Bebe Moore Campbell by 72 Hour Hold Page B

argument so soon was a letdown. Venom was still coursing through my veins. Once Clyde tapped my rage, it was hard to stop the flow, but I swallowed my retort and ate my sushi. Neither digested well.
    Home is the place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in. Was I still home to Clyde? Was that why he’d come to me?
    We were young together, Clyde and I. We were poor together. In our time we made love that set the roof on fire. The memory of it warmed me still. But I didn’t want to remember. I was Clyde’s first wife. There had been three others. Our time had passed. That’s what I had to keep reminding myself.
    When I returned, the store was full, phones were ringing, and Adriana had one question after another for me. Frances informed me that both Dr. Bellows and Trina’s therapist had left messages. And, of course, when I called them back, only their answering services were available. I stayed in my office, returning calls and hoping to hear from anyone on Trina’s health team. Frances popped in from time to time, pretending that she was looking for something, trying to act busy when her real intention was to check on me.
    Elaine from Beth Israel’s Weitz Center was the first person actually to speak to me. Trina was where she was supposed to be and hadn’t gone AWOL during her cigarette break. Elaine listened quietly as I described Trina’s behavior the previous night, her irritability and insomnia. I didn’t say I suspected that Trina had been smoking weed, however, because Elaine might have kicked her out of the program.
    “Look, Keri,” Elaine said, when I had finished talking. “Your daughter has a brain disease. Every day isn’t going to be the same for her.”
    “How has she been acting today?”
    “She’s been absolutely fine. Maybe a little bit hyper, but you’re going to have to relax, dear. Her healing is
her
job, not yours.”
    I didn’t feel quite as dismissed by Dr. Bellows, when we finally spoke later that afternoon. I told him about my suspicion that Trina had been smoking pot.
    “Could it send her into an episode?” I asked.
    Dr. Bellows sighed. “Yes.” He was quiet for a moment; then he proposed increasing her antipsychotic from five milligrams a day to ten for the next few days. “Get her to her psychologist as soon as possible, so she can talk about whatever it is that’s bothering her.”
    It was a good plan, and I hung up feeling relieved. My relief gave way to frustration when I learned that her therapist would be on vacation for the next two weeks. Trina was really attached to her. It would be very unlikely that she’d open up to anyone else, including me.
    Frances poked her head inside my office.
    “You okay?” she asked.
    She didn’t wait for me to answer before sitting down on the chair next to my desk. “When my nephew was on drugs, every night was crazy. I can’t even remember the number of times me and my sister would get in the car and go riding around looking for his dumb butt. Delores started beating on him in the middle of the street one night, just as he was coming out of some get-high place. She tore him up. But you know what? He was right out there the next night doing the same damn thing. All Delores did was make herself crazy, along with a few of her family members. And for what? When the drugs kicked his ass to the point where he couldn’t stand himself, that’s when he got clean.”
    She looked at me and smiled.
    “Trina’s gonna do what she’s gonna do. And you can’t stop her.” She leaned over the desk and put her hand on mine. “She’s going to be all right. You need to stop worrying about her and live your own life.”
    Why did people always tell me that everything was going to be all right with Trina, as if their saying it could make it come true, as if the sheer force of their good wishes would eliminate even the possibility that my child’s illness wouldn’t cut loose and boogie her right into an irreversible