Bebe Moore Campbell (21 page)

18

TRINA DIDN’T STIR FOR NEARLY THREE HOURS. BETHANY and Angelica were slumped against the backseat. Around midnight Brad took an exit off the 5 and drove down a two-lane road for about forty minutes. I must have dozed myself, because I wasn’t sure where we were when he pulled into a dark driveway that led to a one-story ranch house, surrounded by a garden full of very tall sunflowers. Brad knocked at the door while everyone else remained in the car. The window was down, and I heard someone ask who it was.

“A friend with friends,” Brad said.

When he said that, Bethany woke up and looked around.

“I guess we’re here,” she said. She looked at me. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“This has got to work.”

It was the first time she’d voiced anything other than absolute faith in the program.

A woman opened the door. From the light in the house I could see that she was wearing a Black Dog T-shirt and khaki pants. Her hair was thin and chopped off and had been combed flat against her head. The lipstick was worn off her lips, but she had big, pretty teeth and a smile that reminded me of good news. I heard Brad call her Jean. He hugged her tight against his chest and then let her go real fast. A man came out and stood beside her. Brad beckoned for Bethany and me, and the men helped Trina and Angelica out of the car and brought in our suitcases.

Food was waiting for us, set up nicely in a bright yellow kitchen with yellow and white curtains at the window. There was salmon, broccoli, a baked potato. All seven of us sat down. Trina was just barely awake. Her eyes fluttered as she looked at the food.

Angelica’s eyes brightened when she saw the spread. Bethany had told me that Angelica had used methamphetamines. She had the lean, sunken look of a drug addict. Her appetite proved that she was able to exchange one addiction for another. She piled her plate, ate every bit, and then loaded on more food. Angelica ate like a lower-rung mammal, without regard for good table manners. Bethany watched her, then looked around to see our reaction. Her embarrassment seemed incongruent with her go-ballistic personality. But there it was for all to see: maternal shame. Not even badass mommas were immune.

Jean served us, and her husband, Eddie, poured small glasses of orange juice. They had a tiny poodle that barked a little bit and stayed close to Jean. Nobody said much at dinner. Trina didn’t touch her food. She slumped in her chair and closed her eyes.

“Honey, aren’t you hungry?” I whispered.

“It’s poison.” She glared at me, then turned her head.

“Would you rather have something else?” Jean asked Trina. “We have a frozen pizza. I could make you a big salad. Or a bowl of cereal: Cheerios.”

“There’s ice cream,” Eddie said.

They were like enthusiastic foster parents, anxious to have the new kid fit in. Trina ignored them. Jean and Eddie smiled at each other and then at me.

“Well, you get hungry, you just let me know,” Jean said. She sounded southern.

“I’m hungry,” Angelica said. “I want ice cream.”

As Jean was handing Angelica a bowl of vanilla ice cream, there was a knock at the front door, and in a moment a tall man with a headful of curly gray hair and deep-set eyes strode into the kitchen. He was carrying an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, which he set right on the table. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Wilbur,” he said to Bethany and me. “I’d like to speak with you both for a moment.”

We followed him into the dining room and sat down at an antique oak table.

Wilbur appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He shook hands with a powerful grip. “I need to draw some blood from your daughters to check their medication levels. What have they been taking?”

Bethany spoke first, listing Angelica’s medications. I was amazed. There were two different mood stabilizers, an antidepressant, an antipsychotic, and something for sleep—at least five different pills twice a day. A real cocktail. If the number of pills was an indication of the severity of the illness, Angelica was a pretty sick young woman. At least Trina only takes four pills a day, I thought, feeling momentarily superior, then stopped myself. I didn’t need to play my-kid’s-not-as-crazy-as-yours.

I told Wilbur that Trina had been compliant for months until she started smoking marijuana again. He listened attentively as I described the recent changes in her mood and behavior, the uncontrollable mania that had brought us to the program. “She was just on a hold. I picked her up from the hospital at seven, so she’s probably got some medication in her. Brad gave her a shot of Haldol.”

“How does she seem to you?”

“Paranoid. She called Brad and me devils. When she gets like this she’ll say I’m not her mother.”

