by Ka Hancock
Neither will Lucy.
Mickey will not use illicit drugs. And he will try not to drink alcohol.
Alcohol is sometimes a challenge during his periods of instability. After one particularly bad manic episode he handwrote this promise: Okay, I will try harder not to drink. Especially when I am mad and do not get what I want. Especially when I’m losing it!
Mickey will make a constant and concerted effort to take his medication . . . exactly as prescribed. Try. Try. Try Harder!!! (He’d added these trys on three sequential occasions.)
Lucy will not nag Mickey to take his medication.
Lucy and Mickey agree to see Mickey’s therapist every week even when Mickey is doing well.
Lucy will see Gleason, or a facsimile, before she has any major fight with Mickey.
Lucy promises to be patient and not expect perfection from Mickey.
Lucy will not overreact.
Lucy will not get fed up and sleep around or seek friendships with attractive men. Mickey added this line after an insane fight we had when I told him I thought Bruce Willis was cute in his Die Hard movies.
Lucy will take a break when Mickey gets overwhelming. And Mickey will not take it personally when she needs to vent or cry to Lily or Jan or Charlotte.
Lucy will employ the 10-second rule when she gets angry at Mickey. Cranky okay. Bitchy no.
Lucy will not hover.
Lucy will not blame Mickey for what he cannot control.
Mickey will not pretend to not be in control.
Lucy will never be cruel in reference to Mickey’s illness.
My gaze fell on the last agonizing handwritten line of our contract added after I didn’t die: No CHILDREN!!!
Due to circumstances beyond what we are able to control, we agree for all parties involved—especially the child—that we will not bring babies into this marriage. Not because we wouldn’t love you, but because our love would never be enough. (Tubal ligation the day I turned 27. Happy f—ing birthday!)
Nothing had changed. Tears melted the words as I read the last addendum again. Nothing had changed, except a valiant little swimmer had made it through the knot. I crawled into bed wondering just how valiant, and why I was pregnant after all this time.
five
JULY 10, 1999
Gleason Webb holds open group therapy every other Thursday for the bipolar population of the Lower Connecticut River Valley. I attend when I can and I’ve been going for years. As we are all different men (Gleason meets with BP women on opposite Thursdays) with different presentations, we make up quite a group. Collectively we are a gathering of mentally ill men, some of whom have destroyed marriages—and not just their own—some have hurt and alienated their kids, some have lost that privilege, some have dishonored their parents, abused their friends, betrayed their employers, stolen, lied, and manipulated. Some blame God for all their problems. For some it’s all her fault. Some have brought their careers to ruin; others have squandered their life’s fortune. Some are drunks, addicts, flat broke and homeless. Some have burned every bridge to every loved one. Some are obnoxiously entitled and blameless one week, and guilt-ridden and suicidal the next. I’ve been there as well. We are all damaged men, but we’re rather interesting.
In this setting Gleason is our instructor. He’s a brutal confronter and has always warned that if we are to survive our diagnosis, we must understand it—this is our number one responsibility. We must respect it, and we must attend to it. He also recommends having someone in our life we can trust to tell us when our feet have left the pavement.
I can’t speak for my compatriots, but I’ve always thought that’s a lot to reveal about yourself, and the chance of finding someone actually willing to look beneath all this symptomology to the man was slim to none.
So, to say that I was blindsided by Lucy Houston would be a vast understatement.
The night I met Mickey Chandler in the cafeteria, I’d left him with an invitation I really didn’t think too hard about . . . until later. It was probably best if he didn’t call. Mickey was a sick man—mentally ill if I believed what he’d told me. I couldn’t see it, but then I didn’t know what it was supposed to look like. I dwelled more on the look in his beautiful eyes when he’d said, “Believe it or not, I’m a lot of other things besides mentally ill.” Because of those words, every day that passed found me thinking about him more.
A few weeks later, I was putting together a presentation packet for my ethics class when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but I knew it was him.
“Hey, birthday girl.”
“You called,” I said, certain my smile had reached my voice.
“Yes, I did.”
“How are you?”
“I’m doing great now,” he said. “You?”
“I’m great, too,” I said, feeling it.
“So, against my better judgment, I’m wondering if you’d like to go out with me.”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked in such a flattering way.”
He chuckled. “After the other night, I think you know what I mean.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, you’d think we were ahead of the game with everything we know about each other, but I don’t know if you like surprises or if you like to know what to expect . . .”
“I love surprises.”
“Great! How does Thursday look?”
I had a class that night, but it didn’t matter. “Thursday’s great.”
“I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll be outside and it will probably start out warm and get cool, so bring a sweatshirt. And I wouldn’t do stilettos.”
“Sweatshirt. No stilettos. Got it.” I gave him directions to my apartment and hung up feeling giddy and ignoring my previous qualms. Three days later he showed up right on time, looking fit in jeans and a henley, sunglasses pushed back in his great hair. He looked me over, and my jeans, white T-shirt, and ponytail all seemed to pass inspection.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“You look great, like you’re feeling better,” I said.
“Thanks. You look good, too.”
