Bebe Moore Campbell (8 page)

When the waitress appeared for the third time, Mattie and I asked for hot chicken sandwiches. Gloria said she wasn’t hungry and requested another glass of wine.

“So, Trina’s doing okay?” Mattie asked.

I nodded. “She’s taking the meds, working the program. She’s supposed to start school this fall.”

“God is good,” Gloria said, in a way that let me know she wished that God had been as good to her.

“How’s her dad,” Gloria asked, “Mr. Anti–Affirmative Action?” She shook her head and laughed a little.

When people made derisive comments about Clyde, I always wanted to say, But he’s not really like that. I had to bite my tongue time and time again, because I kept forgetting that Clyde no longer reflected me.

“Still in denial,” I said.

“How’s Wellington?” I asked Gloria. Her twenty-three-year-old son had schizophrenia.

“Homeless,” she said tersely, gulping the last of her wine. She motioned to the waitress to bring her another. “He came by my house two weeks ago.” She shook her head. “Filthy. Looking terrible. Smelling bad. I think he’s on crack.”

The mentally ill sang duets more often than solos. They harmonized with self-medication that temporarily helped them hit their notes, only to lead to even more brain discord later on.

Gloria took the wine from the waitress before she could put it down. As she gulped it, red drops spilled onto the table. She didn’t notice. “He wanted to come in and eat, take a shower.”

“Did you let him?” I asked.

“The girls did. They’re still the adoring little sisters. Milton wasn’t home, so it wasn’t very smart. Anything could have happened. But he was so dirty. I gave him a scrub brush and some Pine-Sol. He was one funky brother.”

We started chuckling.

“That bad?” I said, still laughing.

“Shiiiit. Dove ran out the door; Lifebuoy jumped out the window. Dial was going for the liquor cabinet.”

We hooted.

“And he had the nerve to get an attitude with me,” Gloria said, shaking her head. “Anyway, he took a shower, had a shampoo. I washed his clothes, fed him, and sent him on his way. Haven’t heard from him since. My sister said that she saw him downtown last week, and he looked as though he’d been beaten up.”

“Oh, God,” I said.

“Maybe you should get conservatorship,” Mattie said. “You could have him put in a locked facility.”

“That’s a hard choice to make,” I said. Locking up your own kid— the thought made me shudder.

“Yeah.” She finished her glass of wine. “You know, Wellington didn’t like to bathe when he was a kid. I’d send him up to get a bath and brush his teeth, and he’d just put on his pajamas and get in the bed. He was always so surprised when he got busted. ‘Aw, Mom, how’d you know?’ I’d say, ‘Knucklehead, the soap is dry. The tub is dry. The washcloth is dry. The toothbrush is dry. Duh!’ He didn’t voluntarily clean up until he hit puberty and discovered the ladies. Then we couldn’t get him out of the bathroom. Some girl must have given him some in eleventh grade, because after that Milton and I used to call him Mr. Obsession for Men.”

“He’s so handsome,” I said.

We’d all shared pictures of our children.

“Yes, under the grime he’s a good-looking guy. Under his dread-locks, he’s got a sharp but malfunctioning brain. I’m trying to get him into another living place, but to qualify he has to be sober for thirty days. And then, you know, when he was living at the last one, the people didn’t run a very tight ship. I know for a fact that some of the residents smuggled in alcohol, including my son. So . . .” Her voice trailed off. “How’s Nona?” she asked Mattie.

“Nona’s holding on. I visited her at the prison two weeks ago, and she looked good.”

“Were you able to get her into the mental health section?” I asked.

She shook her head. “There’s a waiting list.”

“How much longer will she be in there?”

“Three months.”

Gloria and I made noises in our throats. Nonverbal empathy.

“I think if she weren’t in jail she’d be dead,” Mattie said. She chuckled. “It’s cheaper than A Caring Place. I’m still paying that off. Six thousand dollars for a four-week stay. That’s room and board, group sessions, private counseling, family counseling. The insurance is only paying half, and it took about twenty phone calls and I don’t know how many letters to get them to pay anything. I’m in yet another support group: Mothers of Mentally Ill Inmates.”

“You mean, Mothers of Mentally Ill Inmates with Bills,” Gloria said. “After a while, support groups will replace families. It won’t be about who you’re married to. All the official forms will ask for date of birth, social security number, and support group affiliation.”

