Lundyn Bridges

by Patrice Johnson

  Francine’s knock was distinctive – like a syncopated beat. She was not scheduled, and I was in no hurry to see her.

  “I’m sorry,” Francine said as she opened the door.

  I continued filing and didn’t respond. Francine took a seat and I returned to my chair placing the papers in my hand on the pile on the corner of my desk.

  “I said I’m sorry,” Francine repeated. “I’m really, really sorry about that Friday in November.”

  “That's over. That was two months ago.” My tone was flat. “This is a new year.”

  “But I’m really sorry.” Francine’s voice was almost pleading. “I know I hurt your feelings, and I didn’t mean to do that. You pushed my buttons. You caught me off guard.”

  Without saying a word I got up and stood at the corner of my desk, still refusing to make eye contact with Francine.

  “You were right,” Francine lamented. “I wasn’t fair to my kids. I was selfish.” Francine sat in the chair, resting her left elbow on the corner of the desk with her hand on her forehead. “That’s just how it was. Nothing can change that. What’s done is done.”

  My problem in dealing with Francine was that I was always second-guessing her, never knowing if she was being sincere or manipulative. This was one of those times, and even though I was touched by her apparent brokenness my empathy didn’t trust her.

  “Francine, I have to go.” Without looking at her, I picked up my keys from my desk and walked toward the door. “I have a meeting upstairs.”

  Francine hesitated before exiting my office. She walked to the right toward the elevator. The stairwell was to the left of my office – I used my key card and pushed the door closed behind me.

  From that time on, my encounters with Francine became goal directed. Each week she was given a specific assignment to assist in meeting her goal, and that was the basis of our sessions. It was the model Kiarra was using with her client – it kept emotions distant and each session focused on the motivation and success of the client.

  My journal entries began taking on more meaning. They were no longer only words to describe thoughts and feelings I had tucked away. My entries were now pieces of me, they were my defining moments. The pain of reliving the memories was lost in my hurry to be whole. I wanted to be stronger so I could reach out to Afreeka and Romen. Then, I wanted to find Rah'Lee and Hustin. My goal was to celebrate the next Christmas as a family – all of us.

  Jamel joined me for dinner after I convinced him to take a break. I understood his passion about his dissertation; it was the same passion I had for completing my story. Being whole had become a driving force.

  While he helped me with the dinner dishes, I told Jamel about the secret I was keeping with Kiarra and my concern with Xavier. He was shocked because, like everyone who knew her, he thought Kiarra was on top of everything.

  We were silent.

  Jamel took my hand, slipping his fingers between mine. "Lundyn, I would never hurt you."

  "I hope not."

  He kissed me. "No, seriously. I would never hurt you."

  Over coffee we discussed past relationships. Jamel had several stories, but Linda was the girl who broke his heart. After graduating from Ohio State, she went to Georgetown for graduate school. Linda was appalled at Jamel's career shift and told him she couldn't be serious about a man whose highest salary would be less than half of what she would make in her first year as attorney.

  While I got his coat, I told him about Sam. It was a succinct story of my gullibility.

  Before I unlocked my door, I waited for Jamel to kiss me, but he just held me.

  "I gotta go," he whispered. "If I don't leave now, I won't go." He kissed me on the cheek.

  January 11, 2005

  I met the Woodard’s two and a half years after being removed from my mother for the second and final time. It was May of 1991, the weekend before Memorial Day. I was eleven and Afreeka was thirteen when we went to the home of Earl and Gladys Woodard. We exited the car with the caseworker we had met that morning, carrying only a small duffle bag. The house looked bigger than the apartment building on Burrows Street. The grass was so green it looked artificial, and there was an assortment of yellow flowers that lined the walkway. The caseworker hurried us into the house where Mr. and Mrs. Woodard greeted us with a smile. Afreeka alternately shook their hands as I visually studied the house. It looked like a mansion. The window curtains hung like netting down to the floor. I could almost see my reflection in the hard wood floors. There were plants and flowers everywhere. The living room alone was bigger than any apartment we had ever lived in. The furniture was also big, and it all looked brand new, like no one ever used it. There was a large picture of Jesus over the fireplace. He was looking down and smiling at the children who gathered at his feet. The picture intrigued me, and I stared at those smiling children until Afreeka grabbed my hand.

