Bebe Moore Campbell

by 72 Hour Hold

  “Three months.”

  Gloria and I made noises in our throats. Nonverbal empathy.

  “I think if she weren’t in jail she’d be dead,” Mattie said. She chuckled. “It’s cheaper than A Caring Place. I’m still paying that off. Six thousand dollars for a four-week stay. That’s room and board, group sessions, private counseling, family counseling. The insurance is only paying half, and it took about twenty phone calls and I don’t know how many letters to get them to pay anything. I’m in yet another support group: Mothers of Mentally Ill Inmates.”

  “You mean, Mothers of Mentally Ill Inmates with Bills,” Gloria said. “After a while, support groups will replace families. It won’t be about who you’re married to. All the official forms will ask for date of birth, social security number, and support group affiliation.”

  We laughed hysterically. We always either laughed or cried like crazy whenever we got together.

  “Seriously, though, we need to start a group in the ’hood,” Gloria said. “ The Come Out of the Closet Support Group.”

  We all chuckled.

  The waitress appeared with our sandwiches. Gloria asked for another glass of wine.

  “It’s always going to be like this,” she said, taking a sip.

  “Oh, honey—” I began.

  She waved her hand. “No. No, I’ve made my peace with it. I’m not looking for Wellington to get any better. Milton’s the optimist in our house. I’m the realist.” She glanced sternly at us. “So don’t think you have to give me some kind of pep talk, because I’m fine.” She looked at Mattie. “Did you tell Keri about Ray?”

  Ray was Mattie’s estranged and soon-to-be former husband. “What?” I asked.

  “He moved in with Carolyn. He bought her an engagement ring. And she’s pregnant.”

  I might have been a little out of the loop, but no part of the announcement was a surprise. It was clear to me early on that Mattie’s husband was in the process of moonwalking out of her life and away from their daughter’s mental illness. I’d met Ray and Mattie together the first time I attended a support group meeting. He was fine, an aging pretty boy, tall and chiseled with a wide smile: an amiable guy. But I knew the minute I shook his hand that he didn’t have the fortitude for whatever lay ahead. We were all at the beginning of a journey none of us had chosen to take, and I sensed that he would get off the train the first chance he got.

  “The funny thing is—well, maybe not so funny—that the mental illness comes from his gene pool,” Mattie said.

  “It’s never us. That’s the rule,” Gloria said, and we laughed.

  “Seriously, his mother hasn’t left her house in about five years.”

  “What’s that, agoraphobia? That’s not mental illness,” I said.

  Mattie raised her eyebrows.

  “Technically, it’s a phobia,” I said, “not a brain disease.”

  “He’s also got a sister who is classically bipolar, seasonal affective disorder and everything. Every fall she flatlines; come spring, she’s dancing on the ceiling. So anyway—”

  “You don’t seem all that upset,” I said.

  “In a way it’s anticlimactic,” Mattie said. “It was hard being alone at first, but now I’m okay. And it’s been—what, six months? I was afraid Nona would have a bad reaction because she wasn’t doing well at the time, but the breakup didn’t make her any worse. I mean, she’s in jail. What could be worse than that? Except, I truly believe that God placed her in jail for a reason. To keep her alive, for one. To gain perspective, maybe. I don’t know.

  “Anyway … a lovely man has come into my life. I kept running into him at the auction house. A couple of times he outbid me. The last time it happened, we got to talking, and he invited me out for coffee. And— there you have it.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s white, shorter than I am by many inches, not all that cute; however, when we get together I can’t stop laughing. And he brings the thunder and the lightning to the sheets.”

  “Whoa,” Gloria and I said.

  “Oh, and he’s got money. Boyfriend owns many apartment buildings.”

  “Whoa,” we said again.

  “Does he know about Nona?”

  Mattie shook her head. “No need. By the time she comes home, the affair will be over. This isn’t serious. This is fun.”

  “Well, you deserve some,” I said. “Everybody needs some heat under the sheet.” We laughed. “I talked to Bethany tonight.”

