Lundyn Bridges (13 page)

 

 

Kiarra was the first to arrive back in Pittsburgh, and she made dinner. I stopped at my apartment to pack an overnight bag and to get our Christmas marathon videos.
The Family Man
and
The Santa Claus
were on our favorite's list with
Miracle on 34th Street
and
It's a Wonderful Life
. We spent the evening with pie and hot chocolate and fell asleep on her couch.

The following afternoon, we exchanged holiday stories. Kiarra offered no information about informing her parents of Xavier's abuse, but I had to ask. This had become a sour note between me and my best friend. Although I realized it was a necessary evil, I hated having to constantly bring it up. My fear that Xavier would re-surface kept me gnawing at Kiarra. She was blinded, and I was unable to help her see. She had sworn me to secrecy, but I prayed hard and often she would stop ignoring the abuse.

I left her house that evening with a heavy heart. There was too much pain, too much denial – it seemed that everyone around me was hiding from something.

Jamel called to wish me a Happy New Year and to confirm our date on January third. His pre-occupation with completing his dissertation made the relationship palatable for both of us. I liked him but needed to work
on myself. It would have been easy to let myself get caught up in the relationship, but that wouldn't have been fair to either of us. Any chance we had depended on me liking myself and resolving the issues of my past.

Journaling became a major catharsis in my therapy – it consumed me and initiated a vicious cycle. My bi-weekly sessions were utilized to give voice to the repressed little girl who was afraid of her feelings and longed for her mother. I would spend days forcing myself to remember all the things I tried to forget. Then I would spend hours chronicling these events. My therapy sessions were always intense and reduced me to tears as I confronted my feelings – the ‘Empty Chair' gave me the opportunity to express my bottled feelings to Barbara and became a monumental process in my healing. Sometimes, if I closed my eyes, I could picture her sitting in the chair. It was a momentary memory which was always interrupted by her nodding off if I pictured her too long.

Kathleen continued to encourage me. Some days I felt like I was making progress at being whole, and sometimes I left her office feeling emotionally depleted.

Two days later, Jamel arrived at my apartment around seven-thirty in the morning. I thought I was dreaming when the door bell rang and was surprised to see the hot cakes and sausage from McDonald's, which Jamel presented after kissing me on the cheek. Although I was expecting a dinner date, I appreciated Jamel's spontaneity. After removing our breakfast from the styrofoam, I put our food on plates while Jamel set the table. We laughed as we admitted that neither one of us had ever been on a breakfast date. Over
coffee, while sitting on my couch, I told Jamel about seeing the therapist.

"I'm not really embarrassed about it," I told him, finally able to look him in the eyes. "I know I need to be there."

"Then that's what's important." Jamel pulled me into his arms, and I snuggled against him. "To everything there is a season. I had my season in therapy."

"Don't patronize me."

"I saw a therapist for almost a year when I was a freshman in college."

"Why?"

"The only man I had known as my father walked away from me when my mother divorced him. In anger he told me he wasn't really my father, and then he was gone. My mother finally admitted my biological father was her college sweetheart who had been sending checks to maintain his anonymity since graduating from Harvard Law School."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Yeah, but I resolved that a long time ago. If he wants to be anonymous – so be it."

"Didn't you ever want to meet him?”

"I wanted him to want to know me."

Pain seemed to be a normal part of life for everyone – it merely took on different faces. Jamel appeared to have moved on – that meant there was hope for me. I could move on, too.

Later that afternoon, I continued my story. Being separated from my siblings was a pain that left a permanent scar.

January 3, 2005

In January of 1989 the twins were placed with a foster family that became a pre-adoptive home. It took me a while to like their foster parents, Mr. & Mrs. Teague, because I wanted them to take all of us. Romen told me to be happy because they were together and would grow up in a family. The Teague's also told the caseworker they would bring the twins to visit us at least twice per month.

Romen lived on the other side of the Holy Family campus, and we didn't get to see him often. The girls and boys only came together for school, chapel services and special events. We always sat together on Sunday, and we intentionally lingered at the front door of the school to see each other every day.

Afreeka was sent to several foster homes but returned within thirty days because she was angry with everyone. My heart sank each time she left – I desperately needed to be with her, much more than I wanted her to be in a family without me. My mom was gone, the twins were gone and the thought of losing Afreeka was petrifying. Every time she left I couldn't eat. I could go for eight days without food, and then I would only eat dinner while I waited for Afreeka to return.

When Romen turned fifteen he was moved to the Whale's Tale Shelter in Lawrenceville. He hated being separated from us, but this gave him the opportunity to play basketball at Schenley High School. He made us promise we
would always stay in touch and that Afreeka and I should try to stay together. Before he left, he gave me his gold chain, and I swore that I would never take it off. Romen kept his promise to maintain contact by calling, and visiting us. Afreeka and I surprised him by attending a few of his games.

The moments of happiness were few and my demeanor remained sullen. I was diagnosed as depressed. Hope became a myth, and happiness was far out of my reach. Except for my nightly ritual of crying myself to sleep, my emotions flat-lined, and I only smiled when Romen visited. Afreeka was the only person I talked to at Holy Family – silence became the outward manifestation of my despair. Six months later, I replaced my nightly crying sessions with books. I lived vicariously through each of the characters – their plight was always easier to accept than my own, and they always had a happy ending to their story.

My life continued to be cloudy and gray. Even though I could quote every cliché I had committed to memory from the Bible, I didn't believe any of them. They were trite and only led to false hope. I had wept for more nights than I could count, and I was still waiting for joy. My life was one rainy day after the other, and I had never found the rainbow in spite of all the storms I had been through.

Until next time…

Jamel attended church with me on Sunday. He confessed that, since graduating from high school, he
had only gone to church with his mother during school breaks and holidays. Kiarra sat with us and we exchanged unspoken signals and giggles like two school girls. My best friend was happy for me.

When I returned to work after the Christmas holiday Francine seemed a bit contrite. I had become engrossed with my own healing which diminished her effect on me. This was actually good therapy for Francine. She was used to being in control, but she was helpless as I struggled with myself. Although I apologized to her for my outburst in November, she had chosen not to apologize to me until now – two months later.

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.