Shannon's Hope

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Chapter 38

  John went to see Keisha on Wednesday afternoon, but I wasn’t ready. He said Keisha had begged him to bail her out, which he refused, then she asked him to hire her a good lawyer, which he also refused. He came home and spent the evening researching family therapists, ready to make his head and heart right about this and find a way to be her dad without giving in or shutting her out. We set our first appointment for the next week.

  I took the week to come to terms with all that had happened, and on Friday night, John and I attended an Al-Anon meeting, a twelve-step program for families of addicts. I found it completely uncomfortable and painful, and yet the stories I heard were so similar to ours. Good people who wanted to help but had to accept that they could not change the choices of their loved ones.

  On Saturday morning I felt as though I couldn’t wait any longer. I was still hurt by the lies Keisha had told Dani about my enabling her, but it had helped me realize just how sick she was, how desperate she was, and how manipulative she’d become. I didn’t love her less, but I was no longer so desperate to prove my love to her.

  I went to the Orange County jail alone, still battling my many emotions and feelings and wishes and hopes. I sat down on my side of the glass and took a deep breath. I’d seen scenes like this a hundred times on TV but never imagined I’d be in this sterile, echoing room, waiting to talk to my child through a pane of glass.

  After a few minutes, the door on the other side of the glass opened, and I straightened as Keisha was led in. She was dressed in orange—so cliché—but wasn’t handcuffed. She looked thin and pale, but she was clean and her hair was pulled back from her face. She looked so much better than she had the last time I’d seen her, and though it hurt my heart to see her incarcerated, I was relieved to know she was safe.

  We picked up the phones on our respective sides of the glass at the same moment.

  “Hi,” I said in an eager voice, smiling at her, hungry to take in every inch of her. This was my girl. “How are you doing?”

  “Terrible,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “It’s horrible here, Shannon, and I’m so sick. They won’t give me anything to take away the shakes—look.” She held up her shaking hand for me to see, then put it on her forehead. “I’m in a room with three other women—one is a gang member, another one deals drugs, and the third one is a prostitute who hit another hooker with her car.” She leaned forward and put her hand on the glass. “I don’t belong with these people.” Her voice cracked and tears spilled from her eyes. “Can you please get me out of here? I swear I won’t use. I’ll even go to rehab again. I’ll go to therapy, I’ll take my meds. I’ll do anything.”

  I felt emotion rising in my face, and I tried to blink the tears away. It broke my heart to see her so desperate and to imagine what it must feel like to live the way she’d just described. “It’s not up to me,” I said. That was something I’d learned at the Al-Anon meeting—the importance of reminding the addict of their responsibility rather than taking it on as our own. “But I’m so sorry all this happened, Keisha.”

  “But you could post bail,” Keisha said, wiping at her tears. “You could get me out right now.”

  “I don’t have $10,000, Keish.”

  “They can put it on your house or something.”

  “I can’t do that either,” I explained, shaking my head.

  She started to sob. “Why? Why won’t you help me?”

  It was surreal to consider putting my home up as insurance that Keisha would do what she needed to do, and I was proud of myself for not feeling the least bit tempted to take such a risk. I no longer believed that jail was the worst thing that could happen to her; I no longer believed that, because the cause of her drug use—depression and childhood trauma—was beyond her control, her choices were beyond her control as well.

  “I’ve done everything I can do, Keish,” I said softly. “And some things I should never have done. I think that maybe this is the best place for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her face hardened so fast it startled me. “The best place for me? Are you nuts? This is hell, and you think I should stay?”

  “You have to stay,” I said carefully, hoping she’d calm down and really listen. “It’s not really—”

  “You want me to stay, don’t you? You don’t care how awful it is in here because at least I’m not your problem anymore.” She went from anger to tears again. “No one cares about me,” she said, her chin trembling as she covered her eyes with her hand. “No one has ever loved me.”

  “I love you,” I said. “You know I do, and your mom and dad, Landon—”

  “Then get me out of here.”

  “I can’t,” I said, shaking my head again, wanting her to understand. “Like I said—”

  “If you really cared, you’d get me out. You’d find a way. If it were Landon in here, you’d do whatever it took to get him out of here. But I guess he’s your real son, isn’t he? I’m just something you got stuck with because you married my dad.”

  I opened my mouth to dispute what she was saying, but then some of the things John had said echoed back to me. She’ll do or say anything she thinks will get you to help her.

  “That’s not fair,” I said instead. “I’ve done everything I can think of to help you, Keisha. I was there when no one else was.”

  “But now you’ll abandon me just like everyone else has.”

  “I’m not abandoning you, but there isn’t anything left for me to do.”

  She sniffed and wiped at her eyes again as her face hardened one more time. “You know, it wouldn’t have gotten so bad if you’d have kept me to that contract.”

  Something shifted inside me, and more of John’s words seemed to quickly block the burn of what she’d just said. She’s sick, Shan. She’s being run by her need for the drugs. All we can do is love her.