“You found the place okay?” I said.
“Drove right to it,” he said.
“Good.”
“Good directions,” he said.
“Good,” I said again.
Mickey shook his head. “This is why I hate first dates.”
“Me, too. Let’s get out of here.” I grabbed my jacket and my house key. “Do I need anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” He chuckled as I locked the door. “Low maintenance. Who would have thought?”
If our conversation started out stilted, it didn’t stay that way for long. As he drove, I learned all about Mickey’s business. He and his partner, Jared Timmons, not only owned Colby’s, but two other clubs as well, and they were looking at another one. “I’m very lucky,” he said. “Jared works around my mental health, and I work around his commitment to overpopulate the world. He has three kids and his wife is pregnant.”
I laughed. “Sounds like a great arrangement.”
Mickey parked the car and looked over at me. “Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
We’d driven to the pier at Pemberton Point, the ferry launch for the Boston Harbor Islands. I was excited because I’d lived in Boston for three years but I’d never seen any of the islands. I was invited to a party on Spectacle my freshman year, but I’d missed it because Lily got married and I had to give her away. I looked at Mickey. “So far I’m loving this surprise!”
He smiled and took my hand as we walked to the ferry. The air was soft on this warm June evening as we stood at the rail. I felt safe, protected, with Mickey’s broad shoulders shielding me from the wind. I caught him staring at me with those same dark eyes I’d encountered when I first met him . . . kind of stripped. He liked me, but wasn’t quite sure he should. I gazed out at the harbor. “I love the water.”
“Do you sail?”
“Not as much as I’d like. My sisters and I inherited an old sailboat. A Catalina. I remember going with my dad when I was little. I’ve always loved it.”
“You’ll have to show me your stuff sometime.”
I lifted an eyebrow at him. Sometime implied a next time. “Do you sail the Connecticut River?”
“I have a few times. But I spend more time on Bashan Lake. I do a lot of fishing.”
I smiled. “I love to fish.”
“I wouldn’t have bet on that.” He grinned.
“I might surprise you yet.”
The ferry moored at the Georges Island dock, where we got off and waited for the shuttle. We were the only ones in line, and when I looked over at Mickey, he was smiling. “Have you ever been to Bumpkin Island?”
“No. Have you?”
He shook his head. “Looks like we get to discover it together.”
“I hear you can see the Boston skyline from it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and see the sunset.”
“Maybe.”
The shuttle dropped us off on the island, and Mickey and I made our way to a path that was bordered with wild berry bushes.
“We better pick some of these for dinner,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but I popped a big fat blackberry in my mouth anyway. In the distance, Boston’s lights were just starting to flicker. “It’s beautiful here,” I said.
“Yeah, it is. There’s supposed to be an old farmhouse around here . . . or the ruins of one. Let’s find it.” He reached for my hand.
“There’s an old hospital here, too,” I said as I put some berries in his palm.
“Are you hungry?” Mickey asked me.
“A little. Do you have a peanut butter sandwich in your pocket?”
He laughed. “I could win you over with a peanut butter sandwich?”
I didn’t want to tell him he probably could, so I just smiled. “Low maintenance, remember?”
We found the ruins at dusk, and the fading sun made them seem very gothic. I was kind of lost in the moment, imagining who used to live here. I turned to say something to Mickey, but he was standing off to the side, watching me. When I caught his eye, he shifted uncomfortably. I walked toward him, noting that the first stars were starting to glint over the harbor. “It’s so quiet here.”
“We might be the only two people on the whole island, Lucy. Does that make you nervous?” he said, still drinking me in.
I stopped in front of him. “Do I look nervous?”
Mickey smiled and shook his head, then took my hand. “C’mon, we have to be someplace.”
“Where?”
In the last moments of twilight, just before night took over the wheel, we came upon the true surprise Mickey had planned. He helped me down an embankment and into a clearing, where a candlelit table was set for two under an arbor. I was stunned. The picnic table was covered in white linen and china and flowers and stemware. The best part was the tuxedoed waiter standing there with a napkin he snapped loose and placed on my lap. I looked at Mickey and shook my head. “Oh, you’re good.”
He sat down across from me and grinned.
The waiter was just a kid, but all business as he introduced the menu: rack of lamb, new potatoes, spinach salad, and fresh fruit. He removed the silver lids from the serving trays and placed a basket of rolls between Mickey and me. “And for dessert, fresh pastries from Maria’s.” He looked at Mickey. “Anything else, Mr. Chandler?”
“No. It’s perfect, Ryan. You’ve done a great job.” As the kid disappeared in the shadows, I watched Mickey, who suddenly seemed a bit bashful.
“This is the best surprise ever,” I said.
“Better than peanut butter?”
“Way better. In fact, you must be psychic because these are all my favorites.”
“Or I just had your sister’s phone number.”
“You talked to Lily?”
“We’re old friends since she booked your party at my club. When I told her what I was thinking, she said food was the way to your heart. I sort of took it from there.”
I stared at him. “I don’t know what to say. It’s lovely.”
