“Do you have any ideas?” Dr. Tilley asked. She believed and prayed that Dianne would get a revelation. More than anything, she wanted to see Dianne freed from the shackles of her mind.
“Well...” Dianne switched positions on what she now referred to as the thinking couch. “There was a time when I liked to write poetry.”
Dr. Tilley pounced on the opportunity. “Writing is very therapeutic, Dianne. It’s one of the best ways to get your feelings out there and hear from heaven as well. Why don’t you try writing a couple of poems before the next session? They don’t have to be anything fancy. Just whatever comes to your mind.”
With Dr. Tilley’s prayers and encouragement, Dianne embarked on a literary path to healing. She even worked up the nerve to sign up for poetry reading at an eccentric local bookstore.
The lights were dimmed; candles and incense burned throughout the small store. The audience literally gathered at her feet, sitting Indian-style on little carpet squares. It was quaint and comfortable, and Dianne felt right at home with a group of people who heard the beats from that different drum.
“This is a poem that I wrote for a very special relative of mine who couldn’t be in the audience tonight. Her name is Yolanda—we call her Yo-yo.
It’s called ‘Sister I Lost, Sister I Found.” Dianne had a copy of the poem in her pocket, but she didn’t need it. The lines were written on her heart. She closed her eyes and assigned her voice to the poem. The words flew out of her like a flock of doves that had been waiting patiently to use their wings at the sound of the cage door creaking open.
Sister I Lost, Sister I Found When I lost her, I lost me. Even the chamber that once held me Disappeared. Then appeared another circle— Another sphere. And the both of you. Opening the door, filling me With You and Him. He loved me through you, Sister I Found.
The reading was over before it started. And when she bowed her head and heard the praise of the audience, Dianne knew. She just knew. Suddenly it all made sense. All the pain and trauma she’d been through—every experience she’d ever had in her life—had formed her into the woman she was at that very moment. Every situation had worked together for her good, just as Aunt Gloria had always told her. Just as God promised in His Word. He really did love her.
She just couldn’t see it until that night.
After the final reading, Dianne bought a few books and walked back to her car, still on cloud nine. The night air seemed to soothe her, and she breathed deeply to take in its effect. She remembered the times her mother woke her and told her to take Shannon outside so that she could get some night air and stop all that wheezing. With sand still in her eyes, Dianne would pick up her raspy sister, stopping every few steps to readjust Shannon’s behind on her bony hip, and go out to the patio in the middle of the night for this very air.
Dianne felt bitterness creeping up to her otherwise pleasant mood and decided that she’d hum a tune to keep her mind clear. She smiled, thinking of how Aunt Toe always seemed to be humming some gospel tune or other for no reason at all. Maybe she did it to keep her mind settled, too.
“Say, wait up,” a male voice called to Dianne just as she reached her car.
She stopped and waited for her suitor to delineate himself from the thinning crowd. He trotted to the side of her car and then slowed down so as not to appear too eager. He’d obviously been drawn by the old low-self-esteem magnet that she still wore on her forehead. “Say, girl, how you learned-ed to read like that?”
“I went to school.” She gave a sly smile.
“You got to call me some time.” He got straight to the point. The shiny crests of his finger waves glistened in the moonlight.
“Sure.” She caught herself this time, though. As good as she felt, she didn’t necessarily need a man in her bed tonight.
She watched him as he flipped through his wallet for something that would have his phone number on it, she assumed. In the process, she noticed he had several pictures of an adorable little boy.
“Is that your son?” she asked.
“Yeah. I see him when I can,” he said, revealing himself.
A surge of irritation charged through her. “Well, if you find it difficult to make time for your son, you certainly don’t have time for me. Good-bye.”
With that, she stepped into her car and revved up the engine. He hopped back on the curb in time to save his foot.
Dianne laughed at herself all the way home. It was an empowering thing, she thought, to be able to pick and choose what and whom she allowed in her life.
Chapter 17
Yolanda had a good prayer, a refreshing slumber, and then bounded in to work at a little after one in the afternoon.
