The strange feeling in my stomach persisted after I hung up the phone. Rather than gathering my books together for a trip to the library, I picked up the phone and dialed my brother, Mark. He answered after the first ring. "You dialed the wrong number, Maggie. This is my phone, not Amy's."
"I know that," I replied. "Believe or not I want to talk to you."
"Still struggling with that Evidence class?" he asked, in a snarky tone.
"Yeah, but that's not why I am calling. Mark, do you remember when we were little kids and Grandma would be in the hospital for what felt like months?"
"How could I forget? We spent our childhood in the waiting room of that hospital," he replied.
"Mark, why was she in the hospital? I only remember watching other kids ride up the elevator to the rooms, and Daddy making us stay in the waiting room or the cafeteria because Grandma was on a special floor, and we weren't allowed to see her."
"Wow, Maggie, I forgot how little you were when all of that happened. You were too young to grasp any of it," he said, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Here is something that I never understood, Mark. Once, during a really bad episode, I locked myself in my bedroom. I remember screaming and throwing my shoes at the wall. Dad yelled through the door, 'You don't want to end up in the hospital, on the floor where Grandma goes.' I never understood what he meant, because he told me she went to the hospital because her diabetes medication was off balance, and I didn't have diabetes."
"Maggie, she wasn't in the hospital because of diabetes. Our family made up the medication story to avoid the truth. Dad couldn't let us go to her room because she was on the psych ward."
His words pulled the knowledge from somewhere in my subconscious--conversations from long ago played back in my memory. The diabetes story was a lie. "What was wrong with her, Mark?"
"Beats me. They weren't going to tell us kids. Honestly, after she died, I never thought about asking Dad. Well, then he died."
"Did you ever ask Uncle Roy about Grandma?"
Uncle Roy was my dad's only brother, and they were very close. When Roy took a job on the other side of the state and moved his family to Yardley, my dad called him on the phone every day for three months. Fortunately for us, Uncle Roy brought his wife and kids to Ellwood for every holiday and every summer our families vacationed together in Ocean City, New Jersey. His daughter, my cousin Stephanie, was my best friend.
"No." Mark replied, to my question. "Even if I asked, I don't know if Uncle Roy would tell me the story."
"Mark, do you remember the Easter that Uncle Roy and Aunt Dori brought Stephanie and Justin to stay at our house? Steph and I were playing some game in the family room. Justin bounced down the steps and insisted we stop and let him play. Our game wasn't over, and we didn't want to start a new one, so he swung his arm and smacked all the pieces off the board. We tried to ignore him, as we gathered them up, which pissed him off even more. He started taunting us, as if he wanted us to cry. Eventually, he blurted out something about our family being crazy. Then he said he heard Uncle Roy tell Dad our entire family was loony. Justin danced around the room repeating, 'Loony, loony. We're all loony.'
"It sent me running upstairs, crying to Mom. She told me to ignore Justin. Funny, how that day stuck with me all of these years. He said we got it from the Scottish side."
"Maggie, do you ever recall the truth emerging from Justin's mouth? Creating fictional stories was his claim to fame. I know he's family--but come on--everyone knows he's been screwed up since we were kids. He's spoiled."
"I want to talk to him. I doubt he'll remember that day, but maybe he'll recall hearing his dad say it. I'm going to call him. I'll let you know what he says. Kiss the baby for me and tell Amy to cook something good tomorrow, I'm inviting myself for dinner."
I quickly dialed the last two numbers stored in my contact list for Justin, both disconnected. Refusing to give up, I texted Steph to get an up-to-date number.
She texted back instantly. This is J's last number 957-774-6752. More than a month old, most likely disconnected. Everyone had low expectations of Justin.
I dialed and was thrilled when it actually rang. Justin was one of those high-IQ people who couldn't get their lives together. He got accepted to the University of Pennsylvania and attended for a semester. They bounced him out in the middle of the second semester for smoking weed in his dorm room. The next fall, he ended up at Penn State as a philosophy major. One semester before graduating, he entered his esoteric phase--life was meaningless, therefore, education was meaningless--and he dropped out. The last time I talked to Justin was when he called and pleaded with me to wire him a hundred dollars to pay his electric bill. My uncle Roy and aunt Dori stopped lending him money when he dropped out of Penn State. After the sixth ring, he answered the phone.