  The cat that was sitting at the top of the steps ran away as we followed Mrs. Woodard up the stairs to our bedroom. The room was painted white and had twin beds covered in pink flowered comforters and coordinating curtains in both windows. There were two big pillows on each bed and the trim on the pillow shams matched the design on the comforter. When Mrs. Woodard asked us to pick a bed, I said nothing. While living with our mother, Afreeka and I always slept in the same bed – sometimes, when I was angry, I would tell her I couldn’t wait to have my own bed. However, the thought of her sleeping across the room was suddenly overwhelming.

  While Afreeka unpacked her duffle bag, I stood at the window allowing the curtains to brush against my face as the breeze propelled them. I closed my eyes and imagined, just for a second, this was our house and my mother was downstairs cooking dinner.

  “Stop daydreaming.” Afreeka curtly interrupted my thoughts. “You’re supposed to be unpacking!”

  I answered, still looking out the window. “I know.”

  “Then get over here and unpack like you were told.”

  I sat on the bed and put my head on Afreeka’s shoulder. She stopped unpacking and put her arms around me.

  “It’s going to be alright,” she whispered.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  Mrs. Woodard came to the door and knocked. “Are you girls getting settled?”

  We sat motionless.

  She was smiling as she entered the room. “Each of you has a dresser and a closet.” Then she walked over to the first closet door and opened it. “We bought you slippers and robes.”

  Afreeka went over to her and said thank you. I sat on the bed smiling.

  “There’s a robe and slippers for you too, Lundyn.” She opened the other closet door. “We want you both to be comfortable.”

  Afreeka answered for both of us. “We appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Woodard sat on Afreeka’s bed and motioned for us to join her. “I want both of you to pick a dresser and put your clothes in the drawers. Then, I want you to come downstairs so we can get to know each other and I can introduce you to Fuzzy – he’s a little shy.”

  I followed Afreeka down the steps to the family room, and we both sat on the floor across from Mrs. Woodard. We could see Mr. Woodard cooking on the grill on the back deck. Fuzzy sat by the fireplace staring at us. We had never owned a pet.

  “Let’s play a game.” Mrs. Woodard handed us a postcard and a pencil. “We’ll each write down one question and put it on the coffee table. Then, we’ll take turns picking a question, and the other two have to answer it.”

  We complied and Mrs. Woodard told me I could pick.

  “If you had one wish, what would it be?” It was the same question Afreeka had been asking me for months. I always shrugged my shoulders because I had more than one wish. Afreeka never gave me her answer either. I asked Mrs. Woodard first.

  “To make a difference in the life of at least one person.”

  “I never want to go back to the shelter,” Afreeka said, shaking her head.

  Afreeka hesitated and
took a deep breath before picking Mrs. Woodard’s question. She read it slowly. “What makes you happy?” Then she looked at me.

  “Having a mom.” I whispered because my answer embarrassed me.

  Mrs. Woodard smiled. “Watching the sunrise and counting the stars.”

  Her answer enthralled me. By the expression on her face, Afreeka seemed puzzled.

  “It’s my turn,” Mrs. Woodard broke the temporary silence. She selected the last question which was mine. She read the question to herself before reading it out loud. “Does Jesus really love all the children?” Then she looked at Afreeka.

  “I think so,” Afreeka stated with uncertainty. “I think that’s what it says in the Bible.”

  “And what do you think Lundyn?”

  “I don’t know. He never gives me the things I ask for.”

  “Well, He absolutely does love all the children,” Mrs. Woodard stated reaching for her Bible on the coffee table. She turned to Matthew 19 and read verse 14, 'Jesus said, Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.' Sometimes people think God doesn’t love them when they don’t get the things they ask for. But God is not a spiritual genie who comes and goes every time we make a wish. God loves us so much that He gives us what we need.”