  Mattie rolled her eyes. “That woman needs meds.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “She’s a little … I don’t know. I’m not saying she’s mentally ill, but she’s definitely out there. Going off on the speaker. That wasn’t called for.”

  “After she cussed out Dr. Gold, she came downstairs and hinted to me that she knew some alternative ways that would help her daughter.”

  “You’re going to look up and see her on America’s Most Wanted,” Mattie said.

  “Yeah, maybe so,” I said.

  I was ready to leave after Gloria finished her fourth glass of wine, but she ordered another. Three pairs of eyes met: Mattie’s, the waitress’s, and mine. I started to say something, but Mattie put her hand on my arm and shook her head.

  “I’m driving,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Gloria said. “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t have a problem standing up or even walking to the door, but once she got outside, she began to crumple, then fold. Mattie had walked ahead to bring her car around and had just turned the corner when Gloria started going down. I grabbed her arm, but her legs began buckling and she would have landed on the sidewalk if a man and a woman hadn’t been walking past us toward the restaurant. Gloria fell against the man, who was wearing a fedora, low on his forehead; he grabbed her by her elbows and pulled her up. Then he looked at me.

  “Keri.”

  “Orlando.”

  The woman, who was standing behind him, seemed to perk up when she realized that we knew each other. She was young and unsmiling. She folded her arms as Orlando tried to keep Gloria from falling.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, peering into Gloria’s half-closed eyes.

  “It’s not a medical emergency,” I said, trying to keep her steady. “She’s just had a little too much to drink.”

  “I’m all right,” Gloria mumbled.

  “Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, then turned to his date. “I’ll be right back. Just going to help out these ladies.”

  “Thanks, but our other friend is getting the car. She should be here any minute.”

  Orlando was now supporting Gloria by letting her lean against him. If he moved, she would topple over.

  “I think I’d better stay put until she gets here.”

  Behind him, the unsmiling young woman coughed a little.

  “You look good, Orlando,” I said, loud enough for Pretty Young Thing to hear. “How’s PJ?”

  “Do I know you?” Gloria asked, tilting her head and thrusting her face close to Orlando’s chin.

  The grin appeared slowly, just a tiny twitching of his lips at first before it finally took up his entire face.

  “Gloria, this is Orlando Hightower. He’s an actor. You probably saw him on television. He was in And Baby Makes Eight, and he’s done a lot of movies.”

  “I loved that show,” Gloria said. “I was mad when they took it off.”

  I calculated we had ten seconds before Orlando’s fedora split.

  “Here’s our friend,” I said as Mattie pulled up in front of us.

  Orlando put his arm around Gloria’s waist and guided her toward the car. Watching them, I recalled how hot Orlando’s hands could get. How that heat got trapped inside me. He situated Gloria in the back of the car, buckled her seat belt, and closed her door.

  Orlando looked good standing under the streetlamp. “How’s PJ?” I asked again.

>   “ ’Lando,” Pretty Young Thing said.

  “I’ll be right with you,” he called. “PJ is PJ,” he said to me, then extended his hand.

  “Wasn’t that the guy who came with you to support meeting a couple of times?” Mattie asked when I slid into the seat beside her. “Weren’t you two going together?”

  “We broke up about six months ago.”

  “He seems like a nice brother.”

  “He’s a lot of work,” I said. “Maybe that’s why he needs a young girl. God bless her, she’s got more energy than I do.”

  “I’m having a party.” This from the back of the car. I’d missed the resurrection.

  “When?” I asked, turning around.

  “Friday at eight o’clock. This is your only invitation. Potluck.”

  “I’ll make some chicken,” Mattie said, “and I’ll bring my friend.”

  “I’ll bring some monkey bread,” I said.

  TRINA WAS IN THE FAMILY ROOM WHEN I GOT HOME, AND the telephone was ringing. My daughter seemed oblivious to ringing phones or anything other than the TV show she was watching.

  “Keri.”

  I recognized the voice immediately. “Hi, PJ. We saw you in the car the other day. How are you doing, sweetie pie?”

