Chaoter Five

The Boot, part 2

The Oak Knoll Naval Hospital sits on Mountain Boulevard in the better part of Oakland. A left turn up the hill past the 12 acre hospital grounds reveals the Oak Hill Road runs exactly ¼ mile from start to finish.

The famous and often misquoted Samuel Clemens line about San Francisco summers may be said to define the entire Bay Area: though it was June, the morning air was damp and hung heavy with fog. In all likelihood it would burn off before noon, but at 8am it was thick and obstructive. Mrs. Love, whose driving patterns did not include this part of Oakland, was struggling even to find the center markers, which made the driving slow. This day it was also made all the more painful by the fitfulness of the tiny passenger in the back seat.

At the golf course, they made a left turn, and traveled deeper into the windy narrow streets of the Oakland Hills. Though the fog made the driving somewhat treacherous, it dampened the trees, making them hang low, and cast its blanket over the open space between plants.

“It’s so beautiful up here, Tisa,” said Mrs. Love. “God’s country.” Tisa just shrugged.

“I guess.”

“Wow, what a far cry from downtown. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a center up here? Now, this is what I call peaceful!”

The area, known for the original owner of the property that was later deeded to the city, was called the King Estates. Mr. Cormier had bought the home in the early 1960’s, when a large number of what were considered well-to-do blacks were buying in and around the area. Although most black folks preferred the more manicured and uniformed look of the Eichler development up the road, where a buyer could pick his own kitchen counters and choose from a selection of appropriate house colors, Mr. Cormier had wanted privacy and independence, so he had bought in the older section of the Estate, where there was no homeowners association, and consequently, no one to question what he was planting in his yard, or how many times a week he was eating chicken. By 1987, his instincts had paid off, with the older section of town considered more desirable than the “little boxes” up the road. But that wasn’t why he did it.

It was 1961 when he joined Bechtel as an engineer. It had been a rough row to hoe in those days, and he’d discovered the hard way that being around white folks, you didn’t want to share too much about what you did or did not have. If they got jealous, well, you were done for. Even though he drove every day, he never parked in the lot. Instead, he parked several blocks away in a residential neighborhood. It wasn’t important that his white counterparts knew he got a new car every two years. The walk was good exercise.

Similarly, he wasn’t too keen on people knowing where he and his family lived. To the extent that he could keep to himself, he did, but he made it a point to foster relationships with his white neighbors, just in case he needed them to vouch for him. Black folks were who he preferred to spend his social time with, but white folks were better for explaining to the cops that it couldn’t have been you at that liquor store.

Growing up there, both Tisa and her sister Barbara had felt somewhat isolated from their friends, most of whom lived up in the Eichlers, and that isolation was expressed in different ways by each. Where Barbara accepted it, Tisa resented it. Barbara, younger by two years, had not wanted to catch the bus or call her friends to pick her up in high school, so she stayed home, studying, watching television, and generally hanging close to her parents.

Tisa, on the other hand, took the opposite approach: she never went home. Instead, she stayed out late, partying with the types of folks who don’t mind staying out late and don’t ask where you have to be. The different coping mechanisms made for a markedly different perspective on the neighborhood. For Tisa, it wasn’t pleasant.

With Tisa gloomily calling out directions, they finally reached 1207 Oak Knoll Drive, where Tisa would call home until she could get on her feet. They pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped.

“Beautiful,” Mrs. Love said with a sign. “Oh, Tisa, I think this is a good beginning for you.”

“You would say that.”

Mr. Cormier opened the door and walked out, his wife scurrying behind them. Tisa could see her patting her hair, as if Mrs. Love were someone important.

“You must be Mrs. Love,” said her father, a smile on his face. He stooped so he could see through to the passenger seat where his daughter was sitting. She had not yet gotten out of the car. “Hi sweetheart.”

“Hi dad,” she replied, without affect. She was slow to move. She knew the score here. There was no hurry.

