The Symptoms of My Insanity

by Mindy Raf

  Marcus looks at me for a long second. And then he starts to laugh. He starts to laugh at me, and it feels like someone heaved a bowling ball into my stomach.

  “Izzy, that’s hilarious.”

  “Well, good,” I mumble, “I’m glad you find me so amusing.”

  “Oh,” Marcus says, his face going still. “No, I didn’t mean to laugh. I don’t find you amusing. I mean I do, but not in a bad way. It’s just I’ve never met anyone who thinks that they have things, things other than a cold or the flu, things that they actually have to … look up.”

  “Uh-huh.” The bowling ball sinks farther.

  “Izzy, you’re a hypochondriac,” he says to me, smiling.

  “What? No I’m not.”

  “Actually, no, you’re not. You’re a cyberchondriac.”

  “No, no, I’m not a … I’m not one of those either.” Note to self: Look up cyberchondriac on Symptomaniac later.

  “Right.” He nods. “No, you’re definitely not. Listen, next time you’re on Symptomaniac, do you mind looking up some symptoms for me? I think I may have the Black Plague. The late 1600s London strain.”

  “Okay, I get it.” I fake smile. “You think I’m insane and that I’m going to end up in a mental hospital or something. I get it, trust me.”

  “Oh. No, I don’t. I don’t think you’re insane.” He stares at me for another long second and then looks down at the green-tinted glasses in his hands. “I do think that color therapy is insane, though. As if seeing a color would just magically zap energy through the eyes, to the hypothalamus, and on to the pineal gland to mess with our hormones and heal an organ.” He chuckles again, and says “Color therapy” in this amused way that makes my bowling ball stomach turn.

  “Well, then I guess you think I’m pretty stupid for getting them for my mom.” I snatch the glasses out of his hands.

  “No, no, it’s just that—no, Izzy you’re not. For your mom?”

  “It’s fine, really. I’m used to this by now, so—”

  “Used to …”

  “People … just not … not really understanding that—” I cut myself off. “Forget it.”

  “No, I understand. I mean … I do. I guess it all kind of makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “You being obsessively interested in illness, diseases, and such, you know, because of your mom being sick and—” Marcus stops speaking, seeing the expression on my face. I’m telling myself to look unfazed and nod casually, but I can’t because it’s like I can see Marcus’s last words floating in the air between us. I can’t stop seeing them. I shake my head, trying to make the words go away, surprised at the shaky sound of my own voice when I say, “I … I’m not obsessed with illness and disease. I’m—”

  “No, I didn’t mean …” He holds up a hand, palm circling toward his chest, as if trying to propel his sentence to a close.

  “—and my mom being sick doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

  “Sure, no, let me rephrase—”

  But I don’t let him rephrase, I just keep talking, moving my face closer to his, my voice wobbling more but rising in volume. “You know, Marcus, some people are just interested in being as healthy as they possibly can.”

  “Of course. No, Izzy, I didn’t mean to—”

  “And some people think that the truly crazy people are the ones who close their minds to everything you can’t … test with Mr. Bayer’s stupid scientific method!” I grab my backpack and my glasses, and take off, not sure where I’m going till I see the sign for the girls’ bathroom.

  I charge through the door. Stop it, Izzy. What are you doing? Stop crying! I open my eyes wide and look toward the top of the mirror. What is wrong with me? So what if Marcus thinks color therapy is insane, and that I’m insane? Why am I so upset about one more person thinking I’m mentally unstable?

  I splash some water on my face and pat my palms to my cheeks.

  Marcus is wrong, you are not a cyberchondriac. Okay, yes, maybe you look up symptoms and health-related information on the Internet, but it’s not without good reason. You never look up any symptoms without first experiencing at least a little bit of it physically. You’re not a cyberchondriac. And you’re not a hypochondriac either.

  Okay yes, I know all about hypochondria. I’ve read all about it. But my mom being sick is not the “contributing cause of my neurosis.” In fact, there is no “contributing cause” to my neurosis because I don’t have a neurosis originating from … contributing causes.