  Afreeka and I politely listened as she spoke. I wanted to believe her, but I was still mad at God for not giving my mom a job.

  After dinner, Mr. & Mrs. Woodard told us about their daughter, their church and the school we would be attending. Their daughter, Kristen, was a sophomore at Princeton studying abroad in France, and she would be home for a few weeks at the end of June. They attended the Christian Tabernacle of Allison Park, which was a growing multi-ethnic congregation. We would attend school in the Franklin Park School District where we would be separated because I was only in the sixth grade and Afreeka was in the eighth grade. The thought of transferring to another school made the muscles in my stomach tighten. Then, I told myself I didn't have to think about it until the end of summer.

  Fuzzy walked past me and his fur rubbed my leg. It tickled and I laughed so loud that Fuzzy ran away. Mrs. Woodard said that was his way of getting to know us. Mrs. Woodard called Fuzzy over to the couch. Afreeka gave me one of her head cocked to the side looks – I knew she thought I laughed too loud. I ignored her – I couldn’t remember the last time I had been tickled, and it felt good to laugh.

  Mrs. Woodard observed our non-verbal communication and changed the subject by admitting she didn’t know how to do our hair. Afreeka and I smiled at each other, and Mrs. Woodard said one of her friends was going to teach her. That made Afreeka laugh; so I laughed, too. I couldn’t remember the last time I had heard Afreeka laugh.

  Mr. Woodard came in and joined us. He told a few corny jokes, and I laughed to be polite, but Afreeka didn’t even smile.

  "I know my jokes are corny," he admitted. "Kristen always reminds me that I’m not a comedian."

  Afreeka and I sat motionless. Mr. Woodard got up and began to imitate Michael Jackson singing “Billie Jean.” We laughed so hard that we cried.

  By the end of the afternoon I was beginning to feel comfortable. I had never been to the home of a white person and had never thought about it. The Woodard’s seemed like nice people, not black or white.

  Mrs. Woodard let us take bubble baths, and I enjoyed the bathroom as much as the bath. The walls were white and there were no black water stains between the tiles. It looked like a bathroom on a television show. I let all the bubbles melt and then sat daydreaming in the tub. Mrs. Woodard came in with my pajamas and told me I didn’t have to sit in the cold water. I was too happy to be embarrassed.

  My new pajamas were warm and soft. Mine were yellow and Afreeka’s were pink. Before we went to bed, the Woodard’s came to our room and prayed with us. I liked that.

  “I like it here,” I said to Afreeka after Mr. Woodard turned off the light. “They both seem so nice.”

  “I know,” Afreeka agreed. “I could stay here until I turn eighteen.”

  The door creaked open and Fuzzy came in. Afreeka had always wanted a cat and called for it to come to her. I told Afreeka not to put Fuzzy in her bed, but she did it anyway. When Afreeka woke up the next morning she looked like a monster. Her eyes were almost swollen shut, and it looked like her eyelashes had a bad case of dandruff. Her face was red, and she said her throat hurt. Mrs. Woodard gave Afreeka Benadryl and made her take a shower and wash her hair. After changing her bed sheets, Afreeka slept for most of the day.

  Our caseworker showed up the next morning and announced that Afreeka had to return to Holy Family. We sat like mannequins on the couch unwilling to process her words, and then she repeated herself. Afreeka never looked at me or said a word. I silently followed her upstairs and helplessly watched her pack her duffle bag.

  “I hate Mommy,” she said without turning to look at me. “This is all her fault.”

  I wanted to agree with Afreeka to make her feel better, but I wasn’t at a point of expressing any anger toward my mother – I still wanted to love her. I hugged Afreeka like I had hugged my mother, trying to absorb her pain and some piece of her. I wanted Afreeka to stay, or I wanted to go with her. The pain of the impending separation crippled my attempts to protest her departure.

