This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  Yet, it’s a bias that can be overcome. “They accepted you eventually. Everything’s fine now.” I feel like a little kid begging his parents to reassure him that everything’s going to be okay.

  “We’ve learned to code switch, play traditional Nigerian gender roles when we’re with her side of the family. But for a while your nne nne wasn’t even speaking with your mom. It wasn’t until Grace was born that they really allowed your mother back into the fold. There’s no way those aunties could resist her, you know. By the time you were born everything was pretty much back to normal.”

  I shake my head. “I had no idea.”

  “It’s all water under the bridge, but it’s just something that I thought you might want to know: Your mother and I will always trust your judgment when it comes to who you love. We will support you no matter what.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, my voice thick.

  We drive a few blocks, and my dad looks over at me twice, as if he’s waiting for me to say more. Finally, he clears his throat.

  “So, Will. I’ll come clean. Your mom, she seems to think that you may be dating one of the girls who was there when you had your panic attack.”

  “What?” I replay the whole interaction in the ER to figure out what gave me away. And I want to kick myself as I realize. “Ugh, the heart-rate monitor.”

  “She was right, huh? I’m amazed by her intuition sometimes. So when can we meet her?”

  I groan and throw my head back against my seat. “You know that phrase ‘It’s complicated’?”

  This Is My Brain on Surprise

  JOCELYN

  Another day, another morning when I can’t get out of bed.

  This time it’s my dad hammering on my door that wakes me up. “Xiao Jia, qu gongzuo!” When I don’t come out after five minutes, the banging starts up again, until it stops abruptly. There’s whispered Mandarin that I can’t quite make out, and then my door opens.

  “I’m up, Dad, just give me some time to…” I whine, coming out from where I pulled my blankets over my head, only to stop short when I realize it’s not my dad. It’s my mother.

  “I can come in?” she asks me in English, which is strange enough that I say yes. My mom doesn’t usually speak English except when she’s talking to a customer at the restaurant, on the phone with a vendor, or at a parent-teacher conference. That’s usually okay, because Alan and I are fluent in Mandarin to about the third-grade level. It’s when she tries to engage us in deep conversations that it’s a problem.

  She walks in, her slippered feet shuffling against our worn carpet. She’s clutching a small silk pouch shaped like an envelope, the kind that Chinese people put jewelry in.

  “Xiao Jia,” she says as she sits down on the edge of my bed. I shove myself up so I’m at least upright. “Xiao Jia,” she repeats, reaching out to hold my hands in hers.

  In my entire life, I don’t think my mom has ever reached out to hold my hand.

  “Is… everything okay, Mom?” It’s a stupid question. Things are definitely not okay in my family. But somehow, I figured that my mom was the one who was the most okay, if that makes sense.

  “Shenme?” My mom gives me a deer-in-the-headlights look. “No, no, I just fine.” This just makes me more suspicious, especially when my mom works her jaw a bit, as if gearing up to say something.

  When my mom finally speaks, it’s in this robotic tone she gets when she’s saying something that she’s practiced in her head a bunch of times but never said out loud, like when she went on a MVCA trip to Lake George and she had to struggle through “May I have a meatball sandwich, please?” when she ordered lunch from a food truck. It’s the kind of thing Alan and I like to make fun of. For instance, when she pronounces fettuccini alfredo “feh-TOOK-knee AL-fredo.” It’s less amusing when my mom recites:

  “I feel like you has been very sad lately.”

  My mouth literally drops open.

  “I want you to know,” she goes on bravely, “that I always here to listen.” Then she looks at me expectantly, like a freaking dachshund jonesing for a treat.

  “Mom,” I say helplessly. “Okay, thanks.”

  When that’s all I say, my mom kind of crumples into herself a little. But then she clutches the little silk purse tighter, takes a couple of deep breaths, and jumps once more into the breach.

  “If you are feeling depression, it is okay. If you ever feel like hurting yourself, that is something you should tell me and I will not get upset.”

  I’m so embarrassed for both of us that I want to crawl back under the covers. Or open my window and shout, “Help! I’ve fallen into a bad PSA, and I can’t get up!”

  The only thing I can think of that will end this horror is to give her what she wants, so I gear up to say, “I have been feeling a little down lately, but I don’t have a plan to die by suicide,” which is pretty much true. My fantasy about riding home without lights and getting hit by a car doesn’t count. Does it?

  Before I can get the words out, though, my mom unbuttons the silk purse and pulls out an orange plastic prescription bottle. The words freeze in my mouth.

