Lundyn Bridges

by Patrice Johnson

  “I wanted my mother to love me.”

  “God gave you wonderful foster parents. You lived with them for twelve years, and they’re still involved in your life. They love you like their natural-born daughter.” “Why didn’t my mother love me? Why couldn’t she keep just one promise?”

  Kiarra put her arm around me. “I don’t know, and I can’t fix it, but I know it hurts; so cry out your pain. Let it go – get it all out. Throw out the anger and close that door. Tomorrow is a new day. Let it be a free day.”

  Covering my face with my hands, I openly wept in the arms of my best friend. I wailed like a baby until my throat was dry and my eyes were red and puffy. I let the anger, resentment and heartache I had stored since I was eleven roll off my face and onto Kiarra’s shoulder. Then we sat in silence, again.

  The day faded into a beautifully clear night, and the stars seemed to twinkle brighter. I stared at God’s glitter in the navy blue sky. My life was like the sky. There were dark places but the Woodard’s were the glitter. I smiled and sighed out loud. Kiarra got up to refill her glass, and I motioned for her to fill mine, too.

  “My mom, Miss Gladys, told me I needed someone to talk to when I was thirteen.” I sipped my soda. “She knew I was bottling my feelings, and she said I would explode one day. I always wanted her to be wrong.”

  “What do you think now?”

  “The rational side of my brain tells me I need to talk to someone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m going to look for a therapist.”

  I spent Saturday trying to organize my thoughts. There were too many and the memories were out of order. They weren’t all bad, but the heartache was much more pronounced. It was easier to sleep, and I spent most of the day in bed.

  Afreeka called that evening. We talked for over an hour and I told her about the incident. She empathized with me and admitted her memories were demons she couldn’t extinguish, no matter how hard she tried. Afreeka had always made it known how much she hated our mother, and she blamed her for everything. Afreeka appeased me by allowing me to pray over the phone. Then she told me she was working over Thanksgiving but promised to join us at Romen’s for Christmas.

  I called Romen to remind him I was spending Thanksgiving in Naples and to confirm Afreeka and I were spending Christmas with him. He was spending Thanksgiving with Nina’s family and looking forward to us being together for Christmas. Then I called the Woodard’s. Mom Woodard could always tell when something was wrong, and I cried retelling the saga.

  Rev. Morgan’s Sunday sermon was on healing and newness of life in Christ. I welcomed his words in my spirit while asking God to forgive me for my behavior on Friday. As much as I loved Gladys and Earl Woodard, somewhere in my heart I longed for Barbara’s love. It seemed crazy – unexplainable. After trying to hate Barbara, it was a relief to admit I needed her to love me so I didn’t feel disposable. It also felt good to know, for sure, that I was lovable – the Woodard’s had proven that.

  These childhood memories were at the core of my being. Much of my time and energy had been invested in keeping these things buried. I had done well, until meeting Francine. Her likeness to my mother was frightening.

  The following week passed without incident. My sessions with Francine vacillated between her evasiveness and anger. She hated the holidays and found no joy in them. I let her rant during our sessions and considered it a therapeutic way to express her feelings – no matter how crudely. During each meeting my mind was focused on getting to Naples, Florida.

  Kiarra and I made feeble attempts to comfort each other. She was torn between telling her mother about Xavier or keeping it a secret because she knew her mom would tell her dad. Although she was not as nervous about Xavier showing up, she still felt intimidated by the chance he could.

  Jamel and I hosted a party for our Adolescent Obesity Group because they all reached their goals. The appreciation of the kids and their parents provided much needed encouragement that day. The following evening, Jamel called and asked me out to dinner. I declined with the excuse that I was taking off the Wednesday before and the Monday after Thanksgiving and had a lot to do before leaving. The excuse was only a temporary solution – Jamel informed me that he intended to ask me again when I returned.

  I slept on the plane to Naples because I didn’t want to think about anything. All of my thoughts were disheartening – my anger, Francine, Barbara, Kiarra, Afreeka. Life was becoming difficult again, and it should have been getting easier. Romen’s words poked at me – put the past in a box and throw it away. I wanted to; I just didn’t know how.

  Kristen surprised me at the airport, and her visit was a welcomed diversion. She announced that she and Larry were purchasing a house. She also made me promise to visit, and I assured her my first week of vacation would be in Greece.

  We spent the remainder of the weekend reliving memories and catching up. On Sunday night, the attention turned to me. Mom Woodard was concerned because I was still refusing to see a therapist.

  “Pain doesn’t just disappear,” she said as we sat alone at the dining room table. “I have prayed for your release, but now you have to let go.”

  Her message echoed Romen’s. Let go, let go, let go.

  “You have been blessed, and you must move forward in your blessing. The shackles of your past have been unlocked, but you won’t take them off.”

  “I just want closure.” The tears came as the pain swallowed me.

  “When God sets you free, don’t keep looking for closure. God has closed that door, and you keep opening it.”

  I sat motionless. I knew she was right.

