“Yeah, I think I will.”
She handed me her phone, and I got ahold of Jill who was on her way to get me.
I waited in the office, looking down at my feet, trying to avoid eye contact. My tennis shoes really needed to go in the wash. They had dirt on the toe part.
It was still lunch, and teachers and students kept coming in and out the office door. I wanted to crawl under the chair and disappear. Maybe Mom would let me homeschool. That could work. I’d never have to show my face again.
Quick mental inventory: Becca’s nuts, and I can never return to school. There are probably other things that could go wrong with my life. What will be next? What else could possibly be next?
After waiting for ten minutes that felt like an hour, Jill came and signed me out. She looked like she left the house in a hurry—she was wearing sweats, hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup. She was out of breath.
“Stacy. Oh, my God. Did you hear what happened?”
“Yeah, but only because everybody told me about it.” That wasn’t true, but who knows how many saw Becca making her scene. “Let’s just go. We can talk about it on the way.”
We walked through the halls, and I felt more eyes on me. Do they all know? Maybe I was being paranoid. That was probably it. People were probably just looking at Jill and wondering who she was. Even scruffy looking, she’s still very attractive. And anything different gets attention around here. Scott and Kevin from my Algebra class were drooling over her like they were hungry dogs and she was a T-bone steak. In your dreams, boys.
Jill and I walked fast, and she told me what happened, between breaths, and it was pretty much the same as what Roman already told me.
“Since when does she eat veggie burgers anyway?” I asked.
“Since when does she do half the things she’s been doing lately, Stacy? Come on, keep up. I don’t know if you heard about her shirt—”
“Yeah. Heard about the shirt.” Poor Becca. But really all I could think about was poor me. “I’m never going to be able to show my face at school again.”
Jill stopped and looked at me; by this point we’d made it out to the parking lot. “Come on, Stacy. Don’t be such a drama queen. That’s the least of our problems now anyway. A little self-absorbed, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, maybe I am. But come on, Jill. This is my life, my school. It’s not fair.”
“I hate to tell you this, but life isn’t fair.”
“Well, that makes me feel a lot better.”
“Stacy, you don’t have to be sarcastic all the time, you know.”
We walked to the car, and I felt guilty. This was my sister after all, not some stranger. I just wish things could be—what’s that word again? Normal. Normal is looking really good to me right now. Normal as in normal problems, like my giant pimple or your parents fighting, even divorcing. That’s normal. Your sister going off on mental episodes is not normal. Far from.
Jill drove, and I looked out the window and thought about how everything we passed looked the same as it had in the morning, but now everything had changed.
“So what now?” I asked her.
“She’s at the psychiatrist’s office. Mom took her straight over. So we wait.”
I sat in the car thinking my selfish thoughts about how all of this would affect my practically nonexistent social standing. Would I now move down in the social order from nonentity to outcast?
The funny thing about high school is that everyone wants to be seen as unique, yet no one wants to be thought of as different. Being different means you’re a freak. Outcast. Pariah. So while we want to think we’re different, what we really want is to be exactly the same. It makes no sense, but that’s how the world is. It’s how people are, I guess. We travel in packs, and no one wants to be the freaky weirdo.
I looked out the window, and I kept thinking: Why Becca? Why was she having these problems and not, say, me?
At home, I pulled up a stool in the kitchen and watched Jill as she made us quesadillas with the good cheese—the cheddar and jack mixed together. I poured out glasses of iced tea as she cut the quesadilla in half and pushed a plate toward me. We sat down to eat.
“Why Becca though?” I asked between bites. “Why not me or you? Why is this happening to her all of a sudden? I mean, I really want to understand this.”
Jill knows more about this stuff than I do—she’s taken a few psychology classes in school—but she just shrugged her shoulders.
“Who knows? The brain’s a mystery. Mental illness does tend to run in families though.”
She gave me this serious look.
“Great. That makes me feel much better now.”
“I’m just telling you—you wanted to know. Nobody really knows what causes someone to go off the deep end. Some people are more sensitive, or they might have a chemical imbalance, or they took drugs, or something terrible happened to them when they were little and it takes a few years to come to the surface. Who knows?”
Then I told Jill what I’d been thinking lately with Becca acting so strange, about normal, and what it really means.
“So who decides what normal is?” I asked.
Jill shrugged her shoulders again. “Normal—” she made little air quotes around the word “—normal is whatever society decides it is. And that’s just how the world works. It might not be fair, but—”
And I finished her sentence. “But who said life is fair?”
October 13, Even Later -
Checking In And Checking Out
When Mom walked in the door with Becca, they had this tired, defeated look.
“Well, let’s get your things packed, sweetie,” Mom told her in a quiet voice.
