by A. M. Henry
His face has gone clammy and pale. However their relationship has ended up, Dad still loves her, and that makes me feel petty and weak.
“What happened?” Dr. Allen asks.
“She tried to kill herself.”
That statement echoes like a gunshot. Silence hangs in its wake, until I finally speak.
“She what?!”
My mother, for all her faults, is a warrior. A Viking. Unfazed by silly things like emotions and human weakness.
“She overdosed on valium,” Dad says. “She’d been taking a lot of it, and drinking. Her mother and Mairéad more or less cut her off, said she was just looking for attention. I was the only one there for her. They wouldn’t even visit her in the hospital, wouldn’t even call.”
I want to say something, but I can’t find any words. I don’t know what to say, what to think. I think I understand my father now. Every time Mom started acting crazy, he remembered the suicide attempt—loving her and almost losing her. Terrified of losing her again. And then he finds out she’s taking sedatives, but this time she never told anyone. No wonder he didn’t leave his room for days.
We all do stupid things for people we love.
“What happened after that?” Dr. Allen asks my father. “After the overdose?”
Dad sighs. Slumps forward and runs his hands through his hair before sitting up straight again and rubbing his knees like he’s trying to wipe the sweat from his palms.
“She was in the hospital for over two months,” Dad answers. “I took her home and she spent months just sitting around our apartment, staring at the walls. I was terrified of leaving her alone every day when I left for work. I made her see a shrink. It didn’t really help. But then Rachel came along and it was like someone flipped a switch in Tammy’s brain. She finally felt like she had a reason to exist. I really thought that was it—she had recovered and we could move forward. But then when she was pregnant with Angela, the depression came back. And it got worse right after Angela was born. Postpartum depression, the doctor said.”
His words flow out quickly and with a tone of urgency, like he has waited years to let all of this out. Which I suppose he has.
Dad turns to me. “Your grandmother and Mairéad had come back into our lives by then. They told her she was being selfish, that she had no business feeling sorry for herself when she should be taking care of her family. I think that’s when the depression turned into something else. Made her angry all the time.”
“Angela?” Dr. Allen says. “Are you okay?”
I haven’t been okay for a really long time.
“This is a lot to process,” she adds, and then looks at my father. “For both of you.”
A lot to process. Understatement of the century.
I can’t take any more of this. I push myself up from the couch and storm out of the office, out the back doors, and don’t stop until I reach the edge of Dr. Allen’s back yard. A wall of spindly trees separates her property from the back of a nearly identical split level on the next street over.
I dig into my sweatshirt pocket for my cigarettes and my lighter.
“You still smoke?”
I almost leap into the nearest tree—I didn’t hear him come outside.
“I took it up again,” I say when my heart goes back to its normal pace. “Didn’t have any bad habits left, I had to do something.”
We stand in silence for a moment, Dad staring off into the woods and me puffing away on my cigarette so fast I feel lightheaded.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I am so sorry I didn’t believe you. About... about the pills. And I’m sorry for all that,” he gestures back towards Dr. Allen’s house. “I just dumped everything on you. It wasn’t fair.”
“You had to tell someone. You probably should have told someone a long time ago.”
“You’re probably right.”
“She needs help. Permanent help, not just a couple weeks in the hospital and then we all pretend like nothing happened.”
Dad hangs his head. Rubs his eyes. His skin looks thin and grey. The energy it took for him to get all of that off his chest has evaporated. He looks twice as defeated as before, twice as tired. He looks like he desperately wants to go back to pretending nothing ever happened.
49.
Ryan hits pause on my iPod, sets the iPod down on his dashboard. Looks at me.
“Stop thinking all of this is still your fault.”
It is, though.
my fault my fault my fault
“It turns out your mom is human,” Ryan says. “That’s a good thing.” He takes the cigarette out of my hand, takes a good puff and immediately starts coughing.
I take the cigarette back, looking up at the stars. They shine bright and hard, the way they only do when it’s twenty below freezing outside.
“This was easier when she was just a psychopath,” I say.
“There’s a big difference between depression and almost strangling your child to death in a puddle of her own puke.”
He sees things so clearly and with such certainty. I envy that.
“I don’t think Dad will ever stop being afraid of her. Afraid for her. I don’t think he’ll ever change.”
“Which means she’ll never change.”
“It’s like quitting a drug,” I say. “I could have snuck out and found a way to get more oxy. Or more heroin. But by the time I could walk again, I’d gone so long without it. I didn’t want to go back to that. I wanted to stop. You have to want to get better. Really want to change. She’ll never accept that getting help doesn’t make her weak. He’ll never stop doing whatever it takes to make sure she doesn’t break.”
Silence for a moment. Ryan picks up the iPod, scrolls through his music until he decides on something. The Lord of the Rings soundtrack plays softly from the speakers.
“Nerd,” I say.
“You bought it,” he replies. “That makes you the bigger nerd.”
“I wish I could just go live in Middle Earth. I always wanted to be a hobbit.”
