Mad Max: Unintended Consequences

by Ashton, Betsy

  I eased Emilie's door open. She was curled in a ball, her oldest teddy bear clutched in her arms. Why was the room so much brighter than usual? Emilie had left a small lamp burning on her chest of drawers. As a toddler, Emilie was afraid of the dark after she got up one night and fell down the stairs. When had she started sleeping with a nightlight and her old teddy bear again?

  I backed out of the bedroom and bumped into something solid. I gasped, my heart thumping. Merry stood right behind me.

  “You scared the hell out of me.” I raised an eyebrow and held a finger to my lips. “Come downstairs. We're awake. The kids are asleep. Time to talk. I'll make some chamomile tea.”

  I was pretty sure Merry didn't want to spend the rest of the night listening to me. When I walked down the stairs, though, I expected her to follow. She did.

  I filled a kettle, measured tea into a pot, and set out mugs. While I cut a couple of slices of chocolate cake, Merry went to the liquor cabinet, brought the brandy and two snifters back to the kitchen, and poured healthy slugs. After the water came to a boil, I carried mugs of steaming tea and slices of leftover cake to the table.

  Time for a mother-daughter talk. I planted myself across from Merry. Maybe I could break through the shell she'd built up.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “When you do that, you look just like Em when she says, ‘whatev-ah.’”

  Merry shrugged and sipped her brandy. No response.

  Of late, Merry shied away from talking about anything but herself. That suited me fine; tonight was all about Merry. Her rigid face told me to hurry up and get on with it. Like it or not, she'd sit here until I'd said what I wanted.

  I could be relentless. I forced Merry and her younger brother, Jack, to interact with me. They wished I was like other mothers who chewed you out and waited for a “yes, Mom.” If Merry's friends looked contrite, they were off the hook.

  “Why doesn't Em call you ‘Mom’ anymore?”

  Apparently I'd caught Merry off guard. I didn't know where I was headed. I was winging it.

  “She does too.”

  “No, she doesn't. She doesn't call you anything. When we're talking, Em refers to you as ‘she.’”

  “She's going through a phase.”

  “It's more than that. She avoids you.” I sipped my tea and ignored the snifter.

  Merry reached into the pocket of her old bathrobe and pulled out a small bottle. She shook a couple of pills into her hand and washed them down with the rest of the brandy before refilling her glass.

  “What did you just take?”

  “Pain pills.”

  When Merry lied, her face gave her away every time.

  “Em doesn't want to have anything to do with you.”

  “That's not true! Where'd you get such a stupid idea?” Merry's face reddened.

  “From Em. You won't listen to her. You yell and curse at her.”

  I pulled an imaginary arrow out of my quiver and shot it across the table. It hit Merry dead between the eyes.

  “I do not!”

  “Is she lying?”

  “Goddamn it, I don't curse.” Merry's voice rose.

  “You should be involved with your children like you were before the accident.”

  “Are you accusing me of being a bad mother?”

  I stared at my daughter until she looked away. “No, but you're not behaving like you used to. Do you care about anyone except yourself?”

  That got through to her. She looked like she wanted to yell—“How dare you?”—but didn't.

  “When was the last time you talked with either child? Really talked and listened to them? Spent any time with them?”

  “I…I don't remember.”

  Merry's voice was slurred from a combination of pills and brandy. “Last week, I think, when I took them to the mall.”

  “You took them to the mall? So not likely.” I gripped my hands in my lap. “I spend more time with the kids than you do.”

  “So you're a better mother than me? Since bloody when?” The words were bad breath between us.

  “Since the accident. You told me I wasn't the mother you wanted when you were young. I did what I had to do. I kept you and your brother safe and alive after Daddy died. I provided more than the basics and less than you wanted. I gave you both a chance to go to college, so you could earn a living and stand on your own two feet.” I rose and turned the gas on under the kettle. “Stand on them now.”

  Merry cursed and accused me of meddling. Called me insensitive. A bitch. Everything and anything.

