Bebe Moore Campbell

by 72 Hour Hold

  3

  MILTON, MY FRIEND GLORIA’S HUSBAND, WAS INTRODUCing the speaker, the famous UCLA professor of psychiatry Dr. Henry Gold, as I tiptoed down the aisle of All Souls Presbyterian Church, where the support group was held the last Wednesday of every month. A small dapper man with a calm air, Milton spoke in a monotone as he listed the speaker’s outstanding accomplishments in his field. From time to time, he glanced at Gloria, who was seated near the front, and she would smile and nod. Dr. Gold had already begun speaking when I slipped into the fifth pew and settled into my seat. I had left the house late, running back inside several times to get my glasses, a liter of water, keys. My procrastination was deliberate. The meetings had fallen off my list of things to do. Already, my mind had begun drifting.

  Usually, the support group met in the basement, but that smaller space couldn’t contain the crowd gathered to hear the “internationally renowned” Dr. Gold. He appeared to be in his forties, a big man whose voice vibrated with such a hearty cadence that his pronunciation of the polysyllabic brand and generic names of the latest psychotropic drugs bounced off his tongue like lyrics to a heartfelt rap. The newsletter had billed him as “an orthomolecular psychiatrist, an innovator in the field of brain diseases who has done extensive research on the impact of nutrition on bipolar patients.”

  “How is mental illness linked to nutrition?” he asked from behind the pulpit.

  I opened my schedule book to the blank pages in the back, my pen poised loosely between my fingers. In the darkest days, when the only thing worse than not knowing Trina’s whereabouts was being a witness to her manic acts of self-destruction, when seventy-two-hour holds became twofers—therapeutic benefit for Trina and my only possible escape—I would have sat rigidly in my support group chair, straining to hear while thinking, hoping, praying that the knowledge of whatever expert who stood before me might be the salvation I was seeking. Some of the people around me were Clenchers, leaning forward in their chairs, forgetting to take a breath as their muscles locked. Others were cowering on the edge of their seats, as if furtively seeking to ward off the next unexpected pounding of waves they couldn’t see from an ocean they couldn’t control.

  Listening to the ebullient doctor from UCLA rattle off a vitamin regimen for the mood-disordered, I felt myself being pulled back into bleak waters. Strange how the same thing that once kept me afloat now had the power to make me feel as though I were sinking all over again. I stood up, glad that I was at the end of the pew, and walked quickly down the aisle with my head bowed. I knew my face revealed I was desperate to leave, and I didn’t want to advertise that to the rest of the group. Making my way to the stairs, I went down to the basement, a large empty room, and took a seat in the back. I’d wait here for the forty-five minutes that the meeting would last and then hang out with Gloria, Milton, and Mattie. I closed my eyes.

  The rich, fragrant aroma of percolating coffee and the faint, sweet odor of the cookies and fruit that would be served after the meeting filled the area. The basement was directly below the sanctuary. Dr. Gold’s muffled lecture wafted downstairs, but at least I didn’t have to watch the hopeful, straining to hear the restorative miracle in each word.

  My head was falling forward in a nod when suddenly I bounded straight up. Above me was the unmistakable tone of discord. The words crap and jerks and so-called experts were hurled through the floorboards like spears. A few minutes later, heavy, deliberate footsteps were descending.

  “Keri?”

  The white woman in front of me wasn’t so much standing as she was looming, a wounded lioness pressing against her cage. My name was a snarl in her mouth. There was an unlit cigarette between her two fingers, and she flipped it back and forth furiously. She was tall and a bit overweight, with frizzy hair that was growing out of the blond dye job that someone had administered too many appointments ago. Her hazel eyes were partially hidden by drooping eyelids above and dark circles below. Whatever age she was, she looked older.

  “Bethany,” I said. “How have you been?”

  She nodded, a clipped, jerky gesture that underscored the tension that was tightening the muscles in her face, the cords in her neck. In the world of the Serenity Prayer, tranquillity was definitely not her goal. Bethany was the rabble-rouser of the group. At every meeting she railed against insurance companies and psychiatrists, medications and rules. She waved her cigarette and ignored my question.

