Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  “My advise for you will be simple, and even though there are those who frown at my methods, I’ve seen improvement in my patients who’ve followed my instructions.”

  I sat up, intrigued. A rogue doctor.

  “No sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine.”

  “What?” I asked, alarmed. “I have to have Earl Grey in the mornings, and I drink wine with dinner—”

  “No sugar, no caffeine, and no alcohol,” Dr. Roth continued. “And you will exercise for an hour each day and attend thrice weekly meditation classes.”

  “No,” I said, folding my arms. “I am not giving up my tea. And what am I supposed to do about the no sugar? Sugar is in everything.”

  “Sugar is not in everything. Sugar is in processed foods, sweetened juices and desserts. Fruit is fine. Anything with “sugar” as an ingredient is not. You will eat clean, whole foods. And as for your tea, would you rather have a life without intense mood swings or a daily cuppa?”

  “But…”

  “Your sisters told me that they found you on the floor yesterday and that you couldn’t move. Do you want repeat episodes of this?”

  I held my tongue.

  “You are to do this for a year before we decide whether or not this is working for you.”

  “And you really think that cutting out these things and meditating will cure me?”

  “Nothing will cure you, Noira. Bipolar Disorder is for life. But yes, doing these things will help control your mood swings. You might still get depressed, but you won’t become suicidal.”

  “And the mania?”

  “None of my patients have experienced mania, or at least, not in the traditional sense. They have periods where they feel more energetic than usual, but that is why I recommend that you meditate.”

  “And what if this doesn’t work?”

  “What do you have to lose, Noira? You’re not taking medication now, and by all accounts, you are very unstable. I don’t think that you can afford to not try…”

  He was right. Whatever had happened to me the day before obviously hadn’t been a relapse into severe depression, but I was disassociating none the less. I’d already lost Nicolaas. The only thing that I had left to lose was my sanity.

  “…And you will be on medication again.”

  “What?” I began to protest.

  “You were on the wrong kind of medication, and your previous psychiatrist obviously didn’t listen to your concerns about the side effects or the Lamictal not working.”

  I sighed. I had made a pact with a God that I wasn’t sure that I believed in that I would get better, and I had clearly gone so far off the path of normalcy that my sisters had taken matters into their own hands.

  “What are you going to put me on?” I sighed again, defeated.

  “For starters, you’re going back on the Lamictal.”

  I opened my mouth, but Dr. Roth continued. “Your dosage was too low. We’re going to get you the starter pack to get you up to 100 mg, and then we’re going to work our way up to 200 and see how that works for you. If need be, we can up the dosage, but I don’t think that we’ll need to, because I’m going to give you another mood stabiliser that’s been out in the UK for a few years and has been successful as an additional medication for those with Bipolar Disorder and schizophrenia. It’s called Saphris. You’ll be on 10 mg; 5 mg in the morning and another at night. You melt it under your tongue.”

  I said nothing.

  “Do you have trouble sleeping?” Dr. Roth asked.

  I nodded.

  “The Saphris will help with that. All of my patients have been able to get at least eight hours of sleep after taking Saphris at night. You might feel a bit drowsy for the first few mornings after taking it, but that will subside.”

  “Are you experiencing depression? Your sisters told me that you’ve been withdrawn and stay in your room.”

  “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t depressed since my early teens,” I replied.

  “Well instead of Cymbalta, I’ll put you on Wellbutrin. Are you hearing voices or get feelings that you have extraordinary powers?”

  I laughed. I really was crazy. “Yes, I sometimes here voice. I also sometimes talk to myself.”

  “I’m going to put you on Invega for that. It, along with the Saphris, should help with the psychosis.”

  “Anything else that you’re going to add to the cocktail? We’re on pill number four now.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Noira.” For once, Dr. Roth was not imitating rainbows and sunshine as he spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied.

  “You mentioned that you were on Xanax but that it didn’t work. How often do you get anxiety or panic attacks?”

