What Matters Most (8 page)

“Did you ask Chloe and Allie about it?”

“No. I hadn’t really thought of it until this morning.”

“What about your dad, Maya? Would he be able to come?”

I considered this. “Probably not. He’s touring in Europe until spring.”

She nodded. “Right. Well, do you want me to talk to some people about this? To see if I can get the ball rolling?”

“Sure,” I said eagerly. “And I’m willing to help, but I actually have a lot on my plate right now.”

“I’m sure you do.” She touched my arm. “Chloe told me about the phone call from your mother. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Chloe knows I meet with you. And I had a little meltdown in front of her and Allie and Dominic this week.”

“Sometimes we need to melt down. It allows friends to step in and help. And it reminds us of how weak we are so that we can invite God to make us strong.”

“I actually felt a lot better after I told them about the whole thing,” I admitted. “And it really helped when they prayed for me.” I frowned slightly now.

“But?”

“But…I guess I still feel a little confused. I mean, if I think about it too much, and I try not to.”

“Confused in what way?”

“Well, I want to live my life like a Christian even when it comes to my mom…”

“And?”

“And I feel kind of guilty right now. Like I know she’s struggling, and she asked me to help her, and I turned her down.”

“How did she want you to help her?”

“Oh, you know, a place to live, to be together…the happy little family.”

“Meaning you’d be taking care of her again?”

I nodded. “But aren’t we supposed to be like that? I mean, Jesus tells us to love everyone, even our enemies. And to feed the hungry and give to the needy. I feel selfish telling my mom she’s on her own. And hypocritical.”

“You’re right. Jesus did say those things. And a lot more. But a lot of things in the Bible don’t always make perfect sense. There’s another thing that Jesus said that confuses a lot of people.”

“What’s that?”

She opened her Bible and read a pretty long section of Scripture.

“Wow,” I said, feeling overwhelmed. “What does that really mean?”

Caitlin closed her Bible and smiled. “To be honest, I don’t know all that it’s supposed to mean. But then there’s a lot in the Bible that I don’t get…yet. I guess what I want to say to you, Maya, is that the important thing is to
follow Jesus
. Follow Him
with your whole heart. And allow Him to lead you through this thing with your mother. Because He’s the only one with all the answers.”

“Did Chloe tell you that she told me I wasn’t supposed to parent my mom?”

“She mentioned it.”

“And that seemed right to me. I mean, when she said it, it’s kind of like it clicked inside of me. Like it was the truth.”

“It’s possible God was using Chloe to speak to you, Maya. I have to say I agree with her on this. I don’t think God does want you to parent your mother.”

“And that verse about daughters turning against their mothers…” I thought about it for a moment. “Do you think that’s because my mother has turned her heart against God?”

“That sounds right to me.” Caitlin nodded. “I think it would be very difficult to align yourself with your parents’ beliefs if their beliefs conflicted with your own.”

“That pretty much describes Shannon and me. On top of illegal drugs and alcohol abuse, her whole moral standards and values are totally different than mine.”

“So…” Caitlin sighed. “It’s as if Jesus has already drawn a dividing line between you and your mother. I don’t think you need to feel guilty about it, Maya. I could be wrong, but I don’t think you have any responsibility to your mother, well, other than the responsibility we have for everyone that God brings into our lives.
To pray and love and forgive. Outside of that, I don’t think you should feel guilty.”

I was taking furious notes as she said all this because I knew what I was hearing was important.

“Does that make sense?” she finally asked.

I looked up. “It does…for the most part.”

“The thing with any counseling or teaching or direction, Maya—whether it’s from me or the pastor or even a radio show—is that you need to weigh it for yourself. You need to use discernment.”

I nodded. “I know. You’ve told me that before.”

She smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be redundant.”

I laughed. “That’s okay. I’m sure I need to be reminded.”

“So, tell me then, how do you weigh these things for yourself? Where do you get discernment?”

I tried not to feel like I was in first grade as I recited what she’d told me before. And the truth is, I’m glad she asks me questions like this. I appreciate her taking the time to mentor me. These things are important. “I compare what I’ve heard to what the Bible says. I pray about it. I talk to other Christians that I respect, and I listen to their advice. And then I try to hear that still small voice inside of me. Is there something I missed?”

“No, I’d give you an A+ in discernment.”

“Thanks.”

“But the proof of the pudding is in the eating.”

I laughed. “I remember my grandmother saying that exact same thing when I was little, but what does it mean?”

“It means you can say that pudding looks yummy, but you don’t really know that it is until you taste it.”

“So I can say I know what discernment is, but until I actually use it, it’s meaningless.”

She nodded. “I wish all the high school girls I meet with were so smart.” Now she frowned. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay.”

“Speaking of high school, did you make a decision about graduation yet?”

“I told Mrs. King that I want this to be my senior year.”

“I think that’s a good choice.”

We talked awhile longer, and then I remembered that I wanted to get over to see Marissa. She was moved to the nursing home yesterday, and I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy for her.

My feeling turned out to be right. When I got to the nursing home, Marissa was sitting in a wheelchair facing a streaky window with a view of a cement wall and some trash cans. Not pretty.

“Hey, Marissa,” I said as I turned her chair around. She’s still recovering from some broken bones that make walking difficult, although she’s not supposed to spend too much time in the wheelchair if she wants to recover more fully. “Want to go for a walk?”

“No.” Her face looked dark and angry, almost like the old Marissa when she was in a foul mood, but different.

So I pulled a chair next to her and sat down. “How’s it going?”

“Bad.”

“Why?”

“Hate this.”

“What do you hate?”

“Hate this…place.”

I nodded. “Oh.”

“Bad place. Hate this place.”