  “That Dr. Gold is full of shit. This fucking group is full of shit.”

  She didn’t lower her voice. Bethany wasn’t looking for a response, just an opening. My head tilted slightly. From that angle, her rage was palpable, bristling on her face like a skunk’s raised tail.

  Wham! The heel of her hand hit the back of my folding chair. “This is such a sick joke. He’s talking about nutritional supplements, the latest this, the latest that, the marvelous advances. How the hell do we get them to take anything? Tell me that. Dammit, we’re all here because the people we love won’t take their meds. That’s why their lives are a mess, and that’s why our lives are a mess. If the expert isn’t going to address that one salient issue, he might as well stay away from the party.”

  The chair’s last vibration subsided just as Bethany’s rant ended. I half expected some angry church administrator to burst into the room and demand that we settle down, which would have been futile. What was inside Bethany couldn’t be called to order. I knew from previous meetings that her daughter was a wild marauding schizoaffective—a mixture of psychosis and mood disorder, not necessarily at the same time—zooming full throttle toward the abyss. The emotions registering in Bethany’s tired eyes and pressed lips vacillated between outrage and hysteria. I knew how bad it could get, and it was clear that Bethany was living in that deep gully. There wasn’t a rope long enough to pull her out. I reached up and squeezed her hand.

  “It is what it is,” she said grimly. “How’s your daughter?”

  I didn’t want to tell her, didn’t want to make her feel worse than she already did. “She’s doing okay,” I said.

  “You’re so lucky. Angelica is still … way, way, way out there.”

  Her face was exhausted. She seemed completely drained, as though someone had siphoned from her everything that made her human.

  “I’m sorry. She’ll come around. She’s still young.”

  She looked as though she needed to be touched. I stood up and hugged her. I’d been a masseuse once, in another life, right after my college years. My grandmother had had arthritis; it comforted her for me to rub her back and shoulder blades, and it soothed me too. So I took a class, and then another, and after a while friends and friends of friends were calling me, setting up appointments, paying me. My first job in LA—after Clyde, Trina, and I moved there from Atlanta—was working as a masseuse in a hot Beverly Hills day spa. Clyde thought it was a pink-collar job, that working with my bare hands demeaned him as he moved up. He reminded me that I had a college degree and nagged me to quit. A public relations firm hired me; later I opened the store. But soothing bodies will always be my gift.

  I kneaded the area on Bethany’s back between her shoulder blades. The knots I felt had absorbed a lot of tension that would take weeks to rub out. When I was just getting started as a masseuse, I’d touched a woman where her emotional pain was stored and she began crying hysterically right on the table. With Bethany I stopped rubbing after a few minutes; it would have taken very little for her to become unhinged.

  “You have to take care of yourself,” I said, which was support-group speak, better than English for easy detachment. I tried to step back from Bethany, not wanting to think about her pain, let alone see it. Her sorrow was a skin I had partially molted. But Bethany wouldn’t release me. We stood there hanging on to each other, while above us we heard the commotion of people getting out of their chairs. In a moment they would troop down to the basement en masse.

  “Angelica’s becoming a monster,” Bethany whispered against my neck. “She goes into
bars and starts physical fights with anybody: men, women. She’s attacked me.” Her sunken eyes filled with tears. “It’s not as though what she has is a death sentence. Why won’t she take her meds?” She pulled back from me and stared into my eyes. “Why? She’s not so far gone that she can’t see what a mess her life is. Do they forget what normal feels like?” She took a breath, flipping her cigarette up and down. “And then they give us this asshole, telling us about vitamins.”

  She wiped her eyes, squared her shoulders, and dropped my hand.

  “Look at this,” she said, turning so I could see the back of her head. I tried not to gasp. There was a large bald spot near the top.

  “It’ll grow back. You need to stop worrying. Listen, the kids are on their own timetable. Angelica’s not dead. She’s not in jail. Be grateful for that. She’s still here, so she has a chance to begin again.”

