Bebe Moore Campbell

by 72 Hour Hold

  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.”

  “Something might happen to her. She could get hurt. People die in places like that,” Clyde said.

  “Look at me.” When he did, I said, “Trina may die if she doesn’t get help.”

  WHEN ADRIANA HADN’T COME IN BY TWO O’CLOCK, I assumed she wouldn’t make it at all. According to Frances, this was her fourth day of not showing up. A crowd of shoppers arriving around noon kept the two of us hopping. After most of the people had left, I turned to Frances. “Maybe I need to hire someone else.”

  In my office, I dialed Adriana’s home number and then her cell. I left the same message on both. “I need you. Please come in tomorrow.”

  The green pantsuit hanging on the rack seemed to reproach me. No matter what else I was supposed to be doing, it caught my eye. I spent a lot of time staring at the spot, trying to judge how noticeable it was.

  WHEN I DROVE UP TO ORLANDO’S THEATER THAT NIGHT, there was a line outside and a throng of happy people milling about on the sidewalk. Some of them were recognizable: television faces from shows that either were in syndication or had gone on to sitcom heaven. As I stepped up to the will-call window, I could hear scattered conversations. The words agent, casting, callback, and for the producers were used frequently. These were Orlando’s colleagues and costars, and some hadn’t worked in quite a while. They’d come out both to support him and to do themselves some good just in case a big-time producer really did show up. Many of these actors greeted me; they’d met me often enough through the years.

  Orlando’s name was prominently displayed on the marquee. One of the continuing perks of having been in a hit sitcom is name recognition. He might not be on Broadway, but in a cast of unknowns he was the clear draw. The theater was a ninety-nine-seater that didn’t pay union scale, but at least it was full. That had to make Orlando feel good.

  I slipped into my unreserved seat about five minutes before curtain. The lights were still up. I scanned the audience quickly and heard my name. By the time I figured out where the sound came from, PJ was sliding into the seat next to mine. I had just enough time to give him a quick greeting before the lights dimmed.

  Orlando had called it right. The play wasn’t good—an implausible story that went on way too long—and he was right about his performance. From the moment he walked onstage until the curtain came down, he took command. He enjoyed himself so much when he was performing. It took so little to make him happy, just a few folks clapping with their eyes on him. I wanted more for him than that.

  “So what did you think?” I asked PJ after the last bit of applause had faded. People were beginning to file out, but we sat back down.

  “Dad was great, but the play needs work, as they say.”

  “I agree.”

  “I saw it last night. They already changed a couple of things,” he said.

  “Oh, PJ. You came two nights in a row? That’s so sweet.”

  “I kind of like theater,” he said.

  “Oh, no. Not another one.” We both laughed.

  PJ seemed settled in a way I’d never known him to be. Since the last time I’d seen him, he seemed to have matured.

  “So how are things?” I asked.

  He smiled. “I told them.”

  “And they didn’t disown you?” I smiled.

  “No. Actually, they were pretty cool about the whole thing. I mean—well, my mom was upset and everything, but my dad was fine. He
knows a lot of gay people.”

  “Just be safe. That’s all we care about. Be safe.”

  By the time Orlando came out, PJ and I were alone in the theater. I offered to treat the three of us to dinner, but Orlando said he was more tired than hungry and still had to take PJ home.

  “Do you want to come over?” I whispered in his ear.

  “I’m tired, Keri,” he said.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  At home I felt edgy and restless. A glass of wine didn’t settle me or block out the thoughts that were bombarding me. Bethany and Angelica. Where were they now? Had I been too hasty in leaving the program? They were probably at the main site by now. Maybe it had been a mistake, not sticking with them.

  Or maybe they were all in jail. I’d been so busy with the conservatorship and the store that I hadn’t taken time to ponder the possible outcome of Jean’s little dilemma. No one had called me. If something had gone wrong, surely Brad would have contacted me. Or maybe not. Being stoic suited him. Not giving out names, taking the bamboo beneath his fingernails without flinching, not being afraid of the dogs yelping at his ankles: that’s how he liked to think of himself.

