"I don't think so, but talk to your Aunt Mildred."
"I learned enough about our family for one day. So this means, Steph and Mark are fine, and Justin and me are messed up?"
"Not messed up, Maggie, more like cursed," he replied. "Unfortunately, you, Justin, and I drew the genetic short stick. I'm sorry."
"Me too," I replied.
"I'll cross my fingers and hope this new psychiatrist helps you. Maggie, for what it's worth, I'm always here. Just call."
A warm feeling spread through me. "I love you, Uncle Roy. I promise to keep you updated. Bye, kiss Aunt Dori for me."
My coffee mug was empty and so was the pot. I made another and puttered aimlessly around my apartment for a few minutes. Then I willed myself to focus and do the homework that absolutely had to be finished before I left for Mark's house. Staring at the pages of my Sales and Leased Goods text, I thought, My family should come with a warning label.
Amy called at about one o'clock to tell me that dinner would be on the table at six, and if I wanted to do my laundry to come around three.
After she hung up, I started thinking about my conversation with Uncle Roy. I loved my GreatAunt Mildred. She's the glue that held our family together. But due to her dictator-like tendencies, I preferred to love her from a distance. My dad and Uncle Roy made a sport of teasing her husband, Max. "Hey, Max," my dad would bellow, "If you say something in an empty room are you still wrong?"
Placing a phone call to Aunt Mildred involved blocking an hour or more out of your schedule. Family obligation required listening to her describe her various illnesses. According to my mom, Mildred once tried to convince the medical staff at the local hospital that she had malaria. Imagine the shock this caused in the tiny Ellwood medical community--especially, when the doctors learned that Aunt Mildred never stepped foot on the African continent, or any other place normally associated with malaria. As bizarre as the tale sounded, it was one hundred percent true. Mildred's issues could only be described as unusual. I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts. The name Aunt Mildred stared up at me. I called my mom instead.
My mom and Ed were lunching with their golf friends, so she wasn't able to talk for very long. She reacted with surprise when I asked about Ella. "Maggie, no one has mentioned Ella's name in twenty years. Even when she was alive her story was rather mysterious."
"Why," I asked.
"I don't know. I learned fast after I married your father that asking about her was politically incorrect." For a moment, the line went quiet. "Maggie." My mom hesitated. "I attended her funeral. Only a few people sat in the pews of the church. The priest gave a short eulogy. There wasn't much to say, because Ella never really got to live."
It was beginning to seem inevitable that I would have to call Aunt Mildred.
As I dragged my laundry bags from the bedroom to the living room, a text message from Steph popped onto my cell phone screen:
"Arriving Friday morning. I'll bring the booze, you supply the blender. Tell Amy to ditch the husband and kid. She's in charge of the chick flicks. Friday night, the ladies are going to Margaritaville. I'll send flight time later. You better pick me up--no money for a taxi."
Word traveled fast in my family. I looked at the clock, only four hours had passed since I spoke with Uncle Roy. Rather than being upset with him for telling Steph, I couldn't stop grinning. We hadn't been able to get together for three months, a record for us. Always more than a cousin to me, Steph sometimes acted like a sister and, at other times, a best friend. She was born in the Ellwood Hospital one month before me. Our mothers enjoyed whining about their alleged miserable pregnancies. My mom complained about her heartburn and swollen ankles, and Aunt Dori enjoyed graphically describing her seven months of morning sickness.
Our place of birth was about all Steph and I had in common. I was rather tall and lanky and, as the kids in middle school pointed out, one step away from being totally flat-chested. Steph took after her mom's side of the family, vertically challenged. In sneakers, she could honestly claim five foot, two. My dad described girls with her body type as being "built like a brick shit house." In high school, she was voted the most bubbly and crowned Homecoming Queen. Now, a graduate student, studying architecture at the Pratt Institute in Manhattan, she went through boyfriends faster than the speed of light. I was always the Eyeore to her Tigger. I loved her dearly.
