But just as I’m urging my feet to propel me back to my sofa, Alexis’s right hand reaches out and grabs my left hand. Her hand is sweaty and cupping a soggy Kleenex, but I hold on to it as she cries out her history with Amy.
After Alexis is finished, Kristal does the most talking. She is kind and encouraging, but there’s a strange formality to her speech. Like she’s reading a script. I don’t know if the others sense it. I’m guessing it’s because Amy’s relapse has scared Kristal, made her feel more vulnerable.
“I know exactly how you feel, Alexis,” Kristal says, the bangles on her wrists silent as she grips her knees. “Trust me, it feels unbelievable to move on with your life and stop obsessing about food. That sense of control you get while you’re doing it? It’s a crock. It only lasts as long as the bingeing and purging do and then all the bullshit just rolls back in. You get that now, right?”
Alexis nods, her eyes holding Kristal’s.
“If I can stop doing it,” Kristal says, “you can too.”
—
It’s 11:15 p.m. and Mom is doing God knows what in her room. Every night, after my regular homework is done, I read the books on the 6888th that Bev Walker gave me and take notes on the laptop. And every night, without fail, Mom shuts me down at 10:30.
Last week, Mom freaked out when she came to kiss me good-night. I had taken To Serve My Country, to Serve My Race upstairs with me. The book talks all about the women of the 6888th, or WACs as they were called. (WAC stands for Women’s Army Corps. That was the unit in the army that women could belong to.) I had gotten to the part in the book where the first group of WACs was sailing to England. As they got close, a German U-boat engaged them, forcing the converted cruise ship they were on to do all kinds of evasive maneuvers. It must’ve been scary as anything, with alarms ringing and the boat swerving left and right. The WACs could’ve been blown to smithereens before setting a toe on English soil. I couldn’t put the book down. I wondered if Jane was on the ship, or if she had come over on the second one.
Of course, when Mom saw me on my bed with the book, she completely overreacted. Instead of being grateful that I was reading again, she had barked sharply, “Catherine, you need your sleep!” and then snatched the book out my hands like it was a bomb. So now, our new nighttime ritual, in addition to the Lamictal rash check, includes her locking down the laptop and taking both of my books hostage for the evening.
I’m waiting for Mom to fall asleep. She’s already been in my room twice to kiss me good-night, but I’m not ruling out a third visit. Her nocturnal sentry duty is amping up, no doubt due to her worry over Michael. But I have things to do, like get my own troops out. They need to be in formation on my night table when Monday’s cuts roll through my head: Louis Farricelli’s insults du jour (on today’s menu: the spicy “I like to make you bend over” and a new classic, “crazies are freaks in bed”), the disgust on Riley’s face when she spotted me in history class (my unseeing eyes do see) and that scooped-out feeling (Zero’s angel Gabriel) when I joined Alexis on the sofa and thought she was recoiling from defective Catherine Pulaski. It was a reality check, a sudden and swift sword jab that reminds me of who I am and the limited distance I can go.
I did manage to smuggle one thing up tonight, though, and I pat the small square of paper in my front jeans pocket, retrieving my contraband reading material. It’s a printed-out email from Jenna, the curator at the New Haven Museum. She had transcribed the full letter from Jane, the one under Plexiglas, and sent it to me today. I’ve read it about ten times already, these words my only connection to a dead girl I think of as my second friend.
February 17, 1944
Dear Mama,
I don’t know how much more I can take. Things are bad here. They give me looks and say nasty things when I walk by. I hurt so much. It doesn’t matter what I do. How hard I try. I’ll never be good enough. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t change the way I was born.
