Walking in Her Shoes

By Marylou Depeiza

Leola Williams was a strong-willed, independent woman who only wanted to provide for her children. Growing up in Boston with her parents and eight siblings, she had a good life and never wanted for anything. At least thats what she told her six children. But Leola kept a secret; and a code of silence that reigned supreme throughout the family held that secret close. Following Leolas death, her youngest daughter embarks on a journey through her mothers pasta journey that takes her back more than sixty years to the discovery that Leolas life took a dramatic turn when she married handsome WWII solider, James Williams. Determined to break the code of silence, she uncovers the truth of her mothers compelling and shocking past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781468594010

Marylou Depeiza

Marylou Depeiza is a native of Boston, Massachusetts. She graduated from Boston State College and received her BA in psychology. Mrs. Depeiza and her husband have three sons. She is currently working on her second book.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Thanks and Acknowledgments.

First I would like to thank the almighty who made it all possible. When I came across several writing blocks, I waited on the Lord to move those blocks and give me the right words to use.

I have to thank my family and friends for putting up with me for so many years saying, I’m writing a book. I had no idea it would take so long. You were nice enough not to tell me yeah right. Will I still be alive, said a family member.

A special thanks to my son Michael, thanks for reading those chapters. Thanks for your honesty, and giving me that extra push.

I am dedicating this book to the memory of my brother James Williams 11. You are truly missed.

I would like to acknowledge a dear friend. Her name was Joy Smith. Someone I knew for a short time and left this world too soon. She was the first to lay eyes on my manuscript. Joy told me to keep writing. She said, You have something.

Last but not least, I want to thank my editor Michelle Kaelin for bringing out the best in me.

Chapter 1

One Door Closes and Another One Opens

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. It was a bright, sunny morning in June, but it felt as cold as December. Nothing could change how I felt inside. Forcing myself out of bed and taking my canary yellow suit from the closet, then slowly moving to the bathroom, I tried to imagine being somewhere else. Instead, I was getting ready to see her one last time. I am the youngest of six children, and everything I had ever heard about my mother’s past seemed to be missing some important pieces. Yet the only things running through my mind were the questions that would go unanswered. Asking the questions wouldn’t matter because I’d only get the silent treatment like always.

While applying my makeup, trying out a new color—bronze beautiful woman—just the right shade to cover my light skin, but enough to give me that fun in the sun look, I couldn’t help but notice how much I resembled her, from my forehead, cheekbones, and round eyes that lacked the expressiveness she showed in hers, to the tip of my chin. The size and shape of my body was also a constant reminder. I’ve heard people say, Children often grow up to be just like their parents. If that’s true, then I have become like my mother in more ways than one.

When I returned from the bathroom, the sunlight moved across my bedroom and landed directly on the television. On the screen, there appeared to be an image of an old woman with a broad nose and long chin that held me spellbound. I had to take a second look, because the image was not mine. Instead, it bore a striking resemblance to my mother. The more I stared, the more it stayed. As I came to my senses, I ran out of the room and yelled down to my husband from the top of the stairs, Edwin, come quick.

As he approached the stairway, his cell phone rang, slowing him down a bit. When he reached the top of the stairs, the sunlight disappeared and the image was gone.

What did you want? he asked.

Oh, I just wanted you to fasten my necklace, I said calmly.

He stood behind me with his hands positioned to grasp the necklace.

Where is it? he asked, looking around my neck and down at the floor.

I decided not to wear it, doesn’t go good with this outfit. Sorry, I lied.

My husband was never the superstitious type. He probably would’ve shrugged it off. Saying I was just simply hallucinating or something. Therefore, I decided to keep it to myself. He wore a quizzical look on his face, as we walked out the house and got into the car.

On the way to see her, I couldn’t help but wonder why the image had appeared to me. What did it mean? Was Ma trying to tell me something? If I told the others, they would probably think it was just my imagination. I had a good life and never wanted for anything, Ma had said throughout her life. That is what she told her six children. If there was anything bad, we never heard about it because very little was told to us. We had no storyteller, such as a wise, old aunt or uncle to tell the family history. We had to stay in our place; asking grown-up questions was off-limits.

Edwin and I drove to my sister Paula’s house to meet the rest of the family. We all piled into the long black limousines. The ride to the church seemed longer than usual. My brother Roger, sister Dolores, and her husband Basil reminisced about the funnier times in Ma’s life as the limo driver drove down Blue Hill Ave., passing what used to be the deli, bakery, and meat market. I leaned more toward the window to exclude myself from their conversation. They were laughing and describing the time the toilet overflowed, making quite a mess at the house in Roxbury. Ma had sent Basil to check out the damage in the apartment downstairs. He came running up the stairs. Mum, de was muck, muck, muck all over de floor, he said in a Jamaican accent. Ma stood there trying to figure out what he was trying to say. I recall her staring at the phone as though in a trance and saying, I better call Mr. Robins. Their laughter became contagious and I found myself joining them, bending over holding my stomach.

Suddenly everything got quiet and I thought about Ma’s red photo album. The years had taken a toll on it, and what used to be a bright red album had turned a dull red with black pages that housed black and white photos. She had kept it hidden in a nightstand under lock and key. Some pictures had become unglued and were put in a plastic bag.

It was the first time I saw pictures of my grandparents. My mother said very little about them. The picture of my grandfather must’ve been taken in the early 1900s. There were seven men dressed in white lined up in front of a train. I pointed to the light-skinned man with hair like patent leather shoes, second from the left. No, Ma said, shaking her head in disbelief. How was I supposed to know what he looked like? She never described him to me. I never noticed the word grandpa written in her handwriting under his picture. When she pointed to him, I went right past, still looking. Then my eyes finally stopped at her finger. He was short and chubby with brown skin—not at all what I expected.

His mother was a squaw, Ma said, closing the album before turning on the television to watch her favorite soap opera Guiding Light.

Ma, why don’t you leave it out anymore? I asked.

When relatives came to visit, they stole some of the pictures, she said, stretching her eyes with a slight tilt of the head, giving me that you’ll see one day look.

What was her name? I asked, knowing I wouldn’t get an answer.

Whose name? Ma asked, irritated that I had interrupted her program. She stared at the television. Why can’t that woman make up her mind between the doctor and that no-good husband? Yuck, it’s a shame the way they kiss on these soaps. Never did that in my day.

I don’t remember grandpa. He died before I was born, and grandma died when I was three, right?

Uh huh, she said, paying me no attention, looking straight ahead at the television and making faces at the sexy blonde woman.

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Grandpa posing in front of the Boston and Albany train—Wearing his pants tucked into his boots. Photo on display at the New York Transit Museum.

There was a picture of grandma sitting by a window. She had a big round face and eyes shaped like almonds. Her lips weren’t huge or thin, but somewhere in-between, and when spread apart, revealed a beautiful smile.

After sitting through several hours of soaps, my mother told of one instance when she had to wake my grandfather up for work. She described that day to me so vividly that I imagined myself in her place. So many years had passed since then, yet she still felt guilty for not being able to prevent what happened. She had done this so many times before going to school. There was something different about this day. "As