Songbird (36 page)

Maybe.

Oh, shut up, Myrtle Charmaine. You ‘re an idiot and you always have been.

Dr. Luca leads us into an activity room where people sit around on chairs or shuffle along the linoleum floor. I don't see Isla Whitehead anywhere. The television displays an old rerun of
Facts of Life.
Now, those girls always seemed perky, but, my lands, they look positively fast-motion compared to the doings of the room.

Plants sprout up in all the corners. They're trying to make it homey, here. I’ve got to give them that. An orderly keeps a watchful eye.

“Hi, Greg,” Doctor Luca greets him.

“Hi, Doc.”

The doctor points to a woman sitting on a couch, staring up at the screen and ushers us over. “Isla, you have visitors.”

And she turns toward me. I barely recognize her. She is heavy now and prematurely gray. Her hands roll over one another in her lap. Her eyes are just as blue. They are bland.

Oh, Lord Jesus.

“Isla, it's your mother and your daughter, Charmaine.”

“I used to go by Myrtle,” I whisper quickly.

“It's your daughter, Myrtle.”

She stares through both of us. “Oh, hello. Thank you for coming to see me today.”

Grandma takes her hand. “Hello, Isla. We've been looking for you for a long time.” Her voice shakes.

“I’ve been right here.”

“Yes, you have.”

Isla pulls her hand away. “Excuse me, I think I’ll watch my show now.”

Dr. Luca says, “I do know she likes to garden.”

“Can she do that here?”

He nods. “We've given her a patch right outside these doors. Would you like to see it?”

He shows us over. Grandma gasps. “It looks exactly like my late spring flowerbeds at home. I’ve always done them that way.”

Grape hyacinth and some burgundy pansies decorate the brown tapestry of dark soil. No weeds peep above the chenille earth and all is raked in perfect, symmetrical swirls.

We turn back toward Isla. She still watches the show, and I see miniature Blairs and Tooties jiggle and boogie across the slick surface of her corneas.

Oh, Isla. What happened to your sweetheart face?

So we sit with her, not knowing what else to do.

“Grandma, did Mama get nosebleeds a lot?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I remember, sweetie.”

“It's obvious she has to remain on medication and continue receiving therapy,” says Grandma.

We are driving home to Mount Oak. The car is quiet. There's no gospel music playing and everybody else is asleep.

I don't know what I was expecting from Isla. I thought at least the sight of her own mother and daughter would bring out something from her. We went back three days in a row and still the same, polite response.

I am hollow. I have a mother, yet I don't.

Questions remain unanswered and now I know I’ll never find out what really happened to Mama. But I know she responded to treatment and still failed to return. Not only is that a bitter pill, it's a bitter pill the size of a wrecking ball.

“I’m more frightened than ever, Grandma. What if all this starts happening to me?”

“You can't worry about that, Charmaine. And be thankful. Your mama had symptoms of mental illness way before your age.”

“But my depression.”

“It's under control.”

“With medication.”

“True. But Isla always went off her pills. I guess she played with fire once too often. Oh, Lord.”

“I can't tell you how much of a fraud I feel, getting up there and singing while Harlan tells people just like me that God will deliver them. Do you think that's true, Grandma? Do you really think it's all a spiritual problem?”

“Not in your case. We can see that now.”

I think I’ll be asking myself that question for the rest of my life.

I picture Mama sitting there in the chair, watching television. “Will I end up like her?”

“I doubt it, sweetie. I really do.”

“I guess that's all I have to go on at this point.”

She takes my hand and we continue down the highway, away from Crownsville, with Isla's condition digging into our minds.

Grandma pulls out a little book of crossword puzzles she bought at the gas station. “Want to help me do this thing?”

“Sure Grandma.”

But Grandma doesn't really need my help. She's just being nice.

5

W
e moved her.

Mama now resides at Broughton Hospital in Morganton, North Carolina. It's beautiful there. Bright. Cheerful. Historic. We drove Mama down at the end of July. She made no protests.

