All About B.A.D. (18 page)

The bottle hit the table with such force that it bounced, spraying out its contents in every direction. Specks of alcohol landed on the painting leaning in a corner causing the young woman to weep cerulean tears. The tiny liquid avalanche marred her perfection and blurred the words he most remembered: “I’ll always trust you.” It was too much. The scarring, the tears, pushed him over the edge. He couldn’t make it right, her right, until he was. In the evening, when the fuzz cleared around his still-pounding head, Josh checked himself into the clinic. It was the third hardest thing he’d had to face.

The name would remain while the arrangement would change. The Café With Soul would continue as a partnership with Deah at the helm. Decisions would be made jointly, bickering taking a backseat to serious considerations. The three had been well-tutored, and the eatery, after a period of mourning, again would flourish. Wanda’s portrait and presence hung over the wooden counter, caretaking them from the grave.

With its long brass chains stretched as far as possible, the metal hands moved to the current hour. As if it had never missed a beat, the clock resumed its overdue chiming. In the weeks following Bernadette’s visit with Kathryn Abbott, everything in the House of Many Colors had been kept in immaculate order, everything waiting in its place. Change uncoiled itself slowly and only when precipitated by common events like the overdue winding of a grandfather clock or the friskiness of fall temperatures. Cooler air moved over the island, fading out fog, and bringing with it a crispness and unsought restlessness. Conner, displaying an arsenal of new antics, ratcheted up his demands for attention. He began experimenting with walking, holding onto whatever furniture flung itself in his path. He cooed at himself in mirrors and uttered indistinguishable sounds. His world became wider, his curiosity greater. These were “firsts” which Bernadette, like all new mothers, longed to share with an appreciative audience. Letters served as one outlet for bragging and more mail found its way to Lone Grove. Bernadette also found herself watching for Stephen’s car in the driveway, dialing Deah or calling a never-answered phone at Josh’s studio. In little increments, each of Conner’s newfound skills thinned the dolor in the house and buoyed the spirits of its inhabitants. 

Bernadette sat outside in the chilled air, relishing the quiet, producing the memory of begonias on Arches paper. Large clay pots of vivid pinks and corals popped from the page—brilliant versions mimicking the ones gracing the steps of Kathryn Abbott’s office. Stopping to assess the work, Bernadette’s eyes scanned the patio, yard and eventually the trailer. She wondered about Stephen. She had never sat down with him to talk about his plans. Things simply continued as before. He checked in on her and Conner and kept the property in order. She decided at the first opportunity she would assure him that he didn’t need to worry about looking for another place to live. His presence was reassuring, comforting. This led to thoughts of Josh and feelings she couldn’t name. Worry? Guilt? She hadn’t seen him since learning of his stay in the rehab center. Deah had finally offered up the truth after Bernadette’s repeated inquiries and obvious concern, and hinted that visiting wasn’t encouraged. It pained Bernadette to realize how naïveté, self-concern, perhaps depression, robbed her of the truth and kept her from being the support he had been for her. She determined to go for a visit. 

Chain-thinking brought her to the next decision: she would buy a used car with some of the money. She hadn’t driven since leaving Lone Grove in a bright red convertible. With a little practice behind a wheel, she would feel secure driving again. The plans strengthened her resolve.

Her thoughts turned to Wanda, and she took the letter from her pocket. Carefully unfolding the pages, separating out the photos, she read the words again—words she would soon memorize. 

My dear Bernadette,

I’ve had such a great life, not a particularly easy one, but a great one. What made the difference were the people. Like you, I got off to a shaky start with a man I trusted more than I should for reasons I questioned too late. He was easy to leave and easier to forget but the pain he created stayed too long. It was difficult and I clung to the whole experience like a life preserver. One day I realized I had survived, was safely bobbing along, but alone. It isn’t much fun to swim alone. Some of us need to be needed, cared for or caring for others. And, as it turns out, the world is full of needy folks. The trick is getting them together. It sometimes means gathering up or letting go. 

You have a real heart for love, Bernadette, and I know once you fully open it up, you won’t waste it. I thought that from the first day you walked into the café with that silly sign in your hand. You are a younger, prettier, smarter and skinnier version of who I was many years ago. I guess you also were the daughter I never gave birth to. And Conner, well, he’s the grandbaby I wasn’t finished spoiling. You two gave me some of my best memories and laughs and I want you to concentrate on those. That’s the reason I put in the photographs.  

