Rubber Dolls Part II: Life in California

For thirty-three years, Mila lived in the bustling Richmond District of San Francisco, not far from Golden Gate Park. When I traveled north to visit, we’d walk to dinner a few blocks from her apartment on 12th Avenue to revel in Chinese cuisine on Clement Street, a trendy section of the city that’s been coined the New Chinatown in recent years. Afterwards, the brightly lit shops were perfect for browsing everything from paintings of Oriental landscapes to jewel-colored silk pajamas, their cord buttons shaped like flowers. We might take an early morning stroll the next day along the pond on Lake Street, a soft wind inviting us to join the parade of locals jogging, pushing baby strollers, and sprinting to catch a bus, their purses and briefcases swinging. One time we visited the vineyard-drenched hillsides of Napa Valley to sample the region’s riches and purchase a favorite for washing down crusty bread and cheese on the lawn of the winery. Heading home in the hot afternoon, Mila took a page from the hippies’ playbook of the sixties and discarded her t-shirt to ride shotgun in her bra, next to the boyfriend who served as our driver. A tad more conservative, I cringed in the back seat and hoped I didn’t have to play along. Mila had definitely followed her dream after watching stories about the Summer of Love in San Francisco on TV to claim her city by the sea. Other than momentary exceptions, I was more than happy to share it with her. 

Mila (L) and me in Napa Valley in the early '80s.

Meanwhile, I lived in five different neighborhoods that were home in Southern California, four in the San Diego area, and one in a charming beach town near LAX. Mila visited once or twice a year, sometimes by motorcycle when she was married to John. I recall one visit when they never arrived at the designated time. I couldn’t sleep, waiting for a phone call to dispel my worst fears. The next day they pulled into our driveway on the motorcycle late morning. “The freeway was backed up for miles,” Mila said. “We were stuck for hours, and it was past midnight before we could exit and check into a motel room. We wanted to call, but there wasn’t a phone, so we collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.” I didn’t know whether to hug them or kill them for putting us through such torture. I could almost forgive the night before, but why didn’t they phone that morning? 

Years later, during a long and tangled divorce, John was diagnosed with advanced Parkinson’s Disease and admitted to a VA nursing home, a sad ending to their 16-year marriage. And Mila soon lost her job at City Hall. I’d been asking to visit for three years, but she refused, one excuse after another. I’d already determined there was a homeless man living with her, which led to patches of anxiety and sleeplessness for me. She denied it repeatedly, but with the job loss, Dan and I concocted a plan. I called her, my antenna flaring when she went to the bathroom and closed the door to talk. “Hey Mila, I was looking at houses in a mobile home park for a friend, and thought you could probably afford one if you ever wanted to move to warmer weather and be closer to all of us.” There was a brief pause before she replied. “Oh no. I’m staying in San Francisco, Vicki.” Two days later, she called back and expressed interest in the “double-wide.” When she flew to San Diego to check out two manufactured houses I’d previewed, the homeless man had already been arrested for a second or third time, charged with trying to break her arm. I asked why she never came to us for help. Her response was quick.  “I was afraid of him. And I never had a plan to get away until you gave me one.” 

Mila couldn’t stop thanking us for her “witness protection program,” which became our joke. Now we could enjoy her without worrying about a dreaded report that something terrible had happened. After getting settled, and changing all her accounts and passwords (he used her ATM for cash), she signed up to volunteer with NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness), joined the KnitWits, her church’s knitting group, and became a regular swimmer at the local gym where we occasionally ran into each other. And she was eventually recruited as social director for her homeowners’ association. At our annual Kentucky Derby parties, the social butterfly greeted guests with her gorgeous smile and a famous Kentuckian name tag. I wanted to cry tears of joy, for Mila and me. She’d blossomed from an abusive cocoon into a sunny garden full of family and new friends. 

Mila (L) and me at 2013 KY Derby Party.

Now we met for lunch, perused farmer’s markets, and cruised beach shops. For the first time in our adult lives, we lived within minutes of each other. Thanks to newer medications lending greater stability, Mila was grateful to be clear-headed and living a full life. It had been far too long with me in the role of a mother looking out for my sister when the stress and disappointments of life brought on bipolar depression, confusion, and delusions. Hospitalizations and new drug regimens over the years had resulted in periods of medication fog, and recoveries took months, even a year or so in some instances. Now we were in a relationship of equals. How thrilling for both of us. I had my sister back. We could help her avoid the stress and poor judgements that led to breakdowns. At least that’s what I hoped.