Searching for Tina Turner by Jacqueline E. Luckett Page A

and shoves three boxes onto a handcart. Lena points
     to the front porch and a white envelope taped to the wrought iron railing. The driver tips his baseball cap and heads in that
     direction.
    “See? The universe has just sent you a message. Make things happen. And why don’t you call Cheryl. Your old buddy always could
     knock sense into you.”
    “I haven’t talked to Cheryl since Daddy’s funeral. Too much time has passed to cry on her shoulder. Especially about Randall.”
    “Promise me you’ll call her. If you don’t, I will.”
    f   f   f
    “Where do you think you’re off to?” Lena opens the trunk and sets the grocery bags on the ground.
    “I’m late for Dr. Miller,” Kendrick says. Teenage girls suck their teeth, boys newly out of their teens, or at least this
     one, Lena thinks, smirk. Is this what I’ve taught you? she wants to ask. Is this the way you’ll look at your girlfriend, your
     wife, when things get tough? She walks to his car and lifts her hand to rub his cheek like she did when he was three, and
     they were full and round, but Kendrick bobs out of her reach.
    “It’s only two thirty. Your appointment isn’t for an hour and a half.” It takes no more than a glance for Lena to double-check
     her calculations on the dashboard clock. “I’ll take you.”
    “I can drive myself.” Kendrick throws up his hands, looking, Lena thinks, just like Randall. “I’m almost twenty-one, I don’t
     need my mother to drive me around like I’m a kid in grammar school. Anyway, Dad says it’s okay.”
    Six months ago, Kendrick’s phone calls and emails became sporadic, unlike his first year at Northwestern, when he called with
     weekly updates. Lena and Randall assumed that the demands of his second year and his academic scholarship kept him busy. He
     was sulky and distant and had been that way at Thanksgiving. They blamed his moodiness on fatigue. A phone call from his roommate,
     upset with Kendrick’s erratic behavior, set Lena in motion. Kendrick confessed that he dabbled, he called it, with uppers,
     downers, and sometimes cocaine to help with a bad case of the blues and the pressure of everybody’s expectations. Randall
     gave him no options: no more money and treatment—at home or in a rehab center—within seventy-two hours.
    The day Kendrick came home, Lena, Randall, and Camille unanimously decided to surprise him at the luggage rounder instead
     of circling the airport until he showed up at the Arrivals exit doors. When he appeared at the foot of the escalator, Randall
     flinched as if someone had delivered a one-two punch to his head. The couple next to them stared, not with a stranger’s usual
     admiration of Kendrick’s confidence, but repelled by his appearance. Nothing about Kendrick was the same. His pants sagged
     lower than usual, more from weight loss than trend, a dingy T-shirt hung from his almost skeletal shoulders, his matted hair
     was on the verge of accidental dreadlocks. The crinkle in the corners of his eyes that always made Lena think he was up to
     devilment, even when he wasn’t, was gone.
    At home, Randall set rules for Kendrick and left them for Lena to enforce. He cut Kendrick’s driving privileges and imposed
     a ten o’clock curfew and mandatory visits to a therapist.
    Arms crossed against his chest, Kendrick frowns as if Lena is wrong. Lena wonders how much Kendrick values her right now.
    “I love you, son, and I know these restrictions are tough, but you knew the rules when you opted for home treatment. Only
     a few weeks to go.”
    “Why are you being such a—” Kendrick catches himself and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you except, Dad says it’s
     okay.”
    “Your father said nothing to me, and you’re not driving anywhere until he does.” Lena takes two bags full of groceries into
     her arms. “Come help me.”
    “It’s been four months.” Kendrick guns his engine. “I’m ready to go back to school and no