Lundyn Bridges (6 page)

Afreeka wasn't only distant with us, she also pushed her boyfriend, Rasheed, away after he asked to marry her. She told me she wouldn't accept his ring because she wasn't ready to settle down and make that kind of commitment. Romen told me Afreeka was afraid of getting close to anyone. When I asked her if that was true, she denied it. However, every conversation Afreeka and I had about her settling down ended up being about her anger with our mother. I prayed for Afreeka – I wanted her to be free from her anger. Lord knew we were all still struggling to be free from the pain.

Romen and I talked for hours into the night. We had not had the opportunity to have big brother chats, and I felt like he was trying to make up for that. Romen spoke with wisdom about life and opportunities. He remembered all the people who helped us when we were children. He told me he tried his very best to take care of us. By the time he was ten, Romen realized Barbara's ability to take care of us would never be more than
sporadic. Romen admitted to loving school because it got him away from our mother.

“When I was little, I hated her,” he admitted. “I was angry that she made my life so unpredictable. I never knew my father and there were always different men in and out of my life and our house. She would be gone for days and then return as if she never left. I remember feeding Afreeka Cheerios for two days because I was afraid to cook. She hadn't been clean for two months when she announced that she was pregnant by the man sitting on the couch.” He finally paused.

“Was that my dad?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It could have been. He kept coming around for a long time after you were born.”

“What did he look like?” I hesitated after asking, not being sure I was ready to hear information about the mystery man who could have been my father. I wondered if he was the man I remembered.

“He was light-skinned and had a pony tail.”

“Do I look like him?”

“Lundyn, I honestly don't remember. I never looked him in the eye.” Romen exhaled, shook his head and then pursed his lips together. Whatever he did remember about this man, he wasn't ready to tell, and I didn't press it.

“Did you ever meet our grandmother?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I think so.” Romen's forehead wrinkled and he cocked his head to the side – like he had always done when he was serious. “I kinda remember going to this woman's house when I was five, Afreeka was two and Barbara was pregnant with you. She was carrying Afreeka, and when I couldn't step up on the bus she
yanked my arm like it was my fault.” Romen shook his head. “When we got to the house the woman hugged me and I noticed that she was crying. I don't remember being there long before she and Barbara began arguing and then we left. We never went back.”

“You think that was our grandmother?”

“It's hard to remember, but I think so.”

“It would have been nice to have a grandmother.” I smiled and hugged my brother.

I was very proud of Romen. He appeared to have overcome our past; he was happy and making a new life for himself. I envied that about him. Romen suspected I was still struggling with my life and, when he asked, I admitted he was right. He said if I was willing to let go of the anger and pain I would have to place those feelings in a box and seal it. Romen said he kept his box during college, but he threw it in Lake Erie after he married Nina. He said he refused to look back. He promised Nina he would only look forward and he consciously refused to focus on the past. It sounded good, and I earnestly listened. I wasn't that strong and still needed to bring closure to many things before I could move forward. Romen had Nina and Raymond, and they would love him forever in spite of his scars. I was still afraid to allow anyone to really know me and still doubted anyone could ever love me in spite of my scars.

The weekend was comforting and I was glad I had come. Nina cooked breakfast on Sunday and I ate slowly because time was passing too quickly. Before I left, Romen and I made one last attempt to call Afreeka – we let the phone ring until the answering machine came on. Romen hung up the phone before I could leave another message. There was nothing to say.
Romen hugged me as I stood holding the receiver. Nina interrupted the silence when she brought Raymond over to me to say good-bye. I whispered I love you in his ear before giving him back to her. We said our goodbyes, and I hugged Raymond and Nina before getting in my car. I waved good-bye and blew kisses as I backed out of the driveway.

As I drove down Interstate 79 I thought about Romen's words over and over – put my past in a box and throw it away so I can focus on my future. One day, I promised myself, I would be able to do that too.

By mid-September I was facilitating some of the adolescent obesity groups. Most of the kids in our group had done well at the summer camp and, although everyone had not reached their goals, all of them lost weight. I developed a two week practice plan and an Activity Worksheet for the kids to begin taking control of their health. The plan provided food choices for their school's cafeteria as well as snacking at home. The group continued to be invested, and I felt assured the kids would be dutiful in the pursuit of their weight loss goals. These kids were my beacon of hope; they gave me the success my weak ego required to stay in the therapeutic game.

By this time, I had also acquired confidence in my therapeutic approach. The text book theories had no answers or anecdotes to offer for someone as multi-symptomatic and emotionally complex as Francine. My first two months at work had been a trial by fire – often I had been burned but I learned many invaluable lessons about dealing with people.

The ritual of my therapeutic relationship with Francine evolved around her being stand-offish, then agitated and finally angry. I was still desperately trying to get Francine to be honest about her feelings, but she continued to be evasive. She often indulged me with disjointed pieces of information, and I intentionally continued to press her. During her visit on the last Monday of September, Francine finally became talkative. We were in my office discussing her educational goals when she completely changed the subject. It was as if Francine had an epiphany, and she seemed distracted. She stood, walked toward the window and adjusted the blinds so the sunlight was more direct. Without facing me, she began to speak.

“You're right,” she sighed. “I do know a lot about guilt.”

“Tell me what you know.” I turned my chair to face her and crossed my leg, giving her my full attention.

“I got $10,000 when my dad died, and I bought a car and got high with the money.” Francine continued, speaking quickly like she might forget what she wanted to say. “Miss Jean was a jealous, mad,” Francine paused and took a breath. “She was a mad cow who hated the fact that my dad wouldn't divorce my mom.” Francine's tone softened. “I know he would have left my mom eventually.”

