Spirit Keeper: Identity

By Mary Diggs

Love is a powerful emotion. It can defeat hate. To love so deeply to give your life to save a life is biblical. But can love be so strong that it reaches from the grave to speak to us? Surviving being bullied in many forms and a fall in a Texas cavern symbolic as if descending into hell, Abby knows deep inside that there is a higher purpose in life that she's been chosen to do. Seeing the eyes and face of the vision-spirit, she knows she must help her. Spirit Keeper: Identity by Mary Diggs tells a coming-of-age story of Abby Je Louangé Vérité Manning, a sensitive young woman of color, beautiful, but because of being bullied by destructive words spoken about her facial port-wine stain, she's unable to see her beauty, leaving her emotionally scarred. She is a gifted artist with a name that holds her inconceivable destiny of Spirit Keeper. Kent Leon Baker, white, handsome, wealthy, a master martial artist, and teenage bodyguard, who vows to protect the innocent, only knows that he's drawn to Abby and must protect her from her past and help her survive in the present. Identity speaks to how these extraordinary people discover who they are while risking their lives being targeted by a vendetta as they seek the truth and the identity of one disgraced spirit twelve years after her death. Their passionate love and desire to help the living as well as the dead will inspire all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641915496

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Spirit Keeper

Mary Diggs

Copyright © 2018 Mary Diggs

All rights reserved

First Edition

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc

Meadville, PA

First originally published by Christian Faith Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64191-548-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64191-549-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To my husband, Dennis Louis, and my son, Dennis Alonzo for giving me their love, support and encouragement to follow my dream.

Chapter One

Abby

Spring 1999

Hamilton Valley, Texas

Losing track of time in my favorite class always caused rushing from art to my last class on the other side of the building. Hastily putting books in my locker, I dropped my library book on the floor, which contained a concealed book I’d brought from home entitled Angels written by Billy Graham. It was for light reading after my homework was done. Quickly, I bent over to pick it up and felt a tap on my shoulder. I froze, until I heard this soft-spoken voice whispering in my ear.

Do you believe in angels, Abbs?

Knowing her voice and the name only she called me, I answered, Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody? I smiled, looking up at her.

Tami laughed. Not everybody. You are one of a kind, Abby Je Louangé Vérité Manning—and your name is too much of a mouth full. There’s no one like you . . . and that’s why we’re best friends. You’re going home with me. I have something to show you. She laughed again, helping me to put books back into my locker, then hurrying off to her class. See you later. Usual spot.

This year, taking all gifted and talented courses separated me from my treasured friends, Tami Sellers and her cousin, Jim Sellers, who reached out to me when I first moved to Hamilton Valley, Texas, three years ago. I was a mess, and though I thought we had nothing in common, they accepted me from day one and never judged me. There were those who were friendly and those who weren’t. Some would stare or ignore me all together. I couldn’t blame anyone for what they thought about my facial port-wine stain—this huge, dark, bluish-purple-colored stain that looked as though it had been poured over the left side of my forehead and cascaded down over my left eyelid then one drop dripped, like a tear, right under my lower eyelid. I only wanted to be accepted for me.

Seeing Tami always made me smile. Like my destiny of becoming an artist, I had taken for granted that study hall, at Hamilton Valley Senior High School, would always be a safe environment, and that Tami and Jim would always be there for me. In the study hall, I always felt happy and self-assured in Ms. Bale’s room where I sat, middle row, last desk. She had a way of lifting our spirits and putting smiles on our faces that lingered well after we had left her classroom. But today, I felt a sense of panic as I stood at the door and realized there had been a seating change. The rows of desks that once faced the teacher’s desk now faced away from it. I imagined having to enter and sit right in front of the window wall, a solid sheet of reflective glass where I would be forced to look at my image. My self-consciousness was so consuming that I found myself staring down at the floor and finger-combing my security locks—the long hair that fell over the left side of my face, covering my mark. I dared not to glance up as I hurried to my seat as Ms. Bale spoke.

Enjoy the lovely view of the atrium until we leave for spring break, she said in her pleasant manner. Everyone cheered but me.