  “Like your daughter?”

  I nodded. “Six months ago, if anyone had told me that my child would be where she is now, I don’t think I would have believed them. My hope was gone at that point. This is a kid who’d beaten me up, was smoking dope on a daily basis, was hanging out with the dregs of the earth.”

  “Promiscuous?” Her voice dropped when she pronounced the word.

  We both looked at each other and breathed deeply. It didn’t matter that hypersexuality was a standard part of the illness, this tragic impulse we couldn’t take in stride. Bethany saw what was in my eyes: Don’t go there.

  “What am I supposed to do, leave this up to fate? I’m supposed to say the goddamn Serenity Prayer while my child destroys her life because her fucked-up brain keeps telling her she’s okay?”

  “It’s hard, but what else can you do?”

  “Not everybody sits around waiting,” she whispered, then glanced around her. “There are other alternatives.” Bethany must have seen the question in my eyes, but she didn’t answer it. “You haven’t been to many meetings lately. I think you feel the same way I do about this crap. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “You’re wrong. The group helped me. I couldn’t have gotten through this alone.”

  She gave a short laugh; then her face went grim. “There’s all kinds of ways not to be alone,” she said. “Better. There is such a place. It’s not just a rumor some shrink got started. I will do whatever I have to do to get there,” she said.

  “You can’t make it happen.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Her intensity sent a tremor through me, like when I heard Aretha sing “Respect” for the first time. I watched her as she walked away. She moved like a warrior woman, with long, purposeful steps, as though she were on her way to someplace very specific. Yes, I can. Wherever those words led her, it wouldn’t be an easy journey.

  People were already filling up the basement. I looked around. The meeting was on the west side of town, land of high real estate, fair-skinned people, and the coldest ice. Part of me resented having to trek all the way from Crenshaw to get help for my child’s issues. But the truth was, mental illness had a low priority on my side of the city, along with the color caste and the spread of HIV. Some things we just didn’t talk about, even if it was killing us. So I had to come to the white people, who, although just as traumatized, were a lot less stigmatized by whatever went wrong in their communities. All this is to say: It was easy to spot Gloria, Milton, and Mattie in the crowd.

  Milton gave me a quick kiss on my cheek. “You’re looking good, girl,” he said.

  “Welcome back, stranger,” Gloria said.

  “You look great,” Mattie said.

  I twirled around. “Armani. Retails at twenty-four hundred. On sale for three twenty-five. Take it home tonight.”

  “What will you wear?” Gloria asked.

  “Your money,” we all said together.

  Mattie and Gloria cracked up.

  “Let’s go get something to eat,” Mattie said.

  “Listen, you girls go on,” Milton said. “We’re having a quick committee meeting about the state conference. Mattie, can you—”

  “I’ll take Gloria home,” Mattie said.

  “Thanks.” He hesitated for a moment, then kissed his wife’s mouth. “You behave yourself,” he said. Gloria gave him a loving shove.

  I left my car where I’d parked it and got into Mattie’s ten-year-old Caddy. She drove a few blocks and then pulled up in front of the restaurant bar and grill that was our favorite hangout after meetings. The aroma of garlic and roast chicken assailed us as soon as we entered. The waitress led us to a table in the center of the room. We each ordered a glass of wine. Before we drank a sip, Mattie took our hands in hers.

  “Dear Lord, we are praising your name, and we are in awe of your power. We ask that you bless the women seated at this table. Give us strength for our journey. Bless our children, keep them safe, Lord. Let no harm come to them, and let them do no harm to anyone. We ask that you lead them to their healing. Restore their souls and their lives. Finally, Master, give us the joy that passes all understanding. Don’t let our children’s problems rob us of our joy. We’re grateful for all your many blessings. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Gloria and I said.

  Discovering one another had been like falling in love. The desire to help our kids and survive their trials was the heat that forged our passion; our mutual pain was the greatest attraction I’d ever known. The joke we told at that first support group meeting was that we were the only black people in America willing to admit having mental illness in our families.

