A Blue So Dark

by Holly Schindler

  She shakes her head. "Call me tomorrow and let me know how everything's going," she says. But it sounds funny. Desperate, you know? Like a tiny voice in a well begging for help.

  "Okay," I say.

  "No-not just okay. This isn't over for me. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to turn my back on you and Grace, all right?"

  "Okay," I say again, but my voice is huskier because I mean it, this time. "Really, though-that nurse you paid for's coming over to check on us every day, and I'll see you at the studio on Saturday, so-"

  "No," Nell says, shaking her white hair forcefully. "You call me tomorrow. And every day after that. And if you don't, I'm going to be the one calling you. I'm not going anywhere. And don't you ever be afraid to tell me anything, you hear?"

  I have to stifle a laugh, because my mind turns into an old clip of the Jackson 5, little Michael belting out, "I'll Be There."

  "Deal," I say, and watch Nell pull away.

  I'm still standing in the driveway when Mom comes bursting out of the house and grabs me around my neck, hugging me so hard she practically lifts me right off the ground.

  "I saw the mural," she says. "It's really beautiful."

  But my heart's still limping away inside me, because I already know what's coming next.

  "You didn't have to put Nell in it," she says, looking at me sideways, kind of all-knowing, like a mother in an old-fashioned sitcom who's getting after her daughter for sneaking out the night before to go to the sock hop with the coolest cat on campus.

  "I kinda did, though," I tell her.

  "So I guess you're going to tell me you like her."

  "She's not half bad."

  Mom snorts and shakes her head.

  "She is trying, you know," I say. "You could try, too."

  "Yuck," Mom says. We stand there a minute before she says, "Quit looking at me like that. It's not like it's going to happen in the next ten minutes, all right?" But the way she wraps her arm around my shoulders as she leads me into the house makes me feel like it actually will.

  If a set of genes really does exist to predispose a person to becoming a schizo, it is possible that those same genes also rev a person's creativity, actually helping them to survive in the long run.

  he next day, I fill out a request for a change of schedule. I slip it into Fritz's box in the faculty office. Next semester, I will not be taking Keyboarding like I said I would last spring. God, Keyboarding, the world's biggest snoozer of a class, with the world's most ancient teacher, Mr. Brown, who is so old, I swear he doesn't breathe out air, but dust.

  I am taking Art I. Goodbye, Mr. Brown, Dust Breath. Accelerated arts and letters program, here I come.

  Part of me wants to skip all the way to the stairs. Another part wants to drag my feet. I don't know that this dread will ever completely heal.

  I pause outside the art room and peek in. Today, it smells like a cave-like shelter, protection. Grandpa Smurf has taped a sign to his door: One Week Till All School Exhibition At Art Museum! In the back of the room, a girl with a mop of green curls and a boy with no hair at all are acting like some giggly two-headed creature, tangling their fingers in a bowl of papier-mache paste-criminy, it's almost like some old scene from Ghost or something.

  But I just keep staring at them.

  I remember the skateboard I'd propped in my closet before Nell, in her cleaning frenzy, could shrug and toss it out. My fingers start to itch.

  ,A maintenance dosage is the lowest dosage at which the schizo is stable and can actually almost pass for a sane person.

  om's sweating when we roll to a stop outside of the art museum. But not in a sick way, not this time. She takes a deep breath and shakes her hands like she's trying to flick water off of them. "How bad was it?" she asks, her voice quivering a little with nerves.

  I shrug. "It wasn't that-"

  "Oh, no," Mom groans, putting her head in her hands. Because she's back to being able to read me. I can't lie to her. She knows just by looking at me how horribly she acted at the art museum the day she swore her student's drawing was actually on fire. And even though I feel rotten about not being able to conceal this, I love the fact that she's back. Love it so much, I grab her hand and squeeze.

  "Just tell the curator about the meds," I say. "And therapy, and the genogram-"

  "Sure. And simple as that," she says, snapping her fingers, "I've got my job back." She climbs out, and so do I, pulling a painted skateboard out with me. I'm glad she's too nervous about the interview to ask what I'm doing with it.

  "Good luck," I tell her.

  "Luck. Hah," she says, shaking her head.