Nervously I sat, keeping my focus in my library book, not reading—being destroyed by the seating changes. I could never glance through the glassed wall without seeing the reflection of what caused me so much pain. Though I kept my mark covered, I still could see it there.

Head buried in my library book, I gave no thought to my special secret reading about angels. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder and my breathing stopped; my head jerked up from my book. Then I saw that it was Mrs. Jenkins, the secretary, and inhaled her loud fragrance as she handed me a note. Little did she know that what she’d handed me would deliver the same feeling of uneasiness as the seating change. A note from Tami meant that she and Jim had to leave school unexpectedly and I’d walk home without them. While thanking Mrs. Jenkins, the bell rang. I rushed from the room to my locker, finished stuffing my books, sketchpad, and the note into my backpack and anxiously hurried to the school’s entrance. Being a quiet fourteen-year-old, I had acquired over many years of practice, the ability to withdraw unnoticed in a crowd. Walking home slightly behind the others, I hoped for invisibility.

Tami and Jim would always walk with me. Some days, instead of turning off on their street because of those who didn’t understand me, they would walk with me to my front door, until I stopped letting them. It wasn’t safe for them. This was my battle to fight. With my backpack over one shoulder, constantly glancing behind me, I continued walking with the students living closer to my street.

Suddenly, a hush fell over everyone as the big Texas sky darkened and raindrops began showering down, and the others began to run to their homes. It always seemed to happen right in front of this old, deserted house that reminded me of a haunted house. Just as unpredictable as the changing Texas weather, without warning, I felt my backpack yanked from my shoulder and my books spewed over the sidewalk. A sharp slap on the back of my head with a solid push, and I stumbled hard to the sidewalk. Like before, on days I’d walked alone, the three older girls surrounded me in front of the old house.

Ellen Jones, the leader, was a heavyset, tall girl with a baseball cap pulled over her short natural hair, alone with Millie McCarthy, who wore her long red hair in a ponytail, and Jessica Candor, all three dressed in oversized shirts and jeans. Ellen spoke in a raspy voice. Miss me, little Abby? Here, let me help you. She pretended to care.

Of all the books, notebooks, and papers scattered over the ground, she picked up my sketchpad to taunt me with, raising it over my head then passing it around. When it came back to Ellen, she started to open my sketchpad. I couldn’t let her see my treasured artwork. It was a part of me. Give it back, Ellen, I shouted. Give it back! I reached up and yanked it out of her hands. My art held the best part of me—my destiny.

Don’t cop an attitude with me, you little off-colored-eyed witch.

I’m not a witch! Just leave me alone.

Ellen was furious as she slapped my head harder. I tried to get up, but Millie and Jessica held me down. Staring down through tears at my skinned knees and hands, still holding tightly to my sketchpad, I prayed in silent desperation. I prayed as my tears mixed with the rain.

Lord. Please, help me—or let me die.

I’d prayed many times before, but this was the first time I’d mentioned dying. I really felt that death was my only solution. My will to fight had drained. I’d tried reasoning with them. I told the principal and teachers, who suggested I tell my parents, because there wasn’t anything they could do since the attacks were not on the school campus. I’d never tell my parents about the bullying. I’d already put them through so much after being kidnapped. So I told Ellen’s mother, hoping she would reason with her daughter. That only made things worse. I just couldn’t take anymore.

Suddenly, I felt Ellen yank my security locks, exposing the left side of my face. Crying out in pain, I grabbed her hand, trying to free her grip, but she yanked harder. Loud claps of thunder usually would scare me into hiding, but today, I was thankful that the rumbling in the skies hid my cries. As the gang circled around me in the rain, laughing, dancing, taking turns hitting me, holding me down while reveling in a sick ritual at their victory, my hand let go of Ellen’s hand. Holding my sketchpad to my chest, I stopped fighting.

I have scissors! And a new camera! Ellen proclaimed as the others cheered and Millie held the camera. We’ll pass these shots of her out at school, show the world this freak over the internet! They all laughed, naming it. Naming me.

