The Last Leaf of Autumn

By RC Littleton

About the Book
The author explores the process of emotional and spiritual healing. How one family deals with the hidden wounds left by the death of a beloved parent and spouse. Some are readily revealed while others are deeply concealed. Complicated by family dynamics—keeping secrets, manipulation, misuse of information—all play vital roles in the difficulty in discovering which is which. Very often emotional healing is the process and spiritual growth the journey that must be taken simultaneously.
While working through her personal issues Atarah soon discovers that neither spiritual growth nor emotional healing can happen in a vacuum. The main character must find the courage to reveal her own secrets even if she finds that she takes a detour or two or three along the way.

About the Author
RC Littleton was born in Donora, Pennsylvania. She holds a BA in Anthropology from Fordham University and a Master of Divinity from Drew Theological Seminary and a certificate in Family Development from Rutgers Schools of Social Work. She is an ordained Minister in the African Methodist Episcopal Church. RC is a member of the National Council for Negro Women and a former board of the National Association of Securities Professionals (NASP-NY) and the Mississippi Women’s Financial Educational Foundation Advisory Council. RC is the proud mother of one son and seven grand and great-grandchildren. Prior to retiring, RC was an avid skier and runner. Her publications include In that Moment, Stray Cats, and now The Last Leaf of Autumn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886834512

Book preview

Prologue

images_59_Copy153.png Running through the rain and trying her best not to get her shoes muddy, she fell flat on her face. Now her new dress (new being relative) was dirty and she was certain to get into trouble. She tried as best she could to wipe the mud from her clothes, but there was no doubt, she was going to get a whipping. Knowing that, she decided to take the long way home, hoping that the rain would help wash off some of the dirt.

As luck would have it, Miss Annie was coming down the road toward her and there was no place to hide so she picked up her pace, hoping that the old woman wouldn’t be able to catch up to her, and so she began to trot, but when she turned the corner, she saw her out of the corner of her eye, almost running. It was no use, Miss Annie for sure would tell her parents that she was playing in the mud, and, to make matters worse, she had run from her. She knew that she was sunk, no matter how she explained it, she would tell her father that she was filthy and had run from her. This was her lucky day when out of nowhere her father’s brother tapped her shoulder causing her to almost jump out of her skin. Hey, Uncle Stu, she said sheepishly turning to face him.

He nodded and handed her the shopping bag he was carrying. She took it and they began walking slowly toward his house. You know better than to say hey to me. She nodded and before she could say anything, he continued, Why are you running? he asked. She tried to explain, but all she could do was point over her shoulder, hoping that Miss Annie hadn’t seen the front of her dress. He said nothing and the next thing she knew, he insisted that she come to his house.

You might want to clean up some before you go home. Atarah smiled at him, but he only frowned, his normal facial expression. She followed him onto his porch and like clockwork, her father called her name. Nope, there was no getting away with it this time. Sighing deeply, she resigned herself to take whatever punishment was in store for her when she got home. She could only imagine what Miss Annie would tell him. No, there was no getting out of it. She did run from her and her dress was messed up.

Closing her eyes again, she smiled as she saw Miss Annie trying to catch up with them. The wry smile that appeared on Uncle Stu’s face, dampening the sense of impending danger that she was certain would follow once she got home. There must have been an angel following her that day because before she could answer her father, Uncle Stu pushed her into his house and yelled back to her father, that he needed her to help him with a few things and that he would send her home when she finished. Whew, she said as she smiled inwardly, someone was really going to help her.

When she saw herself in the mirror that morning, she almost didn’t recognize the face staring her in the mirror. She closed her eyes as she turned on the shower, thinking about what had gone on the night before and happily she discovered that it was just another bad dream, covering her face with her hands, rubbing her forehead as if she could wipe away the dream. It didn’t help. She could still see the looks of those around her, staring at her as if she had two heads.

Again, Atarah called on the name of the Lord, hoping that He would just pluck her out of the sight of those who were staring at her. The reality of her dreams seemed to be rooted in the brackish water surrounding her life. Her dreams had become more dramatic, frightening, and bizarre. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep. What was becoming abundantly clear to Atarah was that her life was changing dramatically, and she desperately needed to figure out her next steps. No matter what she’d tried, it didn’t help until she realized that she would have to face her father and brother alone. Family—can’t live with ’em and can’t live without ’em.