Bernadette, I’ve never been one for long sermons but always enjoyed good advice when given in short spurts. Here is some I want to share with you:

You can know everything about sex without knowing much about love, and love lasts longer even if the sex is great.

Many times the insides of people don’t look much like their outsides; get to know both without judging either.

Hoarding money and affection can’t bring what the heart desires.

People do foolish things for what seems like smart reasons at the time they do them. This means most of us need a second, third and fourth chance.

Forgiveness isn’t always easy, just necessary.

Don’t worry about crying. Tears are the body’s way of flushing out unneeded emotions like guilt, anger or depression over too much weight gain.

Life is best made up of wonderful moments strung together instead of years without any good memories at all.  

And a really good pot pie begins with a chicken you boil yourself.

Not much to show for a life but it made mine what it was—great!

I love you and Conner and bless you for who you are and will become.

“Goodbye” dear Bernadette; give Conner a kiss.

Wanda

Bernadette folded the letter and put it back in her pocket. Smiling, she realized it was the first time she hadn’t sobbed after reading Wanda’s letter.

Cute, practical and cheap, the secondhand Volkswagen slipped in-between the two larger cars in the parking lot. Bernadette unstrapped Conner from one seat and belted him into another. It was a battle, his squirmy body wanting to motivate on its own legs rather than by wheels on a stroller. Winning the skirmish, Bernadette headed for the information desk in the rehabilitation center. A large woman wearing too much perfume and a sour expression looked up from her paperwork at the two unlikely clients.

“Do you need something?”

“Yes. I’m looking for B. Joshua Court.”

“We aren’t allowed to give out specific information. And our patients have a visitors list. Your name would need to be on that list. 

“Bernadette Donahue, and this is my son, Conner. Would you check to see if we are on his list?”

“Wait here.” The woman heaved her heavy frame from the chair and lumbered over to another woman in a white uniform. Their conversation couldn’t be heard and their gestures gave nothing away. After a few minutes, she returned. “No visitors allowed.”

“Then Mr. Court is here? When would be a good time to check back?”

“I can’t give you any more information than that, but if you want to leave a notice that you were here, then sign and date the register. Any remarks can be added under the date.”

Bernadette dutifully signed the book not knowing if it would serve any purpose. Under the “Additional Comments” space she thought about suggesting the woman was in the wrong line of work. Instead, before handing the pen back to the scowling receptionist, she wrote, “Josh, we would love to see you. Bernadette and Conner.”  

The woman took back the pen and register without a word and returned to her stack of papers.

“Well, okay, have a nice rest of the day.” Bernadette tried to sound sincere as she started for the door.

“Yeah, you too.”

Now what? Back in the car, Conner in place, she headed toward the café to talk with Deah. Being behind the wheel of a car had turned into fun, restoring a sense of freedom and adventure. It had also become a favorite pastime of Conner’s, causing him to be either wide-eyed in wonder or closed-eyed with sleep.

Today he was clearly enjoying sights blur by and it encouraged Bernadette to extend their trip. She found herself on unfamiliar streets among a hodgepodge of buildings of several eras and inclinations squeezed in too-tight spaces. Large Victorian homes—their days of grandeur long passed, sat peeling, sagging, carved up into apartments or offices—waited for rediscovery and transformations back to their former glory. Sandwiched between some ancient duplexes, a squatty building with an immaculate yard caught her attention. “New Beginnings” was painted above an arched entrance. The words nagged at her about a conversation almost remembered. She slowed down, thinking, struggling to assemble a whole memory around mental scraps that niggled at its edge but refused to surface. A few blocks away, it struck her. Wanda spoke of a home for abused women years ago with a similar name. Curious, Bernadette turned the yellow Bug around and parked as near the building as she could. She sat staring, deciding whether to go in or not, unsure of what she wanted or what would be gained if she did.

