Bebe Moore Campbell (12 page)

7

WE MADE LOVE AGAIN AT DAWN, THEN DOZED UNTIL WE were awakened by a buzzing sound from Orlando’s PalmPilot. I felt his kisses after he left, one on my forehead and one on my cheek. Maybe it was their wetness that kept me awake. Maybe something else.

The morning came with clear skies, birds chirping, and a fist called Depression that crashed into my skull. Already, there were grooves in my brain where it fit. I pulled the covers up and waited, trying to remember the feel of Orlando’s legs across my thighs, but that memory had faded. No use running, nowhere to hide. More than the blows, the familiarity made me go limp, give up. The way the thing called my name. So seductive. Good morning, heartache; wasn’t that the way the song went?

Mean D was ruthless but not creative. The methodology was fairly predictable. Out of nowhere the inevitable masochistic questions insinuated themselves in my brain. If I had done this . . . If I hadn’t done that . . . Nothing is as resilient as a mother’s guilt. It’s that trick birthday candle that keeps flickering back on no matter how hard you blow. Only a few hours into a seventy-two-hour hold and already the guilt— ancient, primordial maybe, but so maternal—had begun stabbing me in all my vital organs. Months of reading books about mental illness, months of support group, of psychotherapy, of assiduously learning that Trina’s problem was not of my making (all together now: “I didn’t cause it, and I can’t cure it!”) was flung right out of my consciousness against a bleak sky. The jazz of my present existence scatted only one refrain: WhatdidIdowrongwhatdidIdowrongwhatdidIdowrong?

The possibilities made up a list as endless as a cheap wine hangover. Was I absolutely sure that I’d smoked my last and final cigarette at least six months before conceiving Trina, the way I liked to recall, or was nicotine still floating through my system at the moment of conception? Forget about nicotine. What about the occasional joint I’d been so fond of? Could I pinpoint my last high? Why had I been unable to give up coffee when I was pregnant? Had that caffeine rush given me a jittery fetus who later became . . .? The questions gave birth to more questions, and my masochism escalated in brutality. Why had I been in such a damn hurry to get back to work after Trina was born? Why hadn’t I stayed home with my daughter until she was five, six, ten, eighteen? How well had I known her babysitters? Which one of them had smacked her, locked her in a closet, touched her private parts?

The
if only
s followed the questions. If only I’d breast-fed longer. If only I hadn’t sent her to that first school with the mean teacher. If only I’d tried to work harder on my marriage. If only I hadn’t been so busy.

High-stepping through my mind next came the parade of other people’s Perfect Kids. The infants, offspring of my friends and family: always cooing, always adorable. The toddlers with their new teeth and new words, running to embrace life. The preteens. The teenagers. Ah, worst of all, the finished products of twenty-one. My first cousin’s Princeton graduate: perfect. My neighbor’s budding actress: perfect. My hairstylist’s son, working on his master’s at USC: perfect. All the perfect products of good mothers, which I, obviously, was not.
What did I do wrong?
It was the chorus to an unlucky song I couldn’t stop singing.

My mother never sang that song, I thought. She was remorseless, a woman who did her dirt and kept on stepping. When I told her once that giving birth to me didn’t make her my mother, she had shrugged her shoulders. Why couldn’t I be more like her?

Somehow, when I faced these moments, I always wanted to talk with Clyde. He alone could bear witness. He alone could exonerate me.

The ringing telephone was a stay of execution.

“Hey, girl. You were on my mind.”

Mattie’s early-morning greeting, cheerful as it was, didn’t abate my blues.

I told her about Trina.

“Look, she’s had months of being on meds and going to therapy. She wants to go to school, to get her life back. Trina’s not going to jeopardize what’s she’s built for herself. Don’t you think she likes feeling normal?”

“I don’t know. The night before she went in, I think she was smoking weed.”

“How do you know?”

“I smelled it outside her window.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Even the most optimistic Child of God on the planet had to acknowledge the lure of weed to the manic.

“She only gave it up once,” Mattie said. “Took me three attempts to quit smoking.”

“I’ll hold that thought.”

“Nona is doing okay,” Mattie said.

More guilt assailed me as soon as she mentioned her daughter’s name. Nothing like your child’s bipolar relapse to make you a self-centered depressive. I hadn’t given Nona a thought.

