Diary of a Mad First Lady (2 page)

“Ms. Carlton, after reviewing all of the testimony presented against you, it concerns me that a person would go to the levels that you have gone to interfere in someone else’s life. I am persuaded that a person with all of their faculties wouldn’t concoct the things that you did; which is why I’m ordering you to spend two years in a highly secure mental institution in your hometown of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. In addition to that, I’m ordering a permanent restraining order to be in place. Please take this time, ma’am, to come to your senses.” With that, he slammed the gavel.

The heifer was finally getting what she deserved. I hoped with every vengeful nerve in my body that Daphne would rot in that mental institution that the judge had just ordered her behind to for the next two years. Although it was wrong, I prayed that she would spend every minute being tortured by people just like her, in the same way that she had tortured me for the past year.

My husband, Darvin, shook hands with our attorney as I watched the guards take a crazed-looking Daphne out of the courtroom. I shook my head in hopes of shaking away the memory that this woman ever existed. All I had ever wanted since getting into my role as First Lady of Mount Zion Baptist Church was for God to send me a friend, someone I could trust. Being in ministry was not an easy thing; being the pastor’s wife was even more difficult.

It was true that I had other friends who were first ladies, but they were all so busy with their own lives that we only had time to see each other once a week.

The day I met Daphne, I had only been a first lady for a few months. I was having brunch at a quaint little diner in midtown. It was one of my favorite little spots to retreat to when I didn’t want to be recognized by anyone, be it a church member, or someone who knew me as being the wife of the highly esteemed Pastor Darvin Johnson.

Darvin had become one of the most recognized pastors on TV, with his sermons being broadcast on stations all over the country. Each broadcast began with him welcoming viewers to the show, and me standing beside him, flashing my 1000-watt smile. So, not only did people recognize him when we were out, they recognized me as well.

Sitting in the rustic restaurant that was popular for its chicken pot pie, I inhaled the fragrance of peace and serenity. I savored the sweet moments of relaxation as I prepared to delve into the lunch portion of the restaurant’s special that the maître d’ had just placed before me.

As the scent of my lunch tickled my senses, a stylish woman wearing a knee-length red sweater and black fishnet stockings, with thigh-high black patent leather boots, sauntered into the restaurant, commanding the attention of those of us in need of a makeover. Her hair was a brown shade with bronze highlights, and soft curls framed her face. Her skin was a flawless color of butterscotch, and if her makeup had been any more intact, I would have questioned whether she was real.

The hostess seated the young woman at a small table in the corner. As the woman sat down, she removed a leather portfolio from a black attaché and retrieved some papers that she immediately began to mull over. The woman looked as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

I soon turned my attention back to my sweet delight, and within thirty minutes was paying for my check and getting ready to head back into the buzz of my reality.

I grabbed my Fendi bag, tossed my leather coat over my arm, and walked toward the front exit.

“Nice purse,” I heard a woman say.

I turned to see that it was the woman I’d been admiring earlier from a distance. Up close, she was even more perfect. “Thanks,” I said. Darvin had purchased that purse for my birthday and I wore it proudly.

“You’re the first woman with such impeccable taste that I’ve seen since moving here to Atlanta,” she continued. She picked up her glass of Pinot Noir and sipped it, leaving a shiny coat of lip gloss on the rim.

“That’s hard to believe,” I said, laughing, thinking that she had to be joking.

Atlanta was definitely a city chock full of beautiful and nicely dressed women.

“Well, honey, believe it. I’ve only been here for a few days, and from what I can tell, no one comes close to being suitable for the cover of any magazine,” she said, her voice dripping with arrogance.

Taken aback by her load of self-confidence, I said, “Maybe you haven’t gone to the right places. I know plenty of women—some being my friends—that would prick the fashion atmosphere they’re so sharp.”

That garnered a hearty laugh from the woman, who must have thought she had landed on a planet occupied by style disasters.

“Girl, that is too funny. I haven’t heard anything that hilarious in a very long time,” the woman said.

Not understanding why my words were so funny to her, I decided to move on and let the fashion queen enjoy her lunch. “You have a nice day,” I said, trying to force a smile.

She threw her hands up, and the gesture brought attention to the many black and red bracelets dangling from her wrist. “Wait. I’m sorry. But, it’s just that your statement reminded me of my family down in Alabama, who I would spend summers with as a child.” She dropped her head in more laughter. “They were some extremely polished country bumpkins.”

I glared at this woman whose repulsiveness was making me forget all about the nice, peaceful moments I’d just had.

“Mmm. Well, thanks for that, ah, compliment. Enjoy your lunch,” I said, and stormed out the door before she had time to continue her insults.

Darvin’s nudging brought my mind back to the present. Now, standing in this courtroom, thinking about how much hell Daphne had caused me, I should have known that day that Daphne could have never been my friend.

A month or so later, when she had shown up at the doors of Mount Zion Baptist Church, she’d done everything she could to prove to me that she was nothing like the woman I’d met that day in the diner. She volunteered on several ministries that I was closely involved with, and had many times over proven her competency to be a hard worker. She and I had spent long hours working on church events together; and when everyone would get tired and retreat home, Daphne would always stay behind to help. She soon became the person I turned to for many things.

“Michelle?”

Once again, Darvin interrupted my thoughts. “Yes, baby?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“No. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Daphne,” I admitted.

“Honey, there’s no need to think about her anymore. This time Daphne is out of our lives for good,” he said reassuringly. He put his arm around the small of my back and led me out of the courtroom.

A few reporters had gathered outside to ask a few questions, but it had been already decided that Christopher Tate, Darvin’s best friend and our attorney, would make statements on our behalf until we were ready to hold a press conference.