My excitement over the text from Steph pushed Aunt Mildred from my mind for just a few minutes. However, my imagination conjured up a vision of Ella as a frail woman dressed in a bathrobe, staring out a dirty, curtainless window. I dialed Aunt Mildred.
The first fifteen minutes of the conversation focused on her kidney infection. I used my appropriately concerned voice as I uttered monosyllabic words of acknowledgement.
When her monologue started to wind down, I took it as an opportunity and asked the question. "Aunt Mildred, did any members of our family suffer from a mental illness?"
"Of course not, Maggie. No one in our family ever had mental issues."
"Why did my grandma spend so much time in the psych ward of the hospital?" I asked.
"Maggie, you know damn well your grandma ended up in that ward because of her diabetes," she replied.
"Maybe that's true, Aunt Mildred, but do you know Uncle Roy takes antidepressants?" I countered.
"That's because of your dad passing away, not because of bad biology," she snapped. I could hear the exasperation growing in her voice.
"My dad passed away six years ago. Uncle Roy said he started taking antidepressants a long time ago," I replied, forcing my voice to sound controlled.
"I wouldn't know about that."
"Okay, Mildred, explain what happened to your sister Ella? No one ever mentioned her. My mom never met Ella and no one in the family told her the entire story," I said.
"Ridiculous. You know the story, Maggie. When our mother died, Ella couldn't take it, so she went to live in a home for people like her."
I could hear Mildred banging something at the other end. It sounded like she was kicking pots and pans. "Aunt Mildred, I just learned four hours ago that Ella existed," I snapped back.
Hearing the air being exhaled through her nose, I knew I had ventured into a potentially explosive area. "I don't know the whole story, and I sure as hell don't understand what a 'home for people like her' is, so skip the euphemisms, and say it," I demanded. "She lived in a mental hospital for her entire life. That's why no one talked about her. It's embarrassing. I want an answer, please. What was wrong with Ella?"
"The only thing wrong with Ella was my mother's death." Aunt Mildred spat out the words. "After that, she didn't want to get better. I know because your grandmother and I used to take the bus twice a month to visit her. Ella wanted to live in that hospital."
Catching my breath, I said, "Aunt Mildred, no one wants to spend their entire life in a mental hospital."
Mildred did not respond, so I said good-bye, in the most respectful tone I could muster, and hung up. I didn't learn a lot from the call, but she did confirm Ella existed, suffered from a mental disability, and lived in an institution.
I stared out my kitchen window, replaying Aunt Mildred's words in my head, 'She wanted to live in that hospital.' The tears streaming down my cheeks were for a great aunt I never knew. My mom was right. Poor Ella was born, but never had the opportunity to live. I couldn't help but to think there was some meaning in all of this--a meaning I needed to unearth.
CHAPTER 8
Form Avoidance, Yoga, and Andy Warhol
Sweat seeped across my palms, and my left eye twitched as I reached for the door knob. My hand encased the chill of the brass. Enter or turn around and go home? I twisted my wrist, opened the door, and crossed the threshold into the office.
The waiting room didn't correspond with the mental image I had conjured over the weekend. The beige-textured wallpaper, the medium brown wall-to-wall carpet, the impressionist reproductions symmetrically placed on the
wall whispered, "Generic." But the room screamed, "Relax."
Per Linda's instruction, I arrived twenty minutes early, which seemed like an excessive amount of time to write in a group number, an ID number, and scrawl a signature on the bottom line. Someone had arranged the four empty chairs and two small side tables to resemble a living room. The contrived comfort failed to make me any happier about being inside a shrink's office.
I picked the chair closest to the door--a typical semi-comfortable waiting-room chair, sat down, and opened my bag. My wallet had sunk to the bottom of my big-enough-to-carry-a-newborn-baby shoulder bag.
After fishing it out, I flipped it open to the top slot in the section designed to hold credit cards. As my fingers reached for the insurance card, my gaze wandered to the other side--a picture stuffed into a plastic sleeve--me and Sam, the night he proposed. I closed the wallet, shoved it back into my bag, and dropped it on the floor, next to my feet. Then I expelled the air which was stuck in the bottom of my lungs.