“That’s great,” I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

“She’s getting out early. In two weeks, maybe.”

“Is she going to stay with you?”

“Where else?”

“She has a father.”

“With a new wife. Ray doesn’t want her there. I don’t want her to go where she’s not welcome. God never gives you more than you can bear.”

“Why do people always say that? There have been times when I’m far past what I can bear, and you’ve been there too.”

“We’re still standing, and we’re stronger.”

“How’s your friend?” I asked, sidestepping a philosophical discussion.

“Sizzling. You’ll meet him tonight at Gloria’s party.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, honey, tonight. You said you’d bring monkey bread.”

“God, I’m glad you reminded me. I have to find out when Trina leaves the hospital.”

Mattie started laughing. “When Nona gets out, I should ask the warden if her cell is available.”

“I’ll take the top bunk.”

I LEFT AN INVITATION TO GLORIA’S PARTY ON ORLANDO’S answering service, hoping he wasn’t busy, and then slid back under the covers. Finally, I called Frances at the shop and told her to expect me in the afternoon. “I guess Adriana told you Trina’s in the hospital again.”

“She’ll be all right,” Frances said, which is what she always said. “I’m more worried about you.” She paused. “Some guy was with Adriana this morning when she came in.”

When Frances described him, I could feel my heartbeat quicken.

I STAYED IN BED UNTIL NOON. THEN I GOT DRESSED AND drove to the hospital.

When I stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor, a man was bent over the sign-in sheet at the desk outside the locked doors of the psychiatric ward. When he stood up, I could see his face.

“Clyde.”

“Trina called me last night and told me she was here. What happened, Keri?”

“She was at her program, and she started becoming manic.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I—”

“I’m her father. I have a right to know. There was no reason to have her put in a psychiatric hospital.”

My voice began to rise. “She hit somebody. And for the record, I didn’t
have
her put in the hospital. The group leader did. But I agree with her.”

“So what if she hit someone? Maybe the person deserved it. Maybe he did something to her. I’m getting her out of here.”

“Clyde, Trina was smoking marijuana. That may have been what triggered this episode.”

“She doesn’t belong here.”

“It’s only for three days. They’ll get her back on her medication. That’s what’s essential. You don’t understand.”

“I’m signing her out,” Clyde said, staring at me.

“You can’t do that, Clyde. Nobody can. She’s on a three-day involuntary hold. The law says she has to stay here.”

“Damn!” His frustration was etched into the lines across his forehead.

I put my hand on his arm, mostly to calm myself. “Let’s just go see her.”

He pulled away from me. “You go first.”

Trina was sitting in the television room, drinking a soda. The same young man who’d been with her in the smoking area had his hand around her shoulder; when he saw me, he pulled her closer. Trina was talking to him in a normal voice, her back to me. His expression made her turn around.

She glared at me so furiously I stepped back. I was carrying several fashion magazines, which I’d brought for her. Instinctively, I clutched them against my chest. Trina flounced off the sofa and walked away, leaving me alone with the young man.

“Why won’t she talk to me?”

It was an involuntary question, about as useful as praying to the moon. For a moment, he looked bewildered; then he smiled, and I could see two things: Trina’s new friend was handsome, and he was my enemy.

“We both get out tomorrow.”

I passed Clyde on my way to the social worker’s office. He was pacing and looking at his watch. In theory, we should have gone to plan Trina’s aftercare together, but it was clear we weren’t playing on the same team.

Rosario Perez’s office was located on the second floor of the Weitz Center. One of the psychiatric facility’s many social workers, she didn’t remember me, but I remembered her, and not just because of her blazing red hair. I’d sat in her office during Trina’s first hospitalization, and she’d made me believe that everything would be all right. Looking at her now, I felt bitterness. At nine o’clock in the morning, Ms. Perez’s desk was piled high. She gave me a blank stare.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” she said, her tapered fingers drumming against the folder that was spread open before her.

“I’ve spoken to you before,” I said. “When my daughter was here last summer.”

She nodded, scanning the folder.

“Your daughter is bipolar. She was taking part in the partial program downstairs.” Here, she made a little sound of sympathy and looked my way. “Do you have a plan for her care when she leaves tomorrow?”

