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“I don't like these anti-depressants,” Faith had said early in her post-ER days. “They make me feel weird.”

“Maybe you should call — ”

“I know, I know,” she said lackadaisically. “I need a brain adjustment. I might be crazy, but I'm not stupid.” She looked at me then, and a loopy grin broke over her face. “Is that an oxymoron?”

I shrugged and burst into laughter, happy that she could find dark humor in the fact that she'd nearly succeeded in doing herself in. Really bizarre, I knew, but
when life had been so dark in recent days, any little ray of light was almost blinding.

That Faith disliked the anti-depressants the ER doctor had prescribed after her suicide attempt convinced me that she would not take them long. I was right. Dr. Shedd, our therapist friend, had been counseling her again. But she'd soon declared that she didn't need any more counseling because “everything the shrink tells me, I already know.”

“If Faith refuses to receive counsel, Deede, there's nothing else I can do for her,” Dr. Shedd informed us on his last visit to our house. “She has a brilliant mind. She simply needs to harness that brilliance and channel it constructively.”

I hugged him. “Thank you so much for your time, concern and wisdom.”

“You're welcome. And if you ever need me, day or night, just call.”

Dr. Shedd was one of those truly giving people who are like a bright falling star in the scope of time and place. He helped push back the darkness during some crucial times. But even with his expertise and judiciousness, he could not override Faith's ferocious will. One that ever migrated toward darkness.

Soon depression swallowed her up again. I tried harder than ever to avoid conflicts and confrontations.

Despite my best intentions, however, we still clashed. I simply could not resign myself to the fact that my daughter did not carry her weight as a guest in our house. Nothing big. Just the same old same old, lingering dirty dishes, ashes on the porch, clothes left strewn helter skelter and refusal to wipe down the kitchen counters after cooking.

Either talking incessantly or hibernating into near catatonia.

Clutter. Chaos. Dark despondency.

And a filthy mouth when she was agitated.

After a while of this, resentment mushroomed inside me. The eruption wasn't any more than the ones we'd had before. After the harsh words, I would shut myself in my room for a while, waiting for the smoke to settle.

One day, after an especially heated clash, I walked away and slammed my bedroom door, refusing to talk to Faith for a while. It would, I decided, be pointless to continue to exchange reasons “why” we each felt justified in taking umbrage.

Faith called Priss to come get her. When I calmed, I joined Faith on the porch. My heart softened at the sight of her in loose, nondescript garb, haphazardly bound ponytail and morose contemplation.

And I thought how lonely she must be, in her selfimposed isolation.

“Honey,” I broke the ice after I settled into the rocker. “You'll feel better after you spend a little time with Aunt Priss. Everybody's uptight lately.”

The late morning breeze now boasted of nearby gardenias and rampant azaleas, whose colors and bouquet began to lift my spirits. In April, South Carolina air turns warm and paints leaves and foliage vibrant, infinite shades of green. I leaned my head back and rocked a slow cadence, watching a squirrel leap from a fir limb to a power line and agilely span the distance to another tree. The tail's graceful undulating furls gave the tiny creature the illusion of flight. And I smiled at Faith's description of life on the porch, “It's like a freakin' Disney animated movie.”

“Yeh,” she drawled tiredly. “Aunt Priss is always so good to me.”

“She always talks kind to me and spends time with me.”

She took another long pull on her cigarette. I'd never seen anyone so aggressive with lung pollution as Faith. I had to look away again.
Turn it off.
It never failed to pierce that deep maternal instinct in me. All that protection I'd given her during my pregnancy and afterward, the vitamins and good nutrition and affectionate nurturing.

Kaput.

All I'd gone through to give her life.

“She's going to give herself lung cancer,” Dan insisted over and over, disgusted. Alarmed.

It was true. He'd given her ultimatums and stopped buying. She'd gone into Cruella-mode, slamming doors and slapping pans around in the kitchen and in general, causing a ruckus. Two senior citizens were no match for her tactics.

Strange thing was — Faith always knew just how far to push without driving us completely over the edge, forcing us to throw her out bodily.

Still, Dan dug in his heels about being her supplier. “It's not fair,” he lamented. “I'm too old for this.” Like me, Dan wrestled with guilt day by day. “Why doesn't she quit?” he'd asked just that morning at the breakfast table. “I once smoked and I decided one day that I didn't
need those little sticks anymore. I put ‘em down and never have picked up another one. It's all in the head.” He tapped his forehead.

“Yeh,” I agreed. “Only thing, Faith doesn't want to quit. Obviously.” I knew it wasn't that simple for a heavy smoker like Faith. But she didn't even try.

Dan huffed dryly. “Every time I suggest that as a solution, she takes extreme umbrage.”

He turned at the door and looked at me, his eyes sad. “Each time I buy Faith cigarettes, it's like buying my father liquor, all over again. Well, she'd better decide she can do without them because I'm not going to supply them anymore.” With that resolution, Dan slammed out the front door, and I heard his truck roar away.

