Lundyn Bridges (9 page)

“Come on,” she said from inside the apartment.

When I entered, she was standing at the sink with her arms crossed. A dish towel hung from her hand like a tassel. “You're ten minutes late,” she said condescendingly, looking at the clock on the wall. “I thought timeliness was soooo important.”

“I apologize for being late,” I smiled. “It's good to know you've been listening in group. Timeliness is very important.”

“Well, if I count the times you've kept me waiting in your office, then this is the third time you've been late this month. What does that say about your commitment to your client?”

This was another one of those times when I didn't know if Francine was being serious or sarcastic. I
chose to ignore the comment and took a seat on the couch. Francine continued drying the last of her dishes.

“I hate group,” she said joining me on the couch.

“Francine,” I began, ready to give my therapeutic discourse.

“You know I hate talking about myself,” she interrupted me. “You know I don't want none of them in my business. All women do is get in your business and then tell it, and then they tell it wrong!” She stopped to sip her coffee. Then she put the cup back in the saucer so hard that the coffee in the saucer spilled onto the table. Francine sighed and rested her forehead on the palm of her left hand.

I spoke softly and quickly. “Francine, the goal of group therapy is to help you, not to have other people in your business. All of you have things in common from your past, and group therapy provides an opportunity to share those feelings of regret and shame with others who have walked in your shoes.”

Before I could finish my statement, Francine stood up and snapped, “Who said I got shame and regrets? See, you're just like my family – keep blaming me for things I couldn't help. It was the drugs. How many times do I have to say it? It was the drugs! It was the drugs! Those drugs made me leave my kids. I was addicted, and I couldn't help myself. My kids should be glad I didn't drag them in the streets. They should be glad I didn't prostitute them. They should be glad that I let someone else take care of them when I couldn't!”

Francine's denial and refusal to accept responsibility penetrated my heart like a knife. I sat up on the edge of the couch maintaining eye contact with her. She stood facing me with her arms crossed. I wanted her to be contrite, but she seemed aloof and
without remorse. My anger swelled inside me. Francine cussed under her breath breaking the stillness of the moment.

“You think your kids are happy you left them? You think your kids want to live with the fact that you loved drugs more than you loved them? You think they should be happy because they grew up in foster care?” I asked, without pausing for a response, as my voice escalated with each question.

“It could have been a lot worse!" She yelled interrupting me. "I didn't make my kids sell drugs! I always sent money and toys for Christmas – and they never appreciated any of it!”

By this time I was standing and yelling back at her. “Did you tell them plenty of lies, too? Did you keep promising you would stop using drugs? Did you promise them they would be a family?”

“What the #@%&* does it matter to you?” Francine waved her clenched fist in my face.

For a moment I thought she was going to hit me. I didn't move; I felt no fear. “That's just what my mother would say!” I heard myself yelling and realized the emotional monsters that frequently tormented me had defeated my composure and professionalism.

“I'm not your mother!'

“No, but you sure do remind me of her!” Without putting my binder in my briefcase, I picked up everything, leaving my Starbuck's cup on the table, and marched out the door without looking back. I refused to cry even though tears swelled in my eyes. I had shed enough tears over a junkie who didn't care about her kids.

“Hey girl,” Kiarra was walking up to the passenger side of my car. “Didn't you hear me call you? What was all the yelling at Francine's about?”

I couldn't look at her, and I dare not blink. I slung my things on the back seat and sat in the passenger seat, leaving the door open.

Kiarra bent down trying to make eye contact. “Lundyn, what's the matter? Are you okay?”

“I hope she rots in hell,” I whispered.

“Hold up girl.” Kiarra put her hand on my shoulder. “What happened?”

“I know why her kids don't visit her,” I stated through clenched teeth. “She was a horrible mother. She never cared about her kids; she only cared about the drugs.”

“This isn't about you and your mother,” Kiarra retorted. “Francine is not your mother. Francine is your client. This is not the time for transference.”

I was emotionally fragile, and it would have been very easy to be angry with Kiarra for her chastising remarks. I sat motionless and said nothing. Kiarra opened the back door and sat with me.

Kiarra grabbed my arm as I got up to go around to the driver's side of my car. My teeth were still clenched, and I was still fighting back tears. Taking a deep breath, and avoiding eye contact, I whispered, “My rounds with Dr. Sankar start in an hour, I gotta go.”

“Go home Lundyn,” Kiarra said, maintaining a firm grip my arm. “I'll do your rounds. I'll tell Dr. Sankar you didn't feel well. Go home. I'll come by after work.”

It was almost six-thirty when Kiarra arrived with cheese steak hoagies from Vento's and a bottle of black
cherry soda. She joined me at the dining room table, and we ate in silence staring out the kitchen window. I was thinking of how to thank her for rescuing my sanity. I could tell she was searching for something to say that wasn't therapeutic. She knew I needed a friend more than I needed the reality check. My heart knew she would have the right words.

“The sun set is beautiful.” Kiarra finally broke the silence. “It's a perfect ending to the day as only God could do it.” Kiarra paused. “Everything needs closure, and God's Word tells us to never let the sun go down on our anger.”

“I wanted my mother to love me.”

“God gave you wonderful foster parents. You lived with them for twelve years, and they're still involved in your life. They love you like their natural-born daughter.” “Why didn't my mother love me? Why couldn't she keep just one promise?”

Kiarra put her arm around me. “I don't know, and I can't fix it, but I know it hurts; so cry out your pain. Let it go – get it all out. Throw out the anger and close that door. Tomorrow is a new day. Let it be a free day.”

