My desk phone rang, interrupting me from my inbox. It way my sister calling to ask me for a ride. It had been months since I had seen Mindy and with few appointments, a good day to take an hour from the office. She gave me an address for a hotel near the Convention Center. When I arrived, she was wearing a ridiculously small and childish nightgown. It was hard not to reveal the disgust I felt to what was clearly her attire for the previous evening. I pictured the man with whom she spent the night leaving the last conference at the Convention Center to fly back to his wife and children. The man who paid to spend the night with my baby sister.
My car had just been broken into, leaving the passenger lock frozen. Telling her she'd have to climb through the drivers' side, she joked that she might know who did it. Her greatest talent had always been snappy comic timing. Like all good jokes, this was hilarious bc we both knew it was true. Never acknowledging the bitter truth of her life with criminals, we enjoyed the sweet banter about what she might do to get my stereo and CDs back.
As usual, she was disorganized and unprepared.
My car had just been broken into, leaving the passenger lock frozen. Telling her she'd have to climb through the drivers' side, she joked that she might know who did it. Her greatest talent had always been snappy comic timing. Like all good jokes, this was hilarious bc we both knew it was true. Never acknowledging the bitter truth of her life with criminals, we enjoyed the sweet banter about what she might do to get my stereo and CDs back.
As usual, she was disorganized and unprepared.
Can you hold these things for me?, she asked.
Sure. Where is the purse I gave you?
I threw it into oncoming traffic when I was high.
Not thinking that required explanation, she went on to the next subject. Her stories were always filled with the misfortune of her unstable life. She clearly wanted me to care about the crime and injustice she experienced, but I often answered numbly. I sometimes wonder what she thought of my lack of reaction to ugly disclosures.
Sure. Where is the purse I gave you?
I threw it into oncoming traffic when I was high.
Not thinking that required explanation, she went on to the next subject. Her stories were always filled with the misfortune of her unstable life. She clearly wanted me to care about the crime and injustice she experienced, but I often answered numbly. I sometimes wonder what she thought of my lack of reaction to ugly disclosures.
Leaving her at a rundown apartment, my new, white car seemed to illustrate the difference in our lives. Unable to work, I stared out the window of a newly constructed building for hours as the phone went unanswered, faxes unsent, and paperwork not completed. How to re-enter the only world I knew. Oddly aware of the tailord suit and black pumps I was standing in, I vaguely attempted to process what I had just seen, experienced, and felt. Seeing the contrasts in our lifestyles, personalities, and clothing, you wouldn't think we could know each other, but I knew we were linked by background, religious upbringing, mother, and, at that time, lack of education.
The following week, I took her to the Council for Prostitution Alternatives. It was incomprehensible to me that a $25 bribe was her only motivation. On the way, I also gave her a new purse full of make-up. Her appreciation was evident in her weary face and shoulders. It felt good to meet one of her needs. Taking the foundation from the delicate white purse, she began applying it to the tracks on her hands. Trying to remain calm, I quietly watched as the ugly sores became ugly sores caked with skin-colored paste.
The most surreal moments were in the lobby, as my brain knew why I was there, buty my senses did not. The casual, business-as-usual atmosphere made me feel relaxed, as if the furniture itself was saying, "hey, we do this all the time." On some level I had to remind myself what brought me...and the other waiting women as well. The intake person assigned to take down our information moved with compassion. It was clear that we found a judgement-free zone. She asked Mindy questions I had never heard and Mindy knew all the answers. It was as if they were speaking a foreign language.
What is your drug of choice?
Speedballs.
How old were you when you first did drugs?
Fourteen.
Where do you live?
I'm homeless.
The following week, I took her to the Council for Prostitution Alternatives. It was incomprehensible to me that a $25 bribe was her only motivation. On the way, I also gave her a new purse full of make-up. Her appreciation was evident in her weary face and shoulders. It felt good to meet one of her needs. Taking the foundation from the delicate white purse, she began applying it to the tracks on her hands. Trying to remain calm, I quietly watched as the ugly sores became ugly sores caked with skin-colored paste.
The most surreal moments were in the lobby, as my brain knew why I was there, buty my senses did not. The casual, business-as-usual atmosphere made me feel relaxed, as if the furniture itself was saying, "hey, we do this all the time." On some level I had to remind myself what brought me...and the other waiting women as well. The intake person assigned to take down our information moved with compassion. It was clear that we found a judgement-free zone. She asked Mindy questions I had never heard and Mindy knew all the answers. It was as if they were speaking a foreign language.
What is your drug of choice?
Speedballs.
How old were you when you first did drugs?
Fourteen.
Where do you live?
I'm homeless.
I sat completely still with my eyes closed, afraid to open them and see what I was hearing. Wishing I could be strong, wishing it was all different. I
only hope the tears told her what I could not. That she mattered to someone. In my own trauma at hearing of her pain, I could not put my arms around her or tell her I was sorry.
My saddest memory of Mindy is her sweeping my deck to show her appreciation for my support. She was full of hope for a better life. The next morning she would be taking a train to a drug rehab program I had arranged and paid for. Her dreams of art school and stability fueled my belief that she could do it. So accustomed to disaster, I reacted calmly when the director called to tell me that her issues were far too great for them to address
Riveting Lisa.....and the knowledge that this is you and your sister's actual reality is heartbreaking. I love memoirs - even though they are sometimes difficult to read, I believe there is healing in writing and reading them.
ReplyDeleteThank you. Understanding others' experiences leads to compassion. There was a movie made about a man who sold Fuller Brushes door to door near my old office in Raleigh Hills. He was handicapped so looked "different" to some people. There were a few who treated him kindly over the years, but not many. An article in the Oregonian, our local paper, featured a story about him. His business took off. When people recognized him, they no longer recoiled but rewarded his tremendous effort to support himself with brush purchases. Later a movie was made about him. He is now a corporate motivational speaker and a symbol of overcoming challenges.
ReplyDeleteKnowing someone story can make all the difference. Knowing why and how people end up in jail, like my sister, leads to better policies and a more compassionate, effective judicial system.
Yes, memoir rocks!
We need to hear different kinds of stories to know our world...and ourselves.
ReplyDeleteSo well written, it takes you there. To the hotel room, the office in the 'burbs, the waiting room...
ReplyDeleteWriting about hard subjects like that is a REAL TALENT. I can't wait for the finished memoir.