Defying the Verdict Page 9

  Academically, I majored in English. My original double major was Psychology and Theater. Psychology was not a fit for me. I was a little disappointed when it didn’t work out. My mom had intimated she wanted to study child psychology in college. It would have been gratifying to achieve her goal. In the 1940s, a college instructor suggested she become a teacher or a nurse, appropriate jobs for professional colored women of that day. Dutifully, she became an elementary school teacher.

  I had excelled in one psychology course, Dramaturgical Approaches to the Study of Psychology, because it was a theater class—a natural fit for me. Of course, I dropped my theater major after becoming a fundamentalist Christian.

  In February 1982, before I understood the necessity of eating regularly, sleeping restfully, and remaining stress free for stable mental health, I embarked on a month of consecration with my church congregation. I ate and drank once a day at dinnertime. During that time, a religious station in Hartford, CT requested an interview at the station to talk about our local congregation. My pastor chose me to discuss our church’s teachings on the air. Because I was a well-balanced, articulate college student, he trusted me to give a well-rounded description of our congregational beliefs and practices. With my mood escalating, my interview responses were pretty much in your face.

  Meanwhile, I continued my class regimen, determined to earn a degree in English in May 1982. Hopefully, by that time, I would be offered a job in close proximity to my new church family.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Make peace with your past.”

  —MIRIAM STOFFELS

  FOR ME, MARCH 1982 will always mark the point when the royal hues of my life’s tapestry faded to grays. Perhaps that is why I remember these events vividly.

  By the first Wednesday in March, I lurched into a familiar exhaustion. That evening, I lacked the energy to walk the four blocks to the William Street high rise where we held our Bible studies. Wanting to familiarize myself with God’s Word, I never missed Bible study. Although Jackie—I called her “Boo”—wasn’t exactly sure what was wrong, she sensed something was off with me. She asked if I was all right, then attended Bible study without me.

  A couple of hours later, she returned to our apartment with our Bible study leader, his wife, and our friends Penny and Ron in tow. She had asked them to come and pray with me. After prayer, she and Penny suggested I drink hot chamomile tea, which always soothed me, before bedtime. I did as they suggested, and then drank some ginger ale to soothe the odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. Having changed into my nightgown, I lay down, but didn’t fall asleep. I got back up and returned to the kitchen for some Skippy peanut butter. Eating a single spoon of smooth peanut butter directly out of the jar had soothed me since childhood. As a child, I regularly snuck spoonsfuls from the jar in the kitchen cabinet.

  Returning to bed, I burrowed under my covers and fell into a deep sleep. I was wide-awake at six in the morning, earlier than usual. I placed the pillow over my face and tried to go back to sleep. After an hour of hyper-wakefulness, I decided to soak in the tub, to quiet my restlessness. That usually helped when I felt wired, as I did this particular morning. Out of the tub I got dressed and made myself some scrambled eggs and buttered toast. After eating, I noted yesterday’s wave of enervation had passed. I now felt extraordinarily energized. I decided to bake brownies. I’ll need to go to the store. I can just skip class this morning, I told myself. Ordinarily, I was not one to skip classes.

  I waited for the store to open and walked, almost skipping, to the market six blocks away. I brought brownie mix, eggs, and apples up to the register, where I grabbed a glasses repair kit. Can you have too many eyeglass repair kits? I asked myself as I handed it to the cashier. My thoughts continued, Would it have been on display at this particular register if I didn’t need it?

  When I got back to the apartment, before putting the groceries away, I saw a small spill on a refrigerator shelf. I decided to completely clean out the refrigerator. This was usually Jackie’s job, but when I feel stressed, I clean—a habit I developed as a child. I removed every container stored inside, then wiped out the inside of the refrigerator with warm, soapy water before replacing the contents, neatly.

  When I finished, it was twelve noon. At that time, every weekday, Jackie and I prayed together for about a half hour. Some of our fellow campus Christians routinely joined us as we prayed in our cozy living room. This Thursday, Ron joined us for a prayer, and I prayed in an unusually loud voice. When prayer was over, Jackie turned to me and asked, with what seemed to me to be unwarranted concern, “How are you feeling, RiRi?”