Why in the world would we be assigned to South Carolina of all places? Fort Jackson is full of Sergeant Jim Crows who take any chance to put us down. We’re called WAC Detachment #2. #2 always stands for colored. They got separate barracks for us #2s to sleep in. They’ve got us working at a hospital. Some girls here have medical training and they’re cleaning out bedpans. I’ve got one year of college under my belt and here I am washing walls. Some girls got in big trouble for trying to change things here. There’s some meeting coming up, but I don’t think it’s going to help much. But don’t worry. You didn’t raise a quitter. Just keep saying your prayers for me, Mama. Most of the girls are nice and we try to look out for one another. Give a big hug to Petey for me and tell Mari to stay out of my things! (Give her a hug for me too. )
Your loving daughter,
Jane
Mom’s coming down the hall again, so I stash the printout under my pillow. “Catherine, are you going to get ready for bed?” Her tone is anxious rather than pissed. “Can you not sleep?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but I know I look a little weird just sitting on my bed, still dressed in my regular clothes, doing not a damn thing as far as Mom can tell. I retrieve a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that I use for pajamas.
“Are you sleeping okay?” she asks. For maybe the fourth time. Her anxiety is really skyrocketing. I hope she starts therapy soon.
“Fine,” I say. And for once, this is the truth. The Lamictal is continuing its job in the slumber department; for the first time since maybe late September, I can actually fall asleep and stay asleep.
“Number?” Mom asks, and it sounds like she’s holding her breath.
“Holding steady at…” I pause. Because the truth is that I seriously think I’m at a seven. It was a decent, no, a good day. Even with all the Farricelli and Riley junk. Alexis confided to the group her and Amy’s unholy alliance in the bingeing-and-puking underworld and how competitive Amy was regarding their weight. Alexis had said, “Amy would always brag that even her name weighed less than mine.”
After Alexis and Kristal were done talking, I just held tight to Alexis’s hand and she squeezed right back. So yes, it was a good day.
Still, it’s best not to give Mom false hope. There’s no way this seven will last. “Six,” I say. “Six and a half.”
She nods, and I can practically see the wheels in her head spinning. If this boy Michael hurts her, she’s thinking, Catherine might dip to a three or even worse.
And we both know that those numbers are not survivable.
When the silence in Mom’s room gets loud, I get on my hands and knees and reach under my bed. And then my phone choos, scaring the absolute crap out of me. I never muted it, so it sounds like an Amtrak Acela roaring through my room. I slide back into bed as Mom’s feet hit the wood floor of the hall.
My door swings open and Mom stands at the threshold. “It’s quarter to midnight! No more texting, Catherine, or I’m taking the phone.”
“Okay,” I say, glancing at the phone. “It’s from Kristal.” It’s probably the thirtieth text of the night. We had to do a recap of today. “I’ll tell her I’m going to bed. I promise.”
Mom gives me another kiss and leaves. I read Kristal’s text: “Am going to the new step-down program only if you are. Ask your shrink and let me know asap”
She texts again: “And remember—no red flags!!!!!!!!”
I smile. Lil’ Tommy advised us at break today how to ensure we all move on to the step-down program. He wants our group to stay together, and the way everybody nodded back at him, it seems to be unanimous. I know I do. In a hushed voice over Flavor Blasted Goldfish, Tommy said that as long as, unlike Amy, we raised no red flags, contributed in group, avoided meltdowns, took our meds and kept going to school, there was no way anybody’s insurance would allow them to stay in the five-day program. No way.
“Will do,” I text Kristal. My fingers hover over the screen. I want to ask her why she has to continue treatment. She said she was over her bulimia.
&
nbsp; But then again, maybe she’d say the same thing about me. Maybe she’s just as good at hiding the bulimic’s equivalent of Zero. I type: “Goodnite! See you tomorrow!”
On Tuesday, I don’t get to see Kristal or anyone else in group, because Mom has scheduled yet another appointment with Dr. McCallum. This one is an ambush.
I should have known something was up when Mom arrived at 2:45 on the dot to pick me up. “But why?” I ask, after she tells me. “I just saw him like two weeks ago. It’s only supposed to be once a month for med checks now that I’m in the IOP program. And why didn’t you tell me last night?” I swallow my frustration. I know Mom is worried about Michael. This visit is more for her than for me.
“I’m sorry, Cath. I didn’t know. He had a cancellation today, so I thought it would be a good idea to touch base,” she says evasively.
“Is it Michael?” I ask her. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
“That’s not it,” Mom says.
“Well, then what is it?” I ask, and she curls her lips in, physically barring herself from saying anything. “I guess I’ll find out when I get there,” I mutter to the passenger-side window, and then send a quick text to Kristal to let her know I’ll be a no-show.
