He and Bethany looked at me.

"Yes," I said.

"We have a facility in a remote area. A small staff runs the place. We're completely self-sufficient. We work with no more than sixteen patients at a time. Our patient-to-staff ratio is four to one. That's a lot of care. We are expensive: twelve thousand dollars a month. The average stay is six months to a year."

I think I must have gasped, because Brad stopped speaking, and he and Bethany looked at me. Maybe he was just a salesman, a hope huckster without a Bible. At $12,000, hope was high. Was this a con? I looked at Bethany.

"Anyone who comes to the facility must be prepared to make a commitment," Brad said.

"I'm not rich."

"Most people aren't."

Brad signaled the waitress, then handed her a credit card. When the woman disappeared, he turned to me. "We have two openings now. Can't guarantee how long those slots will be available."

"Where is this place?"

Brad shook his head. "If you decide that we're the right group for you and your loved one, you'll find out that kind of information on a need-to-know basis."

"You do use medications?"

Brad nodded. "Of course. Medication compliance is what we instill in our patients. For most, it's the key to leading a productive life. But we try to prescribe the lowest dosage possible, in order to minimize weight gain and other side effects. We incorporate an array of nontraditional methods as well, including acupuncture, homeopathy, exercise, meditation, and proper nutrition."

"My daughter drinks. She smokes marijuana, and maybe-"

"Most people with brain diseases self-medicate. It's to be expected. We have very strong substance abuse counselors."

The waitress returned and handed Brad his card and receipt. He stood up.

"You have a lot of questions," he said once the waitress had left. "I don't want to answer them just yet. It might be better if you meet some more parents and speak with them. Would you like that?"

"When?" I was multiplying twelve thousand dollars times six months in my head, calculating the equity in my home, the balance in my savings account, the value of my stock portfolio, and the little apartment building I owned in Atlanta. How fast could I liquidate?

Brad extended his hand. "Time is short. Stay here for a while. Some other people will come to speak with you. Good meeting you."

"How did you find out about this place?" I asked Bethany as Brad walked away.

"A friend," she said.

"Have you seen any of the people they've helped?"

"They've helped me already. Some of their people are the ones who watch Angelica for me."

"I don't have that kind of money."

"Talk to some of the other parents."

"But if I don't have the money-"

"Just talk to-" Bethany stopped as a colorfully dressed woman slid into the booth beside her.

"My name is Carleen. Brad said you might want to speak with me."

Bethany didn't appear surprised, but I was taken aback at seeing someone so soon. I didn't know whether I wanted to speak with Carleen. A part of me felt angry and violated that Brad had all the control and things were happening so fast. All I knew about him was his first name. Maybe he was who he said he was, and maybe he was some crackpot who was trying to suck me in.

But I smiled at Carleen as she sat down. She was tiny, with a little thin nose and almost no lips. Her hands seemed to flutter as she spoke, mostly about her twin boys. They had been difficult children, even when they were very young. At eight years old, they started taking Ritalin. For a while they were better, almost controllable, but then they hit puberty and discovered weed, liquor, and Ecstasy. They were diagnosed with bipolar disorder at age seventeen. By that time their family life had become complete chaos. By twenty-one, they'd both been in and out of both hospitals and jails. At that time, she couldn't imagine their lives improving. She said the program had saved her sons.

"Did you try to get conservatorship?" I asked.

"Sure. I have conservatorship now. They were in a locked facility for a year. They seemed better. I let them come out. Took them to another facility. No locks. They weren't able to maintain their sobriety. They'd leave the premises and get high. After a while, they stopped taking the meds. Everything started all over again. A friend told me about Brad's program. I made the arrangements, and it's been five-no, six-years, and they are still medication-compliant and drug-free."

For a minute I couldn't speak. It was bewildering to think that conservatorship didn't bring complete deliverance.

"What about failure rate? The group can't possibly help everybody."

"I don't know about that," Carleen said. "I only know about my case. I had no contact with any other parents or kids. The program is strictly anonymous."

"What about when you visited?" I asked.

"I never visited the site. I'd meet my sons and the counselors somewhere that was neutral."

"So I guess you think it was worth the twelve thousand a month?" I asked.

"I paid about thirty-five hundred," she said.

Bethany's expression didn't change.

