Hancock Park

by Isabel Kaplan

  I hadn’t always been this open, or even open at all, to the idea of medication. The idea that a pill could control my moods, my instincts, and what went on in my mind used to be terrifying. Topamax was my first prescription, and the only one I’d consistently stuck with. The dose, however, had increased steadily throughout the years. I remember the terror, standing in front of the pharmacy counter at Rite Aid, waiting for the pharmacist to fill my first prescription. Mom was next to me, credit card in hand, waiting to pay. I stuffed the little white paper bag into my backpack, nervous that I might run into someone I knew, and that they might wonder why I had a bag from the pharmacy.

  That night, after I had brushed my teeth, washed my face, and changed into my pajamas, I went into the bathroom and placed the bright orange medicine bottle on the counter in front of me. “You’re going to take half a pill tonight, okay? Just half a pill each day,” I remembered Sara Elder saying. Carefully uncapping the bottle, I stared down at the round, white pills. I had never swallowed a pill before. When I got sick, my parents still bought the chewable or drinkable versions of medicine. At that time, Jack and I still shared a bottle of gummy vitamins. What if—what if this pill got stuck in my throat, and I couldn’t figure out how to swallow it? And if I did manage to swallow it without choking, it was going to change the way my brain functioned?!

  Skip GO and collect two hundred bucks—I was officially freaked out.

  As carefully as I could, I removed one pill from the bottle. It was small and felt chalky between my fingertips. Sara Elder had said to break it in half, and it had sounded easy then, but once I was home I wasn’t so sure. There were no dotted lines on the pill, no directions on the bottle; how would I be able to tell if I had successfully broken the little white pill into equal halves? And what if I swallowed two-thirds of the pill by mistake? I could only assume that two-thirds of the pill would affect me more than one half would, and I didn’t necessarily want that extra kick right away.

  The problems were endless. I gripped the pill and ran down the hall toward my parents’ bedroom. “Mom, I don’t know how to do this! How am I going to get the pill into two equal parts?” I was becoming hysterical. I walked past her, into their bathroom, calling back to her as I walked.

  She was sitting at her computer. “Just break it in half. Hold both ends and pull it apart. Don’t worry, you’ll get it close enough.”

  I grasped the pill between my thumb and forefinger and, holding my breath, I pulled apart. I had a piece of the pill in each hand, and I was afraid at first because chalky dust was falling from the pill’s jagged edges onto the granite countertop. “Did you get it? Just put it in your mouth and swallow now. Take a deep breath and swallow,” Mom called over from her desk. There was a glass of water next to me on the granite countertop. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and shook my head.

  “I can’t do it, Mom!” I yelled out into the bedroom.

  “Becky, I have to finish writing this article! Just swallow it; it’s a little pill. Do you know how many pills I have to take every day?”

  I looked toward my mom’s sink. To the right of it, there was a tray filled with little orange bottles.

  Just swallow, just swallow, I told myself, looking at the half pill in my left hand. One deep breath, one big gulp, one little pill. Just swallow.

  And with one deep breath and one big gulp, I swallowed that one little pill. And then waited for the magic to happen.

  Home Sweet Home?

  In twenty minutes, I had gone from the office buildings of Westwood to the apartment buildings of Santa Monica. But it felt like I was on a different planet.

  Driving home from my appointment with Sara Elder that day, I almost turned the wrong way on Wilshire—toward my dad’s house. Grimacing, I corrected myself and turned right instead of left. I didn’t typically spend much time in Santa Monica. Once in a while, I would go to the beach or to the Third Street Promenade, but that was basically it. It seemed that now, I would be learning to call Santa Monica “home.”

  I double-checked the address before pulling into a tall, cream-colored building on Ocean Avenue, the last street before the water. I stopped in the middle of the large, circular driveway, and a valet in a dark blue uniform came over to open my door. “Is this Beach Tower?” I asked, skeptical. This seemed more like a hotel than an apartment building.

  The valet—PEDRO, his name tag said—nodded. He took my keys and began to get into my car.

  “Wait!” I said. “There’s stuff I need in the trunk.”

