Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  I thought Samuel was in a sort of elevated mood related to bipolar disorder, but I had to be sure. So I found a list of mental disorders and swapped my girlfriend eye for a clinical eye. One by one, I checked them against Samuel’s symptoms. I narrowed my list to: clinical depression, anxiety disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and bipolar disorder.

  Clinical depression: this would have been the obvious answer, if not for Samuel’s recent agitation and impulsiveness. I clicked on a blog that caught my eye. Seven pages of comments popped up and I read through them, each convincing me that Samuel had, at some point, suffered from clinical depression—especially during college and our brief marriage.

  “I didn’t think anything of it at first, it was so gradual. I noticed that smiling felt wooden. It was harder to enjoy little stuff, like taking walks or going to a movie with my boyfriend.” ~psy22kris

  “After a while, the stress started. I worried all the time. I was uncomfortable in my own skin, like I’d mess up at any second. Everything—work, relationships—what was the point?” ~tacoLibre

  “My body was heavy. I was tired. It was an effort to get up and go to work. Then it was an effort to come home. Then it was even harder to go to the grocery store or even fix food for the kids. I was drowning, suffocating under it all. And the worst part was, no one seemed to really notice or care.” ~impossible_crumpets

  Samuel himself told me how his sadness would come and go. What if he hadn’t wanted to label the sadness? Naming it meant acknowledging it, and no one wants to admit they have a mental illness.

  I bookmarked the forum, then moved on to the next: anxiety disorder. Apparently sixty percent of people with anxiety disorders also suffer from depression, which kind of shocked me. Stress, nervous ticks, insomnia. And panic attacks—definitely what happened at the wedding. He even had them as a child, before he grew out of his fear of heights. Which led to my next search item:

  Post-traumatic stress disorder: well, young Samuel had certainly witnessed a traumatic event—his mother’s suicide. Even with therapy, the effects of something so shocking could endure for years and years. Flashbacks, nightmares, guilt, insomnia, depression. But PTSD also brought out a lot of anger, and Samuel was rarely angry.

  Finally I typed “bipolar disorder.” This one was tricky to pin down, because it manifested in so many different ways. I had a hard time understanding how a person could swing from the depths of depression to manic euphoria. Then there were mixed episodes—both depression and mania occurring at the same time. I’d always thought of this disorder as a spectrum with mania on one end and depression on the other. But one doctor described it like a two-pronged tuning fork—“neutral” is one end, “depression and mania” is the other.

  “I hated my job, the pressure of responsibility to so many people. Rather than disappoint them, I’d end up avoiding them or even running away. I was fired six times until I got on meds.” ~five19

  “When I was manic, I was a rockstar—I could seduce anyone. One time I walked into the bank and told the teller if she emptied my parents’ bank account, I’d buy her an iPhone. I really believed she’d do it.” ~purple_power

  “I get so addicted to the highs ’cause it’s like a drug without the drugs. I’ll hole up in my room for days and nights on end, writing music and books and poetry. Most of it’s nonsense, but there’s some really good stuff that comes out of it. But then a low hits, and I end up destroying half the writing because I despise everything I create.” ~sacrecoeur82

  Everything about bipolar disorder seemed to fit Samuel’s symptoms, except for manic episodes. From what I’d seen, he’d never had manic delusions where he was slinging around Saturn or spending insane amounts of money. Granted, he’d lost a good chunk of memory that night in New York, but was it drug-related or was it mania? Also, I hadn’t seen Samuel for seven years. For all I knew, he could’ve dangled from the Empire State Building a la King Kong, and Caro’s crack-shot PR team covered it up.

  Hypomania, though…It was a milder form of mania. I studied Samuel’s intense face, his hand enthusiastically scribbling in book after book—he was bolder today. Then there was the “horn-dog Samuel” of last night, which made me remember the story he’d told about the woman and the bar fight—his public intox charge.

