Home Again

She paused at the open door to room 108. Inside, a young African-American man sat at a hulking metal desk in a brown-walled office. Three cups of obviously cold coffee stood in a precise line along the upper right edge of the desk. At her entrance, he looked up. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Dr. Madelaine Hillyard. Lina’s mother.”

He nodded and flicked through the stack of files on his desk, gingerly pulling one out. Indicating a chair, he flipped the file open. “Please sit, Dr. Hillyard.”

Madelaine crossed to the small, metal-framed black chair and perched nervously on its edge.

After a moment he looked up from the file and gave her a smile. “Your daughter’s a real spitfire.”

“Yes.”

“The store detective at Savemore Drugs caught her shoplifting some makeup. Nailed her on the in-store video, too. Do you want to see it?”

Madelaine wished she needed to, but she knew Lina had done this—and she knew why. It was Lina’s way of getting back at a mother who wouldn’t make a phone call.

“No.”

“Good. Some parents just can’t believe their precious children would do anything wrong.” He shoved back from the desk and stood up. “Here’s the deal. It’s a first offense and the store is willing to overlook what she’s done.”

Madelaine almost sagged with relief. But before she could revel in the feeling, Spencer went on, “Course, that won’t do jack shit—pardon my French—for your daughter. She needs to face the consequences of her actions.”

He looked right at Madelaine. “She’s scared—they all are the first time—but from now on, it’s up to you.”

She wanted to ask what to do, to ask for help, but she didn’t know how. The words tangled in her throat. She’d read dozens of books on parenting, and all of them told her to reason with Lina, to offer her daughter choices and teach her to make decisions. It was good advice, Madelaine knew it was, but it didn’t work, not for her and Lina anyway. And the only other way she knew was her father’s way.

“I’ve worked here a long time, Dr. Hillyard. Your daughter’s on the brink of real trouble.” Spencer moved closer and sat in the chair beside her. “This is a cry for attention. And the next cry might not be so easy to solve. The suicide rate among troubled teens—”

Madelaine gasped and broke eye contact, staring at the hands clasped in her lap. Suicide. A chill spread through her.

“Has she done this before?” That was the question she asked, the words she formed, but what she really wanted to know, needed to know, was How many cries have I missed?

“She had a definite routine. Looked to me like she’d done it before.”

Madelaine squeezed her eyes shut. Of course Lina had done it before. If Lina were someone else’s daughter, Madelaine would have noticed the warning signs long ago—dissatisfied teenager, angry and rebellious, looking for attention.

All of it fit Lina. All of it. The new interest in heavy metal music, the recent ear-piercing frenzy, the truancy, the wardrobe, the attitude. Lina was a teenager in trouble, and shoplifting—whether she knew it or not—was a cry for help. Madelaine had to be strong enough to answer the call.

“Dr. Hillyard?”

Slowly she lifted her chin and looked at the social worker. “I want to help her, Mr. Spencer, but …” The words seemed to drag her down, and it saddened her that she was afraid of this. How could a well-respected physician be so strong with strangers and so weak with her own child? She felt tears of shame and defeat sting her eyes.

“I’ve got a sixteen-year-old daughter myself, Dr. Hillyard. You can love them more than your own life, and give them everything you have. And …” He shrugged. “Shit happens.”

“I … should have disciplined her better… been there more….”

“This isn’t about whose fault it is, Dr. Hillyard. You’re a parent, she’s a teenager—believe me, there’s plenty of blame to go around. Today, what you have to focus on is change.”

She steeled herself. “How do I do it?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Me, I use honesty and consistency.” He smiled, his eyes twinkled. “And when that doesn’t work—take away the television, the learner’s permit, and permission to use the phone.”

Madelaine looked up, surprised. It wasn’t the advice she’d expected. She flashed on her own childhood, on dark, frightening images of her father’s “discipline,” and felt nausea rise in her stomach. “That works? The books all say—”

He dismissed the experts with a wave of his hand. “The books are okay, I guess, but there comes a time when talking doesn’t work anymore. A kid needs rules, pure and simple. Oh, and I’d make her apologize to the manager of the drugstore.” He pushed to his feet. “So, Dr. Hillyard, why don’t we get your daughter out of detention?”

* * *

Lina lay curled on the narrow, smelly cot, her knees drawn up to her chest. The tears she’d cried had long since dried on her cheeks.