Where'd You Go, Bernadette

Presentation by Dr. Kurtz to her supervisor

PATIENT: Bernadette Fox

INTERVENTION PLAN: I presented my patient background to Drs. Mink and Crabtree, who specialize in drug interventions. They concurred that due to the component of substance abuse, it is appropriate to stage an intervention. While I am not formally trained in drug interventions, because of the unique circumstances described in my patient background I have decided to lead it myself.

JOHNSON MODEL VS. MOTIVATIONAL INTERVENTION: For the last decade, Madrona Hill has been moving away from the Johnson Model of “ambush-style” intervention in favor of the more inclusive Miller-and-Rollnick “motivational” approach, which studies have shown to be more effective. However, due to the secrecy dictated by the FBI, the Johnson Model was chosen.

PREPARATORY MEETING: Mr. Branch and I met at Dr. Mink’s Seattle office this afternoon. Dr. Mink conducted many Johnson-style interventions in the 1980s and ’90s, and walked us through its steps.

1. Forcefully “present reality” to the patient.

2. Family members express love for the patient in their own words.

3. Family members detail the damage the patient has caused.

4. Family members guarantee support in treatment of patient.

5. Family members and health professional explain negative consequences if patient refuses treatment.

6. Patient given opportunity to voluntarily seek treatment.

7. Immediate transfer of patient to treatment center.

All hopes are that Bernadette Fox will admit to her illness and check herself into Madrona Hill voluntarily.

That night, I went to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular with Youth Group. The first part, with the Rockettes, was annoying. All it was, was piped-in music while the Rockettes kicked. I thought they would have at least sung, or done some other kind of dancing. But they just kicked in a line facing one direction. They kicked in a line facing the other direction. They kicked in a line with the whole line twirling, to songs like “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” and “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” The whole thing was junk. Kennedy and I both were like, Why?

Intermission came. There was no reason to go to the lobby because nobody had any money, which meant the best we could do was drink water out of the fountain. So me and all the Youth Group kids stayed at our seats. As the audience filed back in, the ladies in hair helmets, caked-on makeup, and blinking Christmas pins all started bubbling with excitement. Even Luke and Mae, who chaperoned us, were standing in front of their seats, staring at the red curtain.

The theater went dark. A star was projected on the curtain. The audience gasped and clapped way too enthusiastically just for a star.

“Today is the most sacred day for all mankind,” boomed a scary voice. “It is the birth of my son, Jesus, the king of kings.”

The curtain flew open. Onstage was a manger with a real-life baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “God” narrated, in the most ominous way, the story of the Nativity. Shepherds came out with live sheep, goats, and donkeys. With every new animal that trotted out, there were fresh “oohs” and “aahs.”

“Haven’t any of these people ever been to a petting zoo?” Kennedy said.

Three wise men entered on a camel, elephant, and ostrich. Even I was like, OK, that’s cool, I didn’t know ostriches would let you ride them.

Then a big black woman walked out, which kind of broke the spell, because she was wearing a supertight red dress, the kind you see at Macy’s.

“O holy night,” she started.

Ecstatic gasps sprung up all around me.

“The stars are brightly shining,” she sang. “It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth. Long lay the world / In sin and error pining / Till he appeared and the spirit felt its worth.” Something about the tune made me close my eyes. The words and music filled me with a warm glow. “A thrill of hope / The weary world rejoices / For yonder breaks / A new and glorious morn.” There was a pause. I opened my eyes.

“Fall on your knees!” she sang, full of startling, loud joy. “O hear the angels’ voices!”

“O niiiiight divine,” more voices joined in. A chorus was now onstage, above baby Jesus, fifty of them, all black people, dressed in sparkly clothes. I hadn’t even seen them arrive. The glow inside me started to harden, which made it difficult to swallow.

“O night when Christ was born. O niiiiight diviiiiiine! O night! O night Divine!”

