As Kiarra turned to face me, I noticed the hand print in her face. “Did he hit you?”
She never answered, but her tears confirmed he had.
“Did you tell your dad?”
“My dad would kill him.”
“Did you tell your dad?” I repeated.
Kiarra shook her head no.
Lost for words, I just stared at her.
Kiarra broke the silence. “Can I stay at your place tonight?”
“You can stay as long as you need to.” I smiled because she finally looked at me. “I’ve been asking you to be my roommate for almost a year.”
“Thanks for the tea.” Kiarra forced a smile.
“You have the key. I’ll see you when I get home.”
“I’ll be here until at least three – I have to catch up on some paper work.”
I left Kiarra sitting at the table sipping her tea. My mind was racing, and I couldn’t believe Xavier hit her. I didn’t know what to do and felt I should have said more or done more in the cafeteria. I was sipping my cold coffee when Francine appeared at my door. She came in and sat down before I invited her.
“Do you know what today is?” She asked out of the nowhere.
“Do you mean the date?” I responded, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“My son was buried today. Nine years ago today.” Tears swelled in Francine’s eyes. “I was forty-five minutes late for Antonio’s funeral.”
I was curious about Francine’s children and let her talk.
“Everyone knew Antonio died of AIDS. Maybe if I had been there for him. Maybe if he had spent time with his father. Maybe if I hadn’t made excuses for him when I didn’t want to deal with the truth that he was using drugs. He was my kid, he should have known better.”
I handed Francine a box of tissues and sat directly in front of her on the edge of my desk.
Francine wiped the lone tear that freely fell from the corner of her left eye and continued. “When I got to the funeral home I just sat on the steps. The last time I saw Antonio I told him not to ever call me again. I told him that the only reason I didn’t kill him right then was because he was my son. I disowned him that day for stealing cocaine from my stash. No one stole from Francine!”
Nothing in my graduate program prepared me for Francine. Her heart was wrenched, and I asked God to give me the right words.
“Antonio left home when he was seventeen. He went to live with Sandy – Ms. Sunshine, as she was known around the way. He became her ‘sweet thang’ and she supplied him with anything he wanted. She even bought him a car even though he never had a license. She gave him everything – including the dirty needles and AIDS.”
Francine continued telling me she was sorry for lying to Antonio about James being his father. He always suspected Tommy was his dad, and Francine always denied it. After all, her relationship with Tommy lasted less than an hour in the back of his Jeep one night in Highland Park. The truth would have ruined her already failing marriage to James.
“I prayed the whole time I was pregnant,” Francine added. “I prayed every day, and I prayed hard.” Her tone became less intense.
“What were you praying for?”
“I begged God to let this baby look like me, just like my other two kids, but like I told you before, prayer ain’t never worked for me. Antonio looked just like Tommy when he was born – high yellow with sandy brown curly hair and hazel eyes. I blamed it on genes and swore to James that my great-great grandmother was German, and that’s why Antonio was so light. Every time James commented that Antonio looked like Tommy, I would laugh it off by saying 'we’re all related'.”
“Where is James? Are you still married?”
Francine laughed and looked me in the eye. “No, I’m sure he’s found a way to get divorced after all these years. Word on the street was that he paid for Antonio’s funeral before leaving Pittsburgh. Last I heard he was living somewhere in Texas.”
While the door was open I seized the opportunity to find out more about Francine’s children. She admitted wanting to see her other son and daughter and her grandchildren. The unpredictability of the reunion made her apprehensive. She anticipated her daughter seizing the opportunity to remind her of her absence.
“My daughter always hated me,” Francine lamented, making sure we maintained eye contact. “My sister said we were just alike, that’s why we couldn’t get along.”
“Were you?”
“Were we what?” Francine asked, realizing her vulnerability.
“Were you and your daughter alike?”
“No!” She shook her head and spoke with contempt. “I gave her everything. She always had the best clothes, sneakers to match her outfits, designer everything. I started her going to the shop to get her hair done when she was six. She was always the best-dressed kid in her class, but the selfish witch wanted more and more. And if I ever had to tell her no, or wait, she would snap out like I never gave her nothing.”
“Why did you give her so much?” I inquired, consciously pushing Francine’s vulnerability limit. “Did you buy her the things you wanted when you were a little girl?”
Francine’s demeanor became indignant. “My daughter never wore no hand me downs or nothing somebody in Fox Chapel threw away. She had the best.”
“Is that what you wanted when you were a little girl?” I repeated.
“I wanted to be special, and I wanted long hair; I wanted to be able to sing like Maxine. I wanted to wear new dresses.” Francine’s voice was elevated and whiny; she appeared almost childlike as she hugged the chair pillow. “Yes, I gave her everything I always wanted, and she still didn’t love me.”
This impromptu session lasted almost two hours, and I considered it to be a monumental feat. Francine was finally opening up, but I was careful not to be too confident. Weeks could pass before Francine decided to share more of her history. Compassion knotted in my stomach because I knew this was extremely difficult and challenging. For the first time in her life, I surmised Francine was confronting her heart.