  Until next time…

  Reliving the memory of my separation from Afreeka overwhelmed me. By the time I reached Kathleen's office for my Thursday visit, the pain was crushing and I wept – no, I wailed when she asked about the journal entry. There were minimal words exchanged, and I left the office unsure if I could continue chronicling my memories. Kathleen asked me to bring my journal to my next session.

  When I got home there was a message from Jamel, but I didn't return his call. I tried to call Afreeka, but she wasn't at home. I made a cup of tea and sat on the couch with my Bible searching for scriptures on healing. I read the book of Job and prayed for strength. Everything seemed so hard. I really liked Jamel, but it seemed unfair to give him the pieces of me. The grant would be ending in June, and I needed to make some decisions about the rest of my life. I still wasn't sure that being a therapist was how I wanted to spend the rest of my life. Although Francine seemed to be making small strides toward success, it was the inconsistencies and uncertainties I didn't like. There was no guarantee of success with a client, which left me without any means of measuring my value as a therapist. I cried myself to sleep.

  Kiarra was evasive on Friday. Although we usually ate lunch together, she said she had to complete her clinical notes and was eating in her office. My heart was still heavy from my session with Kathleen, and I didn't have the energy to confront Kiarra. Jamel was out of the building for the day; so I walked down the hill to McDonald's. I didn't really feel like eating a hamburger, but I needed to go for a walk. It began to snow.

  Paperwork consumed my afternoon. It kept my mind occupied and helped me avoid thinking about my life. At the end of the day I left my office hoping to run into Jamel, needing to talk to Kiarra and wanting Afreeka to call.

  It was almost eight o’clock when Kiarra stopped by my apartment. She was pensive and solemn and spoke without looking at me. I still felt whipped by my session with Kathleen and was not emotionally prepared for anything but good news.

  She took her favorite seat by the kitchen window and began speaking with her back to me. "I still love him and I know you don't understand."

  Kiarra's words were numbing.

  "I love him Lundyn; I don't understand it myself." Kiarra was speaking quickly. "He's been writing and sending me gifts. He keeps apologizing and said that he was under a lot of stress. He swears it will never happen again."

  "And you believe him?"

  Kiarra didn't respond. She rested her elbows on the table and put her face in her hands.

  "What is it Ki? Are you pregnant? Why are you holding on to that monster?"

  "You're supposed to be my best friend. You're supposed to understand m
e when no one else does. I tell you everything. Can't you just be happy for me?"

  I was unable to control my anger and yelled at her. "I just don't understand why you would go back to him. Are you crazy?"

  "I love him!" She screamed back at me.

  Kiarra was trembling, and I was unable to comfort her. She was jumping into the path of danger, and I couldn't stop her. She got up, pushed her chair back to the table and walked toward the door.

  "He's coming to visit next weekend," she said before walking out the door.

  I called Jamel and cried.

  Four weeks passed before I found the strength to pick up my journal again.

  February 11, 2005

  After Afreeka left, I resorted to silence and refused to make eye contact. The Woodard’s questions were intentionally unanswered. I ate what was put on my plate and wore whatever Mrs. Woodard told me. Mr. Woodard had a deep voice and a big beard that was somewhat intimidating; so I avoided being near him in the house. When Kristen, their daughter, came home for summer break, I felt like she didn’t like me or know what to say. These people were strangers, and I assumed it would only be a matter of time before I was leaving, too – just like Afreeka.

  Two weeks later, I was still there. The Woodard's had taken me to see a doctor, but I ignored him just like I ignored them. He had too many questions, and I refused to indulge him with even a slight smile. Kristen continued to make attempts to talk to me, and although I wanted to answer her, I didn't.

  One night, after she caught me crying, Kristen came into my room. I pretended to be asleep. She sat on the other twin bed, where Afreeka had slept – it still squeaked.

  “Lundyn,” she whispered, “I know you’re not sleeping.”

  I tried to breath softer.

  Kristen continued. “It’s okay to be sad or afraid or whatever you’re feeling. I just want you to know we’re glad you’re here.”