The Blackbirds (43 page)

From Chapter 19 of the Memoirs of Dr. Debra Dubois

“Ericka?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I choked. It was the same voice that had called me in the middle of the night and hung up on me. I wanted to freak out, but I had to stay calm and figure out where she was.

I said, “Ericka? Where are you?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Are you back with your parents?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Why can't you say where you are?”

“Just can't.”

“Everybody is worried sick over you. Have you called your mother?”

“No, ma'am. I'm not calling my mother.”

“Why not? Your parents are very concerned about you.”

“She don't, I mean doesn't, want me to keep my baby.”

“I know, Ericka. But you need to contact your mother.”

“She doesn't care about me.”

“She's worried.”

“Will you tell me the truth about something?”

“If I can. If I know the answer, I will be honest as I can be.”

“If I stay gone a little while longer, then she can't stop me from
having the baby, right? She can't make me take the gin-in-side stuff and kill my baby, right?”

My fingers massaged the bridge of my nose. I wanted to shout and say she was only thirteen, that her mother was wrong and right, and right and wrong, that Ericka didn't have any business being pregnant in the first place, and her mother should value life. I had prayed for her every second she'd been gone, but I had to be professional.

I said, “You're pregnant and you need to be looked after.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. Me and you, we need to make sure you're healthy.”

“I know.”

“Have you been eating?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What have you eaten, Ericka?”

“McDonald's.”

“That's not healthy.”

“I'm not eating enough to get fat like the other customers.”

“That food is not recommended. Not enough nutrition for a well person, let alone for a pregnant woman . . . I mean child. I hope you have had more than fast food.”

“I went to Sizzler and ate a steak too.”

“I'm not big on red meat either, but it's better than fast food, I suppose.”

“What do you eat?”

“Ericka—” I almost snapped, damn near lost my patience. “Ericka, you're the only teenager I've seen come through the clinic who wanted to keep her baby.”

“For real?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you pregnant by—did someone in your family—Ericka, who are you pregnant by?”

“I can't say.”

“Do you know?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm not a slut. I'm not a whore.”

“That's not what I was saying.”

“I'm not a slut, Miss Mitchell. Momma says I am, but I'm not.”

I swallowed, tried to think of what to do. “Why do you want to keep your baby?”

“So I'll have somebody to love me. So I'll have somebody to love.”

“Oh, God.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Wait, how did you get my home number?”

“I called 4-1-1 and asked them if they had it. I heard the doctor call you Debra, and my mother called you Miss Mitchell, so I figured your name must be Debra Mitchell.”

“Why did you call me? We hardly know each other.”

“I like you. If I had a big sister, I'd like her to be you.”

“Ericka, there are certain responsibilities that come along with my job. I have a responsibility to the community, to both you and your mother. You understand responsibilities, don't you?”

“Yes, ma'am. It means you have to do things, even if you don't want to.”

“So, there is something I don't want to do, but must. I am going to have to tell your mother and the police that you called me. They need to know that you're okay. Are you?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm just scared.”

“How do you feel?”

“Tired. Like I've got the flu or something.”

“Tell me where you are. I'm scared for you too. Very scared. Let me see you.”

“You'll make me go back home.”

“I won't make you go back home.”

“Promise?”

“My word is bond. I need to know for myself that you're okay. I need to see you with my own eyes.”

“I don't want to go home.”

“If you go home, everything will work out fine.”

She paused for a moment, then said, “Will you do me a favor, Miss Mitchell? Please. It's important. It's urgent. It's the reason I had to call you. It's very important. Time is of the essence in this.”

She almost made me laugh. She was definitely her mother's child.

I said, “Will you please come home?”

“I don't mean to be disrespectful, but, uh, no, ma'am.”

“Will you at least call one of your relatives?”

“I need you to do something for me.” She was almost in tears. Maybe she was in tears, but didn't want me to hear her cry. Whatever she wanted sounded like a matter of life and death. She said a stuff-nosed, “Miss Mitchell, please?”

“Ericka—”

“Ma'am?”