“Maybe you can. The Rocky Mountains look a lot like Middle Earth. And your aunt kind of looks like a hobbit.”
I try not to laugh and fail. “That’s so mean.”
“It’s true, though,” Ryan says. “She’s short and chubby and her cheeks are always red.”
We’re skirting the subject of Colorado and I really don’t want to talk about it.
“Boulder has a great college. And you can’t beat being surrounded by ridiculous mountains all the time.” Ryan smirks at me. “It’s full of hippies, though.”
“Cheryl says everyone drives a Subaru,” I say.
“See? Hippies.”
“It’s so far away.”
“You can always come back if you hate it. Mom always wanted a daughter…”
Ryan falls silent for a moment, and then his face turns serious. “You can’t hide from this.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“Remember what Dumbledore said in The Goblet of Fire? Sometimes you have to choose between what’s right and what’s easy.”
“I can’t believe you’re quoting Harry Potter right now.”
Ryan ignores me. “Your parents can’t and won’t do what’s right. They only do what’s easy. But you’re better than that. Whatever you decide will be right.”
I’m pretty sure that no matter what I decide, I will make the wrong decision.
“Stop that,” Ryan says.
“What?”
“You’re thinking you’ll always be wrong. I can tell by the look on your face.”
I’ve only just found one of the best friends I ever had. How can I leave him now?
Then again, it is only a three or four hour flight. I can always come back home.
Home. I realize don’t know what home feels like, not really. No house I ever lived in ever felt safe and peaceful, like a home should. Maybe this is my chance to find home.
50.
The morning after I made up my mind about a pos
sible move to Colorado, I get up at 6:00 AM, make a cup of coffee, toast some Eggo waffles, slather them in maple syrup, pile all that on a tray, and carry it up to Casey’s room. I knock on the door with my foot.
A tiny voice answers, “Come in.”
I open the door just enough to squeeze through it, and then shut it behind me. She has the curtains drawn over her windows, so the room looks like twilight. She sits on her bed, back against the wall with her knees pulled up to her chest.
“I brought you waffles.” I set the tray down on the nightstand. “I made them myself.”
She raises an eyebrow and almost smiles. I sit down at the foot of the bed while Casey moves the tray to her lap and starts shredding the first waffle with her hands, taking minuscule bites.
“I’m sorry I missed your Christmas show.”
A pause, a frown. “What Christmas show?”
“When you were the angel. In eighth grade.”
Casey puts down her forkful of waffles. “Is this a joke?” She asks with a frown.
I shrug, stunned for a second. “No?”
She stares at me with that frown and for a moment she looks identical to Mom.
“It’s just… I knew I screwed up, but then I didn’t even care. I think that’s even worse than ditching you for drugs.”
She takes a breath, her frown morphing from irritation to genuine concern. “You were an addict,” she says. “Addiction is a mental condition. You were a slave. You would never have skipped the Holiday Spectacular. It was—”
“The drugs,” I cut her off.
She nods.
“I can’t use the drugs as an excuse,” I say. “I was a shitty sister. And you still stuck by me.”
“Someone had to. You survived the accident, but you were still dying.” She puts the tray back on her nightstand and then shuffles down the bed to sit next to me. I rest my head on her shoulder. “Mom and Dad were just letting you, like, wither away.” She takes a breath. “Mom kept saying it was for your own good. After a while… After you threw all your stuff away, I stopped believing her.”
“Thanks, Case.”
“Are you going to leave with Cheryl?”
“I think so. I think I have to.”
Part V
You took my voice and cut my wings
But I grew them back again
and I taught to myself to sing
and I broke the cage and flew away
- Palodine
51.
My bedroom has three walls painted bright crimson, and one a vibrant orange-gold. An “accent wall,” according to Cheryl, and that’s where we hung framed copies of the photos of my great-grandmother. Ryan sent them to me, along with a copy of the report he ended up hashing together the day before it was due. Harmon gave him an A.
Outside my windows, the Flatirons loom in the distance, huge and majestic like something out of a movie. I love this view. And the air through the open windows always smells like snow—that cold, clean smell I always associated with Christmas.
“That sounds amazing,” Rachel says of my description of the view out my windows. “But seriously, Angie,” she continues, trying to stifle a laugh. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to church.”
I shift my position on the floor to try and get more comfortable—I’ve been on the phone for almost an hour. “I like the people there.”
“Dad said they’re like super nuts Jesus freaks.” Rachel laughs.
“Uh… Yeah, maybe some of them are like really enthusiastic,” I say.
“I think Dad was more surprised that you got Cheryl to go to church with you,” Rachel says. “Pretty sure he thinks she’s a witch.”
“She’s friends with one of the people from my meetings,” I tell Rachel. “I don’t think she would have gone otherwise.”
I joined a local NA group the week I got here. We meet once a week at the Assembly of God church in the next town. More than half of the people in the group attend the church on Sundays, and eventually one of them asked me to come to the next Sunday service.
“It’s still weird,” says Rachel.
“The people are nice. Like really nice.”
