Excerpt from No Place Like Home

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. The ick factor of picking my sister up from a hotel she could not afford was more familiar than remarkable. The weather was not sunny or raining as I pulled into the nondescript, chain hotel.
Mindy opened the door wearing a ridiculously small and tacky nightgown, sleazy rather sexy. My face grimaced in disgust as I heard the unfortunate words leave my mouth.

"What are you wearing?"

"Can you carry this bag", she replies. "I don't need to go far, my friend Wilbur lives on SE Frances."

The bed loomed large in the room. Tangled sheets, blankets, and pillows distracted me from the task at hand. I pictured the man with whom she spent the night leaving the 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.

We casually gather up her few things to leave. 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.


My car had just been broken into, leaving the passenger lock frozen. As she climbed through the drivers' side, she noticed the hole where a stereo had been. 


"What kind of stereo was it? I might know the person who took it."

She can tell that I am laughing without judgement and pursues the conversation.

"No, seriously. Tell me what is missing and I'll ask around."


Laughter relaxes me as we share a lighthearted family moment.

Waiting for a natural break in the conversation, I wonder how to help her.

"Hey, how about I take you to a couple of agencies next week, like the Council for Prostitution Alternatives?"

"I've got plans. You know me, always big plans."

"I'll bring you a new purse and give you $25."

We arrive at a grey block building in Southeast Portland. In the darkness, a door opened from the side of a large concrete wall. A very old man leaned his head out with a weak hello. Mindy stepped through the door- into a world I would rather not think about. Even today.

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 tailored 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.


I picked her up at the bar she suggested just before noon. For Mindy, arriving four hours late was as good as being on time. To my surprise, she was already there. Knowing everyone by name, she moved among the late morning crowd enjoying beer and straight shots.


On the way, I handed her $25 and 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, but 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 judgment-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.

As I dropped her off, she said, "You know, I only did it for hte $25."

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.
--time together, shopping for new clothes and packing for the trip in the weird space of family you barely know, familiar and yet so foreign.
Sending her off in a train from Portland’s beloved station, I felt relief and a sense of accomplishment. Something had gone right; it was a new day.
Within a few days, I received a call from the director telling me that her issues were far too great for this facility to address. They were packing her bags and she was being sent away again. Unfortunately, this was one of many times she was sent from somewhere to nowhere.

My typical numbness helped me feel nothing when the director called to tell me that her issues were far too great for them to address. Although I knew Mindy had serious issues, I did not see her as beyond repair.

Famed neuroscientist, Josh Fost describes the human as machine while separating us biologically from aspects of the notion of free will. He explains that broken machines like Mindy need compassion as we try to help them while we protect society from them. This is the answer I sought as I called social workers, teachers, and those working with broken machines for information.

I intuitively did not believe that Mindy really had much of a choice in the matter. Resiliency theory tells us that children in dysfunctional homes need one healthy, involved adult for the first three strikes and an additional one for each woe after that. So, for poverty, alcoholism, and abuse, one awesome aunt, uncle, or grandparent. Pile on neglect and sexual abuse, a cool cousin and another aunt.

We had a wonderful step-father who was never around. Since he was a heroin addict who was either away at sea or nearby in prison, some might say he doesn't really count. We loved him so much you couldn't have gotten any of us to swallow that.