My hearted pounded as I wrestled with desire to jump off the sofa and dance around the office. Even my blood pumped through my veins enthusiastically. "Let's go. Write the prescription."
He shook his head and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Slow down, Maggie. These drugs can cause serious side effects. Your decision to take this medication must be an informed one. I am prescribing you a relatively low dosage, but understand that sometimes a drug works well in the beginning and loses effectiveness as your body learns to tolerate it. So I'll monitor you closely and adjust the dosage if necessary.
Dr. Graham lectured for a considerable amount of time on the possible long-term side effects of this particular medication. His tone underscored the seriousness of the drug, and I listened to every word he said. To make sure I paid attention to the side effect emergency procedures, he repeated them twice--stop taking it immediately and call him.
"Maggie," he said handing me a business card. "I know you are very close to your sister-in-law, Amy, and she lives near you. I want you to give her my card."
"Why?" I asked.
"As I said, there are side effects associated with using the particular medication. If you become incapacitated, I want Amy to know who to call. It's prudent to include family members in the treatment process, because there is always the potential for the patient to be unaware that an event is occurring."
I dropped it into my bag. His thoroughness and conservative attitude toward the medication grated on my over stimulated nerves. Even as I listened and nodded, my brain begged him to, Shut up and give me the damn pill!
After his fifteen-minute speech ended, I listened to his bracelets clank as he wrote the prescription. After tearing it from the pad, he extended his arm. "Please call if you have any questions or feel anything strange."
I assured him I would call and promised to hand deliver his card to Amy over the weekend. He scheduled my next appointment for the Monday after Thanksgiving. As I turned to grab my coat and bag from the sofa, mentally mapping my route to the nearest pharmacy, I heard him clear his throat.
"And Maggie, this drug must be taken in the morning. If you fill the prescription today, don't begin taking it until tomorrow."
"Damn," I mumbled under my breath as I walked out of his office.
I drove straight to the pharmacy. The pharmacy assistant asked me if I wanted to wait for the prescription or come back later?
"Wait. I'll wait. How long will it take?" I asked, in a shrill tone. I paced up and down the aisles until the prescription was ready. The poor assistant's face paled when I leaned too far over the counter and snatched the bag away from him.
Once I held my little white bag containing the pills and the three page long official warning label, I sprinted to my car and ripped open the bag the moment my butt landed in the driver's seat. The pills were real, in my hand, and my heart pleaded, Please work for me.
On Wednesday, I had an early class. Usually, it was a struggle for me to get up. Sam woke me for early classes by smothering me with kisses. Now I was dependent on the unsympathetic snooze button on my clock radio. Today, I beat the alarm. By the time it went off, I was in the kitchen reaching for the small bottle sitting on my counter top next to the toaster. I ripped off the child-proof lid and dumped the brown pill into my palm, holding it while holding my cup under the tap. The pill slid down smoother than any I had ever swallowed.
I closed the bottle and set it back on the countertop. Stupid, I thought to myself. Why did I feel so excited? It took two weeks to feel anything on the Zoloft, and this one will undoubtedly be the same.
Throughout my morning ritual, I contemplated the life-changing potential of this new medicine. I was not an optimist by nature, so this enthusiasm surprised me. I wallowed in a daydream, in which the pills made me totally normal, Sam moved back into the apartment, and together we planned our wedding. Maybe it was more of a prayer than a fantasy.
I tried to push all the negative stuff Dr. Graham talked about out of my head. Some of the side effects he mentioned sounded awful, but I refused to consider the potential of them happening to me. The small pill didn't have a choice. It had to work, because my life depended on it.
After showering and dressing, I grabbed my books, coat, and walked toward campus. Outside, on Fifth Avenue, the sun tried to break through the heavy cloud cover. The racket created by ambulance sirens, bus air brakes, honking car horns, and screaming police cars attacked my ears, and the smell of exhaust assaulted my nose. A typical morning.
Stopping at the corner, I thought about my Aunt Mildred. She loved to say, "Life can turn on a dime."
