The Weight of Zero

by Karen Fortunati

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Cath,” she says, uncharacteristically alone at her locker, her smile expanding upon spotting my abbreviated one.

  Michael is waiting for me at my locker, and I have to fight the urge to plant a very public kiss on him.

  “So you can come over on Saturday?” he asks me, his hands fidgeting with the zipper on his backpack. He’s been different since he brought me to school on Monday. Mechanically, the same—waiting for me in the morning, walking out of history class together, texting at night, making plans for the weekend. But he’s more reserved now. Like he’s disappointed.

  “I’ll be there,” I say as Tyler approaches.

  After greeting me with a hello plus direct eye contact, Tyler says to Michael, “We better get going. Gonna be a long line.”

  Wait. What? Are they doing something?

  Michael turns to me, a flush creeping up his neck. “We’re gonna check out that zombie movie….It’s…it’s that special deal. You know, five-dollar shows before five o’clock.”

  The reality slaps me. Hard. Because the three of us had already planned on seeing it together. In two days—the Friday after Thanksgiving, when the theater would be packed with fellow zombie fans.

  He changed the plans and didn’t ask me to go with them.

  “Today’s the premiere. Can’t wait!” Tyler says. “Catherine, you sure you can’t come?” He is clearly under the impression that Michael already asked me and I said no.

  Michael’s whole face is red now, but he stays silent, watching me like we’re playing chess, awaiting my move. What’s with him? He should be fumbling an excuse my way as to why he didn’t include me. I could’ve gone on Friday, or even tonight. But Michael’s just waiting along with Tyler for my answer.

  Of course, I can’t divulge that today is my last IOP at St. Anne’s and I would never miss it. Instead, I stutter-lie, “No, I—I’m…I’m working.”

  “I feel like a slacker next to you,” Tyler says to my deceitful face. Another dart.

  Michael, clearly uncomfortable, throws his backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s get going, Ty.”

  Awkwardness is thick and sludgy between Michael and me, and Tyler senses it. But he misconstrues the heaviness, probably thinking that Michael and I want to be alone for some dramatic good-bye or something. “So, Mike, I’ll…I’ll meet you at your car?” Tyler asks.

  Michael nods and waits until Tyler is out of earshot. The hallway is still hellishly full of kids who laugh and flutter by, the looming four-day Thanksgiving weekend ratcheting up their energy level. But not me. I am stunned, flattened by Michael’s exclusion.

  “Cath, I didn’t ask you because I knew you wouldn’t be able to come,” Michael says, the expression on his face a weird mixture of guilt and defiance. “Work, right?”

  This time I can’t lie. So I say nothing as my heart beats triple time. God, please don’t let me cry in front of him. Michael must see my bewilderment, because he suddenly pulls me close and buries his face in my neck. An edge of the Band-Aid on his chin hurts me, but I hug him back anyway.

  “Cath, don’t be sad,” he says. “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want you to…” He stops.

  “You didn’t want me to what?” I whisper, my lips pressing against his ear.

  “I didn’t want to make you feel bad,” he says, pulling away just enough to look at me. “I don’t want to hurt you.” And then, in the middle of the crowded hallway, he gives me a very public kiss. It’s a complicated kiss, layered with hurt and apologies and something else on Michael’s part, maybe frustration, but he keeps kissing me. And the fact that he doesn’t stop kissing me tamps down the hurt and fear about what just happened.

  But not all the way. Both Michael and I know this kiss is a short-term patch job. Because what started in the car ride to school on Monday is not a product of my imagination. This change of plans is undeniable proof that I’m losing him.

  “Congratulations!” Mom cries minutes later when I slip into the Accord. “It’s your last IOP!” She retrieves a Dunkin’ Donuts bag from behind my seat. “Let’s celebrate!” She places the bag in my lap before shifting into drive.

  I can still feel Michael’s kiss vibrating on my lips, but I feel numb, lidocained by his zombie-movie betrayal. Before, I would’ve been walking on air right now, jubilantly scarfing down the contents of this bag of doughnuts. But now the fragrance wafting out of the waxed bag is wrong—too sweet. I swallow drily. I can’t eat.