"Ah, hello," he mumbled.
"Hi, Justin. It's Maggie. How are you?"
"Maggie? Maggie, my dear, how are you?"
I could tell right away that he didn't recognize my voice. His tone sounded like he was trying to remember if he had been with a girl named Maggie recently.
"Justin, relax, it's me, your cousin Maggie. Are you stoned or drunk?"
He ignored the question. "Mags, how in the hell are you?" He slurred his words. "Miss future mover and shaker lawyer, what did I do to deserve the honor of hearing your sweet voice?"
"You're still full of shit, Justin. But I need to ask you a question about something that happened a long time ago."
"Wow, I can't even remember getting out of bed this morning," he replied.
"Justin, it's really important to me. If I ask you the question, will you try to remember? Please."
A huge exhale flew out of the receiver. "For you, my gorgeous cousin, I will command my synapses to snap."
"Do you remember the year your family stayed at our house instead of Grandma's for Easter?" I asked.
"How could I forget? That trip sucked big time."
"Justin, you said our whole family was loony and claimed you overheard your dad say it. You told Steph and me it came from the Scottish side of the family. Did you really hear him say that?"
"Believe it or not, I do remember. We stayed with you guys because Grandma was doing one of her stints in the psych ward. Man, that visit was a bitch. I bunked on the floor in a sleeping bag, because, Mark, the jerk, with a double bed, wouldn't let me sleep next to him, called my germs gross and disgusting. How is the asshole?"
I paced my living room, phone in one hand and the other fisted, struggling to control my voice. "Justin, you didn't answer me. What did your dad mean when he called our family loony?"
"Really, Maggie. Where were you for the last forever? Half of our family is certifiable. Look at me. Do you think that I like being the family loser? Medical marijuana here in sunny California is the best thing that ever happened to me. Antidepressants do nothing for me, and I refuse to go back on that lithium shit."
"Justin, you've been on antidepressants? And lithium?" I said, unable to keep the shock from my voice.
"Yeah, Mags, only for most of my life. My dad's on them too. He doesn't go manic though. He just gets the really shitty lows. I don't mind the highs as much as the lows. That is, when I don't end up in a hospital, but at least when I'm manic, I get laid. Hey, call my dad. I'm sure he knows more about our tribe than I do."
"Justin, does your sister know about any of this?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"I doubt it. You know the Hovis family motto--don't talk, don't tell, and if you must, lie about it. But then again, Steph's not stupid, I'm sure she noticed all the strange behavior in our house. Hell, who knows, maybe she's on the drugs, too."
"She's not," I snapped. "I would know, and you better not be making this story up, Justin. Please assure me you're telling the truth this time. Don't let me call your dad and make a complete ass out of myself."
"I said it then and I'll say it now. We're all loony--bad blood."
The words needed to continue t
he conversation failed to make an appearance. Arguing with him would have been pointless. He dug into his position, and I couldn't deny the strength of his evidence. Through the phone, I could feel him waiting for me to say something. I opted for the safe way out and ended the conversation. "Well, thanks for the information, Justin. Take care of yourself."
"You too, Mags, and if you or Mark want to unload a few bucks fast, send them my way."
"I'll remember that, and relay the message to Mark when I see him tomorrow."
I clicked the end button on the phone, and stared at the time displayed on the screen--too late to call Uncle Roy.
CHAPTER 7
Of Unknown Relatives and Margaritas
I wanted to push Justin's words out of my mind, and walking around my living room was not helping. Fortunately, the law library kept late hours. I stomped from the bedroom to the kitchen shoving text books into my backpack. Loony or not, I did need to get to the library.