  Mom disappears inside the museum, and I sit beneath the maple closest to the sidewalk. The longer I wait, the more my heart starts feeling like it's been saturated with liquid tenderizer. I don't even know if he'll come today.

  But he does. He flies down the sidewalk on another board, followed by his friend with the toucan nose. And when Jeremy sees me, he sends the friend away. Says something all ultra-cool, Catch up with you later, like it's no big deal.

  And maybe, I catch myself thinking, it's not. Maybe Jeremy's already broken up his Aura collection, all those tidbits he told me he'd saved when we were in Mom's drawing class together. Maybe he's trashed it, because come on, in a way, rose petals pressed between the pages of a book are romantic, but then again, it's just pieces of a dead plant, right? Isn't that what being sentimental boils down to? Hanging onto worthless crap?

  Just like on the day he'd given me the board in the first place, I feel as sturdy as a tower made of ice cream scoops. I'm melting, going clammy in my sneakers and under my arms. My palms are as sticky as Post-its.

  But I knew this would probably happen. So I pull my butterfly from the pocket of my coat. Okay, not a real butterfly, but a piece of orange construction paper folded into one-an origami copy. Open me is scrawled down the butterfly's body in thick block letters (a la Alice in Wonderland), not that Jeremy really needs the instruction, because my handwriting spills back and forth across the wings. Just looking at the butterfly, it's obvious that I'd written Jeremy a note before folding it. God, just like some awful girly-girl who spends every single one of her class periods writing messages to slip in her BFF's locker.

  I've poured everything out in this note-about Mom becoming the shell of herself, and that fire at the museum and why I shouted those awful things at him, and even, oh, God, Nell and my dad and Brandi and Carolyn and even-Jeez, is this too much? how Jeremy's kiss had made me feel so free in the midst of a life that was starting to shred to pieces. And maybe, I've written, if he still wants to, if I am not the biggest jerk on the planet, just a minor one, then maybe we could be like those geezers who find their high school crushes on the Internet after being apart for the better part of a century. Only we wouldn't have to wait years-we'd be lucky that way.

  Maybe, I've written, we could really be beautiful.

  I put the butterfly-shaped note, which has one of my deepest wishes tattooed across its wings, onto his skateboard. I've painted the board all funky and modern. Instead of a scene, though, I've created wild shapes and splashes of black and orange-the up-close pattern of a monarch wing-hoping that he won't hate it, spray paint over it the instant he takes it home. I pull out a dispenser of Scotch tape from my coat pocket and stick the butterfly down, so it won't go flying off. Before I can chicken out, I give the skateboard a gentle push.

  When Jeremy bends to pick up the butterfly, I disappear into the museum. I can't stand to be around when he reads it.

  Recovery from schizophrenia is an oxxynioron. You don't get over being schizo like you get over a cold. There's no cough syrup or topical cream or even a pill that can eliminate the schizo from your brain. But you and your caregivers can -work together to monitor your condition and even cone up with a plan of action should your symptoms cone roaring back, exploding in your family members 'faces like pipe bombs. Blain!

  aturday, and for the first time since that day at th
e art museum when Mom scrawled those oddball words on her blackboard (PEPPER, PET), it really does feel like a weekend. A real, live, breathing weekend, with pancakes for breakfast. And two midmorning classes at the art museum, because the curator has a definite sympathy bone for what she calls Mom's "artistic temperament." But to be safe, just two classes on Saturday. For now.

  I'm standing on a ladder, making cloud bursts with every breath as I try to untangle the white twinkle lights. I might not have any homework left to do, but these stupid lights pose a tougher problem than any geometry book could cook up. What sadistic s. o. b. thought these things up anyway, I wonder as I loosen a knot in the wire, but I'm really not annoyed at all.

  Actually, I'm cutting it pretty close, with Christmas looming like a giant wad of mistletoe just an inch above my head. Local news has been broadcasting from the mall for the past three days. From the looks of it, the line to see Santa stretches from Sears past the food court.

  I hope we get a tree, too-not a dead one, chainsawed for a week's worth of good times. But one of those small table-sized jobs, the kind in a pot, that you plant in the backyard after the holidays. Yeah, a small one would be nice-a few ribbons, some miniature glass snowflakes.

