by Nick Lake
“But he’s … he makes me feel …”
Dad kicked over the coffee table; it flipped with a crash. “I don’t give a ******** **** how he makes you feel, Cass.”
I told you: my dad’s anger, it swims under the surface, and you don’t see it, but then it bursts up like a killer whale flinging itself into the air, gleaming blackly.
“He makes the voice go away,” I said eventually.
“The drugs make the voice go away. He’s out of here.”
“No!”
“Yes. Because I … I cannot. Lose. My. Daughter. Too.”
“You’re not losing me!”
“Oh yeah?” He kicked the pile of drugs so that blister packs skittered over the floor, loose pills, the meds jumbling together.
THE VOICE: “He’s right. You’re already lost. You’re a slut. That’s why this is happening.”
I put my head in my hands. “I hate you,” I said, to both of them.
Dad shrugged.
“He’s just a boy,” I said. “He doesn’t have anywhere else to stay. He’s just—”
Dad closed the distance between us and leaned in close, the anger seeming to bake off him, shimmer in the air, like desert heat. “He’s eighteen,” he said. “He’s a man. And you’re a girl, with a ******* mental illness, which you have not even told him about so that he can make a responsible decision, and which you’re NOT TAKING YOUR DRUGS FOR. Seriously, Cass, I don’t know what else to do here. You’re giving me no choice. I’ve tried setting rules, and you’ve broken them, over and over.”
I felt like I didn’t know who he was anymore. Punishing you for my mistake. “If Mom were here, she would—”
“Don’t you dare talk about your mother,” said Dad, practically spitting the words. “If it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t—”
Then he stopped.
He held himself very still, his eyes strange and wide, shocked by his own words. He actually took a step backward, like he was trying to physically reverse from what he had just said.
And something in me snapped.
I mean, those things happened at the same time. Dad started saying that sentence, and something in me snapped. But I can’t put them side by side on the page.
Anyway.
I have learned that when people snap, it can be very quick.
“If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t be dead, right?” I said. “That’s what you were saying.”
“No. No … I …”
“That’s what you were going to say. That it’s my fault she’s dead.”
“What? N-n-no,” he stammered. “****, Cass. I was going to say—”
“But it’s WHAT YOU THINK,” I shouted. “It’s what you think, so why don’t you say it?”
“What do I think? What are you talking about?”
“You think because I moved her, she died. Because I lifted her head.”
Silence.
“I don’t think that.”
“Yeah? Then why did you wait so long before saying anything?”
“I don’t think that, Cass.”
“Oh please,” I said. “It was a head injury. You don’t move someone with a head injury. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. That’s why you hate me so much.”
“I don’t hate you,” he said wearily.
“You do.”
“Cass, seriously, I’m warning you—”
“YOU HATE ME AND I DESERVE IT.”
“I don’t—”
“It was my fault. Admit it. It was—”
And then it was his turn to snap. I said that it can happen very suddenly.
“I don’t ******* know, Cass!” he shouted. “I don’t know. One of us was there and one of wasn’t, okay?”
“What are you saying? You’re saying because I was there and you weren’t, that’s why she died? Right?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” he said.
We looked at each other.
“Go to your room, Cass,” he said.
And then he walked out.
Here are some things that happened after that:
1. I had to go and see Dr. Rezwari, and she went kind of ape**** by her standards, which actually just means that she raised her voice a tiny bit, and she asked me a load of questions and said that I had “taken my treatment into my own hands” and it was incredibly dangerous.
2. She made me stay in the hospital for two days. They gave me drugs; they made me take part in group and make a jewelry box out of wood. I don’t have any jewelry, but whatever.
3. The voice went away.
4. Paris and her dad and the whole alibi thing went to the back of my mind.
5. Dad kicked you and Shane out. Made up some bull**** about needing the apartment for a relative who was coming to stay.
6. I broke your heart.
7. I don’t know if I broke your heart. That might be overdramatic. I hurt you though. I know that.
Actually, with Dr. Rezwari, it wasn’t too bad.
After the initial blowup, she kind of softened. I went to see her at the end of my two days in the hospital, sitting at her weirdly blank desk, and she smiled at me.
“How are you feeling, Cassie?” she asked.
“Oh, super,” I said.
“You don’t like the drugs?”
“No.”
She sighed. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Lewis. On the phone.” She indicated the phone on her desk, as if I needed to have the concept explained to me. Illustrated. She steepled her fingers. “He tells me you have made some breakthroughs, in dealing with the voice.”
“Uh, yes, I guess.”
“However … he was surprised to learn that you had made a decision on your own to stop your medication.”
I stiffened.
“I mean, Cassie … I’m trying to help you here. He wrote me, did you know that? To tell me that the two of you were meeting.”
I looked down at the floor. “Um, yeah, he mentioned it.”
“And you didn’t think you might therefore be able to talk to me about it? To discuss it? And to talk about your drugs? I was waiting to see if you would bring it up, and you never did.”
“I don’t know.”