  And okay yes, I know what neurosis means. I have Jewish relatives. Plus the word neurosis is in almost every article I’ve ever read on panic attacks, which apparently neurotic hypochondriacs have all the time. But I don’t. I also don’t obsessively go to the doctor and I don’t unreasonably take medicine—well, except for Advil, vitamins, the occasional herbal supplement, and sometimes flu-be-gone tea.

  And yes, okay, I do self-diagnose, but that’s called doing research. And doing research is important. Research can lead to people feeling better, to cures, to things going away.

  I treat my face to a final splash of water and gather my stuff together. Then I book it to government, actually looking forward, for once, to Mr. Harada’s mind-numbing oration on checks and balances.

  • • •

  Three outgoing voicemails, six texts, and not one response from Jenna.

  I’m wondering if she’ll even be at rehearsal today as I head to the auditorium. Maybe she’s going to ditch that too.

  Nope, there she is, leaning against the side of the stage, chatting with Ryan Paulson.

  “So this lady keeps asking me, is the soap gluten-free? And I keep pointing to the words on the wrapper that say gluten-free in huge fancy cursive. And she’s like, ‘Yes, but is it one hundred percent gluten-free?’ I mean, does she honestly think that Soaptastic secretly fills their gluten-free soaps with gluten?!”

  Ryan Paulson is laughing hysterically and saying, “Yeah, like it’s this gluten conspiracy.”

  “I know.” Jenna laughs. “Exactly!”

  “Hey, stranger!” I chime in, tapping her on the shoulder.

  “Hey Izzy, what’s up?” Ryan says, still laughing.

  Jenna turns to me and then back to Ryan. “So yeah, I can get your aunt a discount. We have this crappy new bar called Nursery Lime. It’s a citrus scent for toddlers. Parents go gaga for it because the shea butter is wild-crafted from Senegal.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.” Ryan shakes his head in wonder.

  “Hey!” I say a little louder. “What happened to you today? Did you get my voicemails?”

  Jenna turns to me again and gives me a glare that I think drops the temperature of the auditorium by a hundred degrees. Ryan frowns at Jenna and then glances at me. Jenna just turns back to him smiling. “It’s a shame we discontinued Grape Gatsby, though, ’cause that would be the one I’d recommend.”

  “Hello? Why are you— Where were you at lunch? Remember the tickets? I was all by myself with no change and—”

  “Okay, get ready, people!” Jenna turns and shouts out to everyone. “We’re going to start running act two in fifteen minutes!” Then she walks down the auditorium aisle, right past me.

  “What is wrong with you?” I’m on her heels, following her out of the theater.

  “Nothing’s wrong with me. I just don’t feel like talking to you right now.”

  “You don’t feel like— Why?”

  Jenna stops and turns, her clear blue eyes clouding.

  “What?” I practically screech out. “What did I do?”

  “What did you do? Like you don’t know what you did?”

  “I don’t! If I knew what I did, I wouldn’t have to ask you.”

  Jenna just shakes her head and walks right past me again. So I follow her around the corner and to the vending machine alcove. Finally she bursts out, “Why did you tell Nate that I wanted to date him? That I wanted to hang out with him? Why would you do tha
t? Why would you say … that I—” She stops and swipes a finger against her now wet cheek. But more tears are falling fast, and soon she’s rapidly zipping her fingers against her cheeks, one side at a time, like windshield wipers. I feel like I should hand her a tissue or put my arms around her or something, but when I take a step closer, she turns her back to me.

  “Jenna, I just thought … you liked him … and he liked you … so I think what I told him, or what I first told Blake was that maybe—”

  “Yeah,” she says, spinning around, “you told Blake I wanted to date Nate, and he told Nate I wanted to date him, and Nate told me all about it last night. He’s just sitting there with Jacob while I’m trying to watch the stupid square dance, and he’s laughing at me like I’m some idiot, like I’m some sort of desperate, crushed-out— Why would I— You humiliated me!” She folds into herself like an accordion, heaving for breath between sobs.

