Bebe Moore Campbell (11 page)

“Your family isn’t from Canada, is it? Didn’t I read that she settled there after the Civil War?”

“I don’t know. I always thought she died in Buffalo.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m forgetting my history.”

“Didn’t you go to Spelman?”

“Yes.”

Once we rediscovered that we were Spelman College sisters, Rona and I chatted as though we’d been dorm mates, reminiscing about the president, the choir, and the white dresses we wore at the induction service.

“I want to go to the homecoming in October. Are you going?” Rona asked.

I shook my head.

“You should come. Anyway, I want another appointment,” Rona said. “In a month. Is that okay?”

“A month is good. Call me for the exact time and date.”

“I couldn’t have done what she did,” Rona said, putting away her wallet. “I’m talking about Harriet Tubman.”

“Me neither. Most people can’t even free themselves, let alone somebody else.”

5

AT EXACTLY SEVEN O’CLOCK, I MARCHED RESOLUTELY UP the steps of the Weitz Center, walked through the double doors, and there I was, back in that old familiar world: fifth floor, domain of foreign-born psychiatrists and psychologists, nurses, orderlies, and the homegrown mentally ill. The same bald-headed Ghanaian who’d been guardian of the sign-in sheet the last time Trina was on hold was sitting behind the little table. He gave me a nod of recognition, opened my purse, and rifled through it. Finding no contraband—no alcohol, drugs, sharp instruments, or enough rope for either a hanging or a selfflagellation—he passed it back to me. I walked over to the locked double doors, pressed the buzzer on the wall, and waited until another accented voice, this one Nigerian, told me to come in.

“Hello, Elijah,” I said to the nurse who greeted me.

The small dark man smiled at me from behind the nurse’s station and gave me a sympathetic look. I’d met him during Trina’s first hospitalization, and he’d comforted me back then.

“I saw your daughter when she came in this afternoon. So sorry she’s back here. I thought she was doing the program downstairs, that everything was fine.”

“Everything
was
fine,” I said. The words came out as wailing. The tears surprised me. I hadn’t been aware that any of this was so close to the surface.

“You mustn’t cry,” Elijah said briskly, as though he were appealing to my sense of logic. “Maybe she’ll get better.”

“I don’t understand. She seemed to be doing the program, staying sober.”

“It’s hard to stay sober, especially when you have a mental illness.”

“Yes. Yes. It’s just that you live with somebody and think she’s doing one thing, committed to one thing, and it turns out that she’s not.”

“Welcome to the world, babygirl,” Elijah said. His Yoruba-soaked English was without a trace of humor. He handed me a tissue. “She’s outside, in the smoking area.”

The hallway that led to the outdoor smoking area was a long one. To walk down it was to return to a house I’d once lived in. Same old marks on the walls, the carpets. Same old bewilderment befuddling my brain.

There! My first celebrity sighting! The aging actress whose heyday had been in the forties and fifties, when Dorothy and Lena couldn’t get much silver-screen love, was walking toward me, holding the hand of a younger, catatonic version of herself. The daughter, her face puffy, her body bloated, moved slowly, with uneven steps. The mother’s eyes met mine and locked in silent commiseration. When she passed, I recalled that she’d won an Oscar, but I couldn’t name the movie.

Fat zombies, anesthetized by meds that slowed down their metabolism, roamed the halls. A young boy, barely five feet six inches, lumbered toward me, weighing at least three hundred pounds. Another woman, scarcely out of her teens, her huge belly sagging toward her thighs, guzzled a soda from the machine. It had always angered me that none of the psych wards or residential treatment centers was proactive in keeping weight off their mentally ill patients. Their meals were a carb fest, their exercise programs a joke.

Smoke assaulted me as soon as I opened the door at the end of the hall. The room of inhalation and exhalation, where all had the free pass of a nicotine high, was filled, as usual. At least ten people were crowded around the big table that was in the center of the small atrium. Scanning quickly, I didn’t see Trina. A second look revealed my baby in a corner chair, her face somewhat obscured by grayish plumes of smoke. She turned away from me. Seated next to her, very close, was a young man who was puffing away.