I believe my prayers for grace are being answered because I’m finding that I do care for her in a very divorced way. I don't want her to suffer the same as I don't want a stray cat to suffer. And maybe that's exactly what Mama is, nothing more than a stray.

Now I am back on the road for the final round of touring this summer and Grandma Min is with us. This is my own concert tour, not Gospelganza. “Ten Thousand Lilies” has topped the Christian music charts and has sold four hundred thousand singles. Most of the money is going to Broughton Hospital. I guess I’m doing it for Grandma Min. She doesn't deserve to lose all her money on this, and Harlan's salary more than covers our expenses at the house.

She drives out there once every two weeks for a couple of days. I’m not sure what's going to happen once school starts again. We both agree that Mama cannot come and live with us at this point.

Maybe someday?

I don't know. I have to think of my family. What kind of home would that be for the kids? The obsessive tendencies Mama has would drive them crazy.

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
All along the outline of the car window. The entire way from Crownsville to Broughton.

Aaaaaahh!

I’ve become quite good at driving this RV. And as the miles stretch between Mount Oak and Tyler, Texas, where my first concert is, I think a lot about the Woman at the Well. And I wonder if she really knew how lucky she was to have met Jesus before she lost her mind.

Grace is almost halfway through her program. She hasn't yet told her parents about Leo and thank goodness, they've stopped calling me now that they know where she is.

But I have to wonder why she hasn't said anything? Is it because she's really not planning to come get him after she's well?

I sure hope so.

He's asleep right now in the bed in the back. Looking forward to school, he's been reading lots of books. Now they aren't real advanced-type books, but he enjoys them and that's all that matters.

Just yesterday he said, “Mama, how come you never read?”

And I said, “Because I just can't sit still for that long.”

He laughed. “You said it. Mama. You're really something.”

How many times has he heard Harlan say that? I can't begin to guess.

I wish I could give Harlan a son of his own.

6

T
hat lawyer ripped me apart on the witness stand. But when someone's got as much scar tissue as I do, you can only do so much damage.

Remember how endearing I am?

Well, it worked in my favor that day. And when they flashed pictures of my injuries up on the screen, little me, and there was Carl Bofa, Big Guy himself, sitting over there, they pretty much realized that I spoke the truth.

Afterward, when I sat in the courthouse canteen trying to stop shaking, trying to stop a nosebleed, one of the prosecuting attorneys, a scrappy young man who looked perpetually surprised he made it to the right side of the tracks, said, “You're lucky to have escaped with the injuries you received, Mrs. Hopewell.”

“You mean he's done this sort of thing before?”

He nodded.

“Why couldn't you say that?”

He sipped his coffee. “The judge ruled it inadmissible.”

“Why?”

“Because he was acquitted the last three times.”

I still shook there in that yellow plastic chair on that late August day. The humidity pounded fists at the windows, keeping me inside, though Harlan had pulled the car up twenty minutes before.

When we pull up into the driveway I ask Harlan if he would mind taking the kids out for ice cream. “I just want to sleep, Harlan. I just want to forget about today for a little while.”

“I’ll do that, Shug.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “You get some rest.”

Long after they've left for Bill D’s, I stare at the stuccoed ceiling. I rise from the bed, root through my underwear drawer, and pull out my old bag of toenail clippings.

I was alive then. And I am alive now. So I walk to the bathroom, get out the clippers, and make sure there's evidence of that fact.

I drop back into the depths the day after the trial. Of course, it had been coming. I could feel it for days. That other-worldliness, that suspicion that I had flown away somewhere — but maybe not, maybe it was just hormones, or too much Diet Coke, or maybe, just maybe, I had a right to be depressed.

Watching the world through emotional mucus, weighed down by the hairballs of the mind, I call Dr. Braselton. I like him. He asks a few pertinent questions, keeps the pills coming, and that's fine.

“He
just
had a cancellation, Mrs. Hopewell,” the assistant says. “Can you come right in?”

“Yes!”

The thing about the drops now is that each drop seems deeper than the one before it. So what is the bottom point? Will I get to a drop that is so low I move down to some other disorder? Is that what happened to Mama?