Becca walked past us to our bedroom with an empty look on her face. Jill and I looked at each other, then at Mom.
“Mom?” was all I could say, because anything else seemed unnecessary.
Mom told us about the scene at the psychiatrist’s office, how the doctor gave Becca a pill to calm her and told Mom that Becca might have a form of schizophrenia—a mild form—which, if you’re going to have schizophrenia, I guess that’s the best kind to have. Becca, of course, started to cry when he said this. Who wouldn’t? I mean, it was her sanity we were talking about here. It’s not like hearing you have a cavity or need to have your tonsils removed.
The doctor gave Mom a referral for a residential treatment center, Brookside, where Becca will get counseling and treatment. She’ll be gone for at least thirty days. After that, after her meds have kicked in and helped even her out, she’ll probably come back home with us. Probably.
Becca packed. We all helped—Mom, me, Jill—and we asked her about the different things she wanted to take with her, trying to be helpful.
“Did you get your journal? Your earbuds? Do you want my shampoo?”
I asked her these things, and she gave quiet nods, but her eyes didn’t register the words. She wandered around, moving slowly at first, then quickly, frantically opening drawers and throwing her clothes in a heap on top of her suitcase. She started to cry.
I tried not to cry, but the hard, little lump in my throat was making it difficult to swallow. Mom, of course, cried. Jill, who’s usually the strong one, started crying too.
We were a tragic little group standing in the bedroom crying, but what else could we do?
When Becca was all packed, we drove her to her new home. It’s just a couple blocks off Lankershim. I don’t remember ever really noticing it before because it’s one of those places that blends into the background. There’s nothing unusual about it. Brookside looks like a large modern house, like two large boxes, one square and one rectangular, set next to each other, with plants and trees and a little brick pathway that leads up to the double doors. There are a couple of wooden benches sitting out in front and flowers in pots. It doesn’t look all institutional like a prison, though. I pretended it was Becca’s mental health resort.
When we got inside, the receptionist, a small woma
n with a kind face, welcomed us.
“Hello there.” She took Mom’s hand. “I’m Marcy.”
She focused on Becca.
“You must be Becca. I’m so glad to meet you.”
And she held her little hand out to Becca, and Becca kind of grabbed for Marcy’s hand like she was a little unsure about the whole shaking-hands custom.
Marcy led us down the hall and gave us a quick tour, explaining the house rules, visiting hours, pointing out the common room for the residents and their guests—the place where we’ll be when we come for visits.
She showed us Becca’s room, a tiny little cubicle about half the size of our bedroom. There was a bed, a bedside table with a lamp, an overhead light fixture, a simple desk and chair. And a small dresser—three drawers—for her clothes.
“I’ll give you ladies a few minutes, then you’re going to have to leave so Becca and I can go over a few things.”
Marcy left us, and there still wasn’t really enough room for us all in there, so we stood bunched up together.
It still doesn’t seem real to me when I think about it. Just when it seems like you have things figured out, something like this—something so completely unexpected—comes along. I couldn’t get over it. The sister that I’d shared a bedroom with my whole life, that I’d fought with and laughed with, I was saying goodbye to her. And I was scared—really scared—that she might never be the same again.
“Bye, Becca,” I said, giving her a hug, and she held on to me tight, and it felt like she was a little rag doll. It was impossible for me not to cry, so I just gave in and held her a few seconds.
When it was Mom’s turn and Becca clung to her like she was her life raft and called her “Mommy”—something I’ve never heard her say—I felt the tears coming to the surface.
“It’s okay, baby. Everything’s gonna be okay,” Mom said as she stroked her hair. Jill put her hand over her mouth like it was all too much, and I left the room. I had to leave because it was hard to breathe. The walls were starting to close in.
I found a seat in the visitors area. The kind woman Marcy put her hand on my shoulder, which made me cry even more.
“Your sister’s gonna be just fine here. Okay?” She looked at me with her soft eyes that made me want to trust her. “This is what we do. We take care of people like Becca. Don’t worry.”
So that’s it. We drove home, none of us saying anything. I mean, what else was there to say?
October 14 -
Refugees
I just couldn’t go to school. I really couldn’t.
I begged Mom not to make me go back. I didn’t want to face the stares, the wondering, the whispering. People thinking that my sister was insane. I didn’t want to explain to Bethany and Rose that my sister had schizophrenia. I definitely didn’t want to see Summer and her backstabbing face—I’d probably smack it, and then they’d send me to see the school counselor. And I just really didn’t feel like going to school.
Surprisingly, Mom let me stay home. She let me go back to bed.
When I got up at ten thirty, Jill took me to the mall. Apparently she couldn’t deal with school either.