  “I love you, Lundyn.” Mom Woodard put her arm around me. She pulled me close and hugged me hard, just like she used to when I was feeling lost or angry. “It’s time. Please go see a therapist. You will keep running into the same mountain until you realize God moved it a long time ago.”

  Before I left Florida, Mom Woodard gave me an old notebook.

  "I found this when we were packing your room at the house. I was waiting until the right time to give it back to you."

  "What makes this the right time?" I asked, clutching the book of poems I had written.

  "These poems are pieces of your childhood. Poetry is one of the ways people can safely express feelings they can't say. I know that's what you did."

  As I flipped through the pages, I stopped and read Just Waiting. It was the poem I wrote after Afreeka and Romen went to boarding schools. It was the poem I wrote while waiting to be the next one sent away.

  Just Waiting

  If I wasn't so afraid I'd tell you exactly how I feel

  But I've learned that feelings should be concealed

  I'm just waiting.

  If I wasn't so afraid I would let you hug me

  But I've learned that hugs mean you must be leaving

  I'm just waiting.

  If I wasn't so afraid I’d call this house my home

  But I've learned that my address

  can change with the ring of the phone

  I'm just waiting.

  I suddenly felt guilty for not being completely honest with her. "I'm sorry I didn't talk to you like I should have. I didn't know how."

  "Shhhh." She put her index finger over my lips. "No explanations."

  Part Two

  Facing My Past

  There is a time for everything,

  and a season for every activity under heaven:

  A time to be born and a time to die,

  a time to plant and a time to uproot,

  a time to kill and a time to heal,

  a time to tear down and a time to build,

  a time to weep and a time to laugh,

  a time to mourn and a time to dance,

  a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

  a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

  a time to search and a time to give up,

  a time to keep and a time to throw away,
<
br />   a time to tear and a time to mend,

  a time to be silent and a time to speak,

  a time to love and a time to hate,

  a time for war and a time for peace.

  Ecclesiastes 3:1 - 8

  Chapter 4

  The first call I made when I returned from Florida was to Afreeka. I was increasingly worried about her avoidance. Our conversations had become distant and very superficial. Romen seemed nonchalant about the situation with Afreeka and would always say, "She's grown." His tenacity in keeping us all together and making sure we all 'made it' seemed to be waning. I was concerned but couldn't worry about him, too. I was about to embark on the journey of my own healing and was mindful not to add anything else to my already overflowing plate. Almost a week passed before Afreeka returned my call.

  Kiarra seemed to be her old self again. She returned from the Thanksgiving weekend refreshed and said she enjoyed the time with her family. We continued to disagree that she should tell her parents about Xavier. She continued to promise that if he contacted her again, she would. My concern remained heightened because she was still refusing to tell them they had broken up. Kiarra rationalized her decision as the best way to avoid their suspicion and questions. Mr. & Mrs. Dillingham thought Xavier was great. I surmised he had kept his evil Hyde personality tucked away and had only allowed them to meet the gentleman Jekyll.

  Jamel greeted me as I entered the cafeteria on my first day back at work. His smile was welcomed, and I caught myself blushing.

  “French vanilla cappuccino,” he said handing me a cup. “I put marshmallows in it, too.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled, taking the cup from him. “How did you know that?”

  “I pay attention.”

  My attempt to keep the conversation superficial was difficult. Jamel was resolute, but not forceful, with his dinner invitation.

  “What does a guy have to do to get you on a dinner date?”

  I hesitated because, although I wanted to go out with him, I wasn’t sure if I should. Jamel seemed to have it all together. He was completing the doctoral program in Epidemiology with a focus on child and adolescent health. Jamel was the only African-American Clinical Supervisor; so I knew he had to be intelligent and well-qualified. He was well liked by the kids, their parents, housekeeping and the hospital VP's. To top it all, he was cute – a little over six feet, clean cut with just enough mustache to be sexy. He had one dimple on the left and light brown eyes set in his mocha complexion. Jamel also looked good in his clothes.

  During the three months we worked together there was never any indication of impropriety, although I caught him staring at me a few times which always made me smile. I was also mindful to maintain a safe distance from him because his closeness gave me butterflies.

  “I don’t mean to be pushy,” he said as we stood at the elevator, “but now that we’re not working together, I’d like to take you out and get to know you - outside of the hospital.”

  “I’d like that, too.” I sipped my cappuccino to keep from looking at him.

  “Are you busy tonight?”

  The elevator door opened and I clenched my teeth to keep from smiling. “No, tonight would be fine.”

  He held the door and looked at me. “Grand Concourse at Station Square?”

  “Okay.”

  “Pick you up at six?” The elevator began to beep because he was holding the door.

  After nervously licking my lips to keep from blushing, I gave him my address. He winked before releasing the elevator.

  I went to Kiarra’s office first, but she was meeting with her client. I left a message for her to call me immediately. The excitement was bursting inside me, but the morning got busy and I didn't get to meet with Kiarra until we went to lunch.

  We found a table by the window, and I told Kiarra about my date before she sat down.

  "I knew you liked him," she smirked.

  "Well, I always thought he was cute."

  "And you always liked him."

  "I don't want to be one of those hospital gossip stories," I said trying to be serious.

