Bebe Moore Campbell (28 page)

Me and my men.

I put the telephone back in my purse. Trina was singing a slow hip-hop jam; I heard Angelica joining in. Beside me, Jean tugged at her thinning hair. Above her upper lip were tiny lines I hadn’t noticed before. When the tow truck pulled up behind us, we all jumped at the same time. That is, the mothers and the wardens jumped. The daughters were still, even as they harmonized. Their eyes weren’t turned toward the road but toward each other.

25

THERE WAS NO FARMHOUSE THIS TIME. NO GIANT SUN flowers or almond trees. During the trip, I had gotten used to California agriculture and perhaps a little too dependent on the peacefulness of nature. This last stop was on a tree-lined street with houses flanking both sides of the one we entered, a house that smelled of chimney smoke, laundry detergent, and mingled perfumes. This was no isolated retreat but a suburb south of Sacramento. The street thrummed with activity. There were cars in driveways and people coming in and out. Bicyclers, tricyclers, and a trio of skaters vied for space. It didn’t seem a good place to be underground.

The house was an old-fashioned ranch, spread over at least half the parcel of land it sat on. It was cheerful; the wood shingles were a freshly painted white. The lawn that surrounded the house was well tended, a bright emerald green. A brilliant burst of roses, azaleas, hydrangeas, and geraniums bordered the walk and the front.

We drove straight into the attached garage. Behind us the automatic door came down with a heavy thud. The pristine exterior belied the helter-skelter look of the interior. From the garage we followed our new leader, Margaret, to a huge wreck of a kitchen. An open loaf of bread and uncovered jars of peanut butter and jelly were on a counter filled with crumbs, balled-up napkins, an empty milk container, and several used glasses. The knife that had slathered the sandwich makings was stuck in the jar of peanut butter. On the stove was a large pot filled with very soft pasta and a sauce that looked like the inside of a vacuum bag plus cheese.
Fettucine I’m afraid of.
The sink was filled with dirty dishes, and an empty cereal box was poking out of a trash can beneath a lid that wouldn’t close. We could hear doors slamming, televisions and CD players blaring throughout the house, and what sounded like several arguments going on at once. Young voices called out good-naturedly and irritably for a comb, a blouse, permission, a ride to the mall.

“I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Bethany said as we got out of the car. She wasn’t looking at me.

“Click your heels three times, Mom,” Angelica said. She had been walking ahead of Bethany, and she turned her head and laughed. Bethany and I did too. I was as shocked as I was tickled. Who knew that inside Angelica’s scrambled brain was a working sense of humor?

“SIX,” MARGARET SAID WHEN I ASKED HER EXACTLY HOW many children she had. “Four are teenagers, two in their twenties.”

By that time, we’d met her brood. They’d solemnly shaken our hands when Margaret summoned them to the kitchen, where we were assembled. It was Margaret who’d led the tow truck to us and who had collected the bedraggled wayfarers in her van. She was an overweight whirlwind who could house a small child in the crevice between her breasts. She had a head full of graying curls and a mouth that was usually open as she yelled orders to her children. Margaret’s volume was always turned way up; when she spoke to me the first time, I winced and stepped back. Her husband was working, she explained. Their reason for involvement was her oldest child, the one whose thoughts matched the speed of light.

“Oh, goodness. I knew for a long time that something wasn’t right. A mother knows,” she said, clearing the table after lunch, nodding toward Bethany and me as we sat there. The girls were getting their meds from Brad and Jean. Bethany sipped coffee, and I drank tea. Margaret had refused our help, telling us to relax. Watching her, I could tell that she wasn’t much of a housekeeper, or at least whatever inclination she had for neatness was no match for the chaos-creating inventiveness of her children. Just the sight of her kitchen counter, piled high with dishes and saucers, cups and silverware, would exhaust most people. Margaret halfheartedly rinsed a few plates and loaded them into the dishwasher, wiped the counters, and poured herself a cup of coffee from an electric percolator near her stove.

“I surrender,” she said. “Oh, goodness. What a mess. The cleaning lady comes Monday, thank God.” She slumped into the chair next to mine. “How are you two doing?”

“I’m okay,” I said.

Bethany didn’t say anything. She had her eyes closed, and her chin was resting on her chest.

“Bummer about the car.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“So, what are your kids’ diagnoses?”

