I arrived at church in time to sing along during the last of Praise and Worship. I looked for Kiarra, but it was crowded and, with everyone standing, it was difficult trying to find her. Thirty minutes later, Kiarra and Xavier joined me in the balcony as the speaker was being introduced. Kiarra appeared reserved, almost sullen, and I wondered if she and Xavier had had another argument. Xavier and I exchanged our usual superficial hug before he sat down.
The theme for the revival was winning souls for Christ. Rev. Baldwin was a frequent guest at our church and an excellent teacher. Her sermon emphasized our duty as Christians is to spread the Word. We are not to judge as to who should receive the message of the cross. Each Christian's testimony includes someone who looked beyond what they were and saw what they could be.
“Who would be worthy by their own merit to be a joint heir with Christ?” Rev. Baldwin challenged the congregation. “Not one,” was her reply. “No one sitting here could have earned that right. It is only by God’s mercy and grace.”
During the service I passed Kiarra a note. ‘How do you witness to someone who’s depressed? What do you tell them that will make a difference?’ She wrote me back. ‘Don’t know. We’ll have to look that up. Maybe talk to one of the Elders.’ Xavier took the note and wrote, ‘Pay attention.’ Sometimes I thought he was too bossy. Kiarra neatly folded the note and placed it in her purse.
Once before I had asked Kiarra about Xavier’s behavior and she seemed almost offended. Then she sighed and said he was under a lot of pressure at school and was sometimes a little short with her. I was no expert in relationships, but that seemed odd, and I didn’t respond. She then added how he always did something to make it up to her. I thought that was odd, too.
Sitting on the edge of my bed that night, I had an uneasy feeling about Kiarra’s relationship with Xavier and I wondered if I was jealous. On more than one occasion Xavier jokingly made a comment about me being his competition for Kiarra's attention. His comment seemed almost vindictive, no matter how hard he smiled as he said it.
Xavier always talked about how much he loved Kiarra. He was graduating from Lincoln University in the spring of 2005 and promised Kiarra he would attend law school at the University of Pittsburgh. His boasting was sometimes laced with contempt for his mother, almost as if his motivation for success was to spite her. She remarried when he was a sophomore in college, and her new husband convinced her to require Xavier to get a job. Xavier sat out of school for two years and worked at a telemarketing company, which was where he and Kiarra met almost three years ago. Kiarra spent the summer before her senior year in Philadelphia with her grandmother and worked at the same company. I said nothing, but found his boasting pretentious – he had not yet taken the LSAT or been accepted into law school.
Francine arrived an hour late for her first session. She offered no excuse or apology, but displayed an arrogance as if I should have been happy she arrived. When I reminded her of the time, she ignored me. Our first outpatient session was not off to a good start. My desire to help Francine was waning – mostly out of frustration and my own fear of failure, but Francine’s antagonistic demeanor didn’t help the situation.
During the first two weeks after her discharge, Francine used our sessions to complain about moving into My Sister’s Keeper because it was a studio apartment. She protested that after living in a high rise condo (University Psychiatric Hospital), she was now living in a closet. The fact that it was her place and she could make it her home meant nothing to her. I wanted Francine to be excited and appreciative – she was neither.
Francine expressed her disappointment with Dollar Bank because it would take three weeks to get her banking card. I made futile attempts to explain that the Sister’s Keeper program collaborated with Dollar Bank to open accounts for the women in spite of any outstanding balances they may have had with other banks. To avoid appearing condescending, I omitted telling her the grant paid almost five hundred dollars on her behalf to Mellon Bank for bad checks she had written.
Francine was scheduled to see me on Tuesday mornings at ten o'clock. She complained about that because it meant she would arrive fifteen minutes early according to the bus schedule. There was no pleasing Francine – she wanted to be miserable. However, I knew enough psychology to know she was nervous and afraid because this was totally new to her. For the first time in a long time, Francine was forced to be independent. There would be no wake up from Nurse Debbie, no University Laundry Service, no Aramark Food Service and no one to tell her what the daily schedule would be. Francine was forced to be an adult. She would have to manage her life each day, down to the smallest detail. If she didn’t wash clothes, they would all be dirty. If she didn’t go shopping, she wouldn’t have any food. If she didn’t clean her apartment, then it would be messy.
