The Weight of Zero

by Karen Fortunati

  I glance over to see how Mom’s taking this news. Her hands are gripping the chair, her nails almost digging holes in the leather. Well done, Dr. McCallum, you’ve just hiked up Mom’s anxiety about a thousand degrees.

  Oblivious, Dr. McCallum forges on. “Catherine, alcohol and drugs are obviously issues in high school. But when you get to college, without supervision, the temptation will be even greater.”

  Jesus. He just said “college” again. When did he and Mom decide that sick Catherine Pulaski was capable of handling college?

  “It might feel a little early to start talking about this, I know. You’ve just started your junior year. But I want you to keep this in mind. When you start looking at colleges. Dorms. We’ll make sure that we have everything in place for you at your school—doctor, counselor, things like that. Also, I Skype with some of my patients when they’re away at school and it works just fine. But again, I know we’ve got time.”

  Mom is abnormally quiet, probably trying to figure out if it’s possible for her to be assigned my roommate at Bipolar U. On second thought, this SAT thing is just for appearances, knowing Mom. I’m sure she’s thinking, Oh yes, let Catherine take them because the community college in New Haven probably requires them anyway.

  But Dr. McCallum is going along with it, and he’s not a bullshitter. This medical professional truly believes I’m headed to college. That I’ve got a future.

  That feeling I had earlier, of him being my ally, drains away. I feel the urge to shout at him that I’ve got a shoe box of meds because he’s drilled it into my head that I cannot escape Zero. I’ve been sitting here for months, nodding and answering his questions, all the while planning my death. The success of my deception astounds me.

  “What do you think about college, Catherine? Is it something you want to do?” Dr. McCallum asks now.

  I answer honestly. “I haven’t thought that much about it.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  The words are in my throat, then on my lips. I push them out. “Because…because I’m bipolar.”

  Dr. McCallum nods. “Is college something you’d like to do?”

  This time I tell the truth, even though the goal is unattainable. “I’d love to go.”

  “Good.” He nods like it’s a done deal. “I’m trying to stress something to you both. And it’s that this condition is manageable. Staying alert and watching for changes, like changes in sleep patterns, is the main challenge. But it’s a doable challenge.”

  He turns to me, his eyes laser-locked on mine. “Catherine, what you’ve got to believe is that people with bipolar disorder live productive, happy lives. This is not a death sentence.”

  I know Dr. McCallum is sincere and that he believes what he’s saying is true.

  The only problem is that I don’t.

  Michael and I can’t stop eating them. They’re these little orangey-scented cookies with a vanilla glaze that the Pitoscias are giving out for Halloween; Michael calls them “Nonny cookies” because he doesn’t know their real Italian name. Anthony filled a whole Tupperware to take with him before getting picked up by his friend Elliot to play video games somewhere. Right now, there’s a brief lull between the throngs of trick-or-treaters, so Michael and I chow down.

  We’re seated on folding chairs outside the Pitoscias’ front door, travel mugs of hot chocolate at our matching Converse-clad feet. Nonny is carting out an endless amount of these cookies fresh from the oven with the glaze sweating down the little mounds. In the chilly air, the fragrance alone is temptation enough, but with the warm trays on our laps and the cookies mere inches from our fingertips, Michael and I are eating as many as we’re handing out.

  And that’s a lot—these cookies are a Nonny tradition in Michael’s neighborhood, and both costumed kids and adults steadily stream up to the front door. Lots of them pop inside to say hello to Nonny and her cookie-drone Lorraine, who keeps the baking assembly line rolling. Mr. Pitoscia, aka Tony, creates adult treats with a Keurig coffeemaker, a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream and a paper coffee-cup column.

  My boyfriend is in his element. I’ve never seen Michael so relaxed. He’s even wearing a red-and-white-striped Cat in the Hat hat with his jeans and sweatshirt. (We agreed not to wear costumes, so I wore black skinny jeans, a black-and-red flannel shirt and a fleece. But when I got here, Michael gave me a yellow beanie with a propeller on top. I put it on. When in Rome…) Everybody greets Michael with genuine warmth and I get a secret buzz every time he introduces me as his girlfriend. Even to the handful of Cranbury High kids who arrive to snag some cookies. I recognize only one of them, a Bryce McSomething. He’s in student government, I think.

