Where'd You Go, Bernadette(53)
I waved.
“You’re a big girl. My niece, Bee, is a little girl.”
“I’m Bee,” I said.
“No way!” He held up his hand. “High-five for growing.”
I limply slapped him five.
“I come bearing gifts.” He removed his straw hat and shucked off more straw hats from under it, each with a HANGOVER bandanna. “One for you.” He put one on Dad’s head. “One for you.” He put one on my head. “One for Bernadette.”
I snatched it. “I’ll give it to her.” It was so hideous, I had to give it to Kennedy.
As Van stood there smearing ChapStick across his gross lips, I thought, I hope nobody sees me at the zoo with this guy.
*
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…