She’s someone for whom sleep is a disaster.
Remember that sentence. I even give you permission to use it. You might think the person who said it was really smart, maybe even a poet. My psychiatrist until very recently, Elaine Ruff, said it. She’s not that smart, definitely not a poet. She’s not even kind or insightful, but she said it. She was telling the truth, we know that much.
She was talking to my parents. The four of us were in her office. She had a broken window in one wall, all tape and cardboard. The window I’d smashed the day before, when I kicked it out.
She dared me. I said, “I’m angry. I’m so angry. I could knock a hole in a wall or punch a window.”
“Oh?” she said. She looked at me a long time. Her nose is a knife. “That’s pretty angry.”
I just looked at her: “—”
“Would you knock a hole in my wall or punch out one of these windows?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’d get in trouble.”
“No, no,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“?”
“You’re that angry, go ahead. I can fix a hole, replace a window.”
“You’d fix it yourself, or someone you’d hire?”
“I’d pay someone.”
“You take money to fix people’s brains, to work on something no one really understands, the miraculous human mind. You probably write enough prescriptions to get a cramp in your hand. How many—? But when you need to do something, something practical, you have to hire someone.”
“You’re angry.”
“I said that.”
“And I’m included,” she said. “You’re angry with me. Go ahead, break a window.”
“I won’t get in trouble?”
“Of course not.” Her knife nose and needle eyes. “I’m encouraging it. Please.”
For a moment I thought, I’m about to do something stupid. But I was angry, and I wanted to let it all go, and.
I stood up, walked across the room, and kicked out her window, a sort of judo kick. I don’t know judo, but I screamed when I kicked. A warrior scream. The window shattered and crashed and tinkled into the alley and on the floor. Glass fangs in the mouth of the window frame.
For a little while I balanced on one foot, my other foot midair. Not a sound.
I walked back to my comfortable armchair.
Ruff sat very still. She cleared her throat, a beagle bark. Then, she let me have it: “You’ll repay me for the cost of that repair.”
I’m like: “!”
I couldn’t say anything. I just stared at her in total—. I couldn’t believe it.
“Every cent.” Her lips didn’t move at all. “Or your parents will.”
“!”
“You have to leave now. The next time I see you—”
“You challenged me.” I yelled it. I felt like I’d suddenly woken up. “You said, ‘I’m encouraging it. Go ahead.’ You said, ‘Please.’ Why should I, or my parents, pay for your stupidity? You didn’t think I’d do it? You didn’t think I’d have the courage to kick out your window? Did you think I’d be afraid of you? That I’m not angry enough? You underestimated me. Or overestimated yourself. Both, probably.”
Ruff stood and pointed to her door. “Leave. I’ll call your parents immediately.”
“You’re a disgrace to your profession.” That’s what I said on my way out. “A disgrace. And I should know. You’re number six in this parade. Six in two years. I thought the one who didn’t wear pants—Dandelion, Dinderlinn, whatever—. That pervert tried to hide the fact he didn’t wear pants by sitting behind a big desk. One day, someone in the office next door started screaming like she was being stabbed or set on fire, screaming and shrieking, and Dinderlinn jumped up. Startled. Then I was startled. A fifty-year-old man: waist-long beard, bug eyes, and flagpole skinny. Jacket, shirt, tie, and blue-and-white-striped boxers. His little you-know-what trying to break out. But no, you’re the worst. You’re a snake.”
“Leave.”
“And what if I’d broken my foot? Or cut myself on the glass and bled to death on the rug? A rug I hate, since it clashes with the paint. It hurts my eyes being here. Gives me a headache.”
“Leave.”
“I’m going.”
“I know you don’t like the medications.” Dr. Ruff again, talking with my parents the next day. “And I admit, the track record with Nest leaves a great deal to be desired. Mistakes, yes.”
We sat there, all three of us, Mom, Dad, me, with our arms crossed. Three judges waiting for the guilty to stop talking, to be quiet, so we could argue among ourselves: exile or firing squad?