Already seated in the armchair opposite mine, Dr. McCallum smiles at me as I walk in. “Catherine, how are you?”
“Fine,” I say.
“How are you making out at the IOP?” he asks, running a hand over his bald head.
“Good,” I answer. Dr. McCallum keeps his trap shut, obviously expecting me to provide a little more detail. “The kids are nice,” I offer. “I’m becoming friendly with one of the girls.” That should do it.
Dr. McCallum nods. “I’m hearing good things for sure.” And again, nothing more from the lips of the good doctor.
I cut to the chase. “Is it Michael? Is that why I’m here? Is that why my mother called you? He’s not my boyfriend,” I lie.
Dr. McCallum shakes his head. “Your mother is worried that you may be getting manic.”
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
“I have no clue what she’s talking about,” I snap. “I haven’t painted any houses or charged any vacations lately.”
Dr. McCallum studies me and then says, “No, no, it’s nothing like that. She was worried about warning signs. She feels bad for missing them before and she wanted us to touch base. She says you’re working a lot on a school project. Staying up late.”
So that explains Mom’s Gestapo attitude toward my project. Shit. How could I have missed Mom’s warning signs?
“You look upset,” Dr. McCallum says.
“I am,” I say, leaning forward in my chair. “Why couldn’t she just tell me herself?”
“I think it’s hard for your mother, Catherine,” he answers. And he lets that zinger hang in the air over my head, a floating anvil of guilt.
We both know why it’s hard for Mom. Because on top of every other horrific emotion my condition has spawned in her, she was (is?) also racked with guilt. I heard her. It was this past summer, early July, soon after Dr. A and his arthritic body had hightailed it to the wretched humidity of Florida. I had gone to the bathroom after my session, and Mom was inside Dr. McCallum’s office. I moved soundlessly in the reception area so I could listen.
Mom’s voice was high, and I could hear her pleading with Dr. McCallum. Something like, “What kind of mother does that? Tell me, please! Who leaves their child alone? She tried to kill herself, what, two hours after I left? To not know the pain she was in?” Self-loathing dripped from each word.
Dr. McCallum responded softly. So softly I couldn’t catch all of it over Mom’s sobs. “It’s so difficult, Jody….Many adolescent suicides and suicide attempts…impulsive acts.”
Mom’s voice grew louder, “How could I have missed it?”
And Dr. McCallum responded in the same way. “If you feel you missed the signs, it’s possible there weren’t any red flags to see. Often kids seem fine, but then something triggers a change in the way they think about themselves, the way they think about their lives. And then they impulsively act on it.”
Mom said something else. I forget what it was, but I remember how compressed her words had sounded. As if they had been held in for so long, and the guilt was still hissing out of her, almost ten months after the fact.
She still feels guilty. It is this guilt that must power her, making her hypervigilant, afraid of missing the slightest clue in my world. My anger dissolves and I lean back in my chair.
“This history project,” Dr. McCallum says. “Can you tell me about it?”
I take a deep breath and explain exactly what it is and the exact amount of time I’m putting into it. “It’s not the same,” I say. “As the other times.”
The manic times.
And it’s really not. I felt buzzed during the “Highlights of the Mediterranean” episode. A little less so during the attempted house painting. But each time there was a strange electricity coursing through my body, fueling my actions and igniting the thoughts that sparked lightning fast through my head. An irrational elation. I don’t feel that way now—not at all.
“I just like the project.”
“What do you like about it?” he asks. “What exactly is it?”
So I tell him. For the first time since beginning treatment with Dr. McCallum, I talk uninterrupted for at least five minutes. It’s easy, because it’s nothing about me. It’s about that day at the museum with Kristal and her mom and discovering Jane Talmadge and the 6888th. I do allow myself to tell him that Jane hit a nerve with me somehow. He asks about the letter and I tell him she wrote about how hard it was to be a black woman in the army in 1944.