  "Are you meeting at a hotel or going to dinner?"

  The lightness of the moment was refreshing. We laughed, and it was good to see my old friend Kiarra.

  Jamel Adams grew up in Montclair, New Jersey and was the older of his two brothers.

  "My mother only wanted two children, but my younger brother was her final attempt for a daughter." He sighed sarcastically.

  "Everybody needs at least one sister."

  "Well, my mother's twin sister has four daughters – they were all the sisters I needed."

  Jamel's voice was deep but soothing. His left dimple seemed to pierce his cheek when he smiled. Over dinner he began telling me about himself. He spoke Japanese, and while completing his undergraduate degree in Public Health at Ohio State, he spent a summer as an intern at the United Nations. His original plan was to work for the United States Department of Health and Human Services.

  Jamel arrived in Pittsburgh the summer before he was to enter the Graduate School of Public Health at the University of Pittsburgh. After a job with the Health Department failed to materialize, he accepted a summer position with the Adolescent Obesity Program at the University Psychiatric Hospital. He enjoyed the kids and questioned his career path. He initially postponed graduate school for a year and became the Research Associate for the program, which led to a complete shift in his career. After receiving his Master's Degree in Public Health, he was promoted to Clinical Supervisor of the Adolescent Obesity Program.

  "Enough about me," he said taking another roll from the bread basket on the table. "Who is Lundyn Bridges? Tell me more about this fine young lady with the intriguing name."

  I avoided eye contact and played with my napkin. "I grew up in a foster family in Franklin Park. I have one foster sister, two sisters and two brothers." I looked at him, and he leaned forward. My mind searched for the right words – I didn't want his sympathy. "I went to Chatham and got my Master's from Pitt last spring. I was selected for the research grant with Dr. Solis, and sometimes I question my desire to be a therapist."

  We sat in silence.

  Jamel reached across the table and took my hand. "Have you ever had a good look at the stars?"

  After dinner, we rode the incline up to Mount Washington.

  The night air was chilled but not bitterly cold. Jamel took my hand and reiterated his desire to get to know me. He admitted most of his time was devoted to completing his dissertation but expressed an interest in dating. Jamel understood my concerns about inter-hospital relationships and had also been mindful not to date within the hospital. He was willing to make an exception, and we agreed to take it slowly.

  My first date with Jamel gave me a renewed hope in the dating process. His conversation was stimulating, and I looked forward to going out with him again.

  I also looked forward to moving ahead with my life and selected a therapist in the second week of December. The challenge, as I already knew, would be to help me face my past so I could move on. It's difficult when you already know the rules and you can second guess what the person in your seat is going to say. It's easier to give help than to receive it, and I was much more comfortable giving advice than taking it. I realized I would have to consciously allow the therapist to guide each session.

  One of my fears in selecting a therapist was that they may have seen my mother at some point in her addiction. Although Pittsburgh is a city, it operates like a small town. It is never uncommon to meet someone who knows you or a family member. I don't know why I was so paranoid about that, but I rationalized if the therapist didn't know anything about me except what I was willing to divulge, then I would feel better about being honest. My experience at work led me to believe that the development of even a minute understanding was beneficial in the therapeutic relationship. My success with Francine, no matter how limited, developed partly because she and I related as women in this life struggle. I sel
ected a female therapist and hoped she would have some life experiences which would help her understand me.

  Kathleen Hunt’s office was in East Liberty in the Medical Arts Building. It was located inside Penn Circle and seemed to be the last professional office building in the area. When I lived in Garfield as a child, I remembered going to Sears and Vento's Pizzeria. There was also a Giant Eagle supermarket on the corner of Highland Avenue and East Liberty Boulevard, which was directly across the street from Peabody High School. The Home Depot replaced Sears and the Vintage Adult Activity Center replaced the Giant Eagle. Peabody was still on the corner, but it had been remodeled and no longer had windows. Vento's also remained, although it had been rebuilt and moved from its original location to make room for the entrance to the Home Depot parking lot. I was twenty minutes early and contemplated driving around the circle to see what else had changed. Instead, I turned onto Whitfield Street and parked in front of the building.

  Ms. Hunt's office was painted melon green trimmed in lemon yellow. It was shocking and mellow at the same time. The office colors were vibrant and welcoming. I signed in with the receptionist and took a seat in one of the three overstuffed chairs covered in tangerine velour. I reminded myself that I was the patient. Queen Latifah sang “California Dreamin'” over the office speakers, and I hummed along with her as I studied the office décor. There were six yellow framed pictures of women at leisure – playing tennis, sitting on the beach, playing a white baby grand piano, reading to a group of little children, dancing with friends and praying at the altar. There were also two brightly colored posters in tangerine frames – “Live, Love, Laugh” and “The Earth Laughs in Flowers.” Kathleen's office spoke happy.

  Kathleen was a short woman with a big smile. The twisties in her hair were streaked with gray, and her handshake was warm. She wore a yellow, orange and red African print dress, and she seemed like the sun against the backdrop of the picture window in her office. Kathleen began our session by introducing herself and providing some background.