We laughed hysterically. We always either laughed or cried like crazy whenever we got together.

“Seriously, though, we need to start a group in the ’hood,” Gloria said. “ The Come Out of the Closet Support Group.”

We all chuckled.

The waitress appeared with our sandwiches. Gloria asked for another glass of wine.

“It’s always going to be like this,” she said, taking a sip.

“Oh, honey—” I began.

She waved her hand. “No. No, I’ve made my peace with it. I’m not looking for Wellington to get any better. Milton’s the optimist in our house. I’m the realist.” She glanced sternly at us. “So don’t think you have to give me some kind of pep talk, because I’m fine.” She looked at Mattie. “Did you tell Keri about Ray?”

Ray was Mattie’s estranged and soon-to-be former husband. “What?” I asked.

“He moved in with Carolyn. He bought her an engagement ring. And she’s pregnant.”

I might have been a little out of the loop, but no part of the announcement was a surprise. It was clear to me early on that Mattie’s husband was in the process of moonwalking out of her life and away from their daughter’s mental illness. I’d met Ray and Mattie together the first time I attended a support group meeting. He was fine, an aging pretty boy, tall and chiseled with a wide smile: an amiable guy. But I knew the minute I shook his hand that he didn’t have the fortitude for whatever lay ahead. We were all at the beginning of a journey none of us had chosen to take, and I sensed that he would get off the train the first chance he got.

“The funny thing is—well, maybe not so funny—that the mental illness comes from his gene pool,” Mattie said.

“It’s never us. That’s the rule,” Gloria said, and we laughed.

“Seriously, his mother hasn’t left her house in about five years.”

“What’s that, agoraphobia? That’s not mental illness,” I said.

Mattie raised her eyebrows.

“Technically, it’s a phobia,” I said, “not a brain disease.”

“He’s also got a sister who is classically bipolar, seasonal affective disorder and everything. Every fall she flatlines; come spring, she’s dancing on the ceiling. So anyway—”

“You don’t seem all that upset,” I said.

“In a way it’s anticlimactic,” Mattie said. “It was hard being alone at first, but now I’m okay. And it’s been—what, six months? I was afraid Nona would have a bad reaction because she wasn’t doing well at the time, but the breakup didn’t make her any worse. I mean, she’s in jail. What could be worse than that? Except, I truly believe that God placed her in jail for a reason. To keep her alive, for one. To gain perspective, maybe. I don’t know.

“Anyway . . . a lovely man has come into my life. I kept running into him at the auction house. A couple of times he outbid me. The last time it happened, we got to talking, and he invited me out for coffee. And— there you have it.”

“Good for you,” I said. “What’s he look like?”

“He’s white, shorter than I am by many inches, not all that cute; however, when we get together I can’t stop laughing. And he brings the thunder and the lightning to the sheets.”

“Whoa,” Gloria and I said.

“Oh, and he’s got money. Boyfriend owns many apartment buildings.”

“Whoa,” we said again.

“Does he know about Nona?”

Mattie shook her head. “No need. By the time she comes home, the affair will be over. This isn’t serious. This is fun.”

“Well, you deserve some,” I said. “Everybody needs some heat under the sheet.” We laughed. “I talked to Bethany tonight.”

Mattie rolled her eyes. “That woman needs meds.”

“You think so?” I asked.

“She’s a little . . . I don’t know. I’m not saying she’s mentally ill, but she’s definitely out there. Going off on the speaker. That wasn’t called for.”

“After she cussed out Dr. Gold, she came downstairs and hinted to me that she knew some alternative ways that would help her daughter.”

“You’re going to look up and see her on
America’s Most Wanted,
” Mattie said.

“Yeah, maybe so,” I said.

I was ready to leave after Gloria finished her fourth glass of wine, but she ordered another. Three pairs of eyes met: Mattie’s, the waitress’s, and mine. I started to say something, but Mattie put her hand on my arm and shook her head.

“I’m driving,” she said.

“Don’t worry about me,” Gloria said. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t have a problem standing up or even walking to the door, but once she got outside, she began to crumple, then fold. Mattie had walked ahead to bring her car around and had just turned the corner when Gloria started going down. I grabbed her arm, but her legs began buckling and she would have landed on the sidewalk if a man and a woman hadn’t been walking past us toward the restaurant. Gloria fell against the man, who was wearing a fedora, low on his forehead; he grabbed her by her elbows and pulled her up. Then he looked at me.

