“To Chloe and Natalie,” Aunt Judy toasts.
“To us,” Nat whispers. “The two saddest fucks in North America.”
Therapy is taboo. All artists tend to struggle with their mental health, but it’s actually that streak of insanity that creates the brilliance. And as long as an artist can pump out creative nuggets of consciousness – drugs, alcohol, violence, depression, and even suicide are highly acceptable. But therapy?
I was sixteen when my parents discovered that my panic attacks were more than a bundle of nerves before the first performance of the school musical. It really came as a shock to us all . . . how can a performer, a happy musician with tons of confidence, be paralyzed with anxiety? Well, that’s what therapy’s for.
“Chloe, Dr. McKinstry is ready for you,” the nurse says. She’s new, but then again, I haven’t been in the office for five years.
“Okay,” I answer. I give Mom a shrug and leave her to wait patiently with my People magazine.
Dr. McKinstry’s office is exactly how I remember it – warm and masculine, nothing flashy or clichéd. He’s sitting behind his carved mahogany desk skimming through my old journal.
Stroking his beard he says, “Dang, Chloe, I was hoping you’d be famous by now. I’m dying to sell these notes to the tabloids.”
He’s a genius, really. Dr. McKinstry always knew exactly how to get inside my head, and although his sarcastic comments seem unprofessional, it totally works. “I see your beard is taking on a life of its own,” I tease.
He pats his fluffy brown beard and motions for me to sit. I pick the gold, velvet wingback chair – it’s always been my favorite. Dr. McKinstry taps his hands against the desk and smirks. “Wow, five years. How’s New York?”
“Wait, are we starting the session or is this just small talk?”
He stops drumming his hands and frowns. “Wait, I thought all my sessions were small talk?”
I relax as much as I can and cross my legs. “New York is amazing, there’s always something to do or explore.” I swallow hard and then clear my throat. “Life on the other hand has been a little shitty.”
“Any episodes?”
“Only recently.”
“Scale of one to ten,” he prompts.
“Um, well, compared to what?”
I think back to my first ten. It was 1995 and all the signs were there, but even I thought I was just a teenager struggling through puberty. There was this one week, one week that changed the course of my mental health. A week full of constant personal battles, from a theater audition that I bombed, a class presentation that I failed, and my first real love confessing that he was a homosexual. I could feel every eye on me, whispers taunting me, and I desperately wanted to disappear. But I couldn’t, I was a LeGrange girl – we don’t blend well.
So, being the pathetic loser I was, I convinced myself that if I slept with Jamie, he would fall in love with me. If I auditioned for a garage band, I would be relevant. If I flirted with my Social Studies teacher, I would ace the class.
I fucked it up.
The entire school found out about the awkward night Jamie and I spent fooling around in a trashy motel, and subsequently, Jamie’s sexuality. He was a hockey player and got the shit beat out of him for weeks. Jamie was called every derogatory name in the book and even left school for a month . . . just in time for a new rumor to take the spotlight.
Word got out that I slept with Mr. Collins. It was a total lie, but he was suspended from teaching until further investigation. The entire town perceived me as a slut, and my poor parents were so embarrassed. Mr. Collins eventually transferred to another school by choice, but people always enjoy a scandal.
So when I finally put Humpty back together and joined the garage band, it was time to redeem myself. We had our first gig at a house party and I was actually excited to perform, music was what made me feel whole. Our little band set up in the corner of a living room and rocked the shit out of that party! Things were going as planned.
Midway through our set, I spotted Jamie shoving a guy defensively against a wall, either for me or because of me. My throat closed, my eyes lost focus and I heard whispers, violently attacking me. I don’t remember anything after I collapsed onto the blue carpet, but I do remember waking up in the hospital. Several kids had called an ambulance, thinking I was having a drug overdose . . . but the actual panic attack happened the next morning in a hospital room. With Mom and Dad’s worried faces staring down at me and Jamie and Nat hiding frightened in the corner – I fell apart.
That was my ten.
