Mom and Dad excused themselves to the kitchen, but the walls are thin, and Jack and I could hear their conversation clearly.
“Kathy, ever since this show started…,” Dad had begun.
“Harold, this has nothing to do with my show. Besides, I’m doing something I love; you should be happy for me.”
“It’s not that I’m not happy for you, it’s just that this is disrupting things. You’re less available for the kids…and for me.”
“Less available? Me?” My mom’s voice got higher and louder practically with each word. “Harold, I do my research from home. My political committee meetings are held here. I am always available when the kids—or you—need me. It’s not me who’s unavailable, it’s you! You’re so disengaged, you don’t even realize how much you’re working. This is projection—that’s what my shrink calls it—projection, Harold!”
The conversation had gone on, but either I’d stopped listening or I’d blocked the memory of it out of my mind, because I can’t remember what had happened next.
Maybe I had seen it coming. Maybe I just didn’t want to admit that it was true. Thinking back on that dinner, I found myself growing angry with my dad—the way he had acted really wasn’t fair to my mom.
“I rented that apartment I was telling you about,” Mom said when it was clear I wasn’t going to break my silence. “We’re going to move next week, sweetie. Your father and I have decided that you and Jack will split your time between us, half and half. No lawyers or anything, so that’s good, right? One week with him, and one with me. That seems fair, right?”
I looked away. She wasn’t really asking my opinion, after all.
“Sweetheart, please. I could use some help here.” When I still didn’t respond, she put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it away. “This whole situation is pretty tough on me, you know?”
“Tough on you? What about me, Mom? What about me?”
She didn’t say anything. I knew that she was right—of course she was right, her life was about to change, too—but that didn’t matter to me right then. That wasn’t my problem; it was hers. “Not only are my parents getting divorced, but I found out through a slip-of-the-tongue by my psycho grandmother. And I’m almost out of tranquilizers, and Sara Elder hasn’t answered any of my calls, and my best friend just moved away!”
Mom looked hurt, but her eyes softened. “I’ll call Sara Elder in the morning,” she said. “And I can’t even express how sorry I am about Grandma. As for Amanda, I’m sure she’ll be back in no time. You’ve met her parents—you think they’ll survive one New York winter?” I knew she was trying to make a joke, but nothing seemed funny in that moment. “Besides, look on the bright side: Now you’ll have a chance to make new friends. Plus, you have Joey.”
It was true; I did have Joey. But unless I put him in a skirt and gave him a wig, he was no help when it came to the problem of who I was going to sit with at lunch.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but can you understand a little bit where I’m coming from with this?”
I shook my head no, not knowing exactly what she meant.
“It’s not like I just woke up one day and thought it would be a good idea to get a divorce. This has been building for a while. And moving out—well, it’s a good way for me to get a fresh start. I can’t stay here. This is your father’s house.”
It was weird to hear her say that. I’d always thought of this as our house. Not his or hers.
“It’s hard, being here,” she went on, “you know, when your dad is never home. And even when he is here…well, he’s not really here.” And then she started talking about the lump she’d found in her breast a few years ago, which seemed like a non sequitur to me.
My stomach aching, I turned away once again and found myself stuck facing a large mirror that was mounted on the wall next to one of my bookcases. Staring, I tried to focus on the reflection of the girl looking back at me: bright blonde hair and flat brown eyes, the residue of eyeliner from several days ago creating shadows beneath them. Was this really me? Behind me was the reflection of my mom, still in work clothes, her head resting on one of her fists, eyes glassy. I had her eyes and her nose. And when we smiled, people said that I had her smile. But neither of us was smiling now. I remembered how I had always wanted to be just like her, back when I was little and she was perfect.
“You stayed at Amanda’s that day, so you wouldn’t remember. But your dad didn’t even offer to come to the hospital with me. I took a taxi,” Mom said, pulling at the fraying edges of my duvet cover.
I was in the eighth grade when my mom had a breast cancer scare. She was so frightened. I was, too. How could my dad have done that? It couldn’t have been my dad—the Dad who used to take me out to get pancakes for dinner, who would pretend to be a horse so that I could ride on his back around and around the bedroom. Was it possible? Then I realized it was definitely possible, since I hadn’t exactly seen that Dad in a long time.
I turned back to face Mom. “I’d never make you take a taxi to the hospital,” I told her as I reached into her arms, hot tears dripping down my cheeks.
Current Affairs
There are certain perks for juniors at Whitbread that sophomores just don’t have. Like, juniors can go off campus for lunch or leave early if they have free periods at the end of the day. But best of all, juniors have their own designated living room. (Seniors do, too, but ours is just as good as theirs.) Couches and armchairs line the walls, and pastel-colored beanbag chairs—for that special teenage feel, I guess—are planted throughout, with some grouped around an oak coffee table. The Living Room, which most people just refer to as the Room, is where all of us juniors hang out during our free periods. Most girls bring their laptops to school and spend hours analyzing photos from recent premieres and cocktail parties (the entire campus has WiFi, of course). A whiteboard, which hangs on one of the walls, sometimes gets used to tally up who in the grade had garnered the most mentions on gossip websites over the weekend—whether for wearing a one-of-a-kind designer dress to an exclusive party or flipping off one of the paparazzi. The winner was usually Alissa Hargrove.