  Maybe Nell could even come over. Not for the whole day, but for a while.

  Next door, Scooter starts barking-that happy yip of a young dog wanting to play.

  "Hush," Mrs. Pilkington scolds as she makes a beeline for the shed out by the back fence. She pops the lid off the metal trash can and makes this guttural groan, like she's suddenly in intense pain, like someone's punched her in the gut.

  Her back door flaps open, and Joey emerges just in time to see his mom attack the trash can. But the can doesn't clang as glass bottles rattle around inside. When Mrs. Pilkington kicks the can across the yard, it's obviously empty. Hollow. No whiskey.

  "Come on, Mom," Joey says quietly. "I know how hard it is."

  Even though I expect her to, Mrs. Pilkington doesn't shake her head and say something parental, like Who do you think you are? I used to change your diapers. You don't tell me what to do. I'm your mother. She just lets Joey put his arm around her and lead her inside.

  As the trash can rolls to a stop, I turn my eye toward the burn pile in the center of my own backyard. An enormous sigh escapes my chest, like I'm some cloud-sized helium balloon that's just popped. Because even though Mrs. Pilkington really does have to get rid of the thing that she loves, the thing that she believes makes her function, I don't. Because Mom and I have replaced the canvases I torched. Because we bought all the sketchbooks and the charcoals and the watercolor paper I'll need next semester in Art I. And because I'm writing new poems, putting them together into a kind of mini chapbook, in a deal I've made with Kolaite for extra credit. (God knows, after all my class cutting, my grades need all the help they can get.)

  I don't have to give it up, any of it. Not the writing. Not the drawing. And neither does Mom. And that makes me feel like we've both been given some sort of second chance, you know? Some sort of begin again.

  I hear the muffled sound of our phone ringing from inside the house.

  "Aura!" Mom shouts, throwing open the back door. "It's for you."

  I climb down from the ladder, hope like a blowtorch in my gut.

  "It's Jeremy," she says, then tosses me that sideways sitcom-mom look. "Is this Jeremy-from-drawing-class Jeremy?"

  "You remember," I say.

  "Why would I forget?"

  I push past her and pick up the phone, trying desperately to play it cool, even though I really want to squeal like some awful girly-girl.

  "Hey, Jeremy," I say.

  "Yeah, listen, so about this autobiography you gave me the other day..." As Jeremy's voice tingles inside my ear, I wander over to the kitchen table. I sit in the same chair Mom used to flop into while I fixed her lunch, looking like an empty jean jacket.

  Above, the mermaids closest to the sliding glass door sway a little as Mom slams the door shut. But they are no longer cracked or dusty or lifeless. They all have fresh coats of paint. Broken fins have been repaired. New glitter twinkles across their scales like untouched snow. Because Mom and I are fixing the mermaids as we hang them back up, giving them all back their magical sparkle, one by one.

  om insists we take Janny and Ethan on our summer vacation-"To take the sting off Nell being there," she says, rolling her eyes at me. Sometimes the way she keeps resisting Nell gets a little tiresome-almost like she's doing it just to prove her point. But Nell refuses to get discouraged. The two of them are a little like bulldogs, each of them planting their feet and refusing to budge their strong, meaty bodies. At least they're not growling and baring their teeth.

  It's a strange brood to have on a road trip, you know. We have to stop at the A&P for diapers for Ethan and Aspercreme for Nell. And we all pester Mom about her meds in that way families can pinch each other without anybody really getting all that pissed off.

  As the Tempo swirls down gray ribbons of highway, closer and closer to the Florida state line, I start to wonder about the guy who carved all our mermaids. I wonder if he still has that souvenir shop, and is still, every single day, digging the same face out of driftwood, dropping every finished piece into the same galvanized tub, Mermaids $2. And I wonder if he ever got it right, the shine on those carvings. Wonder if he ever saw her again, his ocean mermaid, or if she disappeared for good.

  But we're not going back to his piece of Florida. We've moved on. So I guess I'll never really know about what became of him or his tiny little sculptures.

  When we cross the bridge at Jewfish Creek and finally arrive in Key Largo, the surroundings completely blow my mind. The breeze here sounds tinny, twangy, like calypso music. And it smells like a pina colada.