Dr. Braselton, who really looks more like a gym teacher than a doctor with his crew cut and potbelly, takes me right away. “When's your next trip, Charmaine?”

“Two weeks.”

“Good. I’m upping your dosage a bit. Hopefully we won't have to switch you to something else.”

I can only hope, but I swear I know better. “Is this normal? Do people switch medications?”

“Yes, they do.”

“What can I do in the meantime?”

“Get off that Diet Coke. Start eating for heaven's sake.”

“But nobody wants to see a fat singer.”

“That's not true. And you won't get fat. You'll just get healthy. You've got to start taking responsibility for your own depression, Charmaine. Pills are only half of it.”

I don't know what to say.

I know the medication will kick back in soon. I’ll pretend I’ve got the flu until then.

I fill the prescription at the pharmacy, and on the way home stop at the IGA and buy some steaks, baked potatoes, and an apple pie.

I won't be Mama.

7

I
’m feeling so much better now. I’m more like myself than I have been in months. I’m eating better, laying off the caffeine, and taking little morning strolls with Harlan. I’m not yet on an all out fitness kick.

Well, we figured it out! The kids are back in homeschool, thank the Lord for Grandma Min who agreed to resign from the preschool to teach Hope and Leo. They all travel with me when my gig is within driving distance and we can take the RV. I’ve had to lay some ground rules because I found out people out there will take whatever they can get. If I can't take the kids I’ll only be gone for two nights. If I can, the sky's the limit, providing I’m home on Sundays to sing for the show.

And
The Port of Peace Hour
is going strong! Harlan's well-rounded approach is making us more popular than ever. He studied hard this summer, I have to say. And I admire him so much.

Our Christmas special a few weeks ago was seen at prime time on all the big Christian satellite networks. Letters with donations are pouring in. We've been able to buy time on lots of stations. I never knew how generous people could be.

When Mama said all those years ago I had the markings of fame, she was exactly right. Sometimes I don't know what to do with it, though. I get a little embarrassed at all the accolades and the clapping and cheering. But the people I meet are so nice. Although some of them can get a little too attached. They look at me and just want to touch me, as if that simple act will bless them.

My Lord and Savior is so good to me. And He's given me this opportunity to tell everybody I know about Him.

A new record is done and will be coming out next month. We're on a one-a-year track. And soon, the Dove Awards will arrive. I’m up for two Doves, best new artist, and best female artist for 1986. Now if that isn't something, I don't know what is. See, I don't know much about much, but what I
do
know is that God can take someone like Myrtle Charmaine Whitehead and create good.

8

B
rooksTone sent me the dress I’m wearing as I sit here backstage waiting for the Dove Awards to begin. I’m singing “Ten Thousand Lilies” tonight, before this entire, illustrious crowd.

It is one thing to sing to congregations and concertgoers, but it is completely another thing to perform in front of singers, the majority of whom are better, more famous than I am. I told Mama about it all on my last visit to the hospital and she smiled. A vacant, empty smile, but still, it was the first time for it and I guess I saw a hint of the face that gentled and shone when it beheld that big Christmas basket waiting outside our boarding house door all those years ago.

“I done good, Mama,” I said as she turned her face away.

I can't say all this has happened to me through sheer ambition and determination. But I do believe I’ve been swept up in a tide I’m more than capable of swimming against. I suppose, inadvertently, that was the gift Mama gave to me the day she left.

At least she'll never know how much I once hated her. But that hate is gone, replaced by not so much love as pity, regret, and sadness.

Poor Isla.

But it's my time to shine.

I walk out on stage in my high heels, the silk of my purple sequined gown sliding against my skin, and I wave and I really do feel like Marilyn Monroe, just for a moment.

The familiar strains of the music begin and I sing the words that have become so dear in the hearts of so many.

“Ten thousand lilies, ten thousand roses, ten thousand grapevines, ten thousand trees.”

The crowd claps and I am lost. I’m back in the bowling alley, back in the clubs, back in churches all over, I am back in the world I was created to inhabit and I am fed by the people before me, the music behind me, and the song within me.