The Opposite of Music

by Janet Ruth Young

  “It’s okay, Billy. All sounds are appropriate here. Now take a deep breath. Deep breath, in and out—mmmmmph-pheeww—nice and deep, from the abdomen. What’s been happening since I last saw you? Anyone?”

  “I think I’m about to lose my job,” Mom says.

  “And why do you think that?”

  “I’m not there enough.”

  “That must be very difficult.”

  “It is.”

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Fritz continues. Fritz clasps his arms over his woolly shirt and tries to get Dad’s attention. He does a funny thing with his eyes, making them gentler, yet more powerful, like a kindly hook that tugs the truth out of you.

  “How are you feeling, Bill?”

  “He doesn’t talk much anymore,” I say helpfully, having dried my face with a Kleenex.

  “Bill, are you having thoughts of harming yourself?”

  Dad stares at his hands. I realize that he hasn’t been shaving or trimming his beard. The different lengths of hair on his face make him appear rough, although he doesn’t act that way.

  Dad nods.

  “How often?”

  “Every day,” Dad rough-whispers.

  “Have you made a plan for killing yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bill!” Mom says. She reaches over and puts her hand on his arm.

  “It’s all right, Adele,” Fritz says. “Everything is going to be taken care of. Your husband is going to get the proper care now.” He writes something on a pad, then addresses us again. “I wish you had come in sooner,” he says. Then he softens his tone a bit. “I’m really glad, very glad, to see you today.” He says that in this hour he would like to speak with us individually, beginning with Dad.

  Mom and I go out to the waiting room while Dad stays in with Fritz. We don’t look at each other, but I sense Mom not wanting to let go of him, as if she could shoosh through the solid material of Fritz’s door and be in there. She jumps up immediately when Fritz calls her name. Dad paces around the waiting room, and I find myself rubbing my hands too. Then I go last.

  “Billy, tell me in your own words what’s been going on at home.”

  He waits while I say nothing.

  “For instance, describe what yesterday was like.”

  “Well, I came home from school…. And we watched a show about home remodeling on TV…. And I sat with Dad for a while. The voice inside Dad’s head was telling him…to harm himself. To do away with himself.”

  “And you spoke to the voice?”

  “Yes, to the voice.”

  “Not to your father?”

  “No. They’re two separate things, really. Two separate entities.”

  “Does this voice speak through your father? Can you hear it out loud?”

  “No, I figured it out by listening to him. It’s in his thoughts. It’s trying to take him over and control his thoughts. I can guess what he’s thinking.”

  “Like mind reading?”

  “Yes.” I’m pleased at how surprised he is.

  “You’re very close to your father, aren’t you?”

  “Right now I am.”

  “And you’ve worked very hard to take care of him during this time. Your mother has too.”

  I nodded.

  “But I have to be very clear and firm with you, Billy: You can’t ever know for sure what someone else is thinking.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No. You can get information from what they tell you, you can look at body language, you can develop hunches that you might later be able to confirm. But you can’t actually ever read someone’s mind.”

  He keeps watching me, staring in that strange way, holding me in his gaze, and though what he’s saying sounds like he’s judging me, his eyes are saying he’s seen everything before, everything. That noise starts again: Ah. Ah. And I think it’s outside me, in the room itself, before I can feel that it’s coming from me.

  We just sit there for a few minutes, me struggling to control myself, then finding I don’t have to, Fritz holding me with that gaze. After a while I stop looking all over the room and gaze back at him, like a staring contest but better. He says he will meet with my parents now to decide what’s to be done.

  “We’re all here,” he says when my parents come back. He smiles at Dad, writes very quickly, then smiles at Dad longer. “We need to start doing something for you, Bill, right away.”

  “Yes,” Mom says, “we realize that. We’d like to resume treatment immediately.”

  “In terms of treatment options that remain, the time we’ve lost means we’re now severely limited.”