  I guessed she had noticed the fridge. “Great. Never better,” I exclaimed.

  Ron questioned, “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” I asked. Jackie left to go to work at the library.

  Like most days, Ron stayed for lunch with me after prayer ended. This day, he made himself a ham and provolone sandwich on a Kaiser roll and drank some juice. As we both ate lunch, I noticed him looking at me with concern, like Jackie had looked at me after prayer. Before leaving, he grabbed an apple, then gazed at me intently, instructing, “If you need me, call the house. Leave a message if I’m not there.”

  “Okay,” I responded, wondering why he was saying this to me instead of his usual, “See you later,” or “Praise Him.”

  When Ron left, I washed our dishes, then went in the living room to read a book. For my senior English tutorial, I was writing a short story collection. As I wrote, I read books by published authors, studying their craft. That day, I was reading Zora Neale Hurston’s Moses, Man of the Mountain, absorbing her exquisite use of dialect. Jackie got home in time to make dinner, her delectable liver and onions. While she made dinner in our eat-in kitchen, I finally made the brownies.

  Ron showed up for dinner. He had run into Jackie at the library while she was working. She told him to come over for his favorite meal. He always said he never liked liver before sampling Jackie’s. His visit served two purposes. I knew he was also checking on me. All through the meal, I’d catch him scrutinizing me. Why? I wondered. After dinner, he asked if I was feeling better. “I feel terrific,” I answered, with gusto. He gave me what I would call a concerned hug before leaving. A pre-med student, he had to go read reserve articles in the science library. Jackie went to her room. It was my turn to wash and put away the dishes.

  We had leftover brownies. An idea struck me, why not give them to the guys who lived on the second floor? I decided that they would probably love to have those delicious brownies. Did it matter I had only spoken to them in passing since moving to High Street? But, of the four, I did know one of their names. After a few moments, I marched down the outdoor back steps with the brownies on a paper plate I had neatly covered in plastic wrap in my right hand. In my left hand, I carried a smallish, portable cassette player. They were glad to accept the treats, but unprepared when I decided to play the game “Who sang it best?” with them, a game I had just made up before leaving the kitchen. The two young men who were home ate brownies and listened while I played two renditions of the same gospel song for them.

  “After hearing both versions,” I challenged, “you will decide which you liked better.” Before playing anything, I shared my opinion. “I like the version from my church choir better than the professional choir. It sounds more anointed.” Mind you, I’m speaking to young, upper middle-class frat boys from Massachusetts. They definitely seemed bemused.

  When Jackie came into the kitchen to get a drink from the fridge, she noticed the open back door. Looking down the stairs and taken aback by my unusual behavior, she rescued our neighbors from me. “Ri, I need you in the house.” Bidding my friends adieu, I skipped up the steep steps like a gazelle and returned to the kitchen. After locking the door behind us, Jackie, who had a proverbial steel-trap memory, claimed she no longer remembered what she wanted. Why is Boo acting so strangely? I wondered. I read more of my book, aloud, in a stage whisper.
After another shower, I decided to work on a short story before bed. Most nights, my mind shut down at eleven. That night, I wrote and read without sleeping.

  Early Friday morning, I took a shower to energize myself. I ate oatmeal and a banana. I drank some juice. I felt like visiting. Upon leaving my apartment, I walked up High Street and turned down William Street. While approaching the high rise, I saw Terry, an African-American woman I knew slightly, as she entered the building. I called out for her to hold the door and engaged her in what I considered scintillating conversation while she waited for the elevator. As co-chair of the Fellows Dining Program, a weekly dining experience for faculty and African-American students, I was familiar with most of the black students on campus. I sometimes popped in for visits with African-American students when I passed their rooms.

