“Come in, Caitlin,” he says, adopting what I’m sure he thinks is a teenager-friendly tone. I comply, shutting the door behind me with a wordless click.
“Have a seat.” He points across from him at a leather couch, and I try not to smirk. He actually has a couch.
I sit stiffly and place my bag next to me. I fold my hands neatly in my lap and look at him, expectant.
“So, Caitlin.” He smiles pleasantly. I don’t like it at all. “It’s nice to meet you.”
What is this, a dinner party? I stare at him, silent.
Dr. Shapiro shuffles some papers around on his desk. He’s a large man, considerably overweight, and with the door closed the office air feels thick and humid, like a microcosmic rainforest in the middle of the hospital. I watch a drop of perspiration trickle down his temple and look away, mildly repulsed.
“I’m sorry about your mother, Caitlin.”
I bristle. I hate that word, “sorry.” Why is he sorry? Did he give her the cancer? He doesn’t even know her. I consider walking out, but instead I exhale and shift in my seat.
“It’s Cat,” I say.
“Cat, then.” He scribbles something on the clipboard in front of him. “Can you tell me a bit about what brought you here today, Cat?”
“You mean you don’t know?” I frown. “Shouldn’t it all be in my file? I told it all to Dr. Kelley so she could arrange the referral.”
“I’d like to hear it in your words.” That phony, fake-pleasant smile again.
“My words?” I feel the surge of adrenaline that of late has come to mean I am about to imminently lose my shit. I furrow my eyebrows at Dr. Shapiro. He’s lucky there are no hockey sticks in his office.
“Please.” He picks up one of those squishy stress balls from his desk and hands it to me. “This might help.”
I don’t say anything, but I take the squeeze ball and feel an immediate and surprising release of tension as I grasp it tightly in my right palm.
“My mom is dying,” I say. My tone is matter-of-fact. “No one will come out and say it, but it’s true. Breast cancer spread to her brain. Treatment options are all different forms of torture and won’t cure her.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Seriously?” I stare at him. “You guys really ask that?”
“Sometimes it’s helpful to put your feelings into words.”
“Fine. How do I feel? I feel livid. Distraught. Devastated. Lonely. Broken.” I glare at his beard. Something about it disgusts me, like there could be tiny bugs nesting in there and I’d never know.
“Very descriptive words.” Dr. Shapiro is writing furiously.
“Well, I rocked the SAT,” I say snidely. I stretch out my legs so that they almost hit the battered maple coffee table that separates us. “I have a very broad vocabulary.”
“Yes,” agrees Dr. Shapiro. He flips a page. “I see here that you managed to achieve very high scores on the SATs, despite your mother having been in chemo at that time.”
I don’t reply. I examine my nails, which have little white lines on them. I wonder if these are a sign of some kind of nutritional deficiency. I can’t say I’ve been eating all that well. With Mom out of commission and Dad back on the Frito-Lay Diet, I’ve been mostly fending for myself. How long can one survive on grilled-cheese sandwiches and celery sticks?
“It also says here that you’re doing well in your classes, many of which are Advanced Placement.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“Not anymore.” I think back to my old life. I used to occasionally get involved backstage in school productions. Making costumes, helping with makeup, that sort of thing. I once built an enormous, man-eating plant out of papier-mâché and a pair of old green curtains for the sophomore production of Little Shop of Horrors. People talked about it for weeks afterwards. Now, I can’t imagine why I’d ever bother with anything so pointless.
Dr. Shapiro makes a noise. I can’t tell if it’s intended to be sympathetic or disapproving, or if he’s just clearing his throat.
“So you don’t do anything to relax?” He pushes his glasses back up his sweaty nose. His pores are huge.
“Sometimes I bake.” I feel impatient, and glance at the clock. Ten minutes have already passed. Shouldn’t he say something useful at this point? Why do you have to go to medical school to do this job?
“Do you?” He leans forward in his chair. “What do you bake?”
