The Weight of Zero

by Karen Fortunati

  And even though he’s a disgusting lech, he’s not stupid. Louis Farricelli understands our mockery, and that current of malice I’ve felt percolating in him since his accident rises to his eyes. It makes both Sabita and me hurry out of the classroom and into the hall, where we join Michael. Looks like I’m not the only psycho in AP U.S. history. Note to self: Stay the eff away from that dude.

  —

  At 7:34 p.m. my phone choos. It’s an email from Jenna, the curator at the New Haven Museum. She’s been going through a box of letters and has found a second one from Jane. Not only has she sent me a photo of the letter but also transcribed it for me. My heart ratchets up a notch, as if I’m getting a letter from someone I actually know. Mom sets up the laptop for me on the kitchen table and I open the document attached to Jenna’s email.

  It’s dated June 19, 1944. So Jane wrote this only a few months after the one displayed in the museum in which she complains bitterly of the prejudice at her South Carolina base.

  Dear Mama,

  You’d better sit down to read this. It’s good news, but I know you, Mama. Get yourself a big glass of water or maybe even some of that sherry you use for cooking. And whatever you do, do not start hollering. Hollering these days is only bound to scare somebody. And this is good news, Mama. Your daughter, Jane Louise Talmadge, is going to Europe! Yes, yes, yes! I’ve been picked to be part of the first WAC unit assigned to overseas duty. Now, please don’t start worrying. As I’m writing this, I can see the tears falling down your cheeks.

  First off, I’m not sure we’re headed to Europe. It’s just the gossip that’s flying around down here. Second, I don’t even know when we’re going. With my luck, by the time they get around to sending us, the war will be over. Now, you know I want the war to end. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. It’s just for the things that are the most important to us, it always takes forever and a day to get done. And third, we won’t be too close to the fighting. We’ll be assigned driving and secretarial duties and not that escort business for our Negro soldiers over there. Please just put that nasty thought out of your mind.

  I am so excited, Mama! I never thought I’d ever get to Europe. I don’t know how I was chosen. A group of officers came around and interviewed a bunch of us, and I guess I must’ve said something right. Maybe because I have that year of college, I don’t know, but I am thanking God for sure. I need to get my hands on some books on Europe. I need to do a lot of reading so I know what I’m looking at when I get there. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for England or France. I still can’t believe it. It’s a dream come true! When I’m teaching, I’ll be able to tell my students that I served in Europe.

  Give Petey and Mari a big hug and kiss for me and tell them that their big sis will bring home lots of souvenirs from Europe for them.

  Your loving daughter,

  Jane

  Mom wants to hear the letter, so I read it aloud. Then I read the letter three, four, five more times to myself. And each time, my eyes drag on that last sentence: …bring home lots of souvenirs from Europe. I feel sick and sad. Because I know Jane will never bring home those souvenirs, that she’ll never be a teacher, that she’ll never set eyes on her mother or brother or sister again. She died in the jeep accident only a year after she wrote this letter, with the vast Atlantic Ocean separating her from her mama.

  Tonight I don’t take out my shoe box—it feels disrespectful in some weird way. My sleep is disturbed with vague dreams of a big gray ocean. And Mom drowning in it.

  John walks into group late Tuesday afternoon, a good fifteen minutes after Sandy has collected our DBT mood forms. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the Halloween party. I was a little bummed he was absent yesterday. I had felt some ridiculous sense of kinship with him at Robbie’s, like we were part of some underground society, not an intensive outpatient program.

  John looks like shit. First clue: not one thread of Red Sox gear on his body. Second clue: unwashed, greasy hair and dark shadows under his eyes, emphasized by his pale skin. Third clue: Sandy. She pops off the sofa, puts an arm around his shoulder and escorts him to the sofa he shares with Garrett and Lil’ Tommy.

  “Hey, man,” Lil’ Tommy instantly says. “What’s wrong?”

  Garrett stands up and gives John one of those emotional guy handshakes—an almost high five that melds into a hearty grasp lasting a moment longer than the standard shake. “Not your fault, dude,” Garrett says.

