All That's True

by Jackie Lee Miles

  That’s exactly what my mother said.

  Mrs. Temple continues. “And you’ve had no say-so in the matter. You’ve lost all control. It makes you feel very vulnerable and that makes you angry. And that’s perfectly understandable. What we have to do is to help you get past the anger and move towards acceptance.”

  “But how do I do that?” She is making it sound so easy. How can I just sit up and say, I’m okay with all of this. It’s not that simple.

  “To begin with let’s take a look at why anger is such a normal reaction to what you’re going through. We can’t control what people do, and that leaves us feeling frustrated, and the frustration leads to the anger, which leads to more frustration, and so forth.”

  “Kind of like a gerbil on his wheel.”

  “Exactly, Andi. And the thing to do is stop the frustration and eventually come to grips with the anger. The best way to do that is to understand that you can’t change your father’s choices, but you are free to make choices of your own. And those choices will determine what happens in your life.”

  I nod my head, like I understand, but mostly I don’t.

  “You’ve chosen not to see your father. You want to punish him. He’s changed the game plan. You decide not to see him, not to spend time with him. But he’s not the only one you’re punishing,” she says.

  “Well, there’s my mother—”

  I notice she is nodding her head. “Well, yes, there is that, but there’s someone else you’re punishing, too, Andi.”

  She takes her glasses off. “What if you choose to see your father and look forward to a new relationship. Perhaps one that’s even closer than the one you had before. You did say he rarely came home when your parents were married. And now, look at all the times he’s called or stopped by to try and see you. You’re actually getting much more of his attention than you ever did before. And what about the emergency room? You shouldn’t forget about that. Granted, all of his actions may be partially motivated by guilt. But that’s another topic altogether. The important thing right now is he wants to see you! And you can make a choice of whether to see him or not. And that puts you back in control, Andi. And with some control, you’ll feel much less frustration, which will lead to less anger. Basically, acceptance follows from there. It’s just a matter of time. Make sense?”

  I nod my head and think about Joe and his decision to wait for Katherine, even though she was already married by the time he came back from the war. He didn’t put his life on hold. He didn’t choose to pine away. He chose to have a good life. He flew airplanes, and took up sailing and climbed mountains. “Anything to feel free,” he said. “I just didn’t get married. On that long march to Bataan, I thought only of Katherine. I’d already married her in my heart by the time I returned to the States. Why marry someone else? I chose to keep loving her, if only from afar.”

  That is so sweet. But most important, he chose not to marry, to wait for her. It didn’t turn out like he planned, no it did not, but still, it was his decision. And his last days were very happy. It was written all over his face. He was where he wanted to be. He was in Katherine’s arms. And his choices had led him to her arms. There’s that word again, choices.

  Mrs. Temples clears her throat and folds her hands. She rests them gently on her desk. Then she turns toward the sofa where I am sitting and places her hands on her knees. Her fingernails are nicely manicured. She has pale pink polish on them. I like her hands. They are delicate hands, yet there is something about them; you can tell they are strong. They remind me of my mother’s.

  “Andi,” she says, “you can choose to be happy, just as easily as you can decide to be sad. It’s up to you.”

  Choose to be happy; decide to be sad. I never looked at it that way, but it seems reasonable.

  “Just remember, your choices map your future.” She is smiling at me now. “So choose carefully.” She gets up and opens the door to her office and I realize my time is up.

  “But don’t be so hard on yourself once you choose, Andi,” she says. “You can always change your mind.”

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Bridget’s Aunt Ellen is on the phone talking to my mother. It’s the second call she’s made tonight. The first one was to let us know that Bridget never came home from school today and there is clothing missing from her closet along with her overnight bag. The second call is so Bridget’s aunt can talk to me. She thinks I know something and I’m keeping it from her. Bridget’s aunt’s full name is Ellen Buice, which rhymes with rice. Mrs. Buice is not pleasant to talk to. Her voice is very shrill. It sounds like a fingernail being dragged across a chalkboard. I can picture Bridget running away just to get away from that. But maybe she sounds that way because she is so upset.

