The Weight of Zero

by Karen Fortunati

  “Oh my God, me too,” I say. I can’t tell Kristal the full truth, so I give a watered-down, edited version. “A lot of my friends left when I…when things got bad. It was rough.” It feels safe in the dim light of Kristal’s room. I feel safe. So I add, “It still is rough. They’re pretty mean to me now.”

  “That sucks, Cat. I’m so sorry. But you have me now. I’ll be your new BFF.” Kristal sits up. “You never really talk in group, about yourself. What’s going on with you?” she asks softly. “Depression? From your grandmother dying in front of you?”

  God. She says it so openly. So easily. I’m still getting used to the very publicness of my most private pain.

  “Yes,” I whisper. Another partial truth.

  I know I could tell her right now that I have bipolar disorder. She’s asking. Part of me reasons, The IOP gang doesn’t give a shit about your diagnosis. Kristal will be fine with it.

  But Riley and Olivia asked too. I remember Riley studying her phone and then glancing at my hair, the glaring evidence of my instability. I remember how her mouth opened in shock, and how quickly she scrambled to her feet after probably reading Wikipedia’s take on bipolar disorder. She couldn’t get out of my house fast enough.

  So I decide not to tell Kristal. I couldn’t handle her rejection, couldn’t bear the way it would destroy the safe zone of St. Anne’s forever, especially in my final chapter, when things are going so well. Being blacklisted at group would definitely accelerate Zero’s arrival.

  “I have anxiety,” Kristal says. “Horrible anxiety. That’s why I got bulimic. I thought it was a way I could control things. Or so says one of my eating coaches. But that’s over. I’m done with that. It’s really disgusting to me now. I hope I helped Alexis a little. Amy really screwed her up. I felt bad for her, didn’t you?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “She must’ve felt betrayed in a way.”

  “Good point,” Kristal says. “You know, you should talk more at group. Don’t be afraid to share. Rule number one at St. Anne’s: Don’t be stingy with the wisdom, Cat. That’s why they want us together, right? Peer support.” Kristal sighs and grows quiet.

  Okay. She wants support. I can ask this. “You said you have anxiety. What are you anxious about?”

  “Everything.” In the dim light, I can see Kristal lean against the headboard. “School. Friends. Guitar. I quit guitar. Got rid of that stressor. But I can’t quit school. Or college. Get this, my brother is a freshman at Harvard.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Do your parents put a lot of pressure on you?”

  “Not at all,” Kristal says. “They’d be happy with me at community college as long as I stop putting my finger down my throat. Which I did. It’s all me, Cat. It’s me who inflicts all the pressure.” Her voice sounds small and defeated. “We were supposed to look at schools in D.C., but my mom doesn’t want me that far from home. Just in case, she keeps saying.”

  “You really want UConn?” I ask.

  “No, I just told you that because…I don’t know why. I guess to make you think I didn’t care. I really want Vassar. But I don’t think I’ll get in.”

  “You go to Chapman,” I say. “You have a great shot.”

  “It’s probably better if I stay in Connecticut. I’ve got other stuff going on….” Her voice trails off.

  What else could she be dealing with?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I swing my legs off the daybed so my toes scrape the plush Oriental rug. I lean forward. “You can trust me.”

  “I know. I do trust you. I told you my poop story.” We laugh a little and then there’s silence. I hear Kristal sigh. “It is just so fucking, mind-bogglingly, insanely humiliating, Cat. Only my parents know.” The sadness in her voice is almost palpable.

  I lean forward, whispering urgently, “You don’t have to tell me. But I’m here whenever you want to talk. If you ever want to talk about it.”

  Kristal inhales deeply. “Okay, then. Here it goes. My body doesn’t work right,” she says quickly. “Down there.”

  “Uh…what do you mean?”

  “I’m like a Barbie doll.”

  WTF does she mean? “You don’t…don’t have a vagi—” I can’t finish the rest. Maybe she’s a hermaphrodite.

  Kristal laughs. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Yes, I have a vagina. But it doesn’t work right. Due to my anxiety.”

  I have no clue how to respond. What does she mean by “doesn’t work right”?

  “God, I’m so sorry,” I say. “Do you need surgery or something?”