  “What’s wrong?” The lightness in Mom’s voice is gone, instantly replaced with worry: doughnut rejection is a big red flag in Pulaski Land.

  “I just had two candy bars.” The lie sails smoothly from me.

  “Two? Two? What’d you get?” Mom asks, so happy all is okay in Appetite-ville that she ignores my egregious nutritional blunder.

  “Reese’s.”

  “They should add a third peanut butter cup to the package. Two just doesn’t cut it, hunger-wise,” she says gamely. She guides the Accord through downtown Cranbury and past the Green, where the huge Christmas tree and jumbo menorah take center stage. Red bows and baskets laden with evergreen boughs adorn every faux antique black lamppost, each quaint “shoppe” tastefully decorated for the shopping bonanza that Christmas has morphed into. Strings of white lights loop every storefront, restaurant window, shrub and tree. Even Rodrick’s is festooned up the wazoo. Cranbury prides itself on having one of the best-decorated small-town New England greens, an award that probably originated from our hokey non-news newspaper, the Cranbury Courant.

  Unaware of the holiday skeptic beside her, Mom murmurs, “I just love this time of year. Do you think you and Michael will exchange gifts?”

  “We agreed not to.” Again, the lie soars effortlessly into the interior of the Accord. I need to prep her for what’s ahead.

  Surprisingly, Mom doesn’t dissect this, interrogate me or overanalyze my and Michael’s “decision” not to exchange gifts. She gives me a quick glance, nods and then changes the subject.

  “Catherine, do you think Kristal would be able to drop you off at home next Friday? Dominic asked me to help with a private party and Aunt Darlene is going to Boston for the weekend.”

  I text Kristal right away with the request. My phone choos with her immediate reply: “Yes! Yes! A 1000 times yes! Let’s do chipotle . And where are you??? Get your ass here asap! Last day party!!!  ”

  And just like that, her one text extends like a strong and solid tree branch to the slowly sinking-in-quicksand Cat Pulaski. Because right now, right this moment, Kristal is still here.

  —

  It’s definitely party mode in Room Three. Holiday music plays softly in the background and today’s snacks are candy canes, gingerbread cookies and hot chocolate. After we complete our DBT forms, Sandy opens group by thanking us.

  “I am so proud of you all,” she says, her eyes getting misty. “You are all warriors. Heroes. Bringing your intelligence, your honesty, your courage, your warmth and humor and making our group exactly what it should be—a supportive, safe, nurturing zone. It’s not easy, baring your souls, exposing your fears. If there’s one thing that I hope you’ve learned from our meetings, it’s this: that you are never alone and that everyone—everyone—experiences pain. You have the tools to manage that pain. Honesty with yourselves and honest communication with those around you—your parents, your friends, your doctor, your therapist. You’ll be okay if you remember this one rule: stay honest and say honest.”

  Lil’ Tommy lets out a “woo-hoo” and then suddenly stands, thrusting a small, red, chafed hand over the coffee table and keeping it there, palm down. “C’mon, everybody, group huddle!” he yells.

  Garrett hops up and places his hand in the air above Tommy’s. John smacks his hand on Garrett’s. Alexis, Kristal and I follow. “On the count of three,” Tommy whoops like a little cheerleader, “everybody shout ‘Go…go…um…’ ” He stops, looking stymied.

  What do you call our group?

>   Garrett supplies the cheer. “Go Room Three! IOP!”

  Tommy beams his gratitude at Garrett. And then yells, “Okay, on the count of three! One! Two!”

  He pauses and looks around. This is beyond dorky and stupid. Something outside these four walls we would all vehemently deny ever happening. Yet each one of my comrades is completely into it. Fully invested. Garrett with his blond baby dreadlocks, his blue eyes crinkled in laughter; bulky John in full Red Sox regalia, smiling and shaking his head in amusement; Alexis with her peppermint candy cane clamped between grinning candy-sticky lips; and Kristal the loudest one, cheering us all on, her free hand warming my shoulder. Sandy throws her hand on top of mine.

  And in the second before we all act like the ridiculous bunch of damaged teenagers that we are, Tommy’s other red, raw hand roars down on top of Sandy’s, the slap reverberating through the room. His little face, with those glasses that constantly slide down his nose, smiles up at all of us. A laugh gurgles inside me, its source both that sense of exoneration I discovered yesterday afternoon in the library and this group bonding, this acknowledgment of what we’ve all been through, the pain that’s brought us here and, for the briefest of moments, the safety and healing of this circle. I laugh out loud as Tommy shouts, “Three!”