  “I’m cool. How’s Trina?”

  His voice had deepened since the last time I’d spoken with him. That was only six months ago. Fourteen. It seemed impossible that he was only six the first time we’d met. Four more years and he’d be going off to college.

  “Oh, honey, you sound like a grown man.” Tears gathered. I had no idea where they’d come from. “Trina’s right here. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “No. I mean, yeah, but I want to talk to you first.”

  Covering the phone with my hand, I took several deep breaths. “What’s on your mind, honey?”

  “Um … I just want to say that—um, maybe you could call my dad sometime. I mean, you know, just to talk.”

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  “Just to talk.”

  “Well, I talked with him tonight, if that makes you feel better. We ran into each other at a restaurant.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He seemed to brighten a bit. “He’s in a play.”

  “He told me.” The tears were returning. I couldn’t outrun them. “Do you want to speak with Trina?”

  “Yeah.”

  I handed Trina the phone, and in a moment she was laughing.

  There was an empty pizza box on the coffee table and dirty dishes next to it. I ignored the mess, concentrated on my breathing, and sat down on the sofa beside her. The Russian psychologist told me that mentally ill people relapse and go off their meds because they aren’t ready for the responsibilities that come with being sane. He advised me not to expect too much too soon. That was tricky. Looking at Trina, I saw the daughter I’d always had and felt the same expectations. But she wasn’t ready to meet them yet.

  Trina hung up the phone after a few minutes. As I moved closer, she sidled away from me and then rose. Moments later, I heard her going up the stairs. Good, I thought, checking my watch. She’ll be in bed by eleven. I slid over to where she’d been. The cushion was still warm. Orlando’s face came to my mind, his laughter filled my head. Or maybe it was PJ’s laughter. I was still hearing the sound of it when I opened the side door to the yard, unlatched the gate, and dragged the two garbage cans down the driveway to my sidewalk. I wondered how long he and Pretty Young Thing had been dating and what PJ thought of her.

  I was almost at the door when my nostrils began to tingle. Faint, so faint. Barely perceptible. Easily misidentified. It could have been perfume, or incense. Or marijuana. Beyond my yard, I heard a squeal of brakes, the laughter of young people. But the odor didn’t disappear with them; it followed me back to my house and hovered just below Trina’s window before drifting away.

  I stood absolutely still, didn’t move until I was breathing again. Once inside, I counted the pills in the bottles on my breakfast room table, the mood stabilizers and the antipsychotics, and counted them again. The television was playing in Trina’s room. I knocked on her door and opened it before she responded. Watch your mouth, I told myself. Don’t accuse her of anything.

  She was sitting on the floor, cramming potato chips into her mouth from a bag beside her. Strewn across the rug were a few open magazines, but she wasn’t really reading them or watching television. “I thought you’d be asleep,” I said, putting my hand on the back of her neck. She was hot. Beneath the skin, her blood was racing. It wasn’t fever, what I felt. Something else.

  “I’ll go to bed soon.”

  I sat down on the floor beside her, trying to get close enough to smell her breath, her hair, her clothes. “Give me a hug,” I said, reaching for her.

  She shifted her body away without looking me in the eye.

  “I’m thinking about something,” she said, her voice a harsh whine. I heard her muttering, the words unintelligible but not the disrespect. She stood up, went into her adjoining bathroom, and slammed the door shut.

  That night I waited for her to creep into my bed, but she never came. The first time I checked her room was around midnight. Trina was in the bathroom, singing loudly. An hour later, when I peeked in her room, she was dancing, flailing her body from side to side, kicking her legs high, spinning around and around and around. I used to love to watch Trina dance, but now the sight of her frenzied movements frightened me.

  Calm down. Anybody can have a sleepless night, I thought, creeping back to my room. It doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t actually smell marijuana on her, just in the air around her, near her. The voice in my head grew louder, defensive. She’s been taking her medication, going to the program. Don’t jump to conclusions. Have a little faith. Even people with normal brains can have an off day.