  “I think that at this point…” Mom takes a deep breath. “Knowing what we know now, I would be much more amenable to putting Bill back on meds.”

  Dr. Fritz rests his elbows on Dad’s file. Then he rubs the bridge of his nose. “What I mean to say, Adele, is that we don’t have time to try another medication. We need something that acts more quickly. I have some calls in for you to look into electroconvulsive therapy.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mom says. “Let’s slow down here.”

  “What is it, Adele?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re considering shock treatments,” Mom says. “Please don’t tell me that.”

  “This may be a difficult decision, Adele. Do you want Billy to be present during this discussion?”

  “He can stay here for now.” This time Mom isn’t saying she wants me here to take notes. I heard her telling Marty that she just doesn’t want me to be alone.

  “Well, let’s not say ‘shock,’ Adele. It’s an ugly word, and it shocks the patients. This sort of treatment isn’t really what you’re picturing. It’s much gentler than it was years ago.”

  “Wait. Let’s go back as if the last few weeks never happened, and start where we were before. We’ll try another medication. Which one were you going to recommend next?” She feels on top of her head for her glasses, as if she’s going to be given another prescription slip to read.

  “Adele…”

  Dr. Fritz seems a bit tired of Mom, as if he wouldn’t mind never seeing her again. Has she become a medical obstacle? But he tries hard to hide it. “We’re running out of time here, so we may need to continue this discussion over the phone. Adele, I’m always pleased when my patients and their families take an interest in their own care. I know you’re all trying to be good consumers in trying to find what you think is best for Bill.

  “But when we’re dealing with a suicidal patient, time is extremely important. Your original psychiatrist, Dr. Gupta, doesn’t generally supervise electroconvulsive therapy herself, so we will need you to meet with a different psychiatrist. I’ll give you the name of someone with whom I occasionally cooperate. I’ve worked with him a few times over the years.” He opens a drawer at the left side of his desk, pulls out a business card, and hands it to Mom. Doing so gives him a chance to stand up. He remains on his feet and so, even though nothing has been resolved, we realize it’s time to stand up too. A massive tiredness hits me. I wouldn’t care if I wasted my life sleeping.

  Fritz walks us to the door. “Make an appointment with him right away—for no later than the day after tomorrow. I’ll phone him to let him know you’re coming. It isn’t a hundred percent sure that this will help, but if it does work, it could start to help very quickly. And this time you must follow the treatment plan. I’ll check in with you. And him. And you again.”

  Fritz chuckles. He sounds like the old Fritz. The Fritz who said, “Welcome!” to us and made us laugh by the door that day. That good day.

  LITTLE GREEN HOUSE

  Little green house, half an inch square. I’ve kept it in a tissue, in the toe of a sock, in my sock drawer. It’s hollow. It fits on the end of my pinkie like a cap. Ten houses could dance on the fingers of my hands like finger puppets in a hurricane, but I’ve only kept one. If I set it on my palm the two long lines in my skin swoop in to make a driveway.

  A molded p
lastic house made in a factory somewhere. It’s made of one piece, with the details pressed outward. The chimney is just a button. The front and back of the house are identical, with a door smack in the middle and a window on either side. The two other sides have no features, no windows or doors, just a sharp line that shows you where the roof ends. How simple. How nice. Someone made a plastic house. I cup the house in my two hands, cover it, and blow on it. My breath is warm and it warms the house.

  Oh, God of houses and lots. Oh, great monopolizer. Protect this house. Whoever and wherever You are. Whatever You have the power to do. However You are able to know all our names and our streets’ names. Whether You are watching from far away, like heaven, or from somewhere closer, like a low-flying helicopter. Don’t turn Your back on us, okay?

  People’s luck is always changing. You made us that way. But You meant the bad times to be brief, didn’t You? So why are our troubles hanging on?

  Don’t let our four walls collapse. Don’t let our floor drop into the center of the earth. Don’t let the air poison us. God of houses and lots, watch over this house.