  At the top of our lungs, six kids with a buffet-worthy selection of mental health issues and their fearless leader, scream, “Go Room Three! IOP!” and then collapse, laughing and high-fiving, on the sofas.

  With a smiling eye roll, Garrett needlessly reminds us, “Mum’s the fucking word on that scene, folks.”

  —

  My favorite therapy dog, Lucky Boy, prances in for our final hour of IOP. As we hang out on the floor, playing with him, Sandy reviews next week’s step-down program schedule. We’ll meet in Group Room B on Wednesdays and Fridays from three o’clock to five o’clock.

  Thanks for the memories, Room Three.

  Sandy scratches Lucky Boy above the base of his tail, his favorite scratching spot, weirdly enough. “We’ve changed the timing a little,” she tells us. “The new group I told you about won’t be starting until five-thirty. This way, we can try to protect the privacy of those of you who aren’t comfortable seeing other people here.”

  We settle into small pockets of conversation, and John moves his large frame to the carpet beside me.

  “Hey, Catherine,” he says softly. “How you doing?”

  I smile at him. I feel a kinship with John. Besides Kristal, he’s the one I’m closest to here. “Pretty good,” I say. “How about you? How are things with your father?”

  “Better,” he says. “My dad is finally coming around.” John had been sharing with us the aftermath of his decision to quit the wrestling team and how pissed his father was because it eliminated all chance of a wrestling scholarship for college. “What about you? With your PTSD or depression or”—he shrugs—“whatever, from your grandmother?”

  The answer doesn’t come easily. I have so strenuously trained myself to censor all responses, it takes me a moment to find the truth and not just formulate what I think John wants to hear. “Better. For sure,” I say. “Lighter. Like I don’t have this big secret anymore. But…” I stop. It’s okay, I tell myself. Keep going. I need to start doing what Sandy said—“say honest.” It’s about fucking time. “But kind of worse too,” I continue. “Like…I don’t know. Because it doesn’t hurt quite as bad, I feel like I don’t remember her as well. She feels further away.” I look at John to gauge his reaction. Does he think this is totally wacked?

  “I get it.” John nods, absently stroking Lucky Boy’s head. “Not that this is anywhere near the same, but when my dog died, it was horrible, but once that intense sadness lifted…I don’t know, I felt like I was moving on and kind of forgetting him in a way.”

  I nod, a little shell-shocked. That is precisely it. And all this time, I was worried my feeling was strictly a bipolar thing. I grasp his forearm, the material of his track jacket smooth under my fingertips. “Thanks for everything, John. I really mean it. Thank you.”

  —

  Kristal and I stand next to her car as the St. Anne’s parking lot empties out. Mom is running late and texted that she’d be here in ten minutes. Music is blasting out of Kristal’s car window and she dances around in the cold air, keeping me company until Mom arrives.

  “Oh God, I hope I love it. I’m freaking out a little!” she says. “What if it sucks? It’s too late to withdraw my ED application.”

  Kristal’s dad works with somebody whose daughter attends Vassar, and the daughter, Stephanie, invited Kristal to spend Saturday night with her. Stephanie and a bunch of her friends are returning early to school from Thanksgiving break. Kristal leaves first thing on Saturday morning for Poughkeepsie.

  “It will be great! And if it isn’t, you can text me all night,” I offer.

  “If you have your phone on,” Kristal chides. “Seriously, Cat, do not do that to me again. It sucked. I really needed to talk to you.” She stops dancing and holds my gaze. “Okay?” There is a challenge in her tone, a veiled threat that I need to hold up my end of this friendship bargain.

  “I will sleep with my phone on,” I say, holding my fingers up as if to swear on a Bible. “On my pillow, okay?”

  Kristal spontaneously hugs me. “I wish you were coming with me!”

  Mom pulls into the parking lot and into the spot next to Kristal. She waves and I can see she’s on her phone.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” I tell Kristal as she gets behind the wheel of her car. “And remember, on Saturday, text or call me whenever! Even if it’s in the middle of the night.”