I closed my eyes and waited to hear the scissors’ snip, waiting to see the fall of my security locks. Instead, I felt her grip release, and I opened my eyes as my hair fell, covering my face once more. Watching the scissors drop within inches of my knee, I saw a pair of Converse tennis shoes in front of me and this tall, well-built, older teenage boy wearing a jacket over T-shirt and jeans, towering over me. A halo of raindrops glistened like diamonds in his curly Afro, as rain ran down his handsome bronze face.

He had to be an angel sent from God. He said nothing, only glared at the others as they dispersed, calling him a crazy dummy. Ignoring them, he effortlessly, gently lifted me from the ground. Like a protective older brother, he took off his jacket and placed it over my wet shoulders. He picked up my books and backpack, tucking them under one arm, and with his free hand, he took mine. As if a sign of restoration, the gloom lifted. The rain stopped. A rainbow appeared, and we walked straight ahead. Amazed, I glanced at him and thanked God for sending an answer to my desperate prayer. I’d never seen the boy before. Where did he come from? Who could he be? But Ellen and her gang knew him, so he wasn’t someone new, only my angel.

He stared ahead with a sad, faraway look, a mood that matched my own in every way. Timidly, I pulled on his sleeve and he stopped, glancing to the left, right, then down at me, and asked, Which way?

I thought how innocent his voice sounded, yet confused and lost. I wanted to help him find his way. Finally, I pointed and choked out, Ash Berry Street. After a pause, I asked, Your name?

Benjamin Thomason, Jr. Just BJ. Then silence for about ten steps. Yours?

Abigail Je Louangé Vérité Manning. Just Abby. I hated introducing myself by using my full name—like a royal title. I’d asked my daddy why, and he told me he would tell me later. BJ and I said nothing until turning onto Ash Berry Street. Coming close to my yard, I glanced up at him with such gratitude. My eyes filled with tears as I touched the locks of hair saved from shearing, my security locks. I said, Thank you, BJ.

Stopping, his demeanor softened. He glanced at me with a look as if remembering someone dear to him. Though hardly any words passed between us, I knew that BJ and I were kindred spirits, hurting because of something unbearable that had happened to us, something that had pushed us to the point of desperation. Though I could only remember some parts of my terrorizing abduction, I wondered what it was that had happened to him. Reaching the paved walk to my front door, BJ handed me my backpack, and I handed him his jacket. As he turned to walk away, I feared never seeing him again. But reaching the sidewalk, he looked back with a quick smile, revealing a brief glimpse into his heart.

Tomorrow, Abby, he said.

I smiled as tears ran down my face. Tomorrow, BJ.

BJ walked me home every day just as he’d said until the day that Ellen moved away. In turn, I helped him with his studies until he caught up with his grades and graduated. I created an art appreciation class that advocated against bullying to honor him. Though we loved each other like sister and brother, we never shared our private pain, which sometimes made for awkward silence.

The beginning of 2002, BJ left Hamilton Valley to make a life for himself in the field of horticulture, and for me, it was sad having to see him leave. But I was happy for him because he was doing something he loved. He had promised to come to my graduation.

I was seventeen going on eighteen and graduating from high school with the highest honor in my class. Two weeks before graduation, while over to the Sellers’ home, Tami, Jim, and I made plans to have our graduation party together at their home.

Who are you bringing to the party, Tami? I asked, feeling a bit off track. Tami was beautiful both inside and out, not to mention her long, auburn hair and blue eyes and fashion-model looks.

Don’t worry about me, she said with this mischief look. I know someone who is crazy about you, but too shy to ask you. She smiled and pointed out the window at Jim, whose looks were similar to hers, plus being Hamilton Valley Senior High’s quarterback. Jim really likes you, Abby.

Are you kidding me? I couldn’t believe her this time. Sure, Jim was a great friend, but he could have any girl he pleased. Knowing my track record at dating, I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by being his worse prom date ever. I thought you were getting me a date for the party with one of Jim’s friends, not Jim. We laughed.

I was so happy until I received a call from my mama, Rachel Manning. She told me to come to the medical center. When I arrived there, she told me that my daddy, Nathan Manning, had been complaining of chest pains and he’d had a fatal heart attack and had died upon arrival. I couldn’t speak. I withdrew one more time, unable to face the truth of not seeing him alive. There was such a bond between us. Daddy was a great architect and an artist who lived art with a passion. He would combine poetry and art and taught me how to create art compositions from the poems he’d read.