I was beginning to warm up to Taylor. She was nice, albeit eccentric with an occasional unwanted attention-drawing laugh. And despite the fact that I knew she wasn’t going to help me win popular friends, I preferred sitting with Taylor in the Room to sitting alone. I didn’t want to seem absolutely friendless. She had a group of drama friends, and they were all…nice. But I had even less in common with her friends than I did with her. Taylor wasn’t in the Room all the time, though—she did have to go to class, after all. And sitting alone on a couch with a schoolbook in my lap, anxiously watching everyone else socialize and wondering how I might convince the Trinity to nod my way, was not good for my mental state. So sometimes, I hid in Mr. Elwright’s classroom, doing research for Model UN.
“Just couldn’t tear yourself away from world events for one whole day, could you?” Mr. E. asked me once when I plopped my backpack down on a desk and sat behind it. I was back in his classroom for the second time that day.
“No, I couldn’t,” I volleyed back. “I was sitting in English class, wondering what Uganda’s gross domestic product is. I just had to come and look it up!”
“Oh—speaking of, I received our country assignment for this year.” Mr. E. stood up and began to dig through piles of papers on his desk. In terms of organization, Mr. E. was the anti-me. After a few minutes, he held up a piece of paper, triumphant. “So it’s a good thing that you’re finding out Uganda’s gross domestic product.”
“We have Uganda?” I asked, excited.
“Yep.”
“That’s great!” I half squealed. “There are plenty of schools that need building in Uganda.”
“That’s for sure,” Mr. E. said, sitting back down. “One more thing: The Parents Association wants you to speak about MUN at their next meeting. You worked so hard last year, and they thought you’d be perfect at getting kids excited
about the program.”
I smiled, secretly flushing up with pride. Somebody had noticed. Somebody had realized how hard I worked.
The bell rang.
“Shit, I have bio,” I said and then looked sheepishly at Mr. Elwright.
He was chuckling. “Language,” he said. Then, “Hey, what is Uganda’s gross domestic product, anyway?”
Even though I knew he was joking, I rattled off the answer, then headed on to biology.
State of the Union
Sara Elder had finally called back. I wasn’t home when she called—which kind of sucked because I had been practicing what I was going to say to her—so my mom talked to her. Mom told me about it over a dinner of cereal and fruit salad. It was just Mom, Jack, and me. I didn’t know where Dad was, and I didn’t especially want to ask.
“So I made you an appointment for Monday afternoon. Is that okay? I just wanted to take advantage of the fact that I had her on the phone.”
“Whatever.”
“Mom, can I have the milk?” Jack asked.
“Sure.” Mom reached for the milk, and as she passed it to Jack, she said, “We’re moving on Monday.”
“Fabulous. Sounds like Monday’s going to be a great day.” I spoke with as much sarcasm as I could muster. I jabbed my fork into a grape.
“Honey, please. I know you’re upset, but I’m doing the best I can.” She turned to Jack and said, “Remember, you start school next Tuesday.”
“Shit! Are you fucking serious?”
“You don’t curse like that at school, do you?” my mom asked.
Jack shrugged.
“What would dinner be without some attractive swear words, courtesy of Jack?” I said, loving the protection that sarcasm provided me.
“Exactly!” Jack agreed, uncapping the milk and pouring it over his bowl of Frosted Flakes. “And what would dinner be without the creative Miller cuisine?”
So it was our last week of living as a four-person family. It wasn’t that I thought things were so great for the four of us, but I was scared of what changes the move would bring. Especially since we all walked on a tightrope of mental health. One gust of wind and we might trip, might find ourselves dangling, our hands slipping, struggling to hold on.
Dad wasn’t shaving and maybe wasn’t sleeping either. I came downstairs one morning and stumbled into the kitchen to get an apple and a Diet Coke. Dad was standing at the kitchen counter in the dark, an empty coffee cup in front of him.
“Hello?” I took a step forward and flipped on the light switch. “Are you okay?”
“Becky! Oh, um, yeah.” Dad turned to face me. He wore a wrinkled white button-down, with his tie loosened around his neck, and an old pair of sweatpants. “You heading to school soon?” he asked, rubbing the stubble on his cheek.
“Yeah.” I nodded, waiting for more, wanting more. Dad and I hadn’t discussed the divorce. It was just lurking in the room, sucking up all the air and conversation. We didn’t talk about the divorce; we didn’t really talk at all. Dad had never been one for confronting emotional situations. I took an apple from the refrigerator, and my dad reached for the jar of instant coffee crystals. “Have a good day,” I told him.
“You, too, sweetheart.”
Maybe we were dangling already.
Sara Elder, or the Remainders
I’d been seeing Sara Elder since I was in the fifth grade. One day, I came home from school and told my parents that I felt bad for the numbers in long division problems. “What numbers?” they asked me.
“The remainders,” I told them. “The ones that get left over. The ones nobody wants. So I’m remembering them, making sure they know someone cares about them.”