  Kristal nudges me as a “Shit, man,” bursts forth from Lil’ Tommy. His small hands begin their nervous travel up and down the tops of his thighs. “What the hell is going on? What’s not your fault, John?”

  Sandy interrupts. “All right, let’s all take a deep breath for a minute, okay? I know some of you are worried about John. As you can see, John is here and managing, and he’ll decide if or when he wants to talk.”

  Everyone’s studying John, and he gives a small shake of his head, crosses his arms over his chest and drops his eyes to the floor.

  “Okay,” Sandy says, “I’d like to open a discussion on peer press—”

  “Wait a sec,” Lil’ Tommy whines. “How are we supposed to concentrate on anything if we don’t know what’s wrong with John?”

  “Jesus, Tommy, shut up,” Alexis snaps. “He doesn’t want to talk.” Since Amy’s defection, Alexis seems different, more engaged. At break, Alexis, Kristal and I usually chat in the ladies’ room. I mean, Alexis and I aren’t friends by any stretch, but it’s a lot more pleasant without Amy. Especially since we’ll all be continuing on in the step-down program. Dr. McCallum was quick to okay my participation.

  “Yeah, Tom, don’t you understand the meaning of giving somebody space?” Kristal adds.

  “But he doesn’t look—” Tommy’s anxious objection is silenced by Garrett.

  “Tom,” Garrett says, his head whipping toward Tommy, “for once in your life can you just fucking chill?” It’s the first time I’ve seen Garrett react to anything.

  The words almost physically lash Tommy and he abruptly sits back on the sofa.

  Everyone is trying to support John, but I think they’re blind to something. I can see the tears gathering in Tommy’s eyes.

  “You guys, he’s just worried about John,” I say. And then I look to Tommy. “It’s okay, Tommy. It’s okay.” My voice sounds abnormally loud in the brief sliver of silence, but somehow it calms everyone down. The effect makes me feel like an idiot savant who has just figured out the cure to Alzheimer’s.

  “Thank you, Catherine. Well said,” Sandy says. “I think we all need to take a deep breath. Remember, all of this, everyone’s reaction, is born out of something good. And that’s our concern for John.” Sandy turns to Tommy. “It’s really wonderful, Tom, that you care about John. But you know that sharing here will always be a choice for each of you. We can’t force—”

  “It’s okay,” John interrupts her. “I can talk about it. Thanks, little man.” John does an air–high five with Tommy. He turns back to the group and his eyes drop to the speckled gray carpet. “I…I quit wrestling….Something happened yesterday….” He rubs his hands together and then squeezes his eyes shut.

  Tommy says, “It’s okay, buddy,” and then his little Purelled hand actually pats the unsanitized cotton fabric of John’s gray flannel button-down. Real, voluntary, physical contact. The shock is enough to pull John out of his private hell for a moment. He raises his head to look at Tommy. “Dude, did you actually just touch me? On purpose?”

  Tommy nods, slightly dumbfounded. For a germophobe with OCD, this is major progress. Ignoring the minor victory, Tommy graciously concedes the floor. “So, John, what happened yesterday?” he asks, resting the renegade hand conspicuously still on his leg like it’s covered with Ebola virus.

  John swallows, his Adam’s apple moving with the effort. “I broke a kid’s shoulder. During practice.” His eyes return to the carpet.

  “But isn’t it too early in the season to be practicing?” To
mmy asks.

  “Objection, relevance,” Kristal barks, and I have to stifle a laugh. “Tom,” Kristal continues, “can you please let the kid speak?”

  Tommy nods. “Sorry.”

  We all wait, but John doesn’t say anything. A full minute passes. When John finally raises his head, his eyes are tortured.

  “Something went wrong during a takedown…he moved wrong….And I landed on him funny…I…I felt the fucking bone snap.” John twists his hands around each other, over and under. He continues in a raspy voice. “And we both froze for a second and I looked at his shoulder, which was, like, two inches from my face. The shape was all wrong—distorted—and something white—the bone, I guess—was sticking out of the skin.” John drops his head into his hands. “Oh my God. I can’t get it out of my head.”

