Bebe Moore Campbell by 72 Hour Hold Page A

daughter. ”
    “I was going to call you tonight, Keri,” Elaine said.
    “You were?”
    “Do you have a minute?”
    “Sure, but I’d like to let Trina know that I’m here.”
    “Trina’s not here, Keri. That’s what I want to talk with you about.”
    Gonegonegonegonegone.
    “What do you mean, she’s not here? Where is she?” My words shook out, one tremble at a time.
    “No one knows. She and another client didn’t come back from the last break, which was at one-thirty. The two of them usually go out on the patio and smoke. They’ve become friends.”
    Elaine was speaking, but her words seemed one long incomprehensible jumble. My mind was a vast empty cavern with only one echoing sound:
Gonegonegonegonegone.
I felt Elaine’s hand on my arm, guiding me toward an area with sofas and chairs.
    “Why don’t you sit down,” she said.
    “No. No, thank you.”
    “These things happen,” Elaine said, “and there may be a plausible explanation. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
    “All right,” I said.
    Gonegonegonegonegone.
    “Trina is doing exceptionally well here. She’s quite forthcoming. She contributes a great deal to group discussions. She’s one of the leaders.”
    “Maybe, maybe, maybe—”
    “Calm down,” Elaine said.
    Yes, calm down. And then I bolted, out the door, down the hall, past the guard, down the stairs, into the dazzling sunlight and jasmine-drenched air, dreading the moment my feet hit the pavement because I didn’t know where to turn.
    There was a time when I had known how Trina would react to every situation, but that time had passed. The era when I had known the friends she hung out with and the places she might be was a far-off country. Trina’s friends had moved on. She went only where I took her. She was in a rebuilding phase of her life. The first step was taking responsibility for her healing. The next was forming relationships, becoming more independent, regaining her autonomy. She had been inching closer to that place called normal. Now normal had been sold deep south.
    My tears were rising as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Above me a jacaranda tree loomed, its purple blossoms my personal sky. Already, a heavy haziness was settling in my mind.
Please don’t let the madness start
all over again.
Then I saw her. Trina was sitting across the street on the ledge of the short concrete wall that bordered the portion of the parking lot that faced Weitz Center. Next to her was a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties, dark and heavy with a loud shriek of a laugh. They were both carrying Macy’s bags. “Trina,” I called.
    She looked up and smiled; then she and the woman walked across the street to me.
    “Mommy, this is Melody Pratt. Melody, this is my mother, Keri Whitmore. Mommy, I told Melody that you’d give her a ride home.”
    Did I smell liquor? Were their eyes glassy? Were their words slurred from an afternoon of self-medicating?
    “I’d really appreciate it,” Melody said. She turned to Trina.
    They knew that I knew. I could tell by their friendly, phony smiles. Where had they been besides shopping? What had they been doing?
    “It’s nice to meet you, Melody.”
    Trina slipped her arm through mine. I breathed deeply to detect weed or alcohol, then stared into her eyes. Were her pupils dilated? “Don’t be mad,” she said. “Melody and I skipped the last hour of group.”
    I modulated my internal screaming, made my voice sound normal. “Really?”
    “They were just talking about the same old stuff they always talk about, so we went to the store. I told you that I needed a top. Look.”
    She opened the bag and pulled out a pale yellow blouse.
    “Nice,” I said.
    She beamed, then retrieved a smaller bag from inside the larger one and handed it to me.
    A lipstick. Just my shade of red.
    “Thanks, honey. You know,” I said, looking at Trina, “I have to get back to the shop. A couple of clients are bringing in clothes. Where do you live,