Sad Janet

by Lucie Britsch

  Then it’s time for gifts. My mother got me an Amazon gift card and a comb. She says it’s an inside joke, but it’s not really, it’s very obvious I don’t own a comb. I should have shaved it all off by now, but people have ruined that too, like they ruin everything. Old Janet might have rolled her eyes at the gift card, screamed something about capitalism, consumerism, some ism, anyway, but instead I decide to just buy books and pretend it’s not awful. I’m used to that. Letting people slide on their ethical lapses is my gift to them.

  Free books and a comb are a lot better than last year. Last year she got me a pair of weird pink yoga pants and I couldn’t even wear them in the privacy of my own home because I didn’t want the boyfriend to get the wrong idea, like I was someone who might do yoga. I didn’t even try them on, out of fear that I might get stuck in them and then I’d have to be that person anyway. I was afraid they might infect me in some way. I sold them on eBay eventually, but that didn’t stop me being haunted by them. I was sure I’d get them again the next year and find out my mother had been the eBay buyer and we’d be trapped forever in that mother-daughter loop, never wanting to admit who’s the worst.

  Truth is, I’d never really wanted anything for Christmas. Not even to be happy, really. When I was fourteen, I did ask for laudanum, as a kind of half-joke.

  What’s that? she asked.

  I told her. I hadn’t been reading all those gothic novels for nothing.

  For god’s sake, Janet, she said, if I had any of that, do you think I’d give it away?

  * * *

  Dinner itself? It was fine.

  Everyone watched me eat, which I expected, so I put on a little show, chewing meticulously, like a camel who’d read something online about the importance of chewing.

  With my mouth full, I quizzed the interlopers. I wanted to know what my mother was like as a person in the world, a person who spent her mornings bent over in a downward dog somewhere without us around to laugh. She was the same, it seemed, which was disappointing.

  My brother kept saying how great everything was, because he had his promotion and another kid on the way, not because the food was actually great, because it was just food. The carrots tasted like carrots.

  No one asked me about my life because my mother had obviously told them not to, probably in a mass email. One of the ladies in Lycra told me what nice teeth I had—first my eyes, now my teeth. Thanks, they’re my own, I said, because my mother was watching me. I raised my glass at my mother. We did something right, she said.

  We all ate a lot and drank a lot and talked a lot about nothing that mattered. We all liked eating food. Whoever came up with the idea of spacing food out throughout the day to keep us all distracted from ourselves? Say what you want about Jesus or Santa; that guy was the real hero.

  * * *

  After all that fuss—not from me, but from them—the day was fine. I think I smiled a few times. I laughed once—sure, at the TV, but it still counted. I listened to my uncle while he talked about sports, and made it through by pretending he was talking about books and thinking how much better the world would be if we replaced sports with books. All of this kept me from saying, Maybe read a book, dumbass!, like I wanted to. I didn’t make anyone cry or call anyone an idiot.

  After dinner—and my mother’s customary warning that no one can help clear up, because playing the martyr is always her gift to herself—we all sit down to watch Harry Potter and the Something of Something, because that’s the true meaning of Christmas somehow. We’ll all be asleep soon anyway, so it hardly matters. I glance out the window, mostly to see if it’s anywhere near dark enough to escape yet, but instead I see a flurry of white floating down from the sky.

  I jump up. It’s snowing! I shout. Who said I was dead inside?

  This of course makes the kids scream, but in the good way. They all jump up, as only kids’ bodies can, and follow me to the window. Even my brother comes along, probably convinced that I was luring them to their death or something.

  I get to the window first and see my mistake, as soon as I spot the flock of birds overhead.

  Is it snowing, Daddy? the youngest kid asks, looking at my brother like, Please let it be snow! For I am a tiny child and I shall need these memories to keep me sane through adulthood.

  My brother turns to me and whispers, That’s not snow, it’s bird shit. Then he turns back to his kid, says, False alarm, and heads back to the table.

