Bebe Moore Campbell (13 page)

Gloria was cooking, a glass of wine in one hand, a big spoon in the other. Mattie followed me into the kitchen.

“Smells good,” I said, “and I’m hungry. How are you?”

Gloria shrugged, took a sip of wine, and kept on stirring. “I’m doing fine and getting ready to do better. What’s up with you?”

The thought of laying down my burdens was appealing. Rehashing them would have been a more appropriate term. Gloria listened attentively; then she put down her spoon, walked over to the counter where there were at least half a dozen bottles of champagne and wine, poured a glass of Chandon, and handed it to me.

“You got twenty-four hours left, girlfriend. You might as well make the most of them.”

“I’ll keep Trina in prayer,” Mattie said, “but Gloria is right. Tonight you need to party. Feel free to borrow Roger for a spin around the floor. He’s quite the stepper.”

“You said he wasn’t cute. I think he’s nice-looking,” I said, knowing I was lying.

“In a Johnny Cash kind of way,” Mattie said, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, he has many fine attributes to recommend him.”

As if on cue, Roger appeared with Milton, and we all toasted, talking and laughing until Gloria had finished cooking; then we helped her put the food, plates, and silverware on the table. When I went back into the kitchen, Orlando was standing there.

“I figured I’d find the true sisters in here,” he said, then held out his hand, pulled me to him, and kissed my cheek.

I reintroduced Orlando to Mattie and Gloria, then introduced him to Roger and Milton. The men immediately separated from the women and began discussing the merits of the Lakers.

“The guy you’re with looks familiar,” Gloria whispered.

“He should,” Mattie whispered, and I began laughing.

“What?” she asked.

“He was the man who helped you into the car two nights ago, when we went out to dinner after the meeting and you had too much wine.”

“Oh, God. I hope he doesn’t recognize me,” Gloria said. She looked at me. “Damn. You work fast.”

“I knew him way before that. Don’t you remember? He came to a couple of meetings. We’ve been on and off for years.”

“Wasn’t he on that show?” Gloria asked.

I nodded. “He’s done a lot of television, movies too.” Why was I feeling proud?

Mattie winked at Gloria. “So now you’re on?”

“Yeah, we’re on again.”

Gloria suddenly clapped her hands. “You guys get out of this kitchen and get the party started. Gentlemen,” Gloria called, and the men looked up, “the ladies want to dance.”

We dutifully moved into the family room, where a young twenty-something DJ with baggy pants and braids in his hair had set up his equipment. Up-tempo beats blared from his speakers. Orlando took my hand and led me to the floor.

Orlando’s steps had been honed on Big Shoulders rhythms. My Buttermilk Bottom style was more easygoing. But we melded on the dance floor. Freestyle, that’s how we grooved best. No rules, no regs, no patterns.

The floor was crowded when we decided to take a break. On our way back to the kitchen, Orlando saw a woman he knew. I was used to his many spontaneous reunions with people who’d worked or gone to school with him or shared a moment of his life. When the next record came on, he asked if I minded if he had a dance with his old friend, and I didn’t mind at all. Even when he was dancing with someone else, Orlando seemed to be standing next to me.

Milton grabbed my hand when he saw me alone, and we began twirling across the room away from Orlando and his home girl. That’s how it happened that I was the one to see Milton’s eyes grow large as he looked beyond me, beyond the crowd of Electric Sliders, the conversationalists, holding up the wall with their chitchat, to the munchers, tearing through Gloria’s offerings of barbecue chicken, greens, and potato salad to the sofa. Seated there, his hands folded in his lap as though he’d just concluded a prayer, was Milton’s son. Wellington wasn’t dancing or eating or chatting, just looking straight ahead at nothing in particular. There were people on either side of him, but he remained apart from them, his eyes empty and disconnected.

“Wellington is here,” Milton said quietly. “Let me go speak with him.”

I trailed Milton as he walked over to where his son was sitting.

“How are you, son?” he asked, his voice quiet and calm.

Wellington didn’t answer.

“Would you like something to eat?”