“Keri.”

“Orlando.”

The woman, who was standing behind him, seemed to perk up when she realized that we knew each other. She was young and unsmiling. She folded her arms as Orlando tried to keep Gloria from falling.

“Are you all right?” he asked, peering into Gloria’s half-closed eyes.

“It’s not a medical emergency,” I said, trying to keep her steady. “She’s just had a little too much to drink.”

“I’m all right,” Gloria mumbled.

“Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, then turned to his date. “I’ll be right back. Just going to help out these ladies.”

“Thanks, but our other friend is getting the car. She should be here any minute.”

Orlando was now supporting Gloria by letting her lean against him. If he moved, she would topple over.

“I think I’d better stay put until she gets here.”

Behind him, the unsmiling young woman coughed a little.

“You look good, Orlando,” I said, loud enough for Pretty Young Thing to hear. “How’s PJ?”

“Do I know you?” Gloria asked, tilting her head and thrusting her face close to Orlando’s chin.

The grin appeared slowly, just a tiny twitching of his lips at first before it finally took up his entire face.

“Gloria, this is Orlando Hightower. He’s an actor. You probably saw him on television. He was in
And Baby Makes Eight,
and he’s done a lot of movies.”

“I
loved
that show,” Gloria said. “I was mad when they took it off.”

I calculated we had ten seconds before Orlando’s fedora split.

“Here’s our friend,” I said as Mattie pulled up in front of us.

Orlando put his arm around Gloria’s waist and guided her toward the car. Watching them, I recalled how hot Orlando’s hands could get. How that heat got trapped inside me. He situated Gloria in the back of the car, buckled her seat belt, and closed her door.

Orlando looked good standing under the streetlamp. “How’s PJ?” I asked again.

“ ’Lando,” Pretty Young Thing said.

“I’ll be right with you,” he called. “PJ is PJ,” he said to me, then extended his hand.

“Wasn’t that the guy who came with you to support meeting a couple of times?” Mattie asked when I slid into the seat beside her. “Weren’t you two going together?”

“We broke up about six months ago.”

“He seems like a nice brother.”

“He’s a lot of work,” I said. “Maybe that’s why he needs a young girl. God bless her, she’s got more energy than I do.”

“I’m having a party.” This from the back of the car. I’d missed the resurrection.

“When?” I asked, turning around.

“Friday at eight o’clock. This is your only invitation. Potluck.”

“I’ll make some chicken,” Mattie said, “and I’ll bring my friend.”

“I’ll bring some monkey bread,” I said.

TRINA WAS IN THE FAMILY ROOM WHEN I GOT HOME, AND the telephone was ringing. My daughter seemed oblivious to ringing phones or anything other than the TV show she was watching.

“Keri.”

I recognized the voice immediately. “Hi, PJ. We saw you in the car the other day. How are you doing, sweetie pie?”

“I’m cool. How’s Trina?”

His voice had deepened since the last time I’d spoken with him. That was only six months ago. Fourteen. It seemed impossible that he was only six the first time we’d met. Four more years and he’d be going off to college.

“Oh, honey, you sound like a grown man.” Tears gathered. I had no idea where they’d come from. “Trina’s right here. Do you want to talk to her?”

“No. I mean, yeah, but I want to talk to you first.”

Covering the phone with my hand, I took several deep breaths. “What’s on your mind, honey?”

“Um . . . I just want to say that—um, maybe you could call my dad sometime. I mean, you know, just to talk.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“Just to talk.”

“Well, I talked with him tonight, if that makes you feel better. We ran into each other at a restaurant.”

“Oh, yeah.” He seemed to brighten a bit. “He’s in a play.”

“He told me.” The tears were returning. I couldn’t outrun them. “Do you want to speak with Trina?”

“Yeah.”

I handed Trina the phone, and in a moment she was laughing.

There was an empty pizza box on the coffee table and dirty dishes next to it. I ignored the mess, concentrated on my breathing, and sat down on the sofa beside her. The Russian psychologist told me that mentally ill people relapse and go off their meds because they aren’t ready for the responsibilities that come with being sane. He advised me not to expect too much too soon. That was tricky. Looking at Trina, I saw the daughter I’d always had and felt the same expectations. But she wasn’t ready to meet them yet.