The Product of a Broken Heart Read online

  THE PRODUCT OF A

  Broken Heart

  Crystal Ismael

  THE PRODUCT OF A BROKEN HEART

  Copyright © 2019 Crystal Ismael.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-7413-4 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-7412-7 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906129

  iUniverse rev. date: 07/10/2019

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Have you ever looked in the mirror and asked yourself, “Who am I?” After all the friends are gone, after the noisy party subsides, or after the lingering punch-out to go home? I’m talking about after all the loudness that goes along with everyday life. The alone time in the bathroom, the split moment you have before waking up to the kids to embrace the running and playing through the house or the husband barging in with the demands of everyday living. And then there’s the cooking, the cleaning, the nagging “my stomach hurts” from the kids as their special way of saying, “Mother, it’s morning and I am hungry.” The question “Who am I?” may sound absurd. You’re probably thinking, what is wrong with this lady? You might be even quoting the famous cliché by now, saying, “I know who I am.” Then the, “Nobody has to tell me who I am; I know exactly who I am!” It tickles me because I used to be right there. One week I wanted to be a nurse based on the emotions I was feeling for the week. The next week I wanted to be an African American counselor. Yes, I knew my name, what street I lived on, who my mother was, and so on, but, ladies, I’m talking about the inner me. I had put on so many masks that I didn’t know how to differentiate who I was from who I was pretending to be. I was lost in a world I had created, detached from the Creator and Sustainer, disconnected from the blueprint of who I was created to be and where I needed to go. I was fighting against my own self, beating myself daily to be and to live as someone I was never created to be, only to mask myself from myself.

  I covered up my hurt, I hid my tears, and I put on a fake smile and a happy face, but inside, I was dying. Inside, I was alone. Inside, I was damaged, not knowing I was about to miss my healing by telling myself that I was okay, that nothing was wrong with me. “I’m just fine. I … know … who … I am!” I told myself day in and day out. I woke up repeating, “I’m fine” as I wiped the hurt from my eyes. “I did good today. They didn’t see the real me,” I whispered to myself as I lay down to sleep at night, taking off the mask I had on for the day.

  I had to take off the masks and deal with the true me, the true issues that were rooted deep within, to find out who I truly was. As the healing came, more masks began to fall off and I discovered the beauty in who I am, and the splendor of who I belonged to. I had to discover that I belonged to royalty! I had to come to the understanding that I am too royal.

  As you dig into this book, I pray that the masks will fall off for you one chapter at a time. I pray that the true you will shine forth so the healing can take place. I am a product of a broken heart! I am a product of what healing looks like. First, I would like to give all honor to the creator for allowing me to be a vessel to deliver a powerful message to women all over the world. I would like to acknowledge my mother (1948–2013) and my dear husband, who stood beside me every step of the way. Finally, to my dear children: I have nothing but joy as I look forward to what God will do in your lives … Mommy loves you.

  Chapter 1

  “Dana! Dana!” I heard my mother screaming as she always did when she made it home from a hard night at work. It was a school morning and, as usual, she sensed no movement from my brother or me.

  “Dana, I know you hear me calling you!” her voice ranted on in the background as I tossed over and pulled the blanket up over my head, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping to get a few more minutes of sleep.

  But this never seemed to work with my mother as she screamed my name constantly until she heard movement out of me, and then there was the noise that followed as if she was throwing things around as she made her way to where I lay. My mother was no big woman, but somehow she managed to knock things down as she made her way down the very wide hall to my room. I didn’t know if she was knocking things down intentionally or if she just couldn’t see the wooden animals and the decorative flowers that she had intentionally placed down the hall.

  Struggling to wake up, I stretched and wiped the sleep from my eyes, coming to grips about what was going on as my mother barged down the hall.

  “Dana!” she began to yell again.

  I could hear the footsteps get closer as her yelling came nearer. I took one more deep breath to embrace the yelling she was about to do as she entered my room. She quickly barged in and walked over to me and shook my shoulder as if she wanted to pull it off. Startled, I jumped straight up. I think every hair on my body stood up, as she stood over me.

  “Yes,” I replied, slightly rolling my eyes, as I was not at all prepared for that. I was trying not to scream, while at the same time being conscious of the choice words that wanted to slip out of my mouth.

  “Wake up and get up before you are late for school!” she yelled at me sounding tired and frustrated.

  The tone in her voice was very tiresome. I quickly gathered myself and moved toward the closet, I could hear her huffing and puffing while glaring at me to see if I am going to jump back in bed.