“Trina.”

Her name resonated in the air between us, like a dare that takes some consideration. Her quick finger tapping was freighted with lethargic mania, subdued by meds but not banished. Her eyes still held out the promise that she might try to scale the building and then leap. She wasn’t cured, just contained, and couldn’t yet be trusted. She blew smoke defiantly in my direction.

“Trina.”

Her eyes tried to fool me. But behind the wide-open stare were two shuttered windows. Around me there was shuffling at the table, the soft rustle of hospital gowns, the swishing back and forth of the requisite hospital slipper socks. Curious glances were coming my way from Trina’s community of sufferers. I lowered my voice and forged ahead. One-way conversation had its merits.

“Elaine called and told me what happened. Don’t feel bad, honey. It’s just a little setback, that’s all. You’ll get right back on track.”

Rah, rah, rah!

Trina stubbed out the cigarette she was holding and lit another one. I reached out to take it away from her, but her glare, pure unadulterated essence of pissed off, stopped me. Maternal instinct held no power here.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I don’t want you to become a chain-smoker, just because you don’t have anything else to do.”

Around the table, heads tilted my way. Smoke settled into my cropped curls.

“Trina, would you come into the multipurpose room with me?”

She didn’t move. I felt the young man’s eyes. He was handsome and grungy; his knee pressed against my daughter’s leg. I sighed and settled into the groove in the wall I was leaning against, breathed in addiction and mayhem on pause, watched the people watching me. They were all there. The ancient schizophrenic, Medusa of the Homeless, her rheumy eyes alert to the faint whispers that still resided inside her. The unipols, wrist slitters, trigger pullers, and overdosers who were on the verge of embracing life again. There in the corner, the young one, Little Miss Schizoaffective, manic enough to be bipolar, psycho enough to be schizophrenic—but not quite. At the table, their eyes still wet with craving, twelve-stepping for all they were worth, the addicts: heroin, cocaine, crack, meth, painkillers (an oxymoron, for damn sure). Crazy was not a useful word in this place. Seventy-two-hour holds demanded specifics.

Trina got up suddenly. Stomped out of Smokers’ Paradise and down the hall to her little corner of the world, a twin-bedded cubicle with a cubbyhole bathroom. I trailed her right up to her door, which she slammed vigorously in my face.

I hadn’t expected to become the enemy again. Weren’t those days over? Silent treatment and screaming fits, her palm striking my cheek— wasn’t all that finished? Elaine had said a setback. But blowing smoke in my face, not speaking, her silence quivering with hostility—this was starting over.

Tap, tap, tap. Not too loudly. Didn’t want anyone to notice.
Tap,
tap, tap.
A bit harder. Sore knuckles seemed a fitting beginning. A nurse walked by.

“We don’t allow visitors in the rooms,” she said. She stood stiff and stern. No getting past her.

“Right,” I said, stumbling down the hall.

Something bad was going to happen. The signs were all there: massa was on his deathbed; mistress was crying. Auctioneers and lawyers were assembled on the veranda. I could feel the overseer’s eyes assessing the value of my flesh, her flesh. This wasn’t my first plantation. Deep South, that’s where I was headed.

What I needed was a swamp and a star.

Visiting hours weren’t over yet. People were still coming in as I trudged down the hall toward the exit. All the visitors looked worn out and sad, old slaves who’d been worked to death. Nobody ever looked pretty or vivacious on the psych ward. Didn’t matter how damn good-looking you were on the outside, once you set foot on the ward, all the ugly and tired that had been lying dormant inside you jumped up in your face and took up residence.

Never look in a psych-ward mirror.

I stood by the metal double doors, waiting until someone buzzed me out. There was a sign that read ALERT! THIS DOOR MUST BE LOCKED AT ALL TIMES. When Trina was on hold at Daniel Freeman Hospital, there was a sign next to the exit that read HIGH ELOPEMENT RISK. When I read it, my first thought was: Who’d want to get married in a place like this?

“Keri!”

As I stepped off the elevator, the flash of a familiar smile greeted me.

