We dropped hands as soon as an attractive brunette approached us. It was the curator, Jenna. I had emailed her on Monday per Bev and asked about any other items she might have on Jane, and then I let her know about our Saturday visit. After introductions, she told us that she might have more materials, that another library was loaning them a whole box of letters and that once they arrived, she’d shoot me an email if she found anything. As soon as Jenna walked away, Michael reached for my hand again.
“Let me go inside first,” Lorraine tells us now as she pulls into the driveway. “And tell Nonny that you’re here.”
But the front door is already swinging open and I can see Nonny’s short, stocky frame silhouetted in the doorway. Just as we reach the door, Nonny flips on the foyer light. “What you think?” she yells.
Gone is the center-parted knot of gray hair at the base of her head. Now her thick hair is short, side-parted with long bangs, and tapered to her neck. I might actually need to check out Nonny’s stylist.
“You don’t look like you just landed on Ellis Island anymore,” Michael says, hugging her.
She turns to me. “So, Michael’s friend, you like it?”
“It’s fantastic! What a great cut,” I say.
“No, I went to Supercuts,” she corrects me. She about-faces and marches into the kitchen. “I made pizza. Come and eat now.”
Anthony and Mr. Pitoscia are already seated at the table, eating. Anthony waves and gives a friendly, “Hi, Catherine.”
Michael’s dad pats his mouth with a paper napkin and then rubs his hands together as he rises to his feet. He’s maybe five foot nine—so that’s why Anthony’s so much shorter. Michael towers over both of them.
“Hello,” Mr. Pitoscia says to me, hand outstretched. “I’m Tony, this guy’s dad.” With his free hand, he squeezes the back of Michael’s neck. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And your hair.” He grins and I can see Michael’s smile in it.
We shake hands, and Mr. Pitoscia pulls out a chair for me next to Anthony.
“Hey, Dad, I’m thinking putting Catherine right next to me is not the greatest of ideas,” Anthony says. “I worked today and haven’t showered yet.” He looks at me with an open grin. “I do wash. We just always meet when I’ve gotten off work.” Anthony’s baseball hat is on backward, revealing sweat-dried hair, and his green Paoletti’s Landscaping T-shirt looks damp and threadbare with small bits of grass and leaves speckling it.
Michael pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table for me, next to Lorraine. “Hey, Michael’s friend,” he teases. “You sit here.”
On the kitchen table are two cookie sheets of misshapen, clearly homemade pizza. Holding a pair of heavy silver scissors, Nonny wedges herself between Anthony and Mr. Pitoscia.
“You two slow down and let Michael and”—she looks at me—“his friend eat first. You already went through two pies.”
Then she picks up the corner of one of the pizzas and cuts it into large squares.
“She uses those scissors on everything,” Anthony tells me. “Cutting coupons, pruning her tomato plants, even trimming Mitzi’s hair.”
Michael and Mr. Pitoscia burst out laughing. Lorraine looks at me and rolls her eyes. “She definitely does not use them on the dog,” she says.
Nonny slides two large squares onto my plate and then steps back, watching me, so I pick up a slice and take a bite. Maybe it’s the dog-hair seasoning or the newspaper-print flavor, but Nonny’s pizza is awesome.
“Catherine, we can drive you home tonight,” Lorraine says. “Is your mom working?”
Before I can answer, Nonny spouts, “Where your father?”
I can handle this, my answer automated from years of practice. “My parents split up when I was young.” In utero, to be precise. I add, “I never really knew him.” Or his name.
Lorraine’s face is a mask of sympathy that turns to horror when Nonny speaks again.
“That’s okay, Michael’s friend,” she says, while scissoring into the second pizza. “My grandmother hated her husband. Spent forty years of her life with that ass. She better off without him.”
“Jesus, Ma!” Mr. Pitoscia reaches for his mother’s hand. “Settle down.”
Lorraine quickly repeats her earlier question about whether I need a ride home.
“My mom can get me,” I say. “She’s hoping to get out around nine.”
That’s kind of late. For a second I worry that I’m overstaying my welcome, but then Michael asks, “Can she pick you up later than that?”