At least her sentences were getting longer. “It’s different than the hospital, isn’t it?” I said. “Maybe it’ll take getting used to it.”

“Old people place.”

I looked around the room. “Yeah. There are a lot of old people here, Marissa. Kind of like having a lot of grandparents.” Then I told her about my own grandmother and how important she’d been in my life. Marissa actually seemed to be listening. Finally I asked her again if she’d like to walk.

“No.”

And so I told her that the only way to get out of the old people place would be to keep working at getting well. I told her that her bones would heal better if she walked and that her brain would work better if she talked and did the other activities that her therapist had given to her.

“Video game?” she asked hopefully.

I nodded. “Yes. But we have to walk first, okay?”

“Walk first. Video game after?”

I smiled and reached for her hand. “It’s a deal.”

And so we walked and eventually, with the help of a nurse, made it to her room. We sat down and played a goofy video game that was designed for young children but is helping Marissa’s brain to heal itself.

Finally it was nearly two o’clock. “I have to go now,” I told her. As usual, this made her sad. Sometimes she cries when I leave. Sometimes I get lucky, and someone else comes along to distract her. But today she got mad.

“You bad!” she shouted. “Bad girl!”

“I love you, Marissa.” I patted her shoulder. “And I’ll be back to see you soon.”

She continued to yell at me as I slipped out the door, trying not to feel guilty. I know that it’s part of her brain recovering. The doctor told us that she’s at Level 6, which means she has all kinds of emotions, gets mixed up, has a short attention span, and can act childish. I know this…and yet it hurts to experience it. I so want her to get well and be her old self again. And although I keep praying, I have to admit that my faith isn’t as strong as I wish it was. I hope God understands.

I
wasn’t consciously thinking that it had been more than two weeks since Shannon’s release or that I hadn’t heard from her since that first phone call, but when she called me this afternoon, I prepared myself for the worst. Enough time had passed for her to get into trouble. Was she using again? Had she linked up with some new questionable friends? Had she been rearrested?

All the negative scenarios raced through my mind, but I wasn’t ready to hear her say that she’d gotten a job.

“A job?” I said warily. “What kind of job?” I know what Shannon’s résumé looks like—a blank sheet. A short list of pathetic jobs flashed through my mind: flipping burgers, selling her blood…or maybe her body?

“Well, it’s not very glamorous,” she said slowly.

“Hey, a job is a job, Shannon. I think it’s cool that you’re working.”

“My counselor helped me get it.”

“Counselor?”

“Yeah, part of the judge’s sentence included a treatment program.”

“That’s cool.”

She groaned. “You should see the losers in my therapy group, Maya. It’s definitely not cool. Not even close.”

“I think it’s cool that you’re
doing
rehab, Shannon.”

“Whatever.”

We talked awhile longer—mostly she talked and I listened. She complained about her job, which turned out to be in fast food. She complained about her living conditions, which was group housing. She complained about my dad, which was ridiculous. And finally she complained about the L.A. area in general.

“I hate it here, Maya. It’s such a rat race. And it gets worse every day.” Then she actually complained about the fact that whites were a minority now and how that was so terrible.

I cleared my throat loudly. “Excuse me, Shannon,” I said in a firm voice, “but if you’re going to start insulting the nonwhite population, I might have to hang up.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean
you
, baby.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m talking about those Mexicans. They’re taking over down here.”

I still didn’t say anything, but I did let out an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t be so sensitive, Maya.”

“I don’t like that kind of talk.”

“Don’t go acting like I’m some kind of narrow-minded racist WASP, little girl. You know me better than that. Good grief, I married your father, didn’t I?”

Okay, I’ve always wondered if she would’ve married a black man who wasn’t famous and wealthy. But I knew better than to open my mouth just then. I didn’t want to fight with her. There was a long pause, and I hoped that she’d hung up.

“I thought you’d be glad to hear that I’m doing okay, Maya.”

“I am glad, Shannon.” I tried to infuse warmth into my voice. “I really am. I think it’s great that you got a job and are in a treatment program. Really great.”

“Thank you.” Her tone was still indignant.

I wanted to add that I hoped she’d keep it up—work and rehab—but I knew better than to say that. Shannon’s been in treatment programs before, and they didn’t usually last too long. Still, I know there’s always a first time for the whole thing to kick into gear and really work. I hope and pray this is that time for her. We talked a bit more, and then I was relieved to hang up. I briefly considered changing my cell phone number. Not that it would matter since I’m sure she’d figure out how to track me down eventually.

Then instead of feeling sorry for myself, I headed my car over to Marissa’s nursing home. Not that I was feeling particularly sorry for her. I mean, not any more than usual since I still struggle with balancing my irritation that she allowed such stupidity to waste her life against the fact that she is so pitiful and helpless now. To add insult to injury, if that’s possible—and I think it is—it’s depressing going to the nursing home to visit her.

It’s like there’s a spirit of hopelessness at that place. Like you’re barely through the doors, and you just want to give up.
You see all these old people in varying stages of Alzheimer’s and dementia, and it’s like you can smell death—literally smell it. As Marissa says: “Bad place.”

When Marissa was in the hospital, she had more people (nurses, therapists, doctors, etc.) to encourage her and work with her, and somehow it just made her recovery seem more positive and possible. Now her recovery is beginning to feel like a long shot. But according to what I’ve read, a brain injury takes at least six months to heal and sometimes as long as two years—depending on how much it’s going to heal. On Monday, Marissa’s dad told me that she’s been elevated to Level 7, which is an improvement, but even so it’s a long way to Level 10, which is considered normal. Still, it’s only been a couple of months since the accident, so there’s hope she can keep improving, working her way up the brain ladder.