When I realized it was almost six o’clock, I called Kiarra to make sure she was at my apartment and to let her know I was on my way home. I gathered my incomplete group notes and reluctantly packed them to finish at home. This situation with Kiarra and Xavier was over my head, but I was determined to keep my best friend from being a statistic.
Kiarra was sitting in the dining room staring out the window when I got home. I could tell she had been in that chair since she arrived. Her bag was on the floor in front of the couch and nothing else in the apartment had been moved. My kitchen window faced the front of the building, and I assumed she was watching to make sure Xavier wasn’t coming after her. I went over and hugged her.
“How can I help?” I pulled a chair up next to her. “Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know.” Tears began to fall on top of the salt tracks that already stained her flawless skin. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What happened? Why would Xavier hit you?”
“He showed up at my apartment on Saturday morning, and I didn’t hear him ring the bell. I was asleep and had turned off the ringer on my phone. When I heard him pounding on the door, I let him in, and he accused me of being there with someone. He went through my apartment like a crazy person, and when I told him to get out, he slapped me.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “He slapped me so hard I hit my head on the wall.” Kiarra took my hand and placed it on the knot on the side of her head.
I was speechless. I had no idea how to comfort my best friend. I was also angry, and my initial thought was to call her dad.
Kiarra continued her story. “He sat on my couch all day Saturday and wouldn’t leave. I stayed in my room and pretended to be sleeping. After “Saturday Night Live” went off, he got in the bed with me. I lay as still as I could, but he undressed me and made me have sex with him. He got up on Sunday, told me he loved me and went back to school.”
Kiarra spoke almost like
she was in a daze.
“We should probably go to the police.” I handed her a box of tissues and studied her blank expression.
“I left a message for him that it’s over and I never want to see him again.”
I ran a bubble bath for my best friend. While she was in the tub, I made her dinner. We prayed, and then I told her to go to bed. I sat on the couch and cried quietly – I had no idea of how to help her.
Kiarra stayed with me for two weeks. Xavier made no attempt to contact her, and she felt assured he would not be back. I was unable to convince her to tell her parents, but I made her promise to call me, no matter what time of the day or night, if Xavier showed up.
It took over a month before Kiarra's effervescence began to return.
Over the next several weeks I confronted Francine’s reluctance to participate in group therapy. Just as I anticipated, these sessions did not go well. My attempt to help Francine view the women in the group as her friends was not well received.
“I never had no friends,” Francine snapped one day during our session. “I never trusted none of them mutha …”
“No cussing. We’re communicating on a higher level.”
“Is this social skills or my therapy?” Francine demanded. “You been bugging me about how I feel, and I’m trying to tell you.”
“You have to tell me without swearing.”
“Whatever!” Francine sucked her teeth and turned the chair to face the window.
There were twenty minutes left, but her body language let me know the session was over. I let Francine silently stare out window while I did paperwork. After about ten minutes she got up and left without saying a word.
By the end of October I had become accustomed to Francine’s inconsistencies in our therapeutic relationship. Sometimes Francine hated me, sometimes she liked me – I took her at face value, and her feelings toward me were insignificant. One of the first things I learned in Psychiatric Social Work is that the client, by the time they seek help, is good at playing head games. Mental health clients, especially those with a dual diagnosis of addiction, can be master manipulators. Their inability to get well is often masked by their ability to maintain a deviant control over their therapeutic relationships.
I made plans to go to Florida for Thanksgiving and tried to convince Kiarra to join me. She gave it some thought but decided she wanted to go home for the holiday. Although she received letters and cards from Xavier, he had not called her. I still didn’t trust him. Kiarra seemed to have rebounded, but there was still an uneasiness about her. She looked over her shoulder whenever we went out, and if it was late, she always spent the night with me or wanted me to stay at her place. I didn’t mind, but I was somewhat put off by her reluctance to discuss the whole story of Xavier. She refused to seek help and remained adamant about not telling her parents. The only thing she was willing to do was pray with me for her safety. I was extremely uncomfortable keeping this secret with her.
Beginning in November, Francine agreed to have our weekly meetings at her apartment. I did not look forward to being on her turf - not out of fear, but I didn’t totally trust her. In the four months I had known Francine my most recurring thought was to give up, but I was always humbled by God’s grace in my life. That, coupled with our Bible study, helped me focus on being a sower of God’s Word. I continued to share scriptures and invite Francine to church. I even offered to buy her a Bible, which she adamantly declined. Francine was convinced God had never helped her, and I was convinced she thought God was a spiritual genie. On one occasion, when the door was open, I asked Francine why she would ask a God she didn’t believe in to help her and why she thought God should have answered her previous prayers when He knew she didn’t believe in Him. My questions were received antagonistically, and Francine responded, “If He has all power, then He could have helped me.”
On Friday morning, Kiarra and I met at Starbucks before going to My Sister's Keeper. Her client had already enrolled in a program at Bidwell Training Center. Francine, on the other hand, was still resisting her own progress. When I arrived for my third home visit, Francine’s apartment door was ajar. I held the door knob, balancing my coffee cup between two fingers, and knocked with the knuckles of my left hand while clutching the handle of my briefcase.
“Come on,” she said from inside the apartment.