“I don’t know. Cookies. Cakes. Pies.” Last week, after we’d been to see the oncologist, I went down to the kitchen after my parents were asleep and baked two batches of brownies and a lemon meringue pie. I took them to school and dropped them off at the staff room. I knew neither of my parents would be eating them. I relay this story to Dr. Shapiro.
His head bobs up and down as he nods, his pen flicking back and forth across the page at a mile a minute. “So you tend to bake a lot of things at once.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess. It relaxes me.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why is it interesting?” I challenge him.
“Because it could be considered hypomanic behavior. As could excelling in your classes and acing the SATs during such a difficult time in your life.” He puts down the clipboard and looks directly at me.
“Hypo what?” I’m caught off guard. “Did you say manic?”
“Hypomanic,” he clarifies. “Not quite manic, but with signs of mild mania.”
I bristle. “What are you saying?”
“There’s something called Bipolar II disorder,” he explains. “It’s not quite bipolar. It’s much milder, but with symptoms of hypomania and depression.”
“Bipolar?” I jump out of my seat. “Are you kidding me?” I think of Tess’s Aunt Suzanne, who has bipolar disorder, or as it used to be called, manic depression. She once pulled Tess’s cousins out of school in the middle of the day and drove them across three states in a brand-new Porsche she’d bought that same day. They were almost at Disneyland when the authorities caught up to her.
“Calm down,” he says. “Sit.”
Shocked, I sit. “I really don’t think I’m bipolar,” I say quietly. I stare down at my lap, not sure whether to get upset or furious. I wish I’d never thrown that hockey stick. I know I’ve got some issues, but this guy has me at an eight on the crazy scale, and I figured I was hovering somewhere closer to four.
“You shouldn’t think of it in terms of labels,” he says. He pushes his glasses back up again, and I envision myself punching him squarely in the face, taking pleasure in the mental imagery of shattering glass and broken plastic. “You should think of it in terms of trying to get better.”
“I really didn’t know I was sick,” I say.
“Often a stressful life event, like a parent’s illness, can bring on a hypomanic episode,” he says. “I’m concerned that, once this passes, you’ll find yourself in a depressive episode.”
“I’m sorry, but I feel kind of depressed right now.” I shake my head, baffled. “My mom is going to die. I cry all night. If I was hypomanic or whatever, wouldn’t I feel better than this?”
He nods knowingly. “You’re probably shifting right now. Which is why it’s a good thing you’re here.”
“I’m here because I smashed up a hockey stick in gym class,” I point out. I’m starting to feel pretty seriously pissed off. “Where does that fit in?”
“Irritability and outbursts can be seen with Bipolar II,” he says authoritatively. He clicks and unclicks his pen. “I think we should try some medication.” He reaches for a prescription pad. “I think we should try Abilify.”
I will myself not to grimace at the peppy name. “Abilify?”
“Yes. I think it would really help you, Caitlin. Cat.” He riffles through my file and pauses. “Your famil
y doctor—Dr. Kelley—has you on sleeping pills. Do you need a refill?”
Finally, something useful. “Yes!” I say quickly. “Please.”
“Do you have trouble falling asleep, or staying asleep?”
“Both, I guess.” I figure adding that I often simply don’t sleep at all would be redundant.
“It’s possible the Abilify might help with that too, but I’ll refill this until we get a better hold on your situation. It’s common to have sleep problems during a time of crisis.”
He scribbles something on the pad and hands it to me. “Start it right away, and you’ll see me again next week.”
I stand up. I guess our appointment is done. I can’t say I feel any better now than when I arrived, though I suppose that may be the point of the drugs. I wonder what Dr. Google will have to say about Abilify.
“I’ll see you soon, Cat.” He opens the door for me, and I catch a faint whiff of salami on his breath. My stomach heaves; it takes almost nothing to set me off these days. I don’t say anything as I walk quickly past him and down the corridor, the rubber soles of my shoes squeaking against the freshly cleaned tiles.