  This day, my energy was different, more ebullient. “Terry,” I bubbled, while she waited for the elevator, “You’re just the person I was hoping to see today.” Actually, I would have expressed this sentiment to anyone I had seen standing at that door.

  She invited me up to her apartment. We sat at her kitchen table, discussing the upcoming spring break. I told her about the fictional trip I was planning for break. I thought the trip was real. Before I left, I borrowed her garment bag, promising to return it after I returned to campus. As I carried the bag up the hill, in my mind, it transformed from an ordinary suitcase to a special prize. As in any great improvisation, I was incorporating ideas quickly.

  After placing the bag in my room, I felt driven to check my P.O box at the university post office even though my mail now came directly to my High Street address. By this time, I had missed prayer. Furthermore, I hadn’t let Jackie know where I was going when I left that morning. We usually informed one another of our whereabouts as a safety precaution. When I got back, Jackie’s concern seemed to become more solicitous. When she asked if I was okay, I assured her I was fine. I decided to stay home from church that night, citing the fact I hadn’t slept well the night before. I took a shower and deep cleaned the bathroom while Jackie was gone. I drank chamomile tea. When I heard Jackie on the stairs around eleven, I went in my room and closed the door.

  I said goodnight to her through my bedroom door. I’m sure I sounded as wide awake as I was. She said she was tired and going to bed. She didn’t knock lightly on my door as she normally would, so I could invite her to open the door to speak face to face. That was strange to me. When I heard her close her door for the night, I came back into the living room to make calls from our phone that sat atop the living room bookcase, just outside her bedroom door. I stayed up making random phone call after phone call. And, as Mama always said, my voice carries. That was her nice way of saying I cannot whisper.

  After a couple of hours, Jackie opened her door and said, “Ri, I need you to stop talking. I can’t sleep.” I apologized. She went back to bed. I made another call. After about a half hour or so, a very tired Jackie returned to the living room and asked to use the phone. I gave it to her. It was now around two in the morning. I heard her explaining my excessive phone use to our Bible study leader. She asked him, “What should I do?” She listened to his response, said goodbye, placed the phone on the hook, unplugged it, and wrapped the cord around it. She instructed me to stay in the apartment, something she had never said to me before. Then she took the phone into her bedroom and closed her door. For me, it was as if she had slammed the door in my face.

  I went into the bathroom and took a bath, hoping the warm water would induce sleep. Without the phone, I took Mules and Men into the kitchen, flipping through the pages. Although it was becoming harder to understand what I was reading, I read and ate granola. Of course, then I had to I brush my teeth. I lay on my bed, listening to instrumental music in an unsuccessful attempt to still the rapid-fire, flight-of-ideas thought process that had begun, preventing sleep.

  Around nine that morning, when Jackie came out of her bedroom, she asked if I had slept. “No. I can’t.” I moaned. Jackie retrieved the phone from her bedroom, plugged it back into the wall, and called Penny. My best friend, Penny was the right person to call. And she had lived through this behavior with me before.

  Jackie detailed my activity, “Pen, Ri didn’t sleep again last night. Like I told you yesterday. I don’t think she’s had any sleep since Wednesday night. I don’t know what to do. She was up, talking on the phone at two o’clock this morning. You know she’s barely functional past midnight. When I couldn’t sleep, I actually prayed she would stop, but she kept talking. Even after I told her she was keeping me up. I called Elder and asked him what I should do. He suggested I unplug the phone. So I did and placed it in a drawer in my room, where she couldn’t get it. When I woke up this morning, she was still awake. Penny, I need you to come to Middletown,” she pleaded, “I don’t know what to do.” She then added, “I can’t leave Ri here by herself.”

  She sent one of her friends to find Cheryl, my closest friend on campus.

  Once Cheryl and Penny arrived that Saturday, they stayed with me all day while I yammered away, jumping from one topic to another. Any thought that came to mind spilled from my mouth. Of course, I talked to them about my writing and about Zora Neale Hurston and the characters from her books. I talked about African Moses in Mules and Men and his wife Zipporah. “Zora and Zipporah. Zora and Zipporah,” I chanted, loving the alliteration of their names. By this time, they were actual friends of mine.

