Oh God. That sense of loss hangs over me. I just want to get this over with and return the earrings without breaking down in front of him.
Michael gets back in the car. His entire face and, from what I can see, his neck are bright red. “Yes, Anthony told me about seeing you at St. Anne’s,” he starts. “But, Catherine, I had a feeling before that. I…I knew you didn’t have a job.”
He knew I didn’t have a job? He knew I was lying? Is that why he stopped waiting with me for Mom to pick me up after school? Why he was awkward every time my alleged employment came up in conversation?
Michael is saying, “I knew that your mom was taking you somewhere. I knew you had some stuff going on last year—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “How did you know? That I wasn’t working?”
“That day you left your phone at school. I took it and went to the law firm. I saved that paper, the law firm’s messed-up letterhead, from that time at the library. I asked for you and they thought I meant your mother. One of the attorneys said she was taking her daughter to the day clinic and that she’d be right back, she just had to drop you off.”
Jesus Christ. That was in October. He knew all this time? I want to bolt from the car.
Michael must understand that I’m humiliated, because he grabs my hand. “It’s okay, Cath. It’s okay. That doesn’t matter to me.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t fully get it. “I’m not just going to the doctor’s,” I say, fighting back tears. “I had to go to an IOP. That stands for intensive outpatient program. I went five days a week. Three hours a day. Group therapy.”
Michael shakes his head. “I told you, I don’t care about that.”
I could just let it be. Let him think that’s all there is. But I’m so done with my usual modus operandi. I pull my hand away and sit up straight. I will watch his reaction to my secrets and I will bear it, whatever the fuck it is.
“I didn’t just go through some ‘stuff’ last year. I have bipolar disorder. I have to take medicine for it. Every day.”
As I’m waiting for his response, it starts to snow, as if on cue. The white flurries swirl outside the car, present at both the beginning of our relationship and at its end. But Michael is shaking his head.
“So what, Catherine. So what?” Michael asks. “I’m a fucking wimp. I can’t fight to save my life and I collapse at the sight of blood. You didn’t run from me.”
I am blown away by the absurdity of his statement—a blood phobia and a missed punch?
“That stuff I had going on last year?” I say again. “I tried to kill myself, Michael. I tried to OD on my meds because I was depressed, so depressed that words can’t describe it. But the bitch of bipolar is that it’s not just these soul-sucking, zombielike depressions. There are also manias, these episodes where crazy ideas take hold in my mind. They seem reasonable at the time, but they’re totally bizarre and out of control. I have to live with this for the rest of my life, and it’s hard to wrap my head around a future with it. Because up until my grandmother died, everything was fine. I was just like everybody else. Like you. Normal.” I stop to take a deep breath and study his face, searching for the flustered reaction, the pulling away.
But it doesn’t happen. His brown eyes are holding mine intently.
“Go on,” Michael says, taking my hand again. “Don’t stop.”
“Look, I get that you had some really rough times. Being bullied, that’s beyond brutal. I know that kids kill themselves because it hurts so badly. I’m really sorry you went through that. But don’t you understand? We”—I point at each of us—“you and I…you and I…” I want to tell him that we are different. That Louis Farricelli is external. That he won’t always be with Michael. That there’s an end date on the time Michael has to be near him. But that my problem is internal. It will always be a part of me. We are not the same. But then I realize that the cause of pain makes zero impact on how it feels. Like Sandy said, “Pain is pain.” I can no longer rank who is entitled to hurt more.
I glance down at my coat pocket with its secret cargo and then return my gaze to Michael. He needs to understand this part. “Bipolar is chronic. It’s never going away. It’s genetic. Do you get that?”
Michael nods. “Cath, I already knew about you being bipolar. And about your overdose. That fucking Riley told anyone who would listen.”
Michael knew. He knew but he still came after me. Still wanted me. But now he doesn’t.
I can’t tear my eyes from that face. “So what happened, then?” I have to ask this. “What made you stop liking me?”
“What?” Michael asks, astonished. “I never stopped liking you.”