  “What’s so humiliating?”

  “Why did you have to talk about me with them? Why would you do that?”

  “I’m sorry, I just thought that you liked—”

  “And Meredith? You’re like best friends with her again now? Do you two just sit around talking about me too? Why did you tell her to call me last night? What did she tell you? Did she—”

  “What? I don’t know why she called you. I—”

  “She said you suggested it, that she wanted to … Did you talk to her about what I told you about my cousin, about Amy?”

  “No. Wait, does she know? She hangs out at those parties too, so maybe she knows someone who—”

  “You’re so clueless!” Jenna shouts, shaking her head. “How am I supposed to be best friends with someone who’s so completely clueless all of the time!” She pushes past me down the hall and through the swinging band room doors. I just stand there, frozen, watching the doors swing.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there. A minute? Ten? Finally, I make my way down the hall and back to the theater, but I pass the auditorium and head to the studio instead. It’s hard to walk. I feel like my skeleton’s been shocked out of my body and then put back in all wrong. When I get to the studio, I can barely turn the knob on the door. It’s like I have feet for hands or something.

  Eventually I manage to get inside and set up my supplies; not that it matters since I’m just sitting at my table now staring at a pile of finished sketches. Apparently I’m clueless. I guess Jenna did tell me she wanted to boycott dates for the dance, but I obviously wouldn’t have tried to set her up with Nate or push her to go out to the party with me if I believed her. If I knew her reasons. Yes, I was distracted and not exactly a great best friend when she told me about Amy. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that she just told me yesterday about something that happened back in September about a cousin I’m not sure she’s ever mentioned before. Did she just expect me to figure it out all by myself, that I’d just be magically thinking, You know what? I probably shouldn’t set Jenna up with Nate on the off chance that she hates boys now because her cousin Amy got dumped by a guy after having sex with him.

  So no, Jenna. I’m not clueless. You’re just not keeping me … well-informed.

  I shake away the image of Jenna crying and start to cut and assemble more photos with my mirror fragments when I hear my phone buzzing. I dig it out of my backpack, knocking Pam’s now rock-solid baby quiche onto the floor. It’s a text from Blake: Pik you up @ 11 tomor!

  Okay, I know it’s really lame to get excited about a text message, especially one that completely butchers the English language, but so far this text is the only good thing that’s happened today. I stare at my phone, blurring out everything else. I even start to smile. But then I catch sight of the empty space on the pottery shelf where Ina’s sculpture used to live, and everything I’ve blurred out snaps back into focus. I flip my phone open again and reread Blake’s text, wishing there was a way I could just fast-forward to tomorrow, and erase all of my snapshots from today.

  CHAPTER 13

  I should have worn a cardigan.

  I’ve tried on six different but basically the same sweaters and it’s only ten a.m. I pull off sweater number seven and start rifling through my short-sleeved shirts instead. Because what if it’s hot in the museum? I don’t want to walk around releasing knit-induced body odor as I point out art to Blake, who will be here in—unghhh—less than an hour.

  After battling myself to sleep last night, I missed my alarm this morning and woke up to Leroy using my body as his own personal kitty bed. My stomach’s been flipping all morning, but in this good way, like telling me that today is going to be one of those great days; maybe the kind where you end up officially having a date to a dance.

  I find a short-sleeved shirt that’s not totally wrinkled and throw it on. Then I hear music coming from Mom’s room down the hall. Is that … West Side Story? It’s confirmed as I round the corner to see Natalie Wood dance across Mom’s mini TV, wearing silly hats and singing about feeling pretty. From the bathroom I hear Mom singing along in her own unique key.

  … and I pityyyy any girl who isn’t mee toooday. La la la la la la la la la.

  Mom jumps, turning around quick when she catches me laughing at her in the mirror. “Hey sweetie, good morning. AMC is having a movie musical marathon today. Tommy was on earlier.”

  “Good, Mom.” I smile.