It was so weird and extreme that I got disoriented for a second, and it was almost a relief when it was over. But the music kept going. I knew I had to brace myself for the next wave. Across the top of the stage, words appeared on a digital scroll. Like the chorus, it just seemed to have materialized. Red-dot words glided across…

A low rumble surrounded me. It was people in the audience rising to their feet, joining in, singing.

I couldn’t see the words anymore because of the people in front of me. I stood, too.

Everyone in the audience started raising their arms halfway up and wiggling their fingers like they were doing jazz hands.

Kennedy had put the HANGOVER bandanna on. “What?” she said, and crossed her eyes. I shoved her.

Then, the main black lady, who hadn’t been singing that loudly but letting the chorus do all the work, suddenly stepped forward.

“Chriiiist is the Lord!” her voice roared, as the sign flashed:

It was so joyful and unapologetically religious, I realized that these people, “churchy” people, as Mom called them, were actually oppressed, and only now could they open up because they were safely among other churchy people. The ladies who looked so nice with their special hairdos and Christmas sweaters, they didn’t care how bad their voices were, they were joining in, too. Some threw their heads back and even closed their eyes. I raised my hands, to see how it felt. I let my head drop back and my eyes close.

I was baby Jesus. Mom and Dad were Mary and Joseph. The straw was my hospital bed. I was surrounded by the surgeons and residents and nurses who helped me stay alive when I was born blue and if it weren’t for them I would be dead now. All those people I didn’t even know, I couldn’t pick them out of a lineup if I had to, but they had worked their whole lives to get the knowledge that ended up saving my life. It was because of them that I was in this magnificent wave of people and music.

There was a jab at my side. It was Kennedy punching me.

“Here.” She handed me her HANGOVER bandanna because tears were burning down my cheeks. “Don’t turn all Jesus on me.”

I ignored her and threw my head back. Maybe that’s what religion is, hurling yourself off a cliff and trusting that something bigger will take care of you and carry you to the right place. I don’t know if it’s possible to feel everything all at once, so much that you think you’re going to burst. I loved Dad so much. I was sorry I was so mean to him in the car. He was just trying to talk to me, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t let him. Of course I noticed he was never home. I had noticed it for years. I wanted to run home and hug Dad, and ask him to please not be away so much, to please not send me off to Choate because I loved him and Mom too much, I loved our house and Ice Cream and Kennedy and Mr. Levy too much to leave. I felt so full of love for everything. But at the same time, I felt so hung out to dry there, like nobody could ever understand. I felt so alone in this world, and so loved at the same time.

The next morning, Kennedy’s mom came in to wake us. “Shit,” she said. “You’re going to be late.” She threw a bunch of breakfast bars at us and went back to bed.

It was eight fifteen. World Celebration Day started at eight forty-five. I quickly got dressed and ran down the hill and across the overpass without stopping. Kennedy is always late to school, and her Mom doesn’t even care, so she stayed and ate cereal and watched TV.

I ran straight to the equipment room, where Mr. Kangana and the first graders were doing a final rehearsal. “I’m here,” I said, waving my shakuhachi. “Sorry.” The little kids looked so sweet in their Japanese kimonos. They started climbing on me like monkeys.

Through the wall, Ms. Goodyear announced us, and we entered the gym, which was packed with parents aiming video cameras. “And now,” she said, “we’ll have a performance by the first graders. Playing along is eighth grader Bee Branch.”

The first graders lined up. Mr. Kangana gave me the signal and I played the first few notes. The kids started singing.

They did a great job, singing in unison. Except for Chloe, who had lost her first tooth that morning and stood there frozen, sticking her tongue into the slot where her tooth had been. We took a pause, and then it was time to sing the song in English, with my choreography. The first graders began singing and moving like elephants, their hands clasped and arms hanging down like swaying trunks.

Just then I had a feeling. There she was, Mom, standing in the doorway, wearing her huge dark glasses.

I laughed because I knew Mom would think it was funny that now I was the one crying. I looked up. But she was gone. It was the last time I saw her.