Although Francine never expressed any desire to succeed in the program, I knew she didn’t want to fail. She needed to succeed like I needed her to be successful. The measure for each of us was in her ability to rise above her past and move toward her future. There were many things I had yet to learn about Francine, but I knew more about pain than she could ever guess. My struggle to be whole had given me insight into the need for self-restoration. As painful as it was thinking about my past, I realized I had to pull from my experiences to begin helping Francine.
At the conclusion of our session, on the last Tuesday in August, I began inquiring about Francine’s children. She continued to give flippant responses – ‘Why do you care?’ ‘What difference does it make?’ ‘They have their own lives.’ ‘I haven’t seen them in years, and we don’t know each other anymore.’ In spite of her tone, she didn’t get angry and that meant something. I just didn’t know what. I assumed her eager dismissal of the conversation was another mask for feelings too risky to express. I wondered if my mother, Barbara, had spoken those same distant remarks when asked about her five children. Therapeutically I understood. Emotionally it was disheartening.
Labor Day weekend would be the first time Francine had four unstructured days to utilize as she pleased. Sister’s Keeper planned a cookout and, of course, Francine declined the invitation to participate. She said she planned to go to Point State Park to spend some time at the fountain. It sounded strange, but I surmised the Point had some significance to her past, and I hoped she would use the time to face that demon.
The Woodard’s left for Greece the morning of the last Thursday in August. They were spending two weeks with Kristen and Larry before their move to Florida at the end of September. They invited me but I couldn’t take two weeks off, and it didn’t make sense to go to Athens for a weekend. Part of me wanted to go, but I had already accepted Romen’s invitation to spend Labor Day weekend with his family in Erie. I was also looking forward to meeting my nephew, Raymond Lee Bridges.
I was disappointed when Kiarra changed her mind about going with me to Erie for the weekend. At the last minute, Xavier decided he wanted to spend the weekend in New York with her family. Kiarra apologized profusely – I lied and told her I understood. There was something glaring about Xavier, and I asked God to help me see it clearly. The relationship was deflating my effervescent best friend. Her spontaneity was hindered by Xavier's unannounced visits and the specific times she raced home to receive his calls.
I slept in on Saturday morning and didn’t get on the road until noon. After I passed Grove City, there was minimal traffic on Interstate 79. I put on my favorite Ben Tankard CD, “The Minstrel”, and relaxed with the mellow gospel jazz for the duration of my drive. On each side of the highway there were farms and miles of open land. The backdrop of bright green leaves against the pale blue sky was breath-taking. The landscape looked like a paint-by-number portrait of the countryside. It was easy to forget about the farms and open land when you lived in the city surrounded by concrete. I made a mental note to take the time to notice the miracle of God’s handiwork on a regular basis.
It was a little after three o’clock in the afternoon when I arr
ived. Nina greeted me in the driveway, and Romen was sitting on the front porch reading a story to Raymond. I was happy for them; my brother deserved all the good things he ever wished for. Nina and I joined them on the porch and I watched my brother with his son. It was like magic – Romen’s eyes seemed to sparkle even brighter than when he looked at Nina.
Later that evening I worked up the courage to hold my nephew. I had never seen a five week old baby – he looked like a doll. Holding him was mesmerizing. Raymond’s skin was softer than anything I had ever felt. He seemed to feel secure in my arms, and he cooed as I held him against me. One day I would have a baby and a husband who loved me like Romen loved Raymond and Nina.
Almost nine years had passed since the twins, my younger siblings, Hustin and Rah'Lee, moved to Maryland with the Teague family. Romen and I talked about how much we missed them, and we wondered what they looked like. Romen surmised they would be tall and thin like Mr. Anthony – that’s who we always thought was their father. He was the last boyfriend we remembered our mother having before we were all separated.