  The last forum contributor recommended several books. My phone was on the last five percent of its battery, so an e-book was out. Grabbing a receipt from my purse, I jotted down the titles and authors. I was in a bookstore, after all. But if anyone caught me buying My Loved One is Manic Depressive after seeing the “romantic” photos of us together (and in this crowd, that was a given), Samuel would be outed, he’d be furious, and I’d go down in history as the worst publicist ever. If I had a puppet, though…My eyes sought out Caroline. She was in the break area behind the floor-to-ceiling The Last Other banner. Good. I waved to Justin.

  He moseyed over, hands jammed in his pockets. “Whaddya say, Kaye? Cawfee break?”

  I forced a smile on my face. “Can you possibly be more New York, Justin?”

  He grinned and smacked his gum. “Don’t knock The Big Apple, baby.”

  “I need a favor.” This was going to be awkward. “I have a friend who’s looking for several books. Of course Boulder doesn’t carry them, so she asked me to check while I was in LA.”

  “Did she look online?”

  “She’s doesn’t believe in electricity,” I lied.

  “Gotcha. Want me to dig them up while you’re babysitting?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He patted my cheek and snatched the paper from between my fingers. “You hippie tree-huggers, you’re so danged cute. Back in half an hour.” I watched as he skipped away on his mission, feeling a slight twinge for lying to him. Fifteen minutes later, he trotted back triumphantly, swinging a green plastic bag.

  “That was fast.”

  “I got two of the three—they don’t carry The Bipolar Disorder Survival Guide: What You and Your Family Need to Know,” he practically shouted, “but they can order it for you. Oh, and I picked up My Horizontal Life, but that one’s for me.”

  I didn’t know it was possible to actually feel blood drain from my face. But I was sure the light-headed, panicked sensation was every single capillary emptying into my stomach as Justin, clueless, held out that green plastic bag. I guess I wasn’t the worst publicist in history—Justin could take top honors. My eyes darted to Samuel. He was still grinning and sliding books back to his readers, thank heavens. But when my gaze landed behind him, I saw Caroline, her wide eyes locked on me. She’d heard. Blood drained ever deeper and my entire body began to shudder as awareness hit me: Caroline already knew. Of course she knew—she’d been his closest companion through all of this, hadn’t she? I felt Justin grasp my arm as my head began to spin.

  “Kaye, are you okay? You’re freaky pale.”

  “Cover for me,” I mumbled as I pushed my way past the signing table and throngs of people. Oh crap, I was going to puke. I flew down a book aisle toward the restroom. Given the crowds, I’d probably have to yank some poor person off a toilet. But before I could reach the swinging door, two strong arms wrapped around my shoulders and yanked me into a hard chest.

  “Kaye, what’s wrong?” Samuel hissed in my ear, panic twisting the low tones of his voice.

  “I swear on Tom’s bell-bottoms, if you don’t let me go, you’ll regret it,” I choked out. Inevitable bile rose in my throat and I tried to swallow it back. I struggled against Samuel’s arms, but he held firm.

  “Just tell me.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him, which was a horrible, horrible mistake.

  Well, I had warned him.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Samuel insisted as Justin maneuvered the Bentley along Hollywood Boulevard later that night after dinner at Mastro’s Steakhouse with the Water Sirens producers. “At least it wasn’t a fan this time.”

  “Samuel, I yacked all over you in the middle of a crowded bookstore.”

>   “Yeah, it was pretty hawt,” Justin chimed in. “I tried to get my ex-girlfriend to do that for me, but she was having none of it.”

  “Shut up, Justin,” Caroline and I both growled. We glanced at each other, then turned back to our respective windows. “I guess I’m oh-for-two at your book signings,” I lamented. I cringed as I recalled the near-nixie riot I’d incited at the Boulder bookstore when I’d inadvertently informed the crowd that Samuel had killed off their beloved heroine. Not my best moment.

  “Well, I apologize,” Samuel said for the twentieth time. “I shouldn’t have tackled you. But, Kaye, I really thought you were going to faint. I’ve never seen you turn so white. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I sighed. “At least no one got a photo of it. Although, there are plenty of shots with you signing books for drooling women in your undershirt.”