Wilbur nodded. “Will she physically attack me?”

“She’s hit me a couple of times. I don’t know if she’d try that with you. But she won’t be a model patient, that I can guarantee.”

He looked at Bethany.

“Angelica is dual-diagnosis. She’s going to be craving meth. The meds may mitigate that somewhat, but it will still be there. She’s a flight risk. Don’t turn your back on her.”

“What about Trina, any drugs?”

“Marijuana. And if she has the opportunity, she’ll drink. I don’t think she’s addicted to either one, though. Maybe I’m in denial. Oh, and she’ll run too if she gets the chance.”

“More something she does when she’s manic,” Wilbur said.

“Exactly.”

“Okay. I need to draw some blood. Brad will help me. I think it’s better if you’re not in the room. All right?”

“All right,” I said. Bethany nodded.

I shouldn’t have acquiesced so quickly, I thought when Wilbur walked away. Shouldn’t we have demanded to see his license, his board certification? Something.

“Are you okay with all of this?” I whispered to Bethany.

“Brad told us that there would be a psychiatrist,” she said as my body tightened and I held my breath. “By now Trina could have jumped out of your car, disappeared to God knows where. Right at this moment, you could be on the phone calling all over, trying to find her. And as far as I’m concerned, Angelica would have been dead if it weren’t for the program. They’re safe. We know where they are, and they’re safe.”

Safe. Yes. This was all about keeping the girls safe.

“It’s going to work out.”

Yes.

“Breathe, Keri.”

That’s what I did.

Brad and Wilbur took the girls into one of the rooms in the back. Trina was angry and wide-awake. She cursed the men loudly, while I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands but still breathing. Jean came in and sat down beside me. She had a cup of coffee for both of us. “She’s a beauty, your girl,” Jean said finally.

My thank-you was barely out of my mouth when I began to cry. It had been so long since anyone had said anything nice about my child.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said, then added, “It was my son. Eddie and I put him in the program about ten years ago. Ryan was out of control, really, really crazy.”

“He’s—”

“Schizoaffective disorder. It’s a good place. Maybe not for everyone, but for my boy it was a good place.”

“How long did he stay?”

“A year.”

“And you and Eddie didn’t know where he was?”

She shook her head. “Nobody can know that, sweetheart. Sometimes Ryan still gets confused in his thinking, but that’s to be expected. He was in the service when the illness started manifesting: air force. He got an honorable discharge. After he came out, he wound up working for Sears. He lost that job. Ryan was living with us for a while, but his behavior was very unpredictable. And then he started getting violent and really bizarre. We tried to get him help, but he was homeless for about eighteen months. Eddie almost died, literally; he got very sick from the stress. When we found out about the program, things started to turn around. Ryan got better. Eddie got better. Are you married, honey?”

“I’m divorced.”

“Where is he? Why are you going through this alone?”

I started to say, I have Bethany. “That’s a good question,” I said.

“Does he know what’s going on?”

“He doesn’t completely accept that she has mental illness. He doesn’t know about any of this.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone, sweetheart.” She sighed. “The parents go through one part of hell and the kids go through another. Tell you the truth, I think we have it worse than they do. At least when they’re spinning out of control, they’re in their own little world, imagining that they’re okay. But we have to stand there and watch them and love them and know we’re helpless.”

Trina had stopped screaming. I could hear footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Wilbur and Brad were on either side of Trina. Her mouth was grim and furious.

“I’m afraid that Trina isn’t very happy with me right now, Keri. I’ll get the results tomorrow,” Wilbur said. “I’ll come back in the morning. Meanwhile, I’d like to give Trina a little something to help her sleep.”

“She had Haldol not too long ago.”

“We just want to get her through the entire night,” Wilbur said.

How much Haldol were they giving her? I wondered. But I found myself nodding.
Sure. Drug her. Keep her quiet. Give us all a rest.

Were they giving Angelica as much Haldol? If Trina had been a little blond girl, would they have presumed compliance and passivity, been less on guard, treated her more kindly? If I’d been a white woman with a husband, would it have made a difference in what they expected? I studied Brad and Wilbur for a moment, trying to see them through Ma Missy’s sharp eyes. Would he have garnered her highest praise?