  There was truth in her words though. If I had held her to that initial contract, maybe things would have been different. If she hadn’t gotten away with her lies and half-truths, maybe she wouldn’t have said so many. And yet, at the end of the day, I hadn’t done this. Though misguided in my efforts to help, I couldn’t carry the burden of her addiction. In the space of two minutes she had begged for my help, asked me to risk my home for her release, accused me of not loving her, and told me it was my fault she was an addict.

  “Keisha, have you ever heard the term codependent?”

  She furrowed her eyebrows, probably because I wasn’t playing along the way she’d expected me to. I supplied an answer before she tried to distract me again. “It’s a term used to describe someone who becomes as dependent on an addict as that addict is on their drug of choice. I haven’t been able to sleep unless I know you’re safe. I haven’t been able to be happy unless I think you’re okay. I risked my marriage, my job, my relationship with Aunt Ruby, and my role as a mother to make sure you were okay. You were addicted to drugs, and I was addicted to your validations. I needed you so badly that I didn’t help you the right way, but I’m learning from that now, and I will not help you be sick anymore.”

  Tears filled her eyes once more. She put her hand on the glass. “I do need you, Shannon. You’re the only person who understands me, who really wants to help.”

  “A minute ago you said I’d abandoned you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m just so sick, and my thoughts are out of control. I’m so depressed; I’m so, so, low right now. They won’t even give me my meds, did you know that? And there are drugs in here—if I wanted them, I could get them, but I don’t because I want you to be proud of me. But I’ve got to get out of here, Shannon, so I can get better. You’ve got to get me out. You’re the only one I have left.”

  Tears filled my eyes, but not because I was scared for her and desperate to help. This time the tears were a kind of mourning for what I thought I’d been working toward. I’d been so wrong. Keisha was an addict, a thief, and a liar. She was also kind, and good-hearted, and loving, and . . . my daug
hter. “I love you, Keisha,” I said, letting the tears fall. “And I want all good things for you.”

  “Then get me out!” she nearly yelled, clenching the phone with both hands. “Get me out of here, Shannon!”

  She wasn’t hearing me. “I love you, Keish, and I’ll be in court next week to see what the judge decides to do.” He could sentence her to prison for up to five years, or he could refer her to a year-long treatment program. Maybe this would be the time she’d embrace the help being offered. I believed she could claw her way out from her addiction—thousands of recovered addicts attested to that possibility—but it would be up to her. I stood.

  “You’re leaving me here!” Keisha said, her eyes wide and her voice rising to the extent that a guard started moving toward her. “Shannon, don’t—”

  I hung up the phone as the guard came up behind her. I couldn’t look at her; it hurt too much to see her disappointment and anger. The glass didn’t drown out what she said—or rather, what she screamed—as I turned and left the room, my heart breaking with each step as a sob filled my chest. I so wanted a different solution than this.

  On my way out of the jail, door after door shut behind me, sealing Keisha in and cutting me off from her. The moment I stepped into the sunshine, I thought about the fact that we both needed to get well and that our wellness would be dependent on the choices we made from here on out.

  I got into my car, turned on the engine, grasped the steering wheel, and cried until my eyes were swollen and my chest ached. I had made so many discoveries about myself and my motives, but I knew I wasn’t done. I knew I would revisit all those things over and over again, I would want to save her in the future, I would want to be that hero again.

  I pulled out my phone and Googled the nearest Al-Anon meeting. There was one in Laguna Beach that started in an hour. I would be there with a prayer in my heart that it would help grant me the serenity to accept the things I could not change, change the things I could, and find the wisdom to know the difference.

  Chapter 39

  After dinner with Landon Saturday night, John and I sat on the couch like a normal couple and watched a Netflix video while Landon played video games with his friends down the hall. I popped popcorn for everyone and called my son “Baby Boy” when I brought it into the room. He rolled his eyes at me, but I knew he secretly liked it.

  Later that night, John took Landon’s friends home while I lay on the second bed in Landon’s room and listened to him update me on his life. He requested Pop-Tarts again, but this time, instead of refusing, I said, “I’ll see.” Maybe I could use them as bribery for chores or something.

  John came home, said good night to Landon, and then told me what work he had lined up for next week while we cleaned the kitchen together.

  “Sounds like a full week,” I said when he’d finished listing his out appointments—four bids, a final measure, and an install.

  “It feels good to be busy again,” he said while rinsing his hands. He turned off the water and picked up a dish towel. He leaned against the counter. “How about you? What’s on your agenda?”

  “I’m meeting some of the book club members for lunch on Monday,” I said with a nervous smile. I still could hardly believe I was going to do it. “I even turned down a shift at the Long Beach store so I could make it work.”

  “Really?” John said, smiling in that funny way of his that made me think he was half teasing me. But I knew he liked the idea. I’d confessed to him how lonely I felt and how I was beginning to think Keisha had been part of me trying to resolve it. Or run from it.

  “It was even my idea, though Ruby helped me choose the place. Apparently she and Gabe had lunch there last week.”

  “Good for you,” John said, truly impressed. “And good for Ruby.”

  “And I’m going to run on Monday too,” I said, hoping that would help prove to him I was healing. “I’m hoping I can do four miles even though I haven’t run for months.”