“You changed our movie plans. After you drove me to school that morning, something changed between us. And then last Saturday, at your house, you…you didn’t even want to touch me.”
Michael grabs my hand again. His voice is soft, husky, the hint of a small, sexy smile on his lips. “Cath, I want to do everything with you. Everything. Believe me on this one.”
He’s not lying. I can see it in his eyes. I begin to unclench, a warm hum filling me.
“The truth is…I…I didn’t want to go any further with you…like that…because I knew you were holding back…not…I don’t know, sharing your life with me. Not to sound like a cheesy Hallmark card. But our relationship felt kind of fake at times, because I knew you were lying about your job, and I knew there was stuff going on in your life that you didn’t trust me enough to talk about. I didn’t want to…you know, go any further. It wasn’t easy.” Michael runs his free hand back and forth on the steering wheel. He’s flushing again. “You’d never expect a guy to say that.” He locks eyes with me.”But it’s different with you. And it was getting to me more and more that you kept lying to me. Especially after Farricelli and the hospital. That’s why in the car, I was, like, begging you to open up and you wouldn’t. It just really pissed me off. I was going to bring it up with you this weekend. That’s why I texted you that we had to talk.”
I nod. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. But, Michael…you have no idea how hard it is. I feel humiliated, having this. I told Riley and Olivia and they left, and now they want nothing to do with me. So do you get why I’m scared? I figured you wouldn’t like me if you knew the truth. I’m just starting to accept it myself.”
“How do you feel now? With it out in the open between us?” he asks.
I shrug. “I’m not sure yet. Weird. A little nervous. How do you feel?”
He smiles and pulls me close, burying his face in my neck. “Great.” He suddenly pulls back. “Where’re your earrings?”
I pull them out of my pocket. “I thought we were breaking up. I was going to return them to you.”
“Hey, Cath,” he says, “we, you and I”—and he imitates my earlier action, pointing first at me and then at himself—“you and I are definitely not breaking up.”
Mom waits for me at the front door as Michael drives off. She doesn’t say anything, just opens her arms, and I walk into them.
“It went great. I told him everything,” I say.
She squeezes me harder and then pulls back. “Your phone chooed at least four times while you were talking to Michael.” She pulls my phone out of her robe pocket. “It’s Kristal.”
I call her and she picks up on the first ring. “Can I come over, Cat?” Kristal’s voice trembles. “I need to talk to you.”
“Yes,” I say, and give her my address.
“I’ll be there in a half hour….And, Cat…do you hate me?” she asks.
“No fucking way.”
We talk for hours on the floor of my bedroom. It’s an apology free-for-all, with Kristal agonizing over how she reacted to my admission, and me trying to explain why I had held back, about Grandma and my old friends, and how my world had crashed all at once and I couldn’t separate the reasons why, so I connected everything to my diagnosis.
Kristal listens, squeezing my hand a couple of times. �
��I’m so sorry, Cat. I was just so pissed that you never told me anything, I couldn’t think of anything else. My mom always says I barrel into relationships, overshare and expect too much of people too soon, and that’s why I always get hurt.” She leans back against my bed. “But I get it. All last night I kept thinking what a hypocrite I was, lighting into you while I was doing the exact same thing. Lying about bingeing. And maybe it’s worse because I lied right to your face.”
“Well, so did I,” I say. “You asked and I didn’t answer.” I wait a beat. “So how are you? Really?”
“I called my eating coach as soon as I got home last night. We talked for about an hour and I’ve got an appointment on Monday with her.”
“I’m glad. I’m here for you. Whenever you’re stressing or are tempted, I’m here.” I think about Dr. McCallum last night in our living room and start to smile. “Jesus, our therapists really earned their money last night. Listen to what happened after you left St. Anne’s.”
And I tell Kristal everything—about seeing Anthony, walking to the Green and then coming home and finding Mom with my shoe box.
Kristal’s eyes fill with tears. “Cat, you weren’t going to do anything to yourself, were you?”