“It’s been wild around here today. Dr. Hamilton’s on a rampage again because we’re out of Coumadin,” Brookelynn said as she printed out a label for a pill bottle. “He wants you to call him.”
“Why me?”
“I guess because I wasn’t giving him the answer he wanted to hear.”
“Whatever,” Yolanda sighed. “Thanks for switching shifts with me.”
“Is your sister going to be okay?”
“I’m sure she will be,” Yolanda said, touched by Brookelynn’s concern. “Just pray for us.”
“Oh, and your boyfriend called,” Brookelynn teased.
“He is not my boyfriend. He is my friend,” Yolanda said.
“Whatever you say, Yolanda.” Brookelynn teased.
“Can’t a woman have a male friend?”
“Yes, a woman can have a friend. But Kelan is not just your friend,” Brookelynn argued.
“And how do you know so much?” Yolanda asked, stopping long enough to humor her coworker.
“It’s in the way your lips curve toward a smile when you talk about him. It’s in the way you cradle the phone in the nook of your neck when he calls. Believe me, I know these things.” Brookelynn spoke the truth.
Yolanda glared at her, unable to find the words for a rebuttal. “Whatever.”
“Well, if you don’t want him, I’d love to introduce him to my little sister. She’s into art. I’m sure that she and Kelan would hit it off great.”
Involuntarily Yolanda’s left eyebrow shot up and her lips thrust forward.
“Gotcha.” Brookelynn winked at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Yolanda wondered if everybody else sensed this chemistry between her and Kelan. If Brookelynn knew it from just their phone conversations, her family could probably tell from the interactions at Sunday dinners. The whole thing was extremely uncomfortable. She shook her head and forced her mind to get back on work.
Yolanda made herself a note to call Dr. Hamilton and held it off until she could carve out a good ten minutes to talk to him. She was in no way fond of Dr. Hamilton and had been tempted to light a candle when he announced his retirement seven months ago.
Dr. Hamilton was a mean old something and he wasn’t even a good doctor, but he had been in the town long before the McDonald’s, and he was still revered in the community. Back when Dr. Hamilton was in his prime, he had done just about everything from setting broken bones to delivering babies.
Yolanda called Dr. Hamilton to let him know that the next day’s incoming shipment would include Coumadin. He fussed a little, but Yolanda was used to dealing with his type. If Yolanda could deal with Aunt Toe, she could deal with anybody.
As she hung up the phone with Dr. Hamilton and trashed the yellow reminder note, Yolanda wondered if her own father would have been like Dr. Hamilton. She wondered, too, how he would have handled the situation with Regina. Would this morning have been different with a patriarch in the picture?
Yolanda took a moment to searche through medical encyclopedias between prescriptions to learn more about her sister’s situation from a medical standpoint.
When she put two and two together, she realized Regina had been suffering from an eating disorder for the better part of her life. Secretive eating, mood swings, self-degrading comments, mood sw
ings, eating large amounts of food with no apparent weight gain, mood swings—everything made sense now. She’d seen Regina eat like crazy when she came home for the holidays in college, but she never gained an ounce. Not once could Yolanda remember ever having seen Regina exercise. Never mind the times in grade school when she’d found dozens of candy wrappers in the trashcan. Everybody knew Regina ate a lot—she always had. But no one had a clue as to how she managed to get all that weight off in college and keep it off as an adult. Until now.
Yolanda went straight to Regina’s house after getting off work. The doctors had agreed to release Regina with notes about seeing another physician soon.
Regina, however, was still sulking and refused to lighten up despite the delightful bouquet Yolanda brought from the drugstore. “Thank you,” Regina mumbled dutifully as Yolanda set them on the windowsill.
Yolanda sat on the love seat across from her sister, resisting the urge to pull the curtain string and lighten the room. Orlando’s family was keeping the baby so Regina could recover in peace, but this place wasn’t peaceful. It was depressing.
“How’s your head?”
