Before I go to sleep that night, Mom sits at the edge of my bed. “Come with me to work tomorrow. It’s a safe way to begin venturing out.”
“Sure.” Even though a little tremor of uncertainty writhes in my stomach, I know it’s time to start living again. “Sure. That sounds good.”
. . . . .
Perfumed and powdered, smelling of Chanel, Mom stands in front of the large window of her office that faces downtown. On her enormous desk, is a sample of a squash-colored “flora dora” design fabric, a large leather notebook, and her laptop. My eyes are heavy, and my body slumped into the upholstered couch, in shock from all the movement it has bared on this early morning trip into the City. I lift a heavy arm to reach for a mug of that tea rests on a wooden coaster.
The buzzer rings. Client numero uno has arrived. Mom walks to the intercom next to the door of the office. She presses it and says, “Come on up, Eleanor.”
Moments later I hear the sharp tap of heels clacking down the hallway of the building. When “Eleanor” comes rushing into the office, she is at least six feet tall and reeks of some unfamiliar floral scent.
“Bernice!”
They cheek kiss but it looks like Mom is a child reaching up to kiss an adult.
“How are you, Eleanor?” Mom oozes charm and ease. But I’m certain any client who insists on meeting at 7:30 on a Friday morning is anything but easy. “This is my daughter, Madeline.” I stand up and smile.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Eleanor scans my body and her eyes rest on my face. “Ooh! You’ve got great bone structure! Tall, too, and thin. Ever think of modeling?”
If I had the coffee, I would spit it out. Mom shoots me a “be polite” look. I force a reply, “Thanks. No, I haven’t thought of modeling.”
Eleanor shrugs off her mink coat and strikes a pose, her long limbs and flat stomach making her look thirty years younger. She smiles revealing too-white fake teeth and there’s not one wrinkle line around her mouth.
“Twenty-five years on the runway. Paid for college for all my kids and my ex-husbands!” She gives a husky laugh and turns back to my mother.
“Mom, I can go get scones and coffee for you two.” I reach up and smooth any fly away hairs from my ponytail.
“Sure, sweetie, that would be great.”
“Oh, just coffee for me! Gotta keep my model figure!”
She flashes her veneers at me.
“Excuse me,” I say and flash back a polite smile before rushing out of the office. Panic kind of lives on the edge of me as I walk as fast as I can to the elevator. While I wait for it to come, I put my hand in my pocket and feel for the bottle of Rescue Remedy that I’ve been carrying around since Monday afternoon. Dr. Foster was the one who suggested I also take this stuff. We went and got it right after the appointment. It’s supposed to provide you a kind of calming when you take it under the tongue, and you can take it as often as you need it.
Once the door opens to the elevator and I step in and see it’s empty, I take the dropper out and put fifteen drops under my tongue. Rescue me, please! The doors open and I step out into the lobby.
I walk quickly out of the building and down a block, barely breathing in the perfume that whooshes out onto the sidewalk from the clothing boutique in the next building. Relief warms me when I open the heavy door to the coffee shop and see that there’s no line. I focus on the task at hand and my breaths. While I wait behind a short man wearing overalls who fidgets annoyingly with his keys, I focus on the smell of coffee and cinnamon in the air, which remind me of Josephine and her office, it always smells a little like a coffee shop thanks to her Starbucks habit (similar to mine). Way back when I was seeing Josephine regularly, she taught me about mindfulness. Focus on the exact moment you are in. I make it through the wait, place my order, and then head back without a panic attack.
I don’t need to be buzzed into the office because I have a key. When I push open the door to the office I hear:
“…she’s terrified and doesn’t want to be alone.”
I stay in the doorway alone, where they can’t see me.
“Bernice, you gotta get her back to school. God, what will she do if she doesn’t graduate? A young beautiful girl with everything. Really is such a shame.”
Now I push the door all the way open. “I brought treats,” I say brightly. I place the scones and coffee on the table and although my heart pounds, I look Eleanor in the eye and say, “Did Mom tell you I’m writing a book for my senior project? I need to nail the scene where the girl has a nervous breakdown before she graduates. Ticking clock and all that,” I say and wink. I smile at my mother and duck into the other room and resume breathing.
. . . . .
I drop some more Rescue Remedy into my mouth because my heart is pounding. I put the little bottle back into my pocket and open my laptop and turn it on. I stare at the desktop, which is a picture of me, Susan, and Peter from the summer. Tan and smiling.
I click open a browser and check my email. I have fifty unread messages. Without reading who they are from, I highlight the entire group and press delete. Then I go into my trash and select empty trash. I skim over the only chapter I have written way back before The Episode then take out my notes and outline and read through it.
Mom pops her head in about an hour later.
“Honey, I’m so sorry about Eleanor.”
I shake my head without looking up. “No, no. It’s fine. I mean, you know if I can’t make the college thing happen, there’s always modeling.”
We laugh.
I reread a sentence from my outline that says: “California was the only answer. College was not.”
Mom walks all the way in. “It’s good to see you working on your book.”
