Page 3 of A Taste of Grace

“Thanks. Do you think I’m cured?” I held my breath and placed my hand over my stomach, awaiting her answer.

“The key is not isolating yourself. Rely on those closest to you for your healing. No matter how down you feel, you’re never alone.”

“I want to be healthy for a relationship and kids. I was always too busy for it, but I’d love to give it a shot now.” I beamed, pleased that I spoke positive words about my future out loud.

That simple action confirmed that was I was healing.

“From what you’ve told me about your mother, you’ll be as amazing as she was.”

I allowed Dr. Westmoreland’s compliment to wash over me like a waterfall. Through journaling, I began to realize it was okay for my plans to change and for me to dream new dreams.

“Will I have to take medication for life? I don’t want my mental state to impact my ability to be normal.

Dr. Westmoreland shook her head.

“Not necessarily. I’ll start you on a fifty-milligram dose of Zoloft. Connect with your family doctor for monitoring and adjustments. They will be part of your wellness team. Don’t overthink. Take it one day at a time.”

“Okay.”

By the end of my time at Whetworth, I felt better than I did before caregiving for Mama. With my bags in hand, I exited the facility with a new perspective, hopeful for what my new normal might be.

Uncle Keith hugged me tightly, nearly lifting me off the ground as he rocked back and forth to greet me with the most beautiful bouquet of pink fringed tulips I’d ever seen.

“I’m so proud of you, Grace.”

“I’m proud of myself, too.” I entered Uncle Keith’s car and buckled up, ready for the four-hour drive back to my parents’ home.

I looked up to the sunny sky and smiled, noting an angled beam of light that ascended directly from heaven. I took it as a sign that my parents were looking down on me and were pleased. They wouldn’t want me to go back to a dark place I might not escape.

Thank you, Father, for giving me a sound mind.

“I’d love for you to move to one of my empty properties in Farmerton. Rent free, of course.” Uncle Keith threw his idea out as we crossed the Alabama state line two hours after leaving Whetworth.

“I don’t do small towns anymore,” I spoke the words as respectfully as I could, given Uncle Keith’s ongoing kindness toward me.

He turned the air down and shot me a disbelieving look.

“What you talkin’ about? Once a country girl, always a country girl,” he teased.

“No sir, Unc, I’m done with peanut farms and tractor trailers. If there’s not an airport within a fifteen-minute drive, I don’t want it.”

Despite my protest, I couldn’t deny that the tall pine trees outside the passenger window were beautiful, reminding me of my childhood and the innocence I left behind.

The South was pretty and peaceful with its mild winters.

Most of the year, I could wear flowing sundresses and the open-toed sandals I loved so much.

“Come on now. Farmerton’s one of the fastest-growing cities in South Georgia. We need smart women like you building our community. One of the biggest megachurches in the area is there too—Haven of Hope and Blessings.”

“I’ve heard of that place.”

“Folks are moving in like bees to a honeycomb. You could meet Mr. Right there.” Uncle Keith’s voice trailed off as I stared out the window.

Since I shared my parents’ dreams with him, he didn’t hesitate to hint at the possibility of my “settling down with someone who could take care of me like a woman should be cared for.” Those were his words, not mine.

I shook my head.

“I’m doing just fine keepin’ in touch with my DC friends. We do virtual happy hours and quarterly girls’ trips. It’s hard to make new friends after forty anyway.” I plopped my hands in my lap and sighed, slightly discouraged that I’d have to start my life over no matter where I lived.

“Grace…” Uncle Keith hesitated and kept his eyes straight ahead, alerting me that he was trying to filter his words so they didn’t come across too harshly.

“Don’t start off with that isolation mess.

We may have started our relationship late, but I want to be close to you now that you’re back in my life. ”

I smiled, appreciative of my uncle’s protective nature.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Tell you what. Talk to my friend, Nita, about Farmerton. She knows everybody and can get you connected real fast. Dr. Westmoreland said you need good people in your life so you don’t get sick again. I’m just trying to help.” He spoke the words softly as if he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

Uncle Keith’s puppy dog eyes melted my heart. He had gone above and beyond for me since Mama’s death. The least I could do was hear him out.

“You’re right about the possibility of something new.”