Outside, it’s bright and ruthlessly sunny. I squint in the sunlight as I take a deep breath, making a valiant effort to relax, to compose myself. It’s too late. With a groan, I grasp the sides of a nearby trash can, and vomit.
Chapter 16
After
The sun has set, and the jungle air rings with the sounds of what I call the night crew: the insects that provide our bedtime lullaby. The songs, croaks, and hums are distinct from those of their daytime brethren, an entirely different soundtrack. I picture an assortment of ants, bees, and mosquitoes retiring for the day, turning things over to their night counterparts like human shift workers. In fact, the security crew in the camp works much the same way; the daytime watch hands their rifles to the night watch shortly after the sun goes down.
Rafael has a small campfire going, and we sit together, conversing in his mother tongue. I don’t know what to think. Sometimes it feels as if there are two Cats—the one who longs for love and companionship, who’s lonely and desperate for affection, and the other one, who’s desperate and desolate and pushes people away, almost determined to stagnate in her grief. Sometimes I enjoy Rafael’s excuses to touch me, and that he stares at me with longing brown eyes. In spite of everything I find myself responding. I seek him out in crowds. I brush my leg up against his when he sits down beside me. It feels reckless and wrong and right and exciting, all at the same time. Best of all, it makes me forget. When I am with Rafael, I don’t think of my mother. I live only in the present, able to drown out the last year in a rush of endorphins and the cacophony of jungle sounds.
My eyes water from the smoke, and I try to ignore the sting as I conjugate Spanish verbs.
I can tell Rafael is trying not to laugh at my appalling accent, and I stop, embarrassed.
“You’re laughing at me,” I pout, tossing my hair. I know I’m flirting, and it empowers me. I run my hands through my long hair.
“I’m not,” he protests. “I would never.” But then he starts to laugh, and so do I.
“Maybe we should take a pause,” he says.
“Break,” I correct him, happy to play the teacher for once.
“Right,” he agrees.
We’re both quiet for a moment, then Rafael turns to me, looking serious. “What do you think of this place? Of Calantes?”
I hesitate. I don’t know, really, what I think. How to sum up an entire country in a few words, especially one as complicated as this? “It’s beautiful,” I say carefully. “But obviously there are a lot of problems. Look at the village, the poverty…” My voice trails off. I’m not sure what he wants to hear. “I want to think I’m doing some good here, but I know it’s silly to think I can change anything in a few months.”
“Exactly,” he says, nodding, but it’s not clear what, precisely, he’s agreeing with. He puts his hand on mine. “I’m glad you see it. We need change.”
I wonder if he is still thinking about soldiers and weapons and fighting. If that is what change means to him. “Change?” I say carefully.
“Change,” he says fiercely. “It’s time for some real change.”
But before I can press further, Rafael freezes. He motions for me to be quiet and puts a firm hand on my arm.
“What’s wrong?” I ask fearfully, in English. “What is it?”
Rafael says nothing, but there is terror in his eyes. Before I can turn to follow his gaze, he reaches past me with both arms, grabbing at the ground. There’s a loud hissing sound, and I gasp at the sight of the snake writhing in his bare hands.
He clutches the furious beast near the head and the tail as it thrashes, a long, thin creature of shimmering orange, white, and black. It is at once both beautiful and horrifying.
I whimper and jump back, nearly tripping into the fire. I steady myself and watch, fascinated, as Rafael flings the angry snake deep into the bush. When he turns to face me, he is shaking.
“Coral snake,” he says abruptly. He sits back down, looking dazed. I stare at him and realize I’m shaking too. “Pretty. Venomous.”
“Thank God you saw it,” I say. I wonder what would have happened if I had been bitten. Would I have died? I know we don’t have any antivenom here—we don’t even have adequate mosquito repellant. Would there have been time to get to a hospital somewhere? Would they have even taken me?
