Nobody's Son

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

by
Zaria Garrison

 

 

This book is dedicated to my son,
John Devanté Garrison

First and foremost, I must thank God who is the head of my life and the true author of all of my books. He is the reason that I write what I write. The reason I am who I am. I give Him all the glory and all of the praise.

Thank you to all of the readers who've read my books in print or e-book. I realize that without readers there would be no writers, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Lastly, thank you to my husband, my son, my friends, and my family for continuing to support me as I live my dream of being a writer.

Wayne blinked his eyes trying to focus in the darkness. His abductor had just taken off the blindfold that had been surrounding his face and blocking his vision. It really didn't matter because all he could see in every direction was blackness. Seated on a hard wooden chair his hands were bound behind his back and his feet were tied tightly to the chair legs. After untying the blindfold, his abductor reached for the ropes, but to Wayne's disappointment, he tightened them, making sure that he could barely move.

“Who are you, and what do you want from me?” he screamed into the darkness. His voice echoed, then faded into silence.

His captor had not spoken a word since he'd grabbed him from behind just as he was exiting his condo. Wayne was about to get into his car when he felt a gun poking into his back. Even though he was petrified, he didn't panic. Instead, he calmly cooperated while praying that the assailant would take his wallet and leave, but the abductor didn't want money or Wayne's brand-new slate-blue Cadillac Escalade. He wanted Wayne, and he quickly blindfolded, bound, and gagged him, then threw him into the back of a utility van. They drove around for a while, and Wayne soon began to feel motion sickness. His stomach buckled, and he felt nauseated. Finally, the van stopped, the door opened, and Wayne felt himself being dragged forward with his arms pinned tightly behind his back. He heard a large garage door screech loudly, open, and then close behind him, so he assumed he was in some sort of warehouse building. Wayne was unsure how much time had elapsed since his abduction, but he guessed it had been several hours. His body was sore and fatigued, and he was beginning to get sleepy, so he imagined it was late in the evening. The rumblings in his stomach also let him know that it was way past dinnertime.

“I'm hungry. Aren't you at least going to feed me?” he screamed.

“Later,” a gruff voice said.

Two weeks earlier . . .

 

Semaj sighed as he sat in the waiting area of the bakery. His bride-to-be, Ellen, was glowing with excitement as she waited anxiously for the baker to bring out wedding cake samples. Semaj had no idea when he'd proposed six months earlier that his weekends and some weekdays would become consumed with cake tastings, color palettes, wedding invitations, and all things bridal. He had been bored to tears when Ellen tried to explain to him the difference between emerald, moss, apple, and hunter green while she was choosing bridesmaids dresses. It took all of his strength to stay awake when she droned on and on about the pros and cons of whether to have tulips or roses in her bouquet. Semaj wouldn't know the difference between Chantilly lace and burlap, but Ellen knew, and it mattered greatly when she was choosing her bridal gown. All of the details bored him to tears, but he loved Ellen Winston with all of his heart and thanked God every day for bringing her into his life.

Most people, including Semaj, considered him a loner. He was raised by his grandparents, who both passed away during Semaj's senior year in high school. Their sudden deaths left him alone and on his own. He'd managed to work his way through college with a myriad of different part-time and odd jobs, which eventually led to his career. While attending college, Semaj took a job in the mail room of a local news station. Following graduation, he became an intern, a reporter, and eventually worked his way up to anchor. He was proud to be one of the most respected and highly paid anchors in the city. Although he anchored the nightly news, his passion was the special projects he found himself involved in. He'd dedicated his career to helping people find missing loved ones. He'd assisted people in finding long lost siblings, former lovers, and even parents.

Feeling bored as they waited for the baker, Semaj pulled out his iPhone and began to check his messages. An unfamiliar name in his e-mail inbox caught his eye just as the bakery owner entered the room with a plate full of assorted cakes.

“You guys are going to love these samples,” she exclaimed excitedly.

“I hope you don't have anything with strawberries in it,” Semaj said. He noticed several pieces of cake that were pink in color sitting on the tray.

“Your fiancée told me that you are allergic to strawberries, but I included a few for her to taste anyway. Many couples choose to have a different flavor of cake for each layer.”

“Baby, don't worry, we will be sure that you don't get any of the strawberries today or on the wedding day,” Ellen assured him.

Semaj shook his head as he realized that once again he was only along for the ride and that nothing he thought, felt, or wanted would be taken into consideration. Like an obedient fiancé, he took several bites of the chocolate, red velvet, and white chocolate mousse slices of cake, then smiled politely, without offering an opinion. Almost two hours after they arrived at the bakery Ellen had finally made her choices and they were free to go. She rattled on and on in the car like a monkey in a tree about the flavors and style she'd chosen while he politely nodded and pretended to be listening.