In the library, there was an empty table in the back of the third floor. I dug around my backpack for my Evidence text and a notebook. Chewing on the end of my pencil, I opened it and tried to read. The words lounged on the page, meaningless. An hour later, I stood up and stretched my arms into the air. I needed to move. Walking to and from the lady's bathroom further distracted me from school work. After another hour, I gave up, packed my bag, and walked home. The scenery of Oakland faded away, and my mind reviewed the behavior of each of my dad's relatives. As I approached my building, I launched into a mental review of every family event of my childhood, but that went nowhere fast. I spent the rest of the night trying to distract myself, but no part of me was really interested in watching Meg Ryan meet Tom Hanks on top of the Empire State Building, again. Even Saturday Night Live failed to entertain me. I went to bed.
In my dream, Mark and I were in the hospital waiting room. I tried to play hopscotch on the floor tiles and Mark sat in a squat vinyl and metal chair reading a Superman comic book. We were all alone.
I woke in the morning with an awful kink in my neck, which reminded me of Sam complaining that the sofa was too short. I shut off the TV. It deserved a break after staying on all night, and then I walked into the kitchen to brew some coffee. According to the clock on my stove, it was much too early to call Uncle Roy and say, "Hi, Uncle Roy, it's me, Maggie. Is our family nuts?"
Instead, I walked down the hall to my bedroom and began gathering up my laundry. Amy spared me the agony of sitting in a Laundromat by letting me use her machine. It was really a great deal. I saved money and time. She fed me. She didn't see it, but it was a win-win for everyone. Once the bag of dirty clothes bulged to the point of popping, I stripped the sheets off the bed and stuffed them into a separate bag with wet bath towels. Time crept by slowly.
At nine-thirty, my patience reached its limits, and I dialed Uncle Roy. As the phone rang, I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. My Aunt Dori answered the phone. "Hello."
"Hi, Aunt Dori. It's me, Maggie."
"Hello, Maggie, how are you? And school?" she asked, in her usual bubbly tone.
I, in turn, asked about her job. My Aunt Dori sold real estate in Bucks County. A tiny woman, always smiling, she exuded warmth. According to Steph, her mom's negotiating style involved serving homemade chocolate-chip cookies before taking a chainsaw to the asking price. She sold old stone houses that looked stunning from the outside, but needed to be totally rebuilt on the inside. After chatting for what I thought was an appropriate amount of time, I asked to speak with my uncle Roy.
Uncle Roy was the quieter of the two brothers. My dad could be loud and hyper, whereas Roy's demeanor exuded quiet and calm. I liked my uncle Roy. There was an aura of safeness that surrounded him.
"Good Morning, Maggie, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?"
"Uncle Roy, I need some answers." But, before he could say a word, the whole story poured from my heart and spewed out of my mouth. I told him about my episodes and how they drove Sam to leave me. I explained that the antidepressant wasn't helping me, and neither was therapy. Then I told him my therapist suggested I might be Bipolar 2. I relayed my conversation with Justin to him, hoping that he would tell me that it was just confused memories.
He listened silently--not interrupting to ask a question or even insert an "ah-ha," to show he was listening. By the time I finished saying what I needed to say, I wasn't sure if he was still on the line or not.
"Maggie, you've caught me off guard with this phone call. I didn't know you had these episodes, and I'm shocked to hear they started when you were so young. Your dad never told me. But, Maggie, most of all, I'm flabbergasted that your dad didn't talk to you and Mark about our family. Justin wasn't telling stories Maggie. Mental illness plagues our family--me, your dad, Grandma. The list goes back for generations."
I wanted to scream into the phone. No, that's the wrong answer. You're supposed to tell me that Justin lied and there is nothing wrong with our family, but the words and my mouth refused to cooperate.
I had this awful habit of pacing while talking on the phone. When he finished his last sentence, my body no longer felt like moving, I collapsed into a kitchen chair. The words "Maggie, Maggie, are you there?" came out of the phone speaker.
"Uncle Roy, maybe you should start from the beginning," I asked, with closed eyes.