  The kids stay there at the window with me, staring at the shit.

  What is it, Auntie Janet? they all say, wide-eyed.

  It’s, um, pre-snow, I say.

  What does that mean? the kids ask.

  It means snow’s about to come, I say, leading the children back to the safety of the grown-ups and their snacks.

  * * *

  I’m standing by the kitchen, hiding from my brother, but also trying to slip out the back door maybe, when I hear my mum talking to my aunt.

  Those pills are a godsend, she says.

  I bite my lip straight through. This is progress, me hurting myself over someone else.

  Old Janet would have made my eavesdropping known, butted right in, said something like, You say god, but you mean some pharma guy who got dumped by his wife. Something to undo any good she thought I’d done.

  New Janet takes a pass. I let her have the whole ridiculous day, the way she’s always dreamed.

  I’m getting really good at witnessing life like this now, letting it all wash over me. Not because I’m hard inside, but because I’m softer, almost comfortable. Not happy, you understand, but at peace with it all, or at least that’s how it feels.

  * * *

  Around eight thirty, when everyone is all nice and sleepy and cozy in front of the TV, I slip on my gloves, wave goodbye to their eyelids and light sheen of drool, and that’s that.

  I head off to my next Christmas, which is also conveniently where I live.

  There’s no stopping me now, I think. If I can handle my mother, I can handle anything. I could turn up at a stranger’s house and be sociable. I feel gutsy. I feel like a fucking god. Maybe I’ll hit two or three Christmases! Go all night! Crash every party in the neighborhood. I’ll be Fun Janet. Crazy Janet. People will high-five me, shout my name in the street.

  JANET! You LEGEND!

  * * *

  By the time I finally pull up outside my apartment, the buzz from surviving my family has gone. If I had a sponsor I’d call them and say, I’m thinking of fucking up again. I should have taken some eggnog for the road. I need topping up with Christmas spirit and fast.

  But then it hits me: Min-seo.

  I imagine her waiting for me on the stairs. So you survived, she’d say. I was on my best behavior, I’d tell her. And then I’d follow her up to her apartment and my tiny world would open a crack, just a crack, enough to let a little light in. Her family would welcome me into their fold in a way that suited me. No one would get up, no one would try to touch me or ask me anything, but everyone would smile or nod or do whatever they do. Her brother would be at that age when you don’t smile for anyone less than a Victoria’s Secret model or pizza, so I’d appreciate that he didn’t just look at me with disgust and immediately call his buddies to come look at the freak. No one would ask who I was or what I did. No one would ask me to leave, more important, like my mother had on more than one Christmas.

  I wouldn’t ruin it all by saying something stupid like, I didn’t know you did Christmas, because I’m not a racist and this was clearly a party and that was enough.

  But Min-seo’s not waiting for me. No one is waiting for me. I can hear noises coming from inside her apartment. Not holiday noises, just life noises. Footsteps. Fridge doors. The TV. The white noise of family.

  I could go in, I think. I could knock and say, Hi, thought I’d stop by, hope this is still okay. Because can I really imagine it feeling oka
y, however much either of us said it was? Does she really want me there? I don’t know. It’s too hard to imagine. Maybe she’s great and I’m missing the opportunity to start a new friendship, but does she really need a new friend? I think she just wants to know the person across the hall isn’t going to stab her in her sleep.

  Just because I’m now the type of person who gets invited to things, it doesn’t mean I’ll ever be the type of person who goes to things.

  I keep walking.

  Behind every door, I hear versions of Christmas happening. Some of them are silent apartments. Empty rooms. People gone for the holidays, off to be other versions of themselves for other people. This is what life is about. If you can do it. I can’t even be a version of myself enough for me.

  It’s those empty apartments I want to crash the most. To knock on the doors and have a friendly ghost let me in. Let me stay a while, but not haunt me, just let me be.