“I was planning on it, for the next time I got depressed,” I say. “But I don’t feel that way anymore.”
Our eyes hold. “Promise me, Cat,” Kristal says, leaning forward and taking both my hands. “Let’s promise each other if…when…we ever get to that place, we’ll call each other. It doesn’t matter what time. We won’t do anything until we talk. Let’s have a password, okay? Only to be used in that situation, okay?”
I nod. I am beginning to cry. Moved by this girl and her gift of friendship. “What should the password be?”
She gives me the same smile she did on the first day we met. Tentative, scared, but one that connects us. “Anne,” she says.
Mom is driving me to the Pitoscias’ this Saturday night to celebrate Nonny’s birthday. It fell midweek, on December 18, but the family party is tonight. Lorraine has cooked Mom’s chicken and mushroom dish. This is the first time I’ll have been at the Pitoscias’ since seeing Anthony at St. Anne’s, and I’m nervous. Now all the Pitoscias know I go to St. Anne’s, because Nonny was eavesdropping when Anthony told Michael.
“You okay?” Mom knows the situation. “Should I just hang out around the corner in case it’s too weird?”
“No. I can always ask Michael to take me home,” I say. “Go to dinner with Aunt D.”
“I think it will be fine, Cath,” Mom says, pulling into the Pitoscias’ driveway. Michael waits for me at the front door. “They seem like a nice family. Lorraine was very sweet when she called for the recipe. She said Nonny insisted that you be there.”
That makes me smile. I lean over to kiss Mom. “Keep your fingers crossed,” I say. I take a deep breath and step out of the Accord. I really don’t want to go inside. I don’t want to face Michael’s family, knowing it will be awkward.
Stop it, I tell myself.
The anxiety over this dinner is normal. Mom and Dr. McCallum and Kristal have drilled that into my head. But it was Kristal who did the best job of putting it into perspective.
“This freak-out, Cat,” she had said yesterday at group, “it’s what I call a ‘luxury’ anxiety. I’m not criticizing you, but for people like us, with serious fears, this ranks pretty low on the shit-to-worry-about list. Just put it out of your mind. We’ve got bigger fish. And fuck them if they can’t handle it.”
My phone vibrates with her text now. “BIGGER FISH. REMEMBER THAT!”
I wave to Mom as she backs out of the Pitoscias’ driveway. In the ten seconds it takes me to reach their front door, Nonny has zipped past Michael and stands on the stoop in just her sweatshirt and leggings. She’s clapping and calling, “C’mon, Catherine!” Michael and I barely have time to make eye contact because Nonny is hustling me inside, down the hall heavily infused with the evergreen scent of a lit Yankee Candle and straight into the kitchen.
“Hey, Michael’s friend! Nice to see you,” Michael calls from behind me.
Lorraine’s at the stove, and she rushes toward me. Her hug is its usual intensity, but she holds on longer than normal. She just whispers, “Catherine,” but her tone tells me she knows it was tough to come over and she’s glad I’m here. Tony gives me a two-second pat on the back before winking at me and telling me to take a seat.
And then Anthony comes in. He walks straight over to me. “We good, Cath?” He holds his hand up for a high five. I smile and when my hand connects with his, he holds on to it. “Really?” He’s smiling too, but his eyes are asking if I’m mad at him for telling Michael. If I’m mad that his entire family knows my secrets now.
“Really,” I say, squeezing back.
Nonny pulls out a chair. “Sit, Catherine,” she commands. “What’s the matter with you? Why you go to that place, St. Anne’s? You drink too much like Anthony?”
Michael, Lorraine, Tony and Anthony instantly object. “Jesus, Nonny,” Michael snaps. “I told you not to do this.”
Nonny sits next to me, so close our knees touch. She takes my hand, her worn-smooth, spotted fingers warming mine, her mega eyes wide with concern and affection. I shake my head. “No, it’s not drinking.”
“Then what? You think you fat? You want to be skinny like those models? Men like women with meat on them.” She stands and slaps her plump hips. “My husband, Nico, he called these his handles. He use these to hold on.”
