River of Love

By Patricia Daley

River of Love""a Jamaican story of love, betrayal, and redemption. Velma Martin's story depicts a young woman's urgent need to flee her hometown in an attempt erase the memory of her past. Her journey would lead her in varied and unimaginable waters, leaving her forlorn and distraught. Trapped in her guilt and fear, Velma's path led her on a new journey of redemption, where she met the River of Love who changed the course of her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643496245

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River of Love

Patricia Daley

Copyright © 2018 by Patricia Daley

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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Dedication

Dedicated in memory of my grandmother, Thelma Gregory, a woman of astute faith and noble character.

Prologue

The ordeal felt like an eternity. I hid my face in the palm of my hands. I couldn’t look at the man who introduced me to shame. How could my hero do this to me? I questioned. I felt like a wounded animal who had been thrown into a pit and left to die.

1

Do time and place determine the end of our days, or is it destiny?

Afoolish, willful childlike choice changed my world forever.

We left school Monday afternoon and headed for our secret happy spot—the forbidden river. I led the way down the narrow path, luring my siblings. Peaches and Danny followed closely. Jimmy’s tiny feet lagged behind with his best efforts to catch up.

Velma, Peaches, my toe hurts! Hey, stop! Something is stuck under my shoes…wait for me!

Jimmy lied many times about a pain in his feet whenever he wanted us to slow down. This time, we ignored him.

You will have to run to catch us, Danny shouted, running ahead vying for our attention.

Danny and Peaches competed in everything. They frequently walked on parallel streets just to see who would get home first.

We trod the narrow path laughing. I could think of nothing else beside the river water smoothing my hair.

Peaches interrupted my thoughts, whispering, Velma, you know Jimmy cannot keep a secret. He is going to tell Dad. Maybe we should…go home.

Peaches, we will just threaten him, and he will never utter a word.

We hurriedly walked toward the river. Wet clusters of leaves and watery mud stuck to the bottom of our shoes. Though the evening remained dark and damp from the heavy rain showers throughout the day, I couldn’t shake the adrenaline rush I felt as I anticipated the babbling and burbling water caressing my body.

Velma, I am going to tell Daddy and Mommy! Jimmy shouted.

If you tell, we will run away and leave you to the boogeyman, I yelled.

Jimmy, we are just going to get a quick dip, then we can go home. Nobody will find out. Peaches joined the conversation in an effort to persuade our younger brother to keep our secret.

I tried to ignore the gush of water bouncing against the rocks as though it was talking to me, Not today! Go home! I couldn’t resist.

After a second or two, my uniform was on the ground, and I immersed in the middle of the pond. Peaches and Danny jumped in after me, leaving their clothes scattered in the bushes near the banks. Jimmy hesitated for a while, but Danny got out of the water and started pulling off his shirt and pants.

Let me go, Danny! I am going to tell! Let me go!

I could hear Jimmy’s screams turn to giggles, and I knew then he was ready to plunge in too.

I had to admit, the water was a bit choppy and cold, causing my culpable conscience to subside as it glazed the tip of my toes. The blissful, heavenly, and magical feeling it brought after plunging my head under was instantly calming.

Then, Peaches plunged her head and body under in a fierce battle to see if she could hold her breath longer. My sister was my shadow, my echo, my carbon copy. I wear blue to school; she wears it too. I miss dinner; she finds a reason to fast. I climb the mango tree; she follows after me. I make a bad decision; Peaches follows suit. We were like peas in a pod, my sister and I.

Jimmy and Danny stayed near to the shallow part, catching tadpoles in an empty milk box. Jimmy seemed happy with the find and placed the milk box on top of the huge boulder at the east end of the riverbank.

For a while, Peaches and I forgot about the boys until we heard them arguing.

Danny, leave me alone.

Danny was extremely playful, and Jimmy would cry and scream even if a sudden wind brushed against his face. We ignored them at first.

Jimmy, are you stupid, man? If you leave the box up there, it is going to fall in the water!

"So why don’t you take it and swim with it under your arm, you eediot," Jimmy responded playfully, pushing Danny.

Predicting the squabble about to unfold, Peaches and I quickly pushed our way through the rough waves in an attempt to prevent a catastrophe. What came next was beyond our wildest imagination.

