Maybe it’s our fault it’s getting worse.
Maybe it’s my fault.
I’m her worst enabler. I gave her the new glasses after she went years without them. I allow her to sit around all day and do nothing. I’m the one telling her that everything is okay, even though it’s not. Not even close. It’s always there, lurking and teasing. Not only affecting our day-to-day life, but also our future.
What if we want kids? Will they be born with it, too?
As I lay Pen down on her back, she fights against my grip. Trying to convince me that she can’t breathe, she hits and pulls on my clothes. Her hands shake, and her eyes tremble. Her mind’s betraying her body. It’s so sad I can cry.
“You’re having a panic attack,” I whisper into her ear, unsure if she’s even listening. “I won’t let you die. I will never let anything happen to you.”
It seems like hours before her breathing returns to normal. My skin burns from where she scratched and hit me. Her glasses are broken, and her face is swollen. A few shaky breaths and some leftover tears, Penelope apologizes.
“I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t do it.”
What do you say to something like that?
Sorry, but you were born this way? Your brain is messed up, and there is nothing you or I can do about it? Get used to it because this is your life, Penelope.
Our life.
I don’t fucking think so.
“Remember when you went through that phase?”
“What phase?” Risa blows smoke out of her mouth in O shapes.
I take the joint from her hands, puffing once, twice, three times before handing it back. “When you tried to quit smoking pot and left your hair one shade of blonde.”
“God, yes.” She rolls her eyes and laughs, putting her feet up on my lap. “Don’t mention that to anyone. I’m sticking it to the man with reefer and pink hair.”
Risa moves her pink bangs out of her eyes.
“Dillon is going to be home soon,” I warn, tickling the bottom of her feet.
“I know; he just called.” Risa smokes what is left of the weed and puts it out. “I have to head back to Castle Rain tonight. Kyle can only go so long without me.”
Dillon has Risa come up a few times a month to stay with me so I won’t have to be alone when he’s working. Sometimes she’ll rotate with my mom or even my dad. Dawn came up for a week a few months ago, but with Risa comes herb, and with herb come peace and laughs.
She’s utterly the same as I remember her being when we were kids—wise beyond her age, spiritual, and free. Stupid, non-essential tattoos scatter her body; her nose is pierced on both sides, and her fingers are littered in different sized and shaped colored rings. When Risa is here, she wears my sunglasses, claiming to feel “left out” because I wear them and she doesn’t.
My partner in crime sucks on lollipops all day, bounces around the house, and recycles everything. It’s impossible to feel bad when she is around. Doesn’t mean I don’t, but she makes it easier.
I smile, light-headed from the high. As I shake Risa’s foot, she looks over at me. “I can’t wait to marry your brother.”
“You guys should just do what Kyle and I did. Go to the courthouse. Let it be done.”
“No, I want to make a huge deal out of it.”
“You do?” Looking at me skeptically, Risa sits up and drinks an entire bottle of water.
“I do.”
“White dress and everything?”
“White dress and everything.”
“Your love is such a fairy tale, it’s sick.” She sits back, bringing my head to her lap.
“I am hardly a fairy tale,” I say.
“Oh, but you are.” Her fingers run through my long brown hair. “You’re such a sad girl, Pen. I wish you weren’t. There’s so much to be happy about.”
“I can’t help it, Risa.”
“I think you can, or you can try,” she says carefully. “When was the last time you were evaluated?”
“A couple of years ago, before Dillon and I moved into the house.”
Sometimes I feel like a child who is kept inside a bubble. Like Dillon’s radish, he keeps me wrapped up so tightly, afraid that I might get hurt. In the end, I still grow roots. My disease, my condition, and my stipulation keep me prisoner.
On the outside, I am normal—a twenty-four-year-old girl who’s engaged to the most beautiful person in the entire world. Most days I can go out and do normal things. Risa and I like to go jogging. It usually ends with her coughing on the side of the road, but we try. I attend classes at the community college, content with the fact that I may never have a real career.
