Quick Bright Things

by Christopher Cook

  When he comes back to you. Tell him I left earlier.

  Marion: He wanted proof you were his mother.

  Saski: This is a . . . family-only time.

  Saski exits. Faintly, the sound of Gerome shaking the pill bottle, as he did in scene two, can be heard — almost an echo of the original sound. Marion turns and notices Gerome is gone.

  Marion: Where — ?

  Michael: I had them. I gave them to him.

  Marion: You — ?

  Michael: His pills.

  Nick’s cell starts ringing from where Gerome left it on the floor.

  Marion: (calling off) Gerome?

  Michael picks it up and answers it.

  Michael: (to cell) Hi, Uncle Toby.

  Gerome enters.

  Yeah, Gerome’s here.

  Michael holds out the cell but keeps his distance.

  (to Gerome) It’s for you.

  Marion takes the cell from Michael and goes to hand it to Gerome. The empty pill bottle and cap drop from Gerome’s hands. He’s shaking his head furiously.

  Gerome: I need to —

  Michael: Did you take them all?

  Marion: No — Oh —

  (to cell) Toby, I need help — he’s —

  Gerome sticks his hand down his throat, trying to make himself vomit.

  Oh my god!

  Marion drops the phone and grabs Gerome but doesn’t know what to do. Nick enters running.

  Nick: It’s okay, you’re okay, shhh — what happened?

  Marion: No no no no no!

  Michael: Why would you take them all?

  Marion finds her voice.

  Marion: Get in the car! Get him in the car!

  Nick: He’s gonna be fine, you’re fine —

  Marion: No, we have to go —

  (calling off) Reid!

  Michael holds up the empty pill bottle.

  Michael: What if he takes them all?

  Nick realizes what his son has done.

  Nick: I’m so stupid, I’m so — you have to be fine, please be fine!

  Reid enters from the kitchen.

  Marion: Stay with Michael!

  Michael: Gerome!

  Reid holds his son. Marion and Nick support Gerome out. Nick’s cell begins to ring again from its place on the floor. Lights out.

  Scene Seven

  Reid is setting up a tent in the living room. It’s late the following afternoon. It looks like he hasn’t slept, and he’s got a small, fresh bandage on his nose. Nick, Gerome, and Marion enter. They haven’t slept either. Gerome is moving his fingers in a repetitive motion as before, but the quality is different now — the movement is softer. Nick is almost hysterical with exhaustion.

  Nick: What’s this?

  Reid: You two were supposed to camp.

  Marion gently inspects Reid’s nose.

  Nick: Toby’s flying out right now for Gerome. I’ll wait for the shop to fix his car and drive back tomorrow by myself.

  Reid: So have breakfast in it.

  Nick sits.

  Nick: It’s four in the afternoon.

  Reid: Serve it all day in this house.

  Nick: (re: Gerome) He can’t eat and I don’t want to.

  Reid: Gotta eat.

  Marion yawns.

  Marion: I’ll make eggs.

  Marion exits to the kitchen.

  Reid: (to Nick) How many —

  But Nick has fallen asleep sitting up. Reid covers him with a blanket. Gerome whispers to himself — just briefly — and Reid doesn’t hear him. Reid moves to exit.

  Gerome: Uncle Reid?

  Reid: Uh-huh?

  Gerome: They had to perform a gastric lavage.

  Reid: I heard. I usually call it getting your stomach pumped, but okay.

  Gerome: I passed out thinking about what you said —

  Reid: Take what I say with any authority and it will fuck you up.

  Gerome: But about being a shaman —

  Reid: Especially that.

  Gerome: The voices might be beautiful but —

  Reid: They aren’t! You are way smarter than me. Why the fuck would you listen?

  Gerome: I don’t want to be a shaman. And I don’t think I believe in the voices.

  Marion enters from the kitchen.

  Reid: Ha — fucking seventeen-year-old, huh? Stays up all night getting his belly emptied — he looks great. The rest of us look four hundred years old.

  Reid exits to the kitchen.

  Marion: (calling off) Michael, how many eggs?

  Michael enters in Gerome’s original jacket and tie. The tie is stuck back together with tape and wrapped around his forehead like a bandana.

  Michael: I wanna make ’em.

  Marion: Go help your father.

  Michael: (to Gerome) Hey.

  Gerome: Hi.

  Michael hugs Gerome.

  Michael: (re: tie) Can I keep this?

  Gerome nods. Reid enters with the empty wine bottles and beer cans. Marion takes them.