  “ … see that pretty girl in the mirror there—” She sings out again, gesturing to me with a hand full of lotion. Then she circles the tips of her fingers to her cheeks. She has three different kinds of moisturizers: one for sun damage and revitalizing, one for anti-aging and firming, and one moisturizer for … providing moisture, I guess.

  Mom fans her face with her hands to dry off her newly applied layer while dancing and now singing backup.

  “… who? who? who? who? meeee! such a pretty meee.” She sashays her hand across her body, accidentally painting her tunic with tinted moisturizer. “Shoot, shoot, shoot!” She sighs, looking down at the mess and then shakes her head and grins at me because I’m laughing at her. I follow her out of the bathroom and lean against the bedpost as she grabs another flowing blouse from her dresser. “You excited for today? Should be fun,” she says, quickly taking off her tunic and grabbing the replacement.

  “Yeah, I think so.” Then I stifle a gasp. I struggle to keep my face still through a brief but disturbing glimpse.

  Mom’s saying something about the most direct route to Detroit, and the freeway versus Orchard Lake Road. I nod, still seeing her empty bra, her curved, rising ribs, and the bumpy outline of her spine when she bent down to get her blouse.

  “Mom,” I start, but then don’t know quite how to say it.

  “What, sweetie?” she asks, leaning closer to her reflection, securing her earrings in place.

  “You look so thin. You’ve … lost weight, huh?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really … Do I look it?”

  “Yeah, you look … Mom, you look really thin.”

  “Oh stop, Izzy.” She gives me a quick closed-mouth smile as she shakes her head and walks to the closet. She returns slipping on a pair of high heels.

  “I know you’re not eating as much and …” I stop. The confession that I’ve read her web post weighs down my tongue.

  “No, I know. It’s this sinus infection—drainage, I think … going to my stomach, nauseating me. But just to be safe I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Madson, so—”

  “Oh, really?” I swallow my confession down. “You have a new appointment with Dr. Madson. Why?” I’m trying to sound casual, as if I don’t already know the secrets of LindaSky46.

  “He just wants to do some testing, routine stuff, just a checkup. And you know I’ve been feeling a little under the weather, with this cold, and I’ve been … just … having some trouble with nausea so— Oh is that him?” She rushes over to the window that overlooks our driveway, reacting to the sound of a car pulling up. “Nope, false alarm,” she declares, now craning her neck a
round like it’s a submarine periscope to get a full view of the driveway.

  I join her on Blake Watch at the window. Maybe me going to the DIA today and out to a party tonight isn’t such a great idea after all. How long has Mom had this appointment? You can’t just make a last-minute appointment with Dr. Madson. You have to schedule it pretty far in advance. And you don’t just go see him for checkups or colds either. I’m about to bring this up when Mom squeals, “He’s here! That’s him!” and we watch Blake pull into the driveway, his little sister, Jillian, in the passenger’s seat.

  Mom swiftly turns around, giving me a rapid once-over.

  “Where’s your cardigan? Are you bringing a cardigan? You need to wear a cardigan.” She’s inches away now, fussing with every single aspect of my appearance at once. It’s like she’s suddenly transformed into an aesthetic Swiss Army knife, with combs, and glosses, and sprays popping out of her body from all directions.

  “I’m taking a cardigan with me, don’t worry,” I say, escaping from her beauty tentacles and heading down the stairs.

  “No, no, put one on now. You can’t just walk around all day wearing a short-sleeved shirt,” she badgers, following me down the stairs. I grab my cardigan and my coat from the banister.

  “And that shirt’s wrinkled. Did you pull it off your floor? It looks terrible. This is an event. You really have to be aware of how you present yourself, sweetie.”

  “I’m aware,” I say under my breath as she once again tries to control every detail of my life and body while refusing to tell me anything about her own.

  “Well, you’re obviously not aware, Izzy. If you’re planning on going public with a—”

  “Mom! I’m not going public. I’m just—” And then the doorbell rings, and I stop. Deep breath. I open the door, telling myself that this afternoon I will focus on Blake, who’s standing in front of me right now in, oh thank God, just a T-shirt and jeans. And he looks great.

  • • •