Lundyn Bridges Read online

  Lundyn Bridges

  a novel by

  Patrice Wade-Johnson

  In memory of

  Rageim Lee Wade

  April 22, 1990 – July 2, 2005

  He was a scholar and an athlete

  He was a peacemaker

  He was supposed to be

  President of the United States

  He was fifteen

  He was killed

  by a driver who was talking on a cell phone

  No call is that important

  Lundyn Bridges

  Copyright © 2007 by Patrice Wade-Johnson

  Words with Wings Publishing Company

  PO Box 17141 Pittsburgh, PA 15235

  www.patricewadejohnson.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

  reproduced without written permission except in the case of brief

  quotations embodied in reviews or articles.

  Scripture taken from the

  HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®.

  Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984

  International Bible Society.

  Used by permission of Zondervan.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-9773464-1-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Control Number 2007923030

  1. African American

  2. Fiction General/Christian Contemporary

  Acknowledgments

  I am overwhelmed by the blessings and favor of God.

  "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find;

  knock and the door will be opened to you.

  For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds;

  and to him who knocks the door will be opened." Matthew 7:7-8

  Mom & Dad – merely saying thank you is inadequate. I love you.

  Sanctuary of Praise – The divine hand of God united me with a

  spiritual family who continues to pray, encourage and support.

  There are a few people that I must individually acknowledge

  because they were instrumental in the completion of this novel:

  My Reading Circle – Minister Faithe Bryant, Psalmist Denise

  Butler, Elder Maureen Dobson, and Elder Sima King

  I appreciate you!

  Rhonda Lynn Fleming – Thanks for sharing your expertise.

  You are making a difference in the lives you touch.

  The Editors – Maureen Anderson, Claudia Harper Eaglin

  & Elder Phyllis Nelson

  The Book Cover Artist: Kendrah Foster

  The Photographer – Elder Cynthia D. Flood

  The Models: Brandin Adams, Tyonya Brown, Dominique Dobson,

  Michaela Flood, Nasia Flood, Candice Johnson, Ray Johnson,

  Shae Proctor, Aisha Robinson and M. Romon Washington, II.

  This book is dedicated to everyone who has ever stood in the gap praying on behalf of someone who was in need of salvation, deliverance or healing. Even if you never get to see the fruit, know that your labor was not in vain.

  Heart Strings

  Can you hear the chiming

  of my heart strings?

  Just listen to the twinkling,

  or could it be the rhyming,

  although sometimes there’s no timing,

  when life blows through my

  heart strings.

  We don’t ever know what this life will bring,

  how the wind will blow or if the chill will sting!

  But amidst the joy and laughter,

  even when tears follow after,

  I can always hear the ringing

  of the melody my heart is singing.

  Just listen to the chiming

  of my heart strings..

  Prologue

  Almost ten years had passed since the last time I saw the twins. So much had happened, and so many things had changed. This reunion would be good for all of us. I checked my watch several times as I stood in line to get a boarding pass. Afreeka was meeting me at the airport in Baltimore, and Romen was driving down with his family on Saturday. They would miss the graduation but would arrive in time for the graduation party.

  Our mother left us wounded, angry and broken. Most of my life had been spent struggling with issues of abandonment, but God was healing and mending me. Although my journey toward being whole had been daunting, I now realized how God's hand had guided my life. All of my experiences were lessons in love and forgiveness I was only now beginning to fully comprehend. God's word is true, "Lean not to thine own understanding and He will direct your path." During my childhood, my outlook on life had been bleak, at best, but my first client, unknowingly, helped me come to terms with my reality. I had broken all the rules. I had digressed. I had had major issues with transference. But, those experiences were crucial to my healing. I now felt empowered to impart this healing to my siblings.

  When the pilot turned off the seat belt light, I reclined and thought about the lesson from my Bible study group – the power to change people lies with God and not with man. It is the believer’s obligation to have faith in God’s ability to give the increase after the seed of His word is planted. I closed my eyes and quietly hummed one of my favorite hymns, “Lift Him Up.”

  How to reach the masses, men of every birth

  For an answer Jesus gave the key

  If I, if I be lifted up from the earth

  I’ll draw all men unto me.

  I began to thank God, in faith, that something about the Savior’s grace and mercy would burrow into the hearts of my siblings. “I’m just a sower,” I whispered to myself, “planting the seeds of hope and healing to the hurting.”

  I stared out the window wondering if I would get a glimpse of the University Psychiatric Hospital – the place where I encountered Francine, my first client. The place that forced me to deal with the pain of my past and freed me to move on to my future. I couldn’t see the university because the brightness of the sun was almost blinding. Although my beginnings typically started with gray skies and rain, and ended with me searching for the rainbow, the rays of sun cascading through the airplane window were a good sign that great things were ahead.

  Part One

  Living in the present

  He gives strength to the weary and

  increases the power of the weak.

  Even youths grow tired and weary,

  and young men stumble and fall;

  but those who hope in the LORD

  will renew their strength.

  They will soar on wings like eagles;

  they will run and not grow weary,

  they will walk and not be faint.

