Free Heart

By Shacora J. Moore

Free Heart is the heartfelt story of a fourteen-year-old orphans personal journey to discover and free herself from the pain of her past.

Since age eight, Rita Heart has been a ward of the state of Tennessee. As a teenager, she has witnessed and experienced a lot of pain, mostly stemming from unanswered questions about her biological parents and not having been adopted yet. As she believes that she has lived such an unfair life, Rita questions Gods intentions and plans for her; yet in the midst of her circumstances, God leads her to discover the lessons that cause her to let go of her past and press on toward a more promising future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: May 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449748678

Shacora J. Moore

Shacora Ja’ne Moore is an author, a motivational speaker, and an educator. In 2007, Shacora published her first book of inspirational poetry, entitled Only He Knows: Sounds of a Crying Soul. Shacora is a dedicated wife and mother. She currently lives in Nashville, Tennessee, and teaches English at an adult high school. Visit her online at www.moorefaith.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dear Diary,

Yesterday I cried and wished that my tears would wash away my pain, but the pain remained. Why must I continue to feel so alone, unwanted, and useless? Why must I live in a group home in Taylorville, Tennessee, that makes me feel like I’m on a deserted island? The waves of the sea are not beautiful. My peaceful clouds are filled with sorrow, and my emerald palm trees have died. There has to be an answer to my cries for acceptance.

I’m coming in one minute, I said.

I hurried down the steep, dusty, brown stairs, hoping that love awaited my arrival with open arms. I longed for love and care that would balance my life and contribute to my existence. I desired priceless actions, such as encouragement, affection, and support. Before entering Ms. Cook’s office, the sound of belly laughter reached my ears. I overheard a woman’s angelic voice say she was anxious to meet me. Wow, she wants to meet me, I thought. I quickly used my hand as a comb to brush back the loose strands of hair that had fallen from my ponytail. My T-shirt, which read Leave Me Alone, no longer seemed appropriate. As I contemplated running upstairs to change, Ms. Cook yelled, Rita, get yo’self down these stairs right now.

Ms. Cook’s voice reminded me of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. She truly annoyed every bone in my body. I adjusted my T-shirt, rechecked my hair, tied my shoes, crossed my fingers, and placed my I’m-really-a-great-child smile on my face. As I stood in the doorway of Ms. Cook’s office, my nose was greeted with the scent of Victoria’s Secret’s Love Spell. Many girls at my school took baths in that stuff. A petite woman with a beautiful face, who was wearing a pink blouse and a knee-length black skirt, stood in front of Ms. Cook’s desk. She had the most beautiful and warm smile. Her shoulder-length hair was styled with loose curls that framed her face. She was wearing high-heeled shoes that made her appear tall. She fit the profile of the mother I wished I had. Standing beside her was a tall, handsome, muscular, brown-skinned man, wearing black slacks and a gold shirt. He reminded me a lot of Denzel Washington. Without hesitation, the couple walked toward me with open arms as they eagerly introduced themselves.

Hello Rita, I’m Mrs. Whitfield, and I have heard so many wonderful things about you. As my heart knocked against the walls of my chest, I wondered what Ms. Cook had said about me. I hoped she hadn’t told them about my nightmares. Mr. Whitfield interrupted my thoughts as he extended his firm hand.

I have always wanted a daughter. Rita, I am so pleased to meet you. My wife and I have had several conversations with Ms. Cook about you, he said.

My joy-filled eyes shifted in Ms. Cook’s direction as she gave me a hard don’t mess this one up stare. Mr. Whitfield offered me his seat. As butterflies danced around in my stomach, I sat beside Mrs. Whitfield, hoping she was the mother God had sent for me. Within minutes, Ms. Cook said in her I’m trying to impress them voice, Rita, why don’t you tell the Whitfields about yourself?

"I’m Rita Heart. I’m fourteen. I enjoy writing poetry and watching The Cosby Show, and I … I … I am excited that you are interested in me. I exhaled after my mini-speech, relieved I did not have to reveal the true me—the Rita Heart who never had a mother to comb her hair, offer her advice, or simply say, Rita, I love you." The girl who longed to watch a football game with her father and who was never hugged by her grandmother. Rita Heart, the orphan who prayed God would send her a loving family.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself, I am Rita Heart. Before a tear escaped my eye, Mrs. Whitfield interrupted my pity party. Rita, what are your favorite subjects?

I love English. My English teacher always tells me I’m a good writer, but my writing doesn’t make sense to me. It is a lot of broken ideas.

I’d love to hear some of your work, Rita, Mrs. Whitfield said.

She would like to hear some of my work! Well, in order for her to hear my work, I would have to be given the pen of opportunity. Why would she want to hear the depressing life of an orphan who had not been offered a seat in society—an orphan whose only freedom was in misspelled words written on wrinkled pieces of paper? As I contemplated Mrs. Whitfield’s comment, I noticed Ms. Cook’s look of disappointment.