Before I can answer, Mr. Pitoscia asks me where Mom works and I tell him about both her day and night jobs. Big mistake, because Lorraine then says proudly, “And you work at that law firm too, right, Catherine? Michael told me.”
Oh Jesus. “Um…yeah…just when they need me,” I say.
Mr. Pitoscia nods. “I love to hear when kids get experience like that. What do they have you doing?”
I’m overheating. I’m trapped, locked into this lie for good now that I’ve scammed Michael’s entire family. What makes it even worse is that they’re all looking at me expectantly, waiting to be impressed. When the truth is that I’m not doing anything brilliant—psych rehab is pretty much the complete opposite.
“Like, filing stuff,” I say slowly, looking down at the pizza square on my plate. The lies are like mud on my tongue, thick and heavy.
Just as I’m about to attempt a conversation hijack by asking about toothless Mitzi, Michael reroutes the discussion with a loud, “Let’s open an Instagram account for Nonny.” He must know his mother’s going to flip, because I can see a flush bloom near the neckline of his T-shirt.
Lorraine indeed flips out as Nonny withdraws her phone from somewhere within the top half of her torso and drops its tissue cocoon to the table.
“No!” Anthony says. “Facebook! I’ll get my laptop.”
Anthony bolts from the kitchen and Mr. Pitoscia heads to the refrigerator. He’s halfway back to the table, beer in hand, when Lorraine scolds, “Tony!” Her tone is soft but sharp-edged. Without a word, Mr. Pitoscia returns the unopened can to the refrigerator.
We spend the entire night at the kitchen table, on Anthony’s laptop, creating Nonny’s FB account. For the relationship status, Michael types Nonny is “in a relationship” with Mitzi. For her profile picture, Anthony puts his baseball cap sideways on Nonny’s newly stylish head and calls her “ ’90s Nonny.” For a favorite quote, he types in some Italian profanity courtesy of Google until Nonny makes him delete it. Michael adds Muse for favorite music (Nonny likes the “orchestra parts”) and People magazine for books.
The only slightly awkward part is when they want to send a friend request to me and I have to tell them that I’m not on FB. Obviously I can’t say the reason why, which is that Dr. McCallum has outlawed it.
When Mom texts me at eight-thirty to tell me she’s in the driveway, I’m stunned. The hours flew by and I laughed as hard as I did that day at St. Anne’s with Kristal. A surprisingly awesome day, even if Michael and I didn’t get any alone time in the basement. I have a feeling another opportunity will present itself soon.
“So, you spent a long time with this boy,” Mom says inside the Accord, a minute into our drive home. “Anything going on I should know about?”
“Nah, not really,” I say.
I can’t tell her that Michael and I are technically “going out.” My mother would take it too much as a sign of progress, when I know this won’t last. Michael doesn’t know me. God knows how many defensive lies I told his family tonight. I sat there at their table, served by Nonny, and lied to all of them. Lies I can never undo or explain. Shame rises hot and fast. They’re such good people.
Anxiety, my constant companion, wakes up to further erode the day’s goodness. My heart picks up its pace as I think about Dr. McCallum’s warnings. He often babbles about a “game plan,” something we’ll devise together because, as he has explained, “patients with bipolar disorder often get dep
ressed again after a period of stability and even after doing everything right—establishing a good diet, good sleep patterns and exercise habits, and taking their meds. It can be really discouraging.”
No shit. It’s infinitely more than discouraging. It’s catastrophic.
On the verge of tears, I look out the window so Mom can’t see. It’s so brutally unfair. I want more time. I really like Michael, and I would love to let this, us, unfurl naturally. But as Dr. McCallum has warned, Zero is coming, maybe preceded by a manic episode of God only knows what. An image of me revved up and hyper in front of Michael pops into my head. I shut my eyes. He can never, never see that.
I have no choice. I need to squeeze out as much good as I can with Michael. In whatever time remaining.
“Oops,” Louis Farricelli says as he deliberately flicks his pen off his desk and right in front of me. After I picked the same pen up off the classroom floor and returned it to him not three seconds ago.