  Isaiah 40: 29 - 31

  Chapter 1

  Walking up the front steps of the hospital on that humid Monday morning I had no idea how my life would change and how much my job would impact my future. My first day of work was an overcast morning in June of 2004. I had accepted a position as a Clinical Social Work Intern at the University Psychiatric Hospital. It was a twelve month demonstration grant, and I was hoping the experience would provide direction and insight about career possibilities. Anxiety began to set in as I waited for the elevator, and I pulled the mirror from my purse to check my lipstick. I wondered if my slip was hanging. Was I too early? Would I stumble over my words? I tried to remember the scripture from Rev. Morgan’s sermon on Sunday – “God has not given us a spirit of fear.” I was nervous and angry because my mind was blank. My Bible was in the bottom of my briefcase, and it would have been awkward trying to get it
out.

  Growing up I never dreamed of being a Social Worker. In fact, I never thought of helping other people because, in my life, I was the one who needed help. My choice to work with women in recovery was almost an oxymoron. I wish I could say I had an epiphany, but I didn’t – it was more like being drawn into something. After enrolling in the graduate program, I rationalized if I could help women then I would be helping children, too. My heart still ached for the children. My heart still ached for me. I had had so much pain and far too many questions remained locked up somewhere inside me. Prayer became a new solace. God was my only hope – no one else understood and nothing else had ever really consoled me.

  The sincerity of my conversations with God was a major hurdle I had overcome. When I was a little girl I heard He answered prayers, so I did my best at praying for the things my family needed. Eventually, the prayers for my mother became ritualistic. I would beg God to make my mother stop loving drugs. It seemed the more I prayed, the more she used. For most of my childhood, I didn’t think God liked me since He never seemed to answer.

  Mrs. Woodard, my foster mother, spent two weeks encouraging me about my new job, but something always made me doubt my own ability. I always seemed to anticipate someone being smarter, prettier or more popular. I still struggled with my own self-worth so I felt I understood people who exhibited self-defeating behaviors.

  My desire to help people, especially women with addiction issues, had become a driving force since my first sociology class in high school. The drug epidemic had far reaching consequences which had yet to be identified by textbooks. My sisters, brothers and I, and the thousands of kids who had grown up with a mother on drugs, were the outcomes. The complexity of our tears, our pain and our struggles were what sociologists should have been trying to understand. I was still angry because someone should have been able to help my mother, and no one did – no other child should have to experience abandonment and rejection.

  My career goals were purely selfish – I needed to be healed. I was at a point in my life where helping others seemed to be the most logical way to heal my heart and the hurt I couldn’t seem to escape. Years of vacillating between anger and denial left me easily convinced that helping just one woman love her children instead of heroin or crack would free me from my pain. My yearning to be free to move on with my life intensified as I matured.

  The elevator doors opened and the crowd moved me to the back. “Seven, please,” I said out loud to no one in particular. I watched each button light up – two, three, four. The elevator stopped, but no one exited. Five –a few people got off. Six, seven – I was the only one who exited.

  “Good luck,” a nurse, who was the only other woman, smiled as I stepped off the elevator. “The orientation is in the conference room to your left.”

  “Thanks,” I nervously replied.

  During the thirty-second walk to the room I took several deep breaths. Before reaching for the door handle, I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. I was thirty-five minutes early and didn’t want to appear over-anxious. “Good morning,” I said to the man and woman talking in front of the table. “I’m Lundyn Bridges.”

  The woman was beautiful and her white jacket seemed out of place over her tangerine linen dress. Her skin was flawless, and her smile was radiant and welcoming. Her three-inch heels made her tower over the gentleman who had to look up when speaking to her. The older gentleman was portly and his plaid suit jacket struggled to stay closed. He wore silver wire framed glasses that almost matched the silver in his hair.

  The woman smiled and extended her right hand. “I’m Dr. Solis and this is Dr. Cohen.”

  “My pleasure to meet you.” I tried not smiling so hard as I shook their hands.

  “Dr. Cohen is the Director of Medical Research and I am the Chief Psychiatrist for this grant. We’re happy to have you on board.” Dr. Solis paused before continuing. “Tell me what you know about the grant.”

  I had almost memorized the grant abstract, but now my mouth was dry, and my tongue felt like lead. I cleared my throat and tried to swallow. “Through the Division of Epidemiological Studies, you have been funded for a twelve month demonstration grant to assess the feasibility of an intensive outpatient therapeutic model on female patients being discharged with a dual diagnosis of addiction and depression. The goal of the program is to stabilize the women using a combination of medication and outpatient therapy and to provide job readiness to facilitate their personal sustainability, as well as their ability to live substance free.”

  Dr. Cohen smiled. “You’re thorough – I like that. You took the time to read the grant.”

  “Yes,” I smiled with some relief. “The project piqued my interest. I’m honored that I was selected. I’m excited about working with both of you.”

  Our conversation turned to social issues and the plight of women on drugs. Dr. Solis and Dr. Cohen were surprised by the depth of my insight about children of addiction. When the other members of the research team began arriving I took a deep breath and reminded myself to stay off my soap box.

