Bebe Moore Campbell (32 page)

“You act like his mother.”

I didn’t say anything.

“He’s the age your son would have been.”

I didn’t answer.

Orlando put his hands on my shoulders. “Help me get through this.”

“You will,” I said.

“You don’t know how this feels to a man. It’s like somebody’s tearing my guts out. Who can explain how things turn out?”

“Not me.”

“You’re a good mother, Keri.”

“I was always so proud of Trina. I could point to her and say, ‘See, I got something right.’ ”

“You did a lot of things right. Trina’s a wonderful girl when she’s not sick. It’s not her fault, and it’s not yours.”

“I know. And you didn’t do anything wrong with PJ.”

“I know.”

His hands stayed on my shoulders for a long time, and then I put mine on his. I looked past him to the dresser with the flowers and more candles twinkling. Then we were pushing each other down, touching kindly, sharing sweetness and heat.

I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO THE RINGING OF THE telephone. It was Dr. Natal calling to inform me that she had just left Trina’s hearing; the hold had been extended for two weeks. She’d already called the Weitz Center and arranged the transfer. I told her Clyde and I would be there shortly to check Trina out.

When I hung up, Orlando was getting dressed and looking at me. “So I take it that you and Clyde are riding back to LA together.”

Something in his voice made me pay more attention.

“I guess. Maybe we’ll follow the ambulance. I don’t know.”

“Right. Well, look, I’m going to head out.”

“Aren’t you going to eat something?”

“Nah.”

“Come on. Don’t start a seven-hour drive on an empty stomach.”

“I’m not hungry now. I’ll stop off somewhere later. You need to get going.”

I got up, walked to him, and put my arms around his waist. “I’ll call you when I get back. Break a leg.”

“What?”

“The show. You’re going on tonight, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”

He gave me a kiss. I thought of it as I was dressing; it was quick and dry, like the kiss a grown man gives his favorite aunt.

Clyde was waiting for me in the lobby.

“Orlando didn’t want to eat breakfast?” Clyde asked.

“He wasn’t hungry. He’s already gone.”

Clyde and I argued at breakfast and on the way over to the hospital. He didn’t want to have Trina transported by ambulance. He thought we could handle her ourselves. “You were willing to put Trina in a car with strangers, going to God knows where, but you don’t think we can handle her?”

“She ran away twice on this trip already. Do you really think—?”

He held up his hand. “You drive. I’ll sit in back with her. She won’t run away from me.”

Somehow, I knew that was true.

Trina looked better when I saw her. She was washed, her hair still damp from a shampoo. She didn’t look as though she was ready to attack me, which didn’t mean that she was ready to have a friendly conversation. Mostly she talked with Clyde. He was the one who told her that we were leaving, that she was going back to the Weitz Center, and that we were taking her there. She narrowed her eyes and glared at me for moment. I was sending her back to her old plantation with the taste of liberty still in her mouth. But when Clyde told her that it was for the best, she sighed and seemed to settle down. She was quiet as we signed her out and seemed subdued as we walked to the parking lot toward Clyde’s car.

“All right,” I said, when I was seated behind the wheel. “No stops.”

30

IT WAS LIKE OLD TIMES, SORT OF. I’D ALWAYS BEEN THE long-distance driver in the family when Clyde and I were together. Not that we’d taken that many car trips. Clyde liked flying better. He lacked the patience for hours on the road, whereas I always found solace in being able to cruise along with no agenda other than hanging out in my head until we arrived.

Trina slept on and off for most of the seven hours. In the beginning, she sat up and leaned on her father, her face pressed against his shoulder. Later, she lay down on her side, tucked her legs under her hips, and put her head on Clyde’s thigh. We’d stopped off at a grocery store before we went to the hospital. As I drove, Clyde passed me a bottle of water, juice, a sandwich, and a piece of fruit. Despite my edict of no stops, we did have to use the restroom once or twice. Clyde and I both took Trina inside a convenience store and waited for her together outside the ladies’ room; she didn’t give us any trouble. We were on the road around six o’clock when Clyde gave her some medication; she took it without a fuss.

“What is this stuff she’s taking?” Clyde asked after Trina had fallen asleep again.

“One controls her moods, the other prevents psychosis.”

“How do they work exactly?”

“It’s complicated. I don’t completely understand it. Basically, she’s getting too much of one chemical in her brain and not enough of the other, and the medications help balance her out. They talk about this stuff in support group, but you know me and technical stuff. Plus, I guess I didn’t try to focus because I was too busy waiting for the miracle, thinking I’d wake up one day and Trina would be permanently cured. Before this last episode, when Trina had been doing so well for months, I was really convinced that the worst was over.”

“Maybe it is,” Clyde said. “Is the support group like the one we went to in the hospital?”

“Very similar.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“On the Internet. I was surfing, trying to get information about bipolar, trying to find a good psychiatrist, and the group was linked to another Web site I went on.”

Clyde was quiet for so long that I thought he’d fallen asleep.

“You’ve done a lot by yourself, haven’t you, Mommyfingers.”