“But medication is a reasonable approach. Otherwise,” she was finishing up, “your daughter will become a lost girl.”
“A lost girl.” My mother smiled at that. Not a happy smile, and you know her voice, mild as milk. “Did you give Nest the impression she could break the window or do damage without—?”
“I did.”
“But then you changed your mind? What if she—?”
“I want to know what you mean by a lost girl.” My father hadn’t spoken a word until then. He has a voice like a grizzly bear, right? Nothing like milk. And he has those eyebrows, that frown. He’s scared you enough times, like he’s deciding whether or not to tear your head off. There’s no one kinder than my dad. It’s extremely funny that he lets people go around thinking he’s an assassin or bodyguard.
He rubbed my mother’s shoulder. “Sorry for interrupting you.”
Dr. Ruff had stopped dead when my father spoke. Instinctively, she put her hand on her desk phone, like she wanted to call for help. The zoo, I guess, or a game warden. I could see her thinking, How’d this animal get into my office?
“A lost girl?” My father frowned. “Explain this, please.”
Dr. Ruff smoothed her hair and let out her doggy cough. “I meant only that Nest’s welfare matters, and, at this rate, if she’s not medicated—.” She tried out a smile, which might charm men but not bears. My father waited. “It’s my belief she needs to be medicated. Your reluctance I understand. But Nest needs to sleep. She needs to sleep when she gets. Unwell. The sleeplessness only worsens her overall health. Her judgment suffers. Look—.”
A bird, something between a vulture and a hummingbird, burst out of the wall. Outside, from under the broken window. It must have been huddling there, a hole in the brick, listening in, shaking as birds do, until it had had enough.
“I’m not the right therapist for your daughter.” Dr. Ruff folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not. I realized this the moment I heard myself challenge her. I put us both in danger. And when Nest stood up, I don’t have to tell you—”
“Dr. Ruff.” My father leaned forward in his chair.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, I’m angry with myself.”
“When I think of a lost girl, Dr. Ruff, I think of a girl who might die in the street from a drug overdose. I think of a girl who might commit suicide or become a prostitute. A girl who runs away from home to find someplace better, never to be seen again by her family. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so dramatic. Maybe a lost girl is a girl who doesn’t succeed. A girl who seems to have everything going for her but falters in her task of happiness or fails to get enough sleep. I’m not sure what you mean. I know this: we know our daughter. I, we, will not lose Nest. She struggles in school. She’s way too—like her mother—way too smart. She walks long distances to settle her mind. She will not, however, disappear, like a watermelon seed down the kitchen drain.”
Dr. Ruff coughed and ran her fingers through her hair. My mom dropped her head. As for me, I started crying.
My father reached into his jacket pocket for his checkbook and a pen. “Now.” He flipped to the first blank check, #5009. “While I find yesterday’s misunderstanding an indictment of your own sense, and I’m more than ha
lf tempted to lodge a formal complaint, I’ll write this check to cover the cost of the window.”
My mother gripped my hand, and my father held the door. We didn’t look back.
Dr. Ruff in the rearview. Gone.
“Why is Nest crying?” My father must have been asking my mother or himself or the sidewalk. Not me. Definitely not me.
My dad, Q, my dad hasn’t spoken to me, really spoken to me, in so long, and he. He doesn’t know, right? Not for sure. How could I tell him I was crying because he might be totally wrong? I might be lost already.
Watch. You nearly stepped—.
Poor mouse.
Oh, see that? It twitched. It’s alive. Only a cat would do this. Savages. Look at its tiny eye. I swear this mouse knows it’s about to die. It’s capable of feeling sad, lonely. Honestly, can’t you see it asking itself, Why me? This mouse is a philosopher mouse. The universe is chaotic, it’s thinking, meaningless, and there’s no god for us mice. It shuddered because the whole freezing universe, totally blind to mice, landed right on top of it, whoosh. Maybe not, but that’s an eye with intelligence. I know it. That mouse is pure brain.