  “It depends. Sometimes I’ll have them once a day for a period of time and then they’ll stop. Sometimes I’ll have several a day. Sometimes they just happen occasionally. It’s usually during periods of stress that I get several a day.”

  “Okay. I’m going to prescribe you Clonazepam, but you are only to take it as needed. If you find that you’re in a period of prolonged anxiety attacks, you may take them daily. Take them at night before you go to bed and right before you get into bed. I’m serious about this. Some patients have reported getting high after taking Clonazepam. If you have to take it in the day for a sudden attack, do not drive and make sure that you are around people who can monitor you.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Yes. Stay on your medication. Do not attempt to wean yourself off anything without my consent. You’re not going to see any improvement if you don’t stay on your medication. The goal is to eventually wean you off the Wellbutrin and the Saphris, but this will only happen once you’ve gotten your diet and meditation under control. I also suggest that you take up yoga. And you will see me once a week until I’ve determined that you’re stable.”

  “As you wish,” I replied.

  Our session continued for another half-hour with my describing my breakdown and my recent bout of mania when I stayed awake for days and ended up drawing the painting that Nicolaas had discovered. I didn’t mention Nicolaas. I didn’t want to talk about him to either Dr. Roth or anyone else. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, but I could stop talking about him.

  Before he left, Dr. Roth paused in the doorway and turned to face me. “You have a serious condition, and it’s time that you accept this and learn to live with it and control it instead of it controlling you.”

  *~*

  I was the one to spot Maman when we got to the airport. Even though she was in a wheelchair, I could tell that she was even thinner than before. She was also wearing a winter coat in the August.

  "Hello stranger." Her smile looked alien against the backdrop of her tired eyes and depressed features.

  I bent to give her a hug. She was wearing her usual Number 5, but even if she had drowned herself in it, she wouldn’t get rid of her newly acquired scent. Stale, musty air and bleached linen: a hospital.

  "Hello, Maman.” I kissed her lightly on her cheek.

  Her hand reached up to touch my fingers. I said nothing as the unmistakable purple bruise against her skin yelled at me. She used to look like a walking caramel treat, but now her skin was ashy and almost gray, like a baby who had overstayed its time in the womb.

  “Philippe,” she said.

  He stepped forward and kissed Maman on her cheek. I could see everything in his eyes. He was scared that she was fading away, and he was trying to conceal it. We all were. The moment of silence passed quickly and feigned bravery followed.

  Camelea and Cienna rushed to take Maman’s bags from the flight attendant. Philippe and I helped her out of the wheelchair. We walked towards the exit. Camelea spoke endlessly about everything that happened while Maman was gone. Cienna played with her fingers behind her back in an apparent struggle to not to ask the question that peppered our brains: Why do you look like death if you went there to save your life?

  *~*

  Nino’s Positan
o was not exactly my favourite place. Everyone on the Upper East Side felt that they needed to be seen there, especially since Victoria Gotti had chosen the restaurant to introduce her new gravy. However, Maman was thrilled when Philippe told her where we were going there. For Maman, I bit my tongue.

  The maître d’ looked as if on the brink of insanity as orders were fiercely whispered to get us a table tout de suite. Philippe hadn’t bothered to call ahead and make reservations, yet the restaurant all but came to a halt once we entered. He used to do this all the time when we were younger. Maman would always politely protest that it wasn’t necessary to move people out of their seat for us, and Philippe would deliver looks when a table wasn’t cleared fast enough.

  They had us seated with menus and filled water glasses in two minutes. It was really no surprise to anyone when Alfredo, the chef, came over to greet us.

  “Philippe and Trischa! Such a pleasure to see you both again! Are these your daughters? They are beauties, like their mother.”

  When he asked if they were having their regular Lobster for Two and if they’d like to make their own selection or if he should, Cienna put her menu down. Philippe cleared his throat and told Alfredo to make the selection.