  I could knock on Min-seo’s door and at least wish her a happy Christmas. Apologize. Say I’m tired or sick. But for some reason I don’t think I could lie to her. Any more than I could lie to Debs.

  That’s the thing about Min-seo. The girl, this stranger, seems to get me.

  She’d know I didn’t really take the pills. Not a single one.

  * * *

  Debs already knows, I’m pretty sure. Everyone else thinks I’ve finally fallen in line, joined the rest of the world. Finally given in. For now it’s our little secret.

  But I suspect Min-seo is too cool for secrets, because she isn’t a schoolgirl. She’d probably be like, Oh right, yeah, well, that was obvious or whatever. Wanna get frozen yogurt and laugh at everyone getting it non-ironically? And I’d say, Yes, always.

  One day I’ll tell her I’m sorry I didn’t speak to her before. She’ll say, Well, you had to get there yourself, and by there she’d mean past the narrow little world in my head.

  One day, too, maybe I’ll tell my mother.

  But you went to those meetings, she’ll say, confused.

  Yeah, I went, I’ll say. I wanted some of this, I’d say, gesturing at the holiday-heavy air. Just not all of it.

  I might even tell the boyfriend, if I ever see him again.

  You always have to be in control, don’t you, he’ll say.

  Yes, I’ll say, don’t you?

  The truth was, I liked the meetings. Having someplace to be that was weird and mine. Something I knew was temporary. Sometimes temporary is good. I was stepping outside myself, outside my sadness, into a room of other people and their sadnesses, forgetting my brain, breathing different air. One with less dog stink. Less Janet stink.

  I was opening myself to something, to feeling something different. Ever so slightly, but it was a start. An offering.

  * * *

  A few days later, I pass Min-seo on the stairs. She’s wearing a shirt that says, Dogs Are Delicious, with a picture of a dog on a plate.

  I like your shirt, I say.

  Thanks, she says. No one gets it.

  Because she’s Korean. It’s funny as fuck.

  I work at a dog shelter, I say.

  I know, she says.

  How was your Christmas? she asks then. She doesn’t say, Hey, you totally blew me off, my dad made pizza bagels because he didn’t know what kind of weird sad-girl shit you eat.

  What I want to say is, Ugh, these days between Christmas and New Year feel like death, don’t you think? But I can’t, because we’re all supposed to be enjoying the holidays. Even if you’re not really enjoying life that much, you still have to enjoy the holidays.

  My tongue is tied. I can’t think of a thing to say.

  Mine too, she says, before I can recover. Shits and giggles, she says.

  Shits and giggles, I say. I thought I was the only one who said that.

  If all human interactions went like this, I might not avoid them so much, I think as I tell her good night and go into my apartment.

  * * *

  The day after Christmas, you take half a pill for a week and then you’re done. Tapering off is very important, they tell you. Let the magic seep out of you slowly, like when you walk to the bathroom after sex.

  The one hitch is, you have to go back to your doctor one last time, to confirm you’re alive. I leave this till the very last possible moment, just to keep him guessing.

  When I do finally go, he doesn’t even remember why I’m there.

  What can I help you with today, Janet? he says.

  I’m pregnant, I say, and he remembers me. He doesn’t find it funny.

  I’m supposed to feel like I’ve accomplished something, apparently. I’m part of a new world. A world where everyone can be happy at Christmas. But I don’t feel like that. I’m starting to miss my sad, thanks. I might be ready to go back.

  He opens a big drawer and finds my file—the pharma company’s file. I don’t know what it says. It might say I slept with the pharma guy. It might say I should be committed. I lean across the desk and try to read it.

  So, he says.

  So, I say.

  I do have other patients, Janet, he says, and I admit it hurts.

  He should know I’m not a talker. I’m the stone you can’t get blood from. It should say so in my file.

  So you survived, he says, relaxing in his chair, hoping I will too, but I’m a stone.