“Are you hungry?” Darvin asked.

“A little. I’m mainly tired. I would prefer to go home and get some rest.”

He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with the new sound technician at the church in two hours. You want to just grab something to go and then head home?”

I glared at him. “How could you set a meeting today? Do you know how taxing this whole thing with Daphne has been on me? I was hoping to enjoy a quiet evening with you free of church business.”

He rolled his eyes in frustration. “How many times do we have to go over this, Michelle? I’m sorry, but I can’t allow this situation—or should I say this former situation with Daphne—ruin the rest of my day.” He looked around and realized that people were beginning to stare at us as we stood on the courthouse steps. He dropped his voice lower. “Look, I promise when I get home tonight, it’ll just be me and you.”

“Darvin, that’s not my issue,” I said, frustrated with his failed attempt to pacify me. “Every night when you get home, it’s me and you. The baby is already asleep when you arrive. But, once you’re there, our routine consists of the same thing every single night. We eat dinner, and then you’re off to your office to prepare a sermon. There is hardly ever any intimate time spent between us. When it is, it only involves sex.” I felt my eyes get moist. “I just want us to have a day free of anyone else or any other business. I want us to maintain our relationship.” I stroked his cheek.

For a minute, I thought he was actually considering my plea. But then, he looked deep into my eyes, and I could tell that he was searching for a way to let me down gently. I had grown to know when I’d actually gotten through to him, and I could feel that this was not one of those times.

“Why don’t I call Greg and see if he can meet me right now instead of in two hours? How does that sound? That way, I can take this off of my to-do list and spend the rest of the evening home in bed with you, watching old movies.”

I stared holes into him. I concluded that he must have a fever. Either that or he couldn’t hear. I didn’t want to be brushed off while he scratched off another item on his to-do list. I was always taking a back seat to his stupid list. Matter of fact, at times I felt that if there were ten things on it, I was number ten.

I started walking away. If I spoke right now, I would say the wrong thing. We had only been married for a few years, but I could remember our pre-marital counselor saying, “When you are in a heated moment that’s too intense for a response, walk away; for it’s better to walk away than to do or say something that you’ll later regret.”

“Michelle!” he called.

I kept walking.

“Michelle, girl, you know you hear me talking to you.”

I still kept walking. I crossed the street to the parking lot where I had parked my car. Suddenly, I heard car horns blowing. I turned around to see Darvin’s tall behind trying to stop cars by holding his hand up in the stop formation. If I wasn’t so frustrated, I would have laughed at his silly self.

He ran up to me. “What are you trying to do? Get me killed?”

“Nobody told you to be deceived into thinking that you were some type of rubber, able to endure being run over by a car if it should hit you,” I said sarcastically.

“Listen, honey,” he said as he caressed my arm. “I’m sorry. I know that I’ve been really busy lately, and maybe you’re right; we haven’t spent much time together. But, baby—”

“Don’t ‘but baby’ me. I’m tired of the excuses. I’ve been patient. I knew when I married you that things wouldn’t be as they are in normal relationships, but I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t care who it is; if you don’t spend time with your spouse, your marriage will be doomed.” I moved away from his touch. “Either we start spending time together, or we’re headed for disaster.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked in the tone he used when he was frustrated.

“I don’t want you to do anything. I only want you to be my husband. Whatever that means to you,” I said.

I turned and walked to my car. As I drove away, I saw that Darvin was still standing frozen in the spot I’d left him. So many thoughts were racing for first place in my mind. This situation with Daphne had certainly taken its toll on me, and ultimately, our marriage. God only knew if we would ever be able to fully recover from it. I knew I’d probably overreacted, but I didn’t care right now. After more than a year of battling with the psychotic behavior of Daphne, it was a wonder anyone knew how to act properly.

I hated the day that I had ever allowed her in my home. In my life. In my husband’s life. Who could truly blame her for being infatuated with Darvin? After all, I married him. He was a good man—sometimes too good—and it always seemed that some other woman was after him.

But Daphne had taken it too far. Her tactics had gone well beyond the point of admiration and had turned into obsession. Pretending to be Darvin’s wife was the final straw. Little did we know this floozy had established her entire life as Mrs. Darvin Johnson. How stupid.

My head ached with the force of a volcano eruption thinking about all that had transpired over the past couple of years. Darvin was right; it was time for me to start moving beyond the past and focus on Michelle.

Chapter One

Michelle

Two years later

I awakened to the rays of sunshine peeking through the bay windows in my bedroom. Had it not been for the rumbling in my stomach, I would have dived deeper into the sheets, even after my alarm clock went off. But the fight going on in my stomach suggested that I better get up before what little was in it came out. This first trimester of pregnancy had been a good one, but every morning I woke up, I felt as though I had not eaten in ages.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, put my feet in my fluffy hot pink slippers, grabbed the matching pink terrycloth robe that was resting on my chaise, and headed to the kitchen. On my way out of the room, I noticed my husband’s empty spot in the bed. Since finding out that I was pregnant, I was no longer able to drag myself out of bed in time to attend the early morning service, and every Sunday at 6:30
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, my husband, Darvin Johnson, left the house to go and preach the 7:00
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service.

I pulled open the door to the refrigerator to determine what I would eat. The pineapples and strawberries looked appetizing, but this morning I needed something more than fruit. Being just four months along, I was beginning to show a bulge in my stomach. If I weren’t pregnant, I would have rebuked the thought of what was to come next in hopes of getting rid of the “pooch”; but under the circumstances, I decided on beef sausage, two eggs, cheese grits, wheat toast, and some Cran-Grape juice. As I prepared my food, my stomach began dancing from the anticipation of what was to come. Both my stomach and I knew that my hunger troubles were about to be over.