  “So.” Cienna’s smile was sickly sweet once Alfredo had left. “Come here often, do you?”

  “We’ve been here a few times,” Philippe answered.

  Cienna rolled her fists into a ball. “How many might a few be?” she asked.

  “That’s of no importance, Cienna.” Camelea piped up. “How was your flight, Maman? We never asked.”

  Traitor. She was probably overjoyed that they’d been going out together.

  “I was a bit tired,” Maman replied. “I slept through most of it.”

  “Really?” Philippe looked fretful. “Are you feeling ill? I can have the food delivered if you’d like to go home and rest.”

  Nino’s didn’t deliver, but I doubted that anyone would point this out to him when he asked for the food to be waiting for us at home.

  “It’s alright,” Maman’s hand reached for his. “I’m too happy to be home with my family to rest.”

  “I’m glad that you’re home,” Camelea said. She looked creepier than a Brady on crack as her eyes glazed over at the sight of Maman and Philippe holding hands.

  Maman returned her smile. “So am I. I missed you girls.”

  The waiter arrived with our appetizers. Beside me, Cienna looked as if she was struggling not to bring up bile as she watched Philippe and Maman share crab cakes. Maman’s left hand had not left Philippe’s.

  I put down my fork trying to abate the pending storm. “When do you find out whether or not the treatment was successful?"

  Maman wiped her mouth with her napkin and rested it in her lap. “I have a follow up appointment in five days. They should have the results by then.”

  “So we’re just supposed to lay about the house in anticipation until then?” Cienna asked. “What ever happened to advanced technology?”

  “Not exactly,” Philippe said. Judging by the look on his face, I knew that he was about to say something that he thought would please us, but would just piss us off. “I spoke to your mother last night, and since you girls had planned to go to the Dominican Republic at the end of the summer, we decided to go now.”

  “Would this be classified as a family vacation?” Camelea asked. She leaned towards them and all but fell off the edge of her seat.

  “Yes.” Philippe nodded in confirmation.

  “Wow,” she said wistfully. “I can’t remember the last time that we went on a family vacation.”

  “Well I can,” Cienna declared. She placed her napkin on the table. “It was the weekend before he left.”

  The color drained from Philippe’s face.

  Cienna rose. “Please excuse me.”

  Not wanting to bear witness to the treachery, I stood as well.

  Without waiting for permission, we walked away from their perfect family dinner.

  **~*~*~**~*~*~**

  ¯ CHAPITRE TREIZE ¯

  RETURN TO OZ

  The marvels of the DR ceased to be appealing once Philippe announced the sleeping arrangements for our three-bedroom bungalow.

  “Since Noira is the oldest, your mother and I thought that she should get her own room,” he explained.

  I was about to slink off to my room when Philippe continued. “So that leaves you two to share the next room.”

  I paused. There were three bedrooms in the bungalow. If Camelea and Cienna shared a room, that could only mean than Maman and Philippe would be sharing the master suite. No sooner than a calculated this did Cienna speak.

  “And if Maman gets the master bedroom, then where will you sleep, Philippe?” Cienna asked. Her eyes were wide as she batted her eyes. All that she needed was the halo to complete the façade. Philippe and Maman exchange a look.

  “Well we didn’t plan on telling you girls like this but…”

  “But what, Philippe?” Cienna’s eyelashes batted away. Somewhere in the distance, I was sure that I heard angels.

  “This really isn’t the time, Cienna.” Maman said.

  “Did something else happen?” Cienna’s hands sprang up over her heart. “Is Philippe sick as well?”

  Camelea gave her a reproachful look.

  “Nothing is wrong with me, Cienna,” Philippe replied. “But perhaps we should wait for …”

  “No, I’d like to hear now, if you don’t mind. I don’t think that I could stand the suspense,” Cienna said, feigning innocence. “It has been such a stressful few weeks…”

  It was like watching two cars collide in slow motion. As we descended the stairs and arranged ourselves on the living room furniture, I waited to hear the bang of the crash.