After dropping Ellen at her apartment, Semaj drove home, took a long hot shower, then plopped down on his sofa wearing only his boxer shorts. He turned on the television in search of any sports-related programming before finally settling on a high school football game. Pulling out his iPhone, his eyes wandered once again to the unfamiliar e-mail address.

“Those spam blockers ain't worth a crap,” he muttered to himself as he debated whether to open the e-mail. Finally, his curiosity got the best of him, and he clicked on it.

At first glance, Semaj believed the e-mail to be one of the many he often received from spammers pretending to have money that was left to him by an unknown relative. In the end, those types of e-mails usually ended with a request for a bank account number to transfer money into a foreign account. Semaj felt a chill down his spine, however, and he knew instinctively that this e-mail was different.

Sometime following Semaj's birth and before his first birthday, his parents split up and he lived alone with his mother in Chicago, Illinois. He had no memory of her at all because shortly afterward, his mother died in a house fire. An anonymous stranger pulled Semaj from the burning structure while his mother perished inside. As a child, Semaj often questioned his grandmother about both of his parents, but she refused to give him any details. Whenever he'd ask, she would scold him about digging up skeletons from the past and admonish him to let sleeping dogs lie. All he knew of his mother was that her name was Allison, and she was only nineteen years old when she died. He knew nothing at all about his father. Once he'd asked his grandfather to at least tell him his name, and the expletive that passed his papa's lips shocked him so much that he never asked again.

Semaj suddenly realized that he'd been staring at the e-mail for several minutes. He glanced at the clock and decided that it was still early enough for him to make the call. He quickly dialed the number and waited.

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Gwen Johnston?” he asked politely.

“Who's calling?” the woman on the other end inquired.

“Semaj Matthews . . . um . . . you . . . um . . . She sent me an e-mail.” Nervousness caused him to stumble over his words.

“Mr. Matthews, I am so glad that you called. I'm Gwen, and I think I have some information that you'd be interested in.”

“Is this for a news story?” he asked.

“No, this is personal.” Gwen cleared her throat. “The word on the street is that you don't know who your biological father is. Well, I do.”

Semaj hesitated before responding. He'd heard those words before, and it never seemed to pan out. It was a decision that he'd come to regret, but Semaj had decided against hiring a professional to help him look for his father. Instead, he'd traveled to Chicago and started asking questions of people that he believed knew his mother. As a former reporter, he felt that the real stories came directly from the streets. It was a tactic he used often as a journalist, and it had never failed him, until he began looking for his father.

He'd discovered that one of the problems with talking with people on the street was that for a price they'd make up the story they thought you wanted to hear. One individual had even approached him claiming to be his father and requesting money, but he quickly recanted his story when Semaj asked for a DNA test.

He took a deep breath as he waited to hear Gwen's tale. “You are correct. I have been searching for my natural father. What do you know about him?”

“I'd rather not discuss it over the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?”

Semaj rolled his eyes. “I could, but I won't. Let me be frank with you, Ms. Johnston. I've heard a lot of different stories and outright lies since I began looking for my father. People tell me that they know something, when in truth, they don't know a thing. For that reason, I have become very skeptical and distrustful. No disrespect to you personally, but I'm not coming to a meeting that could turn out to be just another wild goose chase.”

Gwen chuckled. “You have his fire and passion, that's for sure.”

“A lot of people are passionate. Look, if you don't have any real information to share, then I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to end this call.”

“Okay, you were born in Townsend Memorial Hospital in Lawrenceville, North Carolina, on May 28, 1975. You barely weighed five pounds because you were four weeks premature. You were born with a birthmark in the shape of a strawberry on your left hip. Coincidentally, you also are allergic to strawberries. Everyone in your father's family has the same allergy.”

Semaj was stunned. The circumstances of his birth were something he rarely discussed. He'd never told anyone that he was born in North Carolina, and his grandmother had not shared the information with him until his sixteenth birthday. At the time, he begged for a copy of his birth certificate and told her it was so that he could obtain his driver's license. Truthfully, he'd hoped it would contain his father's name, but it did not.

“What's my father's name?” he asked, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

“I don't want to say over the phone. Your father is a very famous man.”

Semaj's heart sank as he suddenly began to find Gwen's story suspicious. There was no way that his father could be famous. It had to all be another bad joke. Out of nowhere he felt the Holy Spirit speak to him.

“Go meet her. She's telling the truth,” the Spirit said.

“Have you ever been to Vonnie's Soul Food on Peachtree Street? I can meet you there for lunch tomorrow,” he said.