She made an exasperated sound. “Listen, Cassie … I want you to tell me how you feel about the drugs you’re taking.”
“What?”
“Please. Indulge me. Tell me honestly. You can look at me too. I won’t bite.”
I met her eyes. They were open, interested—clear. “I … I hate them. They make me too tired and I can’t think properly and … they make me not me.”
“And you believe you function better without them?”
“Yes.”
“Your father believes otherwise.”
“He’s just pissed because I met a boy.”
“Hmm,” said Dr. Rezwari.
A pause.
“Look … You have to work with me, Cassie. Has it occurred to you that these drugs, paroxetine especially, have withdrawal effects? That stopping abruptly may have been extremely dangerous?”
“Uh … no.”
“Evidently not. And has it occurred to you, too, that you never actually told me you didn’t like taking them?”
Oh.
No, it hadn’t occurred to me.
“Okay, so. Let’s start over. I’m Dr. Rezwari. And you are?”
“What?”
“You are …?”
“Cassie.”
She smiled, and reached out to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”
“Uh … Nice to meet you too,” I said. My head was all fuzzy.
“You hear voices. You are currently pursuing a therapeutic approach to dealing with those voices, under the care of Dr. Lewis.”
“Yes …”
“And this has led to your being able to”—she flipped open the single note pad on her desk, lined up neatly with the edge—“schedule times when the voice can speak to you? Challenge the voice’s power?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good. Very good. And you are currently supposed to be taking risperidone and paroxetine?”
“Yes, you prescribed them to me.”
“I know that.” Another sigh. “So here’s the thing, Cassie. I’m not some monster. I don’t live to turn you into a robot. I want you to be a fulfilled, absorbed, contented person. But you’re also someone who hears voices. That can be very dangerous. For you and, frankly, for other people. Do you see that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I mean, the voice had done some ****ed-up stuff to me. And had wanted me to hurt other people too. “But I wouldn’t hurt him. The boy. My dad thinks I might, but I would never do that.”
“I believe that you believe that. Nevertheless, we have a duty to protect you, and to protect others. Do you agree?”
“Yes …”
“Having said that, I am aware of the progress being made by people like Dr. Lewis. There have been some promising studies. So—”
I opened my mouth and stared at her. “I can stop the—”
She raised her finger. “Wait. We are taking this one step at a time. I want regular meetings with you and Dr. Lewis. I want to involve your father. No, listen, don’t look at me like that; you’re under eighteen. And I want, for now, to keep you on risperidone, albeit a slightly lower dose. I also feel that long term you will truly benefit from the medication. You are at major risk of depression otherwise. But …”
“Yes?”
“But I’m prepared, if I’m satisfied with what I see, to look at your drug regimen with you. To empower you, in your own recovery and ongoing … you know … life.”
I smiled—it was funny, to see an adult, a psychiatrist at that, struggle for the word they were looking for.
Dr. Rezwari laughed. “Brain not quite operating on full power today. Anyway. Does that sound good to you?”
I was still a little in shock. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“This is with the condition that you continue taking the drugs—no, wait—that you continue taking them for now. Until we can all make a proper appraisal. Together. Is that okay?”
I took a breath. “Yeah, okay.”
She smiled and smoothed her dress. It looked expensive—Chanel, maybe? “Now, you have never taken me up on my offer of a book, to borrow. But I always see you looking at them. Please, take one when you leave.”
“I don’t …”
“Really, any book. Any book you like.”
“Okay …”
I stood and glanced down the shelves. A name popped out at me: Haruki Murakami. I loved the one Jane had given me. It was weird, but amazing. This one was called A Wild Sheep Chase. I pulled it from the shelf—it shushed against the book next to it, a soft, velvety sound. “Can I take this one?”
“Of course. Murakami. Good choice.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now get out of here. There’s lasagna in the cafeteria, and if I’m late it’ll all be gone.”
So, not too bad, huh?
I started taking the slightly lower dose. I had a meeting with Dr. Rezwari and Dr. Lewis. They argued a bit but it was obvious they respected each other; everything was hunky-dory. The voice came back, not so bad as before, but I could deal with it. I had the tools now.
Dad wasn’t speaking to me, but I’d caught him looking at me like he was about to speak. We’d even, like, half smiled at each other when passing in the house.
Stupidly, I allowed myself to believe that things were getting better.
I don’t remember the specifics of my life after that point, for a while anyway. I was all over the place, honestly.
Oh, some days passed.
I don’t really remember them.
I don’t remember what happened.
But I remember the next big thing.
And it was the next thing that led to me hurting you.
The next big thing:
It was Thursday. Group day. Group evening. You know what I mean.
I sat up in my room until Dad had gone to work, then I went downstairs and out into the yard. I was hoping you would still be at work. But I timed it badly, or you came back early, I don’t know. Maybe all the concession stands had tons of stuffed animals and you got to go home.
Anyway: you were just walking from your pickup. Shane was in a bar somewhere, presumably—drinking with the other lifeguards.