  After snatching the last of the cookies off our trays, Bryce says to Michael (and actually makes eye contact with me), “Hey, you know about Robbie’s party, right? You guys should come.”

  His words sink into me: You guys. You guys. Plural. It feels strange—both good and sad—to hear those words. I am beginning my third year of high school and this is the first time I’ve been invited to a party. The constant loneliness of freshman and sophomore year comes back to me just as the wind kicks up, gusting over my ears and neck, which were shielded by my long hair last October. Like a phantom limb, I can still feel its heavy softness. I shiver.

  “Thanks,” Michael says, his eyes on my face for a moment before returning to Bryce. “Maybe we’ll stop by.”

  After the Cranbury High group departs, Michael stands up and removes the empty tray from my lap. “I’ll get reinforcements,” he says. “Need anything?” He flicks the propeller on my hat softly and I hear it spin.

  I shake my head and smile; and when he returns, he’s wearing another sweatshirt and carrying a jacket. “You look cold,” he says, holding out the thick, fleece-lined coat. “It’s Anthony’s work coat, but Nonny just washed it.” Michael flips the jacket around to show me PAOLETTI’S LANDSCAPING in fluorescent extra-large-script blazed across the back of it. He taps the words and says, “Works like an ID badge. To soothe the rich people, so they don’t freak out when they see some strange guy in their yard waving a Weedwacker. It’s the mark of a minion.”

  I’m a little surprised by his sarcasm, but I like it. There’s more to Michael than meets the eye.

  His comment stirs memories of all the gardeners and support staff in Riley’s neighborhood during summer. They were all nonwhite men who moved silently among the built-in pools and patios and stone fire pits to clip and cut and mow on every day but Saturday and Sunday, when the gentry were present to lord over their manors.

  Ever the gentleman, Michael holds the jacket up and I stand and turn to back into it. As Michael slips it up onto my shoulders, he gives me a quick hug, his breath warm and vanilla sweet on my ear. It feels better than a Nonny cookie tastes, this fleeting physical contact. I hope we get some basement time tonight.

  I tug the zipper up and my fingers graze the embroidered letters on the front of the jacket. I read Anthony’s name and trace the letters.

  “Wow,” I say. “This really is an official work jacket. Are you sure Anthony won’t mind my wearing it?”

  Michael shakes his head. “Nah.”

  “I’ll be very careful with it,” I kid.

  “You don’t have to,” Michael answers, and then glances back at the door. “My parents would probably thank you if you lost it permanently.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but Michael doesn’t answer because Tyler is walking up the flagstone path.

  Tyler wears a Darth Vader costume, but he’s holding the mask up to reveal his identity.

  “Hi, Catherine. How’s it going?” Tyler asks, and gives me a real smile. He’s definitely loosening up a little around me.

  If Webster’s Dictionary needed a photograph to put next to the word “guileless,” they could use Tyler’s. There’s an innocence about him and I can see why Michael takes on the big-brother role with him. But there’s friendship too. That day at the museum, Michael told me he had a bad
stutter through second grade and that Tyler was the only kid who never made fun of him. They’ve been best friends since.

  I feel a jab of loneliness as I see the ease they have with one another. Tyler doesn’t have to ask Michael for a chair; he just goes into the garage and grabs one from the spot where he knows the Pitoscias keep their chairs. I used to have that—a certain comfort and familiarity with friends.

  Well, maybe not with Riley. There was always the invisible, unspoken class thing separating us.

  But it was there with Olivia. At least I think it was. With Olivia, I didn’t worry about being cool enough or if my clothes from second-tier, not-Abercrombie stores like the dreaded Justice, and then Target, and then Forever 21 were good enough. Around Olivia, I always felt like I could exhale.

  Fully costumed and in the dark, Tyler is a different person. He’s teasing the little kids and his jokes are fast and smart but nice. I find myself joining in, relaxed and uncensored. We joke and drink hot chocolate and eat more Nonny cookies in the cool air. And under all those layers of gray, I feel the colorful confetti of happy bubbling up out of me. How could I have forgotten this feeling? I am a…what?