Mom had leaned forward, her head on her fist, and asked me to explain. Dad had just sort of sat there, shifting his leg nervously. I listed out the remainders of the fifty long division problems that I had done that day. I had started storing those numbers in my head, and once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. Apparently, this wasn’t normal, so my mom asked her psychiatrist for a recommendation, and a phone call was made to Sara Elder.
I spent a year, from fifth grade to sixth grade, sitting in Sara Elder’s office for an hour each week, oftentimes refusing to talk to her at all, upset that my parents had forced me into therapy in the first place. It wasn’t until the end of sixth grade, when I was obsessively organizing my bookshelves every weekend—alternating between arranging the books by genre, author, and title—that I thought maybe talking to Sara Elder could help. It occurred to me that she wouldn’t have any idea how to help me unless I talked to her and told her what I wanted help with. She may have been a doctor who worked with the mind, but that didn’t mean that she could read it.
Jack one-upped me for his Get Into Therapy card. (He sees a different psychiatrist than I do, of course, in order to provide us with our necessary “personal space.”) He started in the fifth grade, too, so by the time of the divorce he’d been going for only about two years. His act of insanity was pretty brilliant. In response to the school bully and Jack’s personal tormentor, August Cartwright, calling him a Jew and making it clear that it was the worst thing a ten-year-old boy could be, Jack hacked into his elementary school computer system and set up a web site that portrayed August as a Nazi in full Heil Hitler mode.
Jack’s private elementary school was concerned and definitely not pleased. Neither were my parents, although they were certainly impressed with Jack’s Web design skills.
Jagged Little Pill
I woke up on Monday morning, said good-bye to my mom and to my dad, and went to school. I could almost pretend that everything was normal, but I couldn’t avoid the inevitable. Because just a few hours later, my mom and dad would no longer be living in one house.
And neither would I.
I was surprised at myself. I had anticipated being upset, but instead I felt numb. I spent all of last-period English staring at my watch, willing the seconds to pass more quickly—not because I couldn’t wait to get out of school, see Sara Elder, and go to my mom’s new apartment—but because I just wanted to get it all over with.
After school, I drove to Westwood to Sara Elder’s office. A bag in my trunk held pajamas, an extra uniform, jeans, a sweatshirt, and my medications. It was almost as though I were going to a friend’s house to sleep over—except not. I had directions to the new apartment, and after I finished with Sara Elder, I was supposed to head over there.
My appointment was for four o’clock, and after years of making this drive, I knew exactly how much time I had to allot, how long it would take to park, and which elevator was the slowest.
Sara Elder worked on the seventh floor of a bland office building in Westwood, and her waiting room was devastatingly boring. It resembled a cramped and entirely beige living room. Over the course of six years, her taste in magazines hadn’t changed or developed, and she never threw a single issue away. Copies of Better Homes & Gardens and Good Housekeeping from 2003 were stacked in piles on the coffee table. For a psychiatrist who specialized in children, she seemed to have very little knowledge about what kids my age might want to read while they waited.
I flicked the switch that would announce my arrival and sat down on the couch, fuming and ready to confront my MIA psychiatrist. A few minutes later, she opened the heavy oak door that led to her office, and I felt the anger rise within me.
“Hello,” she said, welcoming me as if nothing were wrong, as if she hadn’t completely ignored my emergency call. Despite the heat outside, she was wearing a bright red sweater set. “How are you?” she asked once we were both sitting down.
I didn’t answer. What kind of question was that? I stared past Sara Elder, past her hair and her gaze, to the orange tapestry with the heart in the center, hanging on the wall behind her. I tried to see if I could count the stitches from where I was sitting.
“Becky?” she leaned forward.
I leaned back. “I called your emergency line. Emergency. You didn’t call
me back for two days. My life is doing a belly flop into who the hell knows where, and you’re supposed to be there for me. Thanks for nothing.” I surprised myself with the fury that rushed out of me. My breathing came in faster bursts, and my eyes stung.
“Becky, is this really about you being angry with me?”
I wanted to scream, “Don’t give me that psychobabble bullshit!” But instead I just sat there, seething.
Sara Elder went on, talking about how this wasn’t the end of the world, and I had to concentrate on me, and I don’t really know what else she was saying because I, admittedly, wasn’t giving her my full attention.
Then, toward the end of the session, she asked, “How are your meds? You seem a little on edge.”
Thanks to Sara Elder, I basically had a pharmacy in my bathroom. Everything but the ADD stuff. I’d never had a problem with paying attention. Unfortunately. Just the opposite. I tapped my feet, one then the other and back again, and clenched my hands, one, two, three. I had to do things in multiples of three. “No, I’m doing wonderfully, thanks for asking,” I responded, coating my words with sarcasm.
“Why don’t we up the Topamax by half a milligram? That ought to help even out your moods a little bit. I’ll call the prescription into Rite Aid, okay?”
I nodded and stood up to leave. “Okay. Bye.”
I walked out into the hallway, still disappointed in myself that I hadn’t fully expressed my rage, and that she hadn’t responded to it at all. But at least I was getting more Topamax. Maybe that would calm me down.
Hancock Park Page 5