He tapped the steering wheel with his fingertips in sync to the old school R&B music playing in the background and grinned from ear to ear.

“Pat raised me when Mama died, so I’ve got to do this for you. I can’t say I love Pat if I don’t help take care of you in your time of need.”

I beamed as I processed what my uncle told me. He was a lot more emotional than I thought. I closed my eyes briefly and counted to three, absorbing the positivity and compliments from Uncle Keith.

His kindness is real. Embrace it.

I opened my eyes and smiled.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, so I’ll consider your offer. How would this work?”

“For the next year, I’ll give you space and grace to heal in my favorite rental condo. It’s secluded but close enough for you to go to the store and grab a cup of coffee in town if you want. The utilities are on autopay, so you’ll only be responsible for your personal needs.”

“That’s gracious.”

“For a gracious person.”

There it was again, praise that made me feel seen.

“Since you aren’t employed by the feds anymore, this could open new doors for you. I have a little bay window seat where you can read and write to clear your head when you need to.”

Uncle Keith was right. I needed a break and a healing space since I wasn’t in the headspace to seek full-time employment right away.

“Okay.” I spoke the words with caution.

Uncle Keith beamed as if I’d given him a winning lottery ticket.

“Perfect. Nita and I will take care of you. She’s the director of the women’s ministry at Haven of Hope and Blessings. Y’all will get along just fine.”

“I can’t wait.”

It took me three weeks to move to Farmerton, Georgia. It was the right mix of country with a dash of cosmopolitan. As expected, the slow pace forced me to reflect and focus on my long-term healing.

When I entered the grocery store or perused the quaint shops in the town square, people stared. Some of them asked my name while others lingered as I spoke with associates.

“You’re not from around these parts, are you?” A short lady with a flowing muumuu asked when I entered the Wild and Free stationery store to purchase a couple of new journals. I remembered my manners and smiled.

“No, ma’am. I just moved here.”

No matter how nosy the woman was, the city girl in me wasn’t going to share all my business with a stranger.

“Welcome,” the woman said before moving toward the back of the store.

“Thank you.” I smiled again, determined not to let the natural nosiness of older Black folks in the South make me oversensitive or self-conscious.

The culture was different here, friendlier.

I forced myself not to shut down at the people’s unexpected kindness.

Part of my healing required that I be comfortable enough to share information about myself without being defensive.

I tapped into the advice of my therapist, knowing putting myself out there was the only way I would build community.

I completed my purchases and drove back to the single-story dwelling.

The two-bedroom, fully furnished house with modern amenities and old-school charm was the perfect place for me to rejuvenate.

Although it was much smaller than most homes in the area, its coziness aligned with where I was in this season of life.

Since Mama was a hoarder, I committed to being a minimalist, or at least, I tried to be. Because of that, I sold most of my belongings before moving from DC, including almost all of my heavy winter coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, which were a staple for East Coast winter weather.

Later that night, as Uncle Keith and I ate the homemade meatloaf with gravy, mashed potatoes, and greens I cooked to thank him for his hospitality, I looked around the house, pleased with my design choices. Small houseplants and personal photos reminded me of better times in my life.

“I swear you cook just like your Mama.” Uncle Keith grinned and scooped a big creamy pile of potatoes on his fork and put them in his mouth, rolling his eyes and moaning like he was in ecstasy.

“Help yourself. Mama left me a box of recipes. I figured I needed to put them to use.”

Uncle Keith nodded and wiped brown gravy from his graying mustache with a paper towel.

“Didn’t I tell you this would be the perfect place for you?”

“You did.”

Uncle Keith puffed his medium-sized chest out and beamed.

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

I was serious about that. No one owed me anything, so a place to start my freelance business and reestablish myself as an entrepreneur was a gift that exceeded my expectations.

After dinner and coffee, we walked out to the small porch and eyed the neat property.

“Uncle Keith, people here are nosy. If they ask about me, could you skip the part about being in a psych hospital? I don’t want that to be my primary identity.”

He nodded.

“I’m not messy like that.”

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

No matter how generous Uncle Keith was, I didn’t want to assume anything.

“We are.”

“Oh, and if anyone asks what I do, tell them I’m a writer. And my name is Grace Toliver, not Dr. Grace. People can be funny actin’ about titles.”