Rita, why don’t you read the Whitfields one of your poems? Ms. Cook asked.

Well, I … I … really don’t have anything I would like to share, I said. Silence filled the room as I searched for an excuse. I’ve been getting ready for the standardized tests we are taking next week.

Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield exchanged looks of concern, and Mr. Whitfield slowly looked in my direction. Rita, I’m sure you will do well on your tests. Ms. Cook informed us of how smart you are.

I quickly looked in Ms. Cook’s direction as she shot me an I know how to sugarcoat things smile. My grades are okay, I guess. I am an average student, I said.

Rita, you are above average. Average students are not as ambitious as you, Ms. Cook added.

Wow, this lady truly deserved an Oscar. I hadn’t seen acting that good since I had watched clips of Home Alone. I could not understand why the writer put those title words together. How could you possibly have a home and be considered alone? Only I knew what it was like to be alone.

Alone

A wall separates me from happiness

I’m trapped outside without hope

Tears form raindrops

As my clouds overflow with sorrow

Alone

With no hope for tomorrow

Rita … Riiiiita, Ms. Cook yelled.

Yes? I said, startled out of my thoughts.

Why didn’t you answer the Whitfields’ question?

I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.

Mrs. Whitfield smiled and placed her hand on my shoulder. Rita, which standardized tests are you taking?

English, math, and science.

Make sure you get plenty of rest, and eat breakfast before taking the exams, Mrs. Whitfield said.

Mr. Whitfield smiled at me and then looked at his wife. Ana, how many times did you do that when you were in school?

Well, about three or four.

But honey, you were in school for over twelve years.

This is not about me; it’s about Rita.

Ms. Cook and I sat and listened to the Whitfields go on and on about how and why I should prepare for my tests. Finally, Mr. Whitfield looked at me with a humorous grin and said, Rita, you’ll do well. I smiled, assured this couple would be a joy to have as parents.

As I sat there nervous, overwhelmed, and a little bored, Ms. Cook continued to audition for the leading role as house parent of the year. She talked on and on about how the children’s home was founded, the upbringing of each orphan, the support the home received from the state, the award she received in 1996, the adult girls who came back to visit, how she considered each child her own, and so on. While listening to her speech, I almost forgot I was supposed to be getting to know the Whitfields. Mr. Whitfield noticed my bored expression and asked me to tell him more about myself.

"Well, I’m just an average fourteen-year-old who follows the daily routine of going from school to home. I look forward to watching the five o’clock episode of The Cosby Show every day, and that’s about it."

Who’s your favorite character? Mr. Whitfield asked.

Rudy.

My favorite is Cliff.

I like him, too, but he always tells those long, boring stories.

Ha, ha, ha, that’s true. You see, Rita, I remember a time when I had to walk twelve miles to purchase my Jell-O Pudding, Mr. Whitfield said, imitating Cliff.

You sound just like him.

I know him, Mr. Whitfield said jokingly.

You do? I asked.

No, but I wish I did, Mr. Whitfield said.

Do you remember the episode when he was pregnant? I asked.

Yes, I had nightmares for a week after watching that show, Mr. Whitfield stated.

I started to laugh so loudly that I scared Mrs. Whitfield, who was still trapped in the conversation with Ms. Cook.

What’s so funny, Rita? Mrs. Whitfield asked.

"Me and Mr. Whitfield were just talking about the episode of The Cosby Show when Cliff was pregnant."

I’m surprised Jamal wants to discuss that show, Mrs. Whitfield said, winking at her husband.

Ms. Cook looked over at me. Rita, you should have said Mr. Whitfield and I, she said. Ms. Cook, she’s still learning. My wife is an English professor, and she still has not perfected the language.

Mrs. Whitfield smiled, reached for her husband’s hand, and said, It takes time. No one is perfect. Mr. Whitfield grabbed her hand. Ms. Cook smiled at the couple.

Mr. Whitfield, what do you do for a living? Ms. Cook asked as if she were reading the question from a piece of paper. Mr. Whitfield sat up straight and looked at me and then at Ms. Cook.

I’m a principal at the Whitfield School of the Arts, Mr. Whitfield retorted.

The name of the school kept ringing in my head. You have your own school?

Yes, Rita. I started the school seven years ago, Mr. Whitfield said.

Wow! Do you all have poetry classes?

"Yes. Our niece teaches that class. She wrote a book of inspirational poetry titled Only He Knows: Sounds of a Crying Soul."

Rita, maybe one day you could write your own book of poetry, Mrs. Whitfield said.

Yeah, maybe, I said with a hopeful grin.

As time passed, I savored every moment of being in the Whitfields’ presence. For once in my life, I felt wanted.

Chapter Two

Dear Diary,

The walls of my cell are closing in I find it hard to breathe. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce turns my stomach daily. This land of isolation has taken away my joy. I no longer wear a smile. I’ve met the Whitfields, and they seemed interested in me; however, Ms.