“I don’t want her to leave after just three days. I’d like the hold extended,” I said quickly.

“You’re familiar with the process.”

I nodded.

“Tomorrow there will be a hearing to determine if your daughter should stay or go. She’ll have representation from the court. Frankly, I don’t think they’ll keep her.”

“She’s not taking her medication.”

Mrs. Perez closed the folder. “How do you know that?”

“I can tell. Maybe she’s taking some, but I think she’s cheeking most of it.”

Mrs. Perez sighed. “This isn’t a perfect system. Your daughter is”— she flipped through her papers—“eighteen. We can’t force her to take medication.”

“She attacked someone,” I said.

Mrs. Perez nodded, glancing at Trina’s chart. “But she hasn’t done that since she’s been here. If your daughter hasn’t swallowed the medicine, she’s at least put the pills in her mouth. She’s gone to some group sessions. The best thing for you to do is to get her reinstated in the partial program. Mostly likely, she can get back in as soon as she leaves here. Why don’t you speak with Elaine?”

I sighed. “When can I pick her up?”

“Assuming that her hold isn’t extended, tomorrow, anytime after five.” She shook my hand, her face impassive.

THERE WASN’T MUCH HAPPENING AT THE STORE. A FEW CUStomers were milling around. Adriana sat behind the register looking bored. There were things that needed to be done, letters I should have written, papers that needed signing, but I ended up standing next to her.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing. It’s slow.”

“With you.”

She looked surprised, then lowered her eyes. “Nothing.”

“I care about you, Adriana. Keep going to the meetings. Talk to your sponsor. I don’t want to see you get caught up again. ”

“I won’t,” she said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

THE SWEET DOUGHY SCENT OF BAKING BREAD WAS WAFTing on the breeze that blew over Ninety-first Street in Inglewood. The aroma hit me before I opened my car door. The street wasn’t beautiful, just a row of one-story wooden cottages and neat linoleum-square lawns. A solid blue-collar community, nothing remarkable about it, except that the air the denizens breathed was enriched and made luxurious, like the ermine collars of royalty, by the labor of Monkey Bread Man.

My after-work timing was good. On weekends and holidays there was usually a long line wending its way from the small porch to the house that smelled like smiles and heaven. On this Friday evening, there were only three people ahead of me. It was a pleasant wait.

“Hello, darling! What can I do for you?”

Monkey Bread Man stood in the middle of his living room, surrounded by scores of bundt-cake-shaped loaves wrapped in heavy aluminum foil. I’d never even heard of the rich, sweetish yeast bread before I moved to California. Now I couldn’t imagine any celebration without it.

Everywhere I looked there was bread: stacked up against the walls, shoved inside the fireplace, piled against the windows and on top of the sofas and chairs. There was scarcely any room to walk except for a narrow pathway from the door to the center, where the ebullient master baker stood, clad in a white apron, its center pocket bulging with bills. Monkey Bread Man ran a cash business.

“Two large,” I said.

He gave a nod to a small boy, his grandson, whom I hadn’t noticed standing near a chair. The youngster picked out two cakes, put them in bags, and handed them to me.

“That’ll be—” the boy began, then looked up at his grandfather.

“Twelve and twelve,” the Monkey Bread Man said, tapping his finger against his head.

“Uh, twenty-four dollars,” the boy said. He looked to be about seven or eight.

I handed him a twenty and a five, and he passed the money to his grandfather.

“Teaching him the business?” I asked.

He nodded. “Trying to keep him busy,” he said. “You don’t keep them occupied, the streets will be raising your children. Then you gotta fight the streets if you want them back.”

He nodded as he put the money into his apron pocket and handed me a dollar in change.

“That’s why I keep this one right where I can see him. ’Cause I done fought the streets once.”

The bread was still warm when I set it on my kitchen counter. The aroma followed me to my bedroom, curled around me as I stripped. It was no less intense when I’d finished showering and began to dress.

The party was in the standing-around-talking stage by the time I got there. Mattie and her heat-in-the-sheet man had already arrived. He said his name fast: Roger or Richard. He was a backslapping kind of man, loud voice, megawatt smile. Short on looks, long on charisma. They were in the living room drinking margaritas. Mattie looked happy. So did Roger or Richard.