On the day I called, You answered me; You made me bold with strength in my soul.

Psalm 138:3 (NASB

Chapter One:

The Propensity to Forget

images_60_Copy156.png When the hackles on the back of her neck began to rise and fall with every intake of breath, she knew it was time to go home and face her father. Sitting on a bench facing the Monongahela River at 6:00 A.M. was breathtaking, but not this morning. Atarah had been running since 4:00 A.M. trying to keep her mind off of what she was about to do. All her fears seemed to overwhelm her at once. It just wasn’t about Morgan, and what he had done to her, it was about how could she have let it happen.

Throughout their relationship, there had been signs of his infidelity, but why did she feel the need to continue a relationship that had beaten her into a shell of a woman? What possible motive did she have for allowing this man, or any man for that matter, reduce her to a common statistic. No, she was not beaten physically, but emotionally she was as crippled as a paraplegic.

Atarah was always at the top of her class in every subject, she was not only smart, she was also intelligent and her athletic prowess could have guaranteed her a spot on the Olympic Team in three sports, but then she fell in love. It was the kind of love that snatched her virginity, trampled her emotions and darkened the light in her eyes, sucking the life out of her. Physically, there was not a mark on her, but emotionally, she could barely stand, and her soul was in hiding, disappearing with her self-image. Now, on the eve of his marriage to her best friend and former roommate, it all came crashing down around her head and her secret was out.

Atarah had been haunted by the images of children playing and laughing for the past few months, but now, she when she saw these images they were images of dead babies floating down the river. Some bloated, looking like logs without facial features, while others looked normal but had no eyes, still others seemed to smile as they floated past her face. Who could she tell about these bizarre dreams? What did they mean? There were no answers that could possibly explain how she had come to be sitting by the Monongahela River. Her bravado had dissipated into the morning fog, like the lights on a car moving through the thick mass of air as it passed through the night. Now what, she said out loud, as if she were expecting someone to answer her.

They lied. The experts who say things like, You’ll get over this, or, one of her favorites, What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. No, Atarah did not feel any of those things, because deep within the recesses of her soul, the abortions would always be with her. They could be covered up, but the scars they left behind would always be there as a reminder of the things she had done to please a man. The intensity in her eyes spoke volumes about who she was but did not reveal the night terrors she had ever since her mother passed away when she was seven. Even as a young girl, she kept everything bottled up inside, only revealing enough to let people know that she heard them.

Bracing herself against the chill of the cold morning air, Atarah began the slow trek back to her apartment, dreading the phone calls she had to make. Like the last leaf of autumn falling to the ground, with or without Atarah’s participation, change would happen, just as the seasons changed without forethought or knowledge, so had her life. The only question was whether she would come to terms with all the things she had done in the name of love.

The first call she made was not to her father or her brother but to her Uncle Stuart. He had always been there for her. Going home was the right thing to do, but how was she going to tell her father the entire truth about what she had been doing while she’d been away. She knew that as soon as she peered into her father’s eyes, it would be more difficult than anything that she’d ever do. Far too long she had been what everyone thought she should be, like a trained seal, she performed physical feats that could have landed her an Olympic gold medal, and, academically, she accomplished what most envied, but her chameleon act was now about to be blown sky high. So talented and intelligent, yet she lacked the strength to walk out on the man who made her unhappy and miserable. She had allowed him to take advantage of her on so many levels that it seemed impossible for her to have even noticed. She loved him in such a way that it clouded her judgment and rendered her weak.

Atarah was not a love-starved child, although she spent most of her life as though she were on the outside looking in. She always had the love of her father and brother, but it was never enough for her. In her mind, it seemed that no matter what she did, or how she did it, there was nothing she could do to make them love her more. It is probably the reason she settled for whatever she could get from Morgan. Atarah remembered doing handstands and cartwheels across the floor in her father’s makeshift office in their basement, so that she could get his attention. Little did she know that the men there were not paying her for her athletic prowess, but for giving them a show of her tiny little body! She never forgot the beating she got for it as well.