“Bipolar disorder,” I said.

Bethany didn’t answer.

“What fun!” Margaret said. “My son has schizophrenia. You think it’s wild in here now? When Conrad was at home, there was nothing but chaos.”

“Where is he?”

“In rehab. He’s been there for about five months. He just wanted to try marijuana once more for old time’s sake. Only, of course, that led to being high for months, getting off his meds, and, in general, being an asshole.”

Bethany’s head sank lower.

“Didn’t he do the program?” I asked.

“About eight years ago. We had seven good years. But even this last year was nowhere near as bad as it was before.”

“When is he coming home?”

“I don’t know. He’s got some work to do.”

We nodded at each other, those nods a shortcut language that circumvented conventional get-acquainted chitchat. Not necessary in our world.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken to Frances in a few days. After a while I excused myself and stepped into the garage, took out my cell phone, and dialed the store. A woman answered the phone; it took me a moment to recognize Adriana’s voice. Every word she spoke was too slow. If her voice had been the sky, it would have been hazy.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

There was a long pause. “Nothing.”

“You sound so strange.”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“Is school okay?”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t trust a word she said, but Frances was at lunch, so there was no way to find out what was really going on. I didn’t want to accuse her of anything, but she sounded high. And lost. But Frances wouldn’t have left her in charge if she thought something was wrong. So then I didn’t trust my own judgment.

“Orlando’s son stopped by this morning. He was looking for you.”

“PJ?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Just you.” She laughed a little. “We’re all lost without you, Keri.”

“Adriana, you’re not lost.” I waited, thinking she was taking her time to respond, but she never said anything. “Tell Frances to call me when she comes back.”

I returned to the kitchen. Bethany and Margaret were still sitting there, and I joined them at the table. Bethany wasn’t saying much. Behind us in the family room, Britney Spears was crooning on MTV, her voice loud to match the din that surrounded it. Teenagers, a horde of them, were lying on a sofa, chairs, and the floor, shouting and hooting at the screen. As I glanced at the gathering in the room, I saw Trina and Angelica on the sofa with Margaret’s children and their friends. Brad and Jean stood quietly on different sides of the room in the back.

“They’re okay,” Margaret said; I could tell that she was saying those words for herself. “We weren’t expecting anybody from the program. When Brad called, everything was so rushed. I forgot to tell my kids not to have anybody over. They’re okay.”

It looked okay. There were at least twenty young people crowded around the large-screen television, so many that Trina blended in. They were mostly white, a few Latinas, and one black boy. No one seemed to be paying particular attention to her. I heard a noise as two couples danced. Three big empty pizza boxes were on the floor. Crumpled microwave popcorn bags were balled up on the coffee table.

“I know,” Margaret said with a sigh, “raised by wolves, the entire pack. Clean up!”

“Mom!” three voices exclaimed. Slowly, legs began to unfold. Boxes, bags, soda cans, and balled-up napkins disappeared. The teens marched into the kitchen with their plates and plastic wear.

“Carl, didn’t I tell you to empty this trash?” Margaret called.

The work went very quickly, actually. Trina was intrigued. She cleaned up with the rest. A boy with blond hair took her plate into the kitchen and smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Carl and Chelsea, when that game is over I want you two to clean this kitchen.”

Squeals of protest, followed by grunts of acquiescence. Trina’s neck swiveled; her eyes glinted. She was fascinated by this domestic show. She’d always hated being an only child, always longed for a big, messy family to lose herself in. Her yearning was an echo from my own soul. Trina’s childhood had been populated with imaginary friends. Now her eyes were feasting on the vibrant young people surrounding her as if they were her dreamscape come to life. All those bright faces, smiles, laughter. Some people take this for granted, I thought.

“Do you and your girls swim?” Margaret asked Bethany and me.

“I didn’t bring a suit,” Bethany said.

“Don’t worry about that,” Margaret said. She disappeared for a moment and emerged with a cardboard box filled with bathing suits. “Take one,” she said. “Call your girls.”

Angelica chose a two-piece green and Trina picked out a black one-piece suit. They went to the bathroom one at a time to try them on. Trina came out with a long face.

“Do I look fat?” she asked, standing in the hallway. I could see Brad watching me from the family room.

She looked fine. “No,” I said.

“You’re just saying that so you can look better than me. You
want
me to be fat.”