  “I wish,” she replies. “That would be awesome if they could just do something. I have vaginismus. Ever hear of it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s where the muscles inside your vagina completely tense up. It feels like the Berlin Wall down there.”

  Shit. Could I have that too? “How did you know you had it?” I ask.

  “I could never get a tampon in. Never. Finally, my mom took me to the gynecologist. It was bad. I had to have an ultrasound since there was no way for her to do an exam.”

  “Oh my God, Kristal. That is horrifying.”

  “You have no idea, Cat. It is beyond humiliating. On top of everything else, I get stuck with this? An anxious vagina?” She pauses. “That would make a good name for a band, right? The Anxious Vagina.”

  We burst out laughing.

  “I won’t be sharing this at St. Anne’s. There’s no zone safe enough for this one,” Kristal says, chuckling and wiping her eyes. “It just really sucks. I have to go to a physical therapist who specializes in this kind of stuff. Pelvic floor dysfunction. I still can’t believe this is my life.”

  “I am so sorry,” I say again.

  “I hate that my body doesn’t work right. It feels so unfair.”

  Her words vibrate inside me. Yes, yes, yes. I know that feeling. I live that feeling. I want to tell her I understand the pain of a body malfunctioning. I could tell her that my brain doesn’t work right. But the confession hides low in my gut, nowhere near ready to be released into the realm of public pain.

  Kristal gets out of bed and opens the box of doughnuts on her desk. It looks like she has one in each hand as she climbs back into bed. An alarm bell goes off in my head. I hope it’s just what Mom does, stress eating. And that the food stays put, in her stomach.

  Kristal says, “My mom calls it ‘nature’s chastity belt’ and thinks it’s just gonna relax on its own all of a sudden. But when? You know what it’s like to go shopping for period stuff? I have intense tampon envy.” She finishes the first doughnut and starts on the second. “And I’m jealous of you. You have a boyfriend. You can be with him without worrying about something like this.” Her voice trembles. “How am I supposed to go off to college like this? With this fucking vagina…vagina lockjaw?”

  “Well, what does the therapist or your doctor say?” I ask. “Maybe it will be gone by then?”

  “They won’t give me a time frame. They just said to focus on the therapy and it happens when it happens. And not to worry because it’s completely curable. But who the fuck knows when the miracle cure will happen? Ugh. Enough of this.” Kristal gets up for another doughnut. “What are you doing with Michael this weekend?”

  “He’s coming over tomorrow, well, technically tonight, for dinner. With my mom. I’m dreading it, actually. It’s just me and my mom, and compared with Michael’s noisy house, it will probably be so damn awkward. Michael’s kind of shy and my mom…God knows what will pop out of her mouth. She already started pulling out the board games.” I cringe in the semidarkness. “She’ll be hovering the entire time.”

  There’ll probably be no alone time with Michael either. But I don’t mention that. Why rub salt into Kristal’s wound?

  Kristal wants details on Michael—height, weight, eye color, build. Then she tells me about the guy she’s been crushing on for all four years of Chapman. We strategize ways for her to get to know him better for at least a half hour, but around 3:10, I start
to fade, my eyelids heavy and the daybed just too perfect with its fluffy pillows and cozy blankets. The ceiling fan blows a soft breeze.

  I’m awakened around 3:30 by the sound of the shower running in Kristal’s adjoining bathroom. Her bed is empty and I can hear low, coughing sounds. Like someone’s throwing up. Instinctively my eyes go to Kristal’s desk. The box of doughnuts is gone. Oh Jesus.

  The shower runs until four a.m. I pretend I’m asleep as Kristal emerges from the bathroom. I don’t know what to say. I can’t jeopardize this friendship. Before getting into her bed, Kristal slides something under it.

  Does everyone hide their darker selves under their beds?

  In the morning, before we head downstairs to breakfast, Kristal turns to me. “Don’t say anything about the doughnuts. I just threw them out last night after you fell asleep. My mom gets all weird about food and stuff now.”

  We’re standing at the top of the back staircase that leads directly to the kitchen. Kristal won’t meet my eyes. She runs a hand along the white paneling that rises halfway up the wall.

