by 72 Hour Hold
“Trina?” I said, gulping air, trying to breathe.
“She left.”
I couldn’t make out the woman’s voice, couldn’t connect it to a face, a body, anything except me. She breathed the way I breathed; she sounded the way I sounded: sucked out and empty. I only knew she wasn’t talking about Trina.
“Who is this?”
She didn’t answer. I had to piece together who she was from the weight of her voice, the rawness in her tone.
“Bethany?”
“That same night I saw you at the hospital, that same night after she checked in, by the time I got upstairs she’d gone. Signed herself out. Hospital couldn’t keep her because it was voluntary.”
“Right.”
“They didn’t even call me because she’s an adult, and she signed herself in—”
“Listen,” I said, cutting her off, “I can’t go there with you tonight. Today kicked my ass. My kid left the Weitz Center on her own and is out there somewhere, doing God knows what. So that makes two of them. Do you understand?”
I could tell by her voice that she looked old again. “Do you understand?” she said. “That makes two of us.”
9
THE PHONE RANG ON MONDAY MORNING BEFORE EIGHT o’clock. I heard the children in the background before I heard Celestine.
“Your baby get home yet?” she asked, but before I could reply she excused herself. “Y’all be quiet!” The drone of childish voices diminished for a few moments before the decibels rose once again. “Lord have mercy, Jesus.” She paused. “You still there?”
“She didn’t come home. Did Melody?”
“Yeah, she come in right after you left, but your daughter wasn’t with her. She told me she dropped her off on the corner near some guy’s house. Somebody she met at the hospital.”
“Oh, God,” I said. Long lean Boy Man popped into my mind.
“I got the phone number.” She read it off. “Melody didn’t want to tell me, but I stayed on her until she did. She said that the guy was either bringing your child home last night or to the program today.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, next week it might be me.”
But it’s my turn now. Plan A: Go to the Weitz Center. Park. Wait. See if Trina shows up. Go on to work if she does. Come back at three o’clock. Park. Wait. See if she will get into my car. Plan B: Pull the covers up, way up. Breathe through sheets and blankets for the next twenty-four hours, coming out occasionally to imbibe from the ancient bottle of Jack Daniel’s left by an old suitor.
Plan B was very appealing.
There was a lot of traffic near the hospital. Not one parking space to be found on the street in front of the Weitz Center, so I parked around the corner and walked back. I passed two young doctors, leisurely strolling toward the hospital. The words script and green light floated in the air as I passed them. The movies beckon to everyone in LA. I waited outside the building for fifteen minutes before I saw Melody trudging toward the steps.
Her eyes avoided mine. Her answers were monosyllabic. She seemed taken aback when I climbed the stairs with her. Maybe she was afraid I was going to tell on her, get her kicked out of the program.
“I just want to see if Trina’s upstairs.” She nodded uneasily.
Group had already started. The door to the room near the entrance was open. Inside, twelve people had formed a circle. They were talking about anger, things to do to control it.
I asked to speak to the director. Elaine came out of a meeting to see me, walked toward me with her hand extended, ushered me into her office with a solicitous smile. Elaine nodded sympathetically, listened attentively. These things happen. Yes, yes. She became vague when I asked about Trina’s returning to the program. She mentioned the prerequisite of thirty days of sobriety, the possibility of urinalysis, the fact that two other people had entered since Trina had gone to the hospital, bringing them to capacity. And then it was my turn to nod, to say, “Yes, yes,” to rise, because Elaine had to return to her meeting.
Nobody answered the phone at Boy Man’s house. Six attempts as my car idled in traffic. The phone rang and rang as the light changed from green to red and then green again.
What was he, a bipolar on a manic tear? A schizophrenic with just enough meds in him to silence his inner voices? A crackhead, a speed freak, an alkie? How would his mental state undermine my child’s thought processes?
Were they using condoms?
I glanced at the clock: a little after ten. Clyde would be on the air, spouting his brand of neoconservative invective. I didn’t usually listen, but now my fingers pressed the dial to his station. His voice filled the car. He should be here, I thought. I gripped the steering wheel and tried not to feel the anger that was suddenly flooding my body. We should be going through this together.
It was what I had thought the first time. As I picked out the tiny casket, made the arrangements, cried, Clyde avoided me. He worked. When it was over and our baby boy was in the ground, Clyde worked even harder.
I called his private line during the news break. “Is Trina with you?” I asked as soon as he said hello.
“No. Isn’t she still at the hospital?”
“They let her leave yesterday. Nobody had to sign her out, because she’s eighteen. I went to pick her up, and she was already gone. I think she’s with some guy who was in there with her.”
“I can’t talk now. I’ve got to go back on the air.”
“She’s missing.” Damn him for not understanding.
“Keri, don’t get dramatic. You’re the one who put her in the hospital in the first place. I told you she didn’t need to be there.”
“You don’t understand what’s—”
“I’ve got to go now.”
Moments later, he was addressing his audience, warning them about the dangers of liberalism.
Orlando would have said, Don’t worry, baby. He would have rubbed my back and poured me tea or wine, watched me from the corner of his eye. He might have sung to me.