She even ate out of the garbage cans because she was hungry, not for food, but for love. She had no idea why she was taking food from garbage cans, but she knew that when caught, she would get some attention. This is probably why she told so many stories about how she grew up. She never felt wanted, or loved. She could never get enough. She was teased and called many names, especially greedy-girl because Atarah would stuff herself full until she would throw up.

Atarah wandered through her early life constantly looking for someone to fill the hole in her soul. Having lost her mother at seven, she could not understand why her father didn’t take notice of her behavior. She felt invisible, nonexistent, and unlovable. By the time Atarah reached her teens, what she told other people and she actually lived were two different stories. Every time she thought about marriage, the image running through her mind was the vision of her eating of a garbage can the way she did as a four-year-old child. Atarah worked hard at pretending that she didn’t need anyone until she met Morgan.

What was wrong with her that she could not see past his looks—the hair, the dimples–and his physical attributes that seemingly made the fighting almost worth it, had she not been haunted by the awful ‘nightmares’ of dead babies. The first one was the most difficult of all and took several months to get over it. She prayed constantly, day and night, for God’s forgiveness. Always believing that she and Morgan would be married if she ever got pregnant again.

Babe, you know we’re not ready for a family. You’ve got school and I’m working two jobs and trying to finish my degree. Having an abortion is the only way to go, Morgan said as they drove to the abortion clinic, for the second. You know that God will forgive you because He knows what we are doing is what’s best.

Atarah finally consented because she could not fight his logic. Turning a blind eye to his other faults because they had met in chapel, she never questioned his faith and believed that he was spiritual. Life had thrown her a curve, but she was determined not to allow what had happened to deter her, but her role as Morgan’s champion began to wear her down. Her Uncle Stu’s advice seemed to fall on deaf ears. In retrospect, she wished she had heard what he was actually trying to say about Morgan each time she called him for help.

There were many arguments about Morgan and how he treated her, but she was too much in love to understand what her uncle was trying to tell her. Uncle Stu, I know him and he’s really a good guy. I know he loves me. Well, if that were the case, then why isn’t there a ring on your finger? I told you, we’re waiting till we both graduate.

You know that’s a lot of malarkey right. I’m telling you, Atarah, he’s up to no good. Any man that forces his woman to have an abortion is not a man at all, he’s a— Uncle Stu, stop right there or I’m hanging up. Geez Louise, okay already, you know how I feel, so I don’t have to repeat myself, but you know it’s the truth.

How could she tell him that there were two others? As her words failed her, she could not force herself to tell him all that had really happened. She knew that he’d be there in a flash, causing her worse problems. Uncle Stu, how could I be so stupid?" Atarah finally blurted out.

Hey, what did I tell you about that kind of talk, you are not stupid, if anything, you are too smart for your own good!!! You’ve got more smarts than any two people I know, including me. So get your butt in gear and do something else. Listen to me, Atarah, any man that doesn’t appreciate you for who you are doesn’t deserve you. You don’t need a man that treats you like you are a piece of furniture. You hear me? What’s he got is nothing. He doesn’t have a car, never has enough money to pay the rent, and only works part-time and the only thing he gives you is a whole bunch of heartaches.

Listening to her uncle, Atarah’s courage began to surface, and she told him every sorted detail of her abhorrent relationship with Morgan; right down to the invitation she just received announcing his wedding to Monique, her former best friend. My goodness girl, why didn’t you call me sooner? Have you told Dakota or Little A? Stu asked. No, and you can’t either. I did tell Anthony a little, but not about the abortions, I’ll tell them in my own time.

Oh no. Atarah, come on, you know I can’t keep this kind of stuff from your father. He’ll kill me for sure and you know it. I’ve tried to stay out of your relationship with your father, but you’ve got to come clean with him about all this stuff with Morgan. I mean everything, even the stuff you haven’t even told me. Is that clear? It makes me sick to my stomach knowing that for the past two years you’ve been lying to me. I don’t know how Dakota’s going to react, but I do know that he loves you and because of that, he will eventually forgive you. You know that brother of yours, he’s not going to keep what he knows very long, and he’s probably just waiting for the right moment to blow your little butt out of the water. So, no matter how this plays this out, to me it’s a win-win situation for us both—you win because you lose the looser and I win because I get my niece back. You hear me?