  I didn't miss a beat. “Take responsibility for your family.”

  “I can't,” Merry whined. “I'm too tired.”

  “If you'd stop putting that stuff in your body, you'd have more energy.”

  “What stuff?”

  Before Merry could move, I reached into her pocket and emptied the pill bottle on the table.

  “This. Look at you. My daughter, the junkie.” I felt guilty attacking her, but it was part of my tough love plan. Would it work? “What is all this?”

  “Oxycontin, Zanax, Ambien.”

  “What else?”

  “Valium and Zoloft,” Merry whispered.

  “No wonder you can't function.” I swept the pills off the table.

  My daughter crawled around the floor in a panic. It made me sick to see how far she'd fallen. Merry retrieved the last of the pills and swallowed another one before she sat back in her chair.

  “How much are you drinking?”

  “Not so much.” Merry reached for the brandy but stopped.

  Had she heard a little of what I said? “You lie in bed all day, stoned and drunk.”

  “What right do you have to criticize me? I nearly died. My baby did.”

  “But you didn't.” I reached for her hand, but she snatched it away. “Neither did Emilie. Nor Alex. Nor Whip. Nor me. We're alive. When are you coming back to us?”

  Merry's mouth hung open. “You can't imagine what it's like.” She picked at a hangnail.

  “You're right. I can't.”

  “I don't feel anything.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much. I think you feel a lot. You feel anger at the drunk. Grief and loss over the baby. Pity about your scars.”

  “That's not fair.” Merry began to cry. She said I'd never understand.

  I was sure she felt it wouldn't do any good to explain it to me.

  “I want things to be the way things were before the accident.”

  “Don't we all? Wishing won't make it so. Losing the baby was unfair. What you're doing to your family is worse. You say you want things to go back to the way they were. Run this household.”

  Merry rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Before the accident, you were a full-time wife and mother. You were involved with Em and Alex, a loving wife to Whip. Now you're an invalid. Stop drinking and get off the drugs.”

  “I can't.”

  “Drive the kids to soccer and swim club.”

  “I can't. I don't want anyone to see me. I'm a freak.”

  “Is that why you won't go out? You don't like the way you look?”

  Merry nodded.

  “Want me to talk with Whip about finding another plastic surgeon?”

  Merry nodded again.

  “Okay, but you have to promise to see a psychiatrist. Something's wrong. If you're honest with yourself, you'll admit it. Promise you'll cooperate. You'll go if I make the appointment?”

  Merry nodded one last time. All of a sudden, her ears were full. No more of my words would go in. Her face disappeared in a huge yawn.

  I shook my head. Mommy would take care of everything. Keep her safe like I did when she was little.

  Merry staggered off to bed.

  I sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. I reached for the abandoned brandy and took my first sip. I thought about what Merry said. More, I thought about what she didn't say, what I observed. My dau
ghter was in deeper trouble than I imagined. Between the booze and drugs, she couldn't function. The physical therapy center taught Merry the mechanics of living, but not the essence of living. She was relying on too many crutches. Drugs. Booze. Me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  With my mind churning over my middle-of-the-night conversation, I lay in bed in the predawn darkness. One by one, I thought about the problems as I understood them. I formulated a series of baby steps to save my daughter. If one worked, I could go back to New York. When dawn was little more than a fingernail of light, I rose, took a quick shower, and went downstairs.

  I was in bed less than four hours and asleep perhaps one. I'd have dark circles under my brown eyes, but I couldn't worry about them. Besides, worry produces wrinkles.

  While the coffee brewed, I rooted through the kitchen desk for the list of psychiatrists Merry got at the therapy center. Three were affiliated with VCU and one with County: All were accessible. It was too early to call, so I puttered around the kitchen. I set breakfast on the table. The kids wouldn't be down for at least an hour and who knew when or if Merry would show up.

  I carried my first cup of coffee out to the patio. Time to call Raney, who was a dawn riser like me.

  Raney picked up on the second ring. After the usual round of pleasantries, Raney got to the point. “You talked with Merry, or you wouldn't be calling me before the garbage trucks finish their morning deliveries.”