I remembered the time when I was so traumatized after being kidnapped. I couldn’t speak or recall what happened to me. My daddy would come and scoop me up in his arms and whisper, My little princess will speak through her art one day, so don’t worry. I will always be here for you, and one day you will speak, and everyone will listen. In his arms, I felt so safe and protected. But now, he was gone, and I didn’t get to say good-bye.

The pain of losing him was unbearable for Mama and me. Though she never showed her pain openly, I knew she mourned him. He had a way that could brighten the room with his presence and smile. The only time I saw him show his anger was when BJ told about me being bullied and how he’d already taken care of it.

The day of Daddy’s funeral service, I walked in a daze beside Mama. Emotionally, I was numb. Mama and I wore black. Everyone wore black. While sitting in front of Daddy’s steel-gray casket with a casket spray of red roses and a red satin ribbon with gold letters that spelled out the word Family, my eyes were fixated on it. It was the last thing I remembered. When I came to, I was in my room with Tami, Jim, BJ, and several other faces watching me.

On graduation day, I stood to give my valedictory speech. And for a moment, right before I finished my address, I saw Daddy’s image appear, sitting beside Mama, who wept. He smiled and my last words were, I love you, Daddy. I remembered being helped from the stage by Tami, Jim, and BJ as the audience stood, clapping.

At the end of July, Tami and Jim moved to Los Angeles, California to attend UCLA. I sat on our patio, deep in thought, as life continued. Summer vacation meant missing everybody and being plagued with more time to ponder over thought-provoking questions about things Daddy never got to tell me. Like, why using my whole name was so important? And why was it important to never speak of the Vérité Album of the Dead to my friends? Daddy and I were close, but still, there were missing pieces. With so much time to think, it became clear that he had left me to find the missing pieces alone.

I knew that I was a victim of kidnapping and traumatized so bad that I feared the very thought of it. Something had been hidden behind a haze in my consciousness that needed remembering that only I could know. Standing, I watched another summer’s day slowly come to an end with nothing accomplished except a made-up mind to find the answers or allow the answers to find me.

However, one Saturday in August, approaching my eighteenth birthday, Mama and I were on our way to the Baker & Simmons Architects, Inc. outing, where Mama worked as the firm’s legal secretary. I stared out of the window of her midnight blue 2000 Catera. I really missed my Saturday art appreciation class. It always made me feel close to my daddy. As we journeyed to the Cascade Caverns, I thought of how Daddy would always listen to me, a trait Mama, who I loved dearly, had yet to acquire.

I watched her go on about how lovely the day was for a picnic in the park. She cheerfully asked one rhetorical question after another and then answered them as if she was reading from the tour guide brochure. I knew her cheerfulness was forced—her way of coping with missing Daddy and removing the silence in the car.

Did you know that the Caverns were discovered when someone’s cow fell in a sinkhole?

A sinkhole? The thought of being underground suddenly horrified me. I had no idea of why I feared being underground. To my knowledge, I had never been underground . . . except in the dark places of my recurring nightmare that started after my rescue. While Mama, though small in stature yet able to stand up to powerful men in corporate law and speak her mind, started to gush over the park like a schoolgirl, my fear increased. Suddenly, her countenance changed.

I remember after my parents died, she said. I moved from one foster home to another, she recalled wistfully. My adopted parents brought me here. That’s when I knew that Abigail and Horace Johnson loved me. That’s when they told me that I was their daughter because the adoption had been finalized. That’s why I asked Devin if he’d have the Baker and Simmons’ outing here this year. Missing your father made me miss them.

Mama, I didn’t know. It touched me to hear her share her past with me. She never talked about her childhood. She never shared her feelings much, not even her grief over losing Daddy.

Taking a sip of iced tea, she continued, It’s good for you to get out, Abby girl. You know how close your father and Devin were and he’d want you to come today. Besides, summer is almost over and college will be starting soon. This will be good practice getting into the social arena, meeting new people, making new friends.

I couldn’t