“Trina, you look very slim. Ask someone else. Would you believe Jean or Bethany?”

“No. You told them to lie.”

There it was again, the paranoia, the irritability, telltale signs that all the meds weren’t in her system. Maybe her life would always be a seesaw. Maybe I’d look back on this exchange as a high mark. I sighed. “Trina, I packed you some shorts. Do you want to swim in your shorts?”

“No, I don’t want to wear any fucking shorts in a swimming pool, so I can look like an asshole and you can look like a beauty queen.”

Brad was beside me in five seconds. He strode over to her. “Trina, I’d like you to calm down.”

She turned to me. “Why does he get to tell me what to do?”

“Trina—” Brad said.

“You think you’re such a fucking hero. You’re not saving me, I’m saving you. If you didn’t have me, you’d feel like you’re nothing.”

“Trina!” I said.

She stood there in her little borrowed bathing suit, her shoulders heaving up and down, her face full of Molotov-cocktail rage, her fists clenched for battle. I stepped back.

Jean appeared. “Trina, sweetie pie, are you ready for the water?”

Abracadabra! Peace. Five minutes later, Jean had coaxed her into the pool, and her murderous intent washed away.

“It’s going to be like this, up and down, for a very long time. Get into the flow of it,” Brad said.

But I was only half listening. I was thinking about what Trina had said, that he needed her. Who was Brad without the program to be commander of?

We went out back, where there was a patio, a pool, and a smaller hot tub, that staple of good California living. The scent of sunscreen hovered over us. Margaret’s children and their friends were already in the water. Bethany immediately found a chaise longue to lie on. I jumped into the pool. Floating in the deep end, I closed my eyes and let the water carry me. Across from me, teenagers paddled and splashed and screamed and dived. They talked about their school and their teams, their teachers and their friends. They laughed and teased and dunked one another. Angelica and Trina hung back just outside their circle at first, then moved toward them slowly. I marveled at the ripples they created. I didn’t crave ripples. What I wanted was a surface smooth as glass, at least for a moment.

Bethany was still on the chaise longue when I got out of the water. It was hot, and the cool water felt good dripping off my back. Bethany’s eyes were closed, her lips were pressed together; she seemed tense.

“Bethany, what’s wrong?”

“Migraine,” she said.

“You take something for it?”

She nodded. “It’s not working.”

I took her hand in mine and pressed with my fingers on the area of her palm between her thumb and forefinger. I held it down for about two minutes. “Is the pain diminishing?”

“Yes.” She sat up, looking at me with interest.

I kept pressing her palm and began stroking her arm.

“It’s going away. Thank you. I can think again. Sometimes they get so bad I want to cut my head off. Where did you learn how to do that?”

“When I attended massage therapy school, they taught us acupressure points.”

Bethany looked surprised. “You’re a masseuse? Is that what you did before you opened the store?”

“I still do it. How long have you been having migraines?”

“Since Angelica’s been sick. She’s twenty-six. I’ve had them for about nine years, on and off. When she gets better, they go away. How’s that for a fucking metaphor?” She paused. “If she kills me—I mean, if I get sick from the stress and everything—who’ll take care of her?” She paused for a moment to let the anger flow through her. “They can always walk away, can’t they?”

“Your husband didn’t walk away; he died.”

“That was just death imitating life. He never really admitted that there was anything wrong with Angelica. He found a way to ignore what he didn’t want to see or feel. Worked twelve hours a day. Played golf all weekend. And of course, he had his diversions. He left me alone with ‘the problem,’ like it was woman’s work. I hated him for that.”

“Some guys can handle it, and some guys can’t,” I said. “My boyfriend’s been a rock since the beginning. My husband—my ex-husband—I think he’s on the verge of letting go of his denial.”

I’d never thought about Clyde as evolving, but now that the words were out of my mouth I realized that his evolution was beginning. For years, I’d not only been waiting for Clyde to change, I’d been expecting it, like a package that someone swore was in the mail.

“If you have a boyfriend who supports you, I’d stick with him,” Bethany said.

I smiled, thinking about Orlando.

“I can tell you like him,” Bethany said.

“I do, but he’s got other issues,” I said, with a laugh. “He’s an actor who used to star in a popular show about ten years ago, and now he has problems getting hired. He’s got an ex-wife from hell—well, actually, she’s calmed down a little. His younger son is having problems. And—”