the opposite of music
Atheneum Books for Young Readers * An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division * 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 * This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. * Copyright © 2007 by Janet Ruth Young * All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. * First Edition * Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data * Young, Janet Ruth, 1957–* The opposite of music / Janet Ruth Young.—1st ed. * p. cm. * Summary: With his family, fifteen-year-old Billy struggles to help his father deal with a debilitating depression. ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-7498-7 * ISBN-10: 1-4169-7498-9 * [1. Depression, Mental—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction. 3. Fathers—Fiction.]I. Title. * PZ7.Y86528Opp 2007 * [Fic]—dc22 * 2005037122
Definition of “weltschmerz” used by permission. From Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate ® Dictionary, Eleventh Edition © 2005 by Merriam-Webster Inc. (www.Merriam-Webster.com).
“Desiderata” © 1927 by Max Ehrmann, all rights reserved; reprinted by permission of Bell & Son Publishing, LLC.
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” composed/written by Bobby McFerrin and published by ProbNoblem Music.
Excerpts from Robert W. Firestone, “The ‘Inner Voice’ and Suicide,” from Psychotherapy, Volume 23, Fall 1986, no. 3, pages 439–447, published by the American Psychological Association. Reprinted with permission.
Article reproduced with permission from “Depression: Electroconvulsive Therapy,” April 2005, http://familydoctor.org/058.xml. Copyright © 2005 American Academy of Family Physicians. All Rights Reserved.
“ECT and Brain Damage: Psychiatry’s Legacy” © Eugene T. Zimmer 1999. All rights reserved.
“Psychiatry’s Electroconvulsive Shock Treatment: A Crime Against Humanity” by Lawrence Stevens, reprinted from the website of the Antipsychiatry Coalition, www.antipsychiatry.org.
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To my parents, Mildred and George Young
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Lois Lowry and the PEN New England Children’s Book Discovery Committee for first seeing the potential of this book; to Jen Hirsch, formerly of Brookline Booksmith, and Lorraine Barry of the Reading Public Library, as well as Charline Lake, Janine O’Malley, Sandy Oxley, Lincoln Ross, Jan Voogd, and Diane Young, for their comments at various stages of the manuscript; and to my editors at Atheneum, Caitlyn Dlouhy and Susan Burke, for their superb guidance and warm support.
part one
HANDS ACROSS THE SEA
Resting one hand on the corner mailbox, I balance different ways on my bike. A stream of cars goes by before I see the school bus.
Our town has changed in the last five years. Some of the new kids from other places think they’re too upscale for Hawthorne. When I tell Mom this, she thinks I’m misinterpreting the signals. She says I should be attuned to regional differences, that in other parts of the country people have different ways of approaching one another and making new friends. She says I should think of myself as an anthropologist, studying various subcultures of the United States and never forming a value judgment that says my way is better. But I think that if someone sits next to you in class for three weeks and never says anything, the message isn’t regional boundaries. The message is they don’t want to know you.
Gordy is the big exception. When I wave to the bus driver, Gordy hops down the steps with his jacket over his shoulder, his backpack and music case in the other hand. I don’t have much planned. We’re going to practice for a vocabulary test, but that won’t take long.
“So that’s your bike,” he says.
“Want to ride it? I could carry your stuff.”
“No, thanks.”
I like to watch and evaluate the new people who come into town. I’ve been watching Gordy. In my eyes he is royalty. He is always in his element. He absorbs goings-on without alarm. His hair is always exactly the same length, as if he gets it cut every Tuesday and Thursday. I like to look for people to admire. Otherwise, how will you know who to become?
While Gordy is outstanding in the good sense of the word, I sometimes wonder whether I stand out in the bad sense. My arms and legs seem to grow longer every week, and I am starting to suspect that I may bob up and down excessively when I walk. I say this because a few days ago there was an incident in which I was passing a group of new kids on my way to class and without saying anything they all started bobbing, as if on a prearranged signal. And some of the kids have started calling me Bob.
I wonder what Gordy will think of the house. Our front door is bright orange, with a brass door knocker in the shape of a salamander. On the door we have an artist’s palette dotted with hard, shiny puddles of tint, which my sister Linda made from wood scraps. She also painted our name and house number—Morrison 32—in medieval letters on a white rock at the foot of the driveway. Members of my family try hard to be distinctive.
Dad’s Neon is in the driveway. The palette clatters when I open the door.
“Hey, Dad?” I call. “What are you doing home?” Mom is still out. It’s two-thirty and she usually doesn’t get home from work until four.
But Dad doesn’t come to the door as he normally would if I brought someone home. We hear his footsteps at the far end of the house.
“Dad,” I say again. Then I see him go by, looking straight ahead, like he needs something from the other end of the house. He’s rubbing his hands and whistling between his lower teeth.
“Hi, Mr. Morrison,” Gordy says. Dad sees us but doesn’t acknowledge us in any way. Gordy and I have stopped within two feet of the door. Something tells me not to go farther. Lately Dad has seemed worried. But he looks even worse than when we left him this morning. I realize, without entirely knowing what it means, that he probably never left for work.
