I don’t want her to die.
“Do you want me to delete it?” Michael asks.
“No,” I say, dragging my eyes from the screen to Michael, who studies me with worry and concern. Michael, a complete stranger eight weeks ago, who has kept a video of me, me, on his phone for two years. “Don’t delete it. I’m…I don’t know. Just really touched, moved really, that you have this. Of me.”
Michael groans a little. “This is my proof, Cath. So you know how much I like you. You’re like…perfect.” He swallows. “Last week was such a mess….I was such a jerk to you.” He stares at the roof of the Subaru. “I kept thinking you were going to dump me. And then Friday night, you were so great. You made me feel great. And then I thought I blew it again with you. This time for good.
“You said you had a rough weekend,” Michael continues. “High school…well, it hasn’t been the best experience for me. Not at all. With Farricelli hassling me and then my passing out in anatomy class and now this. Can you understand?” He’s staring at me with a questioning intensity. I nod. “I should’ve told you what I was feeling. What happened with Farricelli in the past. So you’d understand a little. It wasn’t fair to you.” Michael takes my hand. “I want us to be completely honest with each other, okay? I want to be able to tell you things and for you to tell me things. To trust me. I want that kind of relationship with you. I really want something with you. Something big.”
I nod, blown away. By him and by the fact that he has these feelings for me. “Me too,” I whisper.
“Now your turn,” Michael says. “Why was your weekend bad?”
I shake my head. “It was nothing, really.” I lie. “Just stuff with my mom. Just fighting, the usual.”
“Cath, I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere. You didn’t run from me. I’m loyal, remember?” he says. He must know something about me from the gossip last year at school. I think that’s what he’s getting at. There’s an urgency to Michael’s voice, a question he’s not asking on his lips. “You can trust me,” he almost pleads. “It had to be pretty bad if you shut off your phone the whole weekend.”
Again, I shake my head. It’s too much to tell him. Where I really go after school. Why. What medicine I take every night. Would he take out his phone and Google “bipolar”? No, I can’t do it. I’m entitled to the little peace, the enjoyment, the absence of shame that my lies allow.
Disappointment crosses Michael’s face and he pulls away from me. An expression I don’t recognize slides over his face, something guarded and distant. He grabs the Dunkin’ bag. “You ready for your doughnuts?”
“You eat them. I’m kind of full,” I say. But the truth is I’m a little nauseated. Because something has shifted between us. Something big. I can feel it.
“Well, we should go in now,” he says, biting into a doughnut. “Don’t want to be late, right?”
I feel like crying as he gets out of the car. I am so fucked. By a disease that isolates me with its stigma. That not only taints my reasoning but also limits any relationship that I could have. It’s so not worth it, a life like this.
Slipping on my everything-is-just-fine mask, I walk into school with Michael.
I’m hunkered down in the black leather chair, with Dr. McCallum opposite me. He’s grabbed his coffee mug and placed a bottled water on the small end table between our two chairs in his office. He’s making himself comfortable for the long haul. Shit. I was hoping I might be able to split a little early and get to St. Anne’s. After today, there are only two more IOP days left, Tuesday and Wednesday; this week’s sessions are cut short due to the Thanksgiving holiday. After that, we are officially in the step-down program, which seems to basically be the IOP minus three days of meeting.
“So, how are things?” Dr. McCallum asks.
Bad, I want to say. The full extent of my disease is really sinking in now, the scope of Zero’s destruction widening in ways I didn’t expect. It not only kills existing relationships but also, I’m learning, stunts new ones. Things with Michael and Kristal are deepening and the effort to conceal is exhausting. I’m sick of the hiding, and I’m sick of constantly anticipating Zero. He went away for a while, but I know he’s back, circling ever closer. And now one of Zero’s four horsemen, disrupted sleep, is here. But I don’t say any of this.
“Things are okay,” I answer.
“What’s going on, Catherine?” he asks. Jesus, he’s perceptive.
