"How long is this feud over your career going to go on?" Gitana glanced at her side view mirror.
"Ever heard of the Hatfields and the McCoys?" Chase steered a hard right and barely cleared the stone pillars of the entrance gate. She checked her skid marks. They were impressive enough. She nodded her satisfaction.
Then her cell phone rang. The ring tone was the Charlie Daniels song, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia."
Gitana frowned. "You told me you were going to change that."
"I did, it used to be "Devil with the Blue Dress On." She clicked on her cell phone.
"Three words, baby-on-board," her mother said.
"Right."
"Bye, bye, Papa." Stella hung up.
"Dammit," Chase said, as she drove carefully down the street.
"Let me guess, no more racing down the driveway backward."
"You got it."
Chapter Four
"What on earth?" Gitana said, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"I went shopping." Chase was wearing a stethoscope. She pulled at Gitana's arm, rolled up Gitana's pajama sleeve and put the blood pressure band around her bicep and pumped the rubber ball.
"Chase, I'm fine really."
"We're not taking any chances." She put the stethoscope under the armband and inserted the earpieces. She listened intently and watched die dial per the instructions which she'd memorized. "One twenty over eighty. That's outstanding."
"You're crazy, you know that."
"Is that news?" Chase undid the armband and gently wrapped up the device. "Luckily, nature is not at play here, genetically speaking. We'll just have to watch the nurture." She put the stethoscope to Gitana's chest and listened to her heart. "It sounds fine. I couldn't find the thingy-jigger that goes in your ears and up your nose, but I'm sure I can find one on the Internet."
"You scare me. Can I have some coffee?"
"Try being me. At least you can get away. I'm stuck here."
Chase followed her into the bathroom and watched her wash her face and brush her teeth.
"What are you looking at?" Gitana asked.
"I want to see if you're getting fat."
"I'm not. Let's go have some coffee."
They went downstairs. The dogs came flying in the doggie door and jumped at Gitana. "Hey, be careful. Remember there's a baby in there." Chase gave each of them a biscuit. "Now, go play."
"What did you do to the coffee?"
"It's decaf," Chase said lightly.
"What's the point of that?" Gitana peered into her mug with obvious distaste.
"Caffeine isn't good for you or the baby."
"You're going to be a real pain in the ass aren't you?" Gitana poured her coffee down the sink.
"You get used to it." Chase poured herself another cup to make her point. She'd already had four. Usually by now, she'd be having heart palpitations from all the caffeine. "How about we do fifty-fifty?"
"I'm all about compromise." She stuck a Dr. Pepper in her pajama pocket.
"I saw that." Chase tried to grab it.
"I can't function without caffeine. Don't make me go cold turkey," Gitana pleaded.
"All right, but only half a can."
"I promise. Now, what's on your agenda for the day?"
"Shrink's office called yesterday morning. They had a cancellation, so I can go in this afternoon." She watched as Gitana gulped down as much Dr. Pepper as she could. "A lot of sugar isn't good for the baby either."
Gitana ignored her. "I'm really proud of you for going."
"I'm not sure it's starting out right, though. The receptionist asked for my other Social Security number, because they can't find mine in their database." She rolled her eyes. "I told her I'd have to look for it."
Gitana laughed.
"What?"
"That someone who's bipolar would have two Social Security numbers. One for me and one for myself."
"All right, I guess it is kind of funny. But, you know, I'm a little sensitive about this."
"It's going to be fine. Besides, you might run into your other half someday and we could all have coffee."
"That's not even funny. It'd be like having a twin. Do you really want to have two of me?"
"No. I don't think the world is ready for that." Clutching the Dr. Pepper, a now prized possession, she went upstairs to shower and dress.
"Only half of that," Chase called out to her.
"What? I can't hear you, the water's running."
Chase scowled despite knowing no one was around to see it. It was always the conundrum of doing something like burping or farting and saying "excuse me" when you were alone—was it necessary? Maybe it was just good to keep in practice.
Chapter Five
"So you think you're bipolar?" Dr. Robicheck said. She sat cross-legged with a yellow legal notepad on her knee, her pen poised. She looked like a stenographer awaiting testimony.
"That's what they tell me," Chase replied, shifting in the straightback chair. Great for your posture, but far from relaxing. She had considered the couch, but decided it was too Freudian and she wasn't ready for that. The uncomfortable chair seemed indicative of Dr. Robicheck. She was probably a communist from the old days. Chase could tell from her accent she was Slavic. She had sensible short hair, a pinched face and wore a brown polyester business suit with a beige blouse and black square-heeled shoes. Wasn't there a rule about wearing black with brown? She couldn't remember. She'd asked Lacey. Chase wasn't up on fashion faux pas as most of her wardrobe consisted of khaki shorts or trousers and T-shirts.