Brain and whiskers.
And it’s lying in the sun. A long, golden beam from heaven about to lift it away.
Do you want to put it out of its misery—?
You want to? A tiny bit or a lot?
I’ve done it before. I hate the suffering. It’s awful, though, killing, even for mercy. Your foot never forgets the body, the resistance, if you’ve crushed something, and you never look at a shovel the same way again. This is close killing, intimate, and it’s really tiring. I can’t do it this time. I don’t have the energy or heart. I haven’t slept enough. Sometimes mercy asks too much, or costs—.
Come on. You don’t have to. It’s something I do, or not. We’ll walk and walk, for hours, but I can’t kill this mouse. It’s too exhausting.
I knew I would kill the mouse for Nest.
People question love that comes quick and goes deep, as if it couldn’t be meaningful, long lasting, or true. But if a woman can be struck and killed in the street by a tire that peels off a semi, or a man can find himself permanently paralyzed in a moment by a stroke, or some child gets hit by lightning, survives, and wears the long, feathery scar forever—sudden, powerful events with everlasting consequences—why should love that arrives from nowhere, at any age, even thirteen, and changes everything, seem any less possible or true? And doesn’t this quick and deep and true love expect a person to do whatever is reasonably possible for the sake of the beloved?
I would walk with Nest as far as she wanted to go, maybe around the world. So why wouldn’t I kill this mouse to save it from pain? Why wouldn’t I relieve Nest?
You didn’t have to do that, Q. I know it’s terrible. I’m sorry. You’re a gentle soul.
Say a prayer with me. I always say a prayer over dead animals, dead anything. Snakes, squirrels, birds, spiders, moths. I even blessed a cat once. Squashed in the street. I buried that one myself.
I have to bless them all. Like this mouse. A few seconds of silence, okay?
Go.
MILE TWO
“Where there is vegetation the law of Nature has decreed that there shall be rabbits; where there are rabbits, Providence has ordained there shall be dogs.”
That’s a quote from—.
I’ll tell you later. It just popped into my head. I don’t have any kind of order for what I’m saying. There’s no script. I’m.
Hungry.
Where are we? Where can we eat around here?
Oh my. A couple blocks over: Geno’s. You can get a morning cannoli. You like cannoli? I want a limoncello muffin. Maybe two. And some kind of meat.
There’s nothing to show for last night, all the time not sleeping. I finished up plans for a chicken coop my parents won’t let me build. I can’t blame them. It has electronic surveillance, motion sensors, and automatic doors. Egg chutes, of course. It would cost, I don’t know, a lot. Not to mention we can’t even legally raise chickens—unless we can. There must be some kind of poultry law or everybody would have chickens. Wouldn’t you keep chickens if you could—?
I don’t know why I thought about a coop.
Sometime overnight I took ten thousand photographs of two dead ladybugs upside down on the windowsill and a cobweb. Very arty. And I played one bass chord as long as possible—duhh-dummdumm, duhh-dummdumm—before my hand cramped up. Forty-nine minutes straight. Good, right? I’d estimated forty-five, but hoped for an hour.
I’ve mostly been reading, though. Reading like a fiend. Do fiends read? Probably not, busy as they are with their bloodlust. I’m gobbling words and pages. This makes up for some of the phases when I couldn’t read at all—like swimming through a sea of bricks. I think I’ve started six books and finished four others in a week. And the essays and blogs and poetry and.
I watched an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show from 1975, “Chuckles Bites the Dust.” It’s considered one of the best sitcom episodes ever, according to some guy on Huffington. I’d never heard of it, the episode. The show, yes, because my parents went through a seventies binge a year ago. Mary Tyler Moore, MASH, Carol Burnett. God, Chuckles the clown. Really good, really smart. I thought so, at least. YouTube it.
I feel another quote coming on.