Covering my face with my hands, I openly wept in the arms of my best friend. I wailed like a baby until my throat was dry and my eyes were red and puffy. I let the anger, resentment and heartache I had stored since I was eleven roll off my face and onto Kiarra's shoulder. Then we sat in silence, again.

The day faded into a beautifully clear night, and the stars seemed to twinkle brighter. I stared at God's glitter in the navy blue sky. My life was like the sky. There were dark places but the Woodard's were the
glitter. I smiled and sighed out loud. Kiarra got up to refill her glass, and I motioned for her to fill mine, too.

“My mom, Miss Gladys, told me I needed someone to talk to when I was thirteen.” I sipped my soda. “She knew I was bottling my feelings, and she said I would explode one day. I always wanted her to be wrong.”

“What do you think now?”

“The rational side of my brain tells me I need to talk to someone.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm going to look for a therapist.”

 

I spent Saturday trying to organize my thoughts. There were too many and the memories were out of order. They weren't all bad, but the heartache was much more pronounced. It was easier to sleep, and I spent most of the day in bed.

Afreeka called that evening. We talked for over an hour and I told her about the incident. She empathized with me and admitted her memories were demons she couldn't extinguish, no matter how hard she tried. Afreeka had always made it known how much she hated our mother, and she blamed her for everything. Afreeka appeased me by allowing me to pray over the phone. Then she told me she was working over Thanksgiving but promised to join us at Romen's for Christmas.

I called Romen to remind him I was spending Thanksgiving in Naples and to confirm Afreeka and I were spending Christmas with him. He was spending Thanksgiving with Nina's family and looking forward to us being together for Christmas. Then I called the
Woodard's. Mom Woodard could always tell when something was wrong, and I cried retelling the saga.

Rev. Morgan's Sunday sermon was on healing and newness of life in Christ. I welcomed his words in my spirit while asking God to forgive me for my behavior on Friday. As much as I loved Gladys and Earl Woodard, somewhere in my heart I longed for Barbara's love. It seemed crazy – unexplainable. After trying to hate Barbara, it was a relief to admit I needed her to love me so I didn't feel disposable. It also felt good to know, for sure, that I was lovable – the Woodard's had proven that.

These childhood memories were at the core of my being. Much of my time and energy had been invested in keeping these things buried. I had done well, until meeting Francine. Her likeness to my mother was frightening.

The following week passed without incident. My sessions with Francine vacillated between her evasiveness and anger. She hated the holidays and found no joy in them. I let her rant during our sessions and considered it a therapeutic way to express her feelings – no matter how crudely. During each meeting my mind was focused on getting to Naples, Florida.

Kiarra and I made feeble attempts to comfort each other. She was torn between telling her mother about Xavier or keeping it a secret because she knew her mom would tell her dad. Although she was not as nervous about Xavier showing up, she still felt intimidated by the chance he could.

Jamel and I hosted a party for our Adolescent Obesity Group because they all reached their goals.
The appreciation of the kids and their parents provided much needed encouragement that day. The following evening, Jamel called and asked me out to dinner. I declined with the excuse that I was taking off the Wednesday before and the Monday after Thanksgiving and had a lot to do before leaving. The excuse was only a temporary solution – Jamel informed me that he intended to ask me again when I returned.

I slept on the plane to Naples because I didn't want to think about anything. All of my thoughts were disheartening – my anger, Francine, Barbara, Kiarra, Afreeka. Life was becoming difficult again, and it should have been getting easier. Romen's words poked at me – put the past in a box and throw it away. I wanted to; I just didn't know how.

Kristen surprised me at the airport, and her visit was a welcomed diversion. She announced that she and Larry were purchasing a house. She also made me promise to visit, and I assured her my first week of vacation would be in Greece.

We spent the remainder of the weekend reliving memories and catching up. On Sunday night, the attention turned to me. Mom Woodard was concerned because I was still refusing to see a therapist.

“Pain doesn't just disappear,” she said as we sat alone at the dining room table. “I have prayed for your release, but now you have to let go.”

Her message echoed Romen's. Let go, let go, let go.

“You have been blessed, and you must move forward in your blessing. The shackles of your past have been unlocked, but you won't take them off.”

“I just want closure.” The tears came as the pain swallowed me.

“When God sets you free, don't keep looking for closure. God has closed that door, and you keep opening it.”

I sat motionless. I knew she was right.

“I love you, Lundyn.” Mom Woodard put her arm around me. She pulled me close and hugged me hard, just like she used to when I was feeling lost or angry. “It's time. Please go see a therapist. You will keep running into the same mountain until you realize God moved it a long time ago.”

Before I left Florida, Mom Woodard gave me an old notebook.

"I found this when we were packing your room at the house. I was waiting until the right time to give it back to you."

"What makes this the right time?" I asked, clutching the book of poems I had written.

"These poems are pieces of your childhood. Poetry is one of the ways people can safely express feelings they can't say. I know that's what you did."

As I flipped through the pages, I stopped and read Just Waiting. It was the poem I wrote after Afreeka and Romen went to boarding schools. It was the poem I wrote while waiting to be the next one sent away.

Just Waiting

I
f I wasn't so afraid I'd tell you exactly how I feel
But I've learned that feelings should be concealed
I'm just waiting.

I
f I wasn't so afraid I would let you hug me
But I've learned that hugs mean you must be leaving
I'm just waiting.

I
f I wasn't so afraid I'd call this house my home
But I've learned that my address
can change with the ring of the phone
I'm just waiting.

I suddenly felt guilty for not being completely honest with her. "I'm sorry I didn't talk to you like I should have. I didn't know how."

"Shhhh." She put her index finger over my lips. "No explanations."