  His smile widened, and he stepped toward me, wrapping his arms loosely around my waist so he could still look at me. “I’m proud of you, Shan,” he said, soft and intimate.

  I basked in his words. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to trust me. I wanted him to feel about me the way I felt about him: grateful, safe, better.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You coming to bed?” he asked.

  “In a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve got one more thing to do.” I wondered if he would question me or think I was being too vague—he had reason to be suspect when I wasn’t completely upfront—but he didn’t bat an eye.

  “Do whatever you need to do,” he said, letting me go and giving me a quick kiss good night. “You know where to find me.”

  He went to bed while I headed for the desk in the study, sat down, and pulled out a piece of off-white stationery. When had I last written a letter by hand?

  I liked the feel of the pen in my hand and hoped it would help me break through my remaining resistance and help me be more involved in the words I put on the page. So many new starts in my life right now—or restarts, depending on how I looked at it.

  I brushed invisible dust off the paper, adjusted the pen in my grip, and started writing.

  Dear Ilana,

  I’ve thought about you a lot this last week and sent some prayers your way—I’m hoping they reached you intact. I know you can’t write back for a couple of weeks—Tori explained the rules when she gave me the address—and maybe you won’t want to write back at all, but, just in case you, like me, could use a friend, I thought I’d tell you about the impact your situation has had on my life—how you’ve inspired me.

  For you to really understand, though, I should start by telling you about my stepdaughter, Keisha . . .

  Butterscotch Brownies

  ½ cup butter

  2 cups brown sugar, light or dark

  1 tablespoon vanilla

  ¼ cup milk

  2 eggs

  2 cups flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  1½ teaspoons salt

  Preheat oven to 350 F.

  Melt butter in 2-quart saucepan. Remove from heat and add brown sugar. Mix well. Add vanilla, milk, and eggs. Mix well. Add flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix until just combined.

  Spread batter into a greased 9 x 13 pan. Bake approximately 30 minutes. Remove from oven when brownies are lightly browned and edges are just beginning to pull away from the sides of the pan. Do not overbake or brownies will be hard once they cool.

  For variety, add 1 cup chopped nuts, toffee chips, butterscotch chips, or chocolate chips.

  Victoria’s Promise

  Julie Wright

  Coming October 2013

  Chapter 1

  A man should never propose to a woman in a public place. Not unless he’d already talked to her about marriage and he’d caught her flipping through bridal magazines while doodling hearts around his name.

  And even then . . . there were no guarantees.

  I worked on a reality TV show called Vows, where a marriage proposal was a matter of contract—something the bachelor had to do whether he wanted to or not, and even then—with a few million dollars on the line and several nations watching—there were still no guarantees. Relationships were unpredictable, wretched things.

  I opened my mailbox and rubbed at my eyes, which burned from staying up late the night before then getting up early and spending nearly the whole day studying flash mob marriage proposals. I wanted a few new ideas that might be useful and fresh for the next season of Vows. It was good to be well informed on the job—especially since I was now the second assistant director.

  What I’d learned from watching guy after guy get down on one knee in front of basketball fans, circus patrons, and live studio audiences was that you’d better hope your mom wasn’t watching as the would-be girl of your dreams widened her eyes in horror, shook her head no, and ran like someone had called in a bomb threat.

  I rubbe
d my eyes again, wished I’d been smart enough to have caught a small nap during the afternoon, and tugged the envelope out of my mailbox.

  My heart went into some strange sort of arrhythmia after I caught sight of the return address on the envelope. It was from Ballad Studios. News about my screenplay. Ballad was one of the few studios that still wanted screenplay submissions in paper. Most were happy to work via e-mail, but not Ballad.

  And I now held an envelope from them in my hands with a decision waiting for me on the inside.

  I almost threw up on my own feet.

  The sound of a car horn blaring behind me startled me enough that I almost dropped the envelope.

  I tossed a quick smile to Lawrence, which would hopefully keep him from laying on the horn again. I had neighbors, and some of them worked graveyards. Some had children. None of them would approve of Lawrence and his car horn.

  I wanted to turn around and go back into my house to read my letter in private, but Lawrence was taking me to the Walt Disney Concert Hall to see Holst’s The Planets. Hiding out in my apartment and reading this letter by myself wouldn’t exactly be the show of support my best friend from since forever ago had wanted when she asked me to the event. Janette had organized the concert and really wanted me there for opening night. Lawrence wasn’t all that impressed with me wanting to go see the Los Angeles Philharmonic do a musical rendition of our solar system, but I hadn’t really cared when I told him I didn’t want to do anything else for our four-month anniversary.

  I had to go.

  Besides, Lawrence would be insanely ticked if I missed our anniversary, which totally baffled me. Four months of casual dating was not a milestone to be celebrated. It was something to be commented on, shrugged over, not thought of again until you hit five months—if you hit five months.

  Lawrence’s hand went to the horn again, but I waved, smiled, and headed his direction before he actually made contact with it. We probably wouldn’t hit five months. My dad wasn’t all that fond of Lawrence. When I asked Dad why, he said something about Lawrence being the poster child for an entitled white guy and left it at that.