“Okay, I just threw up in my mouth,” Michael moans.
“Is that it?” Nonny persists. “You want to be skinny?”
“No,” I say as the kitchen grows heavy with silence.
“It’s okay, Cath,” Michael says. “You don’t have to talk about this anymore.” He sends Nonny a warning look.
Nonny takes off her glasses and leans forward. “Are you sad, Catherine? That it?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I am.”
All the Pitoscias have frozen in place except Michael. He slides into the chair next to mine and places his hand on my back.
“Why?” Nonny asks. “What make you sad?”
“I have…” My God. Am I going to release this into the Pitoscia stratosphere? I know only one thing right now: that I want to stay honest and say honest. It’s the only way. “I have bipolar disorder. It makes me sad sometimes, and sometimes it makes me hyper. I take medicine for it.”
Nonny stares at me. Her eyes search my face for clues, I think, indications of my brain defect. She says nothing but stands suddenly, drops a fierce kiss on my forehead and charges out of the kitchen in her Crocs.
Anthony drops his head to the table. “Jesus. I’m still reeling from the handles image.”
“Catherine, you come here now,” Nonny calls from her bedroom.
Michael and I enter to the sound of Mitzi squealing in her crate, and I see a pile of People magazines strewn across Nonny’s bed. She pushes it aside and pats the mattress for me to sit.
“Look,” she says, passing me a magazine featuring some movie star on the cover. “This one, she got bipolar. And she got an Oscar and married to that actor from The Godfather. Ooh, he’s a nice one. Makes lots of money. That’s pretty good, huh?” She flips open another magazine, points to a former Disney pop princess gone bad. “And her too. She got it too. But now look. She in medical school. She gonna be a doctor.” She brings a third magazine close to her face. “And this guy. This rock-and-roll guy. He got bipolar too.” She beams at me. “Everybody got it. Don’t you worry. You just live with it. That’s all.”
Michael looks at me and grins. “Don’t you feel so much better now?”
I do.
FEBRUARY
“Doing anything for the long weekend?” Dr. McCallum asks at the end of our session.
“We’re going over to the Pitoscias’ on Friday night. They’re having a little party,” I tell him. “But we might be late. That’s Mom’s first day of manager t
raining at one of the Dunkin’ Donuts in Cranbury.”
“And how about you? I thought you told me that your aunt had offered you a job.”
“Our step-down program ends this Friday, so I’m starting next week. Not at the same place as Mom, though. Neither of us thought that was a good idea. But you’ll like this one: we started running together. It’s gonna be tough being around doughnuts all the time.”
Dr. McCallum nods. “Good for your head and your body. And what’s happening with the history project?”
I’m psyched to tell him that our paper on Private First Class Jane Talmadge was chosen to be the first biography featured in both the local paper and the county’s online Patch publications. Bev Walker was totally pumped because Michael and I included info on the exhibit at the museum. We also took a chance and submitted it to a couple of military journals, and one accepted it for publication in May, which makes me so freaking happy. Because unlike our first soldier, Jonathan Kasia, our research uncovered no public tributes to Jane: no books or websites, no annual parade, no athletic field named in her honor and no statue of her on the New Haven Green. Nothing. We couldn’t even locate a relative. So it was all on us to get her story out there and give her some of the honor she deserves.
“So things at school are pretty good,” I tell Dr. McCallum. “And I’m reading again.”
Mrs. Markman, the school librarian, is only too happy to provide recommendations. She usually has a pile of books waiting for me when I stop by between classes—I’m eating in the cafeteria now during lunch. Sometimes at Michael’s table, sometimes at Sabita’s, where I’m not the only new member: Olivia showed up a few weeks ago and asked if she could sit in the empty chair next to me. She hasn’t said what caused the breakup between her and Riley, and I’m not asking yet. Friendship baby steps are fine for right now.
The first book I read or reread was The Perks of Being a Wallflower. After all this time, I had to see if I would feel the same way about it. And only in our new den with Grandma’s yellow afghan hugging me.
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