The old nickname sounded sweet in his mouth: Trina’s name for me when I rubbed her little-girl shoulders. Long-lost laughter filled the car. Mine so loud, I almost didn’t hear the echo: “Mommyfingers.”

Trina was sitting up, looking at us both, smiling. She had her good memories too.

IT WAS AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK BY THE TIME WE GOT TO THE Weitz Center. The bed was ready, and after we filled out the paperwork and gave the nurse Trina’s clothes, Clyde and I left.

By the time Clyde turned up Crenshaw, the sky was dark. There was a nighttime film crew outside a popular barbershop. Young whites with cameras and equipment filled the sidewalk, and black actors milled about. An evening service was ending at the large apostolic church, and a crowd of people was spilling onto the street. The fast-food joints and mom-and-pop restaurants were all filled.

“Good old Crenshaw,” Clyde said.

As he turned onto the street that led to my house, his eyes seemed to grow hungrier and hungrier, devouring everything he saw. “Are you getting nostalgic for your people?” I asked. He didn’t answer. He was still quiet when he dropped me off, barely saying good-bye.

Inside, the drapes were drawn and the air smelled stale. I opened all the windows, sat at my kitchen table, and drank a cup of tea. I made some calls and left a message for Frances, telling her I would be coming in to the shop in the morning. I called Mattie, as well. I started going through the mail. When I got tired of that, I lay down on the sofa in the family room. By the time I woke up, it was after eleven. I called Orlando.

“We made it,” I said. “How was the show?”

“It went well.”

“You weren’t exhausted?”

“Nah.”

“I wanted to thank you again for driving all the way up.”

“Hey, you don’t even have to go there. I guess you must be tired, baby.”

“I just woke up.”

“So I’ll let you go. Get some rest. I know you have a lot to do tomorrow.”

When I hung up the phone, I closed the windows. The house felt chilly.

NEXT MORNING, I ARRIVED AT THE SHOP EARLY, BUT FRANCES was already there. When I walked in, she was steaming clothes. We hugged; then she stepped back and looked at me. I knew she was thinking I looked more tired than before I left on my so-called vacation, but she didn’t say anything about my appearance. She asked me about Trina, and when I said Trina was back in the hospital, she just nodded.

I scanned the store as Frances continued to steam. Almost all the merchandise had turned over since I’d left, and there were lots of new things. The place was spotless, the plants looked healthy, and the items were well placed. When I went into my office, my desk held bank receipts of the deposits Frances had made while I was away and computer printouts of all the sales. Everything was neat and orderly. “You did an awesome job,” I said to Frances, looking up from my desk.

“I told you not to worry,” she said. She was standing in the doorway. “The only downer is the pantsuit. The Old Man couldn’t get rid of that stain either.” She pointed toward a rack of new clothes that hadn’t been tagged yet. The green pantsuit was among them. When I took a closer look, I could see the spot.

“We’re going to have to eat this,” I said.

“It might sell. Not everybody cares about a little spot. Save it for me. When I lose fifty pounds, I’ll wear it,” Frances said.

By the time the store had opened I’d already called Dr. Natal’s colleague, as well as Dr. Bellows, and left messages for both. I called Herbert Swanson at the Office of the Public Guardian. His assistant assured me that they would send someone to interview Trina and speak with both Dr. Natal and Dr. Bellows. Possibly by the end of the day she’d be placed on temporary conservatorship.

“Then what?” I asked.

“You’ll get a court date. After that it’s about showing up and hoping for a good judge.”

Swing low, sweet chariot, stop and let me ride. I got a home on the
other side.

“Where’s Adriana?” I asked Frances when I got off the telephone.

She had just finished ringing up a customer and was still standing behind the cash register. “I didn’t want to tell you while you were away, but she’s been missing whole days, lately.”

“Without calling?”

Frances nodded. “She’s been looking kind of bad too, like she’s not sleeping.”

Our eyes met. Frances shook her head.

At the thought of Adriana sinking back into her old ways, her old life, my stomach lurched. “I’ll talk with her, get her back into her program, and spend more time watching her.”

Frances caught me by my arm. “You already saved her once. You have enough to do to take care of Trina and yourself. You’ve lost weight. And you didn’t need to.”

“But she was doing so well,” I said.

“She was just playing dress-up,” Frances said. “Her new life wasn’t real to her. Working a regular job, having a nice boyfriend, making good new friends—all that scared her. She never really committed to it. You wanted it for her. You wanted to give her a cleaned-up perfect life, and she just wasn’t ready for it.”

“She was already going to meetings when she came to me. She wanted a better life. All I did was show her how to get it.”

“I’m not faulting you, Keri. God knows, you helped that girl. I’m saying that if Adriana slips up, she has to take responsibility, not you. And that goes for Trina too.”

“I wasn’t trying to make her life perfect.”

Frances just smiled. She had released my arm. Now she touched the scar on her face with her finger. “You know, everybody gets a wake-up call. This was mine. My ex didn’t do this. He blacked my eyes and broke some teeth, but he didn’t cut my face. I fell on a piece of glass one time. He was nowhere around. But when I looked in the mirror and saw the blood dripping down, it was like I was seeing my pain for the first time. I didn’t leave him right away, but that was the beginning. And I’m telling you, Keri, everybody gets a moment like that. You just have to pray that Adriana and Trina will pay attention when it comes. That’s really all you can do.”