There we sat at Starbucks drinking our half-caf soy vanilla mocha lattes like two refugees from a prison camp. That’s just how it felt, like we were on leave for a little while, waiting to be picked up and taken back to jail. It was a temporary escape, that’s all, then the guards would take me back, and I’d have to go to school tomorrow.
October 14, Later –
Everything Is Wrong
Roman stopped by in the afternoon to take me to see Becca. I got into his beater car, brushing fast food bags off the seat. His car really is a disaster area. I can’t imagine what his bedroom looks like.
“I like your shirt, Roman.”
He was wearing an old, black The Cure T-shirt with holes. It was so thin, you could practically see through it.
“Thanks. My dad gave it to me. Becca cut the sleeves off for me,” he said with a little smile.
Why didn’t that surprise me. It’s kind of funny when I think of it, Becca cutting the sleeves off of everything and how happy Roman was with his shirt. I’m just glad she didn’t go to town on my clothes too.
We rode most of the way in awkward silence except for the radio. I had no idea what to expect—if they’d even let us see her—and when we got to Brookside, the lady at the reception desk told us to come back because it was medication time, and then Becca had a therapy session after. Poor Roman was so confused, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’s so used to Becca giving him his daily instructions. They’re like two halves of the same person.
On the drive home, he looked so sad. I wanted to hug him, but we’re not usually huggy like that. We were both quiet, and I thought about how things were before, when I was little. I pictured the three of us girls with Mom and Dad and how happy we were, but we didn’t know it at the time. Why would we?
How could life have changed so much? How did I get here?
October 15 –
Poor Roman
Roman and I cut school after third period to go visit Becca. I risked Mom’s wrath, knowing she’d kill me for cutting classes, but I went anyway mainly just to keep Roman from jumping off the nearest roof.
At Brookside, I watched him and Becca have their little reunion, kind of staying in the background, because I didn’t want to intrude. It was sad and sweet. The two of them hugged like pale ghosts. Becca had this faraway look on her face. After a couple of minutes, I gave her shoulder a squeeze, said my goodbye, and waited for Roman outside on the benches.
October 16 -
Are You There, God?
It’s Me, Stacy
I’ve picked up a new habit the past few days. A praying habit. Every night in bed, I’ve been saying a little prayer for Becca. It’s been years since I’ve prayed regularly, not since I was six years old and Mom and Dad took Jill and Becca and me to Sunday school at a church in the neighborhood. Mom and Dad only lasted for a couple of Sundays. It turned out to be a very holy-rollerish place. The pastor would call people up to the altar rail, encouraging them to “Let Jesus into your heart.” It wasn’t their cup of tea, I guess, but Dad kept taking us to Sunday school. I think he was concerned about us being godless heathens, which we totally were. I went to the younger kids’ section; Jill and Becca went with the older kids.
Two things stand out about my whole experience there: one, I remember the pastor’s wife cleaning the wax out of my ears with bobby pins. (Don’t they always say not to put anything in your ear sharper than your elbow? I guess she never heard that one.) And, two, the Sunday school teachers taught me how to pray by getting on my knees and placing my hands together and talking directly to God. I did this for a few nights. I got down on my knees and prayed that God would watch over my family, our cat Rex, my grandparents, Aunt Linda, and everyone else. This went on for a few nights, then I stopped, probably because Becca told me I looked like a dork doing it or most likely, because I got bored with it.
Now when I pray, I ask God for help with Becca. Just make her like she was before she started getting all strange and cutting things and smoking and putting syrup on everything. Just bring her back to us okay. Also, to help Mom and Jill and me. I don’t ask for anything else, because I don’t want God to get the idea that I’m greedy. I’m trying to come off as unselfish, even though my reasons are really maybe selfish. I just want my sister back. And I figure if I pray the same prayer every day, I’ll eventually wear Him down.
October 16, Later -
Residential Treatment
I sat across the table from Becca at her residential treatment center. We were in the visitors room. It’s a large, open space with yellow walls, framed pictures of cats and dogs, and paintings of vases of flowers and bowls of fruit. There’s a pool table off to one side, little seating groups, a couple of couches, and a flat-screen TV. Groups of people were scattered around. It feels like a place for mental patients that
they tried to make look like it’s not a place for mental patients, and the whole thing was kind of depressing.
The two of us played poker like we used to. I had a pair of twos and a pair of sixes. We used miniature peanut butter cups as our poker chips.
Becca put her cards down all of a sudden. “I can’t play right now. The numbers are all fuzzy. I can’t concentrate.”
She was pale, and her hair had this wild look like it hadn’t been brushed in a while. I picked up the Cosmopolitan that I’d found on one of the little tables and read “The Ten Worst Movie Pickup Lines” to her, and then her horoscope, while she sat there kind of staring off, not laughing or making snide comments like she usually would.
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