Dillon’s given me the gift of indecisiveness; I never have to be sure of anything if I don’t feel like it. One day I can be a cook, the next I can be a photographer, a teacher, a painter, or a writer. He indulges in my indulging, supporting me every step of the way.
“Guess who?”
Risa giggles. Dillon laughs under his breath.
“Umm …” I play. “Is it … oh, I know… is it the cute guy who works at the hospital with my guy? What’s his name? Lance?”
Dillon removes his hand, cigarette hanging from the edge of his lips. “What? You think Lance is cute? Pierce me through the heart, why don’t ya?”
I sit up from Risa’s lap, feeling a little loopy from the pot. Dillon’s there to steady me, laughing while smoke seeps from his cig.
“Careful,” he whispers.
His eyes reflect so much adoration and devotion. I am the center of his world, his debilitating center.
Throwing my arms around his neck, Dillon laughs and falls back onto his butt. He warns me about cigarette burns, but I couldn’t care less. I would burn all the way through if it meant I could touch him like this for always.
“We don’t have to do this.”
Dillon, being a doctor, doesn’t mean he uses his knowledge to diagnose or cure me. Together, we have turned a blind eye to how severe my depression has become. I don’t think a reassessment will fix this. I won’t ever be rid of it. It’s my second forever. But I have to try to truly manage it.
“Dillon,” I say. “Just trust me.”
With reluctant eyes and hesitant kisses, he does.
For six hours, I go through the ropes. I speak about my routine and my actions. How often this happens to me, and do I have suicidal thoughts? Dillon finds it hard not to defend my helplessness. He’s easily angered and quick to block me from any type of grief. He doesn’t want these doctors asking me personal questions about my sexual activity or inability to be close to anyone else but our immediate family. He’s protective, but it’s time for him to step back.
I don’t like everything the doctors have to say. They call me dependent and clinical—words I have heard before, only this time they include bipolar and manic.
Dillon cries. He tries to hide his face, but I see him.
I don’t. I refuse to cry. Instead, I act.
“Help me fight this,” I say. “Tell me what to do.”
“Mood disorders are hard to treat.” One doctor hands Dillon a pamphlet on manic depression and bipolar affective disorder.
He goes on to describe rapid cycling and mixed episodes. His words about isolation, self-loathing, and sadness describe me perfectly.
It’s not easy hearing that I have a classified mental illness. I am unstable, and while there are worse cases than mine—cases where people cannot function or live properly—it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
Dillon takes my hand and winks, having wiped the tears from his eyes.
He is on my team: Team Penelope.
They want me admitted for further observation. Dillon refuses, and I don’t find it necessary. We thank them, take the pamphlets and a new understanding on my condition, and leave, but not before my meds are changed and also reevaluated.
With an array of anti-depressants and mood stabilizers, Dillon and I drive home in a comfortable silence. He reminds me
that everything is okay, that I’m not alone. He won’t ever leave me.
“No more caffeine,” Dillon repeats what the doctor said, rubbing my cheek as we sit at a red light.
“But I love it,” I whine, playing along.
When the light turns green, Dillon goes on and on about stress management and ridding the house of caffeine. We’re going to join a gym and get a dog, because dogs make people feel better.
“I’m going to be this way forever, Dillon,” I remind him, loving the idea of a puppy but not deterred from the fact of the matter.
“And I’m always going to be like this.” Dillon looks at me with crossed eyes and a stupid smile while speaking about toast in a French accent.
My laughter echoes throughout the cab of his car.
I take a breath, looking into Penelope’s eyes, holding onto her hands with sweaty palms and shifty fingers. All our family and friends are watching. My sister stands behind my girl with hair braided and dreaded, up and curled. A daisy decorates her ear. Penelope’s bouquet is in her hand.
Risa winks as Penelope and I say, “I do.”