“Bethany!” I said, once she released me.

“My daughter just signed herself in yesterday,” she said.

Her face seemed internally lit. Everything about her seemed lifted, as though some invisible hand had realigned her spine, propping up her body and her spirit. Bethany looked ten years younger than the last time I’d seen her.

“That’s great,” I said, sounding to myself as automatic as a stamp machine. There was no place in me to absorb good news, at least not someone else’s.

Bethany didn’t seem to notice; she was spilling over with the excitement and happiness elicited by her recent reversal of fortune. She wasn’t really listening to me. She wanted to plow ahead with the retelling of her miracle. That’s what we do, I thought. If we mothers of the unstable survive our children’s madness, we examine it, dissect it, and put it back together, embellishing and polishing whatever good we can extract, presenting that semiprecious stone to an audience we hope will not judge us. How brave and pitiful we are.

“I thought the mania would never break. It just had such a hold on her. And then the drugs too. To tell you the truth, I think it was the drugs that brought her here. I’ve never seen such despair in all my life. She didn’t get out of the bed for three days straight. I know she was thinking about suicide. I kept talking and talking and talking. You know,” she said, giving me a cursory glance, “saying all the things they taught us in support group that I never thought would work. Only finally it did, and she told me she wanted to come in.”

“So she’s not on a hold?”

“Voluntary.”

Meaning she could walk out of the Weitz Center whenever she got good and ready. I turned away from Bethany. Didn’t want her to see the doubt shining in my eyes.

“That’s just wonderful,” I said, fiddling with the strap of my purse.

“You just don’t know. Well, of course you do.” It came to her then, a reality bite in the midst of her spiel. “What are you doing here?”

“My daughter had a little episode.”

“Oh, no! She was doing so well. This is probably just a blip on the radar. She’ll get right back on track.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t want to hear the details, didn’t want my sadness to bring her down. I understood.

“Listen, I’ve got to get upstairs.”

Bethany got on the elevator, and I went out the front door.

The traffic on La Cienega Boulevard was mercifully swift, and whatever music was playing on the radio blended in with my thoughts. I didn’t sing along. My nose was still clogged with the sterile hospital odor. I rolled down my window and let the breeze clear my mind.

My house seemed wintry once I was inside. Even after the heat had been on for more than an hour I was still trembling, sitting on the sofa wrapped up in a blanket I couldn’t even feel. There were things that needed doing. I was hungry, for starters. The phone rang several times; I couldn’t make myself answer it. The sofa had claimed me. I watched television with the remote in my hands, click, click, clicking away.

AFTER ABOUT AN HOUR, THE PHONE BEGAN RINGING AGAIN.

“Hello.” My voice sounded strange even to my ears, the voice of some escapee, lost in the swamp, trying to rise from the depths of scum and quicksand to reclaim her humanity.

“Keri?”

I had to crawl through mud to connect to that voice, wipe away the sludge in my eyes, clear my throat.

“It’s Orlando. How are you doing?”

His name was a whiff of fragrance, a snatch of a dance tune.

“I’m . . .” A throat full of tears. It would be dangerous to speak. “I’m okay,” I said finally.

“I was wondering if we could get together, maybe talk a little bit.”

I thought of Pretty Young Thing, the way she had stamped her feet and pursed her lips. “Oh, you still talk to grown women,” I said.

He laughed. “You’re not going to hold that against me, are you?”

“Let’s put it this way: It’s been duly recorded.”

Orlando laughed again. “Yeah, that was a mistake. I was just lonely. Guess you don’t get lonely.”

The fast girl in me, eager once and wet, was draped in black. Flirting is a foreign tongue to a mourner.

“Orlando,” I said, and then paused to wait out the crack in my voice that was threatening to undo me.

“You don’t sound good, baby. Is something wrong?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer, or even to think. “I’m coming over there.”

Instinct took over. “Yes. Please.”

Or maybe it was just plain old desire, pushing everything else out of the way.