  The rest of us sit there, stunned. Alexis and Tommy stare at John, their eyes wide and mouths slightly open. Garrett’s hands are pleated together on top of his head and he keeps looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head. Kristal covers her mouth with one hand. I’m suddenly cold.

  “That wasn’t the worst part,” John says, still cradling his face in his hands.

  I feel the prickling of fear, a premonition of what he’s going to say. I don’t want to hear anymore. I want to walk out of Room Three right now. Instead, I pull my knees up to my chest, as if to defend myself against John’s words.

  “When it happened…,” John continues. “When the bone snapped, the kid went quiet. He stopped moving. And then…and then…he made this…this noise. It was so sick. I keep hearing it. It wasn’t human…it wasn’t human.” John’s crying openly now.

  Garrett pats John’s knee, but Tommy doesn’t get it. “What? What do you mean?” His voice is high and chirpy. “Not human? Like what?”

  I can feel the blood pulsing in my ears, the pressure in my head elevating.

  John doesn’t respond and Tommy repeats his inane questions. He won’t stop.

  “Like an animal,” I say. “An animal in pain.”

  I heard that same sound July 3 when I rolled Grandma over and saw her open eyes and bleeding nose. Her mouth, the mouth that had sung me silly songs and kissed me and told me she loved me, was making awful noises. My beautiful grandmother reduced in seconds to a tormented creature dying on the bedroom floor, and I knew that sound was the last I’d ever hear her make.

  “I know it,” I tell John, a floodgate finally opened in my core. “I heard it too. My grandmother made that noise when she died….”

  I feel Kristal’s arms encircle me and John’s eyes are holding mine. I am crying now, too. I see thirteen-year-old me calling 911 and then wrapping Grandma in her favorite yellow afghan, holding her as the keening ceased and she slipped away from me.

  —

  It’s break time in Room Three. The mood is hushed and we all tread lightly around the table with pretzels and apple juice. I think Garrett was the only person in the room who didn’t cry. Even Sandy was dabbing her eyes as she came over to sit beside me and pull me close. I cried again when John said in a deep, trembling voice, “Thanks for sharing that, Catherine. It helps me….I’m sorry you went through that. But I…I feel better knowing you know what it feels like.”

  I nodded. “Me too.”

  And it’s true. I never told anyone about those sounds. Not Mom, or Dr. A, or Dr. McCallum. This memory has haunted me for years because I didn’t think anyone would understand. But John does.

  Kristal is still huddled over me, armed with extra tissues. “Jesus, Cat,” she says. “That was the fucking saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Your grandmother dying right in front of you.”

  It is the first time someone has said this to me point-blank. I have run from these words for the past two years and four months. And then Alexis pops up and sits beside me. I am sandwiched between my two IOP comrades on the sofa. Alexis gently pats my back.

  I can only respond, “It was horrible.” There’s more, but I can’t say it just yet. Yet speaking those three words aloud shifts something inside me. I feel a little lighter. I realize now the enormity, the weight of that secret memory, is part of what keeps Zero tethered to me.

  Sandy forges ahead with discussion even though the fifteen-minute break isn’t over. She directs us back to our sofas to “process” our emotions.

  “So we’ve all just heard the events that happened to Catherine and John. The freak accident while John was wrestling and his opponent so horribly injured,” Sandy says. “And Catherine witnessing the death of her grandmother. Extraordinarily traumatic, painful things. So how do we deal with this? How do we deal with pain? We are human. We suffer. No one, no one escapes that fate.” She pauses and her eyes travel to each of us. “So this is the question for all of us: how can we ride out the bad times? And I’m using the phrase ‘ride out’ on purpose. Because our lives are in constant motion, and everything in life passes. The best of times don’t last, as much as we’d like them to, but the worst of times don’t last either. Even though it may feel like they do.”

  Sandy leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, as if to get closer to us. “Everyone in this room has experienced pain. You each have your challenges. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. In a way, I think you guys are a little ahead of the game. Lots of people don’t deal with their issues until much later in life when, believe it or not, it gets even more complicated. I like to think that because you’re handling these tough issues, you will be stronger and better for it.”