  A New Yorker's joke: Garbage trucks made deliveries rather than pick-ups because piles of trash were stacked on curbs some place in the city every day. I was so homesick. Birds chirping in the backyard seemed insipid to someone who'd grown accustomed to the hubbub of a big city.

  “I did. Didn't do a bit of good.” By habit, I gave Raney the blow-by-blow of what happened. “You can scratch off one of the halves.”

  “Tough love, huh?”

  “I didn't actually threaten to leave, but I told her she has to behave like she did before the accident.” I sipped more coffee.

  “The result was?”

  “A freaking failure. She's as obtuse as the proverbial brick wall.”

  A cacophony of horns violated the quiet-zone ordinance where Raney lived. She must have the sliding glass door open onto Park Avenue.

  “I'm a crutch, but leaving could damage Merry more than I can live with. I gnawed that bone all night. All I came away with was the urgent need to get her into therapy.” I stared at the bottom of my cup and flip-flopped my way back into the kitchen for a refill.

  “I agree. So your next step is a psychiatrist?”

  “I have a list in my hot little hand. I'll start calling at nine.”

  “Call between seven and eight. Psychiatrists see their first patient at nine. The earlier you call, the more likely they'll answer the phone.”

  “Good idea.”

  “What about commitment?”

  “I don't know how to go about it.”

  “The psychiatrist will.”

  “Merry promised she'd go if I find her another plastic surgeon.”

  I reminded Raney about Merry's obsession over her face.

  “Do you think she'll remember?”

  “Doesn't matter. I will. Whip can deal with the plastic surgeon. I'm more worried about what's going on inside her head.”

  “All the plastic surgery in the world won't help if she continues drinking too much and downing pills like M&M's.”

  “Let me know what happens.”

  “Thanks. I'll call you soon. Hugs to the rest of the Great Dames.”

  Footsteps padded down the stairs. I turned. Emilie rubbed sleep from her eyes. She was getting up earlier and earlier. I suspected she was sleeping as little as I was.

  “I heard you fighting with Mom last night.”

  “I tried to be quiet, but she kept yelling.”

  Emilie shook her head. “You were both so miserable, I couldn't tune you out.”

  “I'm sorry, dear child.”

  Once again, Emilie slipped into a space that excluded me, yet I understood what she meant.

  “Mom needs you to help her, not argue with her.”

  “She needs more help than I can give her.” I held up the coffeepot.

  “She needs her mommy, just like I do.” Emilie stirred cream into the brew in her cup.

  Merry needed her “mommy”? I hadn't thought of it that way. I treated my daughter like an adult. Maybe, just maybe, Emilie was right. Maybe I needed to go back to being Merry's mother. Except, Merry, too, often told me how I sucked in that role.

  “I mean, she needs someone to understand her. Can't you back off and not poke her all the time?”

  “Is that what you think I'm doing?”

  “Isn't it?”

  I did poke. Well, poking wasn't working. I'd try being nicer to my poor, lost daughter.

  “Treat her like you do Alex and me. You don't poke us. You aren't critical with us all the time.”

  “You're still children. You need guidance, not poking. Support, not criticism.”

  “In a way, Mom is more like a child than I am. She needs the same thing I do.”

  “Got the message. Help me stay on track, okay?”

  Emilie put her cup down and gave me a bear hug. She nodded against my chest.

  I hit paydirt on the second call when Dr. David Silberman answered. I told him everything I could think of about Merry and asked for his help. As luck would have it, he had a slot open on Mondays and Thursdays at ten when Mad Max's Taxi Service was available.

  I made the appointment and picked up my rollerblades. I needed to move, and move a lot, to work off my anxiety. Between Whip's squishiness on what to do about his wife and Merry's decline into drugs and booze, I was barely holding it together. The more I exercised, the better off I'd be. I needed a better sense of balance to keep my promise to Emilie about not poking her mother.

