Bebe Moore Campbell

by 72 Hour Hold

  My mother told me to bring my friends to the store, and I obliged her with a daily parade of eight- and nine-year-olds. I pointed out the pretty lady smiling at the customers and said, “That’s my mommy. She wants you to come back with your mothers.” And they did.

  Mr. Bonds paid her a commission, which increased my mother’s enthusiasm. Away from the store, my mother scoured the neighborhood, zeroing in on children wearing worn-out shoes. She took me to the zoo once, another sobriety miracle. While we were gazing at the elephants, she spotted a little boy whose shoes were beyond redemption. As I watched, she went right to his mother and handed her the business card she always carried, all the while touting Mr. Bond’s inventory. A few days later she reported that the mother had bought two pairs of shoes from her.

  I began taking a detour home from school after Emma fell hard off the wagon. Mr. Bonds had to let her go. She railed against him. “That white … ,” she’d begin, as if his color was responsible for his perfidy.

  “White ain’t got nothing to do with nothing,” Ma Missy muttered.

  How would she have judged Brad and Wilbur?

  “Just let two strange white men give me anything,” Trina said now, as if she’d read my mind, as if she were my mother’s grandchild. She aimed her snarling words at me, like poison-tipped arrows. “You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck, you devil bitch. You killed my mother, and now you’re trying to kill me. Where is my real mother?” Her voice rose in a high shriek.

  “Young lady,” Wilbur said, “let’s not have that kind of language.”

  Beside her, Angelica seemed subdued, as though her tranquilizer had already taken effect. Jean led us to a room in the back of the house. We followed, with Trina screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs and Angelica lumbering like a zombie. The room could have been a two-car garage that had been enlarged and converted into a barracks. Trina’s screams reverberated and were amplified, even though her voice had begun to grow hoarse. The room was spare, with a row of six single beds and six dressers. There was a wooden chair next to each bed and an end table with a lamp on the other side. At both sides of the room were two doors, which I assumed led to bathrooms. The only signs of decoration were the walls, painted a vivid blue, and the cheerful flowered curtains hanging at the windows. Looking out one of the windows into the dark, I could just make out what appeared to be a building. At the foot of each bed was a pale blue blanket and folded blue towels. Jean pointed out the bathrooms and told Angelica and Trina, who had finally become quiet, to use them first. Jean walked to the middle of the room. Brad and Eddie stood at the door.

  “Are we sleeping in the same room as that man?” Trina asked when she came out. Her words were slurred from the medication. She looked straight at Brad, who was sitting on one of the beds.

  “It’s the best thing, honey,” Jean said, looking at me.

  I was a bit disconcerted myself and didn’t know what to say. No one had ever discussed sleeping arrangements.

  “Cool,” Bethany said. “I need a cigarette.”

  She went outside for a few minutes, and when she returned Brad was assigning beds. His was after Angelica and Trina’s. Mine was on his other side, and Bethany’s was last. When Eddie asked Brad if he needed backup, Brad told him no.

  “We’ll have to lock you in,” Eddie said. He closed the door. I heard a click.

  “I have a key,” Brad said.

  My shoulders came down a little.

  Brad was the last one to use the bathroom. Bethany and I lay in our beds listening to the shower, the towel rubbing across his skin. He brushed his teeth. In the stillness we heard the tiny clickclickclick the waxed string made as he flossed. He gargled for a long time. An antiseptic, soapy odor floated toward us. We heard him flush the toilet, then spray the bathroom.

  Bethany started giggling first. “Fearless fucking leader, we salute you,” she said.

  “Would you trust your kid with this man?” I asked, and we giggled some more.

  It was the beginning; there was still laughter inside us. Later, when we were fugitives, standing at the edge of waters that would not part, we would struggle to remember that sound.