“Stop saying
ma'am.
I'm not that old.”

“Okay. Will you help me, Miss Mitchell?”

“Depends on what it is. If it's for your own good, yes.”

She wanted me to pick something up.

Something she was leaving in the lobby at the Bonaventure Hotel.

“You're in downtown Los Angeles?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, God.”

“What?”

“Ericka, I'm an adult and I don't go downtown by myself.”

I thought of the strong urine and feces smells that wafted through the streets. Certain sections where Skid Row looked like Tijuana, and others like Chinatown. But mostly I thought about the time I rode through there at 3:00
A.M
., one night after Shelby and I had finished partying at Little J's with whomever we were dating at the time, and tattered people were all over the streets, moving aimlessly like the walking dead.

I snapped, “There are all kinds of germs and homeless people, and drug addicts, and perverts and everything you can think of walking around downtown.”

“I know.”

“What are you thinking? Has anybody touched you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“How much money do you have left?”

“Most of it.”

“Where is it?”

“In my backpack.”

“Take it out of your backpack and put it in your underwear. Find something and pin it to the front of your panties.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. Don't let anybody see you do it. You understand?”

“Okay.”

“Do you have food and shelter?”

“Yes, ma'am. I took care of that first.”

“If you can't come home, call your parents. Please?”

“I'll make you a deal.”

“A deal?”

“If you come get this, I will call my daddy at work. He might not be home. He never is.”

I paused. Something about the way she said what she said made me wonder.

I asked, “Do you live with your daddy?”

“No, ma'am. He used to live with us, but my mother made him move and now he lives by himself. But he comes over and spends the night sometimes. I like it when he does because Momma is in a better mood. But she cries after he leaves.”

“I didn't know. I thought . . . I assumed . . . never mind.”

I tried to keep her talking. Part of me was listening to see if I could figure out where she was at that moment, the way people in the movies heard a church bell or a fog horn and knew where to go to find whomever they were searching for. That kind of luck only happened in the movies. There was too much static to pick up anything.

“Ericka?”

“Ma'am?”

“Call me Debra.”

“Okay. Miss Debra.”

“No, just Debra. I'm your friend, okay?”

“Okay, Debra.”

“You said that I was the big sister you would want, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Debra.”

“I mean, yes, Debra.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Is this how you would treat your big sister? Would you make your sister who loved you worry like this? If something happened to you, I'd feel responsible. Forever. And nothing could make that go away. I want you to think about that.”

We hung up.

I wiped my eyes and dialed 4-1-1 to get Mrs. Stockwell's number in Windsor Hills.

It was unlisted.

I called Dr. Faith.

She wasn't home.

No one answered at the clinic. In fact the messages were rolling over to the service. I called my best friend, Shelby, thought maybe I could get her to come down and get me so I wouldn't have to get Leonard involved, but she had flown the coop.

I was alone in crisis.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for Ericka.

Then I called Leonard.

I called the man I would one day marry.

From Chapter 22 of the Memoirs of Dr. Debra Dubois

When Leonard Dubois and I stepped from the pandemonium on Figueroa and stood in the massive, peaceful lobby of the Bonaventure, we rushed to the concierge.

The package was waiting.

I opened the manila folder that Ericka had left for me at the concierge desk. Homework was inside. Pages of homework. She had made sure she kept up to date with all her homework. Ericka had completed an English paper that was due, a report on
The Outsiders
. Her note in purple ink said that it was due tomorrow for full credit. Time is of the essence. All of her advanced math on figuring out perimeter and area, social studies on the American Revolution, Spanish assignment on stem verbs, everything neatly done, to perfection.

I stopped being amazed and asked, “How would she know what to do if she hadn't been to school?”

“Homework hotline.”

“What?”

“They have homework hotlines in most of the schools. All she had to do was call and get the assignments from a recording.”

Leonard and I stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, watched multiethnic people with upper-class attitudes check in while others lounged
near the classical piano player with drinks in hand. We watched peaceful people indulge themselves.