  Another valet appeared, carting a dolly full of groceries. “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll bring it up for you. What apartment number?”

  “Um, 903?”

  “We’ll be just a few minutes.”

  Yet another valet held open the glass door that led to the lobby, and I entered tentatively. The lobby was heavily air-conditioned, and the ceilings were high and arched. My sneakers squeaked against the marble floor, and a large mirror hung on the wall opposite the glass entrance, framed by large, multicolored orchids. I didn’t see any elevators, so I went over to the concierge desk, which was built into the left wall. “Excuse me,” I said. Then, when I had caught the attention of the tall, thin man who stood behind the desk, I added, “Where are the elevators?” The man looked me up and down, and I felt instantly self-conscious about the wrinkle in my uniform skirt and the childish backpack on my back.

  “Are you a visitor?” he asked.

  “No. I, uh, I live here.” The words felt strange. “My mom just moved in, I mean.”

  “Miller?” He asked. I nodded. “You must be…Rebecca,” he said, scanning a list of names.

  “Yeah. Becky.”

  “Nice to meet you. My name is George, and if there’s anything I can assist you with, please let me know.”

  “Could you tell me where the elevators are?” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Yes, but I’ll need to take you because you don’t have your passkey yet. Here, follow me.”

  I had never been inside an elevator that I couldn’t work on my own. This was a hotel, not a home. George nodded toward a colleague at the concierge desk. As if on cue, an elevator opened. Freaky? Apparently not. “The elevators open with permission from the concierge,” explained George, “and therefore, nobody who shouldn’t be in the building makes it past the lobby.”

  I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.

  “But then, once you get in the elevator, you have to swipe your key in order to make the car go up.” I felt so out of place, but I was trying not to look it.

  “Your key will permit you to go to your floor, nine; the roof, which is where the infinity pool and barbeques are located; the lobby; and floor four, the workout and spa center. If you wish to access a different floor to visit someone, you will need to come to the concierge in order to receive permission.”

  I must have been giving him some sort of a blank stare because he added, “We have high-profile residents here at Beach Tower—such as your mother, for example—and we find that our residents like to maintain their privacy.”

  “Of course. That makes sense.” I tried to smile convincingly.

  The elevator stopped. “Alright, here we are.” The gold doors opened, and a cream-colored hallway appeared before us. A miniature version of the mirror-and-orchid display was arranged in the middle of the hall. “Now, just to the left, and we have Apartment 903. Welcome.” George escorted me down the hall and pushed open a heavy, white, wooden door, revealing my new home.

  The first thing I noticed was that everything was white. The second thing I noticed was that blocking my view to the ocean, which I knew was right in front of me, was Pam Michaels, Joey’s mother and a longtime friend of my mom’s. She stood, one hand on her hip and the other in the air, pointing. Today she wore skinny jeans, loafers, and a boxy bright red blazer. Her lipstick matched her jacket, in bold contrast to her carefully fake-baked skin. “Put that down there. No, a little to the left. Yes, yes, that’s it. Good
. Perfect.” Pam was an interior designer. She held her arm out, directing movers who were holding up a big white couch and moving it inches to the left, then to the right until it reached its perfect position. When Pam was satisfied, she clapped her hands together and turned around to face me. “Becky! Great to see you. Now, what do you think of this amazing new furniture? Amazing, right?”

  In front of me were boxes and brand-new tables, vases, and lamps. In just two weeks, my mother had furnished an entire apartment.

  Pam walked me through a pile of furniture, asking if this desk would do, and how about those sheets? And what do we think of our new bed? Great, glad you like it. Now, moving on.

  I saw Jack sitting on the floor of a bedroom—his bedroom, I guessed—listening to his iPod and looking at the wall. “Hey,” I said, standing at the door to the room.

  “This sucks,” Jack said.

  “Yeah.” I nodded in agreement.

  “Mom’s in her room. It’s at the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks.” I dropped my backpack on the floor of the hallway and walked toward my mother’s new bedroom. Mom was on her knees, digging through brown cardboard moving boxes, her hair tied up in a ponytail and the sleeves of her button-down shirt rolled up.