  MACARONI AGAIN

  It’s almost the end of lunch when I sit down with my tray. Gordy is out sick, and I plan to eat alone to avoid unwanted peer contact. I took my time leaving class and visiting my locker and stopped twice, without really needing to, in the bathroom so the food line would be almost closing when I got my plate of mac and cheese. I found a table on the outskirts of the room where I could sit by myself. Actually, there is one other person at my table—a stooping guy with a stubbly jaw, in a white uniform and a cloth cap that resembles a dinner napkin. He’s the worker who sets up and removes the food in the steam tables, and he’s taking a short break.

  “How’s the macaroni?” he asks. Despite the hat, his professional interest gives him a kind of dignity.

  “Pretty creamy. You should find better tomatoes, though.”

  “You know how it is,” he says. “They go with the cheapest stuff they can find. Every place is like that.”

  I heard a rumor that this guy, Ray, has an alcohol problem. I wonder if he deliberately went looking for a job in an institution in which most of the people have never had their first drink. Maybe it makes him feel safe. Innocent, even. Like he’s one of us, just starting out in life.

  I wouldn’t go so far as to say that we’re two peas in a pod, but our sitting together seems right. Ray and I, Ray and me. Not really innocent, but two guys who’ve been batted around by life. The drunk tank, the shock treatments, the carnival jobs and the cafeterias, maybe one or two eviction notices, desertion, disappointment, we know it all cold, and what I don’t know I can imagine. Bits of a song enter my mind, a blues song, Ray’s blues, and I wish I knew him well enough to try it out loud.

  They don’t like what I’m dishin’

  No, not they. She.

  She don’t like what I’m dishin’

  She (something something) bad

  She only knows she’s missin’

  What she never should have had.

  Well, this is real life, baby,

  It’s what’s cookin’ everyplace,

  And if you don’t like what I’m servin’

  Find someone else to feed your face.

  I’m not sure that captures Ray, though. I don’t think he would turn mean like that at the end. If his wife or girlfriend were dissatisfied with him, he’d be more the type to just live with it, grateful for what he had.

  The first bell rings and the shuffling starts—just a few sneakers at first, then hundreds and hundreds of them, an orchestra of feet. Mitchell and Andy walk by in the crowd. Andy spots me and stops, but I shake my head, look down at my plate, and wave him along. For once he does the right thing: He keeps moving.

  WAITING

  Mom, Dad, and I sit in the waiting room of a highly recommended psychiatrist. Everything in the room is perfect, telling us we are lucky to be here even though we don’t want to be. Mom begins to chatter, pointing out that the walls are an intriguing gray or silver color, neither bright nor dull, but rich with layers. Each chair is like its own museum exhibit, with skyscraper lines and aggressively rough cloth, rough brown cloth for a poor monk to rest on, or maybe a rich person who thinks that too much comfort looks cheap.

  A metal cube in the middle of the room, like a coffee table for astronauts, holds magazines in neat stacks just out of reach. Mom takes the half step needed to pick up a copy of Architectural Digest. I don’t know what kind of impression she’ll make. She hasn’t washed her hair today. But we are only background. All our effort was put into the presentation of Dad.

  Dad is shaved and trimmed. Dad has lost seven more pounds and is wearing a pair of my pants because none of his fit. Dad is pacing the space-age room with his hands in his pockets because the doctor is five minutes late for our appointment.

  There’s no reception desk to welcome us. One door in the waiting room is the one we just came through—it leads to the elevator lobby. The other door is made of dark wood with a stainless-steel handle—thoughtfully, the long, handicapped-accessible type—and it has no markings. No sounds come from behind the door, but we sense that behind this door is where the doctor is hidden. Having paced for seven minutes, Dad tries the door.

  “No, not yet!” a voice calls sternly. We glimpse a bald head and a dark suit. Dad closes the door quickly, as if he’d walked in on someone in the toilet. He resumes pacing.