“Dad, I’m home. Gordy’s here.”
Dad passes by again. The whistling is not like he’s enjoying whistling but like he has to whistle. I don’t detect a tune.
“I’m sorry, Gord, I guess my father isn’t—”
Gordy steps into the living room, into the square of white couches and chairs Mom calls the conversation area. “Mr. Morrison, did you lose something?”
Dad doesn’t acknowledge him.
“I can help you look. You know,” Gordy continues, “sometimes when you lose something, you keep looking in the same places over and over again, and a stranger can be the best person to help you find it.”
“I’ll—” I move past Gordy into the hall to see if I can intercept Dad. Dad is known for riddles and charades. It looks like he’s pantomiming “chase,” “mechanical,” or “shooting gallery.”
“Dad,” I plead, “stop! Talk for a few minutes. Gord, I don’t think my father feels like talking. Maybe we should turn around and…”
But just as I suggest going, Gordy stops watching Dad and turns to me. Gordy, so superb in ways both like and unlike me, youngest co-captain ever of the All-State Band. Who has performed twice on the White House lawn, and who I hoped to make into a friend.
“Is that Sousa he’s whistling?” Gordy asks. “‘Hands Across the Sea’?”
I had expected both Dad and Mom, when they got home from work, to greet Gordy the way they greet my friend Mitchell. Dad usually has a joke, a riddle, a quote of the day, or a piece of music that he wants Mitchell to hear. Of course, my parents have known Mitchell for fifteen years, and they don’t know Gordy at all, so it wouldn’t be the same. And
they might sense how exceptional Gordy is (champion French horn player, youngest co-captain ever of the All-State Band, two-time performer on the White House lawn), and that could make them, especially Mom, eager to impress.
But walking away?
At breakfast this morning, whenever Mom spoke to Dad, it took him a few seconds to answer. It seemed his mind was chasing something. And now it seems his body is following his mind. Whatever his mind was chasing was so important that he stayed home from work and chased it all day.
“Sorry, Gord,” I say. “I guess my father is a little…”
Gordy nods before I even say the word “preoccupied.”
“I guess we should just be alone right now.”
I hand him his coat and backpack. “See you tomorrow?”
“Sorry if I’ve upset anyone. I didn’t mean to.” Paralyzed by politeness, he doesn’t want to leave without saying—even shouting—good-bye to Dad.
I close the door behind Gordy. Sandbagged by embarrassment. Could someone have prepared me for this? Like Mom? Sometimes she goes on about a topic until you could strangle yourself. Other times she says nothing when it could be important.
Or does she even know? I sit in the chair nearest the door and wonder what in the world I’m going to say to Dad.
DO NO HARM
A few days later Mom calls Dad’s office to negotiate some sick time. Then she schedules a physical exam for Dad.
“I hope this guy knows what he’s doing,” she says.
Mom has hated doctors ever since what happened to her mother, Grandma Pearl. Grandma thought she had the flu. Her face turned the color of driftwood. Cancer was spreading under the whimsical picture sweaters Grandma always wore.
Mom wanted to bring Grandma Pearl to our house. There Mom could set up a hospital bed in the living room, stroke Grandma’s hand, spoon-feed her fruit cocktail, and play easy-listening jazz at low volume. But the doctors kept devising new treatments.
I visited the hospital as often as I could. Zonked on painkillers, she still knew who I was. I read aloud from her collection of back issues of Ladies’ Home Journal. “Here are the Fourth of July centerpieces, Grandma. Which one do you like the best?” She said that she saw Grandpa Eddie on the ceiling, repairing a carburetor in the nude. “Tell him to put some clothes on, Billy,” she said. “He’s going to injure himself.” The other woman who shared her room coughed so hard I thought she would turn herself inside out like a rubber glove.
A few weeks after the funeral there was a parents’ meeting at my school. Sympathetic adults gathered around Mom. Some had also lost their mothers or fathers to cancer. They agreed with Mom about never knowing whether medical treatments were the right decision. Then one woman said to Mom, “Do you know why they put nails in coffins?” When Mom said no, the woman answered, “To keep the oncologists out,” and went to get more coffee.
“I’d like to punch that Mrs. Rojas,” Mom said in the car on the way home.
Although few people speak about it, the end of life, as I learned in Grandma Pearl’s hospital room, is as definite and concrete as the beginning. It is as real an experience as your first day of preschool, for instance. What is the point of living all that time to come to such a wretched end? A science teacher might say that the whole point of Grandma’s life was to reproduce, and after that was done, nothing really mattered. But that hospital room remade my grandmother for me against my wishes. For a long time it was impossible to think of her in her own home, doing a mundane, painless thing. Then months later she came back to me, running water over a package of frozen strawberries.
TREATMENT REPORT: DAY 1
Dad’s regular doctor said he has to make an appointment with a psychiatrist. Apparently the psychiatrist will perform the necessary repairs on Dad and he will be normal again.
Although Dad has been worrying, pacing, and not eating, nothing showed up in his physical but weight loss and what you would expect from not getting much sleep. So apparently there is some problem with his head. Or mind. Whatever you would call it.