  “Like I said earlier,” Philippe began. “Your mother and I hadn’t planned on telling you like this…”

  Beside me, Cienna sat up suddenly. She was rather interested in Maman’s hand; it was intertwined with Philippe’s.

  “Coming here wasn’t only about having something to do while we waited on news; it’s a chance for us to see if we can work things out,” Philippe replied. He only had eyes for Cienna as he spoke.

  “And what have you and Maman decided to try and work out?”

  “Cienna stop being annoying. They obviously mean their marriage.” Beside me, Camelea looked even more irritated than Philippe.

  “And when was this decided?” Cienna demanded. She looked alarmingly dangerous for such a tiny person.

  “That really is none of your business, Cienna,” Philippe said.

  “Then what will be my business?” Cienna stood. “Hearing on your wedding day that you’re renewing your vows?”

  “We’re not renewing our vows,” Maman said.

  “Whatever. Is this what you had to tell us? That you and Philippe are in love again and the world is brand new? Seeing life through rose-coloured glasses and everything?”

  Maman stood as well, and the two of them stared each other down. Around us, the walls went tumbling down, crushing our parents’ hopes of a real family vacation.

  “Fabulous,” Cienna said. “Soon you’ll be pregnant with his demon-spawn son, and we’ll be able to have coffee with Grand-mère in her parlour and not feel like the shit that comes out of her ass!”

  Not even the wind from the sea could penetrate the thick silence that surrounded us as Cienna bounded the stairs.

  I will neither forget the way that Maman’s eyes closed as a door slammed shut, nor the single tear that ran down her face.

  *~*

  Cienna’s surly behaviour proved to be a blessing in disguise for me. No one was bothering to keep up the pretence of a family vacation anymore; I could have danced naked in the living room and no one would have noticed. I took full advantage of my all-inclusive band and made myself very familiar with the hotel’s bars. Alcohol was out of the question, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t get away for a cigarette.

 
“May I buy you a drink?”

  I exhaled, sending a cloud of smoke in the man’s direction, and smiled mysteriously. “Je ne comprend pas.”

  The stranger flashed me a toothy, nervous smile before slipping away into the crowd. He’d been the fourth man to approach me since I first entered La Caña Bar an hour ago. My phone rang. ‘Conchobair, Bryn’ flashed across the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Surprised that I’m calling?”

  “Yes,” I replied. It was so good to hear his voice. I smiled.

  “I’ve decided to accept that the laws of communication don’t apply to you,” he replied. “How are you?”

  “I suppose that you could say that I’m fine.” I took a sip of my fruit punch. “I have a new outlook on life.”

  “Oh really? What is it?”

  “Let go and let God.”

  He laughed. “Let God? You?”

  I saw another man approaching my table and took it as a sign to leave.

  “Yes,” I said, standing. “I slept in this morning and spent my afternoon painting the scenery. It was fabulous. I just sat there letting the paint and the brush lead the way. Then I meditated for half-hour. It’s easier to get through each day without having to actually feel anything.”

  As I spoke, I walked out onto the veranda and descended the stairs onto the beach. The night was cool, and the air was salty as the waves crashed onto the shore. I breathed deeply; I’d forgotten how much I loved the sea.

  “Still hiding from your problems then?” Bryn asked.

  “I do not hide,” I said. I walked all the way to the shoreline and sat down. The water washed over me, soaking my dress, but I didn’t mind.

  “Yes. You do.” Bryn cut me off. “And I’m not arguing with you either.”

  “Whatever. I haven’t run away from anything. If you must know, I’m on a family vacation.”

  “But it’s not the end of the month,” he replied.

  “This is the time that my father thought appropriate,” I explained, pausing to light another cigarette. “Apparently he wants to make good with his mistakes and try love again.”