"Maggie?"
On the other side of the room, a woman, leaning through a hole cut out of the wall, beckoned me by curling and straightening her index finger. I assumed it was Linda. When I reached the small countertop, she handed me a clipboard and a pen. "Please, fill out each form, front and back, and do not skip any questions. When you're finished, return it to me."
I handed her my insurance card. Her smile reminded me of the one that I get from my dentist's assistant, friendly, professional and detached.
I signed the HIPPA privacy policy without even skimming it. The second form did not ask for insurance information. My stomach fell when I read the first question. "Do you receive messages, intended for only you, from billboards or your television?"
The same question Linda asked during our phone interview. Maybe it's a trick question, and I'm supposed to get messages from my TV.
Answer to Question #1: Yes, my TV sends me messages all the time. It asks me to buy foreclosed mansions for under a thousand dollars and Boeing airplanes. Why does Boeing advertise on prime-time TV? Who is the target market? 'Mr. Joe America, parked on your recliner, put down the beer, lace up those Nikes, and run to the nearest Jets R Us.' Someone should explain Boeing's advertising philosophy to me.
"Maggie, our policy states the co-pay must be paid with cash or a check. We don't take cards," Linda chirped, through the cut-out wall.
Damn, why didn't she tell me this over the phone? My checkbook was back in the apartment, stuffed into its regular spot, the top drawer of my desk. Again, I pulled my wallet from my bag and jammed my fingers into another one of the credit card slots. Stuffed at the bottom was a fifty-dollar bill--designated for emergency only. This appointment qualified as an emergency. I handed the bill to Linda.
"Is this all you have?"
"Yes."
She crinkled her rather attractive face. "You're the first patient of the day. I'm not sure if I have enough money to make change. Let me check the safe while you meet with the doctor."
"No problem," I said, before walking back to my chair. As I sat down, I decided to scratch out my answer to the TV question and just write, No.
Question #2: Are you or have you ever engaged in reckless activities, such as over-spending, gambling, or sexually irresponsible acts?
I'm not answering that one. My pen skipped to the next question, but my mind floated away...
***
They shuffled onto the stage, dressed in scruffy clothing and the required bored expressions worn by rock bands, fashion models, and other types of cool people. Nick pulled me forward as the band started to play.
"Come on," he said, locking his fingers around mine and pulling me closer to the stage.
The pounding of the drums reverberated off the floor, moving through my feet and up my legs. My brain buzzed and my body gyrated, exhilarated by the music, the lights, but most of all, being with Nick. Blood rushed to my face when I noticed him laughing. Not a bad laugh, but a "This-is-great!" laugh.
With my shoulder, I pushed him away and ran toward the stage, forcing my way through the electrified energy of the over-excited fans. Although winded and sweaty, I climbed the steps to the stage and continued spinning and dancing, until an urge overwhelmed my common sense. Throwing my arms into a T-position, I plunged from the stage into the crowd.
When my feet hit the ground, I felt a hand grasp my upper arm. Nick spun me until our eyes locked. Then his lips merged with mine. Every inch of my body pressed against the front of his. Heart racing and body sweating, at that moment, I knew exactly where Nick was sleeping.
***
Refusing to allow myself to think about Nick, I forced my focus back to the clipboard and squirmed a bit before writing the word, Yes, in very small letters. In bigger letters, I added the qualification, BUT I CAN EXPLAIN.
My chest constricted. This appointment was a monstrous mistake. What should I say to him? Hi, Doc. I need new drugs. My therapist suspects I'm Bipolar 2. I would prefer to remain chronically depressed, but two weeks ago, she witnessed the end of an episode. Now she thinks I need drugs more than therapy.
Shuddering and refocusing, I decided to avoid the intrusive top questions and give the bottom ones a try. Question #21: Do you sometimes cut, carve, pick, burn or try to suffocate yourself, even though you don't want to kill yourself?