It would have been easy to blame Mr. Anthony for my mother being on drugs. Although I remembered Barbara using drugs after he moved in, Romen remembered her using drugs before they met. He wasn’t sure, but wanted to believe Barbara stopped using when she found out she was pregnant with the twins. Mr. Anthony started staying out all night, which led to arguments with Barbara. He often said he was leaving but hung around until after the twins were born. One day, when we came home from school, he was gone, and Barbara was still in bed. She was depressed for about six months and then started using drugs almost every day. It wasn't long before she started going out and leaving us for days at a time.
I told Romen about my plan to find the twins. He smiled and told me not to get my hopes up too high. Then he picked up his sleeping son from the bassinet and kissed him.
“I’ll never leave this little guy.” Romen closed his eyes as he cuddled his infant son.
Romen and I tried to call Afreeka several times during the weekend, but we were never able to get her on the phone. It had become increasingly difficult to keep in contact with Afreeka, and sometimes when we spoke she seemed either in a hurry or tired. Almost a month had passed since the last time she and I talked at length. We both realized how distant Afreeka was becoming. Romen didn’t seem as concerned as I felt.
Afreeka wasn’t only distant with us, she also pushed her boyfriend, Rasheed, away after he asked to marry her. She told me she wouldn’t accept his ring because she wasn’t ready to settle down and make that kind of commitment. Romen told me Afreeka was afraid of getting close to anyone. When I asked her if that was true, she denied it. However, every conversation Afreeka and I had about her settling down ended up being about her anger with our mother. I prayed for Afreeka – I wanted her to be free from her anger. Lord knew we were all still struggling to be free from the pain.
Romen and I talked for hours into the night. We had not had the opportunity to have big brother chats, and I felt like he was trying to make up for that. Romen spoke with wisdom about life and opportunities. He remembered all the people who helped us when we were children. He told me he tried his very best to take care of us. By the time he was ten, Romen realized Barbara's ability to take care of us would never be more than sporadic. Romen admitted to loving school because it got him away from our mother.
“When I was little, I hated her,” he admitted. “I was angry that she made my life so unpredictable. I never knew my father and there were always different men in and out of my life and our house. She would be gone for days and then return as if she never left. I remember feeding Afreeka Cheerios for two days because I was afraid to cook. She hadn’t been clean for two months when she announced that she was pregnant by the man sitting on the couch.” He finally paused.
“Was that my dad?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It could have been. He kept coming around for a long time after you were born.”
“What did he look like?” I hesitated after asking, not being sure I was ready to hear information about the mystery man who could have been my father. I wondered if he was the man I remembered.
“He was light-skinned and had a pony tail.”
“Do I look like him?”
“Lundyn, I honestly don’t remember. I never looked him in the eye.” Romen exhaled, shook his head and then pursed his lips together. Whatever he did remember about this man, he wasn’t ready to tell, and I didn’t press it.
“Did you ever meet our grandmother?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I think so.” Romen’s forehead wrinkled and he cocked his head to the side – like he had always done when he was serious. “I kinda remember going to this woman’s house when I was five, Afreeka was two and Barbara was pregnant with you. She was carrying Afreeka, and when I couldn’t step up on the bus she yanked my arm like it was my fault.” Romen shook his head. “When we got to the house the woman hugged me and I noticed that she was crying. I don’t remember being there long before she and Barbara began arguing and then we left. We never went back.”
“You think that was our grandmother?”
“It’s hard to remember, but I think so.”
“It would have been nice to have a grandmother.” I smiled and hugged my brother.