  I did, I say. I want to say, Ta da!, but I’m not giving him what he wants. I don’t want him thinking I’m all, like, fun now.

  It was fine, I say, letting out a large amount of air, so he knows this is killing me.

  Have you thought any more about the other pills? he says. Those little beauties could make this year different for you. He uses the word different because he knows that’s my sweet spot. He’s known me long enough to know that words like better don’t work on me. I don’t want better. What does that even mean? I only ever wanted different.

  Didn’t you like the support you had over the holidays? he asks. The meetings, he says, in case I’ve forgotten the last few weeks entirely—which I might have, for all he knows, as I’ve supposedly been off my head on drugs.

  He never asks directly how I liked the pills.

  I tell him I haven’t thought about the pills yet, which is true. The whole conversation is making me very tired, but I thank him so he’ll think I’ve made progress.

  Then he ruins it all. What does your family think? he says. Your partner? People always say partner to me because they assume I’m a lesbian, and I’m okay with it. I don’t tell him I don’t have a boyfriend now because it’s none of his business.

  It’s really nothing to do with them, I say.

  He takes off his glasses, the way people do when they’re about to get serious, as if seeing might hinder whatever greatness is coming.

  I won’t give up on you, Janet, he says. Which is probably a lie because he looks old as hell and is probably on the verge of retirement. I imagine myself running into him years from now, in some grocery store, and trying to hide. Janet! he’ll say. Hi, I’ll mumble. I’m not a doctor anymore, he’ll say, and I’ll assume he was fired for something until he remembers to tell me how much he’s loving retirement. Then I’ll remember the golf thing, and because I’m trying to be more positive, I’ll think, At least it keeps his sort in one place, so we can find them should we need them, which we won’t. We’ll probably be in the potato chip aisle, the whole conversation will be interrupting my pursuit of potato chips. He’ll notice I’m distracted, and instead of thinking it’s because he’s not that great at conversation, he’ll scratch his head and apologize to me. I’m sorry, he’ll say. It was my job. Drug companies, you know, he’ll say, and shrug like that makes it okay. Right, I’ll say. He’ll look at me almost imploringly, like he wants me to forgive him right there in the grocery, and I might if it means I’ll get back to my potato chips.

 
I hope you like your new doctor, he’ll say as he pushes his cart away. I won’t have the heart to tell him I’ve vowed never to go back, even if I’m clearly dying. I’m done with going back. I only want to go forward now. If I ever really need to see a doctor, I’ll do what I should have done all along, which is go to the nearest woods and find a witch, someone who understands how dangerous men are, someone who’ll offer me something other than pills—a potion, maybe, or even just a lotion. I’d even be willing to dance in the moonlight a little if it meant I’d get to keep my head the way I like it, muddled and a bit sad but knowing who I am.

  * * *

  Well then, Janet, the doctor says now, I’ll see you next year, if not sooner. Either way he’s written me off. There’s a sadness about him now, I can tell. It’s like they’d all pinned their hopes on me, like they thought I’d do this thing and make them all pioneers. That I’d be the happy vehicle for their dreams of a new era. Personalized Regimen! Boutique Pharmaceutical Care! Bespoke Happiness! Whatever bullshit slogan they were hoping to slap on it. They’d never found the pop star or model or actress they wanted to front it all. One time, at meeting, I suggested Mrs. Claus. You know, she never gets any credit, she’d probably work for cheap, I said. It didn’t go down well.

  What really stings is that the doctor said if not sooner. Like he thinks I’ll never be able to go back to my old ways now that I’ve seen the medicated life. But I’ve known from the start that that’s what they were aiming for, that they wanted to make this little diversion into a gateway drug. They’d taken the purest thing, Christmas, and tried to make it a dirty come-on. All I ever wanted was to take a few days off from myself, to pretend.

  All these people who were supposed to care for me didn’t give a fuck what I wanted.