Answer to Question #21: --a definite No.
My brain begged to avoid the prying questions on the paper, but ingrained into my psyche was the elementary school creed: answer all the questions before putting your pencil on the desk and turning the paper over. I continued answering the questions until I reached Question #14: "When you are not using drugs, do you hear or see things that other people do not hear or see?"
What the hell kind of question was that? When I'm not doing drugs--why would they assume I do hallucinogenic drugs? No, I wrote in bold letters. Then in smaller print, I scribbled, I do not use drugs, with two underlines.
"Have you completed the forms yet, Maggie?" Linda asked, again using her chirpy office-assistant voice.
"Sorry, not yet."
A copy of Psychology Today sat on top of a stack of magazines on the table next to me. A blue-eyed woman with high cheekbones gazed at me from the cover. She wore a facial expression that said, "I'm in my happy place." I recognized the look because my yoga instructor wore the same expression every Monday evening, as she tried to stretch and bend us into serenity. The poor woman believed the brain came equipped with an on and off button, which could be activated by sitting cross-legged, on the floor and breathing through your nose. One night, after too many sun salutations, I almost screamed, "It is not a television set. The human brain cannot be 'quieted,' by lowering a volume button or shut off under any circumstance." After a few deep inhalations, I decided against being cruel and kept my mouth shut.
Linda poked her head out of the hole, which reminded me of the carnival game, Whack a Mole--a mole pops out of the box, and the kid bangs it on the head with a mallet.
"Maggie, let me know when the intake forms are completed, because the insurance form must also be signed."
"Okay, Linda, I'm writing as fast as I can," I said, mumbling "Nag," under my breath.
Question 9: Have you ever received or are you currently in therapy?
Great, an easy question, I wrote, YES, in big letters.
My eyes strayed from the questions and back to the Psychology Today. I opened it to the table of contents. Not one article in the whole magazine about Bipolar 2. I closed the magazine and stared at the still smiling yoga lady on the cover.
Pangs of guilt for not answering Linda's questions fast enough, made me put the magazine back on the table.
Intake Question #7: Have there been times when you feel very creative with lots of ideas and plans?
The questions no longer annoyed me. They'd reached the pissing me off stage. I looked up from the clipboard and noticed the small seascape, hanging on the far wall. All wrong--toss out the impressionist landscapes a
nd hang a few Jackson Pollack and Andy Warhol prints and paint the walls exciting colors like Caribbean Sea Blue or Smiley Face Yellow. A room like that would generate a few laughs from the nuts like me.
While weaving the pen between my fingers, it occurred to me that designing office space for shrinks could be a design school major. Lawyers specialized in immigration, real estate or divorce. Doctors trained to be surgeons, gynecologists, or internists--I never did understand that title. Except for skin, wasn't it all internal? Maybe interior designers specialized in hotel lobbies, rich suburban houses, or psychologists' offices. I made a mental note to ask Steph this weekend.
Well, at least the chairs were comfortable, I thought, leaning back into a cozy napping position, until Linda's phone rang and jolted my mind back to the form. I re-read Question #7. Do recall times when you felt very creative with lots of ideas and plans?
I set the pen and clipboard down on the table next to me, raised my arms, and squeezed them against my head. Too much remembering was not a good thing...
***
"Maggie, if we put in a section on British criminal law versus Pennsylvania criminal law, we will never finish this project on time," Tom cautioned. "Besides, I'm not sure if it's appropriate for this assignment."
"We can finish it, and of course, it's relevant. Professor Stiles didn't say it, but I know he wants us to make these types of comparisons. I'll do all the research on the British system over the weekend. I'll type a synopsis and include a working outline. You already know the Pennsylvania system, so your part is essentially finished. Monday afternoon, we can fill in the blanks of the outline. I'll go back to my apartment, type out the draft, e-mail it to you for corrections, and the final draft will be ready to turn in on Tuesday morning. Come on, Tom, we can do it."
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