"They told me it cost twelve thousand dollars a month."

"They told me that too in the beginning. It's a test, to see your level of commitment. There's a sliding scale. If you can pay, fine; they accept the money. But they have donors who finance them. Nobody is ever turned away because of money. I know that this is a lot to absorb. Would you like to talk with someone else?"

"Yes."

Twenty minutes after Carleen waved good-bye, a Latino man- Francisco-appeared at our table and sat across from Bethany and me. Thirty minutes after he left, an older white couple showed up, Fleur and Larry. Their stories were similar to mine. Sick loved ones, a system that had failed them, nowhere to turn. And then suddenly a light. I was suspicious of the light.

Maybe I'm being brainwashed, I thought, when people kept coming. In my mind, all kinds of scenarios played out. Maybe the group was a cult. Suppose I took Trina there and they took out her organs and sold them. My mind was putting up a valiant effort, fighting with all it could muster the inevitable conclusion that came from feeling my back against the wall.

"What other choices do they give us?" Carleen had asked me before she left.

Harriet probably said that.

"THE BEST TIME TO DO IT WOULD BE TOMORROW NIGHT," Bethany said when we were alone. "When you pick her up from the hospital, Angelica and I would meet you with Brad. We'd just keep going."

"What do you mean, we'd travel together?"

"There are two openings, yours and mine. How long do you think they'll be there? We have to make a move now. "

"I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. Just toss some clothes in a bag. A pair of jeans and some tops. The same for your daughter. They'll give her pajamas and toiletries."

"I have a business to run."

"Leave someone in charge. You won't be gone that long. Better sooner than later, Keri. At least now she has some meds in her system. A week from now that may not be the case."

"I have to go," I said, and stood up.

"If you leave her to the system, she will be lost."

"Let me think."

It was impossible to process everything I'd heard. Nothing was linking up in my mind. Clyde would have ripped Brad's presentation to shreds. But I couldn't even contact Clyde if I wanted to. He wasn't answering his cell phone. I called Orlando on my way to the hospital. He was in rehearsal and couldn't really talk, except to go on and on about what a good role he had. Hanging up, I felt frustrated. Ma Missy should have been with me. She could have read Brad, told me if he was for real or not. But Ma Missy wasn't here, and I had no one to help me make the most important decision of my life.

TRINA WAS TAKING A SMOKE BREAK WHEN I GOT TO THE hospital. "I'm ready to go home," she announced when I sat down with her in the television room. "There's nothing wrong with me, and I don't need to be here."

"Trina, you have a mental illness-"

She waved her hand, as if shooing away a pesky fly. "No, I don't. I just shouldn't have smoked weed, that's all. I think the guy who gave it to me laced it with something. Come early tomorrow; then we can go to IHOP. I'm fiending for pancakes."

"Things are going to be different when you come home, Trina. You will have to take your meds, start seeing your therapist regularly, and there can't be any cursing, violence, drugs, or drinking."

Even I recognized that my words held no authority. I wasn't telling her, I was pleading with her. Mother as supplicant.

"I know," she said blandly.

"I'm going to type up a contract, and you're going to sign it," I said. "And if you break the contract, you're going to have to find another place to live."

"Okay." She stood up. "So come get me early, so we can have some pancakes." Trina licked her lips and rubbed her tummy. "Yum-yum."

If she'd been eight years old, I would have laughed.

"So they are sending her home tomorrow," Elijah said as I was leaving. He shook his head. "She's not ready yet. So many times, when they send them away, they're not ready. Then they just come back. On and on and on. In my country, we are not so developed. We don't have special places, special medication for the ones with the mental illnesses."

"What do you do with them?"

Elijah shrugged. "We just let them be. Sometimes, the less hope, the better."

The testimonies of strangers formed a merry-go-round in my head. Richard. Carleen. Francisco. Fleur. Larry. They'd all ridden out the horrors of before and grabbed the brass ring of after. But what guarantees did I have that one day I'd count myself among them? Maybe I'd end up with the others whose first names had been withheld, the ones for whom the program had been just another failure.

