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Something must happen to break the hex that ensnares us.

I pray with all the faith that is mine that it
will
happen.

Soon.

“Recovery is a journey between two stations. One station represents total chaos, and the other represents total serenity. What is important is not where you are but what direction you are facing.”

 

— A recovering drug addict

 

 

 

Five years later

 

 

“I'll pick her up in about thirty minutes,” Priss said over the phone. “You two definitely need a break from each other.”

I rocked vigorously in the white rocking chair on our shaded front porch, one of four Dan and I had purchased years ago from a local Cracker Barrel. “Understatement if I ever heard one.” I snorted, venting frustration. “Thanks, Sis.” I clicked off my phone, feeling my insides slowly begin to unfurl, to un-knot and allow my chest to take in deeper drags of air.

Then I arose, marched inside to my downstairs study and planted myself solidly at my computer to resume working toward my newspaper column deadline.

My current homeland stress-register had, in recent weeks, shot right out the top of my head. My older sibling,
Priscilla, “Priss,” was, like the ever-lovin' Cavalry, rushing to our rescue during another hard time. Those times were growing more and more difficult for me to handle.

“Mom?” from upstairs yelled my divorced, live-in twenty-nine-year-old daughter Faith, who had in the past year completed a round of drug rehab. “Can you help me get my things together?”

I closed my eyes tightly, gritted my teeth and yelled back, “Why can't you get your own things together?” I was
not
, by any stretch of ambition, her maid. Nor was I doing her any favors by allowing her to dump her responsibilities on me. Despite my suspicions that she was classic ADD, I knew she was functional enough to get it all together on her own. If she chose to.

That big
IF.

The daily battle raged.

She breezed past me on her way to my bathroom to collect some of her infinite hair paraphernalia strewn helter-skelter, cluttering my space. The over-the-shoulder glimpse I caught of her reminded me of the downward physical transformation of my formerly modelbeautiful offspring.

Her five-feet-nine inch frame carried an extra thirty pounds and her auburn hair, once lush and groomed, sprouted haphazardly from atop her head, tethered by a pony-tail holder. Her former vibrant olive-complected face now sported blotches and uneven skin tone, while the finely chiseled features remained set in a morphing shift of expressions ranging from apathy to disdain to umbrage to rage.

Faith's choice of clothing was any garment nearby, whether on the floor or stuffed in a drawer or sometimes,
when desperate, perhaps snatched from the used laundry basket.

Even the smell of her was different. Rather than
Ralph Lauren
or
Armani,
she now reeked of stale nicotine. My request, that she wash up after smoking, fell on deaf ears.

I noticed because first on my daily agenda was a hot soapy bath, deodorant and a dusting of bath powder. I dressed in clean, appropriate clothing. Next, I applied a minimum of makeup to look nice. A light spritz of
Bill Blass
completed my toilette. All this occurred in less than an hour. Then, putting aside further obsessing on appearance, I was ready for anything that presented itself during the long day.

Our differences here loomed as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon. This had not always been so. At one time, Faith's stunning beauty caused passing male drivers to veer off the road at times. Faith's fastidiousness in her grooming habits prevailed until her slide into drugs.

The mother in me had difficulty holding my tongue at times. Yet, I'd learned, by now, to choose my battles carefully. And as ridiculous as it sounds, this one ranked rather low on the scale compared to others.

The goal now was to save Faith from this alien she had become.

Her worst enemy.

Drug rehab, I now realized, was only the beginning. Chances of relapse loomed as thick in the air as cluster bombs' poisonous smoke.

Besides, any mention of better sanitation merely drew more defiance.

“Mom? Help me? Please?” she repeated, a nudge that set my teeth even more on edge because it was, even in
its polite wording, a command. Something about it recurled my insides into a pulsing ball of protest.

“Hey,” I swiveled in my desk chair to peer at her, “I don't ask you to help me with things I can do for myself, do I? Why can't you carry your own load, Faith?”