I said, “Maybe I should call the police now.”

“If you were scared, would you rather see a friendly face, or badges and guns?”

I agreed in silence.

On the verge of tears, I decided I would give her a few more minutes before I called the police. The city was huge and she could have gone anywhere by foot, bus, or by taxi.

I said, “I prayed she would be here.”

We searched around again.

Leonard asked the concierge which way Ericka had gone after she dropped off the package. He wasn't sure, wasn't paying attention, but he pointed toward the glass elevators. From what I could tell, she had dropped the package off before she called me. We rode the exterior elevators, the glass carriages that overlooked the city and faced Figueroa and the 110 freeway, up to the revolving bar. Ericka wasn't old enough to be up there, but I had to make sure. We peeped on every floor.

We went back to the ground and walked into every shop in the lobby.

There was no sign of Ericka.

Leonard asked me again, “What does she look like?”

“Me. She has my complexion. She's taller. Looks fragile.”

Leonard put his hands on my shoulders. Turned me around.

He said, “Is that her?”

Ericka was standing near the shops. She stepped from behind some plants. She waved. I waved. She looked like she wanted to run in the other direction. I held my arms out to her. I let her take the first step toward me.

We walked toward each other. The walk turned into a jog.

We hugged. She trembled and cried. I exhaled.

I said, “Well, if it's not my little fugitive.”

“Hi.”

“What you did was—”

“Stupid.”

“Not stupid.”

“Momma said I was stupid.”

“You've talked to her?”

“No. She just always calls me stupid. Especially now.”

“Never stupid. You made a mistake.”

“A big mistake.”

“Yes. Big. I can't have a stupid little sister, can I?”

She said, “Are you mad at me?”

“No. Yes. Ask me after I calm down.”

Leonard was a few feet way. I nodded at him. He did the same. He shifted, ran his hand over his hair, looked relieved, but not relaxed. He was giving us space. My fingers intertwined with Ericka's and I led her to the chairs near the bar. I touched her face.

I said, “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Are you going to make me go home?”

“When you're ready.”

“I'm not. I don't think anybody's proud of me right about now. Don't know if I'll ever be ready.”

“Not until then. You're going to have to go, but it's going to have to be your decision. You have things you need to face.”

“Figured you would say something like that.”

“But I'm not making you. I'm encouraging you to do what's right.” I felt her head, looked at her tongue, took her pulse. Inside I wished I had the wisdom of Chinese healers.

I said, “My word is bond.”

“Debra?”

“Yes?”

“What does that mean? Your word is bond. Is that like James Bond or something?”

“No.” I laughed a little. “It means I keep my word. I do what I promise. I try to anyway. I am glued to whatever I promise.”

She said, “I'm glad you came.”

I kissed the side of her face. “I'm not going to leave you. You have to call your mother and let her know you're okay. Tell her you called me and now I'm with you.”

“She'll be mad at you.”

“Let that be my problem.”

Ericka told me she had been hiding at one of her classmates' house in Windsor Hills, around the corner from her own home. She had slipped through a bedroom window and hid out. Her friend had her own room and privacy. While her friend's parents were asleep, she showered and ate food the girl had brought her. Then early this morning, Ericka slipped out of the girl's window, walked right through her neighborhood, caught a bus, and came downtown. She figured she could blend in down here and nobody would notice. The way children walked the streets all day and all night like strays, she was right.

She had done well for a child.

“Debra?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I need to get my homework to my teachers. I want to keep my A's. I could've gotten perfect attendance again this year, but you know, this happened.” She asked, “Is that man your husband?”

“A friend of mine. His name is Leonard.”

“Does he know?”

“He knows. Don't worry. He's cool.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

I smiled. “Just a friend.”

“Wasn't he on TV? On
Moesha
or something?”

“I don't know. I don't watch much television. I only watch
60 Minutes
and
20/20
and stuff like that.”

Her face was pale. She might've been queasy.

I said, “How did you get pregnant?”

“Stupid sex.”

“We know that. Who's the father?”

