthy. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’d taken a puff from a tobacco-filled pipe.
“Let me look at you.” He stepped back.
Sharonda snatched her tote from his arm and held it against her front. For what? Cover? She’d need every bag they sold at Walmart to hide the pounds she’d packed on. If only she could disappear.
He tilted his head sideways, scrunched his brow. “How have you been? I left you messages, but you didn’t return my calls.”
She clutched the bag tighter. Words crashed against her skull, trapped as if someone had stitched her mouth shut.
“We need to talk.” He reached out as if to stroke her cheek.
I’m sorry I lost control. His message resurfaced. It never should have happened.
Sharonda stepped back, shaking her head. “No need.” She took a deep breath, exhaled, and then pressed her lips together. Once, she’d been Carl Everhart’s girl.
He closed the distance between them. “I really should—”
She held up a hand. “Apologize? I’ve given God everything else. I can
have one night.”
Sharonda backed away, tried to steady herself.
He rested his hands on her shoulder. “What happened was wro—.”
“Beautiful.” She turned and ran. No one. Not even Carl Ray had a right to tamper with her memories.

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