Mrs. Cormier quickly walked passed her husband and around the front of the car to see her daughter and the baby. Her arms wide, she was hopping up and down, just a bit, to show her excitement.

“Oh, my baby’s home and she brought the baby, too!” squealed Mrs. Cormier. She had been to the hospital when the baby was born, and had come down to the center as often as Mrs. Love said she could to visit. It was evident now that none of that was sufficient to slake the thirst for her granddaughter.

“I’ll put your stuff in the guest house,” said Mr. Cormier, as he walked around to the back. “Welcome home, Tisa.”

Eventually, they settled in the living room, where Mrs. Cormier had tea waiting and they could talk. Mrs. Love handed Tisa’s parents some pamphlets, along with the name and number of Tisa’s First Steps sponsor (Larry), and gave them some background on what sort of ground rules the Center felt were helpful in helping people to transition from the Center to a fully developed citizen and contributing member of society. Mrs. Love discussed concepts like ‘active listening,’ and non-judgmental reactions. She talked about times to be compassionate and recidivism signs.

“And of course, communication is paramount. Make sure that she knows what your ground rules are. For instance, we have a low-tolerance for drug use. That is, if we discover one of our guests is under the influence, they receive a stern warning, but we do our best to simply understand them and get them help. If, on the other hand, we discover drugs in their actual possession on the premises, then we ask them to leave.”

Oh, we’re straight with what the rules are in this house, aren’t we Tisa,” said Mr. Cormier, looking at his daughter over his reading glasses.

“Henry!” said Mrs. Cormier. “I think he means that we’ve spoken with Tisa about what we think a good game plan is going forward.” Mrs. Cormier was apologetic in her tone.

“I meant what I said,” snapped Mr. Cormier, not taking his eyes off his daughter. “Tisa, do you want to tell Mrs. Love what the rule is in this house?”

“No, I don’t, dad,” she said, letting out a sigh. “I’m 28, not 12. I don’t have to do what you tell me to do anymore.”

“Oh, I see. Well, let me communicate this.” His tone was calm and steady. There was no anger it, but Tisa knew by the way he lowered his voice and spoke even more deliberately than he did naturally, that he was not pleased with her. “This is my house and as long as you’re under my roof, I don’t give a shit how old you are. Now, I’ll ask you again.” This time she complied.

“No drugs of any kind. No using my parents as babysitters, except with advance notice or for emergencies; no coming home after midnight unless its job-related or school-related; be home when you say you’ll be home. And I have to be in school or have a job in 1 month. There,” she glared at him. “Are you satisfied.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Love. “Those sound like some perfectly reasonable rules to me.” Then she turned to the Cormier parents. “I think that’s a good list. You may find that you have to add more to it. Things like doing chores may be a good way to get Tisa both on a regimen where she’s got to do what others tell her, as she will in a job., and to get her moving at a certain time each day. Depression and isolation are real killers in the recovery business.” Mrs. Love rose to leave. “Oh, and you may need to relax some of your stricter rules; it’s tough to be perfect all the time.” She smiled at each of them and walked toward the door.

“Tisa, I’ll check in on you and so will Larry. You know you’ve got a special place in his heart. We’re all praying good thoughts for you. You take care of that little one. Mr. and Mrs. Cormier, you take care of your little one, too.” Then she was gone, and before her parents could ask her to clear her plate, Tisa was gone to the guest house off the backyard.

In the first month out of the Center, Tisa vowed to herself to keep it together. She was going to forge a better relationship with her parents. She was going to follow the rules, though she was loathe to bend to her father’s will. Most importantly, she was going to call her sister more often; try to get close again, like they were when they were very young. Barbara seemed to want that – always did. As they got older, Tisa couldn’t be bothered having her around. Their worlds were so different, but Barbara had never stopped being good to Tisa. Now was a good time to make that relationship happen.

