Sawyer chuckles. “Of course you did.”
Two years ago I found a mental screening test on psychcentral.com and instituted a once-a-month testing policy so we could form a baseline for sanity before I turned eighteen. Sawyer grades it. I can be sure about the results because I made him swear to uphold the Journalist Code of Ethics, even though he has no interest in being a reporter, which he could be because he’s smart, articulate and has a face made for world news.
“You’ll pass,” Sawyer says, bumping my shoulder.
“I know,” I say. But I don’t know, because schizophrenia is a mental illness that makes it hard to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s imagined. People with schizophrenia might believe they’re being persecuted or followed, that there are people living in their head or that the TV is sending them messages. It should be super easy to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not, right? Wrong. Neuroscientists have scanned the brains of some individuals that have schizophrenia. The areas that have activity when a subject with schizophrenia is listening to a real person talk also respond when they’re having an auditory hallucination. That’s why the hallucinations seem so real. On top of that, the brain of a person with schizophrenia can fail to activate the part responsible for monitoring inner speech. So that inner voice can get attributed to an outside person, making it even more difficult for someone with schizophrenia to figure out what’s real.
“Remember Confessions of a Teen Schizo?” I ask.
“Hannah. Why?”
When I was fourteen, I went through a stage where I scoured YouTube for videos made by anyone who had schizophrenia. Hannah, this girl with enormous brown eyes, her hair in pigtails like she was seven, not seventeen, posted every week. She was super unlucky because she began having hallucinations when she was only twelve. In her videos, she’d describe the worst ones. They included seeing the lower part of her face in bloody tatters each time she caught her reflection in a window or mirror. Hannah made YouTube videos from her bedroom, a rainbow poster promising a pot of gold taped to the wall behind her.
“Hey, Lily?”
“Yeah?”
“Worrying is wishing for something bad to happen.”
I smile at the Freyism. “Remember that kid? The one who always wore a Dodgers cap sideways?”
“Sammy.”
He was twenty-two, living in an institution. Sammy believed he was going to be murdered on his twenty-third birthday. The voices in his head told him every single day to kill himself before someone else did it for him. His birthday was March 17 and he didn’t post that day, or ever again.
“He found the right meds,” Sawyer says.
“Duh,” I say, bumping my friend’s hip with my own.
“Don’t forget the good ones,” Sawyer says.
He’s right. There are wins in the world of schizophrenia. There was a lecture by a woman with schizophrenia who’d gone down the rabbit hole and fought her way out. Barb, or Belinda, I can’t remember which, still saw a bearded man with no legs and arms sitting beside her every time she got in her car, but she’d made peace with him and didn’t mind that sometimes he’d sing opera.
“I liked the girl who got the dog,” I say.
“It worked,” Sawyer points out. “Katherine, right?”
“Kate, I think.” Kate’s schizophrenia made her so depressed that she didn’t want to get out of bed. So she got a dog that slept beside her. Rex. He had his own pillow. If she didn’t get up in the morning Rex would pee on her sheets. “Kate tried to drill a hole in her head so the voices would leak out.”
“Lily—”
“If I need a dog, get me a huge one.”
“Why?”
“The bigger the consequences, the more motivating.” Sawyer actually laughs—a real one that cracks me up, too.
So far I don’t have schizophrenia, but my case doesn’t follow Dr. Phil’s oft-repeated line, “Past behavior is a good indicator of future behavior.” Au contraire, Doc. Mental illness can creep up and wallop me over the head at any time.
“Ten percent,” Sawyer reminds me.
That’s what he thinks my chances are for contracting the illness. He’s partially correct. If a close family member has schizophrenia, there’s approximately a 10 percent genetic chance their descendant might have it, too. That number seems small to Sawyer because he believes I have a 90 percent chance of being healthy. I agree that those are phenomenal odds if someone is betting on a horse, a hand of poker or a basketball game. But not when you think about having your life taken away before it has barely begun.
“Lily?”
I refrain from telling my best friend about the letter I found last week. Sawyer would still be my best friend, but nobody should have to be that great. “Ten percent. That’s right,” I say. “I’ll take that bet.”
Sawyer wraps his arm around my waist and gives me a squeeze. “Twelve-Year Plan.”
“Yup.” My Twelve-Year Plan is a combination of the Journalist’s Code, which necessitates navigating by logic not emotion, and clean living because schizophrenia isn’t just hereditary. There are hosts of contributing factors. Stress, a lack of sleep, changing hormones, childhood physical, emotional or sexual abuse, alcohol and drugs can all be triggers for schizophrenia. I run three miles most days, try to meditate, don’t drink caffeine or alcohol, and have never even smoked a cigarette, let alone pot.
I can’t do anything about the physical and emotional abuse.
“There’s a party at Ben’s house this weekend. His parents are out of town,” Sawyer says. “Be my wing gal?”
“You don’t need a wing gal. Everyone wants to talk to you.” Sawyer’s smile slips. I’m a pitiful friend, but parties without parental supervision are definitely not part of the plan. “Why are you friends with me again?” But I know why we’re best friends. Neither of us matches on the inside. Sawyer is every girl’s dream but he’s attracted to guys. I’m so bland that no one can imagine the time bomb ticking inside my head.