"I want to ask you some questions. Yes and no answers, only, please."
"You're the doctor."
She nodded. "You have delusions or grandiose ideas?"
"Yes, I guess I do sometimes." Chase quickly ran through her list of mental sins. She harbored a secret desire to win a Pulitzer—that was definitely grandiose considering what she wrote was considered lesbian trash and not high literature. She was convinced that she was entirely responsible for Gitana's happiness and well-being. She desperately wanted to come up with some magical elixir to make her beloved dogs live longer than ten years. Goats, after all, live for twenty-five years. No one loves a goat like they love a dog or a cat. Yes, these were grandiose ideas.
"Excessive drug or alcohol use?" She looked up from her pad and stared at Chase.
"Only on bad days and in moderation."
The doctor frowned.
"Basically, no." She figured that was what the doctor wanted. She must curb her smartass tendencies before she ended up in the psych ward or rehab.
"Have you ever thought you were God?"
"No, well, there was that one time in grade school..." She stopped herself. The doctor didn't have a sense of humor.
"Thoughts of suicide?"
"No." That one she was sure of. She had too much to do—besides it was messy and her mother would bury her in a dress. She just knew it. Her aim was to outlive her mother and bury her in something hideously unfashionable.
The doctor pursed her lips and seemed satisfied. Chase was glad. She hated yes or no answers. Nothing was black and white—except maybe piano keys.
"How'd I do?"
"You have a mild case—most fixable."
"No straightjacket then?"
"That was never a possibility. You're a little crazy. So are a lot of other people. You shouldn't worry. Two pills a day and you'll be normal." She glanced at Chase and amended her statement. "As normal as you can be." She got out her script pad.
Chase kept quiet and busied herself with studying the office decor. You could tell a lot about a person by their surroundings. Being a writer had taught her to look for useful details in the every day. The entire office was a variety of browns—the carpet, the vinyl chairs and table, the print of the copse of trees and, of course, the doctor's outfit. Now, she recalled that Lacey had said brown was the new black. In the doctor's case this propensity toward brown was not about being hip. Chase thought green was sup
posed to be a soothing color. Maybe brown was the new green. Anyway, she felt she was sitting inside a walnut shell and she couldn't wait to get out. She hoped her dislike of brown, except maybe in potting soil, would not affect the doctor patient relationship. She had a feeling it would.
"You can pick up the sample pack at the Parker Clinic." Dr. Robicheck turned around in her chair. Her Doris Day cut neatly to the chin went with her. Her round spectacles caught the light from the window. "Don't worry about this. This drug will help you and you should not be embarrassed to tell your people."
It was like she knew that Chase was keeping it a secret. Only Gitana and Lacey knew about it. She'd never tell her mother. "Sure, why?"
"It's hard to see change in oneself and sometimes outside intervention is necessary." She handed Chase the script.
Chase disliked the word "intervention." It sounded a lot like incarceration. She wasn't that crazy. Intervention for what? Okay, so she'd been in self-denial about her condition, the mood swings, the ups and downs. But self-denial was in her genes. Admitting one was crazy was like crossing the Kalahari—full of sand with thorn brush and queer creatures and it frightened her.
"So there are no worries. We'll take care of this. You'll be much better." Dr. Robicheck got up indicating the session was over.
Chase got up as well glad to be out of the uncomfortable chair and away from her new psychiatrist. They shook hands.
"Make an appointment for three weeks from now. We'll reevaluate."
"Sure thing," Chase said, hoping she didn't appear absolutely ecstatic for being dismissed. Three weeks was like spring break for a kid.
She went out to the receptionist to make an appointment. A twenty-something scrub-clad woman with a blond pixie-cut studied the computer screen trying to find Chase an appointment. "Got it," she said. She didn't bother to ask if the appointment worked with Chase's schedule. Instead, she wrote the time and date on the card and handed it to her.
"Great," Chase said, studying the card. She smiled, gritted her teeth and walked out.
Once in the car, she called Lacey.
"How did it go?" Lacey asked.
"Great."
"When you say, 'great' it means it sucked. What happened?"
"My therapist talks like Dr. Ruth and has the sensitivity of Nurse Diesel."
"In the film High Anxiety." Lacey loved movies and trivia. It seems she knew stuff that no one in their right mind would bother with. Chase attributed this to Lacey's lack of a full-time job and the need for very little sleep.
During sleep, Chase had read, the brain dumps files, ridding itself of daily clutter. Lacey didn't sleep much, so she didn't dump useless information. Whenever Chase was in need of some particular piece of oddness for a book, she called Lacey, who was happy to help.
"Well, you can always see someone else. The network is huge." Then, Lacey changed tactics. "Shopping will make you feel better."