I shrug. Dr. McCallum sits like a stone Buddha, just watching and waiting for me to spill the contents of my chemically imbalanced mind. Oh, screw it. “Just some stuff with my fr—Michael and Kristal.”
Dr. McCallum nods.
“I haven’t really told them anything about me…you know, being…b-b-bipolar,” I stutter.
“Why not?”
“Why do you think?” I snap.
“I know what I think,” Dr. McCallum says oh so wisely, like he’s fucking Dumbledore. “I’d like to hear what you think.”
“Because…because…they’ll be like Riley and Olivia.” Oh my God. That was brutal. The first time I’ve even hinted at what their leaving did to me. “I think…I think it’s…safer not to tell them.”
My first month with Dr. McCallum, this past July, he wanted to talk a lot about my former friends and their abandonment of me, and how I felt about it. It was unbearable, fending off the weekly tearing away of that scab.
Dr. McCallum leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I understand why you feel this way. But you won’t know until you try.”
I’m waiting for him to turn on the sound track to Rocky and give me a pep talk about trusting people, blah blah blah. Instead, he leans back and crosses one long, gangly leg over the other, exposing his sock and two inches of hairy shin.
“And before you make that decision to confide, you need to evaluate the friend and the relationship. Have they proved themselves worthy of you?”
I almost fall off my chair. Did I hear him correctly? “Worthy of me?”
Me? My head is exploding with this novel concept.
Dr. McCallum smiles gently. “Yes, Catherine. Worthy. Of. You. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
Dr. McCallum nods. “You know, what we have to do here is separate the wheat from the chaff, separate the symptoms of your bipolar disorder from typical adolescent issues. I can’t tell you how many of my patients who lose or terminate friendships in high school—maybe eighty-five to ninety-five percent. It’s a common thing, especially for girls. Now, for you, this loss of Olivia and Riley…”
I hate and love how familiarly those names roll off his tongue.
“That loss seemed to be tied directly to two things: the traumatic death of your grandmother and the onset of your bipolar disorder. I understand how you might feel that your condition defines you and caused that loss. But what I’m trying to stress to you, Catherine, is that while you are dealing with managing your bipolar disorder, you are also tackling the normal highs and lows of being a teenager. And I have a strong suspicion that your relationships with Olivia and Riley would have ended regardless of your condition. That is most often the case, that the friends you have entering high school are very often not the same ones you have at the end of it.”
I find myself nodding. Because lately, that same renegade thought has been orbiting my head. The kindness of Michael and Kristal and their genuine concern has exposed the fault lines in my relationship with Riley. And I feel like I never really knew Olivia, despite all our years together. By the time the bipolar thing happened, our little trio had probably long passed its sell-by date.
“I want you to remember that very common pattern of relationships and not let the pain of Olivia and Riley hold you back from engaging in other friendships,” Dr. McCallum continues. “Use your judgment in deciding whether Michael and Kristal are worthy of you to confide in.”
Dr. McCallum moves the conversation to the next topic on his agenda: Zero. Or his clini
cal name, depression. “I want to discuss something that we touched upon at the beginning of treatment. You’re doing well, Catherine, really well, and I think it’s time for us to discuss a depression game plan.”
I must look a little puzzled because he continues, “It’s our game plan for what we do should you begin feeling depressed. We’ve talked about the warning signs. Are you keeping that sleep journal like we spoke about?” I nod-lie. “Good,” he says warmly. “Now I want to talk about coming up with a plan in the event you begin to feel depressed. I’m talking moderate to severe depression. Remember, patients with bipolar can get depressed again after a period of stability. Even when they’re doing all the right stuff.”
I think it’s starting, but again, why bother saying anything? He can’t cure me. He can’t tweak my DNA, make it all better.
“It can be really discouraging,” Dr. McCallum is saying. “I want us to have a game plan so you know there are many, many options.”
“Are you saying we should have steps written down? Like if I get depressed, we’ll do X, Y and Z?”