We reach Ms. Frey’s office. There’s a poster on the door that reads Do You.
“Carla keeps bugging me about Wyn,” Sawyer says. “She wants her email address so she can ask her about a runway model named Kendall. Apparently Carla is a huge fan.”
“Then it’s time to break up with model Wyn.”
Sawyer sighs. “But she’s so hot.”
“If Carla gets too nosy, she might actually figure out that the photo hanging in your locker is a Slovenian actress named Lena.”
“Who am I dating next?”
“Um.”
“What?”
“Are you sure you want a new girlfriend?”
Sawyer nods.
I nibble my lower lip, thinking. “The daughter of a Saudi prince who you met over summer break while cruising the Greek Isles with your parents.”
“Did I cheat on Wyn?”
“No,” I say, because Sawyer would never cheat, even on a make-believe girlfriend. “But you kept in touch.”
“You sure? A princess?”
“Yup.” Sawyer dating a princess is entirely possible. The only lie other than the obvious is that Sawyer’s parents were on the yacht with him. They were supposed to be, but Sawyer’s mom had a face-lift that needed revision and his dad got off the boat at some port only a few days into the cruise and never got back on. It took Sawyer days to realize his father was gone. Turns out Cushing found some guy-on-guy magazines in Sawyer’s stateroom. They haven’t talked since.
“So what’s my princess’s name?”
“Not Swift Jones.”
One side of Sawyer’s mouth crooks into a half smile. “Deal. If you promise to lay off the worrying?”
For a second I reconsider telling him about the letter. “Deal.”
6
“Hey, Lily. Have a seat,” Ms. F
rey says.
She has a round table for a desk with four red plastic chairs. The walls of the small office are covered with movie posters from Pulp Fiction to 28 Days Later and Straight Outta Compton to the latest superhero and thriller releases. Its Ms. F.’s way of showing kids she’s cool. I guess she kind of is—early thirties, dead ringer for Katie Holmes, and she talks to students without sounding like she’s standing by a chalkboard. I take some credit for that, because I was her first case when she arrived at Grable. She was just out of school with a master’s degree in counseling, and in over her head, unsure how to deal with a kid whose mom tried to kill her. To her credit, Ms. Frey has evolved, listening more and rarely talking in clichés.
At this point, we’ve known each other for ten years. Ms. Frey understands that I’m a lazy student. Smart enough to get decent grades, but it’s hard to care that much given my uncertain future. She gets that I skip art class because I’m uncomfortable doing anything Violet loved. My mom painted in acrylics, usually creating jagged, fractured faces on empty wine bottles. They were as vibrant and jarring as her personality. My dad shattered every bottle after the trial ended.
Ms. F. and I both share a love of documentaries. My favorite is The Lion’s Mouth Opens, about a young actress and filmmaker confronting her fear of developing Huntington’s disease. Ms. F. prefers lighter films. Her recent pick is Twinsters, about two twins finding each other after being adopted in different countries. She’s all about happy endings. I try not to burst her bubble.
On the more serious side, Ms. Frey knows that my dad and I have a careful relationship, that I still have nightmares, my aversion to birthdays in general, my own obviously being the worst. But the evolved Ms. F. and I have an understanding. She makes suggestions only if I ask for them. And I usually don’t, because my Twelve-Year Plan is pretty straightforward.
Lately, though, Ms. F.’s been pushing me a little bit. She’s the one who talked me into applying for the Pennington Times internship. There were over a hundred applicants from high schools around Pennington. We were both pretty shocked when the newspaper picked me. I almost said no, but after years of listening to my drivel, Ms. F. deserved a win. Also, I could tell that my dad was a little bit pissed that she’d suggested the internship. He prefers me in direct line of sight.
Ms. Frey tears a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips open, our favorite, and offers them to me. “How’re the college apps going?”
“One and done,” I say between crunches.
She hands me the top sheet of the pile of papers in front of her. It’s a list of colleges that have great journalism programs. There’s USC, of course, but also Boston University, Washington and Lee, Northwestern, NYU, Lehigh, Pepperdine, UC Irvine. “I’m going to Muni,” I say, sliding the paper back.
“Lily, unless you totally mess up, you’re going to graduate with a 3.4 average. Math isn’t your strong suit, but English, French and history have saved your butt. Why not apply to a few more schools? Just to see?”
“Are you saying that I’m too good for Muni?” I ask.
Ms. F. cracks a smile. “I’m saying that maybe it’s time to push a little bit outside your comfort zone. Challenge yourself.”
I cross my arms. “I’m good.”
“I want to share something with you.” Ms. F. takes another sheet out of the folder. “Did you know that one in five people who are diagnosed with schizophrenia get better within five years?”
I don’t point out that the word better is a relative term. Instead, I wonder what it would be like to be the person without a sledgehammer hanging over her head. “Remind me why we’re talking about this?”