Wellington hunched his shoulders and leaned back. The people close by listened for a moment and then began to drift away.

Gloria rushed over. “Wellington, are you—”

“He’s okay, honey,” Milton said. “Leave him alone for now.”

“He just came in. The door must have been open.”

“We’ll deal with it later.” He patted his son’s knee. “You okay, buddy?”

Wellington didn’t look at either one of his parents.

Gloria sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“It’s all right,” Milton said. He pulled Gloria to him and gave her a hug. “Don’t worry. I have his meds upstairs.”

People started coming up to Gloria and Milton, telling them good-bye. I felt hands on my back, and when I turned Orlando was smiling at me.

“What’s going on?” He looked at me and then at our hosts.

“Everything is fine,” Gloria said.

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Go dance.”

The music was slow. The crowd on the floor had thinned out, so we had more room. I could dance and watch Gloria as she sat on the sofa with Wellington, who wouldn’t look at her.

“Is that her son?”

I nodded.

“Off his meds?”

“Yeah.”

The record had ended. The rest of the couples had drifted from the floor. We walked over to the sofa. Wellington was sitting quietly, Gloria on one side and Milton on the other.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

Gloria looked up and smiled. “Everything is under control.” She patted her son’s knee. “We’ll be all right.”

“Well, I can stay,” I said.

“No,” Gloria said. “You’ve got Trina to deal with tomorrow. Finish your date, honey. Have some fun tonight.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me close to her. “Milton and I may go for conservatorship.”

I nodded as I let the word make a home inside my mind and renewed the options: Let the kid run wild; lock the kid up. Conservatorship. Maybe that was my North Star, if I needed one.

Orlando and I stayed the entire evening. We danced by ourselves in the middle of the floor. We drank more wine and ate more food. After the rest of the people had gone, we helped clean up and then played bid whist with Mattie and Gloria while Roger watched and told jokes and Milton sat with Wellington. After one game of cards, Orlando stood in the middle of the floor and performed Hamlet’s soliloquy. Then he sang “Killing Me Softly” in a lustrous tenor. Our little group applauded and whistled, all except for Wellington, who stared straight ahead, his mind tuned in to other voices.

When I got to my car outside Gloria’s house, Orlando said, “Do I follow you or do you want to follow me?”

One of the smart things Orlando had done when he was making money was to forgo the requisite star’s mansion in favor of a triplex. He lived in one unit and rented out the other two, which provided him with a modest income. His unit was the most spacious of the three, and he’d decorated it in a spare masculine style: white walls, dark furniture, giant-screen TV. Everything was neat, and when he opened his refrigerator there was cooked food in covered pots.

He took out a bottle of wine and poured a little into two glasses.

“This week I have an audition for a sitcom pilot,” he said. Before I could say anything, he added, “Don’t ask. Very dumb plot. But I’m auditioning for the producers.”

Saying lines for the producers was a step above auditioning for the lowly casting agent. Orlando was telling me that he was still somebody in the business.

“Congratulations.”

“So I am, once again, a man with prospects. Ebb and flow, baby.”

He grinned at me, and I prayed for him on the spot. Asked God to give him the gig, just to keep that grin on his face. That grin would be good for PJ.

“Well, here we go again,” I said, as we sat on his sofa sipping the wine. “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.” He knew who I was talking about.

“Oh, that,” Orlando said. “Love you, love your kid. Let me amend that: Love you; won’t punch your kid out. Ain’t that the way it goes?”

I took his hand and kissed each knuckle and then his palm. “That’s the way it goes.”

8

ORLANDO WAS STILL ASLEEP BESIDE ME WHEN I CALLED the hospital the next day. I recognized the voice of the Nigerian woman who answered the phone at the nurse’s station at the Weitz Center. She was austere, by the book. A million ways to say hello in Yoruba, and she couldn’t think of one. Maybe the residual affects of colonialism or the British school system had messed with her mind. Sister wasn’t giving up no love.

“Hello, Ms. Shonibare, is Elijah there?” I asked.

“Elijah is busy with patients.”