But, in my experience, real change came slowly and painfully. I could say my life changed the moment my dad died. But it would be a false statement. That change occurred little by little, beginning the moment he got sick and ended the day he died. His death was the finale of a process. Same thing with Sam. He didn't suddenly leave. He forgave me after many episodes, but each one left its mark. His change culminated the day he walked out of our apartment, a victim of something he couldn't understand or alter--my behavior.
Maybe my life didn't change on a dime that morning, either. But standing on the corner of Fifth and Biglow, it sure felt like it did, because while waiting for the traffic signal to change, a light in my brain switched on.
In the seconds that it took the green light to change to yellow, the world came into focus. By the time the signal glowed red, the campus was bathed in glorious light. The film of sludge, which had distorted my vision, cleared. It was like replacing the old television set with a high definition set--remarkable clarity. Clarity I didn't know existed.
I couldn't process the changes happening to my body. Stress melted away and a sense of what I could only describe as joy replaced it. Impossible, no small pill could create the light and brightness. But I didn't have any other explanation.
I did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, trying to absorb it all. The Cathedral of Learning, the student union, and even the tee-shirt vendor on the corner appeared sharp and defined. I saw details all around me that weren't there yesterday. The traffic signal continued to change, and the cars flowed, but I stood on the corner smiling.
Once I finished gawking at the Oakland scenery, I pulled out my cell phone and hit number seven on my speed dial.
On the other end of the line, I heard the familiar words of Karen's voicemail.
After the beep, my words surged. "Yes, my brain is noisy. It's like a carnival, an amusement park, a freight train, anything noisy, and it's been that way for my whole life."
I finally understood her question, because for the first time, my brain was quiet.
CHAPTER 13
Sperm, Justin, and Choking on Pizza
In school and life, concentrating and staying on-task never ranked high on my skills list. My new medically-induced thinking ability changed that, and my focusing power amazed me. Unfortunately, when I wasn't working on homework or reading a book, my uncluttered mind enjoyed replaying my last conversation with my aunt Mildred. Over and over, I heard her disgusting words, 'Ella wanted to live in that hospital.' And with acute clarity, I pictured myself choking Mildred.
The weather on the Tuesday morning before Thanksgiving was unseasonably warm and comfortable enough for me to walk to campus. It presented the perfect opportunity to rehearse the speech I planned to deliver during Thanksgiving dinner. Sure, my common sense recognized that avoiding all conversations with her would be prudent, but not fun. Swallowing a pitcher of her own medicine could choke some nastiness out of her.
Already in the holiday spirit, my professors cut short their lectures, and a few assigned less homework than usual. I was home an hour earlier than I planned. With the increase in energy furnished by the miracle pill, I cooked myself a real dinner--chicken, rice, and frozen corn. As I sat in front of the TV eating, Stephanie called to tell me that she was ditching Mildred's dinner. Her boyfriend, of the week, invited her to Thanksgiving dinner at a swank
y Long Island country club. She asked me to back up her lie, and tell Aunt Mildred she stayed in New York because of school work. If Mildred found out she chose a boyfriend over her--well, let's just say that, under certain circumstances, plucked turkeys could fly great distances.
Mildred functioned as the meddling, self-appointed family matriarch. Steph and I joked behind her back that our quality of life would dramatically improve if she had grandchildren of her own or a dog. According to Mildred, her lack of offspring resulted from Uncle Max's low sperm count. Of course, fertility clinics didn't exist when they were trying to conceive, so Aunt Mildred conjured up this diagnosis. She'd drone on and on about Max's alleged sperm issues with anyone willing to listen. Max stopped cringing over the subject years ago. Now he just nodded as if it was the truth.
Later that evening, I logged onto Facebook and saw this posting. "Ellwood for Thanksgiving. Look out, family, I'm coming home."
I stared at the screen, perplexed. Justin is coming to Ellwood for the holiday? I quickly typed on his wall, "Did you hit the lottery?"
Within fifteen minutes, I received an e-mail. Hey, Mags, no lottery. Your bro felt guilty for treating me like shit when we were kids. He sent me a ticket and a hundred dollars. Did I mention that I love the asshole? Can't wait to see everyone. Especially Mildred. She's going to shit bricks when I walk in. Mark said you can drive me to Ellwood. He and Amy are going up early Wednesday morning to visit your mom. Can you pick me up at the airport late Wednesday night?