“You’re shaking,” observes Rafael. He cautiously draws his arm around me and, despite myself, despite everything, I thrill at his touch. “Are you very afraid of snakes?”
An image of my mother recoiling from a boa constrictor at the zoo pops into my head. “Not really,” I say. My heart is still pounding. “I mean, I don’t like them, but I’m not phobic. Not like my mom. She is—was—completely freaked out by snakes.” Is. Was. The words hit me in the stomach like a lead-filled sock.
“Was?” The fire snaps and crackles as Rafael tosses in a long tree branch.
“She died. She had breast cancer.” I avoid looking at him. I don’t think I could stand the Cancer Face right now. I haven’t mentioned my mother to him before.
He’s silent for a moment, and then speaks up. “I had a cousin. Emilia. She was seven.” He pauses, breaking another branch in half.
“She had the most beautiful hair. She wore it in two long braids at either side of her head. I used to pull on them when she made me angry.” He smiles faintly at the memory. “She kept having fevers. Nosebleeds. Bruises in odd places.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “Leukemia,” I whisper. Cancer of the blood.
“Yes.” He nods. “The doctors said there was treatment. But the treatment was worse than the disease. When she died, she was nothing like Emilia. She was empty, and her braids had fallen out. Emilia had died long before.”
I think of my mother in her last days, bald and hollow-eyed, her arms and legs so skinny they looked wasted. I take Rafael’s hand.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
Rafael pulls me close to him and strokes my hair. He kisses the top of my head, a gesture I appreciate for its kindness, for its sense of giving without the expectation of return. I snuggle closer to him, my head against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat.
When he moves in to kiss me this time, I don’t fight him.
...
“I think there is something going on between Taylor and Eduardo.” Margo glances pointedly in their direction, where they’re engaged in an intimate-looking tête-à-tête. We’re both on a break from work, taking fifteen to cool off and hydrate. As outsiders here, we have that luxury. “I’ve seen them together like that a bunch of times recently.”
“You think?” I observe the pair, noting the way Taylor’s head snaps back in laughter when Eduardo whispers something. “Maybe you’re right.�
��
“I usually am,” says Margo. She smiles. “Of course, you might have noticed yourself if you hadn’t been so…preoccupied.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, even as I feel the color creeping into my cheeks.
Margo snorts. “Oh, please,” she says. “Everyone knows about you and Rafael.”
My face—my entire body—feels hot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Please.”
“I don’t know.” She’s right, of course; so what if people know? But part of me resents the intrusion, wants it kept private. I’m not sure how I feel, or what I’m doing. At the same time, I’m not sure I care. I left the logical, intellectual Cat behind in Ohio, shed her like one of the jungle snakes sheds its scaly skin. The new Cat—the bold stranger who runs off to South America instead of starting college—is happy to let Rafael kiss her and run his hands along her back. That Cat is falling hard and fast.
I reach for my canteen and take a swig of water. I wonder what Dr. Shapiro would think of my feelings for Rafael. Pure hypomania taken to its logical conclusion? Or something to do with my broken relationship with my father? Both, probably.
“I can’t believe you’re both hooking up with people while I’m off killing chickens,” Margo gripes. “Maybe Taylor’s right. It is like we’re at summer camp or something, the way everyone is carrying on.”
I take another look at Taylor and Eduardo, who appear considerably more serious now. Taylor’s forehead is creased with worry, as Eduardo speaks rapidly, his hands flying in every direction. I wonder if Margo is right, or whether something else is going on.
“You think we act like we’re at camp?” I toy with the lid on my canteen, screwing and unscrewing it. “You don’t think we’re helping?”
She gives me a look. “Come on. Who are you? Sari? You really think you can parachute in here for a few months and save the world?”
I frown. “No,” I say, struggling to find the right words. “But when I’m in the infirmary, I do sort of feel like I’m helping. And I—well, it helps me forget. You know?”
Undiscovered Country Page 15