“May I leave a—”

“Try again in forty minutes. He takes a break then.” She hung up.

After ten minutes, I dialed again. This time the voice was lighter, speaking English words with the rhythm of Tagalog. I pictured the small Filipino man, Marco.

“Hello, Marco, this is Keri Whitmore. We’ve met before. My daughter, Trina, is on the ward.”

“Oh, yes. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m calling about Trina. How is she today? Has the psychiatrist been in to see her? I don’t think she’s taking her meds. When I saw her last night, she was very wired.”

My hands opened and closed as I spoke. He paused, and I pictured him reading the chart.

“Mrs. Whitmore, did you know that your daughter hasn’t listed you?”

“What do you mean, she didn’t list me? I’m her mother.”

“She’s eighteen. She’s an adult. If she doesn’t list you, I can’t give you any information.”

“I know that you check for drugs. Was anything in her system?”

“Mrs. Whitmore,” he began.

I knew what that pause meant.

Only days before, we had celebrated her birthday. Now those digits meant that my child was out of my control.

“But I’m her mother. She lives with me. She’s my dependent. I’ll be paying her bill, whatever the insurance doesn’t cover. I have a right to know what’s going on. She may be coming home tonight. I have to know what I’m dealing with.”

“I’m sorry.”

I sat up in the bed, still holding the receiver in my hand. Orlando’s eyes opened, then closed, then opened again.

“What’s going on?” He sat up.

“They won’t tell me anything because she’s eighteen.”

He tried to pull me to him, but I was too edgy to be comforted. I got up and began to dress.

“Don’t you want me to fix you something?” he asked.

“Thanks. I’m okay.”

“What are your hours today?”

“Saturdays are eleven to seven.”

“There’s a rehearsal for the play this afternoon,” he told me, as he walked me out. “I’ll be at the theater from about one to five. If you need me, I’ll have my cell on vibrate.”

At home, I paged Trina’s psychiatrist at the hospital. Five minutes later he called me back, sounding harried. He had seen Trina. She appeared to be responding to the meds. He’d upped the antipsychotic to fifteen milligrams. Dr. Bellows didn’t have time to talk, to discuss my fear that Trina wasn’t really taking her meds. He insisted that she was responding, suggested that I was overreacting. He wouldn’t tell me what was in her lab report.

“Keri, I know this is difficult. Try to stay calm,” he said.

Who was I before my child became mentally ill? Did people speak to me in platitudes then? Did they hand me pity as though it were a cup of coffee I needed?

“Is there any possibility that the hold can be extended?” I asked. “Would you recommend that?”

“Yes, I will. But you know this is a legal matter. She will be represented.”

In my old life, my complaints were mundane: the cost of shoes I coveted, a fickle lover. My girlfriends—Marie, Brooke, Nichele—and I had spa dates together. We went to the movies. We had lunch or dinner or drinks. What did I cry about then?

By late afternoon I was in my office, examining two cocktail dresses that a new client had brought in. Frances came in and gave me a long look. “Trina’s a smart girl,” she said. “She’ll get it together.”

“I don’t know what the next few days are going to be like,” I said. “You may have to be in charge.” I lowered my voice. “How does Adriana seem to you?”

“She’s being tempted. Can’t say if she’s given in or is about to give in. I just don’t know.”

I nodded. “I’ve been talking to her.”

“Me too.” She sighed. “What did the Old Man say about the jacket?”

“I’ll take it now.”

I wasn’t ready for the sunshine. As I walked the half block to the shop, the heat and the brightness felt oppressive. It was the kind of happy-looking sunshine that makes Angelenos feel smug enough to ask dumb questions about Americans who live in intemperate climates. “Why would anybody ever want to live there?” they ask as they rush off to the beach in February in their topless jeeps, never grasping the concept that some people actually thrive on weather that matches their mood. Everything inside me hurt. I needed needle-tipped winds and gray skies in the worst way.

Behind the counter, the Old Man was eating a sandwich. When I held up the jacket, he put down his food, pulled out a moist paper towel from a package, and wiped off his hands carefully.

“Very beautiful,” he said.