“Chloe, let’s not make comparisons. How bad was your most recent episode?”
“I guess, if you count integers and add the fractions of other times . . . a 10.1,” I answer.
Dr. McKinstry jots in his notes and asks, “Was there a specific trigger?”
Even though Dr. McKinstry knows the most private accounts of my life, I can never seem to talk about relationships – including people in my sickness without them knowing seems like an excuse. “Not really a trigger, more of a – a downward spiral. Natalie lost someone. Zach was very special and she lost him.” My heart races at the thought of that wedding ring hiding in Molly’s Gucci purse.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Experiencing loss, even through the eyes of a loved one is a very difficult process.” Dr. McKinstry leans forward and cocks his head. “And what about you, Chloe – anyone special in your life?”
“No,” I say quickly.
Dr. McKinstry narrows his eyes, but then gives me his sarcastic smirk of compassion – that always works.
“There was a guy. I guess we were dating, I’m not sure.” I look down at my hands and pick at my stubby fingernails.
Laughing he says, “I thought you didn’t date.”
I look up defensively. “Yeah, but he’s different. He challenges me – and I suppose he grounds me.”
“Chloe, you’re speaking in the present. Do you still want to be with this person?”
I exhale and turn my head to the wall of photos – mostly beachfronts and exotic locations. “Yeah, I need him,” I manage.
“Then let’s talk about the trigger . . . how did you fail?”
I turn my attention back to Dr. McKinstry and shake my head. He shakes his head and smiles. With a tiny snort, I say, “You and your stupid theories.”
“It’s kinda my job, well that and getting to wear jackets with elbow patches.”
Let me think this through . . . that night at the bar, things were great. We were all having a fantastic time and Adam was incredibly horny . . . he was watching me so intently with his dark eyes and private smile – God, it felt amazing with him there. Singing to him, for him . . . oh shit.
With new clarity, I shout, “Jamie! I mean, the trigger’s not Jamie, but he’s the . . . what’s the right word?”
“Distraction,” he answers.
I’m suddenly embarrassed by this revelation, but Dr. McKinstry simply nods in agreement. I start rambling, hoping to explain what I mean without blaming Jamie. “Being on stage is like an alter-ego, ya know? But the real me, the anxiety-fueled freak, needs a focus. If that balance is removed or I’m distracted, I panic.”
“And then things slowly start to spiral out of control – if you don’t have something to regulate your emotions?”
“That’s an accurate assessment, Doc,” I tease. “But yeah, there’s the Chloe on stage and there’s the Chloe hiding in fear . . . I need something to be the middle.” I use my hands to emphasize where the middle is – my heart.
“Or someone,” he mumbles. “How long have you been off the medication?”
“I started weaning myself off after college . . . three years, maybe?” I fidget in my chair because I know where this is going.
Dr. McKinstry takes out a prescription pad from his top drawer and scribbles something down. He passes it across to me and I snicker at the smiley face inside the ‘o’ of my name.
“Don’t panic, but you suffer f
rom a mild case of panic disorder.” He laughs at his horrible joke. “Chloe, this is treatable! But it’s important to find a balance between your highs and lows. Medication shouldn’t be a permanent fixture, but for now, 25 mg of Mr. Zoloft is going to be the Regulator,” he says in a Schwarzenegger growl.
“Mr. Zoloft sounds super sexy.”
“He is, and super mellow.” Dr. McKinstry glances at his watch and smiles. “We have a few more minutes – so hey, have you seen Wicked on Broadway?”
And that’s how therapy works.
Christmas as a child is magical! Christmas as a teenager is mandatory. Christmas as a single, childless adult . . . is melancholy.
Considering what Nat has been through and my recent brush with insanity, it’s unfathomable that we were even able to function through the LeGrange Yuletide Festivities.
Liquor helps.
“Should I wear heels or boots?” Nat asks.
“There’s ten centimeters of snow on the ground,” I answer. I’m dressed in dark jeans and a cashmere sweater . . . Nat is wearing a wrap dress and black tights. One of us is going to be embarrassed.