Option number two was simpler: Start again. Go back to support group. Call the SMART people. Wait. Call them again. Hope that she meets the criteria, that she is swallowing the bottle of pills or punching me as they come through the door. Hope that she gets put on a seventy-two-hour hold. Hope that the hospital has a psych bed available and that the meds don't work so fast that she's totally lucid after three days, too lucid to stay longer. Pray that the hospital decides to extend her hold and that the patient's rights advocate is lazy. Pray that Dr. Bellows will do all the paperwork, come to court, and testify on my behalf. Pray the judge will see things my way. Wait. Hope. Pray. Trust the system.

At home, I began cleaning. My drugs of choice: Windex, Pine-Sol, Murphy's Oil Soap. The vacuum zigzagged all over the family room. I folded towels and put them away. I threw out old food in the refrigerator. My inner obsessive-compulsive was in charge, anxious to cross off everything in the cleanup to-do list. The goal was to keep moving until the ache had transferred from soul to muscles. The point was to change the focus.

Orlando rang the bell close to eleven. He was on a high, still in character, still spouting lines. We made love right on the family room couch. It felt different, the way he stroked me, the way he sucked my nipple and rubbed my ass. Then I realized that he was fucking me the way the man in the play would have done it.

I liked it.

Orlando fell asleep on the couch. Toward midnight, and still with energy to spare, I approached the pile of unopened mail and magazines, letter opener in hand. Five days' worth of mail. But what was this?

Dear Keri, Happy birthday! Sorry this is late. I know you think I wasn't the greatest mother, but I have always loved you. I am trying to make amends for the past. I just wish that you could find it in your heart to . . .

I crushed the paper in my hand. My fist closed over it and smashed down some more.

Later, when I'd try to remember exactly what propelled me over the edge, I could never say with any degree of certainty what final wind blew me there. All I knew was, my child would never be able to say I didn't try hard enough. A click went off in my mind, and I was racing across the plantation in the dark.

16.

THERE WAS NO TIME TO MULL THINGS OVER THE NEXT morning. Five minutes after I told Bethany my decision, we were on a three-way phone call with Brad. Thirty minutes later, I was seated on the same oceanfront bench where I'd heard the first testimonial. Bethany sat on one side of me and Brad on the other. I handed him a check for twenty-five hundred dollars, what he'd determined I needed to pay each month.

"Tell me what will happen," I said to him.

"Tonight I'll meet you in the parking lot of the hospital. You need to arrive there by cab. Tell your daughter that your car is in the shop and a friend will be taking you home. Bethany and Angelica will already be with me. I'll drive everyone to one of our houses. Your daughter will meet with a psychiatrist while she's there. You'll stay at the first house for a few days and then move on to another and then another until you reach the destination. When you're almost there, someone will take your daughter the rest of the way alone, and you'll return home."

"Like the underground railroad," I said.

Brad smiled. "Actually, that's the model."

"What do you know about the underground railroad? " I asked.

Brad hesitated. "I'm not much of a history buff. It was a means of freeing slaves, getting them north to Canada. Harriet Tubman was the most famous conductor on the railroad. I know that much," he said. "It seemed an appropriate model for what we do. Mental illness is a kind of slavery. Our movement is about freeing people too. We won't always have to hide and run and do our work in the dark. The day is coming when people with brain diseases won't be written off or warehoused, when everyone will know that recovery is possible."

He seemed to be speaking only to me.

"Where is the place? How far away?"

"Can't tell you that. It's for everyone's protection."

"How will I be able to contact her?"

"Someone will call you twice a week. You can talk with your daughter then."

Before I responded, Bethany chimed in. "Think of how many times you haven't known where Trina was. There have been weeks when Angelica was missing. At least, this time around, you'll know she's getting help."

That made sense.

"You came to us for a reason," Brad said, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. His touch surprised me; it was so unyielding. "If we go away, that reason will still be here. You have a mentally ill daughter with a history of noncompliance with her medication regimen and all the concomitant chaos this usually entails. There is no end in sight. You can start again with the SMART people and seventy-two-hour holds, or you can try us. We will not wait for her to hit bottom. We'll reeducate her so she accepts her diagnosis, takes her meds, and gets therapy. There's no guarantee that what we do will work for your daughter, but we're used to success."

He let go of my wrist, but, looking into his eyes, I felt he was still holding me.

"If she could just get back to being who she really is. Everything is waiting for her. She can start where she left off. She can still have the life I dreamed of for her."