  She opened her mouth to yell, “Dana!” with a somewhat shaky tone, as if she was too tired to push out whatever else she wanted to add. As she saw me coming to grips with getting ready for school, she paused in her yelling and stood and looked at me.

  It’s not the friendliest look that I would have wanted to see this early in the morning, I thought to myself, but it was a serious look that made me quickly get my act together.

  As she stood there, I looked at her face, knowing she had just gotten off work from the tiredness in her face and the stiffness in her posture as she held one hand on her hip. My mother was a certified nursing assistant, working tirelessly in a nursing home and as a full-time home health provider.
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br />   I always saw my mother either coming or going, heading to bed from work or getting out of bed to head to work. She really never had the time to sit and talk to me like I would have liked her to, let alone play with my brother and I. I rarely saw her sit down and watch a movie, except for the rare occasions she watched her soap operas. To top it off, she was always eating her food on the go, rushing home to go to sleep, or rushing out the door to get to the next job.

  But there were those occasions on a Sunday when I would smell throughout the house smothered chicken, rice with her famous gravy, creamy and spicy – not too spicy but just the right amount that makes you crave another bite – and the cabbage that should have been on someone’s menu in a restaurant.

  My father wasn’t around. From what I was told, he left when I was two years old, and I hadn’t seen him since. I don’t remember anything about him and I didn’t quite understand everything that went on between him and mother, all I know is that neither of them was around when I need them.

  As my mother walked to her bed, I saw her ankles swollen, and it seemed as if her back was hurting or in discomfort. Never complaining, she paced slowly down the hall to her room and shut the door behind her, leaving just enough room to scream at me again if needed, or to peep out and see if my brother and I were doing what she had commanded.

  I yawned and stretched one last time, then wiped the sleep from my eyes and quickly gathered my things together, saving myself from the yelling she would do within the next few seconds if I didn’t make a move for the bathroom.

  “Dana!” she called from the room.

  I giggled to myself, knowing I was right on the dot.

  “Are you still up, or are you in that bed?” she went on screaming down the hall.

  “Yes, I am up,” I replied in an assuring voice. There were times she would come home yelling, shake me to get up, and then go in her room, and as soon as I heard the door shut, I would jump right back in bed.

  I peeked around the corner to look into her room but noticed she was asleep. She must have yelled in her sleep, I thought as I shrugged my shoulders. The second after she yelled down the hall, I heard her snoring. Oh, how tired she is, I thought to myself, believing at that very moment I would not be like that! As I stood and watched her turn over quickly to set her alarm before withdrawing back, then quickly falling right back to sleep.

  I am going to have a career, I thought as I combed my hair in the bathroom mirror, adjusting the ponytail from one side to the other, slinging the hair from one side to the next that managed to come out of the ponytail. I love my hair; it was almost down to the middle of my back. People always said, “Dana, your hair is so gorgeous.” I smiled as I thought about the many compliments I had received.

  I looked in the mirror, combing my hair and then gently running my hand through it as I finished planning my future. I will definitely have a husband to love me, I continued. “Oh, and I must live on an acre of land,” I said to myself in the mirror, “because we just must have animals that will dwell there.” I giggled to myself as I imitated a foreign accent. I will not have to worry about anything, just like in the movies, I thought as I washed my face, smiling from ear to ear. For a moment I forgot about what was going on at the present time, with my dad not around and my mother too tired to understand what was going on. I just knew my life would be perfect, just perfect, I thought, as I smiled at myself one more time in the mirror.

  It seemed my brother Jay didn’t get yelled at as much as me. Maybe he knew the routine, and somehow, before she said something, he was already doing it! Or maybe he disguised himself behind the video games or the headset he seemed to keep on his head. Perhaps he was trying to drown out anything that was happening or could happen, I pondered. My mother didn’t seem to call his name much, except on the rare occasions when he picked on me to get some amusement or a thrill. Every now and then, he would drop something on the floor and then tell mother I did it.

  After a few spins, shaking my hair from side to side, and perking my lips up and down, I kissed myself in the mirror, dashed out the door for school, and headed down the driveway. For some odd reason, I stopped abruptly and looked back as if my mother was going to run out the door, give me a hug or a kiss, and tell me to have a good day. Knowing that wouldn’t happen, I turned back around, adjusted my backpack, and kept walking.

  It was a humid Saturday morning, 7am to be exact. The birds were chirping, kids were already out and ready to indulge in the summer’s sun. As the sun began to beat upon my face, I sat on my front porch rocking back and forth in my rocking chair, embracing the heat of the good old South. I thought back to that morning when my mother screamed her usual phrase, “Dana, wake up and get up” as I smiled to myself. I tilted my head back to feel the little breeze trying to make its way through, slowly using my feet to rock the chair back and forth.