She cries and wipes away her tears, always knowing that this is where we would end up.
In the front row sit my father and mother, Coach Finnel, and Mrs. Finnel. My parents look up with shiny eyes and proud smiles. The Coach’s normal “boy” look has transformed into subtle content.
Kyle taps on my shoulder, passing me her ring. He smiles, hugging me before stepping back into his place in front of Herb. Mathilda, who stands beside Risa, sniffs loudly. Everyone laughs, including Penelope.
My love’s lips are colored a deep ruby-red. The rest of her makeup is left simple. Her hair is curled loosely and pinned up on the left side with a barrette given to her by my mother. Her nails are painted red. A heart-shaped necklace, a present from her dad, surrounds her neck.
Penelope is godly and unfairly beautiful today. By tradition, I wasn’t supposed to see her until she walked down the aisle.
Fuck tradition. I snuck into her room before I even came outside.
I put the barrette in her hair and whispered against her flushed cheeks. I helped clasp the button on her dress and slipped her shoes onto her feet so she wouldn’t wrinkle her gown. Penelope ran her fingers through my hair, because she likes it better when it’s messy. She loosened my tie and smeared a little lipstick on my collar. I tried to talk her into running away together, skipping the ceremony and going straight into the honeymoon, but she declined.
“I want everyone to see how much I love you,” she said before Risa came running into the room with a pointed finger and a joint between her lips.
Now we’re here—me, slipping a ring onto her finger, and Penelope, sighing with completeness.
“We can run away now,” she whispers, looking between her ring finger and me.
“Not yet,” I whisper back, saying my vows and listening to hers.
The priest tells me to kiss my bride.
My bride.
I take her into my arms while the crowd whistles, claps, and cries, and I kiss her. Red lipstick smears, more hands in the hair, and a few cleared throats, but I kiss her relentlessly.
This is officially forever.
Penelope’s head leans back, her laughter causes my heart to swell.
I kiss her again.
At twilight, Risa gives a speech about rollerblades and hearts in the cement. She mentions broken souls and boarded up windows, but reminds us that we are stronger than our faults.
“You guys have what most people only dream of. You’ve been in love since you were kids, unconditional and irreversible.” She wipes her eyes, taking a gulp of her champagne. “Remember the first time we all smoked out—”
Dad takes the microphone from Risa and gives his own speech about proud parents and fulfilled expectations. His words about overcoming struggles and long-roads-defeated choke me up. Penelope smiles with glossy eyes, kissing my cheek.
Coach Finnel is the next to speak. His speech is in the form of grumbles and mumbles. “Boy, you better…” and “Boy, I always knew you were the one,” and “Boy, I’m not buying any more M&M’s.” Ending his speech with a failing voice and, “Dillon, I know you will take care of her, because you always have.”
Everyone watches while we share our first dance as a married couple.
I dip Penelope before continuing to sway in my parents’ backyard. “This is so cliché.”
The trees are decorated with twinkling lights, and white tables with candles and white linen tablecloths decorate the reception area.
Penelope laughs, laying her head against my chest. “Shut up. Give me my moment.”
Her hair smells like vanilla and almonds, bare feet on top of my shoes and ears over my beating heart.
We dance in tiny circles. Penelope’s dress brushes along the grass. We don’t talk. We only move and sigh, until a tap on my shoulder and permission to cut in is asked proudly from Coach Finnel.
I kiss Penelope on her forehead, then her cheek and the corner of her mouth before handing her over to her dad and taking my sister by her hand. My sister smells like weed and lilacs. She has the giggles and bloodshot eyes.
Risa and I spin in playful circles, laughing until we cry and hug until we can’t breathe.
“I know that I’m not the smartest person in the world, Dillon, and I didn’t do much with my life, but for what it is worth, I am entirely proud of you and Penelope.”