I nod and continue to reread those words, thinking about Dr. Foster and about how I wrote this long before my panic attack. “Watch it,” I whisper to myself, “If you’re not careful, you’ll fall headlong into another one.” Breathe, one, two, three.
Mom leans on the table, her manicured nails bare of the usual soft pink polish. Her diamond ring looks a little dirty. I wonder what else she has neglected since I went crazy.
“Your teachers know what’s going on. Even Mrs. Dubois said that you can have an extension for the book.” She touches my hair lightly.
A lump forms in my throat, but I can’t pinpoint what’s making me want to cry.
Mom takes a deep breath.
I nod without looking at her. The sound of me rustling papers fills the room.
Then Mom hugs me tight.
Chapter Eight
Hitting Bottom
Wednesday morning, I wake up early. I’m too afraid to go for a run even though I want to. Instead I take to the treadmill in the basement and when I come back upstairs, Mom is just waking up, putting the coffee beans into the grinder. She smiles sleepily. “Good to see you running, honey.”
I don’t want to stay for small talk because I’m on a kind of adrenalin high and have convinced myself that I should go back up to my room to write chapter 2, a new addition to the outline of my book, called The Breakdown. I just nod and begin to walk through the kitchen.
“Barb and Cliff are coming over for brunch today. They don’t have to work until later, and I’m taking the morning off. Now that we know Bubbie is fine, time to move on to Barb and time to meet this fellow.” Tingles of panic flutter in the base of my spine, but I refuse to lose my mojo, so I say, “Oh, that’s good.” And continue the journey back to my room. I can’t stop now.
. . . . .
I’ve taken a quick shower and am sitting at my desk staring at the outline again. I crumple it up. Forget “
The Breakdown.” This is, after all supposed to be fiction. The answer comes to me: The chapter 1 I wrote before will be the prologue. Starting from there, I open my laptop and wait for it to come to life. Then I pull up a blank Word doc. On the top, I type in all caps: PREMISE and continue with:
Minutes after high school graduation, “Mya” takes off to California to reconnect with the only boy she’s ever loved, “Dylan”, who was sent away to rehab after an overdose the year before.
I pause and then type: CHAPTER 1 SUMMARY.
“Mya” packs her bags in the middle of the night, rolls her car down the driveway so no one hears her leave, and heads out of “Littleville.” On her way she calls her two best friends, Holden and Phoebe, for advice about what to say when she arrives at the rehab center.
I stop again. Holden and Phoebe. Can I ever stop being obsessed with Catcher in the Rye? Problem is figuring out if “Dylan” knows she’s coming to California. Does she call him? Does she even have his number? Ah. This is what I HATE about writing. All the details. All the little things that explain the motivation. I just want to write their first kiss scene which I can’t help but picture against the brick building of the rehab and that’s because one of my early make-out sessions with Justin was against a tree. It was a kiss that changed everything. I look at the bulletin board next to my computer and see the senior project handouts. Mrs. Dubois connected me with a local author to help me with writing. I see her name—Alyssa Yoo—and email address handwritten at the top of one of the sheets. Maybe it’s time to email her. I quickly minimize my documents and pull up a web browser. I click into my email and type a short email to her. I hit send and take a deep breath. My chest is tight. How will I ever write an entire book by the end of the school year?
The wind blows my hair and I curse my old Toyota. A week-long drive across the country minus a/c is going to suck. I reach for my earpiece and call Holden first.
“I so wish I could come with you,” he says as soon as he answers, knowing full well that I’m already in the car, even though it’s 3 a.m.
“Me too,” I sigh and look out the windshield at the starless sky. “Listen, I’m freaking out about seeing Dylan. It’s been a year. He has no idea I’m coming. What do I say to him?”
“You have the whole ride to think about that…”
I stop typing and stare at the black on white in front of me. I’m totally plot-dumping and my dialogue sounds like some dumb soap opera. I press delete until every black letter is gone. It’s the third time I’ve done this in the last twenty minutes. I hear Mrs. Dubois in my head: “Writer’s block is about inaction. Even if everything you write is crap, you are writing and therefore not blocked. Write through the block. Keep at it.”
I begin to type again. I see that airhead idiot client of Mom’s Eleanor, her veneers shimmering and her finger pointing at me.
I have to keep going.
Which I do. For another two hours. I only come up with four pages because I type and delete a lot for the first hour. When I look at the clock, it’s 10 o’clock. I check my email to see if that author responded. Not yet.
Time for brunch.
. . . . .
“Hello?”
I hear my sister’s voice and the chest tightness returns and a little behind the ear burning to top it off. But I push the feelings away best I can and return Barb’s greeting.
“Hi!” I yell and continue to slice mushrooms for Mom.
“We’re all in the kitchen,” Mom calls, taking out an oversized frying pan and putting it on the stovetop.
I hear the shuffling of multiple foots steps and scoop all the mushrooms up with two hands.