  “Becky. Hi, sweetheart. Did your appointment with Sara Elder go okay?”

  I shrugged.

  “Have you seen your bedroom? It’s gorgeous—has an ocean view. I think you’ll like it.”

  I nodded. I had planned on talking to my mother, telling her about my day and my issues with Sara Elder, but suddenly, I found a nod was all I could manage. Anything more, and I was scared that I’d end up in tears.

  I walked into my new bedroom, which was empty except for an almond-colored desk and a full-sized bed. True to their word (although I couldn’t figure out when or how), the valets had brought up my bags, and I dragged them into the empty walk-in closet. Sitting on the floor of my closet, I unfolded a shirt—only to realize that the closet had no shelves, drawers, or hangers. I put my head in my hands and began to cry.

  Neverland

  Two days later, I was driving to school from Mom’s new apartment when my cell phone rang. I was still trying to get the hang of the trip from Santa Monica to Hancock Park. My first day, I had arrived at school late enough to miss Advisory and most of first period, and I couldn’t stand being late. I pressed down on the brake as I approached a red light and lifted my cell phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

  “It’s Mom. Did you call Rite Aid for a refill yesterday?”

  I had left half an hour too early, and five minutes later I was just blocks from school—and so anxious that both of my legs were shaking.

  Rite Aid was refusing to fill my Topamax prescription. “It’s against their store policy to aid a sixteen-year-old in the consumption of dangerous amounts of pharmaceuticals,” my mom told me. Apparently I was being prescribed enough Topamax to overmedicate a horse. My mom was fuming and finally sputtered, “And it’s against family policy to see a psychiatrist who would prescribe that amount.”

  The word family stuck out to me; I couldn’t help thinking, Does that word still apply to us?

  I turned onto my dad’s street and haphazardly parked in front of the house. Dad might wonder what the hell I was doing there, but I needed to sit and think. And there was no room for doing any of that at school. Jack was at Dad’s that morning despite the fact that we were supposed to be on our new schedule of one week with my mom and one week with my dad. It was his first day of school, so he’d wanted to be close to Stratfield.

  I left my backpack in the car and walked silently into the house and up the stairs to my bedroom. “Hello? Becky?” Dad called out as I shut my door.

  “Yeah,” I answered, offering no further explanation for my unexpected arrival.

  I sank into the corner of the room where the bookcase full of my old textbooks met the crate full of stuffed animals that I had insisted on keeping. I picked up a stuffed bear and clutched it in my arms. What about all my secrets? What about everything that I had told Sara Elder? Wasn’t she supposed to want to help me, not hurt me?

  I remembered how, when I was really little, I used to take all my stuffed animals out of their shelves, boxes, and storage bins and put them on the floor of my room. I would hide myself among them. I was small. I was still just a little girl.

  Now I was big, hiding in a corner of my bedroom, calculus and chemistry books jutting out from the bookcase that I was leaning against and poking me in the back. I held the soft bear close to my chest.

  Jack walked into the room through the bathroom that he and I shared. “What’s going on? Why are you here?” His hands were on his hips, and he looked around the room, trying to find me. “And why are you in the corner?”

  Because my shrink is trying to hurt me.

  Because I want to be five again.

  “None of your business. Leave me alone.”

  “Why?”

  Jack was waiting for something from me—a response, a shout, anything. But I stayed silent, and finally, he left. When I was alone once more, I poured all the stuffed animals out of the crate and onto the floor in front of me. I was bigger, and the animals were smaller, so it would be harder to hide. I opened my arms wide and pulled all the toys close together on top of me. Slouching down along the wall, I tried to bury myself with the past.

  Blank Slate

  Mom and Dad were busy searching for a new psychiatrist for me, and I was busy trying to keep my school life together. I wasn’t going to be seeing Sara Elder anymore. She had been my psychiatrist for five years, and suddenly, no more.

  And I couldn’t even figure out whether I was mad, sad, or anything. Sara Elder sent me an e-mail, maybe it was an apology or explanation—who knows. I deleted it.