I was very proud of Romen. He appeared to have overcome our past; he was happy and making a new life for himself. I envied that about him. Romen suspected I was still struggling with my life and, when he asked, I admitted he was right. He said if I was willing to let go of the anger and pain I would have to place those feelings in a box and seal it. Romen said he kept his box during college, but he threw it in Lake Erie after he married Nina. He said he refused to look back. He promised Nina he would only look forward and he consciously refused to focus on the past. It sounded good, and I earnestly listened. I wasn’t that strong and still needed to bring closure to many things before I could move forward. Romen had Nina and Raymond, and they would love him forever in spite of his scars. I was still afraid to allow anyone to really know me and still doubted anyone could ever love me in spite of my scars.
The weekend was comforting and I was glad I had come. Nina cooked breakfast on Sunday and I ate slowly because time was passing too quickly. Before I left, Romen and I made one last attempt to call Afreeka – we let the phone ring until the answering machine came on. Romen hung up the phone before I could leave another message. There was nothing to say. Romen hugged me as I stood holding the receiver. Nina interrupted the silence when she brought Raymond over to me to say good-bye. I whispered I love you in his ear before giving him back to her. We said our goodbyes, and I hugged Raymond and Nina before getting in my car. I waved good-bye and blew kisses as I backed out of the driveway.
As I drove down Interstate 79 I thought about Romen’s words over and over – put my past in a box and throw it away so I can focus on my future. One day, I promised myself, I would be able to do that too.
By mid-September I was facilitating some of the adolescent obesity groups. Most of the kids in our group had done well at the summer camp and, although everyone had not reached their goals, all of them lost weight. I developed a two week practice plan and an Activity Worksheet for the kids to begin taking control of their health. The plan provided food choices for their school's cafeteria as well as snacking at home. The group continued to be invested, and I felt assured the kids would be dutiful in the pursuit of their weight loss goals. These kids were my beacon of hope; they gave me the success my weak ego required to stay in the therapeutic game.
By this time, I had also acquired confidence in my therapeutic approach. The text book theories had no answers or anecdotes to offer for someone as multi-symptomatic and emotionally complex as Francine. My first two months at work had been a trial by fire – often I had been burned but I learned many invaluable lessons about dealing with people.
The ritual of my therapeutic relationship with Francine
evolved around her being stand-offish, then agitated and finally angry. I was still desperately trying to get Francine to be honest about her feelings, but she continued to be evasive. She often indulged me with disjointed pieces of information, and I intentionally continued to press her. During her visit on the last Monday of September, Francine finally became talkative. We were in my office discussing her educational goals when she completely changed the subject. It was as if Francine had an epiphany, and she seemed distracted. She stood, walked toward the window and adjusted the blinds so the sunlight was more direct. Without facing me, she began to speak.
“You’re right,” she sighed. “I do know a lot about guilt.”
“Tell me what you know.” I turned my chair to face her and crossed my leg, giving her my full attention.
“I got $10,000 when my dad died, and I bought a car and got high with the money.” Francine continued, speaking quickly like she might forget what she wanted to say. “Miss Jean was a jealous, mad,” Francine paused and took a breath. “She was a mad cow who hated the fact that my dad wouldn’t divorce my mom.” Francine’s tone softened. “I know he would have left my mom eventually.”
Her statements maintained their usual disconnectedness and seemed off the subject of guilt. “Why did you want your parents to break up?” I asked to keep her talking.
“I know my dad didn’t love my mother, and I’m not sure she loved him. I don’t know why they ever got married. They were an odd couple.”
“What makes you say that?”
“My dad was a good looking man, always well dressed, always had a nice car and money in his pocket. When he walked down the street it seemed like everybody knew him. He was a proud man just like his father. My dad used to talk about growing up in Tucker, Georgia. His favorite story was when a gang of white men tried to hang his dad for blowing a kiss at a white woman. My grandfather was so angry that he tensed up and only got a rope burn before his friends cut him down. When my grandfather left Georgia, he vowed to never go south again. I never met the rest of our family.” Francine’s voice trailed off like she was reliving the moment. The joy in her smile appeared genuine. She took a deep breath and exhaled softly. After a deliberate pause, she took a seat and faced me.
Lundyn Bridges Page 4