  I took my second glass of wine out to the hot tub, feeling very much alone. As the whirlpool jets began bubbling, I started crying for Trina, Orlando, Clyde, Adriana, and me. All the lost people. When the portable phone that was lying on the edge of the tub began to ring, I had just run out of tears.

  “Keri? It’s your mother. Please, please don’t hang up. Please talk to me. Please.”

  I listened to Emma call my name over and over. I let her beg. Hang up, I told myself. Hang up right now.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “I just want to talk with you. How have you been?”

  “What do you care how I’ve been?”

  “I do care, Keri.”

  “No, you don’t. You never did. You’re just calling me because you’re old and lonely. You’re probably wondering who’s going to take care of you if things get really bad. Well, it won’t be me.”

  Her voice was very soft. “You have a right to be angry with me.”

  “I have a right to hate you. And I do.”

  “I’m sorry. Please, let me try to make amends.”

  “I don’t want you in my life.” I was shouting.

  “All right, all right.” She paused. “How’s Trina?”

  I wanted to tell her that Trina was at Brown University pulling a 4.0 because I’d been a great mother, not some drunk who didn’t accept her responsibilities. If only I could have flung those proud words in her face. But I began sputtering and then crying.

  “Keri, what’s wrong?”

  I hung up.

  BY THE END OF THE FIRST WEEK, TRINA SEEMED MORE SUBdued, her psychosis not as evident, except when she asked me if I was her mother and tilted her head and narrowed her eyes when I said that I was. I always thought of Emma when she said that, even though I didn’t want to think about her. “Where’s my real mother?” she asked me, over and over again.

  A fixed false belief. It came with the territory. In her mind I wasn’t her mother, but at least she wasn’t calling me the devil. I was grateful for any small bit of progress.

  Clyde and I visited together at lunchtime each day, and at night I’d return to visit alone. The afternoons were almost fun, like Family Day at college. Trina appeared to enjoy us. We played Scrabble and brought puzzles and ate fruit. Trina talked a lot and laughed when her father teased her. At night she was more subdued. I usually arrived at eight, and by the time I got there she’d already had her evening meds, including a tranquilizer. She didn’t talk much, but she seemed happy to see me and listened as I chattered on about the shop. We did girly things at night. I gave her a pedicure. I curled her hair with electric curlers, which brought out an appreciative audience. And, of course, I massaged her.

  I started with her fingers toward the end of the first week. She let me hold her hand without pulling away. My thumb brushed against her palm, back and forth, back and forth. She didn’t resist. Every day I rubbed her a little more. She grew limp and relaxed under my touch. I soothed her.

  I was doing reflexology one night, pressing against the balls of her feet. Her eyes were closed. She opened them and looked at me. “What it is,” she said, “is that I start flying. It feels like flying. I’m going up, up, up, and I can’t come back down. So I just go with it. Everything whizzes by so fast. There’s the sky and the trees and the people, and I pass them so fast. Nobody can make me stop.”

  I kept rubbing.

  “Do you want to stop, Trina?”

  “I was supposed to go to Brown, wasn’t I?”

  I nodded.

  “In September.”

  I nodded.

  “But I can’t go to school if I’m flying, Mom. All the letters on the page come together and the numbers are jumbled. Nothing makes sense when I’m flying. And I don’t know when I’ll take off again.”

  “Take the medicine and you won’t fly,” I said.

  “I can’t smoke weed, Mommy.”

  “No.”

  “I can’t smoke weed and I can’t take Ecstasy and I can’t drink. All that stuff used to make me feel normal. Now they all make me fly so fast. Too fast. That’s what Elton and Thaddeus told me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They took me to the other hospital. They were nice to me.”

  “How did you meet them?”