I mulled over Frances’s words as I drove to the Weitz Center. Clyde was waiting for me when I got off the elevator on the psych ward. Although it took Trina a while to come out of her room, when she arrived in the visitors’ area she seemed more alert and more communicative than she’d been in days. The room was large and sunny and smelled like the banana one of the patients was eating. Trina chatted about her roommate, an older Russian woman who was subject to crying jags. She was full of ward gossip, claiming that everyone was fighting with everyone else and that most patients were having sex. She delivered this news in the dramatic fashion of a born provocateur aiming for ultimate shock value. Knowing I was familiar with her ploys, Trina looked at her father as she spoke. She was trying to elicit his sense of paternal responsibility, his urge to protect her:
Daddy, get me out of this terrible
place.
I’d have to clue him in later. Trina was feeling better; she was dreaming of escape.

After we left Trina, we went downstairs to Rosario Perez’s office. The social worker, upon learning of our plans to get conservatorship of Trina, produced a list of institutes for mental diseases, or IMDs. “Some of these are pretty rough places,” she said. “The ones I’ve checked have the best reputations. Good luck.”

The first facility was in Culver City on a block filled with flowering jacaranda trees and lawns bordered with rosebushes. The Light House was at the end of the block, after the single-family dwellings had given way to apartment buildings and nursing homes. There were bars at the windows, and from the backyard a cloud of smoke arose from residents on their cigarette break.

The admissions director was brisk and businesslike as she took us on the tour. An antiseptic odor clung to everything we passed. Several men in dull gray pants and shirts were mopping the long shiny corridor. There were chairs alongside the wall and a few patients were seated in them, silently watching the comings and goings of the ward. Black people and Latinos in blue uniforms doled out medication to those waiting in a long line queued up outside a room that was closed off by a divided door. The top half was open, and as nurses dispensed antidepressants, mood stabilizers, and antipsychotics, they hurried people along to their “groups.”

Some of the patients standing there could pass for normal. Others shuffled down the halls, mumbling to themselves and leaning away from the people around them. Many of the patients were overweight, some grossly so, and poorly groomed, the clothing and run-down shoes of some giving a hint of the homeless status that had preceded their arrival at the Light House. From time to time someone would shriek, the sound melding with the ordinary workaday din; no one seemed to notice— except Clyde, who stiffened. I saw this visceral reaction for the metaphor that it was: his resolve.

After we thanked the admissions director for her time, after we had left the building and were breathing unsanitized smoggy Los Angeles air, Clyde looked at me and shook his head. “No way.”

We toured a second one, a collection of squat one-story cement buildings with a courtyard in the middle, located way the hell out in Pomona, where the afternoon sun was roasting everyone and everything foolish enough to venture outside for more than ten minutes. Clyde took one look at the division of patients—criminal inmates on the west, others on the east—and said, “Let’s go.”

By the time we got in the car, he was fuming, his words full of spit and rage. “There is no way in hell Trina is going to be locked up with the people I saw in there. I mean, who the hell would mix criminals with people who are mentally ill?”

“They’re
all
mentally ill, Clyde, and they’re in separate buildings. And who the hell would put mentally ill people in jail in the first place? Let me tell you something: The way Trina was going, only the grace of God prevented her from having a permanent room on the west side. So don’t get to feeling too superior, my friend.

“Listen, the Light House isn’t the Rolls-Royce of facilities, but it’s workable for ninety days, and that’s all we’re talking about. First of all, it’s close. I could go there every day at lunchtime and come back in the evening. You could drop in whenever you have time. Her therapist could visit her. The main thing is for Trina to get back on her medication. Those long lines will help her become compliant.”

“How?”

“Because a certain degree of regimentation is necessary for her to get better. Lining up twice a day will impress on her that she has to take her medicine.”

“What if somebody jumps on her? What if she’s raped? Did you see the women in there? What the hell do they feed them? No. Hell, no. Those people are crazy. Trina just needs a little help and some rest.”

“Your daughter has bipolar disorder, just like a lot of those people.”

“All right, all right, she has problems too, but I can’t let her go there. I just can’t.”

We went on and on, all the way back to the shop, and we were still at a stalemate when we got there.

“We’ll keep her at home,” he said, just as I was about to get out.

“Whose home?” I asked.

He looked sheepish. “Well, I was thinking yours. But I could pay somebody to stay there and take care of her.”

“Around the clock? Do you know how much money that would take? You’d be bankrupt in a month.”

Clyde slumped against his seat. The worst thing anyone could say to him was that he didn’t have enough money. “How much does the Light House cost?” he asked.

“The county pays,” I said. “The catch is, you have to wait for an opening.”

“She sounds stable now.”

I groaned. “If she sounds stable, it’s because she’s in a very structured environment where the meals and the meds and the activities all come at a certain time. If you take that structure away, she’ll regress. I’m trying to tell you that the Light House has more pluses than minuses.”