  “Just after you born,” my mother says, “I very sad. Cry all day. That why your amah live with us now, because she have to help. I get better eventually, but when I have Alan, I very afraid same thing happen, so my doctor send me talk to someone, and they give me these pills. At first, I scared to take them. But then your amah tell me, I cannot have postpartum again, I have two kids take care of. And wha!” She throws her hands up in surprise. “I better. So much more happy.”

  With a shaking hand, I take the bottle and stare at the label.

  FLUOXETINE (PROZAC) 20 MG

  TAKE ONE CAPSULE DAILY.

  I check: It’s my mom’s name, and the date of the prescription is two weeks ago.

  “You’ve been on antidepressants for years,” I say, stunned.

  My mother nods. She looks relaxed now that she’s said her piece. She always looks relaxed, though—it’s something that’s always made me feel kind of broken, that I’m “so emotional” and constantly “making a big deal about things” when my mom’s always so calm.

  “I can’t believe…” My voice breaks, and my mom straightens, as if she’s bracing for a hit. “I’ve always wondered what was the matter with me. And now to know that you…” I pull my knees up to my chin and shudder. “Does Dad know?” I whisper.

  My mom shakes her head.

  I wish I were surprised.

  The minute Will opens the door I blurt out my news. Best to tear the Band-Aid off.

  “I got into the JBP program, but I didn’t get the scholarship. My dad has until Friday to renew his lease, but Mr. Berger already has a taker for the space and they’re offering ten percent more than our current rent. So, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.”

  Then I drop the bag of food in his foyer, throw myself into his arms, and start weeping.

  Will staggers back, caught off guard, but steadies himself. “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay.” And for that moment, warm and safe in the circle of his arms, I allow myself to believe that, somehow, it’s going to be okay.

  Because I have a plan. One that I’ll implement just as soon as the fountain show is over.

  Somehow Will hauls me back to his room, where he sets me up in his bed, curled up around a box of Puffs. When most of the snot has been delivered, and I can draw in a breath without it sounding choppy as a helicopter, I lie there like a limp kitten staring at the ceiling. Then I swivel my head over to Will, who’s gathering up my tissues to throw in the trash.

  “I’m sorry. I was jealous.”

  Will sits on his bed with a sigh. “Well, I’ve never had someone be jealous over me before. I guess I’m moving up in life.”

  He’s deflecting. I’ve noticed that he does that a lot, gives people free passes because he doesn’t like to dwell on the past, just brushes things over to avoid more conflict.

  I’m not going to let him sweep things
under the rug this time.

  “It’s not funny, it’s embarrassing. It’s kind of dangerous. I totally became a… a stereotype. I said some really awful things, and I triggered something, right? I made things bad for you.”

  Will rubs at his wrist. “Yeah. It’s. It’s something I’m working on.”

  That sounds… not specific. I look at him with raised eyebrows, and he has the grace to look chastened. “Did the doctors in the ER give you any… Is there anything they could do?”

  He shakes his head. “No, they just told me to go to my therapist.”

  “So when are you going? To your therapist?”

  “I went this morning.” That’s all he says. He looks away, and God, I would give anything in the world now to have him trust me, if trust were something that could be bought.

  This Is My Brain on Answers

  WILL

  It’s something I’ve fantasized about for years, having a girl alone in my room, but not like this.

  I’m already emotionally drained from my appointment with Dr. Rifkin, but that seems like a gentle summer drizzle of feelings compared to the hurricane that Jocelyn brings in.

  There’s her guilt about wrongly accusing Priya and me, and her grief over her father possibly letting go of the restaurant, and her fear that she may have caused my panic attack. And then there’s something else that I can’t put my finger on, an unease that’s almost anger, but not quite. It’s a lot to deal with when all I want to do is batten down the hatches and curl up in a storm shed with my supply of bottled water and canned goods.

  So when Jocelyn starts pushing me about what I’m going to do—everyone’s always so focused on what to do to prevent these panic attacks—I might drag my heels a bit.

  “So when are you going? To your therapist?” She asks in a carefully neutral tone, like she’s asking me whether I prefer half-and-half or soy milk in my coffee.

  “I went this morning,” I say, not volunteering more because once I start, I won’t be able to stop.

  I must have been too abrupt, though, because Jocelyn’s face falls, and she bites her lip like she’s trying not to start crying again. She sits up and yanks out a tissue with maybe a little more force than is necessary, and blows her nose with a deafening trumpet sound.