He nods. “Exactly. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking and then you give me your thoughts, okay?”
I nod. How many freaking options can there be?
“First, in the event of a more moderate to severe depression, I’d highly recommend that you start on lithium again.”
“You know my mom will veto that idea,” I say immediately.
“I know, Catherine,” Dr. McCallum responds. “Your mom connects lithium to your suicide attempt. But you had been taking it for only a week or so at the time of your attempt, right?” He opens my folder. “Yes, it looks like it was a new prescription. I’ve explained to your mom that lithium greatly decreases the risk of suicide in bipolar patients. It’s a no-brainer in my book.” He takes a big sip of his coffee. “Seeing how you responded to the Lamictal, I think the right dosage would be effective. Next, we’d amp up the psychotherapy. You’ve done well at the IOP. And I’d also like, at some point down the road, for the three of us to talk about other therapies that are out there. Things that you should be aware of. Some new things, some old, tried-and-true therapies.” He pauses, and I get the feeling something big is coming. “Like ECT. Electroconvulsive therapy.”
Holy shit.
“I know, it sounds extreme,” Dr. McCallum continues. “And in movies it looks inhumane and primitive. But there are many studies showing it to be highly effective for patients who are severely depressed. Catherine, please listen. Lithium and psychotherapy would be my first response. But we have other options. Maybe a different medication. Maybe two different meds. There are different routes we can take medicine-wise, different combinations.” He leans forward in his chair, shortening the distance between us. “I’m only mentioning ECT because I want you to be aware of it. I want you to know about it if in the event you get severely depressed, another therapy besides meds and counseling exists. There’s also something new. For the more acute, severe cases of depression, some doctors are using ketamine injections. Ketamine has been used generally as an anesthesia, but it can lessen symptoms of depression for short periods of time.” He sits back again. “I’m in no way suggesting any of this for you now. I’m happy with how you’re doing on the Lamictal. The only reason I’m telling you this is because I want you to be aware that there are other ways to get relief in the event of a severe episode. Any questions so far?”
I shake my head, but he doesn’t speak. Five, ten, fifteen seconds go by.
“Catherine,” he finally says. “I know you are extremely perceptive, extremely observant. I can see that this label of bipolar causes you anxiety. That you worry about the quality of life you can have with it. Many of my patients with bipolar tell me this. It’s a common fear.”
Again, I am nodding. I force myself to hold still.
“I’m telling you this to inform you. There are a number of different therapies to help you. You can manage this, Catherine. You are managing this.”
I want to say, sure, I can manage it now with Zero still at arm’s length and my phone alive and still breathing incoming texts. But what happens when my world implodes, when my second round of friends evacuate, and Grandma’s absence resumes its presence as a yawning hole in my gut? Zero is an opportunistic mother and I doubt a million electrical volts ripping through my skull will help me “manage” it.
The school library is quiet and cool on this Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I’ve just finished the chicken salad I made for Mom’s and my lunch. Mom was painfully grateful this morning when she came into the kitchen to find me finishing up our sandwiches, her flowered tote already packed with an apple and a pack of cheese crackers. “I could get very used to this,” she had said, reminding me that no one has cared for her since I’ve been on this planet. “Maybe we can start taking turns?” she asked brightly.
I said yes, but I was thinking that Bill could return once I am gone. He could make her lunches. There’d be nothing in the way, then—no Catherine with all the incessant and unrelenting worry her existence demands. No twenty-four-hour monitoring of moods and meds. Mom would be free, her life open to so many possibilities: a new job, maybe something that would utilize her accounting degree and isn’t based solely on flexibility; money for better clothes and hair color at a nice salon, not from a box from ShopRite; and Bill. Companionship. Love. Marriage. A new part-time family, mothering Bill’s adorable, normal kids.
