Chapter 1
Life, a Natural Sol-Fa
Love Under the Kola Nut Tree: What city moms didn’t tell you about creating fulfilling relationships
Dr. Arthur Morgan was one of the best surgeons and emergency room
doctors in the area. He not only loved his job, he romanticized it. He was
a healer, a customer service specialist, and a brilliant man. His zeal for life,
and everything about it, was reflected in his attitude. The more challenges he
faced, the better it was to be alive. He was like a handyman with tools during
surgery. Emotions soured during his toughest cases, and everyone knew it when
he paged his wife right after surgery and left the message “42.”
“42” was a term coined by his late father who practiced as a doctor and
missionary in the African village where Arthur was born. His father had
learned this language of numbers by breaking the secret code of the village
kids. He then used the resulting knowledge to infiltrate the mystical code of
the elders and usurp spiritual powers.
The number “2” was the key to the term. Seeing it, Arthur’s wife knew
he was on a high and only she could help him harvest that energy for a useful
purpose. Initially, she had not been so cooperative, but time and experience
taught her there was more to life and relationships than meets the eye.
Though Dr. Morgan’s personality exuded effervescence, number 2 did not
happen often.
It was 4:30 p.m. and Dr. Morgan had been paged in for an emergency
surgery. Patching up this kid would take about an hour, he estimated, and
he would be home in time to watch cartoons with his wife. Tonight was his
goof-off night; she would let him be a boy, which was what he had decided to
be when he grew up anyway.
Arthur was anything but typical; a pleasant combination of intelligent and
silly. He knew when to wear the right hat. Staying a kid, he could see things
from a level that grown-ups could not. Thus he always had the advantage
and, more often than not, he could solve any problem that was thrown in this
direction at work or at home. For MaryAnn Morgan, his wife of four years, it
was not love at first sight. It was intrigue at first encounter. I’ll tell you about
that later.
As news that little Micah had been hit by a car spread in the quiet Bethesda
neighborhood, the emergency room waiting room filled up with anxious friends
and relatives.
Thirty minutes earlier, five year old Micah had been playing soccer in the
yard with his friends Taylor and Kellie, while their mothers monitored them
from time to time through the kitchen window. They had been warned by their
parents not to play in the street.
Kellie had just dribbled past Taylor and kicked the ball towards the goal.
Micah tried to stop it but missed. As the ball wildly flew past him, Micah could
not break his run and found himself tumbling into the next-door neighbor’s
driveway.
Their neighbor, Mrs. Williams, had just rounded the corner into her block.
Her eyes were locked on the road ahead, which was clear of cars and people.
As she pulled into her driveway, she momentarily looked into the passenger
seat to grab her house key and garage opener, which she regretfully never kept
together. As she looked up, a thudding sound indicated that she bumped into
something, and simultaneously a spray of red swept across the front window
as deafening shrills pierced the air.
“What happened? Oh God, I hope I did not hit a kid!”
Five doors flew open at the same time throughout the close-knit
neighborhood. Both parents and children ran from their houses towards her
car. Horrific cries from Taylor and Kellie were signature signs that parents
recognized as “trouble!” Mrs. Williams had hit Micah with her car, and he
was bleeding profusely.
Someone had called 911 and the paramedics arrived within five minutes.
Even though she had been driving at less than fifteen miles an hour, the impact
on the body of a forty pound five-year-old was immense. Panic seized the
elderly lady as she imagined the possible outcome. Micah was like one of her
own grandsons. As the realization of what happened settled on her heart, she
broke into uncontrollable sobs.
Micah’s dad, Mr. James Walker, amidst all the noise and confusion looked
at her kindly and offered her comforting words. “It is not your fault, Ronda.”
He had the presence of mind to give her a quick reassuring hug as he got into
the back of the ambulance and sped off to Pierre Memorial Hospital.
The ambulance ride from James and Julie Walker’s home to Pierre
Memorial Hospital took five minutes, but it seemed like forever as he watched
paramedics inject tubes all throughout their son’s tiny body. Sweat beaded on
his wrinkled brow as James Walker knew his son’s life laid on the balance.
His nerves ate at his stomach, creating an urge to throw up. Though he was
a praying man, he could not focus on any prayer. His mind was on one thing:
his bleeding son helpless in front of him. The paramedics assessed Micah’s
situation and radioed the hospital, informing the ER doctors of what was to
come.
James Walker’s heart slammed against his chest and fifty-four years of
life flashed in his mind’s eye. Micah was his only child. He had wanted a
child, but only in a stable relationship, which had seemed to elude him until
he met Julie. Questions plagued his mind. Why hadn’t Julie been watching
Micah? Why were they playing out front when they had a large estate with
lots of grounds out back? What if he lost Micah? Don’t think such thoughts, he
counseled himself.
“Mr. Walker,” the paramedic broke him out of his panic, “calm yourself,
your son is in good hands and he will be okay. Dr. Morgan is on duty.”
Tears streamed down James’ face unawares to him. A foreboding feeling
plagued him relentlessly. How could something like this have happened? Why
him? The day had been a quiet, comfortable Sunday. Tomorrow would be
Memorial Day-a holiday and he had planned to it spend relaxing with Julie
and Micah. The suburban Maryland neighborhood was peaceful earlier today.
He owned a nice home. His life was finally the way he and other black brothers
dreamed of. He had a beautiful, faithful, doting wife, a good well paying job
that he loved at a company he owned, and Junior, the love of his life, his very
life blood. In one moment all of that changed. After Micah was born he rested
assured he would never die, as Junior was his mark on earth to show he had
been here and to continue his lineage. Now he ran the risk of losing Junior as
he laid on the gurney with the paramedics hovering over him. Everything he
cherished was at stake.
At the hospital, Micah was whisked into surgery room number 3 where
the reputable Dr. Morgan awaited them. The boy was still bleeding profusely
and needed immediate attention. James was rushed away as a primary blood
donor. Any time Dr. Morgan could use the patient’s own blood or family
blood he did. He had learned while in an African village that some things
about healing could not be explained in English. To the neophyte they were
mystical. Blood was one of them. Everything was set up in the few minutes
he had communicated with the paramedics in the ambulance. One beautiful
thing about Doctor Morgan was that all those who worked on his shift knew
his expectations, whether they were standard procedures or not.
The ambulance had left so quickly that Julie Walker rode in the car with
Angie, her neighbor. Angie was a single mom to eight-year-old Kellie and
five-year-old Taylor. They were best friends with Julie and James Walker’s son
Micah.
Julie was uncharacteristically calm. Angie glanced across at her and
observed Julie grabbing her purse so hard veins popped up on the backs of
her hands. Speechless, Julie’s eyes remained fixed on the road and she tensely
leaned forward in her seat.
“What did you say?” Angie asked. Then she realized Julie was talking to
herself…or was she singing softly?
At the time, Angie could not possibly predict how the incident would
change not only Dr. Morgan, Julie, and James Walker’s lives, but also her own
and that of her girlfriends. The waves of today’s events would resound deep in
their hearts for a lifetime.
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