  I can say it. It’s only to myself.

  I am a nine.

  Right now, right here, on October 31, I am a nine. Thank you, God and Jesus and Mary and all the saints. Grandma, can you hear me? I am happy. And it may not be a fluke emotion artificially triggered by my meds.

  How many more of these shimmering moments do I have left?

  The trick-or-treaters eventually peter out, but the three of us stay on the front stoop until ten-thirty when Nonny shoos us inside because of the dropping temperatures. Inside the foyer, Nonny grabs my hand and leads me down a short hall.

  “C’mon, Michael’s friend,” she says, opening her bedroom door. “You see this.”

  As soon as my Converse make contact with the beige carpeting, a yippy growling begins. It’s coming from a small, locked dog crate that sits between a recliner and a low bookcase crowded with paperbacks and magazine holders.

  “It’s okay, Mitzi girl,” Nonny says, and leads me to the crate. “Let her sniff you.” She pushes me forward. “I won’t let her out.”

  The top of the crate doesn’t even reach my knee. I can barely see through the holes in the gray plastic, but inside is a rat-sized thing with gray and black and brown hair that’s howling now. As Nonny bends over to reassure Mitzi, I do a quick scan of the room. There’s the crucified Jesus over the twin bed—mandatory Christian-grandparent decor—and on the brown wood dresser stands an elaborate Jesus statue complete with puffy papal crown, fabric gown and mini-globe in one outstretched hand, the other hand held up in a Scout’s honor kind of pose. It’s so excessive that I have to wonder if American Girl came out with a new character: Jesus, the carpenter boy from Bethlehem.

  “Look at this,” Nonny says over the Mitzi din. She points to a small desk next to an open door that leads to a bathroom. In the glow of the bathroom’s night-light, I can see a tube of CVS styling gel on her sink. Clicking on the metal desk lamp (circa 1950), Nonny points to a pile of People magazines, the pages of which have been tagged with slim, fluorescent pink stickies. There must be thirty stickies. She flips open to the first one. “See?” Nonny taps a photograph of the latest celebrity to cut off her locks. And then to photo number two, and number three, and so on. It hasn’t even been a full week since her Supercut. I don’t know when she had time to do all this research, especially while producing massive amounts of cookie dough. “Me and you. We’re just like the stars,” she says, her eyes glued to the glossy pages.

  By photograph twenty-two, Mitzi has yipped herself into a coma, but Nonny is still going strong. Michael knocks on the door and enters. “Is Michael’s friend in here?” he asks.

  “I’m just showing her the movie stars’ hair,” Nonny says. “We look just like them.” She turns to me, her face tilted upward, and those eyes, magnified a thousand-fold behind the thick lenses of her glasses, hold mine. “My friend Sylvia getting her hair cut too. She like mine so much. Thank you,” she says before charging out of the bedroom. “Now c’mon,” she yells over her shoulder, “I got cookies for you and your mother!”

  “This is a little frightening,” Michael says, gesturing toward the tagged magazine pictures. “Maybe she should take a class or apply to profile serial killers for the FBI or something.” He tilts his head. “Now, that would make a great TV show. The Secret Life of Nonny Pitoscia: FBI Profiler.”

  I jump right into the joke. “The opening scenes could be her baking and sewing by day, while at night she’s got a whole computer lab behind this room that she accesses by twisting the Jesus statue’s hand or something.”

  This CSI: Cranbury riff continues until we reach the kitchen. The large tins that Nonny and Lorraine have filled with cookies for Tyler and me sit on the table. In the light and without his mask, Tyler has withdrawn a little, but he’s still pretty relaxed. Lorraine is asking him, “You sure you don’t want to go with Michael and Catherine? You’ve known Robbie since you were babies. He’s only four doors down.”

  Michael says, “Ma, I’m not even sure we’re going to the party. I haven’t talked about it with Catherine yet.”

  Lorraine turns to me, a dish towel dangling from one hand. “Honey, do you want to go to Robbie’s? I can drive you home. Whenever you want. Your mom doesn’t have to come out now.”

  Yikes. I haven’t checked my phone since I got here. There are three texts from Mom and one from Kristal.