  This is a novel spin on the IOP experience—Sandy pitching our mental illness issues like they’re black badges of courage. The few, the brave, the bipolar.

  Tommy does a few enthusiastic claps, which makes the rest of us break out into small smiles.

  Sandy scoots forward on the sofa so she’s perched on the very edge. I’ve never seen her so intense. “My goal is for you to leave this program with not only a greater degree of honesty with yourselves but also a greater willingness to be honest with others. And with greater coping skills to handle what happens next in your lives. I want you to think about the safest ways for you to deal with pain.” She pauses and then continues in that deep, slow tone. “Whether that pain comes from anxiety or loneliness or a traumatic event or a condition, it doesn’t matter. Pain is pain. This is the reason you’re sitting here in this room today. The bottom line for all of this is to learn to safely deal with your pain.”

  “Are you a virgin, Cat?”

  It’s two-thirty in the morning on Saturday, and Kristal and I are in her bedroom. I’m stretched out on the luxurious daybed and Kristal sprawls under the covers of her queen-sized bed with its upholstered headboard. Kristal’s question has not quite come out of left field, since the topic of conversation is Michael, but it still throws me a little. She left the light on in her walk-in closet, so the room is pretty well lit and I’m worried she’ll be able to see the red heat in my cheeks.

  “Uh…yeah,” I say.

  Kristal and I haven’t stopped talking since Aunt Darlene dropped me off tonight loaded with two boxes of doughnuts. Incredibly, Mom had offered no resistance to the sleepover plan—perhaps a by-product of the new anxiety support group she’s just started attending. She took a Friday-night shift at Dominic’s since I wasn’t going to be home and Aunt D was headed to New Haven anyway for dinner. So Aunt D’s dropping me off at Kristal’s only a few miles away was a no-brainer. I stalled on taking the doughnuts, but Aunt D said it was good manners to bring something for the host. So I walked in carrying my duffel and twenty-four wheels of iced, sugary goodness. Kristal dropped a dozen on the granite island in the Walkers’ grand kitchen and hurried the second box upstairs to her bedroom. “Shhh,” she had said. “This will be our reserve. Don’t tell my mom.”

  Kristal kicks off her covers now. “Sorry. Was that virgin status question a little too personal?”

  “No,” I say, even though I’m thinking, Kinda. I forgot about this girlfriend intimacy. With no topics off-limits.
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  “How long have you guys been going out?” she asks.

  “We had our first kiss on October eleventh,” I say. I know this from studying my list. I also just added entry number seven: Michael’s first scheduled dinner at the Pulaski household for later today, Saturday, November 8. Mom had insisted.

  “Congrats!” Kristal gives a low whistle. “You’re coming up on your one-month anniversary. Do you celebrate stuff like that, or is it too middle school?”

  I rest my chin on a pillow. “I have no clue. I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

  “Wow, I’m surprised,” Kristal says, the relief obvious from her tone. “You’re so pretty. You seem like one of those girls who always has a boyfriend.”

  “That’s what I think about you!” I don’t share that my bipolar disorder has majorly impacted my desirability to the opposite sex. Or that Zero is terrific at pulverizing one’s sex drive. “Are you dating anyone?”

  “No,” Kristal says.

  A silence falls, and I don’t know if she’s getting sleepy or doesn’t want this discussion to go any further. I lean back against the pillows.

  “It’s…it’s hard for me,” she begins. “I’ve had these issues for a while….”

  Another silence. I have to say something. It feels rude not to.

  “It is so hard,” I say. “It’s much harder for people like us. Dealing with the regular bullshit of high school and then adding all this extra crap—psychiatrists, counseling, IOPs.”

  “I’m so glad I met you,” Kristal says. “Just so fucking glad. I don’t know about you, but I just don’t feel connected anymore to my friends at school. I can’t tell them anything. They’re really nice and all, and I’m sure they’d be okay with it. A couple of them go to counseling too. But it’s for stuff like divorce. It’s just…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. I hang out with them and do stuff on weekends but it feels kind of superficial. But with you…we’re in this together. You understand. I don’t have to edit myself.”