by 72 Hour Hold
He held open the door. In the backseat, I could see Bethany and Angelica, who sat apart from her mother. Trina looked at Brad and then at me. She didn’t move. She looked from me to Brad and then back to me again.
“Why didn’t you drive? I don’t want to be with a stranger.”
There was outrage in her voice, the two-year-old who would scream until she turned blue. Had she taken her evening pills?
“I don’t want to go with him,” she said.
Above us, the sky was cloudy and dull; the sun had disappeared. Behind us a siren cut through the air.
“Trina,” I said, “you’re being rude. Brad is doing me a favor. My car is—”
“There’s nothing wrong with your car. Why didn’t you ask Adriana or Frances? You could have called Orlando.”
She began backing away. I wanted to reach for her, but I couldn’t feel my arms. Nothing on my body seemed to work. I had a fleeting vision of Brad dragging her to the car as Trina screamed her head off.
Brad pulled out a pack of Marlboros and offered one to her. “When you get in, I’ll explain everything,” he said.
“I can smoke in the car?” Trina asked, taking a cigarette. She was looking at me.
Brad nodded. I nodded.
Trina climbed into the seat behind Brad, the middle row. When she saw Bethany and Angelica her body jerked, and I could tell she remembered the older woman.
“They’re friends of mine,” Brad said.
I sat beside Trina, and Brad got behind the wheel. Click! Click! The power locks sounded. I glanced behind me. The locks were childproof. Only the driver could open them. Moments later, cigarette smoke wafted throughout the car.
“Who are these people? Where are we going?” Trina asked, exhaling the words with the smoke. She stiffened as we turned onto the freeway.
“Trina, your mom has been really worried about you,” Brad said. His voice sounded reassuring. “She doesn’t think you’re getting the kind of help that you need at the hospital. I suggested that she take you someplace where you can get proper treatment.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Her tone was high-pitched and frantic.
“Trina!” I said. She’d made outlandish, paranoid statements before, so I wasn’t completely surprised.
“We’re not going to kill you. Your mother and I want to help you.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a place where you can get help,” Brad said.
“I don’t want to go. You can’t make me go. I’m over eighteen.” Her head twisted from left to right, from Brad to me. “Take me home. You have to take me home.”
“Trina,” Brad said.
“No. I don’t want you talking to me. I don’t know you. Mommy, make him take us home.”
“I love you very much. You have to trust that I’m doing what’s best for you. I want you to have a good life. You haven’t been having a good life recently. You’re sick, honey.”
I looked at Brad. Does he know what he’s doing? Can he handle her? Trina reached for the door.
“Take your hand off the handle. I control the locks. You may not know me, but you need to trust that your mother has your best interests at heart,” Brad said.
His voice was Papa Bear strong. In the dim car, Goldilocks scowled and raised up from her seat.
“It would be a mistake for you to try to run.”
Trina slid back into her seat behind the driver.
“Other side,” Brad said. Trina slid over.
What was in his voice that made her do that?
In the rearview mirror, Brad smiled. I felt Bethany’s hand squeezing my shoulder. I turned my head to acknowledge her. Angelica stared at me. The light from the parking lot revealed a thin, hollow-eyed young woman who might have been pretty at one time. Her lips were moving rapidly, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
“There are some rules,” he said. “I want us all to be safe. Number one, you cannot leave this car for any reason. Number two, you must take your medicine. Number three, you must do everything I tell you to do.”
What kind of training did he receive? What courses did he take? Did he make A’s? Why didn’t I ask more questions? What made me trust him?
“You’re the devil, and you’re trying to kill me,” Trina said. She turned to me. “And you want him to do it.”
She glared at me. The meds hadn’t fully kicked in yet. Trina was still manic, and I was still her enemy.
At the first red light, I saw Brad reach into his glove compartment and pull something out. With quick, deft movements, he turned around to face Trina, then leaned over.
“Ow!”
Bethany began patting me. Beside her, Angelica sat as though frozen.
Passing streetlights revealed a flash of something shiny. I could see the needle in Brad’s hand. His jab into Trina’s bare upper arm had been deliberate and quick. Trina started crying after she got over the shock, which was before I got over it.
“Trina, that was Haldol I gave you. You’ve probably gotten it before at the hospital. It will calm you down and make you sleep,” Brad said.
She looked at me. “It was poison. Why are you letting this man kill me?”
“Trina, I want you to get well,” I said.
Twenty minutes passed before I heard the soft snuffling sound that Trina makes when she’s asleep. By that time I was calmer, more in control.
“Why did you give her that shot without even asking me?” I asked, my voice low. “How did you know that the hospital hadn’t already given her something?”
“I’m a psychologist, Keri. I can tell when a patient is manic. If she’d been sedated, your daughter wouldn’t have been acting like that.”
“They give the kids shots at the hospital, and they don’t tell us a thing,” Bethany whispered.
I wasn’t used to this new Bethany, who rubbed my shoulders and whispered. I liked the less subdued version, the woman with a butcher’s knife of a mouth.
“Listen, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t want you giving anything to my child unless you clear it with me first.” I looked from Brad to Bethany.