*****

Looking back, I wouldn’t have made the choice to allure my brothers and sister to the river. Oh, how I wish I could change the hands of time. If only I had slept all day and pretended to be sick. A welcome flu virus or a bad headache would have kept me from going to school that dreadful day. Then, just maybe my brother would still have his tomorrow.

I grew up in a small fishing and farming village in the town of Yallahs, St. Thomas, located on the southeastern coast of Jamaica and is home to about ten thousand people—a deep rural community where neighbors knew each other and the children believed every adult was an uncle or auntie.

Noises filled the air with children playing cricket, baseball, and dandy shandy (like dodgeball) on the streets during the long summer months. Or pickneys thrusting a stone up at the top of a tree in the hope of a fallen mango or chasing a lizard with a bamboo stick or flying a kite and playing hide-and-go-seek.

Trees abounded with fruits and provided lunch and snacks for our greedy guts as we played outside all day long without the supervision of an adult.

Parents carried loads of clothing to wash and dry at the banks of the river. Mothers placed white dresses on top of rocks for the sun to eradicate their every stain and grime-leaving shirts and trousers lily white and blouses and skirts almost brand-new. The scorching sun faithfully debunked undergarments of every bacterium and even the armpits of school uniforms and worn out socks looked good as new.

Riverbed washerwomen gathered at the river in the wee hours of the morning as if they were on their way to a district club. Some days were filled with singing and laughter, while others pervaded with malice and quarrels of isms and schisms. Secrets of neighbors and family members rested on the banks of the river for days, mysteriously creeping in bedrooms of pillow talks and over-the-fence chit-chats.

I loved the morning stroll down to the river on those early Saturday mornings before dawn. My heart skipped a million beats to see the clean, fresh water hopping over the stagnant rocks. I could see the fresh watery road from a mile flowing through the forest of tall trees, giving me a sense of thrill. Peaches and I often thrust stones at a high velocity and watched in delight to see the formation of the water as the stones hit against it.

Plummy and Dimples were our neighbors and closest friends. They missed school on Fridays to wash at the river with their mothers, but my parents would not have it. School was a priority.

The Yallahs River with its significant landslides was a mystery to visitors as well as to people who lived and worked in the community. Daddy implored us to stay away from it and often related the river story of gloom in the hope that it would scare us away.

I want you guys to listen to me carefully! His tone was different from his usual boisterous roar of laughter whenever he related Brer Anancy stories to us, those African folktales we loved so much. This time, he was as stern as our school principal. Do not play in that river without the supervision of an adult. It will devour you like a ravenous wolf. Not even Jesus can save you! That river is a jealous husband who needs taming. When his brother took his wife, he cried himself to sleep. Then, his tears fell into two salty puddles drowning the two lovers. So don’t go near him, I am telling you!

Intrigued by the story, I repeatedly beseeched, Daddy, please tell us about the river and his wife?

My father dramatically told the myth at the dinnertable, under the mango tree, and when we played table games on Saturdays. His eyes narrowed like those of an owl and his face would shine red like a frying pot.

Dad told stories with such flair. We lived for each day to hear them. Danny and Jimmy shivered like tiny cats left outside as Dad took center stage, belaboring the story over and over. Somehow, our father wasn’t mincing words when he recounted the river story. This was a serious matter.

Daddy lived to mourn the loss of lives of countless neighbors and friends in the Yallahs River. His best friend, Sammy, went under the deep end and was rescued by his older brother. His neighbor Suzie drowned after slipping off a big rock. Dad told us that the currents swept her away like a savage ghost. They looked for days and never found her body. I think Dad never got over the trauma of witnessing such a horrible scene at the age of ten.

I was the third girl for Margaret and Archibald Martin and an active track star. My favorite pastime was spent competing on the hilly roads against Peaches, the youngest girl, and Danny the first boy. Each race left me leaping with joy at my sibling’s defeat. Danny usually gave me donkey lengths; nonetheless, I showed off my win.

I was at the top of my sixth grade class in history and English. At first, math was challenging. Danny worked long hours showing me how to solve trigonometry and graphs until I became an expert. Algebra was easier because I could connect the parts to stories. Peaches and Eliza were avid readers and scored high on their English language test. Somehow, though, they could not master arithmetic and trig. Vida gravitated toward dressmaking and cooking. She wasn’t designed for the academics, Mom said. Vida didn’t mind.

My siblings worked hard in school, but Mom and Dad were exceptionally proud of my report. I would hear them showing off to