6

ORLANDO FILLED UP MY DOORWAY, AND HIS EYES SEEMED to read my mind. We reached out at the same time and touched each other like two blind people. His hands pressed against my back; my fingers gripped his shoulders. The image of Pretty Young Thing popped into my mind, but I didn’t have the energy to hold a grudge. After a few minutes, he pulled away and held me out in front of him. “Trina’s sick again.”

“Yeah.”

He led me to my family room sofa, and we both sat down. “Is she in the hospital?”

I nodded.

“When did she go?”

“Today.”

I explained what had happened, without elaborating. I didn’t have to.

“You know what you need?”

I let him talk me into the idea, sell it to me in a slow, patient way, even though I had already acquiesced in my mind, and both of us knew it. He waited while I put on a warm-up suit, and then we drove to a park on the edge of Beverly Hills. There was just enough light from the streetlamp that we didn’t break our necks as we made our way onto a circular running path.

The track was half a mile long. Orlando was beside me when we started out but quickly distanced himself. Initially, I was walking as he ran. He doubled back and gave me a shove.

“Run, girl!”

So I did. It hurt at first, not so much in my legs as the breathing and knowing that there was so much ground to cover, such a hard row to hoe. Then I settled in, concentrating less on what lay ahead and more on the step I was taking.

Orlando had a smooth, easy gait, and he was fast. He ran like a man who got joy from the wind in his face. In certain spots, where there were only dim shadows, he was almost invisible, his dark skin blending into the night. I lost sight of him. “Orlando,” I called.

“I’m right here,” he said, touching my shoulder. “You all right? When’s the last time you ran?”

“It’s been a while. I get on the treadmill, though, every morning.”

“Yeah, but that ain’t like running in the open. This is better for you, baby, especially when you have something on your mind. It helps you to focus.”

He reached out, squeezed my arm, and took off.

I went around six times; Orlando completed ten rounds. Both of us were sweaty and panting when we finished. And hungry.

“There’s some turkey chili at home,” I said.

“Your chili?”

“Uh-huh.”

He grinned. “Maybe we’ll pick up some fries to go with it.”

We debated about which fries we should get and ended up at an all-night deli in the Marina. We polished them off in the car.

At my house Orlando ate two bowls of chili, pushed back the chair from my breakfast room table, and said, “Now I need to go running again.”

“Everything I cook is low-fat,” I said. “You’re my diet buster, buying French fries.”

“Aw, baby, you look good.” He reached across the table and took my hand, rubbed each one of my fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“A lot better. Thanks for taking me out.”

He looked at the clock on my kitchen wall. It was after eleven. “What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked. Questions about Orlando’s day had to be posed carefully. Any references to work or auditions had to be introduced by him.

“I’m looping early.”

Orlando’s voice-over work was his bread and butter. His was the voice of several cartoon characters. He announced for radio ads and even filled in background crowd voices. In past years the work, along with a few television guest spots, had given him a decent income, but he hadn’t booked a show in a while, and the last time we’d spoken, even the voice-over jobs seemed to have dried up.

“Oh, that’s great.”

He stiffened. “I still
do
work, you know. Looping isn’t a cause for celebration.”

“Orlando—”

“The has-been actor still gets jobs.”

Los Angeles: City of Fragile Egos.

“Orlando—”

“I’m not as big-time as your ex-husband, but I still work.”

“You’re not a has-been, and I’m not coming to your pity party. I’ve got one of my own to attend. And as far as Clyde is concerned—”

He leaned across the table and grabbed my hand. “All right. I’m sorry. Party canceled. Both of them. Okay?”

He kept rubbing my hand, making circles on my palm. After a while, we both got up and sat down on the couch.

The telephone rang.

“You have a collect call from—”

I immediately visualized Trina, wearing a green gown, pacing the hallway of the hospital, the pay phone receiver in her hand.

“—it’s your mother.”

The voice was thin, hoarse, but I knew it instantly. Gone was the vocal dexterity necessary for midnight howling and predawn screaming. On the other end of the line was an older, wiser woman, entering her second decade of sobriety. She went to meetings now and memorized slogans and prayers, ambled through life twelve steps at a time. My mother wanted to make amends. She was in dire need of my touch, my benevolence. And, if I could spare it, a little extra cash.