Mom and Dad had an argument about this. “I don’t need a headshrinker,” Dad said, “I just need some rest!” But the doctor said he has to go.
Mom will take the morning off to drive Dad to the psychiatrist because he’s too sleep deprived to get behind the wheel.
CRAZY PEOPLE
We don’t know many people who’ve been to psychiatrists, and when they did it didn’t turn out well.
UNCLE JACK
Grandpa Eddie’s brother Jack came home nutty from World War II and had to go right into a veterans’ hospital, where he stayed until his death, never getting married or having a family. During the war a lot of people visited him, but afterward he was all but forgotten. The only people who continued to visit were Grandpa Eddie and Grandma Pearl, and they said it made them very uncomfortable. “Jack didn’t look well,” Grandma would reminisce. “God knows what they were doing to that poor boy.”
EDIE SARNOFF
My father’s brother Marty, before he got married, was dating a woman who went to a psychiatrist. Edie was on medication for extreme mood changes. Sometimes she felt so down that she didn’t answer the phone when Marty wanted to check on her, and he would go and bang on her door or throw rocks at the window to get her to let him in. Another time she cleaned out her bank account and dragged Marty on a white-water expedition in the Grand Canyon. There she threw herself off the raft and tried to swim, and Marty and the guide pulled her back in. That night she proposed to Marty at the edge of the canyon. (She had already bought diamond rings for both of them.) The one time she came over for dinner she talked so much no one else could say anything. Marty stopped seeing her when he met Aunt Stephanie. Mom and Dad both felt that Edie was a knockout but more trouble than she was worth.
OTHERS
You hear around school that someone is seeing a psychiatrist or on medication. This often occurs at the time of a mysterious absence. Sometimes people behave differently when they get back. Mostly it’s been new kids. They never confide in me.
WHAT’S WRONG WITH DAD?
Two nights after the psychiatrist visit, Mom has finished all her work business, and Dad is trying to nap. I’m at my desk staring at my homework. The house is too quiet. Dad used to blast arias all the time, but now no music is allowed because it irritates Dad’s mind. Mom comes to my room.
“Make some space. We need to talk.”
I move my bike so Mom and Linda can step inside. Mom sits on my bed. Linda sits in my beanbag chair. I’m in an old office chair, although with the three of us here, it’s too crowded for me to spin.
I’d have more space if I moved my bike to the shed, but the shed is leaky and the bike will rust. Instead, I carry the bike morning and night across the off-white carpet in the living room. I can’t roll it because it would make tracks. These are the constraints under which I live.
“Don’t you look nice, Linda,” Mom says.
“Do I?” Linda responds. Linda is almost thirteen. Mom chastised her once for leaving the house in an outfit that was too tight. Now Linda wears the most voluminous things she can find, just to guilt Mom into taking it back. She would go to school looking like a member of a religious farming sect rather than make things easy for Mom. “It’s a matter of principle,” she says. She and her friend Jodie find old clothes in the attic crawlspace. Today’s look is a ponytail on top of her head and a mechanic’s coverall of Grandpa’s that says “Eddie” on the pocket. Mom never lets Linda know how annoying this is. They’re alike in that way.
Mom is assistant director of our local museum, which is all about the leather industry. There’s more to leather history than you would think, she tells people. Often these are people who, she says, are trying to decide her social status. So: Indian techniques for tanning leather. The astonishing range of animal hides used to make leather. The barter value of leather in the colonial period. Mom beats people with this information until they soften up from boredom.
&nbs
p; But knowledge is not the whole job. She keeps up the collections and the bookshop. Manages the paid staff and the volunteer docents. Oversees maintenance of “the physical plant.” The trickiest part is managing her boss, Pudge. He likes to phone after dinner about museum business while Mom contorts her face into a mask of agony. “Was that the mercurial Pudge?” Dad will usually ask when Mom hangs up the phone. “Was that the irascible Pudge?”
Mom not only works in a museum, she kind of is a museum. She has stick-straight black hair and wears red lipstick. She wears bizarre necklaces, each of which has a story. This one she bought in Mexico when she lived there for a year in college. This one was designed for her by an artist who photographed her wearing it. She stands taller than most men. She is like a museum because she never wants to be forgotten.
“We have a diagnosis,” Mom says. “According to the psychiatrist, Dr. Gupta, your father is depressed. Everything he’s experiencing—insomnia, anxiety, loss of appetite, tiredness—supports this diagnosis.”
Linda wraps her arms around her middle, clutching the extra cloth of Grandpa’s overalls.
“I’m not surprised,” Mom continues. “Something kept telling me depression, but I refused to accept it. I accept it now. Your father is depressed.”
Linda snuffles and pushes her knuckles into her mouth.
“What’s wrong, Linda?”
“I know what happens to people who are depressed. They kill themselves!”
“Now where did you get that from?” Mom asks. She reaches down and clasps Linda’s ankle.
“We saw a video about it at school. They kill themselves. Sometimes alone, and sometimes in groups, in a suicide pact. One kid even shot himself right in the cafeteria during lunch period!”
The Opposite of Music Page 1