  Marion: It’s really not that bad. We were modest — don’t you think? . . . I’ll put them outside.

  Michael opens the front door for Marion and helps with the empties. They exit outside.

  Reid: Nicky!

  Nick jumps awake.

  Eggs! How many? . . . We’ll make you three — winners eat three.

  Reid exits.

  Gerome: Papa?

  Nick: Uh-huh?

  Gerome: Maybe they’re the crazy ones.

  Nick laughs, and his laugh goes on. Pause. Gerome closes his eyes and whispers to himself, but it has a kind quality, gentle and comforting.

  Nick: How are you feeling? Voices?

  Gerome: The usual chatter. But the volume’s low — really low. Papa, we don’t have to tell Dad I skipped pills.

  Nick: You trying to protect me? I called him when you were passed out. He knows. There’s a long-lasting medication that they can inject — it’ll go for a couple of weeks, then you go back for a top-up and — it’s ongoing maintenance. Best we can do right now. Dad’s gonna talk to you about it.

  Gerome: Is that what you want for me?

  Nick: It doesn’t matter what — yes. I want to keep you solid.

  Gerome: First you want me off the medication —

  Nick: I was wrong —

  Gerome: Yeah, but I wanted off the medication too —

  Nick: I know —

  Gerome: And now you want me to shoot it up?

  Nick: I don’t know what the answer is!

  Gerome: I don’t know either, but Dad’s right. You’re all or nothing.

  I think you want me to say no to the shots. I think you want me to say I’ll be stronger.

  Nick: If I could figure out how to bring you back from that darkness you have to visit, I would.

  But your body. We have to work with your body. And your mind . . . Focus on what’s possible . . . Gerome. I’m so exhausted.

  Gerome: Go back to sleep.

  Nick: No, no — please, listen. Dad’s also going to talk to you about, um — other arrangements for . . . group homes or supportive living —

  Gerome: Why?

  Nick: I can’t — I am obviously not capable of caring for you —

  Gerome: I don’t want you to. I don’t want Dad to either —

  Nick: Yeah, you’re gonna be an adult — you are an adult. You deserve independence — a group home is close. Cuz you still need someone. Other than me, by myself. I . . . did this.

  Gerome: But we were being defiant.

  Nick: Sweetie —

  Gerome: I’ll think about the shots. I’ll think about the group home. My choices. Right?

  Nick nods.

  I’ll still be defiant.

  Nick: You have to get that I fucked up. You have to understand that.

  Gerome: I can take the drug shots, but imagine it’s you bringing me back from the darkness, like we can be camping right now, beside the moon, in outer space. We go swimming, floating from star to star. We
come up for air — there is none, but we’re breathing. No oxygen required.

  Gerome gets in the tent and faces outward. His father gets in the tent beside him.

  We can be defiant like that. Together. It doesn’t always have to be real.

  Gerome has the card from Saski and he hands it to Nick.

  Look inside.

  Nick opens the card.

  Nick: What’s this?

  Nick takes out a photo and they hold it together.

  It’s your ultrasound. That’s you.

  Gerome: See the resemblance? It looks like I’m in the stars. Breathing outer space.

  Lights fade to a starscape spread across the darkness, slowly becoming an ultrasound, and eventually fade to black.

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank every single person who offered their artistry and support to Quick Bright Things:

  Del Surjik, thank you for your vision that embraced the stars, the laughter, and all of the possibilities in this play, including its final image. Johnna Wright, for your unwavering belief in a script that you plucked from a cold submission email.

  Christine Quintana and Laura McLean, thank you for believing in this play when it was only a ten-page infant and for tirelessly supporting its development into a fully grown script.

  To my mom, Kathleen MacLeod, for bringing home a computer so I could try writing a sci-fi novel at the age of thirteen.

  I’m honoured to write characters that speak to different mental health experiences. Thank you to all the folks at Playwrights Canada Press for championing this story.

  I am grateful to live and create on the traditional unceded territories of the xʷməθkwəy̓əm (Musqueam), Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish), and Səl̓ílwətaʔ/Selilwitulh (Tsleil-Waututh) nations, where I wrote this work.

  Christopher Cook is a queer theatre artist and therapist living, creating, and playing in Vancouver. His writing credits include The Better Parts of Mourning, Strip, Gerty — Live! In Concert!, and Quick Bright Things. As a therapist, he specializes in counselling members of the queer and trans communities. As a clinician–researcher, his research focuses on exploring the therapeutic significance of artmaking and creativity. Whether through therapy or theatre, his goal is to engage your head, heart, and body.