  19

  IT WAS GETTING LIGHT WHEN I AWAKENED. THE SMALL travel clock I’d placed on the nightstand revealed that it was a little after five-thirty in the morning. The room was filled with snores and snuffles and smelled of commingled breaths, perspiration, and soap. I was the only one awake, which annoyed me. Some part of me expected to see a uniformed Brad pacing the room with a flashlight. Exaggerated fantasy notwithstanding, he should have been keeping watch. If there were an emergency, would he remain unconscious? There would be no going back to sleep for me.

  As quietly as possible, I spread my towel on the floor next to my bed, lay down on it, and began an abbreviated, makeshift workout: sit-ups, waist twists, push-ups, some leg lifts. After fifteen more minutes of quiet, intense exercise, I began to stretch myself. By that time, through cracks in the shades, rays of sunlight had begun streaming into the room. I tilted my head away, toward Brad’s bed. His eyes were open and watching my every move.

  “Oh,” I said.

  We were staring at each other when I heard the rustling of sheets.

  I turned. Brad turned. Angelica came toward us, her lips moving rapidly. She stopped at the foot of my bed and angled her head, as though she were listening to a response.

  “Good morning, Angelica,” Brad said. “Would you go back to your bed, please.”

  “Not you,” she said. She pointed to me, moved closer, and crouched down to the floor where I was still lying down. Brad got up quickly. “Don’t believe what they told you. They’re all slave catchers,” she whispered. “You’d better run.”

  “Angelica.” Bethany’s voice was groggy. She struggled to sit up in bed. “What are you saying?”

  But by that time Brad had his arm around her shoulders. “The truth. I’m the only one telling the truth,” she said as Brad began to lead her back to bed.

  Her face had been less than an inch from mine, close enough for me to smell her tobacco breath. Looking up as she loomed above me, I could see a network of tiny scars on her legs and arms. Nicks. Flicks of the razor. So many small brown marks formed a pattern against her pale skin. At least my kid doesn’t cut herself, I thought. There it was again: brain disorder competition. I glanced over at Trina. She was still sleeping soundly.

  Outside the door was the hustle and bustle of breakfast preparations. A rich coffee aroma floated through the cracks, with the tap of a fork hitting a glass bowl; a plop-plop-plop suggesting scrambled eggs. In a frying pan, bacon sizzled. Silverware and plates clattered against the table. Everything seemed normal except for us. The light coming in around the sides of the shades was not enough sun to warm me or even brighten my day.

  “You have to understand,” Bethany said later—when we were in the bedroom alone, while Jean, Eddie, and Brad were giving the girls their medication in the kitchen—“Angelica has a borderline personality disorder, thrown in with her schizoaffective illness. She tries to pull people apart. Splitting, that’s the term. She’s going to try to keep everyone at each other’s throats. That’s her MO.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I asked.

  Bethany looked surprised. “What difference would it have made? They’re both sick girls.”

  “She could accuse anybody of anything. She could say I did something to her.”

  “So could your kid.” Bethany met my gaze. “When they’re psychotic, they’ll say anything. The medication should make it better. And she’s going to need intensive psychotherapy for a long, long time. That’s the same thing your daughter needs.”

  I heard what Bethany was saying and what she wasn’t saying: Don’t try to pull any your-girl-is-crazier-than-my-girl crap. She was right. What good would it do? But I couldn’t stop asking questions.

  “Is she still cutting herself?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” She st
ared right back at me. Not blinking.

  “You should have told me everything,” I said, feeling angry and a little betrayed. “I asked you how she was doing.”

  “Have you told me every horrible little peccadillo that’s been an outgrowth of Trina’s bipolar? I mean, come on.”

  “This is major, Bethany. Borderline is a completely separate illness. I mean, what else haven’t you told me? Does she set fires?”

  The door opened, and Jean stood there, her hair wet from a shower, no makeup. I could smell her cooking. “Come on and eat, you two.” I knew she’d heard us. She tried to play it off with a smile that looked for real.

  The scrambled eggs were whites only, and the bacon was turkey. Jean served steamed broccoli as well as grapefruit sections, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and water. Bethany and I sat as far apart as possible and avoided looking at each other. But I noticed we both picked at our food.