“From time to time, I’ll have to make decisions quickly. You are going to have to trust me,” Brad said.
“How many times have you done this?” I asked.
“Enough times,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know what I’m doing. I’m not a novice. I’m not interning. Been through this process dozens of times. And whether you want to or not, you’re going to have to trust me. Period. If you can’t do that, Keri, I can drive you home or wherever you want to go, right now.”
I couldn’t go home, and he knew it.
“Going to need your wallet, your money, and your cell phone, Keri.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not giving you—”
“It’s for our protection, Keri,” Bethany said.
“So I’m walking around with no money and no ID. How does that protect me?”
“We’ve had cases where patients have stolen their parents’ wallets and identification in an attempt to leave the program. They call people on the cell phones. I keep the wallets and phones in a safe place, and at the end of the trip I return them.”
“I have a business. I have to be in contact with people. I always answer my cell phone. If they don’t hear from me, they might report me missing.”
“Keep your phone for now. We’ll work something out. But I’d like your wallet.”
I fished around in my purse and handed Brad my wallet. He glanced at me and kept driving. He’d called my bluff, and I’d caved. His profile as we drove was resolute, his chin strong and determined: the hero under pressure.
I was the runaway, hidden in the back of the wagon under the hay. That was me, holding my breath, saying my prayers, trying to make it to a safe haven.
18
TRINA DIDN’T STIR FOR NEARLY THREE HOURS. BETHANY and Angelica were slumped against the b
ackseat. Around midnight Brad took an exit off the 5 and drove down a two-lane road for about forty minutes. I must have dozed myself, because I wasn’t sure where we were when he pulled into a dark driveway that led to a one-story ranch house, surrounded by a garden full of very tall sunflowers. Brad knocked at the door while everyone else remained in the car. The window was down, and I heard someone ask who it was.
“A friend with friends,” Brad said.
When he said that, Bethany woke up and looked around.
“I guess we’re here,” she said. She looked at me. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“This has got to work.”
It was the first time she’d voiced anything other than absolute faith in the program.
A woman opened the door. From the light in the house I could see that she was wearing a Black Dog T-shirt and khaki pants. Her hair was thin and chopped off and had been combed flat against her head. The lipstick was worn off her lips, but she had big, pretty teeth and a smile that reminded me of good news. I heard Brad call her Jean. He hugged her tight against his chest and then let her go real fast. A man came out and stood beside her. Brad beckoned for Bethany and me, and the men helped Trina and Angelica out of the car and brought in our suitcases.
Food was waiting for us, set up nicely in a bright yellow kitchen with yellow and white curtains at the window. There was salmon, broccoli, a baked potato. All seven of us sat down. Trina was just barely awake. Her eyes fluttered as she looked at the food.
Angelica’s eyes brightened when she saw the spread. Bethany had told me that Angelica had used methamphetamines. She had the lean, sunken look of a drug addict. Her appetite proved that she was able to exchange one addiction for another. She piled her plate, ate every bit, and then loaded on more food. Angelica ate like a lower-rung mammal, without regard for good table manners. Bethany watched her, then looked around to see our reaction. Her embarrassment seemed incongruent with her go-ballistic personality. But there it was for all to see: maternal shame. Not even badass mommas were immune.
Jean served us, and her husband, Eddie, poured small glasses of orange juice. They had a tiny poodle that barked a little bit and stayed close to Jean. Nobody said much at dinner. Trina didn’t touch her food. She slumped in her chair and closed her eyes.
“Honey, aren’t you hungry?” I whispered.
“It’s poison.” She glared at me, then turned her head.
“Would you rather have something else?” Jean asked Trina. “We have a frozen pizza. I could make you a big salad. Or a bowl of cereal: Cheerios.”
“There’s ice cream,” Eddie said.
They were like enthusiastic foster parents, anxious to have the new kid fit in. Trina ignored them. Jean and Eddie smiled at each other and then at me.
“Well, you get hungry, you just let me know,” Jean said. She sounded southern.
“I’m hungry,” Angelica said. “I want ice cream.”
As Jean was handing Angelica a bowl of vanilla ice cream, there was a knock at the front door, and in a moment a tall man with a headful of curly gray hair and deep-set eyes strode into the kitchen. He was carrying an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, which he set right on the table. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Wilbur,” he said to Bethany and me. “I’d like to speak with you both for a moment.”
We followed him into the dining room and sat down at an antique oak table.
Wilbur appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He shook hands with a powerful grip. “I need to draw some blood from your daughters to check their medication levels. What have they been taking?”
Bethany spoke first, listing Angelica’s medications. I was amazed. There were two different mood stabilizers, an antidepressant, an antipsychotic, and something for sleep—at least five different pills twice a day. A real cocktail. If the number of pills was an indication of the severity of the illness, Angelica was a pretty sick young woman. At least Trina only takes four pills a day, I thought, feeling momentarily superior, then stopped myself. I didn’t need to play my-kid’s-not-as-crazy-as-yours.