  "Go straight to the beach, Nell," I say.

  "No way," Janny argues, because, with all his squirming and diaper changes, Ethan's worn her as flat as a pencil that's just drafted an entire novel. "Let's go to the hotel. Please."

  "A hotel? When there's this?" I ask, pointing out the window. Palm leaves wave hello. Coconuts tumble. "It exists. White sands, blue water. Look, Janny. A real tropical paradise. We didn't get to see this when we were kids. And you want to go to some crummy hotel?"

  Janny sighs. "Fine," she mumbles, even though I can tell, from the way her eyes light up, that she's excited to be here, too. We've arrived in another world. The kind of place that proves fairy tale lands really do exist, after all.

  "Aura!" Nell shouts, because as soon as we hit the shoreline, I throw the passenger's side door open. "Wait till I stop the damn car."

  "What's wrong with you?" Janny snaps, and Mom starts getting after me, too-I've got three mothers shouting out a chorus of you'll get hurt, but I don't care. I'm out of the car and I'm running right up to the white frothy fringes.

  Only I don't stop there. I just keep going, ankle deep, knees soaked, my laughter pouring out and my arms flapping oddly, like I'm a seagull and this is where I was always meant to be.

  I immerse myself, open my eyes beneath the surface. The water's so clear, it really could be someone's swimming pool. A big, blue swimming pool full of tiger-striped fish. And the salt water in my eyes doesn't even sting, like I expected it to.

  On this vacation, I can't get enough of the water. I buy snorkeling gear and flippers, which I figure make me look a little ridiculous. But I can't help it-I just want to go deeper beneath the surface, farther, touching the sea plants and rocks, exploring. I want to time-freeze everything I see, like my eyes are the shutters of one of Nell's cameras. There's poetry down here. And about a hundred different watercolors waiting to be painted.

  When I finally do come up for air, my fingers aren't just pruned, but white and bloated on the tips-like every single one of them is covered in blisters. I pull my goggles off, laughing as I watch Janny in her floppy, to-the-knees white T-shirt cover-up, racing down the shore, screaming, "Ethan! Come back here!" But he just squeals that high-pitched littl
e boy giggle, because he's got Janny's fearlessness.

  Nell trails along behind them, snapping away with her camera. It's too bad she's using the old-fashioned Nikonnot a digital, but a camera with actual film-because I'd love to see what these pictures look like right this instant. They'll be amazing; I know they will. Nell's got such a knack for capturing people as they really are that I figure every time I see one of these photos, I'll be able to hear Ethan's high-pitched laughter all over again ... even if, by that point, Ethan's old enough to have a goatee.

  Nell lowers her camera and nods at a cluster of shirtless surfers. I glance at them, shrug a so what? But Nell winks and says, "Way out, kid." When I turn back, I realize, with shock waves traveling down my body like a hundred Slinkys racing down a flight of stairs, that the surfers are oogling me.

  I touch the necklace at the base of my throat-two entwined wooden circles on a steel cord that I've been wearing for months, refusing to take it off to sleep or shower. I've actually got a tan line around it-the retired skateboard cut by Jeremy's hands-on the skin just beneath my clavicle. As I run my fingers over the circles, tracing their outline, I don't care enough about the surfers' attention to really even be flattered. I just chastise myself for trying to shove my torpedo boobs into some too-small-for-me black bikini.

  Late in the afternoon, when the sun's reds begin to charge across the water, Mom and I grab our sketchbooks and beach chairs, carry them so far out, the ocean's all the way past our ankles. Mom's wearing her own soggy bikinia kind of retro-looking number-her black ponytail blowing across her face. God, she looks so young-Grace Ambrose, born April 3, 1970. And has there ever been anyone quite so alive?

  "Challenge," Mom tells me as she flips open her sketchbook, like she does every day at this time, when the light is perfect, the two of us battling for the best drawing. Just as I pick up one of my new pencils-a sapphire blue-I hear a snap behind my shoulder, and when I turn, I realize Nell's taken our picture. Before Mom can wave her off, Nell sticks her tongue out at her. Which actually makes Mom laugh-a little.