Perfection, Q. How do we make anything perfect? Do we have to add and add to it until we can’t anymore? Or do we get closer to perfection when we take away all we can, strip a thing down to its bare essentials, its simplest lines? To the French author Saint-Exupéry—the man who wrote The Little Prince—perfection comes only when you have everything taken away. I agree with him. But not just about things; people, too. Think about it. Eyeliner: I add it, but it takes me farther from perfection, not closer. Same with lip gloss, and, I guess, clothes. Perfection should be my naked body. Who says it isn’t? When I am naked, I am Nest, exactly Nest. I’m seventeen, and I’ll never be seventeen again.
Simple perfection, raw perfection—.
Saint-Exupéry was a pilot, and his book Wind, Sand and Stars, my current favorite book of all time, is all about planes and flight and survival and adventure and. It’s beautiful. In that book, when Saint-Exupéry talks about perfection of craft, he’s talking about the fuselage of a plane, but he could be talking about a painting or a faucet or the human body, maybe even a thought, a story, or.
Love.
Love is perfect when it’s simple and undecorated. No words, only the expression in someone’s eye, her touch, his kiss. “I love you” is a simple sentence, pretty clear, unless your idea of love crashes up against the other person’s idea of love. Then you’ve got a problem—.
I wish I could be naked. I want to be raw.
I shouldn’t have said raw. Raw makes me think of meat. Meat makes me think of blood. Blood leads me back to my dreams.
I dream about blood. Blood and hunting. I hunt, I’m hunted. I run and run and murder and escape murder, barely. Last week, one night, I slept so well all the way up until a storm of stones tore through the sky. The stones came in bursts, like.
A giant throwing rocks, fistfuls of them. Little kids falling down at a playground, their mothers and fathers, their brothers and sisters and dogs, dying. An ocean of stones. I woke up when a woman—I think she’s from the neighborhood, a bank teller—when she fell. Her skull was opened up, broken by a stone. She was blood. She tripped over her dream child and crushed him.
I woke up sick. I wanted to throw up. But then I fell right back to sleep and into the next dream. A faceless woman singing to me while she cut my fingernails. At first, I didn’t let her near me. Once, when I was five, my mother was scared by a car horn, and she cut into my finger with a pair of scissors. See the scar? I bled all over and cried. So the woman in the dream hummed to calm me down until I opened my hand. She used a pair of small scissors
with curved blades. I’ll forever remember the scissors. And the texture of her skin: cornmeal, or caked with dirt. She might have been a corpse. A dead woman? One of my grandmothers? I don’t know. She sang and cut. I listened to the scissors click through my fingernails.
This woke me up for good.
Pursuit. Human beings are accustomed to pursuit. We pursue, or we are pursued. This is exciting to us. Most of us enjoy being frightened, scared a little bit, up until the fear turns to real panic.
My dreams pursue me in waking. I wish they didn’t. The thing I am most afraid of, Q, is that I will finally be caught in a dream that won’t ever end. When I am endlessly pursued, constant prey. Insanity.
When I was little, crying in the middle of the night because of my dreams, my dad would come in, and I swear he’d be shining. It was probably just the hall light behind him, but he was lit up. He’d put his hand on my cheek and shush me back to sleep. Sometimes he’d hum, and his deep voice would put me right out. If I was totally terrified or sobbing, he’d lie down next to me, and rest his hand on my chest, and I could smell his smell. Man smell. You know what I mean? Soap, the day, his beard. His lips would be right up close to my ear. He’d count backward from a hundred in a whisper, and I’d fall back into a boring sleep before he made it down to ninety—.
And here we are, heaven, otherwise known as Geno’s.
We can eat and walk, can’t we? Sure. You can do it. If I sit now, I may not want to stand back up. Remember? No sleep.
I want to take you with me, Q, all over. I want you to get tired. I want you to feel strong and tired, and I want you to see things you haven’t seen before. I want you to feel pleasure.
Like the pleasure of Geno’s. Baked goods and meat.
Salami. Oh, salami—.
Ten Miles One Way Page 2
