Right before the devastation, I had a good day. God should have pulled my coattail then and there: "Enjoy this while you can, honey, because Satan beat me in a poker game last night, and he's claiming you and yours sometime soon." After all the praying and tithing I've done, I deserved a heads-up. Damn. Whatever happened to sending a sign? Lean cow, fat cow. Burning bush. Dove with an olive branch. Yoo-hoo! Something.

It was probably better that the events evolved with no foreshadowing. Preparation wasn't possible. And what difference would it have made anyhow? Knowing that the hounds are tracking you doesn't mean you won't get caught; it means you have to get to the swamp fast.

So there I was, clueless: lolling in the bed, stretching my legs and my toes--which needed a pedicure--ticking off a list of things to do in my head, I began to wake up. It was the second Saturday in April. Sunshine was making its way through a thick haze. Rising up, I stared out of my bedroom window, squinting a bit as I tried to discern the LA skyline, framed neatly between the two huge palm trees in my backyard. Thick pea soup almost obliterated the view, but I didn't look away until I sighted those buildings. Once I knew the city had survived the night, my shoulders came down. Anything can happen at any time in an earthquake zone, and I've learned to take nothing for granted. I've gone to bed some evenings only to awaken at dawn to broken windows and cracked dishes. That the Bank of America and Wells Fargo headquarters hadn't been shaken and dashed into oblivion during the night meant I had survived as well. I'm always grateful for a morning with no tremors, no frantic dogs barking.

Trina was beside me, not a heartbeat away, her hip pressed into my thigh. She felt warm against me, the pressure of her body weight comforting. The day after her eighteenth birthday, when most girls were declaring their independence, my daughter was still creeping into my bed. Even when she hated me, she wanted to be close. She was still fresh from last night's bath and smelled like Dove and that pale yellow lotion in the big plastic bottle. That staple of American vanities and kitchen counters promises to banish dry skin forever but can't even begin to handle seriously crusty feet. My grandmother's feet at the end of February would have had that lotion begging for mercy. But then, when you grow up plowing Georgia clay barefoot in the hard times, nothing on or in you remains soft. For Trina's smooth, buttery skin, that watery lotion worked just fine. The toes pressed against my calves were just as supple as the rest of her and just as lovely. Gazing at my sleeping daughter, I could take her in without annoying her. Such a pretty child, I thought. There wasn't a blemish on her honey-colored face. When she was a little girl, I was lulled by the well-wishing smiles of strangers who were bewitched by the dazzling enormity of her round eyes and endless smile, her marble-sized dimples and naturally sandy hair. Trina seemed to take the attention in stride, but it inflated me. My gingerbread-brown face was symmetrical, with two eyes placed where eyes should be, lips that weren't full or thin, a nose that would keep me alive, hair that was thick and strong but otherwise unremarkable. Nobody turned to stare at me when I walked down the street, not the way they did with Trina. I used to think of her beauty as an insurance policy that would guarantee her a perfect life. A lot of people who aren't beautiful think this way.

It was six o'clock, and I had a standing appointment with the treadmill and some free weights. Trina stirred, then turned over and stared at me.

"Hey, grown woman," I said,...

 

"Bebe Moore Campbell shatters our abstract notions about mental illness. . . . [She] is a writer at the top of her form as a storyteller, culture keeper and astute social critic."

 

"A tightly woven, well-written story about mothers and daughters, highs and lows, ex-husbands and boyfriends, and how a 'perfect' life can be completely altered by something entirely beyond our control. . . . Universally touching."

 

"Stark, incisive and often harrowing, 72 Hour Hold wrenches open the closet door behind which mental illness has been hidden in communities of color. It's no small task, but Campbell handles it with characteristic verve and aplomb."

 

"I am grateful for Bebe Moore Campbell. . . . Campbell fearlessly unveils the pain of loss and the ecstasy of love. Add to that courage, and the graceful ability to write very, very well."

 

72 Hour Hold by Bebe Moore Campbell
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