“Risa, shut up. You have done more for Penelope and me than you could know. If it wasn’t for you—” I drop my forehead onto my sister’s, trying to keep my composure. “I don’t know where we would be without you.”
She laughs. “Together. You were born to be together.”
Kyle is the next to tap on my shoulder, asking to cut in. He offers me a small smile and a pat on the back, but he only has eyes for Risa. The two of them just work, meshing and gravitating in a way that is so intimate I walk away with my hands inside my pockets, without a look back.
On the sidelines of the dance floor, I’m able to steal some time alone. I order a beer from the bar and hide in the tree line, leaning against the trees Penelope and I used to play in as kids.
The music is loud, voices echo, and laughter floats. The cold beer is relief on my warm lips. I loosen my tie and unbutton a few buttons of my shirt before untucking it from my pants and rolling up my sleeves.
I can see Penelope with the Holy Matrimony Nazi from here, dancing in circles song after song. Beside them are my parents, looking more in love than I have ever seen. Herb and Mathilda, who have been together longer than Penelope and me, whisper playfully before he spins her away from him.
But it’s Penelope whom my eyes always return to. Her father’s cheek lies on top of her head. His black and gray mustache moves as he gives her advice and words of love. Penelope cries, wiping her face clean. Her lips are stained red, but the lipstick has long been gone since I kissed it off during the ceremony, and green grass stains are on her train.
I give them one more song before I head back toward my wife.
“I’m ready when you are,” I whisper, taking her back from Wayne.
“We can’t leave yet. The wedding isn’t over.” Penelope kisses my cheek, allowing me to pull her away from the dance floor.
I spin her a couple of times; she fits perfectly under my arm. Before Penelope has a chance to figure out what I’m doing, we’re running away from our wedding and heading toward my Pontiac. She giggles and runs, holding her dress up. I’m right behind her, lifting the train so she doesn’t slip.
We run until the music is a distant noise and the car is in our sight.
Penelope laughs, dropping her dress and gasping for air. “You did this on purpose, hiding the car around the block.”
With lips at her ear, the other on the car door handle. “I can only share you for so long. I was beginning to lose my mind.”
Running around to the other side of the car, Penelope and I drive back to
Seattle with our cell phones off and the stereo blasting. I smoke a cigarette, and Penelope pulls at her dress. She releases her hair from the barrette and reaches back to loosen her corset.
Three hours later, we are running to our front door. Penelope has given up on holding her dress up and concentrates more on getting out of it as fast as possible.
Once we are through the front door, both she and I work on the string and lace until it falls to her feet and Penelope sighs with relief. She stands in the entryway in white panties and bra. I give her about ten seconds to catch her breath before I’m on her.
My hands are in her hair, her back is pressed against the wall, and her legs are wrapped around my waist.
“I love you,” I whisper against her lips.
Penelope’s head falls back and hits the wall with a thump. “I love you,” she whispers back, circling her hips.
Slowly making our way back to our bedroom, we are undressed and a tangled mess of limbs and heavy breaths in no time at all. Her smooth legs run up and down mine. Penelope’s back is arched, and her mouth is open. I press into her, slowly and fully.
With the sounds of her love in my ear, the memories of our past flood my mind.
The first time I saw her.
Same birthdates and peace signs on her cheek.
Rollerblades and feet pushing my bike.
I kiss along Penelope’s neck, her hands run up and down my back, and I dip into her.
Love consumes. Love conquers.
Penelope whispering with Risa on the couch. I only ignored her because I liked her so much.
Notes across the lawn.
Saving all my M&M’s in a box under my bed.
“Dillon,” Penelope moans, her chest pressed against my own.
“Shhh…” I kiss the corner of her mouth, diving into her.
Everything about our childhood flips through my mind, one thing after another.
Teaching Penelope how to use tampons and our first kiss. Hiking in the woods and holding hands.
She wanted to have sex and finding out she was depressed. Starting high school and a rainbow of sunglasses.
True Love Way Page 20