Inside my cubby, my phone vibrates with a new email. It has to be from Jenna. She’s the only person who communicates with me via email instead of text. I hope she’s located another Jane letter. I scan her message. She has a partial letter—only the bottom half. I type back a quick thank-you before allowing myself to read the letter. Knowing Jane’s story, her tragedy, makes the reading almost unbearable.
And now, popping uninvited into my head is the image of freshman me locked in Michael’s phone, dancing and dancing forever.
That girl and Jane are equated in my mind somehow.
My eyes run along Jane’s sentences and immediately I sense the difference in her writing and tone. The 6888th has been transferred from England to France and Jane doesn’t seem too happy about it.
don’t clean up like the British do. The rubble was everywhere, like they’re all just waiting for the war to be over to start sweeping. We took a train from Birmingham to Southampton, where we crossed the Channel in the tiniest boat you ever saw. At night, we slept on canvas shelves basically, four or six high, stacked so tight I couldn’t sit up without bumping my head on the one above me. Like I said, Le Havre was a pile of rubble. And just when I thought our troubles were over, they put us on a train with big holes in its roof. I guess we should’ve been grateful for those holes because the cars had not a single window. When we finally got to Rouen, there were hundreds of our boys, Mama, all waiting to welcome us. In cars, in trucks, on roofs, waving from any place you looked. Most of the girls were laughing and carrying on, but others did not like it one bit. Those boys were helpful, Mama. They carried our bags and helped us get settled at the Caserne Tallandier (Napoléon’s troops slept here—that’s how old it is!). It was a very lively scene, with many of the French coming to greet us. But deep down, it made me sad. Because most of these welcoming soldiers were Negroes. Coming over here, seeing how the British people treated us—how nice and kind they were, it kind of makes it harder now to see the prejudice. There’s other stuff too. Hurtful stuff they say about some girls, how they don’t like men, they like women. Or that most of us get pregnant and have to go home. It is shameful. Because we WACs, we’re proud of what we’re doing here. The girls always say that they picked the best of us to come overseas. But it feels like no one recognizes it, at least not too many Americans do.
Sorry to be complaining so much. It’s hard sleeping on a mattress stuffed with straw. The ends keep poking into me every time I roll over. I barely get any rest. I can see you smiling as you read this, Mama. You know I turn into a bear without my rest. No
t too much longer now I’ll be writing to let you know when I’m coming home. Give Mari and Petey and yourself triple, no, quadruple hugs from me.
Your loving daughter,
Jane
I feel aggravation dangerously close to rage building. I know what happened to Jane was ages ago, but the prejudice she suffered is making my heart thump angrily. Maybe it’s leftover emotion from history this morning with Farricelli hissing “cunt” and “dyke” at me throughout class. I didn’t dare do a thing. I don’t want to get Michael in any more trouble. Tyler got a one-day in-school suspension, but Michael slid by with just a warning. Probably because of his prior history with Farricelli. So I just sat there and absorbed Farricelli’s stream of hate. Is that why I’m so infuriated for Jane right now? Or maybe it’s the fact that this institutionalized racist bullshit is still going on today.
Overheating with the unfairness of it all, I unzip my hoodie. How could they treat Jane like that? How could they treat any of them like that? She was there doing her part. For the very country that was shitting on her. All because she was black and a woman. But mainly because of her skin color. A white woman would never have been treated that way. Tears blur my vision as I think of Jane. Joyous, adventurous Jane. She couldn’t help when or where she was born. She was innocent.
The word echoes in my head.
Innocent.
Innocent.
Innocent.
And then something deep inside me shifts—it is a major, tectonic-plate kind of shifting, the type that creates new landscapes. I have to rest my forehead on the desk and take deep breaths. I am shaking, but I understand something now. Something good.
I’m innocent too. Just like Charlie.
This knowledge purrs through me a full twenty-four hours, a steady current of something warm and sweet like reassurance or exoneration or both. It soothes me and prompts me to return the briefest of smiles to Olivia in the hallway at the end of school on Wednesday.
The Weight of Zero Page 23