Adriana met me at the door of the shop.
“What?”
“Trina called.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten minutes.”
“What did she say?”
“She just wanted to speak to you.”
“Did she say where she was?”
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head. Then everything in me started shaking.
“Keri, you okay?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes roamed anxiously over my face. “I’m okay. What?”
“I guess this is what my mom went through. For years she didn’t know where I was.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
She shook her head. “Long time.”
“You ever talk with her?”
“A couple of years ago. On Christmas Day. There wasn’t much to say. She’s still with him.”
“How’s the guy?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“What guy? Oh, the guy from school. That’s over. Won’t be seeing him again.”
I didn’t have to ask the reason.
We both turned when the door opened and Juicy, Coco, and Spirit came trooping in. Adriana’s former colleagues always came on Monday. Not every Monday, because sometimes they worked on their days off, especially when big conventions were in town, but at least once a month they’d come in to shop. Frances came out of the office. She frowned when she saw them, then looked at me.
I watched them as they browsed. All were welcome in my store, but some were not trusted. Spirit went for the shoes. Coco looked at purses. Juicy examined the gowns. They giggled and danced in the mirror, then sidled up to Adriana and whispered and giggled some more. Adriana’s facial expression was a somber contrast to theirs, but after a while she began smiling and laughing with them. I’d read somewhere that it was difficult for a hooker to leave the business. That fast, hard life was as addictive as crack. One crab had escaped the barrel. From across the r
oom, I could see their claws. Adriana saw me watching them.
“Adriana, I need you to make a quick run.”
They didn’t stay long after she left, and they didn’t buy anything.
She came back soon after they were gone, bringing me the tea and cookies I’d requested. Every time I looked up she was there in my doorway, hovering.
“What’s up?” I asked the third time she showed up.
“You don’t have to worry about me. Nothing Coco, Juicy, or Spirit can say to me would make me want to go back to that life.”
“They’re recruiting, and they’re going to keep on. I don’t want them ever to catch you at a weak moment.”
She just looked at me, smiled a little, and shook her head, as though there was no such thing as a weak moment. I knew better, of course. I knew the power of that split second when you vacillate between right and wrong, go or stay, yes or no, and end up colliding with tragedy.
ORLANDO STOPPED BY AT NOON. WAS I READY FOR LUNCH?
“Trina’s missing,” I said, and hurriedly explained. If I went to lunch, Trina might show up at the shop, and if I wasn’t there, she might leave.
“Come on. Take a break. Take your cell phone. Trina knows the number.”
I allowed myself to be soothed by his words, to think of myself temporarily as something more than just a mother.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted Frances watching me, no doubt reading my lips. Her hands made a shooing motion.
“I’m not really hungry,” I said.
His palm on the small of my back moved me forward. “Then we’ll just walk.”
We window-shopped. The block the store was on was lined with clothing boutiques, a jewelry store, a couple of restaurants, and a bakery. Orlando led me into each one. The bakery at the end of the block sold hot and cold drinks and sandwiches, as well as baked goods. Orlando bought tea, coffee for himself, and a huge chocolate chip cookie. We walked two blocks to where there was a small courtyard with a fountain and some benches, sat down, sipped our drinks, and shared the cookie.
“Junk and caffeine,” he said. “Does a body good.”
“How was your rehearsal?”
“The usual first-run-through chaos, including an asshole director and a diva female lead who is oh, so grand.”
“Who is she?”
When he said the name, I’d never heard of her.
“Exactly. She’s from New York.”
I wondered whether he was getting paid, but I didn’t dare pose the question.
“Yes, they’re paying me,” he said.
“I didn’t—”
“I can read your thoughts.” He looked at me. I didn’t say anything. “Do you want to know how much they’re paying me?”
“No. No.”
We both laughed. I had been married to a man who loved money, and I could sell in my sleep. For me, work had to pay the bills.
“One hundred seventy-five dollars a week. I’m going to spend it all on a big drink.”
“As long as you’re cool with it, I’m cool with it.” That, of course, was a lie. I wasn’t cool with anyone who settled for less than what he wanted.
“I love performing, Keri. It’s in my blood.”
All over Los Angeles, people were muttering the same thing as they slung hash, waited tables, and yearned for their big break. All that hoping and praying just to get to do what they had done when they were kids in their sixth-grade play. But Orlando had had his big break already. Meanwhile, there was more money in teaching. Or real estate. Or selling cars. Why couldn’t he learn to love another profession? I had. Well, maybe I didn’t love selling, but I was fine with it. The man had a degree. One hundred and seventy-five dollars a week wasn’t a job, it was a hobby. But I didn’t say that, and I tried real hard not to think it.
“Tell me about the play.”
“It’s a musical called Up at the Club, and it’s about how this guy wins and loses and wins Ms. Right. I play a bartender at this club in the ’hood who gets the young people back together. I’m the voice of wisdom and reason. It could be entertaining if they’d tighten up the script a little bit and the director would let the actors act.”
“When do you audition for the sitcom producers?”
“Next week.”
He started describing the TV series; it really was pretty dumb. And I knew Orlando knew it.