“Because I only have eight months left with you.” Ms. F. reads the next line. “Three in five will get better—”
“But still have some symptoms,” I finish, because I have the stats memorized. “And they will have times when their symptoms get worse. Symptoms can include feeling like your head is going to blow apart, seeing people morph into insects or wild animals, hearing voices telling you to kill your baby sister or your mom or a cat because if you don’t something horrible will happen to you... But I digress. One in five will continue to have troublesome symptoms. All will need to find the right medication to manage their condition. Shall I go on?”
Ms. Frey leans back in her chair. “Sure.”
“There are two types of drugs commonly used for treatment. Typical and atypical. Typical drugs have neurological side effects like tremors, painful muscle stiffness, temporary paralysis, muscle spasms and extremely slow movements. They can also result in tardive dyskinesia. That means facial tics, or spasms of the tongue or mouth.”
“I just want to get across the point that you’ve spent your life worrying about something that’s treatable—”
“Would you like to hear the side effects for atypical meds?” I ask, tapping into my imaginary superpowers: Logical. Emotionless. Responsible. Balanced.
Ms. Frey holds up her hands. “Go ahead.”
“Weight gain, loss of motivation, sexual dysfunction.” I crumple the piece of paper with all its helpful statistics and toss it at the trash can. It goes in. “Two points.”
“So the plan is to make all the easy choices? Float through life?”
“I’ve told you.” I tug an escaped strand of my hair hard enough to hurt. “The plan is to get through the next twelve years doing everything I can to avoid boarding a train to Crazy-town.”
“You do realize that it’s not politically correct to call someone with mental health issues crazy?”
“It’s my brain,” I say. “My choice. Just like floating through life.”
Ms. Frey leans in. “I’m not suggesting you develop a heroin addiction or join Tinder. A date would be good, though.”
Yeah, a date would be great. I’d like to at least be kissed by someone other than John Jensen in the tunnel of love. We were ten and I let him cop a feel of my nonexistent boobs.
“Lily, I’d just like to see you take a small step toward whatever future you envision.”
“Does my dad know you’re on a one-woman campaign to push me out of the nest?”
“I’m not your father’s counselor. I’m yours.” She slides the list of colleges back to me. “Pick one other school on the list. Apply to it.”
“Why?”
“Because you can.”
“What are you, the Make-A-Wish Foundation?” It’s a joke, but my voice comes out too sharp. I push my chair back, start to pace around the small room. “I’m not some kid with cancer that needs to live my dream before I croak. I’m not dying. I just might not have a future as...as me.”
“But right now you do. As you.”
I slump onto a chair.
“One more thing.”
“Do your demands ever cease?”
Ms. F. licks her lips. It’s her tell. She’s nervous. Making jokes is my tell. Sawyer’s is ticking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. My father’s is clearing his throat. Violet’s right eyebrow twitched, but not all the time, which made her more dangerous.
“Okay... Let me say that I feel like this is a huge breach of your privacy. But I also think I have to share it with you.”
Ms. Frey pulls a photocopy out and I see the first lines:
Dear Calvin,
You claim that you love our daughter...
I don’t need to read the rest. It’s the letter I found last week but already know by heart. Now I understand why Ms. F. felt the need to dig into the drug options and possible positive outcomes of a schizophrenia diagnosis. She knows that I know I’m screwed. “Where’d you get it?”
“Your father realized it was missing. He found it under your mattress.”
“So he came to you. Not me.” I hate the hurt in my voice. “Why did he show you the letter?”
“To remind me of the stakes.” Ms. F. reaches for m
y hand but stops an inch shy.
I hold my breath, frozen like a soldier who has stepped on a land mine. But no matter what I do, eventually it’s going to blow me up.
“Lily, I think it’s time for you to live a bit more. That way, if the worst happens—”
I exhale. “At least I’ll have the memories?”
“No. You’ll have something you love to fight for.”
“I needed a T-shirt to go running. All mine were in the laundry. The letter was taped to the inside top of his dresser drawer. Half the tape had lost its stick so my fingers caught on the part of the envelope that was hanging down.” I look at Ms. Frey. “Why do you think he bothered to keep it? I mean, if he wasn’t going to share it with me?”
Ms. F.’s lips are pressed into a tight white line. I can’t help it. I read the letter again.
Dear Calvin,
You claim that you love our daughter, Violet. But you are rushing into an impossible future and your actions will end in catastrophe.
Sarah and I would love to see our daughter become a wife and mother. But some things are not meant to be.
Violet’s great-grandmother (Sarah’s grandmother) Mary Catherine had hebephrenic schizophrenia. She was committed to an insane asylum at age twenty-seven. She hanged herself six months later.
Mary Catherine’s twin sister, Elizabeth, had schizophrenia, too. From letters, we know that at nineteen she began to hear voices telling her to commit acts of violence. She died of sepsis from a ruptured appendix before the illness fully manifested.
Sarah’s mother, Carolyn, had paranoid schizophrenia. Her illness was controlled by medication that left her lethargic and confused. Carolyn’s drug overdose was ruled accidental.
Sarah has a diagnosis of bipolar and schizoid personality disorder. By the time we found out that she was pregnant with Violet, it was too late to abort or we would have done so. There have been periods in our life, when Sarah’s mental illness took over, that were a living hell for Violet and me.
When Elephants Fly Page 4