Her statements maintained their usual disconnectedness and seemed off the subject of guilt. “Why did you want your parents to break up?” I asked to keep her talking.

“I know my dad didn't love my mother, and I'm not sure she loved him. I don't know why they ever got married. They were an odd couple.”

“What makes you say that?”

“My dad was a good looking man, always well dressed, always had a nice car and money in his pocket. When he walked down the street it seemed like everybody knew him. He was a proud man just like his father. My dad used to talk about growing up in Tucker, Georgia. His favorite story was when a gang of white men tried to hang his dad for blowing a kiss at a white woman. My grandfather was so angry that he tensed up and only got a rope burn before his friends cut him down. When my grandfather left Georgia, he vowed to never go south again. I never met the rest of our family.” Francine's voice trailed off like she was reliving the moment. The joy in her smile appeared genuine. She took a deep breath and exhaled softly. After a deliberate pause, she took a seat and faced me.

Her tone deflated as she began talking about her mother. “My mother always wore a house dress; she didn't know how to keep house, and she couldn't cook. I don't think she ever liked me. My sister, Maxine, was her favorite. ‘Maxi, come here and read to your Mama' was her favorite line. ‘Maxi's going to college, and she's going to buy me a house in Monroeville' she used to brag to all of her friends. She treated me like I was invisible. When she talked to me, it was yelling for something. ‘Why can't you get A's like Maxi?' ‘I would ask you to read, but I never see you reading anything.' ‘If your teacher calls again, I'm going to tell them to put you out.' Sometimes I did things just to get on her nerves. It's a damn shame when women birth kids and then don't like them!”

After my reminder to keep the language clean, Francine rolled her eyes and smirked before continuing.

“For as long as I can remember my dad would meet Miss Jean at the Beer Garden every day after work. I would see them on my way home from school, and they didn't try to hide. Sometimes, if my dad was facing the window, he would wave. On most Saturday's he would lie to my mother and tell her he was going out with his friends when he was only going to Miss Jean's house. She lived across the Larimer Bridge on Paulson Avenue.”

Francine paused again, and I patiently waited. She was finally talking, sharing details of a story which was only briefly noted in her file. This pause was not obstinate; it was as if she was reliving the events, as if she wanted to make sure the sequence was correct, as if she was fighting to control her emotions. “One day when my dad was drunk, he told me he liked being with Miss Jean ‘cause they didn't argue.” Francine shook her head and sighed at the thought.

My first clue to the puzzle was that emotions made Francine feel extremely vulnerable.

After several deep breaths, Francine continued. “I graduated from high school in June of 1971 and had my first son in July. My dad was mad as hell.”

Instead of interrupting her for using profanity, I let Francine continue speaking.

“My dad wanted me to be like Max and go to college to make something of myself. He knew I hated school. I kept telling him there were other ways to make a living. Anyway, I was taking the baby to see him. Actually, I needed money and knew I could get it because he was probably drunk. As I was standing on the porch, taking the baby out of the umbrella stroller, I could hear them yelling at each other. Miss Jean was
screaming at my dad because she wanted him to divorce my mother.”

Francine hesitated and looked over at me, making sure I was listening.

“Then I heard her say it. ‘Sonny, I'll kill you before I let you go!'”

Francine's jaws tightened. She picked up her coffee cup from my desk but did not drink from it.

“My heart jumped when I heard glass breaking, and I banged on the door. I was holding the baby wishing I had left him at home. There was no where to put him down. I remember kicking the door. When Miss Jean opened it, I walked past her without speaking. She mumbled something but I ignored her. I don't remember walking up the steps or down the hallway. My dad was sittin' in a folding chair in the kitchen drinkin' his beer. Miss Jean was right behind me. It crossed my mind to turn around and knock her head off with the beer bottle that was on the table. Miss Jean started sweeping the glass as I led my dad by the hand back down the hallway, down the steps and out the front door. I tried to warn him to stay away from her, but he told me it was grown folks business and he could handle it.”

Francine looked over at me again, and I stopped writing. She had tears in her eyes. “I should have done something,” she said shaking her head. She put her cup back on the desk.

“What do you mean?”

“She killed him. Just like she said she would.” Francine looked away.

Her statement shocked me.

“Six months later, on January 4, 1972, she killed him.”

I sat motionless, suddenly unsure of what I should be noting. My first response was to pray. ‘When in doubt and you don't know what to say, just pray. God already knows all about it.' The words of the song repeated in my mind, and before I thought about it, I asked Francine if she wanted to pray.

“Prayer ain't never helped me,” she stated sarcastically, still looking away. “It ain't never helped me before, and it ain't gonna help me now.”

Instead of forcing the issue, I brought closure to our session. Francine seemed relieved. I thanked God for that door. Francine had connected some of the fragments giving me a glimpse of her pain and confirming my assumption that she was in bondage to guilt. There was so much more to her story. This piece of information was undoubtedly only the surface. My goal was to get to the core.

My victory with Francine was short lived. On Tuesday we were back to playing the silent game. Francine did not want to talk, but I wasn't angry. I knew it wasn't me Francine was avoiding, it was all the pain. I also knew for Francine to be free, she would have to deal with that pain. That first opening with Francine confirmed what Kiarra said when we applied for this internship, “Women who are depressed need a support group, some therapy and a lot of Jesus.”