  There was coffee for everyone and herb tea for Trina and Angelica, which they both refused to drink.

  “I want coffee,” Tina said.

  “I do too,” Angelica said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Brad said. “While you are with us, you won’t be getting caffeine in any form.”

  Angelica opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “We all pitch in,” Eddie said cheerfully after we’d finished the meal. “Trina, would you clear the table? Angelica, would you load the dishwasher?”

  “You need to walk,” I heard Jean telling the girls. The table had been cleared, the dishwasher filled. “The medication slows down your metabolism. If you’re not careful, you’ll gain a lot of weight. I know someone who put on thirty pounds in a month. He was miserable. We’re not going to let that happen to you. You’re way too beautiful. Today you’re going to walk. Trina, you, Brad, and I will go first. When we come back, Angelica, we’ll go out with you.”

  “I don’t want to walk,” Angelica said.

  “We’ll go to the end of the road and back. And then I’ll give you a cigarette.”

  As Jean was offering nicotine as an inducement for overall health and well-being to her charges, I sat down on the porch, watching the walkers and trying not to feel sad.

  I figured we were halfway to San Francisco, somewhere off the beaten track. The daylight revealed a house that sat on a hill, surrounded by oaks and eucalyptus trees. Behind it and on either side were acres and acres of huge sunflowers. The driveway Trina, Jean, and Brad were trudging down led to a small two-lane road that snaked its way back to the main highway. The closest house was not in walking distance.

  The door opened behind me and Bethany came outside. We glanced at each other for a brief moment, and then she walked off in the yard. A few moments later I smelled the smoke from her cigarette.

  It was official: We weren’t speaking.

  I might have used my time on the porch to reflect on our argument, but as far as I was concerned she had withheld important information. My ringing cell phone was jarring in the midst of such rural splendor and self-righteousness.

  “I called you at home,” Mattie said. “You’re up and out rather early. The store isn’t even open yet.”

  “Had some running around to do,” I said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Listen, can I call you back?”

  “Sure. I was just checking on you to see how you were doing and what’s going on with Trina.”

  “I’m hanging.”

  “And I wanted to tell you that there is a special support group meeting next week at a theater in Westwood. We’ll be viewing a documentary about a brother and sister, fraternal twins, who have schizophrenia. They started taking this new medication, and they’re supposed to be leading normal lives. Are you going to be able to come?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of—”

  “Now, don’t stop coming to group, girl. Just remember how we all were before. Group helps a lot. Don’t you listen to that Bethany. Let God be God. You just get out of his way.”

  “Mattie, I have to go.”

  When I checked for messages, I saw Orlando had called after eleven the night before. “Hey, baby, where are you?” I could hear people talking in the background. The rehearsal, no doubt.

  BY ELEVEN, WILBUR STILL HADN’T SHOWN UP. TRINA seemed to like the fact that I was with her. She was quiet, almost silent, which was a big improvement on her ranting and screaming. We had been seated at a card table, set up in another bedroom. Jean had placed a box filled with beads in the center and instructed Trina to make bracelets. The creative outlet seemed to soothe her. From time to time, Trina had looked up from stringing her beads and given me not a smile but a glance that was not hostile. She managed to brush against me whenever she went to the bathroom, and twice her foot had rubbed against mine under the table. These were small things, but they weren’t accidents.

  Around eleven-thirty, Jean found Brad, Trina, and me now sitting on the front porch. “Today, I want to get you started on your work,” she said. “The program exists because of payments and donations and because of our business. We manufacture something called Health Bars.” She passed me a wrapped bar. I recognized the brand. I’d seen them before in grocery and health food stores; in fact, I’d bought them. “The ingredients are sunflower seeds, almonds, dates, prunes, and honey in an oat-bran base. We sell them to a number of local markets throughout the state. We ask anyone who stays with us to help make the bars. At this location we shell sunflower seeds. Other locations have different tasks. The ingredients are combined and baked at the main location and shipped out from there. For the rest of your stay, you’ll be working for a few hours a day. All right, follow me.”