****, I thought, when I stepped out into the yard and you turned and saw me.
“Hey!” you said, running over. “Are you okay? Jesus, Cass. You went with your dad and then you just disappeared, for like three days … I thought maybe … I mean … did he hurt you?”
“No. Yes. No. I just … went to stay with a relative for a while.”
You looked stricken. “I’m so sorry, Cass. I didn’t know … I didn’t realize … how angry he was.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“He’s throwing me out, you know that?” You sounded incredulous. “I have till the end of the week to find somewhere else.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. Really.” I started to cry, despite the drugs that Dr. Rezwari had reintroduced fogging up the window of my world again, making everything soft and blurred.
“But we can still see each other, right?” you said. “I mean, when he’s at work—I can pick you up, we can go to the pool … or to the warehouse …”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.” Please don’t remember what day it is. Please don’t ask where I’m going.
You smiled. “Good. Good.” Then you seemed to realize that I was leaving, that I had been crossing the yard when you got back. “You going out? You need a lift?”
“Um. No. Thanks.”
“Where are you going?” you asked. Fake-casual.
“Um,” I said. Even at this point, after your declaration of 100 percent, I was afraid to tell you how messed up I really was.
I’m still afraid, to be honest. I’m afraid you’re reading this and resolving to run as far from me as you can go, to Mexico, to the South Pole, to anyplace but Oakwood and any girl but me. Still, I have to try, don’t I? I mean, you’re 100 percent on my side, or you were, when you told me that. But I’m 100 percent on your side too. And I need you to know it.
Anyway.
You nodded. Nodded in this really unsurprised way, like, “I thought so.” You closed your eyes and breathed out, long and hard.
Which was maybe the moment at which my heart broke a little, though I don’t expect much sympathy from you. I don’t deserve much.
“Sorry,” I said.
You didn’t say anything.
Your radio crackled.
“714? Sorry, we actually need you again, if you’re still sober enough to drive. Dippin’ Dots emergency.”
You glared at the radio.
“You’d better get to work,” I said.
You saluted sarcastically like I was an Army officer commanding you and half smiled, though I could still see the hurt and confusion in your eyes, which broke my heart into even smaller pieces, and then you got in the F-150 and drove away.
I walked to the bus.
How could I have known that you would tell your boss you’d had a couple of beers already?
How could I have known you would follow me?
What comes after, you already know. Part of it, at least. The part I wanted you to see.
I went to group at the bowling alley. You don’t need to know what we talked about; it was more of the same stuff. Voices. Aggression. Accommodation. Dr. Lewis asked how we were, and he made me talk first, so of course he’d spoken to Dr. Rezwari, so I had to humiliate myself by talking about the bomb I had placed under myself by lying to her, by lying to my dad, and all the fallout, the dirty ash fallout, coating everything, the drugs, the suspicion in my dad’s eyes always now, the guilt.
The stupidity of it.
You’d have thought I’d have learned my lesson about lies, right?
DR. LEWIS: It sounds like Dr. Rezwari has your best inte
rests at heart.
ME: Maybe. But I don’t feel like I do.
GROUP: (faint laughter)
ME: I break everything.
DR. LEWIS: Now, that’s not true.
THE VOICE: No, that’s true.
Then at the end, I hung back. I hung back because I wanted to leave with Dwight—I wanted to ask him if he’d told on me to my dad.
So we came out onto the street together.
And that was when I saw you, in your truck, across the street. A little farther down, south toward Hudson; I registered you in my peripheral vision, kept my eyes rigidly forward, like I hadn’t seen you, like I had no idea.
It was as if the atmosphere got cold all of a sudden, like Dwight and I had stepped into a current of air, one of those weird eddies you get in the ocean, snaking barrels of iciness, boring through air, though, instead of water.
I shivered.
And I want you to know, I want you to know right now, that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was back on the drugs, smaller doses, but still—I was still looking at the world through plate glass, separated from it; held at bay.
“Take Dwight’s hand,” said the voice.
“No,” I said. “Oh, and come back after six.”
“Okay, then tell the boy all about me,” said the voice. “About group.”
Only seconds had passed. You were still in your truck, still watching. I saw, from the corner of my eye, you moving, saw the truck door click open. You were coming over.
****.
“Do it now,” said the voice. “Trust me.”
“Trust you?”
“What?” said Dwight.
“Voice,” I said. “Give me a moment.”
Dwight nodded. We stood still on the sidewalk. In the cold air, under the merciless stars.
“Better hurt him than tell him the truth,” said the voice. “Tell him the truth and he’ll pity you. Hurt him and he’ll only hate you.”
You were stepping out of your truck. Looking left and right. Getting ready to cross the street. The light of the 7-Eleven sign was on your face; a sickly halo.
The voice sighed. “Bitch. Or crazy person. You decide.”
Huh.
A cog turned over in my mind; a ball bearing was released, rolled down a track, flipped a switch. I thought of the hospital. The way the cab drivers looked at me on the days when Dad paid for a cab to bring me home. The paramedics in the ambulance, the warmth that went out of them when I told them the drugs I was prescribed; radiators clicking off.