She settled Domini into the playpen for a nap, and drew the shades of the small cottage. There was only one bedroom in the place, but compared to the Center, the guest house was palatial. Then she made herself a cup of tea and sat down to make a list of things she would do. She placed Barbara at the top. Below it, her mother.

Tisa knew that her dad resented her for – as he put it – forcing him to divert the money he had saved for Barbara’s college to Tisa’s rehab. Tisa had never thought anything of it. It was his choice to pay for that; she hadn’t asked him to do it. Frankly, thought Tisa, it was probably his fault that she was a drug addict in the first place; it was certainly his fault that her mother was so far gone.

Coping with Mr. Cormier day to day had been no picnic. He hadn’t abused them – at least not the way folks thought about abuse back then – but he made it known to his wife and his girls how things were going to be. He believed his military background gave him the perfect set of parenting skills, and he preferred his life to be one of predictability and discipline.

At dinner, cup handles were to be at four o’clock and napkins were properly folded 1/3 down on the lap. Canned foods should be stored with labels facing outward. Toilets were to be cleaned daily. Teeth-brushing was to be divided into 4 30-second components. Homework assignments were recorded in a journal and checked off as completed before bedtime. Clothing was never to be left in the dryer. Dining out was a frivolous expenditure and never acceptable as a substitute for fatigue. Mistakes were tolerated, but regular infractions resulted in removal of privileges.



For Barbara, who was generally adaptable to anything, her father’s rules and the behavior he regimented did not seem to affect her one way or the other. She didn’t take it personally. Years later, on a visit to Tisa’s first rehab, Barbara would remark that she always found it easier to do what she was told, in the manner he proscribed, so she could get back to whatever it was she wanted to do. That was as far as it had affected her. Tisa and her mother, however, were not so lucky as to go unscathed.

Whether it was due to the sort of extreme sensitivity her mother seemed to possess, or a seditiousness in Tisa that transcended any punishments Mr. Cormier could meet out, the two older women in the family seemed to wilt under his plenipotentiary management. The cracks first appeared in Mrs. Cormier and were noticed by her daughters. She would get up early – 6:00am – to make his breakfast and iron his shirts, and then send him off to work. By the time the girls awoke at 7, she had already taken her first drink. If the girls asked her about the smell, she told them it was medicine for her sinuses.

If the school called to pick up one or both of the girls early due to illness or injury, Mrs. Cormier would often arrive looking as if she had been sleeping, her hair flat on one side, her clothing wrinkled. Her driving became increasingly erratic. Generally, a timid woman, there were times when she would become overly aggressive toward another driver and the girls would fear for their lives. At one point, the girls began to lie to the school, and told them her mother had started work again. The alternate number they gave as a guardian was for their aunt, who seemed to Tisa and Barbara to know more than what she was willing to tell them, and admonished them that their father was never to know of their arrangement. Mr. Cormier never seemed to notice. So long as the beds had hospital corners and his meals were served at 1830, he was content.

From time to time, Tisa and Barbara would play in the guest house, which, back then, was not winterized and so was used as a garden shed for their mothers’ tools. Because it was kept in such disarray and offended his punctilious nature, Mr. Cormier rarely ventured in the shed, and so both the girls and Mrs. Cormier used it as a private hideout. Frequently, they would find liquor bottles stashed in boxes under a collection of gardening pots. The girls assumed they were related to this or that project their mother was working on. Once, when they asked her about it, she said she was saving them for a bottle tree. That was the last they saw of the liquor bottles.

Over time, Mrs. Cormier stopped the pretense of staying up to feed and clothe the girls. As soon as Mr. Cormier was out of the house, she’d return to her room, leaving the girls two packets of instant oatmeal (or some cold cereal), bus tickets for school, and $1.50 each for lunch. Barbara took it upon herself to wake up her mother about 2 hours before their father arrived home, so she could get dinner started and attend to the chores that had been left undone. Like good daughters, they fabricated parent activities at the school for their father, to cover for the time their mother could not account for.