Yes, yes, I do, but right now, the first thing I’ve got to do is prove myself that’s why I’ve got to make this deal happen, Atarah said, pleading with her uncle. Not many people ever get the opportunity to start over, but that’s what God has given you. You need to take it and run with it. Keeping your head held high as you walk with boldness into the new life that God has so mercifully granted you. Remembering the words of Rev. Sara, she smiled to herself when she heard her Uncle Stu say almost the very same thing. Yes, she was grateful to God for allowing her this opportunity to stand strong, and yes, she would take this time to get herself together and come clean with her father and brother.

Chapter Two:

Hidden Wounds

images_63_Copy159.png The healing process is usually long and arduous, sometimes by design, but mostly because of the fear associated with change. The problem is that everyone has to go through it on their own, at their own pace, discovering through the journey, its purpose and yes, it is a process. There are times when one is able to detect the process as it is happening in others, and can adequately assist them in getting through it.

However, there are times that one cannot discern that they are going through a process and fail to recognize it for themselves. It is frustrating, frightening and demoralizing. The strain of going through their own process leaves them feeling like they are being pulled in a direction that brings about uncertainty, not only of the process, but what one can expect at the end of the journey. In the end, it can either draw one closer to God or they fall into the abyss of nothingness. Atarah closed her eyes once more and contemplated what direction was she headed and was it where she needed to go.

Several weeks ago, I had the distinct a impression, a feeling, a sensation, or whatever you want to call it, that I was about to embark on a journey that would take me places that I was not quite prepared to go, even if I wanted to go. I recognized that I was growing spiritually, but was I ready to truly turn my life around? I was still holding onto a semblance of what I called normalcy. Meaning that I had one foot firmly planted on one side the abyss and the other was dangling high above it, not touching anything.

 It was as if all I had to do to balance my life was to keep that one foot up in the air. I strongly felt that if I were to put it down that I would be engulfed in something that was totally unfamiliar to me, uncertain, and, frankly, scary. There was no getting around it. Honestly, I was tired of holding my foot up, but I was intimidated by what was surely to follow if I were to put it down. It was as if I was being split right down the middle. I remembered telling my pastor/friend/therapist that I felt like I was standing over a razor blade and no matter which way I positioned myself, I was going to come away with some cuts and wounds that I had not anticipated. No, I was not ready to make the necessary changes that would certainly give me a steady, less unencumbered life. However, I wasn’t quite ready to decide on which side of the razor blade I wanted to come down on, only that it was time for me to come down.

I had not decided which side to come down on when I discovered that the decision had been made for me. I just knew it one morning when I realized that I was no longer in as much pain as I had been just a few days ago. No. I know I didn’t decide to come down on either side. No, I wasn’t sleepwalking or anything like that, but I was unaware, unconscious, and oblivious—I simply was not cognizant. Steps were being followed that I hadn’t planned on taking. I thought that I was okay just living on the outskirts of my life.

I was not aware that I could ever be happy. I had lived most of my life accepting that happiness was something that would always elude me. I was aware that there were just some folks who would never find true happiness. No, I wasn’t exactly unhappy. I just never gave it much thought until my spirituality began to grow. Happiness had never been an objective of mine. I considered myself lucky to have a few good days. Period!!! When things worked out well for me, it was good. I was glad, but happy? I don’t think so.

I was not prepared for happiness to become a major part of my life. On the outside, I always had this huge smile that told people that I was content. However, if they looked deeply enough, they would have seen the shadows behind my smile. It took me years to notice, so I know that it was not obvious to others. I laugh now when I think of how easily I fooled everyone, especially my father and brother. They never really knew what I was thinking. It was Uncle Stu that often noticed that I was pretending, but even he didn’t have the courage to rat me out. For the most part it wasn’t their fault; it was because I was such a good liar, a true chameleon. I made them believe that I was totally happy. So much so that I even believed it myself. I would make up stories of how wonderful my life was going. I always had a good story to tell. I didn’t know what a spin doctor was back then, but I think I perfected the craft. I had everyone believing I was something I was not. In the long run though, it was me who began having trouble distinguishing fact from fiction.