Now, this battle was pretty high on the scale. So I dug in.

“I don't need a lecture right now. Okay? I'm in a hurry.” She grabbed her things, clearly agitated, yet speaking in that lofty tone exclusively hers. Then, in a blink, it changed to petulance. “Why are you so mean to me?” The inner-child's bratty head popped up.

That hit me like a cannon blast. “
Mean?
” I stared at her incredulously. “Faith, I've chauffeured you all over the county this week, taking time away from my work. I don't think that adds up to
mean!”

“Mom,” she squared off and peered at me with a disbelieving light in her blue, blue eyes, “what's more important, work or family? Huh?”

“Hah.” I swiveled back to the computer. “Depends on who's asking that question and in what context.”

“I know your writing is important, Mom,” she threw over her shoulder as she sauntered away, “but does it have to — ”

“Look,” I stopped typing, took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “This is my life.
I need
a life, for crying out loud!” I heard the shrillness creep into my voice. “I have a deadline here, and I'd like some respect and some danged
space!”

“Stop shouting at me,” she said so calmly I wanted to hit her.

I call it Faith's rebound tactic, when she veers a situation from herself to use against her antagonist. “I thought
we were going to be more polite to each other and now you're shouting at me again. So much for niceness.” Now that she'd gotten in the last word, a virtue in her book, she self-righteously spun on her heel and stomped up the stairs muttering.

Repeatedly
, meanness
filtered clearly through the jumbo-mumbling.

Shaking with frustration, I took deep breaths to level out my staccato pulse. Don't know why she could get to me so — so
fiercely.
Over and over, I would dissect and analyze.

It always added up to a whopping
honor
issue.

I'd always honored and esteemed my own parents beyond measure and didn't quite get it with the current generational irreverence. At least, I blamed it on a generational curse. Made it easier to shake off.

Outside, on the porch, I found her planted like an ancient oak in her rocker. The picture she made, a forlorn, beaten down one, caused the anger in me to fizzle.

How vulnerable she looked.

Yet, a peculiar energy oozed from her.

It sucked up the oxygen and sunshine, leaving only something dark and heavy.

The air grew suddenly thick with portent. I took the chair near her and waited, dreading.

“I can't go on, Mama,” she said quietly, staring into middle space. “I don't want to live. Really, really, don't want to. I need to check out.”

“Don't talk like that, honey,” I murmured, my heart plunging to new depths.

“Besides Maddie, name one thing I have to live for.” Her voice was as dead as her eyes. “Huh? Name one.” She
didn't look at me, only gazed unseeing at a mocking blue sky with whimsical white clouds.

I felt helplessness snake its way through me.

Hurry, Priss
. The thought flew through my mind like startled bats. I knew that her Aunt Priss always had the right words to soothe Faith.

So, today, after yet another crisis and SOS to Auntie Priss, I looked at Faith sitting morosely there in that rocking chair, crying out for help. Thinking
suicide.
My weary heart floundered, struggling to respond. Trying to form the right words to comfort and not stir the terrible anger.

The despair. Because, in the end, Faith would do what she darn well pleased. That realization always caused my heart to freeze with dismay. Faith's will was self-propelled with her own unique brand of force, one that overrode anything and everyone who attempted to shape or alter her persuasion

I was exhausted from the previous night's sleeplessness, when Dan and I had words and he'd slept upstairs in the guest room. Again. Over Faith.

Always over Faith.

Priss' car pulled up, scattering my thoughts, and she climbed out, her soft fine wedgy cut, silver-streaked dark hair glistening in the sun, a cheerful smile on her pretty face. My sis is pleasingly fluffy and happy with herself that way.

Oh, she occasionally gives it a shot — weight loss — but ultimately, life and food flaunt their festivity and she gives dieting a sabbatical. She chooses clothes for comfort rather than to make a fashion statement. Her flip-flops free her feet to breathe in cool air and move unencumbered.

