Chapter 1
Christi Prescott’s Phone alarm hyper chirps the third round as she stares at the tray ceiling.
“Get up, get up,” she whispers as she follows rhythm to the alarm.
Christi grabs her phone and sighs with disgust.
“Ugh, 10:25 a.m., my ass should have been up and out at hot cycle class three hours ago!”
As she tosses the duvet over her head, her mother swings open the door.
“Honey, you are a day older, a dollar short and will have a much plumper rump if you continue to lie in this bed!
Christie mutters under the covers, “Big asses are in mother, I will be in good company!”
Her mother yanks the duvet off her frizzed head.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“I am taking the initiative; get up and shower for heaven’s sake! You’re starting to smell like a two-piece meal from an abysmal drive-thru grease shack with a side of poor choices!”
Christie scrambles to grab the cover back from her.
Her mother points at her. “By the way darling, when’s the last time you visited Katya’s salon? You’re starting to look like an orphaned Pomeranian down there!”
“Mom, why in the hell you’re speaking of my lady hot pocket?”
“Well, someone has to tell you! How are you going to entertain a suitor when you’re growing the redwoods down there? Pretty soon, you’re going to have to invest in a John Deere!”
“Mom! Did you have your usual breakfast this morning?”
“Oh Gosh, no Christi. Dirty Martinis are saved for later in the week. Mondays are a day of rest,”
With a perplexed look, Christi responds, “I thought Sundays were a day of rest?”
Her mother sits on the side of her bed, “On the seventh day, God rests. I respect him for that. Mondays, however, is my day!
Knowing that her mom is intentionally keeping her from another thirty minutes of sleep, Christie decides to get up. She grabs her silk robe, walks into her en-suite and turns on the shower.
“Mom, why did you stop by?”
“Can’t a mother stop by to see her adoring child?”
“Mother, you never just stop by. What are you up to?”
“Well, a package came to our house for you….
Christi’s mother quickly drifts her eyes away from her daughter’s dagger stares.
“And we invited a guest over to dinner for you to meet!” she said quickly.
Christi’s response was explosive, “You did what? Mom, does dad know you set up this dinner?”
Her mother springs from her bed and scurries towards the door.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Christie runs towards her door to lock it shut.
“Mother, for the love of jumping jalapeños, how many times have I asked you to stay out of my love life?
A slight wicked chuckle her mother gives as she walks towards her.
“Oh, my sweet Christi Alyse Prescott; you have no love life! In fact, your love life is so desolate, I am ready to accept the fact that you are a lesbian!”
“Mom, sometimes you are unbearable! Instead of thinking I might want to save myself for a well-deserving man or better yet, join a convent and become a nun, you instead think I’m a lesbian!”
Her mom nods her head of approval.
Christi sighs, shaking her hands in frustration, “Unbelievable! I’m not a lesbian!”
Her mom gives her a hug. “It wouldn’t be so bad, you U-hauling it with a woman! At least you’ll finally have someone, and I can finally get grandbabies! You can do En Vitro, or if you like, I can get a head start and go to William Sonoma and get you a turkey baster!”
Christi lowers her head, shaking in disbelief. “Was I adopted?’
“Oh Christi, you’re such an easy target for your mother! However, I expect you at the estate come Friday promptly at 8:00 p.m. and to answer your previous question, your father knows. It is one of his colleagues.
“You’re pimping me out to a Dr. Sugar Daddy? Most of dad's colleagues are founding members of AARP!”
“This gentleman is quite charming and the same age as you. We met him at the Physician’s ball and he is a Pediatric Cardiologist at Lurie’s.”
“Mom, I don’t care! Will you please let me do this at my own pace, in my own way, and at my own time?”
“If we wait any longer, your eggs will have to be auctioned on eBay!”
Christi sighs, “I am going to take a shower mom and go to the boutique. Love you!”
Christi slams the bathroom door.
“I expect you to dress Versace with a hint of Tom Ford with red bottoms beaming!”
Christi swings open the door. “If I come in sweatpants with a cut-out top with converse on, that’s my decision!”
“Not on my Brazilian cherry floors you won’t! You know I don’t allow any synthetics or anything rubber around me! How do you think you got here?”
“Mom, again, are we truly related?”
“I know you’re being foolish right now, but I understand your cranky and a little bloated. Have an apple with yogurt and sprinkled granola, it will push all that waspish right down the commode!
The bathroom door slams once more.
“Love you more Christi! Your package is waiting for you on the console in the foyer.” Her mother says as she blows kisses to the door, then departs.
Steam engulfs the mosaic and glass enclosure. Streams of water pulsate Christie’s flushed skin. From every wall of the shower, water orchestrates to Beethoven’s, Silencio. Soap once covered her hair and skin swirled to its demise in the drain. The warmth of the water eased her tension and soothed her weary mind.
She knew her mother meant well, for she always wanted the best for her. Perhaps she was too hard on her mom. Dr. Prescott occupied his time with ailing children and he felt someway a guardian angel over them. It was no doubt that mom involved her time with Christi and her adoptive children: Maison Gautier Cognac, Duncan Taylor Whiskey, and her favorite import, Reyka vodka. Christi didn’t doubt her mother’s love, but her drinking was slowly becoming her mother’s new pet project. Since becoming an adult, her mom has become overprotective and at times, overbearing. Her older brother rebelled against conforming to the capitalist elitist and lives off the grid in Haiti. Every couple of years a postcard will come. A brief sigh of relief comes over her; missing her enigmatic brother only to have an aching heart once more. He took a chance to break free from the mental prison Christi now resides.