I told Wilbur that Trina had been compliant for months until she started smoking marijuana again. He listened attentively as I described the recent changes in her mood and behavior, the uncontrollable mania that had brought us to the program. “She was just on a hold. I picked her up from the hospital at seven, so she’s probably got some medication in her. Brad gave her a shot of Haldol.”
“How does she seem to you?”
“Paranoid. She called Brad and me devils. When she gets like this she’ll say I’m not her mother.”
Wilbur nodded. “Will she physically attack me?”
“She’s hit me a couple of times. I don’t know if she’d try that with you. But she won’t be a model patient, that I can guarantee.”
He looked at Bethany.
“Angelica is dual-diagnosis. She’s going to be craving meth. The meds may mitigate that somewhat, but it will still be there. She’s a flight risk. Don’t turn your back on her.”
“What about Trina, any drugs?”
“Marijuana. And if she has the opportunity, she’ll drink. I don’t think she’s addicted to either one, though. Maybe I’m in denial. Oh, and she’ll run too if she gets the chance.”
“More something she does when she’s manic,” Wilbur said.
“Exactly.”
“Okay. I need to draw some blood. Brad will help me. I think it’s better if you’re not in the room. All right?”
“All right,” I said. Bethany nodded.
I shouldn’t have acquiesced so quickly, I thought when Wilbur walked away. Shouldn’t we have demanded to see his license, his board certification? Something.
“Are you okay with all of this?” I whispered to Bethany.
“Brad told us that there would be a psychiatrist,” she said as my body tightened and I held my breath. “By now Trina could have jumped out of your car, disappeared to God knows where. Right at this moment, you could be on the phone calling all over, trying to find her. And as far as I’m concerned, Angelica would have been dead if it weren’t for the program. They’re safe. We know where they are, and they’re safe.”
Safe. Yes. This was all about keeping the girls safe.
“It’s going to work out.”
Yes.
“Breathe, Keri.”
That’s what I did.
Brad and Wilbur took the girls into one of the rooms in the back. Trina was angry and wide-awake. She cursed the men loudly, while I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands but still breathing. Jean came in and sat down beside me. She had a cup of coffee for both of us. “She’s a beauty, your girl,” Jean said finally.
My thank-you was barely out of my mouth when I began to cry. It had been so long since anyone had said anything nice about my child.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she said, then added, “It was my son. Eddie and I put him in the program about ten years ago. Ryan was out of control, really, really crazy.”
“He’s—”
“Schizoaffective disorder. It’s a good place. Maybe not for everyone, but for my boy it was a good place.”
“How long did he stay?”
“A year.”
“And you and Eddie didn’t know where he was?”
She shook her head. “Nobody can know that, sweetheart. Sometimes Ryan still gets confused in his thinking, but that’s to be expected. He was in the service when the illness started manifesting: air force. He got an honorable discharge. After he came out, he wound up working for Sears. He lost that job. Ryan was living with us for a while, but his behavior was very unpredictable. And then he started getting violent and really bizarre. We tried to get him help, but he was homeless for about eighteen months. Eddie almost died, literally; he got very sick from the stress. When we found out about the program, things started to turn around. Ryan got better. Eddie got better. Are you married, honey?”
“I’m divorced.”
“Wher
e is he? Why are you going through this alone?”
I started to say, I have Bethany. “That’s a good question,” I said.
“Does he know what’s going on?”
“He doesn’t completely accept that she has mental illness. He doesn’t know about any of this.”
“You shouldn’t have to do this alone, sweetheart.” She sighed. “The parents go through one part of hell and the kids go through another. Tell you the truth, I think we have it worse than they do. At least when they’re spinning out of control, they’re in their own little world, imagining that they’re okay. But we have to stand there and watch them and love them and know we’re helpless.”
Trina had stopped screaming. I could hear footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Wilbur and Brad were on either side of Trina. Her mouth was grim and furious.
“I’m afraid that Trina isn’t very happy with me right now, Keri. I’ll get the results tomorrow,” Wilbur said. “I’ll come back in the morning. Meanwhile, I’d like to give Trina a little something to help her sleep.”
“She had Haldol not too long ago.”
“We just want to get her through the entire night,” Wilbur said.
How much Haldol were they giving her? I wondered. But I found myself nodding. Sure. Drug her. Keep her quiet. Give us all a rest.
Were they giving Angelica as much Haldol? If Trina had been a little blond girl, would they have presumed compliance and passivity, been less on guard, treated her more kindly? If I’d been a white woman with a husband, would it have made a difference in what they expected? I studied Brad and Wilbur for a moment, trying to see them through Ma Missy’s sharp eyes. Would he have garnered her highest praise?
“Now that’s a decent white man,” she told me once, referring to Mr. Bonds, who owned the children’s shoe store in our neighborhood. Decent because he didn’t assume she was an idiot. Decent because he didn’t try to sell her something she didn’t want. Decent because he didn’t overprice his goods. And, most of all, decent because he hired my mother as a saleslady. She kept that job for the eighteen months that she remained sober during my eighth and ninth years.
“She’s a natural-born saleswoman,” Mr. Bonds told Ma Missy. I was with her when he said it.