When I met Morgan, things seemed to change for the better and I felt what I thought was happiness. When the relationship began to come apart, the reality of it hit me so hard that I was certain that there could be no recovery. I was devastated. It was the most difficult time I had ever experienced, much of which was self-created, self-induced. I came face-to-face with my own worst creation, and I didn’t like it one bit. I had to find the courage to face who I had become.

Coming face-to-face with myself scared me witless. I hated that person who lived inside of me, and I felt completely powerless to control the effect she had on me. I did things on the outside to dress me up, but in the end, when the makeup and the clothes came off, I was reduced to a semblance of myself—a pile of dirt, ashes. I crumbled at the thought of having to look at myself in the mirror. I stayed on that vicious cycle until I built up such a cover story that I no longer recognized who I was. That’s when the nightmares became worse.

For several months, I continued this fake persona until I was consumed with fear. It finally begun to weigh so heavily on me that I was drowning in my own stuff. I was rapidly sinking into that abyss that I dreamed about. The one in which I almost died. That place where I felt that I was being erased. The one that I felt death would be a welcome change. It felt like I could no longer stand on my own and was in desperate need of some major changes, a way to counter the fears that were rapidly beginning to overwhelm me. The abyss of nothingness was threatening to overtake me, and I was about to slip completely away.

I became aware that I had arrived at a place that I had not anticipated or even expected—nothingness, numb, unconscious, and scared out of my mind, jumping at shadows, hearing voices, torn, and broken—on the precipice of no return. I had the occasion to drive home to spend a few days with my father and brother. It’s about a seven-hour drive from where I currently live. The drive itself was easy and I’ve often used it as a salve to help me heal from the wounds of life. This time was no different.

Only I wasn’t aware that this was happening. Not like the time I had decided to leave Morgan. That time I had some decisions to make and with each mile I came closer to accepting the fact that my relationship was over, no, that it had been over before it started. I was just in denial and wasn’t ready to face the truth about us. This trip was like the time I went home to attend a memorial service for my mother. I prayed as I crossed the state line and, by the time I arrived at my fathers, I had made peace with her death once more. Even though my mother passed when I was only seven, I felt her presence every mile I traveled towards home. No. this trip was completely different. My mind was a complete blank until I made the last turn.

Driving up the road, time seemed to stand still and and I saw my life as I grew up. Both the good times and bad times were being played out before my eyes. It seemed that I had missed something very important during that time and it was now time for me to see just what it was. It was difficult to keep my eyes on the narrow lane, so I pulled over and began to cry. For what, I don’t know, I just felt the need to cry and I did. I cried for all the things that I had done as well as for all the things that I did not do. I cried for the little girl that was always getting in trouble. I cried for the youngster that was so clumsy that everyone teased her. I cried for the teenager that was misunderstood every time she opened her mouth. I cried for the person that I wanted to become. I cried for the person that I had become. I cried for the lost dreams. The ones I didn’t remember having until just that instant.

I cried for the times I wanted to tell my father about the things that had been done to me. I cried for the times that I tried and was told that because I was such a good liar that no one would believe me. I cried mainly because I feared what I had done to myself, and I could not stop crying. This was strange in it and of itself because there was no audience. I rarely cried without having someone there that would try to feel my pain and be willing to do what was necessary to help me through whatever the latest crisis. That was who I thought I had become.

I had taught myself not to cry unless there was someone around to witness my tears. Don’t get me wrong, I cried plenty times while alone, but early on, I had discovered that you could get attention (positive or negative didn’t matter) when there was a shoulder to cry on! Somewhere along the way, I confused getting attention with getting love. I craved love but had settled for attention—much of which was negative. I didn’t know the difference back then and so it was all that I had. As a young adult, I had stopped some of my more destructive behavior but still, I craved love, and it was here that the two became synonymous, causing the internal and the external to divide.

The outside became hard, distant, and unyielding, the inside becoming more frightening, lonely, insecure, and confused. When I drew a line in the