“As good as it can be with twenty-three stitches and a few bruises,” she said sarcastically, raising one eyebrow and then lowering it with the pain that shot through her forehead.
Regina turned her throbbing head and focused on the flowers. A single tear rolled from the corner of her eye and disappeared in her hairline. If she could click a mental switch and turn off the voices of ridicule in her head, she would. But it was not that easy. Regina hadn’t asked for any of this. Not once had she fantasized, Mmm, I wish I could be fat, then get skinny, then have a baby, then have a wreck while trying to get skinny again. That’s what I want to do when I grow up!
Yolanda gave up her cheerleading efforts and decided to leave Regina alone. When her sister got like this, there was no coaxing her out of it. Yolanda exhaled noisily and stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder and approaching Regina’s bedside. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sis.”
Regina said her good-byes faintly, her eyes set on the bouquet. She had no intention of keeping that thing alive.
Yolanda took a deep cleansing breath. She’d hoped to be able to introduce the idea of seeking professional help about the eating disorder today, but Regina’s attitude threw the plan way off. Yolanda wondered if there would ever be a good time to talk to Regina about the help she needed. Probably not. Still, something had to be discussed.
It wasn’t like Yolanda to call anyone for advice about her problems, least of all a man. But she’d come to value Kelan’s perspective. He viewed things through a different lens and often brought spiritual insight that Yolanda hadn’t considered. She was hardly in the car before she called on his friendly voice and filled him in on her family drama.
“She’s still so depressed,” Yolanda confided. “I guess I was hoping to catch her in a good mood to tell her that she needs help. That’s crazy, huh?”
“Well, I don’t know that there’s ever be a good time to recommend a psychologist to someone. Probably a dietician, too—you know, a team of people to help her through this.” Kelan was firm in his opinion.
“I know, you’re right.” Yolanda gave into his suggestions easily. In fact, she alarmed herself with how effortlessly she relented.
Likewise, he was flattered by Yolanda’s confidence in his opinion. He wished he could tell her how much he wanted her in his life, but doing so would push her away. He’d listened enough to know that Yolanda was afraid. For the moment, he’d settled for friendship and Sunday dinners at Gloria’s.
Chapter 18
“Girl, I’ll be praying,” Dianne told Yolanda as they finished up their telephone conversation.
Yolanda had to tell somebody in the family about Regina, and since Dianne was the most distant relative, she would do. “Prayer is what we need right now.” Yolanda nodded as though Dianne could see her. She never thought she’d see the day Dianne was praying for them instead of vice versa.
“I could ask Dr. Tilley if she has any associates near Dentonville,” Dianne proposed. It was their little secret that Dianne was seeing a psychologist. “Anyone she recommends will be worth seeing.”
“That’s a good idea,” Yolanda agreed. “It’ll be a hard sell with Regina, though.”
Dianne called upon her newfound wisdom and volunteered to come to Dentonville and accompany Regina to the psychologist, as Gwen had done for her. “It means a lot when someone who’s been in your shoes steps in and takes your hand.” Even as she said the words, she remembered how Yo-yo had taken her hand years ago and led her to the altar to give her life to Christ. They shared a fatherlessness that only a daughter’s aching heart could feel.
“I’ll call and ask her”—Yolanda blew the words out of her mouth like smoke from a cigarette—“but I don’t think it’ll do much. If anything, she’ll probably be angry that I told you.”
“Well, people who need help are always getting angry about something or another. That’s nothing new. It’s all in how we approach her.”
“Easier said than done.” Yolanda felt helpless, and she hated it. She was a pharmacist, for crying out loud, but it certainly wasn’t doing her any good now. “Talk to you later.”
“Tell everybody I said hello. I’ll call you later this week. Bye.”
The list of everybody passed quickly through Dianne’s mind. Everybody, if Yo-yo took her literally, would include Joyce Ann. Everybody except my mother, she should have said. On second thought, Joyce Ann didn’t deserve that title. From now on, she’s Joyce Ann to me.