  The memories came back to me so suddenly, so viciously, that I realized they’d been lurking in my mind all along. I closed my eyes and saw Trina, her face garish with makeup, her tight see-through clothes a public invitation, rushing through the house on a manic tear. If she got out of control again, how long would it take to get her back on track? If she stopped taking her meds, what would make her become compliant again? How many times would I have to call the police? How long would I have to wait until she met the criteria for a seventy-two-hour hold?

  God, I can’t go through this again.

  I dozed for about an hour. When I woke up, I went straight to Trina’s room. She wasn’t there. I ran through the house, calling her name, but she didn’t answer. When I looked in the garage, my car was still there, which meant she’d either walked somewhere or called someone to pick her up. Outside, the street was dark, empty. There was just the sliver of a moon and barely any stars. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it wasn’t quite three. She could be anywhere, doing anything. Perspiration began dripping down my back. I got dressed and taped a note to the front door: I’ll be right back. Then I got in my car and drove through the streets in the early dawn: around the corners, up and down the hills. I didn’t see anyone. Few cars drove by.

  There was more action on Crenshaw: The sanitation workers were going about their work, all-night greasy spoons flashed their welcoming light, and people, mostly young men, milled about, striking quick clandestine deals in the shadows. But I didn’t see my child.

  I headed south, grateful that there was so little traffic; I could drive slowly, stopping at every bit of movement I saw along the way. The vendors’ area was deserted. No T-shirts hung on the chain-link fence. No tapes or CDs were available from the rear of vans. Then I saw Crazy Man, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide. When I rolled down the windows, I could hear his bellow of a laugh. Standing next to him was Trina.

  She was sullen on the way home. Her closed mouth was half pout, half snarl-about-to-happen. I had spoiled her great adventure. I knew better than to offer a commentary.

  Trina ran upstairs to her room as soon as she got inside the house. The door slammed, cracking the shell
of silence that had enveloped the place. I crept up the stairs with aching limbs, feeling as though I’d run for miles. Trina’s room was silent. I sat on the top stair, the one closest to her bedroom door. I sat there and I waited, like some ancient, scarred slave who’d run away too many times not to know the bloodhounds already had her scent.

  4

  I FELT SOME TREPIDATION AS I KNOCKED ON TRINA’S BED room door later that morning, but she emerged dressed and ready to go to the partial program. She seemed surprisingly calm. Her eyes, though, were unfocused. Behind her, the room was in complete disarray, ripped apart by unseen gales, invisible hurricanes. The natural disaster appeared to be purposeful, as though Trina had set out to see how much disorder she could create. She didn’t do much talking and refused to eat the scrambled eggs and toast that I prepared for her. While I ate, she went outside in the backyard and smoked a cigarette. Only a few weeks earlier, she’d been talking about giving up the habit. That would be a conversation for another day. I was frightened. On top of everything else, one sleepless night had the power to upset an emotional system that would always be fragile. Trina’s sanity was maintained by her regimen of proper diet, enough rest, psychotherapy, and pills. And so was mine.

  Please be okay, baby.

  Trina was silent as we drove past the hucksters on Crenshaw Boulevard. In the bright morning light, Crazy Man was like a silhouette posed against a white sheet. The block was awhirl with the motion of haphazard commerce. Only he stood still, his eyes cast down, his jaw slack, his expression vacant and sad, giving no hint that he comprehended the scene in front of him. People walked around him, deliberately not getting too close. Had he ever been diagnosed? Had he ever taken his medication? I wondered if his mother lived in perpetual mourning for him, a woman who couldn’t detach or give up, whose birth pains were still coming.

  When I parked in front of the Weitz Center, Trina got out without saying good-bye. She ran up the steps leading to her program two at a time, and the big glass doors closed behind her. Ten minutes later, my eyes were still riveted to that spot. After twenty minutes, I drove off.

  “You’re looking sharp, boss,” Frances said when she saw me. She held a portable steamer in her hand and walked slowly from rack to rack, zapping wrinkles. From time to time she ran her fingers through the dark hair that trailed down her back.