  She took us to the barnlike building behind the house that I’d glimpsed the night before. Once inside I could see that it was a large rectangular room with a gigantic industrial-sized refrigerator and two tremendous stoves. In the center of the room was a long table with plenty of flat surface for whatever work we’d be doing. There was a buzz of Spanish as we entered; several Latinas were sitting at the table, shelling sunflower seeds. There were no cars in the back. I assumed they’d been dropped off and would be picked up later.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that I had been drafted as a worker as well as Trina until Jean pointed out my place at the table. Music played in the background: Frankie, Ella, Tony, Sarah. I could close my eyes and pretend I was at a club. From time to time, one of the Latinas, a small thin woman with a braid that hung past her hips, would get up, collect the shells, and throw them in a large trash can at the back of the room. Then she’d return, take the seeds, and distribute them to the other Latinas, who chopped them into small pieces.

  “I’ve eaten these bars before,” Trina said. “You gave me one on the morning I was taking my SATs. You said it would give me energy.”

  “I remember.”

  We smiled at each other. It was nice, that moment when we both smiled. A nice, normal moment, the kind I’d learned not to trust.

  Trina stared at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Could these sunflower seeds be poison?”

  “I don’t think so, Trina.”

  My response seemed to satisfy her, at least for a while.

  I called the store just before lunchtime. Frances answered, her voice brisk and businesslike. We talked a little bit. She didn’t ask me any questions about Trina.

  “Did the Old Man finish with the jacket?”

  I’d forgotten all about the jacket. “Give him a call. You can ask Adriana to pick it up when she gets a break.” Something about the slowness of her response alerted me. “Is everything okay with her?”

  “She’s—I don’t know. She seems lost without you, Keri. Nothing to worry about. She’s just a little spacy and sad.”

  “Let me talk with her.”

  “Hey,” I said, when Adriana answered. “How are you doing?”

  We chatted for a while about nothing in particular. She asked me how Trina w
as. Better, I said, which wasn’t a lie. Although she said she was fine, Adriana’s tone said otherwise. But there was nothing I could do about that.

  At one-thirty, everyone assembled for another meal. The kitchen table was laden with platters of chicken, corn on the cob, a mixture of broccoli, carrots, and cauliflower, and a huge salad. Eddie sat at the head of the table and put a cloth napkin around his neck like a bib. Jean served our plates. We were like some bizarre, misfit farm family who’d run out of conversation, except for Jean, who chattered nonstop. She was definitely southern. Every word had a drawl. She talked about the weather and oranges, while the patriarch, Eddie, chowed down and finished her sentences. I kept waiting for them to call each other Ma and Pa. After lunch and cleanup, the girls went on separate walks.

  I was sitting on the porch when Brad sat down next to me.

  “Wilbur couldn’t get the lab work done. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “I thought this was going to be a pit stop. You know, go to the bathroom, get some food, and keep moving,” I said.

  Brad actually laughed. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “You forget that I don’t know how it works, Brad.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “There is a destination, and we will get there. But there’s a journey that comes first. You’re on the journey now. Relax.”

  I didn’t want the journey. I clamored for the terminal, the place where somebody would fix my child and return her to me exactly as she had been before, so that my life—our lives—could go forward.

  “Where are you from?” I asked, trying to forge a conversation to make myself feel less uncomfortable.

  He gave a short laugh. “Small farming town. Kind of place that makes you want to aim a gun at the sky and pull the trigger, just so you know you’re alive.”

  “That bad?”

  “Even the baseball games were quiet. As a kid I always wanted to stand up in the middle of an inning and scream, ‘Get me outta here!’ ”

  “Iowa? Nebraska? South Dakota? North Dakota?”

  “Can’t get into that.” He paused. “Are you and Bethany having some issues?”