FOUR
* * *
Annie is waiting when I get home. There is fire in her eyes.
"Well?"
I sigh. It's been a long day.
"It's like before."
"That's all? That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me that I can see her. I have that right. Kevin has that right."
"Yes. But Annie, remember --"
"Don't you tell me to remember! Don't you dare!"
"Annie --"
But she is storming off. She always does; it's nothing new, and I can see why. I want to blame the doctor, pass the buck, but I can't. After what happened last time....
Not fair. Annie's her mother. She does have a right. So does Kevin. When you bond with someone, when they become so much a part of your life that losing them is like losing a limb, you have the right to see them, to know them, don't you? I know Annie is upset, angry. Her children -- our children -- are her world. They follow her and learn from her and without them she knows that she is nothing.
This thought troubles me. Are they not, our children, people too?
Of course they are. But first and foremost, they are our children.
This Annie taught them.
I find Kevin up in the garage apartment.
He looks different now, older maybe. I guess we all do. He watches me as I sit.
"How is she?" he asks.
"No different."
He nods. "I've talked it over with Mrs. Camden," he says. "We agree. We need to see her."
"Kevin --"
"She's my wife, Reverend. I did everything for her. I took care of her."
"I know," I tell him.
"She's got no right to keep me away."
This is true too. I want to say something, to give some sort of sage advice like I always do, but there aren't any words. I don't know why my second daughter is locked up in a home with the IQ of a five year-old. I don't know why she slit her wrists. And I don't know this other thing, either.
I just know it's going to happen.
It always does.
* * *
Annie is waiting when I get home. There is fire in her eyes.
"Well?"
I sigh. It's been a long day.
"It's like before."
"That's all? That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me that I can see her. I have that right. Kevin has that right."
"Yes. But Annie, remember --"
"Don't you tell me to remember! Don't you dare!"
"Annie --"
But she is storming off. She always does; it's nothing new, and I can see why. I want to blame the doctor, pass the buck, but I can't. After what happened last time....
Not fair. Annie's her mother. She does have a right. So does Kevin. When you bond with someone, when they become so much a part of your life that losing them is like losing a limb, you have the right to see them, to know them, don't you? I know Annie is upset, angry. Her children -- our children -- are her world. They follow her and learn from her and without them she knows that she is nothing.
This thought troubles me. Are they not, our children, people too?
Of course they are. But first and foremost, they are our children.
This Annie taught them.
I find Kevin up in the garage apartment.
He looks different now, older maybe. I guess we all do. He watches me as I sit.
"How is she?" he asks.
"No different."
He nods. "I've talked it over with Mrs. Camden," he says. "We agree. We need to see her."
"Kevin --"
"She's my wife, Reverend. I did everything for her. I took care of her."
"I know," I tell him.
"She's got no right to keep me away."
This is true too. I want to say something, to give some sort of sage advice like I always do, but there aren't any words. I don't know why my second daughter is locked up in a home with the IQ of a five year-old. I don't know why she slit her wrists. And I don't know this other thing, either.
I just know it's going to happen.
It always does.