  “Hell, being black is hard enough,” I’d said. “Please don’t add crazy.”

  In those first months, not a day went by when we weren’t on the phone in constant three-way calls. Sometimes Milton joined in; other times only the women spoke. At times we did more crying than talking, but sometimes we laughed. The pull of that tripartite romance had waned for me; it had been replaced by my daughter’s healing. But I had come tonight because of Mattie’s request.

  When the waitress appeared for the third time, Mattie and I asked for hot chicken sandwiches. Gloria said she wasn’t hungry and requested another glass of wine.

  “So, Trina’s doing okay?” Mattie asked.

  I nodded. “She’s taking the meds, working the program. She’s supposed to start school this fall.”

  “God is good,” Gloria said, in a way that let me know she wished that God had been as good to her.

  “How’s her dad,” Gloria asked, “Mr. Anti–Affirmative Action?” She shook her head and laughed a little.

  When people made derisive comments about Clyde, I always wanted to say, But he’s not really like that. I had to bite my tongue time and time again, because I kept forgetting that Clyde no longer reflected me.

  “Still in denial,” I said.

  “How’s Wellington?” I asked Gloria. Her twenty-three-year-old son had schizophrenia.

  “Homeless,” she said tersely, gulping the last of her wine. She motioned to the waitress to bring her another. “He came by my house two weeks ago.” She shook her head. “Filthy. Looking terrible. Smelling bad. I think he’s on crack.”

  The mentally ill sang duets more often than solos. They harmonized with self-medication that temporarily helped them hit their notes, only to lead to even more brain discord later on.

  Gloria took the wine from the waitress before she could put it down. As she gulped it, red drops spilled onto the table. She didn’t notice. “He wanted to come in and eat, take a shower.”

  “Did you let him?” I asked.

  “The girls did. They’re still the adoring little sisters. Milton wasn’t home, so it wasn’t very smart. Anything could have happened. But he was so dirty. I gave him a scrub brush and some Pine-Sol. He was one funky brother.”

  We started chuckling.

  “That bad?” I said, still laughing.

  “Shiiiit. Dove ran out the door; Lifebuoy jumped out the window. Dial was going for the liquor cabinet.”

&nbs
p; We hooted.

  “And he had the nerve to get an attitude with me,” Gloria said, shaking her head. “Anyway, he took a shower, had a shampoo. I washed his clothes, fed him, and sent him on his way. Haven’t heard from him since. My sister said that she saw him downtown last week, and he looked as though he’d been beaten up.”

  “Oh, God,” I said.

  “Maybe you should get conservatorship,” Mattie said. “You could have him put in a locked facility.”

  “That’s a hard choice to make,” I said. Locking up your own kid— the thought made me shudder.

  “Yeah.” She finished her glass of wine. “You know, Wellington didn’t like to bathe when he was a kid. I’d send him up to get a bath and brush his teeth, and he’d just put on his pajamas and get in the bed. He was always so surprised when he got busted. ‘Aw, Mom, how’d you know?’ I’d say, ‘Knucklehead, the soap is dry. The tub is dry. The washcloth is dry. The toothbrush is dry. Duh!’ He didn’t voluntarily clean up until he hit puberty and discovered the ladies. Then we couldn’t get him out of the bathroom. Some girl must have given him some in eleventh grade, because after that Milton and I used to call him Mr. Obsession for Men.”

  “He’s so handsome,” I said.

  We’d all shared pictures of our children.

  “Yes, under the grime he’s a good-looking guy. Under his dread-locks, he’s got a sharp but malfunctioning brain. I’m trying to get him into another living place, but to qualify he has to be sober for thirty days. And then, you know, when he was living at the last one, the people didn’t run a very tight ship. I know for a fact that some of the residents smuggled in alcohol, including my son. So …” Her voice trailed off. “How’s Nona?” she asked Mattie.

  “Nona’s holding on. I visited her at the prison two weeks ago, and she looked good.”

  “Were you able to get her into the mental health section?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “There’s a waiting list.”

  “How much longer will she be in there?”