Read Online Bebe Moore Campbell by 72 Hour Hold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: 72 Hour Hold
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Domestic Fiction, Mothers and daughters, Manic-Depressive Persons, Mental Health Services
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casual again.
3
MILTON, MY FRIEND GLORIA’S HUSBAND, WAS INTRODUCing the speaker, the famous UCLA professor of psychiatry Dr. Henry Gold, as I tiptoed down the aisle of All Souls Presbyterian Church, where the support group was held the last Wednesday of every month. A small dapper man with a calm air, Milton spoke in a monotone as he listed the speaker’s outstanding accomplishments in his field. From time to time, he glanced at Gloria, who was seated near the front, and she would smile and nod. Dr. Gold had already begun speaking when I slipped into the fifth pew and settled into my seat. I had left the house late, running back inside several times to get my glasses, a liter of water, keys. My procrastination was deliberate. The meetings had fallen off my list of things to do. Already, my mind had begun drifting.
Usually, the support group met in the basement, but that smaller space couldn’t contain the crowd gathered to hear the “internationally renowned” Dr. Gold. He appeared to be in his forties, a big man whose voice vibrated with such a hearty cadence that his pronunciation of the polysyllabic brand and generic names of the latest psychotropic drugs bounced off his tongue like lyrics to a heartfelt rap. The newsletter had billed him as “an orthomolecular psychiatrist, an innovator in the field of brain diseases who has done extensive research on the impact of nutrition on bipolar patients.”
“How is mental illness linked to nutrition?” he asked from behind the pulpit.
I opened my schedule book to the blank pages in the back, my pen poised loosely between my fingers. In the darkest days, when the only thing worse than not knowing Trina’s whereabouts was being a witness to her manic acts of self-destruction, when seventy-two-hour holds became twofers—therapeutic benefit for Trina and my only possible escape—I would have sat rigidly in my support group chair, straining to hear while thinking, hoping, praying that the knowledge of whatever expert who stood before me might be the salvation I was seeking. Some of the people around me were Clenchers, leaning forward in their chairs, forgetting to take a breath as their muscles locked. Others were cowering on the edge of their seats, as if furtively seeking to ward off the next unexpected pounding of waves they couldn’t see from an ocean they couldn’t control.
Listening to the ebullient doctor from UCLA rattle off a vitamin regimen for the mood-disordered, I felt myself being pulled back into bleak waters. Strange how the same thing that once kept me afloat now had the power to make me feel as though I were sinking all over again. I stood up, glad that I was at the end of the pew, and walked quickly down the aisle with my head bowed. I knew my face revealed I was desperate to leave, and I didn’t want to advertise that to the rest of the group. Making my way to the stairs, I went down to the basement, a large empty room, and took a seat in the back. I’d wait here for the forty-five minutes that the meeting would last and then hang out with Gloria, Milton, and Mattie. I closed my eyes.
The rich, fragrant aroma of percolating coffee and the faint, sweet odor of the cookies and fruit that would be served after the meeting filled the area. The basement was directly below the sanctuary. Dr. Gold’s muffled lecture wafted downstairs, but at least I didn’t have to watch the hopeful, straining to hear the restorative miracle in each word.
My head was falling forward in a nod when suddenly I bounded straight up. Above me was the unmistakable tone of discord. The words
crap
and
jerks
and
so-called experts
were hurled through the floorboards like spears. A few minutes later, heavy, deliberate footsteps were descending.
“Keri?”
The white woman in front of me wasn’t so much standing as she was looming, a wounded lioness pressing against her cage. My name was a snarl in her mouth. There was an unlit cigarette between her two fingers, and she
3
MILTON, MY FRIEND GLORIA’S HUSBAND, WAS INTRODUCing the speaker, the famous UCLA professor of psychiatry Dr. Henry Gold, as I tiptoed down the aisle of All Souls Presbyterian Church, where the support group was held the last Wednesday of every month. A small dapper man with a calm air, Milton spoke in a monotone as he listed the speaker’s outstanding accomplishments in his field. From time to time, he glanced at Gloria, who was seated near the front, and she would smile and nod. Dr. Gold had already begun speaking when I slipped into the fifth pew and settled into my seat. I had left the house late, running back inside several times to get my glasses, a liter of water, keys. My procrastination was deliberate. The meetings had fallen off my list of things to do. Already, my mind had begun drifting.
Usually, the support group met in the basement, but that smaller space couldn’t contain the crowd gathered to hear the “internationally renowned” Dr. Gold. He appeared to be in his forties, a big man whose voice vibrated with such a hearty cadence that his pronunciation of the polysyllabic brand and generic names of the latest psychotropic drugs bounced off his tongue like lyrics to a heartfelt rap. The newsletter had billed him as “an orthomolecular psychiatrist, an innovator in the field of brain diseases who has done extensive research on the impact of nutrition on bipolar patients.”
“How is mental illness linked to nutrition?” he asked from behind the pulpit.
I opened my schedule book to the blank pages in the back, my pen poised loosely between my fingers. In the darkest days, when the only thing worse than not knowing Trina’s whereabouts was being a witness to her manic acts of self-destruction, when seventy-two-hour holds became twofers—therapeutic benefit for Trina and my only possible escape—I would have sat rigidly in my support group chair, straining to hear while thinking, hoping, praying that the knowledge of whatever expert who stood before me might be the salvation I was seeking. Some of the people around me were Clenchers, leaning forward in their chairs, forgetting to take a breath as their muscles locked. Others were cowering on the edge of their seats, as if furtively seeking to ward off the next unexpected pounding of waves they couldn’t see from an ocean they couldn’t control.
Listening to the ebullient doctor from UCLA rattle off a vitamin regimen for the mood-disordered, I felt myself being pulled back into bleak waters. Strange how the same thing that once kept me afloat now had the power to make me feel as though I were sinking all over again. I stood up, glad that I was at the end of the pew, and walked quickly down the aisle with my head bowed. I knew my face revealed I was desperate to leave, and I didn’t want to advertise that to the rest of the group. Making my way to the stairs, I went down to the basement, a large empty room, and took a seat in the back. I’d wait here for the forty-five minutes that the meeting would last and then hang out with Gloria, Milton, and Mattie. I closed my eyes.
The rich, fragrant aroma of percolating coffee and the faint, sweet odor of the cookies and fruit that would be served after the meeting filled the area. The basement was directly below the sanctuary. Dr. Gold’s muffled lecture wafted downstairs, but at least I didn’t have to watch the hopeful, straining to hear the restorative miracle in each word.
My head was falling forward in a nod when suddenly I bounded straight up. Above me was the unmistakable tone of discord. The words
crap
and
jerks
and
so-called experts
were hurled through the floorboards like spears. A few minutes later, heavy, deliberate footsteps were descending.
“Keri?”
The white woman in front of me wasn’t so much standing as she was looming, a wounded lioness pressing against her cage. My name was a snarl in her mouth. There was an unlit cigarette between her two fingers, and she
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