  Natalie Harrington entered the room as if she were the diva we were waiting for. She was impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit with shoes and purse that matched exactly. Her hair was pulled back into a French roll and the bronze streaks in her hair accentuated her chocolate brown complexion. Natalie looked right through me and then addressed Dr. Solis and Dr. Cohen.

  “Dr. Solis,” she smiled extending her hand, “it’s so nice to see you again. And you must be Dr. Cohen.” Natalie turned slightly to the right to face him.

  I walked away to get coffee.

  Jelisa Paige and Tonya Graham were the next to join us. They lowered their voices when they realized we were in the room. After a general hello to everyone, Jelisa scanned the room while Tonya retrieved their nametags from the table. They both wore gold Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority pins on the lapel of their black suits. I recognized them from campus; we had taken a few classes together.

  “Hey, how are you?” Tonya smiled, waving to me.

  Before I could respond they were greeted by Dr. Solis, who left Natalie talking to Dr. Cohen.

  Savannah Robinson and Kiarra Dillingham were the last to enter the room. Savannah seemed flustered, and she sighed out loud after looking at her watch. She forced a smile when she saw Dr. Solis and walked over to her. Kiarra was naturally beautiful. She was the only one in the room, beside Dr. Solis, who only wore eye shadow and lip gloss, and she was the one who could have easily posed for the cover of a magazine.

  “Hey KiKi.” I handed my best friend a nametag. “What took you so long?”

  “Did you get here before they did?” She asked sarcastically. “Girl, I’m ten minutes early. Plenty of time to introduce myself to the boss, write my name on this tag, get some coffee and have a seat.”

  Kiarra smiled and winked before going over to speak to Dr. Solis. Kiarra constantly chided me about being too serious, and she graciously accepted the challenge to help me have fun and enjoy life.

  Jelisa, Tonya and Kiarra were also Clinical Social Work Interns. Natalie and Savannah were doctoral students who would be working with Dr. Cohen analyzing client data.

  Dr. Solis invited the group to enjoy the pastries and coffee before taking a seat around the conference table. She asked us to share something about ourselves, and she scanned each face as the introductions continued around the table. I listened intently, feeling intimidated by this group that seemed so polished and refined. Although I concluded no volunteer experience or paid internship could equal my reality, each of them, including Kiarra, had had unique experiences either with women in recovery or in the field of addiction. I felt unqualified and doubted my ability to help anyone, but I had also begun to realize I was my worst critic.

  Dr. Solis proceeded to explain our roles in detail. In addition to the research study, we were also being assigned to co-facilitate one of the existing outpatient therapy groups. However, she reiterated we were primarily responsible fo
r the intensive case management of our assigned client. No one moved or said a word.

  The silence in the room was broken when Veronica Kennedy entered. Dr. Solis introduced her as the lead statistician for the grant. Veronica’s monotone voice resulted in an extremely boring presentation. She was barely visible over the podium and was dressed in complete contrast to Dr. Solis. Her wool-blend A-line plaid skirt and white cotton shirt made it evident she spent too much time with a computer and had never bothered to take notice of current fashion trends. She was the recipient of several awards for her statistical prowess, and I should have been impressed by her ability to rattle off numbers, but the numbers were insignificant to me. I scanned the room, again, making mental notes of everyone’s name and then forced myself to take notes on what I assumed were the most important stats. I also drank three cups of coffee during the forty minutes she spoke.

  After the orientation, Natalie and Savannah left with Dr. Cohen, and Dr. Solis took the interns on a tour of the tenth floor. “These are the clients we will be serving,” she stated as the elevator door opened. “We refer to them as clients, not patients, because we want them to be equally vested in their treatment goals.” Dr. Solis paused at the nurses’ station. “This is my mental health team,” she said to Debbie, the head nurse, who smiled at us. Debbie was the nurse on the elevator who said good luck and told me where to find the conference room.

  As Dr. Solis relayed our assignments to Debbie, she pointed to identify us by name. We extended our hands, and Debbie, with a nod and a smile, proceeded to give us the protocol for the floor.

  “Thank you.” Dr. Solis smiled and gave a slight nod to Debbie before leading us to the small conference room at the end of the hall. She took a seat in the only office chair, and we sat in the metal chairs around the table. “Ladies, we will meet in this conference room at two o’clock and all day tomorrow to review the grant objectives and develop outlines for treatment plans. Beginning Wednesday, we will brief each morning at eight; you will meet with your client from nine to ten, and then you will join the therapeutic staff morning meeting at eleven-thirty. In two weeks, these ladies will be discharged to the newly renovated bridge housing unit on Morewood Avenue - My Sister’s Keeper. We will then brief on Monday mornings from eight to nine, and you will be responsible for meeting with your client twice per week for the next twelve months. You will make sure your client attends the adult education classes and registers for one of the county employment training centers. You will be responsible for incorporating independent living and social skills into your sessions. Each of these women must develop a budget, open a checking and savings account, and you must monitor their monthly expenses. Each of these women must reach some level of self-sufficiency and sustainability within the next twelve months. They can only stay in My Sister’s Keeper for eighteen months, and they must be adequately prepared to live on their own.” Dr. Solis paused while scanning our faces again. “Any questions?”