  Kristal nods, her body brimming with excitement. Again, I feel a jolt of abandonment, that sense that she can and will go on with her life.

  I stand on the curb as Kristal backs her adorable Volkswagen out of the parking spot. Her car stereo is still blasting and she’s waving to me instead of checking behind her. The parking lot is empty but for one pickup truck, which has been idling in the row behind Kristal. Kristal starts to dance inside her car, bouncing on the seat and clapping both hands over her head, leaving the steering wheel unmanned. All for my entertainment.

  I laugh until I see the pickup’s brake lights come on. The truck backs up, fast, its bed piled high with leaves tacked down by a tarp, obstructing the driver’s rearview mirror. There’s no way the driver can see Kristal. They are headed for a direct hit.

  I rush forward, into the spot Kristal has almost vacated, and I can see her eyes widen in surprise at my charge. I bang both hands on the hood of her car, screaming “Stop!” just as the pickup truck screeches to a stop.

  Their two rear bumpers are almost touching. As I rush to Kristal, still seated in her car, I catch a glimpse of movement inside the dark cab of the pickup truck. Its passenger-side door cracks opens just a couple of inches. I can barely see inside the truck, but it looks like two people. Is the passenger going to get out? Bitch at Kristal? Shit. But then suddenly the door slams shut and the pickup truck peels away, escaped leaves dancing in the air in its wake.

  Kristal lowers her car window. With an embarrassed smile, she says, “Now your mom is never going to let me drive you home next Friday. Tell her I will never dance and drive again.”

  —

  It’s Wednesday night, 1:16 a.m. So technically it’s Thursday morning—Thanksgiving. I can’t sleep. Like a few nights ago, my body refuses to unwind. I should record this in my sleep journal, if I actually had one. I’ve transported the troops downstairs already to Grandma’s room. So all should be well.

  It was a good day, I tell myself. The last session of group was a riot with that ridiculously corny circle time.

  I text Kristal again: “You will have a great time at Vassar!!! Don’t worry!” I am pathetically proud of my little cheer of support. Catherine Pulaski is thinking of other people for a change! It’s a start at least.

  But the movie thing with Michael keeps intruding on all the good: St. Anne’
s circle time, my heart-to-heart with John, Kristal’s hug. In the dark silence of my bedroom, Michael’s withdrawal overshadows all of it. He’s started the checkout process from Hotel Catherine.

  One hour later, I am only a little tired but also jittery. Fuck. Has it started? Has the stress triggered another chemical miscue in my head? Which will lead to another manic episode? What will it be this time? I’ve already done the home improvement and vacation disasters. And now there’ll be a whole new cast of witnesses to my freak show, lacing up their sneakers and getting ready to run.

  I force myself to lie down. To take deep breaths. Relax, Catherine. Relax. I think of my self-soothing collage from group. The one Kristal and I had almost peed in our pants laughing about. In addition to the joke pictures, I had also cut out from magazines photos of a fluffy white comforter and an apple pie and an ad for dryer sheets because they remind me of Grandma. I hum “You Are My Sunshine” softly and, finally, drowsiness descends. My limbs feel weighted in a blessed way and my mind slows. That current of exoneration, the one I had first felt outside the library, thrums softly through me. It had gotten muted by the debris and clutter of the day.

  I am still innocent.

  I remember Dr. McCallum talking about Grandma and her death and my disorder. This was sometime back in July, when we were first getting acquainted and I was still unaccustomed to his blunt questions. I was startled when, with no warning, he opened with something like, “I believe your grandmother’s death played a role in the onset of your depression and bipolar disorder. I think we need to talk about your grandmother, what happened that day, how you’re coping, how you feel now. I think it would be enormously helpful.”

  “What?” This was the first time any doctor had linked Grandma’s death and my sickness. “Are you saying because Grandma died…I mean, the way she died, gave me bipolar disorder?” I asked.

  “No. I am not saying that at all, Catherine.” Dr. McCallum leaned forward. “Let me be very clear,” he said slowly. “I do not believe grief or trauma causes mental illness. We know that grief can be a severe stressor. That stressor can trigger the onset of a mental illness. Do you understand that?”