"You're right." Chase backed out of a parking space and turned onto Wyoming Street.
"You want me to get you a Chai to go?" Lacey asked.
"Sure." She was picking her up at Starbucks—Lacey's second-home. "We'll have to go to the Parker clinic first to get my drug sample pack."
"A sample pack? To see if you like it or not?"
"How the hell do I know?" She stopped at the light. "I'll see you in five." She clicked off and got on the freeway. She really didn't want to be a lunatic on her way to get a sample pack, but she couldn't live on a roller coaster either.
Chase wondered if extending herself in the writing department had anything to do with it. Perhaps all the subdivision of self that her many imaginary worlds demanded was getting the best of her, stretching the limits of her mind and it was starting to crack.
Perhaps, she should consider telling her people to keep an eye out. They could watch her. She would choose Gitana and Lacey for starters. She felt as if she were electing a bipartisan committee to keep her normal.
She got off the freeway and drove into the mall parking lot. Lacey was waiting outside holding a Chai and looking benevolent and understanding. She flounced into the car seat, glanced at Chase and said, "You look the same."
"What? Psychiatric evaluations alter your physical appearance?"
"Who knows?" She scrutinized Chase, who didn't move the car an inch.
"I'm supposed to have people watch me."
"And you picked me?" Lacey reached over and squeezed Chase's shoulder, almost spilling her Chai.
Chase watched her. Lacey acted like she never got picked for basketball in PE class and her moment of glory had just arrived. "You've known me for a long time."
"So, I'd be a great observer. Look what I found at Borders." She pulled the book out of her enormous purse and handed it to Chase. "It's Kate Millet's The Looney-Bin Trip. She was crazy too—only she took lithium."
Chase exited the parking lot and pulled up to the stop sign. A red SUV ran the stop. Chase honked and flipped off the driver. "That's right, rules are just for stupid people. How hard is it to comprehend that a four-way stop is part of the social compact? You have to adhere to the social compact. If we don't adhere to it, anarchy ensues."
Lacey had tuned her out and was instead tuning in the radio. "Why do you always listen to NPR? It's so boring." She found a hip-hop station.
"Because I learn things." Chase got back on the freeway and headed up town to the Parker clinic.
"Oh, it's my song." Lacey began to sway to the beat.
"Who sings it?"
"Shakira. It's part hip-hop and Latino salsa. I love it."
Chase listened to the lyrics. "My hips don't lie..." or at least that's what she heard. "What the hell does that mean? My hips don't lie. If that's the case the cerebral cortex is located behind the cervix. Just think, we won't be needing pap smears anymore. One's hips could give the doctor the A-OK signal."
"You're so literal." Lacey turned up the music and ignored her.
Chase spent the rest of the drive wondering what kinds of things a cervix would ponder. When she pulled into the parking lot of the clinic, she said, "You can wait here."
"And miss the chance to see some hunk of a doctor? Not on your life."
They made their way to the pharmacy down the hall from the horribly crowded waiting room. Chase handed over her script and the pharmacy tech disappeared into the rows of drugs.
An attractive blonde doctor walked by. She said hello to Chase. She and Lacey watched her walk down the hall. The doctor turned around and smiled at Chase.
Lacey was disgusted. "Why do you get all the action?"
"Because gay people are usually attracted to other gay people."
"But it's not fair. Why did you get the good looks?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Whenever Chase looked in the mirror to check for toothpaste remnants on her chin or something hanging from her nose she saw a blond-haired woman with good teeth, a slim nose and a tolerably fit body— that was all.
Lacey continued her tirade. "Lesbians don't need to be good-looking. All they need is a large collection of flannel shirts and sensible shoes."
"That's complete and utter bigotry. I only have a few flannel shirts and you make trainers sound like square-heeled oxfords."
"What I meant," Lacey recanted, "Was that women are like chattel to men. Lesbians are interested in the entire package, not just the tits and ass part."
An elderly woman sitting at the edge of the waiting room gave them a disapproving glance.
"Be quiet," Chase said, poking Lacey in the ribs and nodding her head in the direction of the waiting room.
"Geriatric crew."
Chase poked her again. "When did you abandon your PC rhetoric?"
"Since I decided it was all crap and I should speak my mind. I don't use racial slurs. I draw the line there."
"But it's okay to abuse dykes and old people."
"All right, already, I take it all back," Lacey said.
"Good."
The p
harmacy tech returned. "I'm sorry the drug rep didn't come today with the samples and we're completely out."
"When will he come again?" Chase asked.
"No telling, really." She tossed her brown ponytail and gave the appearance of caring by giving Chase a half grin and a hands up gesture. She gave the script back to Chase.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
Family Affair Page 3