  We three glance at each other. I crush my arms over my chest and slide way down on the rough seat, pretending to sleep. Mom tosses her magazine back to the table. It lands on the floor, so she gets up and places it neatly on the top of the stack. Not a sound comes from behind the door.

  Another several minutes, and the door opens again. There’s the doctor—bald, black suit, one and a half heads shorter than Dad and me. His office is painted a shade of gray that Mom would call pewter, with shiny black furniture. The wall behind his desk displays some precisely spaced three-inch photographs in yard-high black frames. We’re inside now, so we quickly forget about the wait.

  Dr. Mieux has an electronic notepad in the center of his desk. He holds the stylus over a screen as thin as a sheet of waxed paper.

  “I’m seeing all of you?” he says, staring at me.

  “Billy’s helping me gather information,” Mom says. “He has a very good memory for doctor visits.”

  I hold a pen over my own notebook. I too can document.

  “I understand you’ve been feeling agitated, Bill,” the doctor begins. He looks down at the tip of the stylus, then up again. “Bill? Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

  “I don’t think you asked a—,” Mom points out.

  “Please! Mrs. Morrison! Allow the patient to speak for himself!”

  “My father doesn’t talk much,” I say.

  “He has to talk,” Dr. Mieux says, watching the screen, “or we won’t get anywhere.”

  Dad peers at Mom and begins rubbing his hands. “What do you need to know?”

  “How long have you been feeling this way?”

  Dad swallows hard. “About three to four months.”

  “And you’ve tried antidepressants? Which ones?”

  Sliding and thudding noises have started in the waiting room, and there’s a knock at the door.

  “Yes?” the doctor calls. He lays down his stylus. He glances at his watch and smiles for the first time.

  A man in a brown workman’s coverall and cap leans his hand, shoulder, and arm into the doorway. “We’ve got everything up,” he says, gesturing backward with a gloved thumb.

  “Superb!” the doctor says. He gestures at the three of us. “You’ll have to go back out to the waiting room for a bit. I’m taking delivery on a new set of furniture.”

  “Go back out?” Mom asks. “Now?”

  “It won’t take long,” the doctor says.

  We file back into the waiting room, where two immense packing crates now occupy most of the space. The mag
azine cube has been pushed into a small corner of the room, and the skyscraper chairs are squeezed around it at odd angles. We sit down in the available chairs, Dad facing the wall and Mom and I with our backs to him. Mom rests one foot on the cube, pushing a stack of magazines onto the floor.

  “Oops,” she says.

  A second workman helps the first slide the largest box into Dr. Mieux’s office.

  “This isn’t going to make it,” the first man says.

  “Why don’t you take the door off the hinges?” suggests Dr. Mieux.

  I exhale loudly, letting my head weave from side to side like a balloon running out of air. The second man kneels on the floor with a screwdriver. Dr. Mieux stands between us and the workmen, creating a visual barrier. He blinks at me to let me know I shouldn’t be watching. Mom’s foot starts bouncing on the table, while Dad continues to face the wall.

  The workmen are highly efficient. The first packing crate goes into the office. Ripping, thudding, and sliding sounds follow. The men pass through the waiting room with the crate again, but this time they’re walking backward. One of them presses the elevator button. The elevator dings. For a while the waiting room is quiet, except for the sound of drawers opening and closing in Mieux’s office.

  Soon the elevator dings again, and the two workmen enter, discussing a hockey game. One of them is carrying a bottle of soda. He takes a huge gulp that makes his Adam’s apple seem like it’s becoming dislodged. They squeeze through the office doorway with the second crate. This one appears much heavier. Then ripping, thudding, and sliding.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I ask Mom. “It’s so unprofessional.”

  “Be patient, honey,” she responds, waggling one foot.

  I get up to check Dad. He’s completely still, with his eyes closed.

  “That’s not right,” the doctor says. “Let me look at the bill of sale…. No, I see, it’s all right.”