Then, one morning, Mr. Cormier woke up the girls early, served them breakfast, and got them to their bus. There was no sign of their mother. When they asked where she was he replied, “sick,” and that was that.

That night, and the next morning, Mrs. Cormier was still “sick,” but by dinner time, she was at the stove, serving up beef stroganoff at 1830, just as she had been.

“How are you feeling, Mom,” the girls asked.

“Better,” said their father.

A few weeks later, scrounging in their bedroom for some loose change, Tisa found a bottle of Librium and she palmed a few. It had not been the first time she’d tried someone else’s prescriptions, but most of the pills in the medicine cabinet were for her mother’s knee problems and for Tisa’s purposes, had always been useless. These were different. Taking them actually calmed her and made her feel more relaxed around her father and her teachers. They didn’t help her do her homework or perform better during gym class, but the Librium made her worry less, and it wasn’t as detectable as pot. She was 14.

Over the course of the next few years, she would pilfer many more of her mother’s and friends’ mothers’ drugs: more Librium, Valium and Percodan, Quaaludes, anything that would take away the anxiety and fear she had carried with her as long as she remembered. Now, almost 20 years later, sitting in the very garden shed where she first discovered her mother’s stash, Tisa felt that she had come full circle, and still the real culprit was yet to answer.

Tisa laughed when she thought about how it all had started. For those first few months, the drugs had made her more compliant, even friendly toward her father, from whom she’d always been estranged. He often referred to Tisa as recreant because she revealed their family secrets to school counselors. He criticized her cleaning ability when she was assigned a chore, and he was particularly harsh with her about her school performance. When the Librium was in her system, at least in those early days, she was a member of the family again. As much as she hated her father, she wanted to belong to a family.

“I’m out,” Tisa said into the phone.

“I’ll be over as soon as I get off work,” said Barbara. “Can’t wait to see you.”

During her time at the Center, Barbara had visited on several occasions, never empty handed. She brought Tisa everything from cigarettes to job prospects. Barbara offered to write Tisa’s resume, get her an interview with some folks she knew at Walgreen’s, help her fill out her enrollment forms. She had been a good sister to Tisa. Now that she was home, she was going to be a good sister, too.

In the days that followed, Tisa saw Barbara as frequently as Barbara could. Tisa hoped, as did her parents, that Barbara’s success and drive would motivate Tisa into moving ahead with her life. Tisa made every effort to connect with Barbara, especially since it was clear to Tisa that Barbara wanted to help. If nothing else, Barbara would be a good person to lean on if she got kicked out by her dad.


Mr. Cormier’s first order of business was getting Tisa to find a job. While it might have been easy enough to get her an interview at Bechtel, he was disinclined to do favors for anyone – it served to weaken a person’s character. Teach a man to fish and all that. Jobs were not forthcoming. Tisa was not as nearly good at getting job prospects as she was at getting companion prospects, however. Despite the fact that she had no car and was busy with a baby, she managed to meet Mark while running an errand for her mother. Mark worked as a grease-monkey at the Cormier’s auto mechanic, in Berkeley. In the evenings, once the baby was down, she would bring the baby-monitor into the main house with her mother, who was only too happy to watch Domini, despite Mr. Cormier’s admonition that they were not her free labor. She mostly made it back to the house before midnight. Mostly.

She also mostly did her single chore of keeping the cottage clean, and mostly didn’t take any prescription meds that weren’t hers (except for those she really needed to cope with how the world had it out for single black mothers), and almost had a job, and had almost completed the Diablo Valley College and Merritt College applications.

She sometimes got up in the morning (other days, her mother would hear the baby crying and take her in the main house). She sometimes left the cottage (other times, she just kept the television blaring). She sometimes went to meetings.

She mostly didn’t return Larry’s calls (she knew why he was calling).

Just inside of 60 days, Tisa was asked to leave.

“I’m sorry,” said her father. “I’m just not going to go through this again. I know you’ll figure it out.”

5 days later, she and Domini moved in with Mark.