  “Mrs. Buice,” I say. “I got a letter from Bridget last week, but she didn’t say anything about leaving. Not one word. And I haven’t heard from her since, honest to goodness, I haven’t.”

  Wherever Bridget is, I hope she isn’t hitchhiking. It’s not safe. There are probably hundreds of serial killers out there roaming around just waiting for a victim like Bridget. Now I’m getting upset. Where could she be?

  “If you hear anything at all,” Mrs. Buice says, “anything, call us immediately. We’re worried sick.”

  I assure her I will and hand the phone back to my mother.

  “Alright then, yes, of course,” she says and puts the handset back on the receiver.

  My mother starts clearing the supper dishes from the table, while I start chewing my nails. The reason my mother is doing kitchen duty is because Rosa is still in Mexico and we are cooking for ourselves. That is, we’re trying. I made macaroni and cheese out of a box and my mother mixed together a meatloaf that tasted okay, other than the dried ketchup sitting on top. That part was nasty.

  “Try to stay off the telephone, tonight, Andi,” my mother says, and fills the sink with dishwashing detergent. “I’m sure Bridget is going to try and get ahold of you.”

  I was going to dry, but decide I need to sit right next to the phone, just in case Bridget chickens out and only rings once. You know, maybe she thinks the police have tapped our phone or something. For three hours I sit there thinking scary thoughts about what could have happened to her. At ten o’clock I’m ready to give up when the phone rings. I yank the receiver off the hook.

  “Hello? Hello?” I’m breathing so hard I sound like I’ve been running a marathon.

  “Andi? What are you doing up so late?”

  It’s my father. I don’t answer. I hand the phone to my mother who came running the minute the phone rang.

  “We’re trying to keep the line free,” she says. “Can this wait until morning? I’m afraid Bridget’s missing.”

  There’s a slight pause. My mother is fidgeting with the cord. “Bridget Harman, the little girl that use to live next door, Andi’s best friend. For Pete’s sake, Arthur, Rodger Harman’s daughter.” My mother is totally exasperated. She hangs up the phone on him, but it rings again immediately.

  “Arthur, goodness, we’re trying to keep this line open—Bridget? Oh, Bridget, honey, everyone has been worried sick. Where are you, dear?”

  I’m jumping up and down. “Is it Bridget? Is it?”

  My mother motions for me to be quiet. I lean my ear against the handset. Yes! It’s Bridget. I do a little dance right in the entrance hall. No serial killer got her!

  “Oh, dear,” my mother is saying. “Well, stay right there. We’re on our way.”

  She places the handset back on the receiver and moves quickly to the guest closet and gets her coat. “Hurry,” she says. “She’s at the bus station. It’s not safe. There are all sorts of people there who—who, well they prey on young girls getting off the buses. They sell them into prostitution.” My mother shudders and hands me my jacket. “They get them hooked on drugs. All sorts of things.” She grabs the car keys and buttons up her coat. “Goodness, why ever did she go there?”

  Duh, probably because she had
no car, and even if she had one, she doesn’t know how to drive. So, a bus is a very good choice. How else would she get to Atlanta? Sometimes parents ask really dumb questions. I keep my answer to myself. Besides it wasn’t a real question. It’s what Alex used to refer to as a rhetorical question. It doesn’t require an answer. I’m excited that we’ve found Bridget and gladly climb into my mother’s Mercedes. Maybe she’ll realize now how important it is that we adopt her. I mean it’s not like her father wants her. He left her in North Carolina with a family that drove her crazy.

  ***

  When we get to the bus station, Bridget is nowhere in sight. We panic and find a police officer and pour out our story.

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “We picked up a kid that looked to be twelve years old. They took her to juvenile.”

  “Did you get her name?” my mother asks.

  “I’m sure it’s on the report.”