  My in-box was empty; I could be a new Becky, ready for change. A Becky who didn’t need to pop pills both morning and night in order to be sane. A Becky who didn’t necessarily need a therapist.

  Neither of my parents believed my claim about not needing a therapist. They supported me being whomever I wanted to be, but they just weren’t sure that I could successfully be me without the aid of a psychiatrist. Throughout the next week, I couldn’t help feeling as though I were holding everything together by a thread.

  “Families are impossible,” Taylor Tremaine said to me over lunch one day. It was just her and me—we had the same free period, which happened to be right before lunch that day. We had spent Advisory that morning telling our seventh graders what was edible and what to steer clear of in the cafeteria, so we decided to take our extra-long lunch as far from the school cafeteria as possible. That’s how I found myself sitting at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant that Taylor had insisted was simply “the best,” talking about our families.

  “My parents just split up, too,” Taylor offered. “It made me feel like nothing will ever be the same, you know?”

  I did know. “Yeah, it’s just…” My voice faltered. I squeezed a lemon wedge into my Diet Coke. I wanted to talk to Taylor, wanted to tell her that I knew what it was like, having your entire world shaken up and thrown on the ground. But for some reason, I couldn’t. I didn’t know what my problem was. It was as if keeping my emotions bottled up inside gave me a sort of control—a sense of control I desperately wanted to preserve.

  Smart vs. Pretty

  Later that week, I presented to the Parents Association.

  I came home from school—to my mom’s apartment—the day of the presentation, and found Jack taping a miniature video camera to the outside of our front door. “What the hell?” I asked.

  “Madonna moved in down the hall!” he explained, reaching for the electrical tape on the floor. “I’m hoping she does something interesting in the hallway, and then I can take the video footage and make a fortune.”

  Inside, Mom was sitting cross-legged, rooting through a big box of shoes on the living room floor. “Fuck.” She threw a pair of Manolo Blahniks to the side, and they land
ed near my feet where several other pairs already lay. I dropped my backpack onto the carpet. “Have you seen my Ferragamo flats? I can’t find them anywhere.”

  “Uh, no, I haven’t. Sorry.” I waded carefully into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “So, tonight’s my PA presentation,” I told the parmesan cheese.

  “Tonight? I thought it was next week!” Mom tossed a ballet slipper back into the box and ran a hand through her hair. “What time? At school?”

  “Yeah, at school. At seven.” I shut the refrigerator door and turned out to face her. “You’re coming, right?”

  Mom stood up. “Of course I’m coming! It’s a big night for you.” She walked over to me. “You don’t have to wear your uniform tonight, do you? Because I just found the cutest shirt in my closet!” My mother was always “finding” things in her closet and on her shelves. She brought so many things home from her show that it was hard to keep track of it all, she said. Her closet used to be bigger, though—in Hancock Park. Now, there were boxes of shoes everywhere, and if you opened a kitchen cabinet, you just might find purses instead of coffee cups.

  I wore the shirt, and on the drive over to school, I sat in Mom’s passenger seat and reviewed my speech in my head. I was a good speaker, but despite a number of awards and compliments after MUN conferences, I often worried that I wasn’t as good at it as Amanda was. Amanda had sounded upset on the phone when we’d talked the other day. She was upset that we—I—had been asked to make a presentation and she wasn’t there to be a part of it.

  At the meeting, my parents sat on opposite ends of the same row, which was horribly awkward for me. I wanted to push my dad in about ten seats, to shout at him, “Look! This is how you made her leave. By always sitting so goddamned far apart,” even though I knew that didn’t really make sense at all.

  The parents at Whitbread put on just as much of a show as the students do. There’s that saying—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—and I think it just might be true. In Whitbread’s case, the tree is generally over-Botoxed, over-exuberant, and constantly dressing as though she were twenty years younger. Unless, of course, it is the case of the second wife. Those women actually are a full, inappropriate twenty years younger. The dads, well, they don’t tend to come to PA meetings as much, but they are present at big school functions and have such big names that it’s easy to forget celebrity isn’t the norm.