“I don't want to get him in trouble.”

“He's gotten you in trouble. He knows, right?”

She nodded. “I mailed him a letter.”

“Is he out of town?”

“He lives here.”

“How old is he?”

“He's old. Almost sixteen. He's going to get his driver's permit this year.”

“So, he's in high school.”

She nodded.

“Is he black?”

She nodded. “Why did you ask me that?”

I shrugged.

Ericka told me the boy who impregnated her was a dancer, and that the boy said if she told his mother, she wouldn't let him dance. His situation was damn insignificant, but the fear in her voice told me she thought inconveniencing his life was more important than the life spawning inside her thirteen-year-old womb. Her logic didn't make sense to me, but then again, it wasn't adult logic.

She said, “If his mother finds out, then she might make him stop dancing, then his career would be over, and he won't get discovered and make millions of dollars. That would be money he would have for me and the baby, when he came back for us.”

“Who told you that?”

“He did.”

“Really.”

“He can dance better than MC Hammer. He can rap. He did a Dr. Dre song and won the talent show at Inglewood High.”

I said, “An entertainer.”

She nodded. Smiled a little.

I didn't say anything.

She said, “One time.”

“What?”

“I only did it one time. So I didn't really know, you know, how I got like this. You're not supposed to get, you know, just from one time.”

“It only takes one time.”

“We only did it a minute.”

“That was a minute too long.”

“It hurt.”

“No doubt. More ways than one.”

“But I didn't take all of my clothes off and I was standing up and the yucky stuff ran back out.”

“Sweetheart, that doesn't work. Once it's in you, it's in you. Why did you do it in the first place?”

Ericka gripped my hand with hers, ran her thumb up and down my skin.

She said, “He told me if I wanted to be his girlfriend, and if I wanted him to
really
be my boyfriend, then we were supposed to do what boyfriends and girlfriends do. And there was this dance that this girl was giving. It was a birthday party, and he said he would take me if, you know, if we became boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Did he take you to the dance?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Been there, done that.”

“I heard he went with this girl from his school.”

“What does that tell you?”

“His word wasn't bond.”

“If his word isn't bond, and he makes a million dollars, do you think he's going to come back for you and your baby?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Probably not.”

“What did he say when you told him you were pregnant?”

“I haven't really talked to him since. I mean, I told him, but he hasn't really talked to me since, you know, since that day I met him behind the bleachers.”

My cry of anguish oozed out. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

“You had sex with him behind the bleachers?”

She lowered her eyes and nodded.

I put my hand on her chin, brought her eyes to mine.

I said, “At school?”

She nodded.

“And he hasn't talked to you since then?”

“Just that one time when he told me not to tell anybody.”

“Ericka, it's been almost four months.”

She nodded again, now with tears falling across her cheeks.

I said, “Are you sure you want to have this baby?”

She shrugged. “I get tired of Momma making me do stuff. She never asks me what I want to do.”

“You ever think that some of it might be for your own good?”

She chewed her lips and held her thoughts hostage.

I massaged her arm and allowed her to think for a while. I hoped I was doing the right thing. Hoped I had done the right thing when I didn't call the police. Regret was all over her face. She had the same expression, the feeling I'd had after my own mistakes. I stayed calm to keep her calm. I wanted her to keep talking. Let her go through her own thought process and come to her own decision, whatever was right for her.

I'd never seen a child look so confused in my life.

What we were doing was delaying.

The inevitable could be set aside for only so long.

Ericka's breathing, her eyes, her tears told me she knew that she had to face her mother. She had to go back where she didn't want to go.

Ericka took my left hand and stood.

I had never seen a child so terrified.

As men could father a child and never be considered a daddy, many women could have children, but that did not make them mothers.

But there was nothing I could do. Not a damn thing I could do to save Ericka.

I didn't even know what saving her would look like.

Ericka sighed. “Are you taking me home now?”

“Are you ready to go?”

“I want to get this over with.”

We headed toward the payphone, walked by tourists, hand in hand, like sisters.