I sighed and shook my head. He would be resolute until Faith's next conniption fit. We really were stuck, wedged solidly between two merging rock canyon walls.

Yes, Faith was, at times, absolutely appalling, someone from whom even a mother yearned to flee. Yes, it was tempting to simply give up.

Yet, at what stage does a parent say, “okay, it's time to toss her to the lions?”

Because there were more mellow moments with Faith, ones that buttressed up the bad times with
whatifs
and
when you get through all this …

Moments that braced it all up with
hope.

“I measure success by reaching out to and tackling the next barrier,” I told Mom one day while visiting her alone. Faith had gone to a movie matinee with a friend, a
rare treat, one she'd financed with her “tide over” money sent by faithful Lanny.

“That's the only way to do it,” Mom encouraged me. “You have much wisdom, Deede. And you use it. That's the marvelous thing about you. Faith is blessed to have you. And Dan. He's doing the best he can under the circumstances. It will all work together in the end. You'll see.”

“I hope so.” Then I shook my head disparagingly. “Ah, Mom. I know so. You always help me level out. Thanks.” I got up from her cozy maple kitchen table and went around to give her a big hug and kiss on her smooth cheek, shockingly softened by age.

“I've got to go to the hospital for a surgical procedure soon,” she said as I resettled across from her.

“What?” Worry began to roil.

“Oh, just to unblock an artery. That's all. Shouldn't be too serious.” She spoke so blandly of it that I blinked.

“Mom. That is serious. Why — ”

“Now don't you go and get all worried about this. It'll go fine. You'll see. I called Priss and told her right before you got here. I'm going to call Lexie soon as you leave. You girls just pray, like you always do, and all will go well.” She smiled, an unrestrained, generous one as love spilled from her beautiful faded whiskey golden eyes.

“Sure it will.” I reached across to grasp her hands and gently squeeze my love.

“Love you, Mom,” I felt tears burn my eyes.

“I love you, too, precious Deede. You are a treasure.” She gave my hands one last pat.

“Now,” she morphed into my strong tower again, “Tell me how things are going with Faith.”

But how strong was this tower? A heart procedure loomed.

“Mom? Are you sure you're up to handling this kind of — ?”

Her eyes sparked. “Don't you dare start treating me like a delicate magnolia blossom. I'm perfectly capable of engaging in my family's challenges.”

How could I balk at the
school teacher
Noni?

I told her about the drive earlier that week when Dan and I had discussed Faith's needs. Her crises.

“Huh. They're endless,” Dan had said while we drove through the countryside, just chilling out, enjoying simply being. “Faith's crises are never ending.”

“No. Not if I take them one at a time and reach a solution.”

“Good luck. Could we change the subject, honey? I want this to be our time.” He reached for my hand and gave me a lopsided smile.

“Sure.” But I'd already decided that when I got home, I would check on that long ago blood test that I'd never followed up on.

“As soon as I got home, I tracked down the physician's phone number who'd treated Faith in the ER months earlier.”

“Good.” Mom now nodded approvingly. “We never did hear from that, did we?”

“Dr. Twombley?” I'd asked, feeling a frisson of fear in my stomach. Would they show something more bizarre? “Did you ever find out what was causing Faith's high fever when she was in ER several months ago?”

“Yes. It's strep. She seems to be a carrier. It lies dormant in her until something jousts it, and it flares up and makes her very ill, like it did recently.”

“Well,” Mom said. “That confirms that her chronic episodes of fever, chills and inflammation were that old vicious strep bacteria.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Thank God the diagnosis was not an added ailment. At least, it's treatable.” She looked at me. “We have much to be thankful for. Now we'll just get on with seeing her through to total victory, huh?”

I left Mom's feeling recharged.

The rest of the day felt lighter. I did a mental list of to-do things that would move Faith further toward complete recovery.

I told Dan about Mom's upcoming surgery. “She says it's no big deal.”

Dan looked thoughtful. “Maybe it's not. Some of these procedures are not as serious as others.”

So I relaxed about Mom. She was, after all, indomitable.

I stretched out on the bed that night, my high-backed husband-pillow propping me to watch television. Dan lay beside me, dozing already at only nine o'clock. Fatigue rode him hard lately. And I knew that, as with me, stress played a huge part in it. With all the expenses of recent days, our finances continued to bottom out.

I leaned over to kiss his sharply chiseled features, one by one, lightly. He opened one eye and peered fuzzily at me before closing it again. “Love you,” he whispered. “Pretty woman.”

I marveled again at how our love had endured through the years. Awed that, as many of our peers threw in the towel and divorced, time had only seasoned and deepened our commitment. And I wished with everything in me that we didn't have the challenges we faced daily.

Most all of Dan's grievances with Faith were over money.

“I think she came into the world with her hand out,” Dan had said that afternoon after a pleasant drive, drawing a laugh from me.