Natalie puts her hands on her hips and frowns. “We’ll be in a lounge, why would I care about the snow?”
Point taken.
“Go with the boots,” I suggest.
I stare at my profile in the mirror and wonder exactly when I turned into my mother. All I need is a string of pearls and peach lipstick and I’m all set to play Mahjong at the local library.
Nat moves behind me and smiles at our reflection in the mirror. “So hey, I need to tell you something – did you take your meds?” She picks up the brush from the dresser and runs it through my hair, waiting for my answer.
“Yes, Nat. Ask again and I’ll cut your hair in your sleep.”
Laughing at my threat, she says, “Oh my god, like Single White Female? That bitch was crazy!”
“You were so scared after that movie. You made me sleep in your bed the entire weekend.”
“Are you kidding? That’s like the scariest thing ever . . . I kept imagining Piper showing up to school with her hair dyed to match ours!”
I take the brush from her hand and smile back at her reflection. She looks great . . . not happy exactly, but hopeful. “So what’s up, Nat?” I ask.
Natalie moves to the bed and pats the spot next to her. I reluctantly take a seat, thinking this is a conversation about the crappy As Seen on TV Christmas present I bought her from the drugstore.
She places my hand inside hers and lets out a deep breath. “A few months ago, I had coffee with Adam. Trust me, my reasons were valid. But I feel really bad for not telling you.” She pauses to access my reaction, but Mr. Zoloft regulates my responses to a nice, smooth whatever. “I was going to say something, but then I got a little distracted when the love of my life came home to me in a box.” Natalie laughs like a maniac, her coping skills obviously undependable. “Anywho, I asked him about that night at the bar and why he left . . . do you know what he said?”
“Jamie,” I answer. “But I’d rather not talk about Adam.”
“Wait, what? How’d you know?” She scrunches her nose in confusion. “Well, we’re gonna talk about Adam. And the fact that Jamie needs to stop fucking with your head. At first, I was really pissed – he’s always so smug and serious.” Natalie pauses and clears her throat. “But then, I thought about the bar and your little olive song. That stupid song, Chloe! I’ve had to watch the two of you do that crap for years, thinking I was jealous or something. Everything made sense – all the other times Jamie has controlled your feelings, manipulating you into loving him, but never reciprocating – it’s sick . . . and Adam saw past the sibling friendship.”
“Nat, I get it. Adam’s not into me, and Jamie’s not like a brother – he’ll always be my first,” I whisper.
Natalie closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Are you fucking kidding me? Chloe, I defended you, I thought Adam was a complete dick and I put him in his place. And oh my God, he’s so into you!” Natalie’s volume increases with each word, ending with a slap against my forehead.
“Ow,” I whine. “What was that for?”
“Because you’re a frustrating idiot. Where did your passion go – that fighting spirit? I mean fuck Chloe, at least you have someone to fight for . . .”
Silence.
Natalie closes her eyes for a second and then jumps up to put on her boots. Sadly she says, “C’mon. We should go or it’ll be 2004 before we know it.”
I slip on my ankle boots and rummage through my bedside table for some gum. There’s not much to say to Natalie and I’ve run out of encouraging sentiments. I cry almost every night – her constant sadness terrifying me. And now knowing that she worries about my happiness, it’s a fucking cycle that no amount of drugs can fix.
We quietly walk down the stairs to the living room to find my parents playing Scrabble and eating popcorn. Aunt Judy and Uncle Dave returned to Connecticut yesterday, and I guess my parents wanted a relaxing evening to themselves.
“Girls!” Mom shouts.
“Wow, now this is a party,” Nat teases.
Mom snorts and rolls her eyes at Dad. “Oh Natalie, we’re old – we’ll be in bed by eleven.”
Dad digs in his pocket for his keys and tosses them to Natalie. “You know the protocol,” he adds.
“Yes, Dad,” I answer.
“Have a great time at the party and Happy New Year!” Mom stands to kiss us and dad peeks at her remaining Scrabble tiles.