They stand in the kitchen. Grinning. I freeze, holding the mushrooms. Barb has never looked tinier in her life standing next to Cliff who is a large black man with long dreadlocks and glasses. He’s holding a bunch of flowers in one hand and Barb’s in another.
The clink of metal on metal and the hum of the fridge disappear for several static moments. If someone took a picture, you would be able to clearly see my parents’ surprise, but it’s a quick passing expression for them both because the still moment ends and the noises in the kitchen all begin again.
“Hi, I’m Cliff.” He lets go of Barb’s hand and reaches for my father’s.
“Hello, nice to meet you, Cliff.” Dad gives his hand a few quick pumps.
“Hello, I’m Bernice.” Mom wipes her hands on her apron, and then Cliff’s hand swallows hers. They both grin awkwardly at each other.
My turn. I smile, dump the mushrooms in the pan and introduce myself.
There’s another stillness but Cliff breaks it. “I hear you make amazing omelets, Bernice? I’m a cook myself. Can I help?”
And that’s all it takes. Cliff and Mom whip up veggie omelets topped with chives picked from Mom’s garden and freshly squeezed orange juice. Dad makes more coffee. The three of them chat about food. I hang back and put dishes into the dishwasher and wipe counter tops. Barb is smiling a lot and quiet, watching our parents talk to Cliff. Then Barb takes my hand and brings me into the dining room.
“Isn’t he great?” She opens the china cabinet and whispers to me.
I don’t know what to say other than, “He looked pretty professional chopping those chives.” I pull out a stack of dishes.
She takes the plates from me and begins to put them out on the table. “Cliff was a cop but was let go when he was caught buying drugs. That was ten years ago. Then he went back to cooking school. He’s been head chef at this fancy, Italian restaurant in Westport on the waterfront.”
“Wait. How old is he?” He didn’t strike me as particularly old but doing the math…
She doesn’t stop what she’s doing or look at me. She’s moved onto putting out the good silverware and napkins. Things clink and clank onto the table.
“Barb, how old is Cliff?” My voice is a loud whisper.
She stops finally because there’s nothing else to put out except glasses, which are underneath the china cabinet.
“He’s forty.”
“Forty!”
She pushes past me and opens the bottom doors of the china cabinet. “What?”
“Barb, that’s pretty old.”
“It’s only fourteen years.”
She hands me some glasses. We look at each other.
“What?”
“He’s also a former drug addict?”
“Maddie, don’t start with me. I’ve been sober for the last year, no relapse and he has about ten years in, so don’t lecture me.”
We put the glasses out in silence. One almost slips out of my hand, but I catch it before anybody notices. Except now I can barely breathe. Her I go, panicking. And I’m worried about Barb? What’s that old saying about glass houses and throwing stones?
Finally, the glasses are done, and we have no choice but to go back in but before we do I grab her arm. “I’m just worried. With Michael gone—”
Her eyes flash and her mouth trembles a little. “Michael, contrary to what you may think, never kept me sober. I did.”
I open my mouth, but she puts her face close to me, more like to my neck because she’s so much shorter than me. “You need to get a life, Maddie. Stop worrying about me. Looks like you have enough to worry about on your own.”
“Yeah, I already thought of that.”
“Good thing you’re taller than me,” Barb said.
“Why’s that?” I ask, glowering down at her.
“ ’Cuz you wouldn’t be able to cop an attitude looking up my nose.”
“Maybe now,” I bluster. “Maybe now I actually might have ti
me to get a life, since you so obviously don’t need me anymore.”
She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to retort but instead shakes her head then walks back into the kitchen.
. . . . .
My adrenalin high is gone and taken over by a post-brunch hangover (pun intended). I was silent during breakfast and didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. Cliff looked my way a lot and smiled.
“I like your glasses,” I offer. “Uh, very retro.”
He just smiles back at me.
Everyone is in the living room, but it might as well just be Cliff and Mom. They have moved from what’s the best brand of knives to crème fraiche or milk for scrambled eggs and do you beat them with a whisk or a fork. Barb beams and Dad looks pretty happy. So, what’s wrong with me?
Disconnected. Everyone is moving on in their lives. But me.
. . . . .
As they leave, Barb grabs me into a tight hug and whispers, “I love you, Maddie.” Mom, Dad, and Cliff hug too. Then Cliff turns to me and I’m kind of over the whole hugging thing, so I stick my hand out, “Nice to meet you Cliff.” He looks disappointed but pumps my arm in a hearty shake. It’s cold by the doorway so my parents are already gone by this point. I just want to crawl back to bed but before I can Barb says, “Walk us to the car?”
“I don’t have a jacket,” I protest.
Cliff shrugs off his enormous leather bomber jacket and puts it around me.
“Walk with us,” he orders.
We step out into the bitter cold sunshine. I follow behind them down the steps and across the driveway. When we reach their car, Cliff turns to me. Barb huddles next to him.
“Maddie, I know we don’t know each other well. But B’s told me about what you’ve been going through.” He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes and his dreadlocks swish a little back and forth.
Till it Stops Beating Page 6