"It runs on your grandma's side--depression, bipolar, mental illness, crazy, whatever you want to call it. Don't you remember Grandma being in the hospital for days and days? Do you remember all the times that your dad would stop speaking to everyone for a week and then suddenly everything would be fine? Maggie, it's affected all of us. I'm just so sorry that you've suffered alone for all of these years."
My mind lagged fifteen years behind my Uncle's voice...
***
"Wake up, Maggie," my dad said, while shaking my shoulder.
"Huh?" I said, squinting my eyes against the bright overhead light.
"Get, up and get dressed, we're going to the beach," he said, fingers still gripping my shoulder. "Once you're dressed, pack your suitcase. Quickly, your brother is already dressed." The words raced from his mouth faster than his legs propelled him out of my bedroom door.
I sat up in my bed, head still fuzzy from being startled awake. Just hours before I went to bed, my mom said our vacation was canceled because Dad wasn't speaking to any of us.
A few moments after my dad left the room, my mom scurried in and said, "Maggie, get up. We're going on vacation after all. Hurry, your dad can't sleep. He wants to get on the road right now."
"Mom, is he speaking to us?"
"Yes, pack your suitcase," she replied.
"Mom, why did he stop talking to us?" I asked, as my feet hit the soft carpet.
"I don't know why he stopped talking to us, and I'm not going to ask. Drop the subject and get dressed," she said. "Forget it, just stay in your pajamas. You can sleep in the car. It's four in the morning. You need more rest."
***
"Uncle Roy, did mental illness cause my dad to give us the silent treatment? My mom swore that she didn't know why he would stop talking to us. I didn't believe her. I thought they were fighting and didn't want Mark and me to know."
"Your mom wasn't lying. I don't think he knew why he stopped talking. When I'm depressed, I don't want to talk, but unfortunately, there were times I spoke and ended up regretting the horrible words that came out of my mouth. Maybe, it was the same for my brother. The greatest difference between us was that I accepted my problem, and he didn't."
"Yeah," I said. "I remember once, after ten days of the silent treatment, my mom got really mad, packed a few suitcases and took us to my other grandma's house. Later, that same night, my dad barged into my grandma's house and took us all home. To apologize, he bought my mom a new refrigerator, which baffled her because she didn't want or need a new one. He bought a lot of things that my mom didn't want to make up for the silence."
"That was the high side of the illness
. He never became truly manic, more hypomanic, and he couldn't hide it from me. When he tried to be funny, but instead sounded loud and obnoxious, I knew he was in a hypomanic state, which also meant that some type of crash was imminent.
"It's safe to say, Maggie, incidents of outrageous behavior plagued our family, and I'm guilty of contributing to the collective insanity. I've been on various antidepressants for many years, but it's only within the last three years that I found one that really works."
"Do you stop speaking to Aunt Dori for no reason?"
"No and yes, I just disappear into myself, paralyzed by the pain, so to speak. The current antidepressant eliminated the suicidal thoughts and helped me learn to enjoy being part of the world."
"It's the same for me, Uncle Roy. The Zoloft took away my suicidal thoughts, but at times, I still pray to die." I paused for a brief moment. "Uncle Roy, I'm like my dad, I go hypomanic sometimes too."
"Have you seen a psychiatrist yet?" he asked.
"My appointment is on next Tuesday. Uncle Roy, tell me, so far it's you, my dad, Justin, and Grandma with problems. Anyone else that I should know about?"
"Ella," he said.
"Who is Ella?" I asked, feeling my facial muscles contort into a perplexed position.
"Ella is your great aunt," he replied. "Actually, she was your great aunt. She died when you and Stephanie were still babies."
"How is she my great aunt?" I asked--a stupid question since we were talking about his side of the family.
"Ella was your grandma's sister. You really should ask Aunt Mildred about her."
"Grandma only had two sisters, Mildred and Rose."
"No, my mom had three sisters. Ella, the baby of the family, lived in a mental institution in New Castle for most of her life. The family sent her there, not long after their mother died, and Ella never came out."
"She died in a mental hospital, and no one ever mentioned this? Did anyone visit her or take care of her? Please tell me our family didn't just dump her off at the door of this place and leave."
Defective Page 5