  I don’t say that I heard her coughing in the bathroom at 3:30 or that the shower ran for almost a half hour. I don’t say that she’s lying about being recovered from bulimia. She’s entitled to her secrets just like I am. But I’ll watch her. And maybe, if the time is right, I’ll say something. I’m not sure she’ll be receptive to any words of wisdom coming from me, though, regardless of what she said last night.

  Bev makes us banana-and-strawberry pancakes at the six-burner mega-stove. We sit around the island and chat about school and Jane and her letters. It’s nice, but all the while I’m aware of Bev stealing glances at Kristal and Kristal’s plate. The expression in her eyes reminds me of Mom.

  D-DAY LIST

  1. Michael

  2. First Kiss, Michael Oct.11

  3. Meet Kristal at Museum Oct. 19

  4. Museum with M Oct. 25

  5. Halloween with M

  6. Sleepover at K’s Nov. 7

  7. Michael Dinner #1 @ Pulaskis’ Nov. 8

  Mom and I are in Walmart. We drove here straight from Kristal’s. “I cleaned and went grocery shopping last night,” Mom had said as soon as I slid into the Accord. The twenty questions, sleepover edition I anticipated were not on the morning’s agenda. “It was slow, so Dominic let me go early,” she’d said. “Do you think Michael will like that chicken dish I make with the artichoke hearts and mushrooms? And I’ll do roasted potatoes, string beans and an apple pie. With vanilla ice cream.” She was abuzz with nervous energy. Dinner at the Pulaskis’ with Bipolar Cath’s new boyfriend!

  We split when we got inside the store, Mom headed to Housewares in search of a new tablecloth, me to the Women’s Intimates linoleum quadrant. My bras are all pretty new. The silver lining to my weight gain was to go up a cup size, necessitating a trip to Kohl’s with our Kohl’s cash and coupons in hand. But I really need underwear. My existing stock is worn, and now that I have a boyfriend, the status of my underwear has become more relevant.

  But then I realize that, duh, there’s no way I can buy underwear. Could I be any more fucking obvious? Hey, Mom, thanks for cooking dinner tonight and, oh, would you mind shelling out for these new undies I plan on wearing for Michael? I guess I’m stuck with my aging tie-dye bikinis from Target.

  At home, I help Mom with peeling the potatoes, and then cover the table with the new tablecloth. Mom tells me about her first session with the anxiety support group, how initially she was petrified, but the people are really nice and have family with all kinds of issues—addiction or alcoholism, bankruptcy, criminal activity, Alzheimer’s. Only one other person has a loved one with mental illness. Mom didn’t recognize anyone from Cranbury and that made her feel better.

  “Jeez, Cath, I understand now why you were so worried about going to St. Anne’s,” she says as she rinses the chicken breasts under the kitchen faucet.

  “I was freaking out when I walked in that first day,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “I was praying I didn’t know anybody.” And then I realize that I have to tell Mom about my lying to Michael about work. Michael could bring up the topic tonight at dinner. “Michael’s asked me a few times to stay after school for our project,” I say. “I told him I couldn’t, that I work at your law office.”

  Mom puts a chicken breast down to look at me. Then she shocks me. “I was wondering about that. He used to be there a lot when I picked you up. I wondered if he ever asked you.”

  “I couldn’t tell him about St. Anne’s,” I say.

  Mom brushes her shoulder against mine and returns to the chicken. “I don’t blame you. So how many days a week do we work together?”

  “Five,” I say, and we both start laughing.

  “Industrious,” Mom says. “I’m impressed.” She moves to the refrigerator and gets the eggs. “You know, Cath, if things seem to be working out between the two of you, you’ll eventually have to tell him, right?”

  “Sure,” I say. “But I barely know him. Let’s see what happens.” I don’t tell her the truth, that Michael will never know about that part of me.

  “I get it now, Cath. How hard it is to go to these group sessions. How hard it is to say your problems out loud. I’m so proud of you.” Mom wraps an arm around my shoulders and I allow myself to lean into her. “You tell Michael when you’re ready, baby girl. If you do decide to, we’ll buy some doughnuts for moral support.”

  I think of last night and Kristal. Her anxiety and bulimia and vagi-whatever. How it all just sucks.