He leers at me. His cheeks and double chin are compressed upward by the neck brace so he looks like a perverted Pillsbury Doughboy. “I love to make you bend over,” he whispers.
He’s turned darker since his injury. There’s something ugly and angry percolating under that mass of muscle and flesh. His celebrity status at Cranbury High is already declining, accelerated by the freshman quarterback, who, according to Michael, is completely kicking ass. Before our eyes, Louis Farricelli is atrophying into an eighteen-year-old has-been.
I ignore him and his pen and sit down as Mr. Oleck turns on the Smart Board.
Louis Farricelli hisses like a serpent, “Heard crazies like you are complete freaks in the sack. Maybe we—” But by hyperfocusing on Mr. Oleck’s voice, I can mute the asshole behind me. Just like I can completely not see Riley and Olivia and their crew at the back of the room. They’ve backed off from the heckling and pranks, for now at least.
I think it might be Michael. He’s like my Patronus Charm.
After history class, Michael and I walk together to our next classes. It’s a routine now. Today, Monday, he has AP physics and I’m off to non-honors precalculus with the poorly named Ms. Stinkov. Some days, Tyler walks with us because he has U.S. history near our classroom. He still doesn’t say a whole lot, but as soon as I walk away, I hear him resume his normal conversation with Michael. I get it.
After school, as usual, I’m stuck waiting for Mom. I don’t see Michael on the sidewalk out here anymore. He’s in a bunch of different clubs—Model Congress, the newspaper and, I think, a gamers’ one. It’s a little lonely without him.
I stare at the parking lot entrance willing the Accord to appear. Nothing. I text Mom three question marks followed by three exclamation points. This is getting freaking ridiculous.
I really don’t want to be late to St. Anne’s today and miss any wrap-up of the Immaculate Conception meltdown. It was all Kristal and I could text about last night. She’s sure that Alexis will come but that Amy has been transferred to a rehab center or hospital.
The Accord barrels into the parking lot at the same time my phone choos. It’s Michael. “What are you doing on Friday? Can you come over? Help me give out candy to little kids?”
That’s right. It’s Halloween in four days. The past two Halloweens have been anti-holidays. Burning orange reminders of everything that’s been tsunamied by the gray of Zero. Out of all the holidays, Halloween is the most friend-centric one. And for someone who had lost her friends, it was best ignored, with the TV in Mom’s room cranked loud, the door shut tight so as not to hear the laughter on our street, or the joyous shouts of “Trick or treat!” And Mom, beside me on the bed, eyes blankly staring at the screen, silently praying that the bowl of candy outside our front door would stave off the ringing of the doorbell.
But now, it feels different. I can actually remember, in my body, that Halloween feeling. That jangly, twitchy buzz from candy corn, popcorn balls and the jumbo Hershey’s chocolate bars that Mr. Willetz from two doors down always gave out. The exquisite selection process of the costume. The world turned upside down—in a good way—for one black velvet night.
I slide into the front passenger seat. “Michael asked me over to his house for Halloween,” I tell Mom.
Mom glances at me before accelerating, but I can’t read the expression on her face. “Oh,” she says. “Do you want to go?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“You know, he can come over to our house too,” Mom says. “I’m not working this Friday.”
I see Michael and me on the living room sofa with Mom orbiting around us, offering food, drink and Jenga. Our three voices would never match the volume at the Pitoscia house. “Um…well, he asked me to go there first,” I say. Knowing Michael, I’m sure he’d come to my place instead if I asked. But I don’t want to.
“That’s fine, Catherine,” Mom says quickly. “But just please invite him to our house sometime, okay?”
I study Mom’s profile. Her eyebrows are scrunched together as if she’s not sure how to navigate this change to our Halloween protocol. “So, are you guys like dating or going out?” she asks.
I want to lie and say we’re just hanging out, no big deal, but I’m not feeling it. Lying to her so much is tiring sometimes. So I tell a half-truth. “It might be going in that direction….We’ll see.”
Mom gives me a smile, but the usual exuberance is missing. Her worry is almost palpable inside the tight confines of the Accord. What if this boy hurts her? she’s thinking. Catherine is still so vulnerable. She can’t take any more rejection.