We took our time and everything was delicious. While we watched the bruised sunset, we talked about art, which led to books we loved and hated and movies we’d seen. At one point, Mickey asked me if it was true that Priscilla was a lawyer.
“Yep.”
“Is she a good lawyer or a great lawyer?”
“I don’t know. What’s the difference?”
“A good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge.”
I laughed. “Oh, she’d love that.”
Mickey leaned his elbows on the table. “You two seem very different. Kind of hard to believe you’re sisters.”
“Sometimes we can’t believe it either.” I smiled. “But Priscilla always has my back—mine and Lily’s. She’s sort of the parent—mom and dad rolled into one big, bad, bossy sister. She’s very career-oriented, success-oriented, smart, gorgeous, and only as nice as she has to be.”
“She’ll probably get just what she wants.”
“I hope she does.”
“And Lily? She seems real nice.”
I nodded. “Oh, Lily’s my touchstone. We’re very close; almost like we’re extensions of each other. She’s a worrier, but I’d trust her with my life. She married the guy next door—you met him, Ron. He’s a fabulous brother-in-law. They live in Brinley Township and own an antiques store.” I leaned over and lowered my voice. “Lily knows all my secrets.”
Mickey smiled. “And I have her number . . .”
He was so easy to be with, no stumbling around for words, no second-guessing if I was holding his interest. “Now you,” I said. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“I’m having a great time looking at you in the candlelight.” He winked.
I swallowed. “Backatcha,” I said, meaning it. The light playing in his dark eyes and his easy smile could have held my interest all night. I cleared my throat. “What kind of kid were you?”
“Tall, I was tall. Gangly. Shy. I liked to read joke books when I was a kid.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“It probably does. Laughing saved me because my life was very unfunny.”
“Why?”
“My mom had terminal depression, and my dad dealt with it by drinking too much. I wouldn’t wish that on any kid,” Mickey said matter-of-factly, with no trace of self-pity.
“I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “You’re lucky to have your sisters.”
“I know. We sort of cling to each other since our parents are gone.”
Mickey nodded. “You do what you can to fill the loss, no matter when it happens. I had a gig a few weeks ago. It was an eighty-fifth birthday party for a little old lady. Her good friends—the youngest was seventy-nine—found me on the Internet and hired me to make her laugh since she’d just lost her husband. They were married sixty-seven years. He was a circuit court judge.”
“Did you make her smile?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots of lawyer jokes. I had so much fun with those ladies, I didn’t even charge them.”
I shook my head. “My first impression of you still stands, Mickey Chandler. You are a good guy.”
We were quiet for a moment, then Mickey stood and came to sit on my side of the table. He straddled the bench, facing me, and my heart sped up as I looked at him.
“Thank you for a fabulous evening,” I said. Then I softly kissed his cheek. When I pulled back, Mickey almost said something, but then thought better of it. Mostly he just looked unsure, and I was glad when the boy waiter emerged to clear our table. He made a big production of checking his watch.
“You told me to let you know the time, Mr. Chandler. The shuttle will be here in twenty minutes.”
Mickey nodded. “Thanks, Ryan.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Everything was perfec
t.”
The boy beamed and Mickey stood up and handed him a couple of bills, hundreds if I could trust the candlelight. Then he took my hand and a flashlight Ryan offered him and we walked back to the shuttle.
When we got back to my apartment, I wanted to invite Mickey in, which was probably a good reason not to, so instead I just looked up and thanked him again.
“I had a great time, Lucy.”
“Me, too. I hope we can do it again sometime.”
He looked at the floor and I started to get the same vibe I got the first time I thought we were on the same page, but weren’t. It took him a minute to meet my eyes, and when he did, I saw pain there.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
“About what?”
“About this. About again.”
I swallowed. “Oh. Really? I thought it was great. Did I misread something?”
“No. No. It’s me. I think I have.”
“What does that mean?” I said, a pit forming in my stomach.
“Lucy, I have no business doing this.”
“What are you talking about?”
Once again, words were right there but not said.
“Mickey, I know you like me. And you have to know I like you. So what’s the problem?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“I’m a pretty superficial guy, Lucy. I’ve survived this long because I’ve learned to just enjoy the moments and not expect much in the long run. I don’t think you’re like that.”
“You’re right. I’m more of a jump-in-with-both-feet kind of girl. My world is full of guys just living for the moment, and I gotta tell ya, I’ve had my fill of them. It’s fun for a while . . . but in the end, it’s nothing—empty calories. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“I want someone interesting and real in my life. Someone who doesn’t pretend.”
He was very close to me, and I was getting lost in his eyes when he whispered, “I’m not that guy, Lucy.”
“Really? Because you seem like exactly that guy.”
He shook his head, his expression unimaginably sad.
I was 5’ 4” to his 6’ 3”, 100 pounds to his 215, but I could feel Mickey Chandler quaking in the palm of my hand. I moved closer and touched his face. When he didn’t move, I kissed him, one side of his jaw and then the other, then I gently kissed his lips. “If you want to take a chance on me,” I said softly, “I’m right here.”