The Times New Roman twelve point font on the screen smirked at me. Biting my bottom lip and drumming my fingers on the table, Justin and Mildred, together--better buy more wine. Finally, I typed. No problem, Justin. I'll be happy to pick you up. Send me the details and I'll meet you at baggage. Can't wait to see you.
I hit the send button with my right hand and reached for my phone with my left. My finger punched number three on speed dial.
My corporately indoctrinated brother answered the phone promptly on the first ring. The words were out of my mouth before he even finished his "Hello."
"Mark, I can't believe that you sent Justin a plane ticket. Why?"
"Our dinner conversation when you and Steph were here. I didn't treat Justin very well when we were kids. He always trailed around behind me, and I hated it. When he got a little older, I dismissed him as obnoxious and spoiled. After the mental health discussion, guilt got the better of me, so I bought him the ticket and invited him to spend the weekend with Amy and me."
"Mark, that is so sweet." I said.
"Not really, I'm doing it more to ease the guilt than a desire to spend time with him. I promise not to refer to him as a jerk, loser, degenerate, or any other derogatory word that occurs to me. From this day forward, I will only refer to him as Justin."
"Right, you'll call him an ass within the first hour. Mark, do you realize how high the explosion potential will be at that table?"
"No," he replied. His tone dripped with impatience--obviously an important game of some sort was on TV.
"Now there will be another person pushing for Aunt Mildred to come clean with the hidden relative stories."
"That's fine, Maggie, but don't hit too hard on the mental illness stuff. Let's get through the event with as little friction as possible. As Dad always said, 'Keep the peace.'"
His words pissed me off. "I don't understand you, Mark. Why? Why should I want to keep the peace? I've suffered alone for most of my life and lived in shame, believing I was incapable of controlling my own emotions. Don't you understand? If I had known about our family history, maybe I would have gotten help sooner, and Sam would still want to marry me.
"I accept I'll never be as mentally stable as you, but I don't have to torture myself with guilt anymore. It's better to be genetically defective than to live with the belief that I caused the episodes." My throat constricted, and my eyes misted. "Ella, what about her, Mark? Since our family dumped her in that awful place, can we show a little respect for her memory by clarifying that she didn't choose to live her life in an institution."
"Can't we respect her memory without upsetting Mildred?" he asked.
"Why? She's enjoyed torturing us for years," I responded.
"Maggie, you're doing this out of spite. That's not like you. You're the sweet one in the family."
I imagined him sitting in his leather recliner, remote control in left hand, phone in the right. In that position, he looked so much like my father. The image calmed me down a bit. "I don't know, Mark. I'm so confused. I started taking this new medicine, and it's unbelievable. I don't even have the words to explain it. Just trust me when I say that it's a miracle. But, in a way, it makes me angry, because if this is the way normal people feel every day, then I've been so ripped off. Everything is easier, everything is clearer. I want a life do-over, and that's impossible."
"Maggie, it's great the medicine is working. I'll never be able to comprehend the difference between you and 'normal' people, but hear my advice--relax, enjoy Thanksgiving dinner, and be thankful for the person who invented the drug."
"Ella didn't get the drug. Maybe George wouldn't have been a drunk if he had the drug."
"Maggie, both were born at the wrong time, and we can't change that," he replied.
I accepted the reality of his words. "It all really sucks, Mark. I wish I could have met Ella and talked to her. I would tell how sorry I am she had to waste her life that hospital."
"Maggie, your affinity toward this lost aunt is noble, but counterproductive. If you create controversy and upset Aunt Mildred, she'll give you the silent treatment for six months. The best way to learn anything about Ella and George is by using the sugar approach. Aunt Mildred really does have good intentions."
"Okay, I'll watch my tongue. However, I can make no guarantees for Justin, and if he starts something, I will back him up."
I pushed the end button on the phone, thinking about Mark's words, "Keep the peace." Did our family ever honestly have peace to keep? Tired, I closed my computer, locked the door, and went to bed.