Coming from generations of housewives, being the rebellious one, her mom pursued college. Graduating from Spellman and Emory and worked her way up to head buyer at a Chicago art gallery. Christi’s Grandmother Etta Jean never forgave her mother. Etta Jean shamed her until the day of her death. Etta Jean once told her she allowed the liberals to whore herself for a paycheck! Etta Jean came from the antebellum south where her own family worked on the Tucker cotton plantation in which her family now owns.
She told Christi stories of how after Mrs. Tucker died of pneumonia from giving birth, Mr. Tucker shifted more of the child-rearing duties to her own grandmother, Suzie. The two Tucker children, Great-granny Suzie raised while crying in the slave quarters praying for the return of her own. By the time old man Tucker was knocking on death’s door, three more children were born and raised by Great Granny Suzie. In his will, He left the plantation to be divided up to his children along with the three slaves: The Farrier, Moses, The Farmer, Otis and Granny Suzie. The two Tucker children wanted no part of either land or enslavement and gave the land to them. The freed slave men wanted to migrate North and Great-Granny Suzie wanted to stay, hoping her children would find their way back. A year after the slaves were freed, her children returned. Suzie and her five children cultivated the land and made a decent earning from cotton and livestock. Suzie never wanted her children to ever be viewed as lazy, dumb and illegitimate. In her times as a young child, Suzie learned how to read and write, careful not to get caught. It was illegal for any slave to read and if caught, they were dragged and lashed under the Southern Magnolia.
Suzie raised her sons to be strong, fearless and good with money; to stand firm in any situation. Even after Suzie married a statesman, she was particularly protective of her daughters.
They were of intelligence and strength as equivalent to any man of their time but poised with un intrinsèque charmant. To take every advantage offered of becoming educated, resourceful-wives. Demure and domestic women for any starry-eyed suitor. Suzie quickly adapted the ways of a socialite in the colored aristocracy. This was passed down each for daughter and now it was Christi’s turn to shoot the flame.
Christi exits from her bathroom with a towel in hand patting the excess water from her hair. Droplets fall onto her plush Brookstone Minx robe; Christi daubs Lalique to her pulse points and continues down the curved staircase towards the console.
She wraps her hair onto the towel, so her hands can embrace the awaiting package. Christi glances at the sender label and lets out a slight shriek.
“It’s here, it’s finally here!”
Her thrill of the manila envelope takes way as she clenches it close to her chest.
Christi flutters eagerly to her chaise. She plops down and tears into the package.
In awe, Christie received several pamphlets, photos, and a video. The symbol of a phoenix and an Olive branch embossed on an ivory envelope. As she opens it, she notices writing on the flap:
’When one is called to service, it is your rebirth, but it is those you serve that receives peace & victory!’
As she reads the letter, she glances over to the photos at the end of the chaise. Several snapshots are of villages, a newly built school, and adoring children. Her petite fingers glide over the faces of their warm smiles and russet colored, almond-shaped eyes.
The images made her motherly instincts surface. A sense of protection and nurturing overwhelms her as she cradled the photos of the children as if presently in her embrace. She concluded that this was the best decision. Christi envisioned being away from the boutique and her mother’s badgering; leaving the noises of the concrete jungle in exchange for the peace and tranquility of the Phalombe plains. The sun’s light flickers off her laptop which caught Christi’s attention. Stretching her arms to the end of the chaise sofa once more, grabbing the video and placing it into her laptop drive. Rhythmic sounds of Lulu and Afro-pop introduced the scenes of Malawi.
A mere surprise to Christi for she was all but familiar of the somber sounds of charity commercials depicting crying famine children with protruding bellies and flies hovering over them.
“This is quite a different visual experience,” she thought. She wasn’t bombarded with desolate images of death and refuge. She saw children both in the newly built school and ones that were working on the land. They were learning how to gather natural resources and how to purify water. Some of the older children spoke of fishing on Lake Chilwa to earn a living.
“Nsomba zimakhala zovuta chifukwa nyanja ikuchepa,”
the young boy says in the Chichewa language.
The narrator translates his words to English.
“Fishing becomes difficult because the lake is shrinking.”
Christi gasps. The child points towards the lake where the camera zooms in showing the fishing activity. A gathering of men, women, and children with hand-woven baskets, swell at the shoreline. Fishing boats blanket the backdrop and birds swirling overhead. Small waves rock the boats in a rhythmically, entrancing Christi. Large nets were cast over the boats with anticipation of catching the evening’s meal. As the video sequence the daily activities, Christi's heart beats intensely as she mentally countdown the days until she boards her fight to destiny. Christi’s daydreams of mission work and mental packing were interrupted by her vibrating phone. It was her mother messaging her.
“Friday, promptly at 8:00 p.m. Prim and proper, no embarrassing attire!
Love, mother.”
In frustration, Christi throws her phone and retreats to the video once again adjusting the volume to buzz saw level.