He was a short dark-brown man with a sad, creased face.

“It has a stain,” I said, pointing to the spot. The Old Man took the jacket from me and studied it for a few seconds. He carried it to a picture window and stared at it some more. “Is this blood?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Might be some kind of ink.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I can get this out. It seems to be set.”

“You can’t get it out?” The Old Man had never been stumped before.

“Didn’t say that. Said I don’t know. Whatever is in there, don’t want to turn the fabric loose. That means I have to kind of pry it from each thread, but gently so I don’t do further damage. I got the chemicals. It’s a matter of how to apply them. Got to be real careful. You want to leave it here, I’ll do my best. But I can’t give you no guarantee.”

I left the jacket, went back to the shop, and jumped each time the telephone rang. Ms. Perez called late in the afternoon. She was brief and to the point. The hold was not going to be extended. Trina could be picked up any time after five o’clock.

“By any chance, do you know if marijuana or anything else was found in her system?”

“Mrs. Whitmore, you could be looking at illness, plain and simple. Your daughter may have been taking the prescribed medicine, not using drugs, and she still might be having problems. She has a brain disease. There could be lots of reasons to explain why she escalated. I know this is hard, but try to—”

“If you know this is hard, why don’t you help make it easier? She’s just a social security number to you, but I’m her mother.”

My voice was louder than the decibels allowed in the store. “What?”

Adriana was standing in the doorway when I slammed down the phone.

She put her finger to her lips, then whispered, “Somebody to see you. She said she’s a friend. Marie?”

“How loud was I? Did she hear me?”

“She just came in a minute ago. I can tell her you’re busy.”

Marie appeared in the doorway. “Keri?” Her voice was tentative, as though she didn’t know what to expect. Clearly, she’d heard me. “I was in your area. Just wanted to say hi. Did I come at a bad time? Is everything okay?”

In your world, I thought. Moneymaking husband. Kid pledging a sorority. There is the shimmering land of Normal and then there is this place I live, built on the toxic waste of chaos. No use acting as if they are sister cities. They’re too far apart for visits.

Why on earth did she keep reaching out?

“Everything’s fine. I’m sorry about the other night. I wish I’d known that you were coming. I’m late for an appointment.”

I didn’t suggest we do dinner at some future date. My tone was distant and cool on purpose. My eyes ignored the hurt in Marie’s. What was her pain compared to mine?
Let’s end this now.

I GAVE MYSELF THIRTY MINUTES TO REACH THE HOSPITAL. Driving over, I tried to do what Frances seemed to think I was capable of doing: I took deep breaths and let them out slowly. I told myself, This too shall pass. But I didn’t believe it.

By five-fifteen, I was standing in front of the nurses’ station, waiting for Trina to be released. It was dinnertime, and the ward was quiet. Nobody was wandering the halls. Nobody was screaming. So I didn’t have any difficulty hearing the nurse.

“Your daughter left about an hour ago,” she said.

Her words flogged me, tore my skin, drew blood.

“You just let her go by herself?” I was astonished.

“She’s an adult,” the nurse said.

I glared at her. “My daughter has a mental illness.”

“Mrs. Whitmore, there’s nothing I can do.”

She walked away. A tremendous flash of heat surged through me, and my head seemed to explode. There was a bench behind me. I sat down on it and tried to keep from thinking, from crying, from screaming.

“Mrs. Whitmore.” Elijah smiled at me. “Your daughter left with a woman. Dark and heavy, much older than your daughter.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t know. But”—he bent closer to me and whispered—“she’s stayed here before. I remember her face.”

IT TOOK MORE THAN AN HOUR TO GET TO COMPTON. ONCE in the neighborhood I was confused, trying to remember where Melody lived. So many little cottage-lined streets, one graffiti-covered wall after another—I was Alice in Wonderhood, falling down the rabbit hole. Everything seemed to meld together after a while. Then I turned onto a street that did seem familiar and zeroed in on the peeling gray house in the middle of the block.