After a couple more questions about sleeping and eating and my general mood, Dr. McCallum leans back in his chair, stretching a little. “Catherine, I’m in agreement with you. I don’t think you’re getting manic.” He says it confidently, and for the first time, I feel like I might have an ally in him. Yes, he pushes and prods and pokes me, but he’s much more in tune with me than Dr. A ever was. New questions form and flutter through my mind: What would’ve happened if I’d started with him right away? Would Zero have gotten me last year if I’d had McCallum on defense? If I’d been on Lamictal then?
He leans forward now, closing the distance between us. “I do think it’s a good idea for us to review your condition. Have a refresher on being proactive. That okay?” I nod. “Would you mind if I called your mom in?” he asks. “It might help with her anxiety if you’re together for this.”
I nod again. “Sure.”
Mom enters the room, her body just about visibly trembling. Dr. McCallum gives her a reassuring smile. “I think Catherine’s doing just fine.”
Mom blinks quickly, fanning away tears of relief, and I feel a prickling of tears in my own eyes. I reach over and gently rub her back and she looks at me, surprised by the contact. Then she takes my hand and squeezes it.
“I think it’s wise to periodically review things,” Dr. McCallum says. “As you both are well aware, Catherine’s condition, bipolar disorder, is chronic.”
Dr. McCallum leans back in his chair. “Now, a chronic condition requires monitoring. Catherine, if you had diabetes, you’d be checking your blood sugar. Jody, if you had hypertension, your blood pressure would be monitored. For bipolar disorder, we monitor by checking both emotional and physical symptoms.”
This has to be the fifth freaking time I’ve heard the “You and Your Bipolar Disorder” lecture. I take a deep breath and try to block the fact that I’m missing Lucky Boy for this. My favorite therapy dog is supposed to be at St. Anne’s right now.
“One of the biggest red flags that may signal an oncoming manic phase”—Dr. McCallum slows down his speech—“is changes to sleep patterns. If you find that you don’t need as much sleep as usual, you’d be best off checking in with your psychiatrist. For now that’s me, but in college, it’ll be someone else. Your mom told me that you’ll be taking the SAT
s in the spring.”
I sit up in my chair. Wait. What? Mom is planning for me to take the SATs? For college? Sure, I took the PSAT but that was because school mandated that all juniors sit for it. I figured it was a wasted exercise for me.
“I would like for you to keep a sleep journal, Catherine. Nothing big,” Dr. McCallum is saying. “I’d like you to note the amount of time you think you’re sleeping and the quality of your sleep. You can keep a log on your phone or in a notebook on your night table. If you see an irregular pattern over a couple of days, give me a call.”
I turn to Mom. “Is this why you keep coming into my room five times a night?”
She nods.
Jesus Christ. No wonder she looks exhausted.
Dr. McCallum says, “It’s also critical for you, Catherine, to continue getting enough sleep. Every night. Never shortchange yourself on sleep if you can help it. Staying up late for a couple of nights in a row may make it harder for you to fall asleep when you want to sleep and that could trigger a manic episode.”
Dr. McCallum goes through the other warning signs of a manic episode. He finishes up with the trinity of anger, hostility and irritability that seems to be more a trademark of my relationship with Mom than a precursor to a manic episode. Mom and I glance at each other as Dr. McCallum lists the three emotions.
“I know”—he nods, a rare smile lighting up his face—“not always the easiest to spot between a seventeen-year-old and her mother.” He gives a second, brief smile before moving on. “The other pole is depression.” He ticks off the well-known symptoms and holds my gaze when he gets to the last one—suicidal thoughts. I feel like he can see the shoe-box guilt on my face somehow. I shift in my chair.
Dr. McCallum leans forward. “Any condition, any condition requires a proactive approach. Eating right, getting enough sleep, exercise, taking your meds, it all works to keep you feeling stable. And of course, the other big one is avoiding any and all types of drugs and alcohol. I always like to remind my patients, especially my adolescent ones, that any, I mean any drug or alcohol usage is bad. Really bad. Catherine, alcohol and drugs will affect you differently from other teens. You’ll get high or intoxicated more quickly. And you won’t realize it. The other issue is that you’re at substantially greater risk of addiction, which, I don’t have to tell you, can be catastrophic.”
The Weight of Zero Page 14