  Kristal is at a Chapman event. At 9:23 p.m., she wrote, “This sucks! Escaping now!”

  The first two texts from Mom are questions about pickup time; the last one, in all caps, says she will be here at eleven. Fifteen minutes from now.

  I text back: “Can I go to a party? At michael’s friends. 4 doors away. Only for an hour. Can you get me at 12?”

  At least two full minutes pass with no response from Mom. I imagine her in the bathroom with nervous diarrhea. Her Catherine at a high school party? With the “catastrophic” drinking and drugs?

  I text again: “Don’t worry. I’m not stupid!”

  My phone choos loudly. It’s a text from Aunt Darlene. “Go Baby! Have FUN!!! I am sitting on ur mother to restrain her from running to car ;) She’ll get u from M’s at 12!”

  Thank you, Aunt Darlene. Aunt D basically strong-armed Mom into attending a Halloween party at her condo complex tonight. I can trust her to keep Mom busy for an hour.

  While I go to my first party!

  I text back five smiley faces (a record for me) and look up at Michael. “We can go to the party if you want. My mom is coming in an hour.”

  Despite living close by and having grown up with Robbie, Tyler still doesn’t want to come, so we say good-bye to him on the front stoop, then grab our chairs and return them to the garage. Mr. Pitoscia is on his knees in front of the open refrigerator. Spread around Michael’s father are bags of bread, plastic containers of mozzarella, pepperoni sticks and foil-wrapped trays. I can see the bottle of Baileys wedged way back on the lowest shelf of the fridge. Tony Pitoscia is building a firewall around it using the food by his knees.

  I recognize that move. He’s hiding the bottle.

  Michael calls quickly to his dad, “Hey, just dropping off the chairs.” It’s a definite alert of some sort. I glance at Michael. There are some red splotches on his neck, a telltale sign of discomfort.

  Tony Pitoscia hops to his feet and slams the refrigerator door shut. “Mom said you were headed to Robbie’s?” he asks.

  “Just for an hour,” Michael answers.

  “My mom will be here to get me,” I add, so Mr. Pitoscia doesn’t have to worry about driving me home.

  Michael seems flustered as we walk in the cold to Robbie’s house. “That was weird, I know,” he says. “My dad…He and my mom don’t really like to keep alcohol in the house anymore.” He looks at me, gauging my reaction.

  I nod. Like I’m one to talk ab
out abnormal behavior. And that’s not even abnormal.

  “If I tell you something,” Michael says, slowing his pace, “you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

  I want to say I have only one friend and she doesn’t even live around here, but I keep that to myself.

  “Michael, you really don’t have to tell me anything. That’s your family’s business.”

  “Well, I want to tell you,” he says, and stops walking. He takes one of my hands from the pockets of the Paoletti’s Landscaping jacket and holds it in both his hands. “You’re gonna be at my house, so you should know. Anthony might have…He has a drinking problem. He was going to Sacred Heart University last year and got kicked out in November for underage drinking. And then a couple of months ago, he got a DUI. That’s why his friends are always picking him up. He can’t drive anymore. And that’s why my mother is kind of hyper about what he does on the weekends. So, he’s got no license, no college, and he’s doing landscaping work. Lost the full first-semester tuition, which was like over twenty grand. My parents are freaking out about it. He was on the lacrosse team. He was a good student.” Michael shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with being a landscaper, but he was thinking about law school. Or teaching.”

  “That really sucks,” I say.

  “Tonight my dad was…he was hiding that bottle of liquor in the back of the fridge so Anthony doesn’t see it. And they keep like five beers in the fridge just to sort of monitor whether he’s drinking.” Still holding hands, Michael and I begin walking again. “It’s so strange to think that this is my brother. None of us saw it coming.”

  I’m not sure what to say. Part of me wants to help put it into perspective for him. Maybe something like, “If you think alcoholism is bad, try bipolar disorder!” Of course I’d never say anything of the sort. Michael will never know that about me. He probably just heard that I went through a depression or something last year. But I’m wondering, is being bipolar really worse than being an alcoholic? To be honest, they seem pretty balanced on the shit scale.