  “Well, can you radio the station and find out if she’s there. Her name is Bridget Harman and I don’t want to leave here, only to find out later it was not her they took to—to—”

  “Juvenile Hall,” the officer prompts.

  My mother puts her hand on her chest. For a minute I’m afraid she’s going to have a heart attack or something.

  “Please, it’s important,” she says.

  “Alright, already,” the officer says. He has a potbelly that is bigger than China and three chins to go with it. Somehow he manages to lean his head to the side and starts talking into a gadget clipped to his shoulder. “Roger,” he says, and turns back to us.

  “They got her there—Juvenile Detention Center over on Pryor Street. It’s less than a mile.”

  My mother has no idea where it is, but she’s a very determined woman and somehow I know she will find it. She thanks the cop and runs outside to the front of the bus terminal. There’s a cab driver standing outside his cab. She has no problem enlisting his help. He knows exactly where it is.

  “It ain’t far, lady,” he says. He takes his cap off and scratches the top of his head. He uses his hat as a pointer and says, “Take Forsyth Street here, go two blocks ahead and turn right on Trinity, then take a left on Central, then another left on Martin Luther King Drive. You’ll go one block and you’ll see Pryor. Take a left. You can’t miss it.”

  My mother is frantically writing down his directions on an envelope she’s pulled from her purse.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she says. She takes my shoulder and says, “Let’s hurry before they take her someplace else.”

  “Have they arrested her?” I ask. I’m worried that they won’t let her go.

  “More like they’ve taken her into protective custody,” my mother says. “It’ll be all right. We’ll call her aunt. She’ll tell them to release her to us. Don’t worry.”

  But I am worried. I can’t help it. What if her aunt isn’t home, or decides she wants to come and get Bridget herself? Or maybe she’s calling Bridget’s father and wants to wait until he gets here from London so he can pick her up. Always, always so many maybes.

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Bridget and I are in my bedroom, just like old times; just like she mentioned in her letter. My mother had no problem getting her out of juvenile. They have so many kids there, that they’re glad to relinquish one. My mother had them speak with Bridget’s aunt who authorized my mother to pick up Bridget and then my mother had to show her identification and sign a form. It was that simple. Bridget looked a bit rumpled from her journey. Her hair was all matted and her clothes looked like a bum had been wearing them for a week, but other than that she was fine. And not one person tried to pick her up, which I consider a small miracle. Even with her mussed up hair, Bridget is very attractive and she is definitely young, which is what my mother says child predators look for, so I guess there weren’t any out that night.

  Once again Bridget is braiding my hair into a French braid. She’s waiting for a call from her father. Her Aunt Ellen says he is beside himself with worry and has already booked a flight back to Atlanta. My hair looks so cool. But I hate it when it turns out good and then you’re not going anywhere. It’s sort of a waste. Even if you take a picture of it, what good is it? You didn’t go anywhere. Usually when you do, your hair looks really crummy. It’s hair fate, which is never on your side.

  “Maybe my father will let me stay here,” Bridget says. “You never know.” She stands back and puts her hands on her hips and checks out my hair. She walks around me and looks at it from all sides. I’ve already checked it out in the mirror, twice.

  “It looks good,” she says. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I say. I have a smile on my face as wide as the Grand Canyon. But my hair could look terrible, and it wouldn’t get any better than this, having Bridget here and just the two of us doing stuff like we used to.

  “Hey, let’s paint our toenails,” I say, remembering her letter.

  Bridget knows right where I keep the polish and retrieves it from the bathroom cabinet. I settle on one color, a dark brown, that’s almost black.

  “Cool,” Bridget says. “Do mine with this color too.”

  I could just hug her.

  We don’t get to finish polishing her nails. Her father calls from London. My mother calls up the stairs, to hurry. He’s on the line. Bridget picks up the phone in my room. I make like I’m going to leave her alone, but she motions me to sit down on the bed.