“Now
that’s
a decent white man,” she told me once, referring to Mr. Bonds, who owned the children’s shoe store in our neighborhood. Decent because he didn’t assume she was an idiot. Decent because he didn’t try to sell her something she didn’t want. Decent because he didn’t overprice his goods. And, most of all, decent because he hired my mother as a saleslady. She kept that job for the eighteen months that she remained sober during my eighth and ninth years.

“She’s a natural-born saleswoman,” Mr. Bonds told Ma Missy. I was with her when he said it.

My mother told me to bring my friends to the store, and I obliged her with a daily parade of eight- and nine-year-olds. I pointed out the pretty lady smiling at the customers and said, “That’s my mommy. She wants you to come back with your mothers.” And they did.

Mr. Bonds paid her a commission, which increased my mother’s enthusiasm. Away from the store, my mother scoured the neighborhood, zeroing in on children wearing worn-out shoes. She took me to the zoo once, another sobriety miracle. While we were gazing at the elephants, she spotted a little boy whose shoes were beyond redemption. As I watched, she went right to his mother and handed her the business card she always carried, all the while touting Mr. Bond’s inventory. A few days later she reported that the mother had bought two pairs of shoes from her.

I began taking a detour home from school after Emma fell hard off the wagon. Mr. Bonds had to let her go. She railed against him. “That white . . . ,” she’d begin, as if his color was responsible for his perfidy.

“White ain’t got nothing to do with nothing,” Ma Missy muttered.

How would she have judged Brad and Wilbur?

“Just let two strange white men give me anything,” Trina said now, as if she’d read my mind, as if she were my mother’s grandchild. She aimed her snarling words at me, like poison-tipped arrows. “You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck, you devil bitch. You killed my mother, and now you’re trying to kill me. Where is my real mother?” Her voice rose in a high shriek.

“Young lady,” Wilbur said, “let’s not have that kind of language.”

Beside her, Angelica seemed subdued, as though her tranquilizer had already taken effect. Jean led us to a room in the back of the house. We followed, with Trina screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs and Angelica lumbering like a zombie. The room could have been a two-car garage that had been enlarged and converted into a barracks. Trina’s screams reverberated and were amplified, even though her voice had begun to grow hoarse. The room was spare, with a row of six single beds and six dressers. There was a wooden chair next to each bed and an end table with a lamp on the other side. At both sides of the room were two doors, which I assumed led to bathrooms. The only signs of decoration were the walls, painted a vivid blue, and the cheerful flowered curtains hanging at the windows. Looking out one of the windows into the dark, I could just make out what appeared to be a building. At the foot of each bed was a pale blue blanket and folded blue towels. Jean pointed out the bathrooms and told Angelica and Trina, who had finally become quiet, to use them first. Jean walked to the middle of the room. Brad and Eddie stood at the door.

“Are we sleeping in the same room as that man?” Trina asked when she came out. Her words were slurred from the medication. She looked straight at Brad, who was sitting on one of the beds.

“It’s the best thing, honey,” Jean said, looking at me.

I was a bit disconcerted myself and didn’t know what to say. No one had ever discussed sleeping arrangements.

“Cool,” Bethany said. “I need a cigarette.”

She went outside for a few minutes, and when she returned Brad was assigning beds. His was after Angelica and Trina’s. Mine was on his other side, and Bethany’s was last. When Eddie asked Brad if he needed backup, Brad told him no.

“We’ll have to lock you in,” Eddie said. He closed the door. I heard a click.

“I have a key,” Brad said.

My shoulders came down a little.

Brad was the last one to use the bathroom. Bethany and I lay in our beds listening to the shower, the towel rubbing across his skin. He brushed his teeth. In the stillness we heard the tiny clickclickclick the waxed string made as he flossed. He gargled for a long time. An antiseptic, soapy odor floated toward us. We heard him flush the toilet, then spray the bathroom.

Bethany started giggling first. “Fearless fucking leader, we salute you,” she said.

“Would you trust your kid with this man?” I asked, and we giggled some more.