Lord knows, I try to be casual about such things but just can't divorce myself from the bathroom scales and full-length mirror and fashion detail. My chestnut, wheat-streaked hair remains fashionably cut and styled, one of my rare indulgences. I constantly monitor and adjust my appetite and weight while Priss sails contentedly through life experiencing all the epicurean delights her heart desires and chooses loose, comfy garb.

Her favorite quote is “I keep trying to lose weight, but it still finds me.”

Thing is, she's not an unhealthy size. “Big-boned genes,” she quips. “From God only knows
who
.” She pulls humor from every source, even her adoption status.

Priss knows how to enjoy life. And she helps me, by taking Faith home with her, to regroup and to once more see the good and the salvageable in my daughter. In life.

“Hi, Priss.” I stood and hugged her as she joined us.

Our tiny, fluffy rust-brown Pomeranian, Poopsie, did her little celebratory spin round and round and proceeded to bark with excitement as Priss reached to ruffle her fur then lift her into her arms for a smooch.

Yeah, Poopsie was named after her less than desirable leanings when we were trying to housebreak her. But the name stuck.

My little caricature Poopsie doesn't smooch me because I wear lipstick. At least, I tell myself that's the reason. Secretly, I fear she detects something about me that I don't. You know how dogs can sometimes sniff and sense health issues and I find myself fearing —

Probably, she just doesn't feel that way about me, you know?

Poopsie loves Faith. Faith is Poopsie's Alfa.

Poopsie
adores
Dan, who is Poopsie's Ultra-Alfa.

Poopie is
wild
about Priss and yelps so fiercely in celebration of my sister's arrival that I'm almost moved to tears.

Me? I'm at the bottom of the heap, but Poopsie is fond of me. I feed her.

Priss and Faith began to load Faith's overnight gear into the Honda. Faith called over her shoulder, “Mom, would you mind running upstairs and getting my cell phone? I'm sweating like crazy.” She wiped her face with her hand to demonstrate.

I paused, counted to ten and reminded myself that she'd just recently been hospitalized with a malady as yet undiagnosed. One that had sporadically caused high fever and sweating. Actually, the thermometer registered 104.3 degrees when EMS had arrived at our house and hauled her off to the hospital as she convulsed with fever and pain. In the ER, they managed to bring down her fever by putting her on antibiotic IV for several hours before releasing her with medication.

The blood test results had not yet been tracked down.

The symptoms hinted at meningitis. But tests were negative.

The ER doctor on duty suggested it was maybe a rare, tick-bite related fever-ailment. Exotic and long-lasting. Like Faith.

Too, I revisited my resentment of her long love affair with street drugs, one that had played havoc with her health. Her once beautiful, perfect white teeth were quickly deteriorating. I had, just last week, paid eight hundred dollars for a root canal and crown for her. Her thick, naturally wavy auburn sun-streaked hair, so like Dan's, had long ago lost its luster.

However, even on her good days, Faith's sense of entitlement waxed boldly.

Grinding my teeth again, I trudged up the stairs, found the plug-in phone charger and delivered it to Faith, not even looking at her.

“Thanks, Mom,” she muttered and watched Poopsie rush to the open car door and jump into the front seat. Faith yelled, “She's wanting her ride around the block, Aunt Priss.”

Aunt Priss' once-around-the-block with Poopsie was a tradition so she climbed in and cheerfully cranked up, allowing Poopsie to stand in her lap, prop paws on ledge and peer out the window, black button eyes aglow and tiny tongue lolling out of her mouth, anticipating the cruise.

“I'll wait here and smoke a cigarette,” Faith decided and returned to a rocker and lit up again. Feeling again that bothersome concern-jolt, I stood and went into the house, just now being air-conditioning cooled in early spring's fluctuating heat.

And I knew in my heart of hearts that my concern for Faith's health wasn't a controlling thing with me.

It was overload. I simply wanted the best in life for my daughter.

I wanted her to heal.

I wanted her
to live.