  “And there was that one chick who tried to feel his nipples. Thank goodness the security guard intervened.” Justin laughed. He was the only one who did laugh. Samuel returned to fidgeting with his cuff links, Caroline texted, and I was still caught up in a shocked stupor that even dinner with Hollywood big dogs hadn’t shaken loose.

  Mastro’s was just what I’d expected. Over rib eyes and lettuce wedges, two suits demanded more of Samuel’s time, wanting him to team with the cast—Indigo Kingsley included—in ten additional public appearances. I firmly reminded them if there were to be any future Water Sirens movies made, they’d need scripts. So unless they wanted their stellar cast of actors to ad-lib multi-million dollar sequels, Samuel’s first priority was writing. Caroline gaped at me (was that a grudging respect I saw flicker over her face?) Justin high-fived me under the table, and Samuel…Samuel was as charming as ever, bright smile and clever words dazzling the producers so much, they were one step from casting him in their next movie.

  Now, fifteen minutes later, he wouldn’t even speak.

  My phone vibrated with a new appointment from Caroline for Samuel’s calendar:

  Dr. Mili Gupta Thur., 10 a.m.

  I peered at her from behind my hair. She caught my eyes, then turned back to her phone and texted something else:

  He might argue a little, but it’s necessary.

  He’s seen her before.

  Curious, I Googled “Dr. Mili Gupta, LA.” Her office listing came up—a psychiatrist in Beverly Hills.

  All of a sudden, Samuel’s illness was very real.

  I caught up with Caroline outside her hotel room just before our conference call. “Why are you still helping him?” I asked, not bothering with small talk. “You ran him into the ground knowing full well he’d snap, and now you’re scheduling his psychiatric appointments? I don’t get it.”

  Cool eyes narrowed to slits. She tugged me into her suite and closed the door, then swiveled, her finger in my face. “Don’t you dare blame this on me. Despite whatever your jealous little brain has cooked up, Kaye, I do care about Sam. I’ve wasted seven years caring for him. When his own parents thought they could cure him with warm fuzzies and Ibarra, I was the one who bailed him out of jail, got him hospitalized, and convinced him to return to New York. I’ve sacrificed friends and lovers. I’ve read dozens of books just like the ones you had Justin buy. But none of it mattered in the end, because he didn’t care, did he? Bastard.” She crossed the room to the wet bar in the corner and took out several mini-bottles of liquor and two shot glasses. Topping off each, she handed one to me, then threw hers down the hatch.

  “You know, I swore off alcohol because he can’t drink it with the meds he takes—he’s never actually been an alcoholic. Just cocaine.” She gave a cynical snort and poured herself another shot. “But he would have become one if I hadn’t intervened. I kept telling myself that one day he’d come around and see how good I am for him. Seven years. Salud.”

  So he was on meds. Whisky sloshed between my fingers as I warily set the full shot glass on the coffee table. Caroline threw back another.

  “He appreciates what you’ve done for him,” I said quietly. “I appreciate it, too. I can’t imagine…”

  She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead and loosed a resigned sigh. “How long have you known about his disorder?” she asked.

  “Only since yesterday,” I hedged. I began to worry as she poured a third round. “Come on, we need to get to the conference call. If you toss back any more of those, you’ll be slurring into the receiver.”

  “I canceled it. There’s no way Samuel’s up for it mentally.” She tucked silky hair behind her ears. “And only yesterday? That’s a lie. I believe you’ve known a lot longer, but you were too much of a timid little backwoods doe to face the big bad problems of the real world.” I bristled, ready to spit out a denial. “Just shut up and think about it, Kaye.”

  So I thought…How long had I known Samuel was ill? It was true I’d witnessed some of Samuel’s symptoms before we married, like the sadness and the stress. But I ignored them—we both did. My arms wrapped around my middle, an oh-so-familiar defense mechanism. We ignored them because we had been scared little children. Scared of losing our fairy tales, scared to lose each other. Maybe I had known Samuel was ill for a lot longer than I was willing to admit.

  “How long have you known?” I fired back.