“Will you accept the charges?”

And just that quickly, whatever kindness had been deposited in my spiritual account evaporated.

“No.”

If Ma Missy had been alive, she would have shaken her head, admonished me for my meanness, reminded me that the woman on the other end of the line was still my mother. “She’s trying, Keri,” Ma Missy would have said. As if trying in the present erased the years of not trying that had comprised my childhood. If Ma Missy had been sitting in my kitchen when my mother’s call came, we would have argued. Although she’d protected me from my mother when I was a child and had even evicted her from her home, Ma Missy would always be her champion for the simple reason that my mother was her daughter. She could forgive her everything; that’s the nature of motherhood. I, on the other hand, was a wronged child. And without Ma Missy to guilt-trip me into submission, my baser instincts took over.

Not that I hadn’t spoken to my mother in the past. The call that came right after Thanksgiving, eleven or twelve years ago, when she was fresh out of the first rehab that had ever really taken hold and I was young enough to believe in a new beginning—I took that one. Talked for hours. Listened to her apologies, her tears. Cried some of my own. I flew back to Atlanta during a sweltering August. We went to lunch, to church, got our hair done, and shopped at the outlet mall. She borrowed a friend’s car and drove me to the airport and cried again when I left.

She visited LA when torrential rains obliterated the sky. We went to a dripping Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and, given a sunshiny reprieve, toured Disneyland. The two of us did every mall in the city and some in the suburbs, went to the movies, and sat up late at night watching television and talking. She told me she was sorry for all the pain she’d caused me, said she was proud of the woman and mother I’d become. She cried; oh, how she cried! Before she went home, I made up my mind to forgive her.

And then she fell in love. At sixty-three, when she should have been prepared to devote her entire life to apologizing to me for the pitiful mother she’d been, she met a man. “In recovery, just like me.” They had so much in common, right down to their tiny fixed incomes. Once again, I was replaced.

Abandonment redux.

“Your mother?” Orlando asked, when I sat back on the sofa.

“Yes. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

In the past Orlando had stood squarely on the side of rapprochement. But then, his mama had been good to him.

“My baby’s getting it from all sides. Come here, girl.”

His hand was warm on the back of my neck. I let him kiss me, and then I kissed him back. We kissed some more, and we touched some more. My body was twitching, all that heat inside me struggling and pushing, yearning for someplace to go. I pulled away from him.

“Are you sleeping with that girl?”

“What girl?”

“The little jailbait mama you were hanging with at the restaurant.”

“I only went out with her twice.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No.”

I looked at him.

“I didn’t sleep with her.” He started laughing.

“She turned you down, didn’t she?” My turn to laugh.

“Yeah, she turned me down after she saw me talking to you. Told me it was obvious that we were involved. I had it made until I ran into you. Who have
you
been sleeping with?”

“Oh, let me try to remember their names.”

I stood up first. And then he followed me. My sheets were cool, fresh. His body was familiar, strong. His heat warmed me. We knew the best position for both of us. My crying didn’t throw him. He didn’t let it throw me. I could feel him bearing down, pushing past all tears, taking me with him, claiming me all over again.

“So, it’s you and me, right?” he said, just before we fell asleep.

I thought about Pretty Young Thing draping herself all over Orlando. I thought about all the faceless Pretty Young Things in the world. He knows me, I thought. He knows everything about me and about Trina. I thought about PJ: closed my eyes and saw his grin, saw his face, so sad sometimes he worried me. Did Orlando ever see that sad face?

“All this back-and-forth, break up and make up. . . . We need to think about hooking it up.”

The picture that formed in my mind was the same one as always. I saw Clyde, his bags packed, walking out. Then Clyde’s face changed and it was Orlando heading for the door, leaving me alone, bereft. A family that included a man who stayed put was a dream that had exploded in my face a long time ago. I wouldn’t risk that pain again. “Jumping the broom” to the land of matrimony wasn’t in my future.

“I’ll think about it.” It was what I always said.