Our cups were empty. I picked them up and tossed them into a nearby receptacle. “Walk me back,” I said, and when we got back to the shop, “I’ll call you if I need you.”
THAT EVENING I SAT IN MY KITCHEN, HOLDING THE PHONE, listening to the police officer say it was too soon to list Trina as a missing person. Even when I told him that she’d been released from a mental hospital two days ago, he said it made no difference. “Call back after seventy-two hours, ma’am.” Twenty-four hours more. He didn’t tell me how to spend them.
I kept moving. Paced to the refrigerator and back to the sofa. From the sofa to the refrigerator to the phone. Food was in my hands, my mouth, at all times. Popcorn, raisins, ice cream. Eating was my Prozac. In between swallows, I called the number that Melody’s mother had given me.
Mattie, Gloria, and I did a conference call. Mattie prayed fervently, something about God’s awesome power. The message was always the same: Don’t give up hope; things will get better. And then there was the black Baptist postscript: He never puts more on you than you can bear.
I plunked myself down on the sofa in my family room and stared at the television set, letting the portable phone rest on my lap. So this is how the kid turned out, I thought. My sweet, sweet baby. Ballerina princess at eleven, cheerleader at fourteen, nutcase at eighteen. So this is how my life turned out. I dialed Boy Man’s number again. No answer.
I called Clyde, hoping he’d heard from Trina but also needing to hear his voice. He loved the child I loved. I didn’t share that with anyone else. Aurelia answered the phone. As soon as I heard her, I remembered my promise and was sorry I’d called.
“Oh, Keri,” she said, “Clyde isn’t here.” There was a slight hesitation and then she said, “How’s it going?”
It was her halting tone, along with the hesitation, that made me realize that Clyde had probably asked Aurelia to call me and she didn’t want to talk with me about her marriage.
So we were in agreement.
“Not that great, actually. I just wanted to know if Clyde had heard from Trina.”
“Heard from Trina? What’s wrong?”
“Clyde didn’t tell you that she left the hospital and didn’t come home?”
“I didn’t even know she was in the hospital. When did all this happen?”
She got the abbreviated version of the story. And I could hear her anger in the inflection of her voice. Aurelia liked Trina. Whenever Trina had been sick in the past, she’d always come to visit. She didn’t bother making excuses for Clyde.
“I don’t understand that man,” she said with a sigh.
“That makes two of us.”
After I hung up, I wanted to go to sleep instantly, not to have to think another thought. But there was nothing in the medicine cabinet to take the edge off my mind. The top drawer of my bathroom cabinet was filled with rollers, bobby pins, do-rags, and hair gel. Nothing in the second drawer but perfumes I could no longer stand. The third drawer was a catchall, a bin full of junk. The third drawer technically classified me as a pack rat, but not a very discerning one. No sleeping pills, no tranquilizers. Had I only imagined that they were there? Benadryl! It had expired three years earlier, but I took two anyway, and then another, since the potency had been compromised.
The first faint veil of grogginess felt sweet. Bright buds of sleepiness played with my mind, but the flowers never bloomed. The three expired capsules left me groggy as opposed to unconscious. I was tempted to take more, one or two more, maybe three or four more, tempted to explore how deep grogginess can get before it surrenders to sleep.
After the officer, the same of
ficer who’d been answering all night, said, “Lady, you need to calm down,” after he firmly and convincingly told me there was nothing that he could do or that any other officer could do until the proper time had elapsed, after I’d hung up and hadn’t dialed the police or the boy for fifteen minutes and the last little time capsule kicked in, I had a moment of clarity. I went to the computer and checked my e-mail.
[email protected]. The address wasn’t familiar, but the tone of the message was:
I hate you. If you try to find me, I’ll kill myself.
I had never imagined Trina in a place with a computer. Her deranged wildness sharing space with technology seemed incongruent. I stared at the message for a moment, then pressed KEEP.
She’s eighteen. I can’t make her do anything. My head started shaking of its own accord, as though agreeing with the words in my mind.
There was another e-mail, from Rona. She’d forwarded information about her Spelman reunion and added a personal note:
I’ve been feeling a lot better since you massaged me. I’ll call for another appointment soon. You have gifted hands. I thank you, and great-great-great-grandmother Harriet thanks you! Rona.
What would Harriet do with this? No time to plan. Nowhere to run. But the same imperative, the same need to cross the border. To save herself. To save another.
10
I FELL ASLEEP AROUND 3 A.M., AND THAT’S WHEN THE phone started ringing. Music blared from the receiver into my ear. Glass broke in the background, crashing against loud, angry voices. There was yelling and shrieking, lots of shrieking. Of course, she didn’t say anything. Just screamed and hung up.
And called again. And again. For two hours. Trina’s psychotic tease: I’m alive, but maybe I’m in pain.
“Trina, come home!” My voice echoed against a blast of music, more yelling, and then a dial tone.
After the eighth time, I took the phone off the hook.
A week on meds, and she would apologize. A good night’s rest would make a world of difference. But she wasn’t ready to come down. I had to stay alive while she was up there, whirling in the sky, a sparrow on speed.