  I didn’t sleep and continued showering repeatedly. I wasn’t content to wash my hands over and over like Lady Macbeth. I snacked constantly to keep my strength up.

  Ron came to assess the situation. Although he had previously seen me in the throes of mania, Jackie had not. Observing how much my behavior was scaring her, he escorted an overwhelmed Jackie out of the apartment. She returned later on Sunday and discovered I was gone. Nobody told her exactly what happened in her absence. By Monday, she figured out I wouldn’t be back.

  I told Cheryl I was engaged to marry someone from my church who I definitely wasn’t dating. By Saturday evening or early Sunday morning, Penny contacted Dr. Philippa Coughlin, the Director of Student Behavioral services. Dr. Coughlin arrived at my apartment to evaluate me. She conferred with my parents, using our house phone. Together, they agreed it would be best to get me back home. They wanted to avoid my being committed to Connecticut Valley Hospital for a second time.

  Penny transferred the clothes I packed in Terry’s garment bag to one of my suitcases. She, Cheryl, and I traveled by train from New Haven. A Wesleyan campus security guard drove us to the station. I experienced a glimmer of embarrassment with the brief intrusion of the rational thought, This guard knows me. A former Wesleyan student, he waited with us until we boarded safely. Returning to my reverie, I thought, VIP treatment. Throughout the trip, I was thinking how nice it was of my betrothed to send the three of us to Baltimore for spring break, early. Years later, Penny told me Wesleyan University purchased three tickets—round-trip tickets for her and Cheryl, and a one-way ticket for me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Things Fall Apart

  —TITLE OF A BOOK BY CHINUA ACHEBE

  CHERYL, PENNY, AND I boarded the train in New Haven, CT for the six-hour Sunday ride to Baltimore. I sat in the aisle seat with Cheryl in the window seat next to me. Penny sat in the aisle seat directly across from me. Besides bathroom trips, I wasn’t allowed to get up. If Cheryl got up to go to the café car or the bathroom, Penny sat next to me until she returned.

  At one point, I asked Penny to buy me a mixed drink. She returned with orange juice and Sprite that she mixed together for me. Not allowed to go to the café car myself, I had to be satisfied with that.

  I asked Cheryl, “Tell me again. Why don’t you want me to have a conversation with these nice boys on the train?” I had spied a troupe of boy scouts who were travelling in our railway car. I was sure they would want to interact with me. Both of my friends instructed me to read my book. I removed my Shakespeare anthol
ogy from the Hello Kitty tote bag I had brought with me. I read a little, taking a break to color an eight-by-ten photo of myself with the green magic marker I had remembered to place in the bag. “I made the picture prettier,” I enthused to my friends. I wanted to show it to the scouts, sure they would love it. Penny said no.

  Finally, I fell asleep. Shortly after I awakened, we pulled into Baltimore’s Pennsylvania Station. Penny carried my bag off the train. Cheryl walked close to me. Why don’t they have any luggage of their own, I wondered. We took the escalator above ground to the station. A few feet from where we entered, I saw my mother and Uncle Vernon. That was nice of them to pick us up. I had figured we would catch a cab to my house like I usually did when I took the train home.

  My uncle took my suitcase from Penny. Cheryl turned me over to my normally resolute mother, who now looked overwhelmed. Penny and Cheryl each recounted later, separately, that although my mom knew each of them, from school as well as our home, she barely spoke to either of them as she whisked me away. Unable to concentrate on anything other than her sick child, my ultra-polite mother failed to thank them for their sacrifice. They returned to Connecticut on the next available train. According to her account, Cheryl was stunned by the experience.

  My uncle drove my mother and me home. That night, my parents conversed into the night, formulating an action plan. I sat in another bedroom reading the biblical book Song of Solomon. I wanted to know what “but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go” meant. Somehow, everything that was happening had to be connected to my upcoming nuptials, I surmised.