Lundyn Bridges by Patrice Johnson

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 wasscreaming at my dad because she wanted him to divorce my mother.”
    Francine hesitated and looked over at me, making sure I was listening.
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œShe killed him. Just like she said she would.” Francine looked away.
    Her statement shocked me.
    â€œSix 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.
    â€œPrayer 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.”
    The remainder of the week was spent finishing her educational goals. Francine wanted a job where she wouldn’t have to deal with people, especially children. She preferred to learn data entry so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. The data entry program at Bidwell Training Center would be intensive because of herlimited computer skills, but Francine was intent on pursing it.

 
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Chapter 3
    I spent the last weekend of September helping the Woodard’s pack for their move to Florida. My memories in the house were flawless – it was here that I became a person. It was here where my self-worth was validated. It was here where I realized I was loveable, and I had the Woodard’s to thank for that.
    While Mom Woodard ordered pizza, I helped Pop Woodard pack the ten framed pictures that were left on the wall