Natalie and I grab our coats and scarves and head to the garage. A party is the last place either of us want to be, but all of our friends will be there ringing in the New Year. And we’re the LeGrange girls . . . we bring the party.
Life is made up of uncertainty, and for most, embarking on a new year is a fresh start. But for someone like me, I need a constant – a purpose.
Almost
January 2004
IT’S ONLY BEEN three weeks since the horrific night when our seams unraveled, but Nat and I are settling back into the apartment as expected. New beginnings are being overshadowed by old fears, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find the courage to move on.
Aunt Judy and Mom did a great job sweeping the Worth Street crime scene, leaving no evidence of broken glass or unraveled threads. Natalie and I had to make a few other adjustments to the space, eliminating the painful reminders of the past. I moved the giant olive painting to the basement storage, and Natalie gathered up everything that is Zach and shoved it into the hall closet – including some wooden spoons.
One night when she was out, I organized all the letters and gifts into a storage tub, and then hid her star necklace in my jewelry box – praying that she’ll soon reach the final phase of acceptance.
My pain is a little more private, and could never compare to what Natalie has had to endure, but her actions lately have been hurtful and selfish. She’s been with four different guys since New Year’s Eve and she’s blown off work numerous times. I cover for her and make all the necessary phone calls, but Natalie simply looks at me with hatred. She even insulted me in front of her bed companion this morning . . . just ignore her, she’s a rock star. Her depression is fueled by anger which in turn, is vile and mean-spirited. And if I didn’t love her so much, I would fucking hate her right now.
Working has been my refuge. I have another gig scheduled for The Bridge, and Bleecker Street is proving to be a phenomenal place of employment. The store is crazy busy today and I have a meeting with Simon after lunch – he thinks I’m ready to procure guitars and instruments for film and television. Holy shit, it’s like a dream I didn’t even know I had swirling in my unrealistic fantasies. I could actually meet celebrities . . .
But first, I need to make a phone call.
I grab my cell and head to the tiny break room. My co-worker, Shamus, is sitting at the only table, aggressively cramming sushi between his pierced lips. I give him a smile, but he returns my polite ges
ture with a scowl – musicians are either fuck gods or ah, hell no . . . Shamus is the poster boy for the latter.
I hide in the storage closet next to the unisex bathroom and find a nice place to sit on a forgotten drum case. I kick the door closed with my boot and take out my phone. The service sucks in here, but my call seems to be going through . . .
He answers after the second ring. “Hola.”
“Hey, James,” I say.
“Chloe? I haven’t heard from you since 2003,” he jokes.
“I know. And I feel bad about that shit on New Year’s Eve. Nat was . . .”
“Speaking of the Natster, did she give you permission to call me?” Jamie asks.
“What the hell does that mean – listen, I need to talk to you.” I stare ahead at the mop and broom, wondering if those things have ever been used in this place.
“Easy doll face, you know what it means.”
This conversation is about to go from absurd to awkward. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
“Um, okay. Do you think I’m in love with you?”
“Of course you are, hold on – soy milk please – why are you asking?”
Not happy with his answer, I ask again. “I love you, yes, but am I in love with you?”
There’s a slight pause and then some muffled dialogue about lattes. Jamie exhales into the phone and I imagine his annoyed expression – he’s patronizing me. Like when he sighs and tilts his head at those ASPCA commercials or the deep gasp he represses while looking at really bad art.
“Jamie?” I press.
“You’re in love with me, Chloe. You always have been and you probably always will be. Maybe it’s the thrill of knowing you can’t have me, or maybe you want to change me, but whatever it is, it’s not mutual.”
No shit.
I’m pissed. My voice goes from polite to furious in one breath. “Goddamn it James, why did you let me? What kind of friend does that? Shit – I can’t even hold on to someone that’s perfect for me because I’m so fucking terrified he won’t love me back.”
“Chloe, I think we should take Nat’s advice and—”
The Album: Book One Page 25