***
Justin arrived at eleven-thirty Wednesday night, exactly forty-five minutes behind schedule. He looked fantastic, suntanned, streaked shaggy blond hair, clean clothes, and sober. As we walked to the parking lot, I noticed a few girls turning their heads.
When we reached my car, he climbed directly into the passenger side. There was no need to open the trunk. He brought a beat-up black gym bag and tossed it into the backseat. "Maggie, I promised your brother I would stay stone, cold sober all weekend--no booze, no weed. I really want to keep the promise, so keep an eye on me, okay?" he asked, and before I could answer, he added, "Usually I can't get through the day without one or the other."
"Justin, I will watch you as closely as I watch Kelsey when I babysit. You're in good hands." He fidgeted in the seat and ran his fingers through his hair. "Justin, relax, you're here to have a good time."
Finally, he smiled.
It was too late to go to Ellwood, so we drove back to my place. It only took a few minutes to get past the basic "How are you?" and "What's going on in your life?" conversation. The silence was not a comfortable one. "Hey, Justin, do you remember the Thanksgiving Aunt Mildred force-fed you stuffing, insisting you would have a year of bad luck if you didn't eat it?"
He rolled his eyes. "That one was a real winner of a holiday."
Over time, some awful memories become humorous. His short, sharp reply informed me this one had not. Justin, barely a teenager, told Aunt Mildred the only thing he had to be thankful for was not eating her stuffing. She walked over to his chair, picked up his fork and shovelled the stuffing into his mouth. He clenched his jaws together, squirmed, flailed, and tried to hit her. She won. When she yanked the fork out of his mouth, she punished him by sending him to the guest room. My Aunt Dori sat in her seat, stunned.
"Yeah, that dinner should be stricken from the family archives," I said. Justin stared out the window as I scanned my memory bank for som
ething with the potential to make him laugh. "Hey, do you remember that summer at the shore, when Steph and I were about ten years old and we stayed up after everyone else was asleep, sneaked out the back door, and ran up to the boardwalk because we wanted to see what time the shops closed? When we got there, the boardwalk was dark and empty. Steph started crying, and I begged you to take us back to the house. Finally, the cop patrolling the boardwalk found us and walked us home?"
"Yeah," he replied, his voice a bit monotone. "Actually, that is one of the few memories I have of those shitty trips," he said as he opened my glove compartment and began rifling through my papers.
I looked at him stunned. "Shitty?"
"Hell, yes. Ten days of torture every year. My mom rode my back constantly. Don't do this, don't do that. Every time I farted, I ended up banned from the beach and forced to stay in the house. The only good thing about being punished was getting a few hours of peace and quiet."
"I never knew you hated being there," I said.
"Actually, Maggie, I've blocked most of it from my memory. I don't carry that shit anymore. It's hard enough dealing with the new shit."
Mentally, I could recreate every moment spent on the beach, the feel of the sunshine warming my bones, the smell of the salt air, and the sensation of sand glued to every inch of my body. It saddened me to hear him say such awful things about experiences I held sacred.
Suddenly, I heard him laugh. "Maggie," he snorted. "I do have one good memory of Jersey. One year, Mark and I got into this really big sand fight on the beach. We were so into it that we ignored my dad's screaming for us to stop. Needless to say, I got into a shitload of trouble, banned from the beach for two whole days. Mark, of course, blamed me for starting it and got off easy with kitchen cleanup duty. Since part of my punishment included no TV, I stayed in the bedroom reading. But on the second day of my banishment, in the afternoon, if I remember correctly, I walked downstairs to go to the kitchen." He stopped talking and started laughing--tears streaming from his eyes. "Okay," he said taking a breath. "Sorry, but I can still picture this way too clearly. To get from the steps to the kitchen, I had to walk through the living room. When I stepped into the room, I about pissed myself. Greeting me was Mark, sitting on the couch with a strange topless girl on his lap. The girl whipped her head around the moment Mark stopped kissing her and groped desperately to find her shirt. Mark screamed and chucked pillows at me." Justin actually held his side. "I blackmailed him for about fifty bucks before the trip was over."
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