  Merry denied promising to go into therapy. I told her I wouldn't do a thing about her face until we found out what was going on inside her head. Call it blackmail. Call it coercion.

  Merry argued and yelled the night before the first appointment, calling me any variety of names. She was creative in the way she put words together. I kept at her until I wore her down.

  Two weeks later, I sat in the waiting room and mulled over an incident from the previous week.

  On Wednesday afternoon, I read in my room after my Pilates workout. Emilie was home with a cold, and Merry was holed up in her bedroom. No early warning siren sounded before a battle erupted in the hallway outside my closed door.

  “Why do you always shut me out?”

  “I don't shut you out.”

  “You do. You never ask about me, about what I'm doing. You don't care.”

  “I do.”

  “Why can't you just be my mother? Why are you such a bitch?”

  An open palm met a cheek.

  “Don't call me a bitch! I'm your mother. I deserve respect.”

  “Not when you don't act like my mother. Why can't you just go to the swim league awards dinner? You always went in the past.” Emilie's voice was thick, the result of her cold and I suspected also of choking tears. “Or are you going to spend the day drunk again?”

  “I won't go. Have your grandmother take you.”

  “I hate you!” Emilie slammed the door to her room. Merry's door followed a second later.

  I'd first heard the “I hate you” accusation right after Norm died. I couldn't let Emilie think she hated her mother. Maybe I could help her understand before things got any worse.

  I set my book on the bedspread and went to Emilie's door. I tapped and opened it before she could tell me to go away. She lay face down on her bed, sobbing into her pillow. I sat on the edge and pulled her into my arms.

  “I hate her! She's so mean. She hates me too.” Emilie's pain poured out with each fresh batch of tears.

  “I don't think you hate your mother, Em. You don't like how she treats you, do you?”

  “Oh, Gra
ms, she slapped me. She's never slapped me before. Don't you hate her?”

  Emilie only called me Grams in moments of extreme duress. I considered her question.

  Her sobs quieted.

  “No, I don't. I don't like her right now, but I haven't stopped loving her. It's hard to explain, but she's my daughter. I can't turn my back on her.”

  Emilie snuffled against my T-shirt. I reached for a tissue and handed it to her. She blew a juicy amount into the first one. Two more followed. Her sobs subsided to little more than hiccups.

  “Do you know how to help her?”

  “Haven't a clue. She's going to a doctor who might be able to, though.”

  “A shrink?” Emilie sat up and wiped her face. “Do you think it'll work?”

  Merry's fingerprints were vivid on Emilie's cheek. My anger rose. If Merry stood in front of me, God help me, I'd slap her as hard as she struck her daughter.

  “Let's hope.” I left my granddaughter to rest.

  For the remainder of the day, I worried over the mess we were in. The longer I was around Merry, the more I wanted to get away from her. I wanted to take the kids to New York permanently. Being in this household did none of us any good. I wondered what Whip was thinking about.

  Now, half an hour into the fourth session with Dr. Silberman, raised voices came through the door. Rather, Merry's voice came through. I didn't hear Dr. Silberman's. A couple of heavy thumps inside his office preceded Merry flinging the door open.

  “You're a fucking quack.”

  Merry tried to slam the door, but Dr. Silberman caught it. “Sit down, Merry. I want to talk with Mrs. Davies.”

  That didn't bode well. I shot a look of pity at my daughter and went into the office. Dr. Silberman set a table back on its legs. A clock and box of tissues were on the floor.

  “I have bad news, Mrs. Davies.”

  Dr. Silberman sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers, looking exactly like Sigmund Freud. “Merry won't work with me. She's hostile and antagonistic, as well as delusional. She doesn't see anything wrong in her behavior.”

  Merry maintained everything was normal at home. She was running the house, doing the errands, everything. She couldn't understand why I was still getting in her way. I should leave. She was very involved with her children's lives, until Dr. Silberman asked some questions. Then she flew into a rage. She denied feeling angry and said she was taking Ambien to help her sleep and Zoloft for depression. No, she wasn't taking any other drugs.