  “I hitched a ride with them. They could tell I was flying.”

  “At the hospital, they told me you were very sad. Did you tell the men that you wanted to die?”

  She averted her eyes. “I want to go to Brown. I studied so hard. I passed all the tests, and now I’m not smart anymore.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  She shook her head. “I’m so slow, Mom. When I try to think, everything is so slow. I can’t remember things I used to know.”

  “That’s just temporary. You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  She sat straight up. “You put me under stress.” Her voice began to rise. “You made me go with those people and sleep in the room with a strange man. You stressed me out. I didn’t want to go with them. You made me. And now you want to lock me up.” The last was a shriek that filled the visiting room. A nurse rushed over.

  “You’re going to have to keep your voice down or your mother will have to leave,” she said.

  “I want her to leave. Make her go right now,” Trina said.

  “Trina, I did what I thought was best.”

  “You’re not my mother, bitch.”

  It’s going to take a while; that’s what the nurse told me. That’s what I kept telling myself as I drove home. My driveway was dark; the automatic lights hadn’t come on. When I hit the remote control for the garage door to open, nothing happened. I looked up and down the block. The streetlights were out and all the houses were black.

  “Damn!” I said, with more vehemence than was warranted. I got out of the car, took my keys out, and headed for the front door. When I got to the top of the steps, something moved.

  “Keri.”

  I jumped, and then I looked. “Adriana, where have you been?”

  “Keri, I need, uh—” She giggled.

  It wasn’t so dark I couldn’t see that she was thinner, that she was trembling, that something was wrong.

  “I cashed a check today, and I was on my way to my car and some dude snatched my bag so now I need some money, and I was wondering—”

  “Don’t come to me with that bullshit,” I said, feeling anger replace my fear. “Just don’t. You’ve been using drugs again. That’s why you haven’t been to work. I can tell by looking at you.”

  “No. No, Keri. I’m not on any drugs. The reason I didn’t come to work was I’ve been sick. I had the flu. I meant to call, but I was too sick. And then, as soon as I left the house, I got jacked.”

  She spoke rapidly, moving from foot to foot
.

  “Get out of here. And don’t come back,” I said.

  “Why are you gonna do me like that?” she said.

  “If you want to get back in rehab, I’ve got your back. If you want to call your sponsor and start going to meetings, I’ve got your back. But if you’re going to be a whore and a junkie, you’re on your own. Don’t come here, and don’t come back to the store until you’re ready to get some help.”

  “I don’t need any fucking help from you, bitch.”

  It was instinctive. One bitch too many. Past my quota. I grabbed Adriana by her shoulder and slammed her into the door. And then I started yelling.

  “You come to me, and I give you a job, get your ass in school, try to show you how to have a decent life. And then you fuck up, get back with your lowlife friends who just want to bring you down, and I’m the bitch?”

  She was more shocked than hurt, although I couldn’t swear that she wouldn’t be black-and-blue in the morning. But the shock kept her still, forced her to listen. Listening, of course, didn’t mean a damn thing, not with every cell in her body wanting drugs.

  “I’m so sick of you goddam kids. If you want to wreck your life, do it.”

  I unlocked my door and slammed it in her face. The phone was ringing when I got inside, but by the time I answered it the caller had hung up. Maybe it was Clyde, I thought. He’d told me earlier that he’d be going out of town for two weeks. So much for fatherly commitment. It was better to miss the call, better to realize that I was alone, that I had no backup, that Trina was going to be in and out of sanity for the rest of her life and I’d just have to deal with it. Ma Missy had learned that lesson a long time ago. Why couldn’t I? Why did I keep holding out for rescues and miracles and perfect endings? The program had tried to disabuse me of that notion. Jean and Eddie, Pete and Cecilia, Margaret—even Celestine, Melody’s mother, frying hamburgers for three grandchildren and holding her breath until her daughter made it home at night—they’d all learned acceptance. Things could be worse. Much worse.