Dianne grabbed her poetry journal and headed off to meet with her writing group, which consisted of other writers she had met at poetry night. Joining a group that met once weekly was a big investment that yielded a great deal of interest. She could hardly wait to gather at the members’ homes on Saturday night to listen, learn, and share. Somehow, the group that started under the premise of female poets gathering to discuss their writings turned out to be a divine assembly of women who honored God in their writing.
Keisha, though the youngest, was the undeclared leader of the group. Her natural Afro and gold hoop earrings lent her the appearance of wisdom, which she quickly affirmed when she opened her mouth to speak. She had been the first to make the observation at their second meeting. “I might be reading too far into this, but I think this is a Christian poetry club, if you ask me.”
“I was thinking the same thing, my sister,” Juanita chimed in.
Dianne felt the hairs on her arms stand at attention. He’s still thinking about me.
Since that time, they’d opened and closed each meeting with praise and prayer.
Dianne pulled the belt on her camel suede jacket tighter and tucked her hands under her armpits as she waited for Juanita to open the door. Winter’s early arrival had caught her off guard, with much of her winter clothing still packed away in large plastic bins. This jacket, her only hope, might as well have been a sheet, because the wind was cutting through cowhide, kicking behinds and taking names later that night.
Juanita finally appeared through the beveled glass and opened the door just wide enough to let Dianne in. “Ooh! That’s a strong gust!”
“Who are you tellin’?” Dianne rubbed her hands together for warmth.
Juanita’s home smelled of pumpkin and cinnamon—a treat in the oven, Dianne supposed. It was just like her to have hot food available. In the gathering room, Keisha and Dianne lounged on plush sink-down sofas with their shoes arranged neatly by the fireplace. Overhead, the sound of Juanita’s two sons trampling about their bedroom added to the simple charm of her home. Neither of the guests cared about the boys making life’s noises, but Juanita propped one fluffy pink house shoe on the bottom step and called upstairs, telling them to pipe down or go to bed.
Keisha laughed, “Girl, is that your solution to everything— go to bed?”
“Sure is.” Juanita rolled her eyes and gave a few comical examples
of how she’d remedied many a problem by simply sending the boys to bed for everything from turning the television up too loud to burning toast.
Following their worship and prayer, Dianne read first:
“I am five fingers—one for each sense. To see, touch, taste, hear, and take in the fragrance of existence. I am, then, a glove. And You are the hand that fills me. Move me by Your power. Let me do, let me work, let me BE The hand that does Your Will In Every Sense.”
Gloria piled baked chicken, corn, and greens on the plastic plate she would carry down the street to Joyce Ann. It had been like this 90 percent of the time: Gloria picking up the pieces of Joyce Ann’s life, trying to keep her little sister in line. Their mother, Ruth, passed that responsibility to Gloria long ago. The “mother hen” in Gloria quickly assumed the maternal role with Joyce Ann, to the extent that Joyce Ann would allow it. She could be as stubborn as a mule, though, and buck up to Gloria when she got a mind to.
The task of getting Joyce Ann on the straight and narrow had proven to be an exhausting effort. Over the years, unbeknownst to her family, Gloria had bailed Joyce Ann out of jail more times than she could remember. As much as she hated her sister’s lifestyle, Gloria breathed a sigh of relief every time the phone rang at two a.m. and the caller was an operator asking her to accept a collect phone call from jail, rather than a coroner calling her to come and identify Joyce Ann’s body.
Gloria was a regular at the grocery store’s Western Union counter, wiring money all over Texas to cover her sister’s petty antics. She’d had Joyce Ann admitted to four rehab centers over the past seventeen years.
Everyone else in their small family had given up on Joyce Ann. Even Aunt Toe had called Gloria once to tell her that she might as well let Joyce Ann fall flat on her face, flat into the capable hands of God. Gloria couldn’t do that, not after how close she herself had come to rock bottom in the weeks following Willie’s death. Other people went back to work, back to church, back to life after they sealed the casket and lowered her Willie into the dispassionate earth.
Divas of Damascus Road Page 14