  It felt like it was just yesterday. A humid Texas morning, I could still smell the stiffness in the air that morning and the beating sun ready to peak over the horizon and give the good South a piece of its mind. Down here in Texas, you literally had to watch the forecast to see what the weather would be like. We could sometimes dress for summer sunshine in the mornings and need a light sweater by noon, and by the time we got home from school, we would need a raincoat.

  I chuckled to myself as I looked up at the sky, slowly rocking back and forth in my chair. I could almost hear her voice in my ear as if she was standing right over me, as she always did when she arrived home to wake me up for school. I could almost see her smile, the smile that would melt anyone’s heart who embraced her presence. I could almost feel her soft touch, the one I would get every now and then, I thought as I chuckled to myself. My mother was never very affectionate, and to get a hug or a pat on the back was a moment worth treasuring. “Dana! Dana!” I remembered her shouting. She had the softest and most stern voice I ever came across. I began to smile, as I could almost feel her approaching to startle me, with the sudden shaking she gave me from time to time.

  The humid air moved past me as I glanced up and saw how suddenly the clouds began to move in seeming to indicate rain. I reminisced on my childhood, on how the downward spiral of the tragic episodes got started. looking out as I heard the children playing with jump ropes down the road on the sidewalks and the cars moved to and from their destinations. I sighed as I heard the children giggling back and forth as they dropped their jump ropes and engaged in a game of tag. I could almost smell the rain drawing near as I glanced up and saw the clouds become more threatening as I continued to rock in my chair.

  I waved to my neighbors who were getting out of the car to go into their home, as they smiled and pleasantly waved back. I saw how happy they were, or at least how happy they seemed. Families were close to kin here in this small town, and if anything happened, the whole town would know about it I thought as I laughed to myself.

  I told people who didn’t know about our little town about an elderly lady who had lived in the corner house for years – Mrs. Betty Joe. She was no ordinary woman. Betty Joe was a well-rounded woman, and when I say well-rounded, I’m talking about her weight. She was plump and wore her hair in a ponytail to one side of her head. She had glasses that never seemed to fit, because they always managed to fall down and settle right on the bridge of her nose. She would just walk up and down the sidewalk, and then she would sit on her porch for hours talking on the phone. She would hang up with someone just to call someone else to tell them what she had heard from the previous caller.

  I guess she is just a lonely lady, I said to myself as looked across the street and watched her gather her coffee cup and book to sit in her usual chair on her porch. She knew everything that was going on in town, and probably the next town over too! There was no need to buy a newspaper because Mrs. Betty Joe was the news.

  I rocked back and forth, enjoying the scenery, looking at the kids skipping up and down the sidewalk and little girls ru
nning in and out the jump ropes they had picked back up, smiling and laughing as they sang songs while twirling the rope around and around. Down the sidewalk, I saw a group of younger girls with their hula hoops swinging around their hips as they swung from one side to the next. I remembered walking down the same road I see other children walking and playing on. I used to cry on the same trees I see other children playing hide-and-seek on.

  I remembered the lonely days as a child, the tiredness in trying to fit in, trying to be loved in a world I felt I was alien to. I was once a little girl who loved playing with dolls and dollhouses, who dreamed of one day growing up and marrying a prince and becoming a princess, of one day living in a mansion with the happily-ever-after ending that every little girl dreamed of, like the Cinderella story, without the cruelty from her wicked stepmother. Seemingly overnight, I had became a scared and confused little girl who hated just to wake up in the mornings.

  Kids are happy. Kids are carefree. Kids are just that—kids! That’s what I use to think. When I thought of kids, I thought of happy, laughing, days of fun in the sun, and little minds having no knowledge of what the real world is like. I would have loved to have kept thinking that, but it became quite different for me and for many other little girls as well. How soon a smile can turn into a frown. How soon loud laughter can turn silent and the joy of just existing turns into anger just to be alive. Let me take you back.

  “Dana, come on and hurry up!” My mother yelled as I grabbed the dolls and their clothes that I would be taking with me as I slept over at my cousins’ house. “Dana!” She yelled again from the car, this time in frustration as she honked her horn.

  After that tone, I knew I needed to get in the car as soon as possible. I scanned the room from side to side and up and down to see what I could possibly be missing. It just feels like something else needs to go into my bag, I said to myself, biting my bottom lip as I looked from side to side to see what else I need.