Don’t worry, Mom, I think. I can’t be hurt anymore. I’ve got a plan.
I can’t say that, though, obviously. So I’m silent and Mom is silent. But when we roll up to St. Anne’s, Mom pulls me close for a hug, and I let her.
Pulling gently away from her, I say, “You should make plans for Friday night. Do something fun with Aunt D.”
“Maybe I will,” she says, and her smile reaches her eyes again.
When I enter Room Three, Kristal looks up from her DBT card to give me a small, serious nod. I do a quick inventory of my IOP colleagues. Amy is missing, and Alexis sits alone on their sofa, just as Kristal predicted. And today, for the first time, Alexis hasn’t changed into sweats. She’s still in the Immaculate Conception uniform of plaid pleated skirt, white polo shirt, maroon knee socks and loafers.
I whisper to Kristal, “This is not good,” and take my spot next to her on the sofa to supply the usual BS on my DBT form.
Everyone finishes in record time of course because of our missing member. Nobody makes a peep, not even Lil’ Tommy, whose Docksides beat a rapid rhythm against the sofa. Ba da. Ba da. Ba da. We all look at Alexis.
Sandy takes a deep breath. “Well, I hope you all had a good weekend. Does anyone need to talk about anything?”
Again, nobody says a word. John clears his throat and adjusts his Red Sox cap. Garrett cracks his knuckles. Alexis stares at the floor. The room is quiet except for ba da. Ba da. Ba da.
Sandy nods as if expecting this. “Okay, well, first I need to make an announcement. Amy will no longer be in our group. I can’t tell you any more than that. I know you understand why.”
I glance at Kristal. She’s holding herself rather rigidly, staring at Sandy.
“Okay,” Sandy continues. “Some housekeeping notes. We’re starting a new step-down program. The first week of December. Instead of five days a week, the step-down group will meet two days, from three o’clock to five o’clock. The step-down program follows the same format that we use here: group discussion, activities, exercises. At this point, it looks like I’m running that group. So, we’ve already advised your treatment providers. It’s up to them to give the okay for you to join that program.”
Wait, what? There’s an end date to our happy little group? I feel a surprising amount of disappointment.
Sandy goes on about how another group will be starting in December. Their session will probably begin at the same time that
the step-down program ends—five o’clock. So to avoid any delays, the step-down program will be taking place in a different room. “It’s a great space. They’re finishing it up now,” Sandy says, pointing to the wall opposite the Room Three door. “Right next to this one. I just poked my head in today. Real pleather sofas,” she says, and this gets the appropriate chuckles.
Sandy takes a breath and picks up her Starbucks cup. After two gulps, she looks around at us. “Okay, let’s open it up now. Does anyone want to share anything?”
Alexis raises her hand. She looks at us, her face a mixture of embarrassment and defiance. “So, about last Friday…” Her hands in her lap have suddenly mesmerized her. The pause stretches out. She seems to have lost her chutzpah.
“It’s okay,” Kristal says. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
I can’t believe Kristal said that. She’s always encouraging people to share. Me especially. And this particular topic was all she could talk about last night.
Alexis looks up quickly. Her eyes are brimming with tears that avalanche down her cheeks at the sudden movement of her head. Kristal rises and joins Alexis on her sofa. And then Kristal does a not very covert head tilt, indicating that I should hop aboard the Alexis Consolation Train.
This is not my thing. Alexis doesn’t even like me that much. I can’t get up and walk over there. But Kristal is giving me big eyes that scream “Get your ass over here.” And Lil’ Tommy and Garrett and John are all looking at me now, expecting me to move. Even Sandy offers me an encouraging smile.
I’m not doing it. Alexis is going to ask, “What the freak is Catherine doing here?” And then she’ll demand that Sandy order me back to my designated sofa.
Alexis gives a big sniffle and Kristal is almost glaring at me now. Fine. I get up and move across the square created by the four couches, bump my shin against the coffee table and sit next to Alexis, who actually shimmies closer to Kristal, farther from my lame carcass, and leans into her shoulder. I knew it. Jesus Christ. I thought this was supposed to be a safe zone.
The Weight of Zero Page 13