When I entered, she was standing at the sink with her arms crossed. A dish towel hung from her hand like a tassel. “You’re ten minutes late,” she said condescendingly, looking at the clock on the wall. “I thought timeliness was soooo important.”
“I apologize for being late,” I smiled. “It’s good to know you’ve been listening in group. Timeliness is very important.”
“Well, if I count the times you’ve kept me waiting in your office, then this is the third time you’ve been late this month. What does that say about your commitment to your client?”
This was another one of those times when I didn’t know if Francine was being serious or sarcastic. I chose to ignore the comment and took a seat on the couch. Francine continued drying the last of her dishes.
“I hate group,” she said joining me on the couch.
“Francine,” I began, ready to give my therapeutic discourse.
“You know I hate talking about myself,” she interrupted me. “You know I don’t want none of them in my business. All women do is get in your business and then tell it, and then they tell it wrong!” She stopped to sip her coffee. Then she put the cup back in the saucer so hard that the coffee in the saucer spilled onto the table. Francine sighed and rested her forehead on the palm of her left hand.
I spoke softly and quickly. “Francine, the goal of group therapy is to help you, not to have other people in your business. All of you have things in common from your past, and group therapy provides an opportunity to share those feelings of regret and shame with others who have walked in your shoes.”
Before I could finish my statement, Francine stood up and snapped, “Who said I got shame and regrets? See, you’re just like my family – keep blaming me for things I couldn’t help. It was the drugs. How many times do I have to say it? It was the drugs! It was the drugs! Those drugs made me leave my kids. I was addicted, and I couldn’t help myself. My kids should be glad I didn’t drag them in the streets. They should be glad I didn’t prostitute them. They should be glad that I let someone else take care of them when I couldn’t!”
Francine’s denial and refusal to accept responsibility penetrated my heart like a knife. I sat up on the edge of the couch maintaining eye contact with her. She stood facing me with her arms crossed. I wanted her to be contrite, but she seemed aloof and without remorse. My anger swelled inside me. Francine cussed under her breath breaking the stillness of the moment.
“You think your kids are happy you left them? You think your kids want to live with the fact that you loved drugs more than you loved them? You think they should be happy because they grew up in foster care?” I asked, without pausing for a response, as my voice escalated with each question.
“It could have been a lot worse!" She yelled interrupting me. "I didn’t make my kids sell drugs! I always sent money and toys for Christmas – and they never appreciated any of it!”
By this time I was standing and yelling back at her. “Did you tell them plenty of lies, too? Did you keep promising you would stop using drugs? Did you promise them they would be a family?”
“What the #@%&* does it matter to you?” Francine waved her clenched fist in my face.
For a moment I thought she was going to hit me. I didn't move; I felt no fear. “That’s just what my mother would say!” I heard myself yelling and realized the emotional monsters that frequently tormented me had defeated my composure and professionalism.
“I’m not your mother!'
“No, but you sure do remind me of her!” Without putting my binder in my briefcase, I picked up everything, leaving my Starbuck’s cup on the table, and marched out the door with
out looking back. I refused to cry even though tears swelled in my eyes. I had shed enough tears over a junkie who didn’t care about her kids.
“Hey girl,” Kiarra was walking up to the passenger side of my car. “Didn’t you hear me call you? What was all the yelling at Francine’s about?”
I couldn’t look at her, and I dare not blink. I slung my things on the back seat and sat in the passenger seat, leaving the door open.
Kiarra bent down trying to make eye contact. “Lundyn, what’s the matter? Are you okay?”
“I hope she rots in hell,” I whispered.
“Hold up girl.” Kiarra put her hand on my shoulder. “What happened?”
“I know why her kids don’t visit her,” I stated through clenched teeth. “She was a horrible mother. She never cared about her kids; she only cared about the drugs.”
“This isn’t about you and your mother,” Kiarra retorted. “Francine is not your mother. Francine is your client. This is not the time for transference.”
I was emotionally fragile, and it would have been very easy to be angry with Kiarra for her chastising remarks. I sat motionless and said nothing. Kiarra opened the back door and sat with me.
Kiarra grabbed my arm as I got up to go around to the driver’s side of my car. My teeth were still clenched, and I was still fighting back tears. Taking a deep breath, and avoiding eye contact, I whispered, “My rounds with Dr. Sankar start in an hour, I gotta go.”
“Go home Lundyn,” Kiarra said, maintaining a firm grip my arm. “I’ll do your rounds. I’ll tell Dr. Sankar you didn’t feel well. Go home. I’ll come by after work.”
It was almost six-thirty when Kiarra arrived with cheese steak hoagies from Vento's and a bottle of black cherry soda. She joined me at the dining room table, and we ate in silence staring out the kitchen window. I was thinking of how to thank her for rescuing my sanity. I could tell she was searching for something to say that wasn’t therapeutic. She knew I needed a friend more than I needed the reality check. My heart knew she would have the right words.
“The sun set is beautiful.” Kiarra finally broke the silence. “It’s a perfect ending to the day as only God could do it.” Kiarra paused. “Everything needs closure, and God’s Word tells us to never let the sun go down on our anger.”
Lundyn Bridges Page 6