A woman answered the door after the third ring. Behind her was the low chaotic rumble of bickering children.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

She didn’t smile. Deep lines ran from the base of her nose to the edges of her lips. Her body was heavy-breasted and bulky. As she spoke to me, she twisted her neck to keep an eye on the children, and when she turned to face me she winced, then began rubbing her neck. The circles beneath her eyes seemed to have been drawn with charcoal.

“I’m looking for Melody Pratt. Does she live here?”

“Melody ain’t got back yet.” The woman tilted her head, and her eyes slowly traveled the length of my body, sizing me up in a way that let me know that whoever came asking for Melody was suspect.

“She and my daughter attend the same program together.”

She nodded, and then our heads were bobbing to the same rhythm, and we were making soft noises that got stuck in our throats.

“I’m Melody’s mother, Celestine. You wanna come in?”

The house was cramped and smelled of years and years of fried everything. The sofa in the living room seemed to have caved in under the weight of the piles of clothes it held, a wobbly tower of children’s shirts and dresses and pants. The kids themselves, a boy of about seven and twin girls who looked to be five, emerged from a room in the back and stared at me.

“Y’all go back in there and watch your video,” the woman said. “And be quiet. Yeah, they Melody’s kids.” She motioned for me to take a seat in a chair in the corner that was also filled with laundry. “Just put that stuff on the floor.”

Celestine nodded as I explained what had happened. While I talked, she got me a cup of tea, barked orders at her grandchildren, led me into her small kitchen, pulled out a stool for me to sit on, and began chopping onions, frying potatoes and hamburgers.

“You kids come on in here and eat,” she called, and the three children appeared. Celestine gathered chairs from another room and assembled them around the dilapidated table. She nodded toward the boy. “Say the blessing.” She turned to me. “Have some.”

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m not hungry,” I said. We went back to the living room.

“Melody’s been doing pretty good the last few months, going to the program every day, taking her medication. Every time, you think it’s going to be the last time, and then—” she shook her head. “My brother was just like Melody, except he never did get straight with his medication. Just flat out wouldn’t take it. And he had his time with drugs, just like Melody.”

“How is he now?”

“Dead. Shot hisself.”

There was no noise coming from the kitchen. Celestine walked over and looked inside. “When I don’t hear them I get nervous.” She smiled a little and rolled her eyes, and for a moment she was just another doting grandma. “Your daughter got any kids?”

“No.”

She didn’t comment, leaving me to wonder whether my answer implied that I was fortunate or unfortunate.

“Don’t stress yourself out,” Celestine said as I was leaving. “Melody get here when she get here. Same with your girl. Social worker told me you gotta pace yourself, otherwise you end up getting broke down. Right before Melody got into that program, my pressure shot up so high the doctor was talking about putting
me
in the hospital. I gotta take care of
me.
Yeah.”

Celestine sounded as though she’d been to group.

BACK HOME, I SAT IN THE GARAGE IN THE DARK FOR A few minutes before I heard my doorbell ring. Hurriedly I unbuckled my seat belt, unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, and raced around to my front door. Peering through the peephole, I spied a halo of Afro blocking out everything else from view.

“PJ! What on earth?”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, sweetie. Of course.” We hugged. “Are you hungry?”

He sat at the breakfast room table and plowed into a huge bowl of ice cream and a whopper slice of cake. PJ’s appetite was legendary. His MO was to eat slowly, letting his food settle before he shoveled in more.

“How did you get here?”

“Walked.”

“Your mom know where you are?”

He shook his head.

“PJ!”

“She’s not even home. She’s on a date with her new boyfriend.”

“Well, she ought to know you’re here. Did you tell Jabari?”

“He’s at a study group.” PJ looked up from his ice cream. “Can we play Scrabble?”

I searched his face. “We can play for thirty minutes, and then I’m taking you home.”

The boys had learned to play Scrabble at my house. Jabari, uncharacteristically, was a mediocre player, but PJ excelled. In less than twenty minutes he was ahead by thirty points. He was intense and fast, skilled at using one or two letters to create multiple word sets. Where other people saw only an opportunity to turn in all their letters, he saw a way to score.