  “Hi,” she whispers into the mouthpiece. There’s a long pause, then Bridget says, “I couldn’t help myself, Dad. I’ve just been so miserable and I figured running away was better than slitting my wrists.”

  Good call! I give her a thumbs-up. Her father would have to be stupid to get mad at her after a comment like that. I grab hold of one of my pillows and hug it to my chest.

  “Ask him,” I whisper to Bridget. I nod my head frantically. Now is the best time to get him to understand she needs to stay here for a while.

  “What I want to do is stay with Andi. Her mother says it’s okay.” Another pause. “Then when school’s out we can see about summer. How about that?” Bridget lets out a deep sigh. She has a frown on her face. Her father is probably saying it’s out of the question.

  “And Rudy’s here, too,” she says. “Don’t forget about that. I really feel good about being here with him. My depression is going away already.”

  Another brilliant call! Bridget nods her head several times into the phone, like her father can see her or something. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, then—just a minute.”

  Bridget puts the phone down and goes to the banister. My mother is still parked at the bottom. “Mrs. St. James,” Bridget says, “my father wants to talk to you.”

  Bridget returns to my bedroom and takes the pillow from me and buries her face in it. I pat her back and tell her it will be okay. We’ll figure something out.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s going to be okay.” Knowing it won’t be.

  Bridget puts down the pillow and bursts out laughing. “He said yes!” she says. “Yes! I can stay ’til the end of the school year.” That’s only a month, but still. Bridget starts dancing around the room. I jump up on the bed and start bouncing. I toss my other pillow at her and it smacks her in the head. She tosses it back, then jumps up on the bed to join me. We are being so silly, like a couple of twelve-year-olds, but we don’t care. Bridget gets to stay. It’s like heaven. It’s like the angels have knocked on our heads and said, How about a little miracle tonight? How would you like that?

  Sometimes there’s just no second-guessing, parents.

  ***

  In the morning, we get another surprise. Donna had the baby in the middle of the night.

  “Your father called, Andi,” my mother says. Rosa is back and busy fixing breakfast.

  My mother puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s a little boy. They’re naming him Gavin Alexander. He weighed six pounds and seven ounces.” She pats me on the back like this will make all of it okay.
>
  I’m stunned. I knew the baby was coming, but all of a sudden, now that he’s here, it’s like it’s real for the very first time.

  “I—I—” I don’t know what to say. “Are they all right?” I ask, wondering if I care and quickly deciding that yes, I do.

  “They’re fine. Your father wants you to come to the hospital, Andi. Would you like that?”

  Rosa brings in a stack of pancakes and a pitcher of orange juice. Bridget takes the chair next to mine. She sits back in her chair and waits for someone to start eating. My mother gets up from the table. “I’ve already had my breakfast, so I’ll leave you two girls to enjoy yours.”

  She dabs at her mouth and smiles and asks Rosa to bring her another cup of coffee in the sunroom. My mother is all smiles with everything lately because she had a long talk with Dr. Armstrong, explaining to him that she is not interested in their relationship going any further, and instead of him getting mad, he said he understood completely, that they should just take their time. There was no hurry and how about a movie Friday night. “We’re just friends, Andi,” she says. “And it’s good to have lots of friends. It’s helpful to my recovery.”

  She sounds so sure of herself in her recovery and this is a great relief. Now that the baby is actually here I don’t want her falling off the deep end. I watch her go toward the sunroom. She seems very relaxed and not upset, like the baby is no big thing. She’s accepting the situation and moving on. Something I have not been able to do.

  Bridget digs into the stack of pancakes. “Are you going to go to the hospital?” she says.

  “I don’t know. I told my father I never want to see him again. I think I meant it.” I pick up a pancake from the stack and slather some butter and syrup on it. Rosa’s pancakes are to die for, but I’m no longer hungry. Bridget is devouring hers. She doesn’t wait to finish her mouthful. “You should go,” she mumbles. “It’s a new little baby!”