“Maybe we should make Mom start going to church.” She barely finishes the sentence because she starts laughing too hard.
“Pretty sure the next time Mom sets foot in a church, it will start the apocalypse.”
A laugh. An awkward pause.
“How is she?” I ask.
Rachel moved back from Grandma’s right before going back to Princeton in September. She still hasn’t totally forgiven them, but she goes home every other weekend anyway to try and “reconnect with her family” (Dr. Allen’s idea).
“She’s… quiet,” Rachel replies. “But she’s definitely doing better.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just sort of grunt.
“Casey wants to talk to you.” Rachel saves me from having to respond.
The sounds of a brief scuffle and then Casey blows out my eardrum with a “HEEYYYY!!!”
“We miss you!” Casey exclaims. “What’s the weather like by you? It’s been crazy here; it was like zero degrees yesterday and now it’s like summer. What have you been up to? You still working at the coffee place?”
Whenever I take a breath to answer, she asks another two questions and I start to feel dizzy.
“I made the varsity softball team. I’m like the youngest to get on the varsity team in like ten years. Oh, and you’ll never guess who asked me to the spring dance!” She talks a mile a minute and I retain maybe half of it. I just like hearing the sound of her voice—bubbly, high pitched, and a little dramatic. It used to drive me crazy to the point of shouting and slamming doors.
“Dad says you’re playing rugby?” Casey asks.
“Yeah, but it’s just like a for-fun thing. Not like an official league or anything. I’m the worst on the team, but I think it’s actually helping with my knee.”
“Moderate exercise can strengthen your knee. Are you doing your exercises?”
“Sort of… Sometimes I do yoga with Cheryl.”
A brief silence and I can almost see Casey rolling her eyes and sighing. I take advantage of her moment of silence and ask, “How’s Dad?”
“He got a new job. Accounting or something for these guys who run a bunch of fancy restaurants in New Jersey. Mom’s doing really well, too. She’s actually going to her therapy every week, and going to a support group at St. Anthony’s.”
“That’s great. Rachel said she’s painting?”
“Oh my God, they’re so bad.” Casey laughs. “But we hang them all on the fridge like she’s a little kid and she actually thought that was funny.”
Mom thinking something is funny—I see that as a sign of major progress.
“So Cheryl said you might come out here in the summer?” I ask. I feel way more excited to see Casey than I will ever admit to anyone. Ever.
“I think so,” Casey says. “Do you think… do you think you’ll talk to Mom soon?”
“Maybe,” I reply. “When we’re both ready.”
A few months ago, I thought I’d never speak to her again, but now it doesn’t freak me out as much. Maybe my shrink is actually helping—she’s no Dr. Allen, but I could do worse. Or maybe I’ve just mellowed out because I’m surrounded by hippies.
“Anyway,” says Casey, “Dad wants to talk to you.”
A moment of silence, and then, “Hey, princess.”
He sounds tired and a little scared, and for a second I miss Dad so much my eyes start to burn. “Hey, Dad.”
“I hear you’re starting school in Boulder in September,” Dad says.
“Yeah turns out I’m really good at pretending to be smart; they’re giving me a bunch of scholarships.”
A quick almost-laugh. “You know you’re smart. Too damn smart, in all the wrong ways.”
I can’t help but laugh, and then he laughs and I miss him a little more.
But not enough to want
to go back.
We chat about the weather for a minute before Dad tells me he loves me and we hang up. I put my phone in my back pocket and stare out the window at the mountains for a moment.
I love it here.
Cheryl got me a job at a hole-in-the-wall café ten minutes’ walking distance from her house. I make a small pittance as a waitress/barista, but I like chatting with the people who come in. They’re mostly artsy college students. Huge hippies. I hadn’t realized how much I missed interacting with other people, even if some of them are obnoxious and most of them are lousy tippers.
I don’t know if I feel nervous or excited about starting school in September at the University of Colorado in Boulder. I have no idea what I want to study.
“I can make up the couch.” Cheryl bustles around her small house, rearranging things but not really cleaning. “But honestly, I don’t mind if you… you know… if he stays in your room. Just keep it down at night.”
I feel a red flush creeping up from my neck to my cheeks and Cheryl cackles.
“Don’t be embarrassed, honey,” she says. “I’m not encouraging anything. But I’m not gonna tell you not to do what plenty kids your age are already doing anyway. I trust you. Just don’t get pregnant.”
I haven’t seen Ryan in four months. Not in person—we send each other constant streams of ridiculous videos via Snapchat, and almost every night we use FaceTime on our computers while watching the same movie (usually Star Wars or Lord of the Rings). Last night we watched all three of the original Star Wars movies until nearly three in the morning.
But at the same time, I feel like that doesn’t count. He arrives tomorrow to visit the University in Boulder, and to stay with me and Cheryl for a week.
Four months. Only four months here, and I feel safe. Secure. Not exactly happy, but content. Hopeful. I don’t hate it and I don’t want to go back. I think I could be happy here. I think I could find home here.