Becoming restless with the car sitting motionless, Conner began fussing, whining, pointing outside. She unbuckled his straps, gathered him up and walked toward the building. Pushing open the door, they entered into a cubicle furnished with a couple of chairs and a table with a phone. From behind a glass window, a friendly voice welcomed them and asked them to be seated. A few minutes later a buzzer sounded, a door opened and a young woman with an engaging smile came in to greet them. 

“Hello. My name is Annemarie. May we help you somehow?”

“Hi. Yes. No. I’m not sure. I saw your sign outside and thought of someone I knew, a friend. She may have been here. I’m not making much sense am I?”

“I can’t give you the names of our clients but I can give you a tour if you don’t mind giving us a little information. Would you like to do that?”

As if voicing an opinion, Conner’s whimpering ended with him soiling his pants. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“And we have a place where you can change your child’s diaper. I can help if you’d like. What’s his name?” 

“Conner. His name is Conner. No. Thank you for offering but he doesn’t always go to strangers without a fuss.”

“Yes, I understand. The form will only take a minute.”

Smiling, the woman watched the widening circle of wet spread between the little boy’s legs. She walked over to the sliding-glass window and retrieved a clipboard. This she exchanged for a wary Conner and Bernadette’s bag.

After Bernadette completed the requested information and the hand-off was reversed, the buzzer sounded a second time, another door opened and the three entered what appeared to be a large communal living area. Neat and orderly, it was furnished with second-hand furniture and a television set of questionable vintage.

“We have space for fifty people but many of our clients are away at this time. We have an empty room down the hallway if you’d like to see a typical bedroom, which you can use to clean up Conner.” Annemarie led them to a unit with a single bed next to one wall, and bunk beds on the other. “Each room has its own basin with a sink; there’s a community bath down the hall. We also share a kitchen and dining room, and we have an activity center. When you’re finished, I can show you those.” 

Once Conner’s cleanliness was restored, the tour continued.

“Our guests can stay up to a year, sometimes longer with extenuating circumstances. We don’t require any payments and our children stay in our daycare center or attend public school. Does this little fellow have sisters or brothers?”

“No. It’s just us.” Conner’s nap time was approaching, bringing with it nose and eye rubbing and a general malaise.

“And help with him? Do you have that?”

“Not really, anymore. I did at one time. We’re okay, though.”

“I’m sure it can be difficult at times for you.”

Slowly it was dawning that the subtle questions and gentle conversation were aimed at ferreting out the true purpose of her visit.

“My friend was always grateful for the help she received when she really needed it. She said it saved her life.”

“How long ago since she was here?”

“Thirty-five, forty years ago.”

“Oh. Well, we haven’t been around nearly that many years. In fact, your friend would have had much fewer options even ten years ago. But it is often grateful people, like your friend, who help create the larger choices and shelters like this one for women today.”

“Her name was Wanda. Wanda Payne. She would have said something exactly like that.”

Annemarie’s body stiffened, leaving Bernadette confused. Had voicing a name breached a confidence?

Regaining composure, Annemarie resumed their expedition, stopping in a nursery teeming with life, ablaze with color. All eyes of caregivers and toddlers looked up to inspect the visitors. The women smiled or nodded in greeting; the youngsters quickly resumed their play. Toys of every size and texture spilled from shelves onto the floor; paper mobiles insured a frenetic stir in the air. Conner tried flinging himself from his mother’s arms down into a pint-sized rocking chair amidst children of differing ages. Giving in, Bernadette placed him on the floor. His blending into the controlled chaos was immediate and he happily remained absorbed in its swirl, forgetting his tiredness, until Annemarie said that the older children would soon be coming back on the bus. Plucking up her reluctant son, Bernadette once again fell behind their benevolent guide who assured her he was welcomed back to play at any time. 

Outside the nursery door, Annemarie stopped and directed her gaze to a small plaque trimmed in purple: ‘Wanda’s Place’. “She was a special person and will be missed. But here she is alive and well in all those beds. Come and visit if you like. We could always use some extra hands, too. Now I’m off to greet our children. It was very nice touring you and your son around, Bernadette.” Annemarie buzzed her out the door.

Back outside on the street, Bernadette swiped at tears, preventing them from falling on Conner’s head. “I guess our visit wasn’t as unplanned as we thought, Conner. Maybe we can come again soon. Wanda would like that, wouldn’t you?”