  Caroline paused, tracing the rim of her empty shot glass. At last, she pulled her wallet out of her purse and removed a laminated card. On it were several lines of poetry:

  Meaning of vacancy: The heart wants

  what it wants.

  Open me carefully.

  The binds are longing

  to be filled with your pages.

  “You’ve most likely never seen this,” she said. “Samuel wrote it. It’s not his best, but it spoke to me—the hopefulness. Most of his stuff from that time frame is much harsher. You should ask to see it sometime.”

  “It’s…powerful?”

  “My NYU professor thought so, too. Samuel asked if he could attend my poetry workshop to get a feel for the writing program. It was the first time he wanted to leave the brownstone since he joined Togsy and me in New York; he’d been so utterly miserable.” Her thin face softened. “Samuel wrote this during an in-class exercise in less than two minutes. That very night, over a bottle of cognac, the professor read through his other work. Samuel’s brilliance left him speechless. Within a week, NYU fast-tracked his admission and begged him to start that very semester before another program swooped in and stole him away. I may have mentioned to the department chair that Berkshire House was interested in his draft novel. I was a junior editor there, at the time.” She met my gaze with catlike eyes so there would be no mistaking her great influence, even at the beginning of their careers.

  “I know.”

  Caroline gestured to the card. “I’d always known he was a startlingly good writer. Unfortunately, brilliant minds are often ill minds. I keep this card as a reminder of why I dedicated my life to his writing, especially when he’s like this.”

  I handed the poem back to her. “Is he like this a lot?”

  “No. He’s very diligent. He only has episodes when he’s stressed or requires a medication adjustment, and I can count those incidents on one hand. They all involved you.”

  Anger clawed its way up my chest as I really listened to what Caroline said. My face burned. “But it’s stress from your insane schedule that’s made him like this! Why would you do that to him? That’s heartless—”

  “Heartless? For years, all that stood between him and a jail cell was my ‘insane schedule.’ Samuel wants his name on the top of the New York Times’ bestseller list and I can give it to him. It’s the only thing he’s let me give him.” Her voice cracked tellingly. “No, I’m not heartless.”

  Caroline looked down at her manicured nails, then pointedly at me. “If you had a chance to win back the man you love above anyone else, if it wasn’t too late, would you do it?”

  “If it was best for him, then yes,” I said, my brow furrowing. “
But what does that—”

  “Good,” she interrupted, and threw back another shot. “That poem. For the longest time, I thought Samuel was just waiting for the right woman to step in and fill his books with her pages. But the heart wants what it wants, right? He already had the woman. He just didn’t have her pages.” She pitched the empty bottle in the garbage and gestured toward the door. I guessed that was my cue to exit. But before I could leave, her arm shot out and blocked me.

  “I despised you for a long time, Kaye,” she said softly, “even though I knew there was another side to this story. I saw you as the cause of Samuel’s sadness, even before you divorced him. Even before you showed up at my door in New York, looking so lost and pathetic, I hated you.” She met my eyes, and there was that grudging respect again. “But I think, maybe, you could be exactly what he needs. And the odd thing is, I don’t hate you for it.”

  She sighed and lifted her shot glass in a toast. “Anyway, that’s that.”

  Several days passed and, slowly, acceptance that Samuel had a mental illness seeped into my bones. I walked the well-known halls of my childhood, unlocking doors and peeking into rooms I never knew existed until now. With each new room I explored, I understood so much more about Samuel’s actions. A too-thick wall here, a blocked-up fireplace there…I had no idea what this meant for us, except that everything was about to change.

  But as the shock of finding new rooms wore off, other emotions rose. Grief. Guilt. Fear. And so much anger. Anger at myself for my blindness. Anger toward the Cabrals for locking me outside when Samuel needed me. Anger toward Samuel, too. At times, I was so furious, I was this close to kicking in Samuel’s door and railing in his face: quit hiding things from me! Why did you and your family let me believe a pile of lies? Why are you still letting it tear us apart? Then I would breathe and mutter: open me carefully.