  “Yikes, I forgot about the laundry,” Mom says suddenly, moving to wash her hands under the faucet. “I put in a load last night and it will smell if I don’t move it to the dryer.”

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “Finish up here.”

  “Wow,” Mom says, sending a dart of guilt through me—that my doing the laundry warrants such shock and awe. “Thank you.”

  In the basement, I empty the dryer and transfer the wet towels and sheets into it. There are huge mounds of clean clothes in the two laundry baskets on the floor. Their sweet fragrance dances up to me and I suddenly remember Grandma, bending to pull the clothes out of the dryer. She’d always sing the same song, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray….” She’d fold the clothes, sometimes draping me in a warm towel or blanket fresh from the dryer while I’d lie on my stomach on the braided rug, coloring or drawing.

  I hum the tune as I fold all the clothes in the baskets.

  —

  In addition to Michael, Aunt D joins us for dinner. Those awkward silences punctuated by Mom’s ramblings that I feared never happen. Aunt D skillfully keeps the conversation hopping from one fun topic to another as Mom bustles around serving a dinner on par with Nonny’s cooking. I need to remember to thank Mom for that. I also need to thank her for giving Aunt D a heads-up about my lie about working at the law firm.

  Following dessert of apple pie and vanilla ice cream, the most unexpected development occurs.

  “I’m stuffed,” Aunt D says, her hand resting on the pudgy stomach that swells slightly over her belt. And in a rehearsed fashion, Mom replies, “Why don’t we try to walk off some of our dinner?” Aunt D responds with the enthusiasm of an infomercial hostess. “Great idea, Jody!”

  I raise my eyebrows. It’s beyond bizarre. My mother would sooner go for a Brazilian bikini wax than meander through our dumpy neighborhood at eight at night. But the two of them are already zipping up jackets and wrapping scarves around their necks and heading for the front door.

  “How long do you think we’ll be walking?” Aunt D stage-asks Mom while covertly winking at me.

  “A half hour,” Mom says, checking her watch. “We should be back around eight-thirtyish. Maybe we can play Jenga or Taboo when we get back?” And then Mom gives me a little smile that says, “Have fun but not too much.”

  I feel a surge of love for the two of them. A whopping thirty minutes of private time—what
a freaking unexpected bonanza!

  As soon as the front door closes, I hit the overhead light so just the one lamp is on. Michael stands stock-still, clearly silently freaking out. I sit on the sofa and pat the cushion.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” I ask, trying not to sound like a cheesy porn star. Thirty minutes is the most time we’ve had alone. Maybe I should’ve bought new underwear at Walmart.

  Michael sits down next to me and stares straight ahead. I can see red blotches on his neck. I lightly touch his cheek and then his chin, pulling his face toward mine. Leaning over, I kiss him. The race to connect crosses my mind, but I don’t want to think that anymore. It’s cheap and wrong now that I actually know Michael. It’s more that I want experiences with this boy before Zero returns. But that may be another lie I’m trying to sell myself. Because the bigger truth may be simply that I like him. I just really, really like Michael Pitoscia.

  Our kissing has progressed from sitting on the sofa to lying down. Not very smoothly accomplished, since I kind of tugged Michael down by the front of his flannel shirt, but here we are, his long body on top of mine.

  Michael explores my ear with his tongue, giving me delicious shivers. I could do this all night, but we are seriously running low on time. According to my Timex, we’ve been kissing for seven minutes. This only leaves us a solid ten minutes, fifteen max. Undoubtedly, Mom will be at the front door at 8:30 on the dot or maybe even five minutes before. Aunt D wouldn’t allow an arrival any earlier.

  Michael is kissing my neck. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers in my ear. His breathing is faster, but his hands have stayed locked on my waist, superglued to the nubby fabric of my sweater.

  I bring both my hands up to his neck. I love the way our bodies feel, pressed tightly together like this. I love this closeness, and the warmth of this contact. I lift his shirt and run my hands up his back. His skin is hot, smooth and a little sweaty. I’m surprised at how his back widens from those narrow hips. The twin columns of muscle running along his spine are firm and I like the way they feel under my fingers. He moans a little.