  When she’s done, she gets up and throws her own tissue away. She takes her time walking back to the bed, scanning my walls—the family pictures from our trips to Montreal and Jamaica, the Nigerian masks hanging over my desk—like she’s looking for clues to a mystery.

  I’m the mystery, I think.

  Finally, she sits down heavily next to me, folding her arms tightly against her chest.

  “Will, you know I want us to work out…”

  I close my eyes, waiting for the “but.”

  “… but I think we’re both going to need help.”

  “Both?”

  “I mean, obviously we can’t go on like this, right?” She swallows, purses her lips, and looks me in the eye. Her eyes are puffy, red-rimmed, but they still manage to look fierce. “You’ve got to be straight with me. Do you want us to work out or not?”

  I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Yes!”

  Jocelyn closes her eyes and slumps. “Thank God.” When she opens her eyes they’re brimming with tears again. “Do you think we could talk, then? About what your therapist said? Please?”

  I groan and rub my hands over my face. “Ugh. It’s nothing personal, I swear. It’s just…” My heart rate’s going up. “You know that confidentiality’s, like, the basis of the whole therapeutic relationship, right?”

  Jocelyn nods, then shakes her head. “But I’m not your therapist.”

  “Exactly! But Dr. Rifkin is, and he’s heard everything, all my screwups, my soft spots, every embarrassing thing that’s riled me up or turned me inside out. But he’s my therapist, so by definition he’s a vault. Unless I say I’m suicidal or homicidal, anyway.”

  “So you don’t trust me to keep a secret,” Jocelyn says, her voice flat.

  “No, it’s not that.…”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Dr. Rifkin’s a nice enough guy, but when it comes down to it, I don’t really care what he thinks of me. You, on the other hand?”

  “Oh,” Jocelyn says. She grabs another tissue and blows her nose. “All right, I get it, but let me tell you a story. I had a heart-to-heart with my mom today.” She shakes her head and laughs. “You’re not going to believe it. She’s been on antidepressants since Alan was born. And guess what? My dad doesn’t even know. She’s been hiding it from him for over a decade. He thinks they’re vitamins that she takes every day.”

  “That’s weird,” I say, but what I think is, that is so horribly sad.

  “Anyway.” Jocelyn taps my ankle with her foot. “You see?”

  “Yeah,” I say after a second. “I see.”

  I lay my palm up between us, and after a second, she takes it. But I don’t just hold hands with her. Instead, I take her index and middle fingers and put them on the inside of my wrist. I take a deep breath and begin.

  “So, Dr. Rifkin brought up meds again today. And on the one hand, yeah, I’m getting sick of this panic attack business. I’m also afraid of how medications might affect my personality. Plus there’s all the controversy about meds increasing suicide risk.”

  “Can you just get a prescription so you can have it on hand, if things get worse?” she asks.

  “That’s what I did, but I haven’t filled it yet. I mean, what’s the point? I feel better now, and it can take six to eight weeks for it to work.”

  “What?” Jocelyn fakes a clutch at her chest. “Pills aren’t a quick fix? What a rip-off.” Then, after a pause, more seriously: “I talked to my mom and I’m going to try to get a therapist.”

  She looks almost frightened about it. I take her hand away from my wrist and wrap it up in mine. “That’s great. That’s really great. I think it’ll help. And it definitely won’t hurt.”

  Jocelyn shrugs. “I guess the only thing it can hurt is my pocketbook.”

  There’s truth to that. It’s completely screwed up that mental health care in the United States costs what it does. “There’s a clinic attached to the college where you can get therapy on a sliding scale, and a lot of therapists accept insurance these days.”

  Jocelyn looks up to me again, wonderingly. “You really do have the answer to everything, don’t you?”

  “Hardly,” I snort. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  She snakes her other hand around my waist and leans into me. “Okay, you don’t always have the answer, but you almost always have an answer. Which isn’t bad.”

  “That’s usually a good first step,” I agree.

  This Is My Brain on Moving Pictures

  JOCELYN

  “Alan, Amah! Come on, it’s all set up.”

  “Aiyo, dengyixia. Kuaiyao wanle.” My grandmother doesn’t budge from where she’s watching the electrifying end of this week’s episode of Single Ladies Senior.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Alan says. “Lemme just finish this practice test. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

  “I’m giving you guys ten minutes,” I say. “Jin-Jin has somewhere he needs to be. I think it’s a date with one of the waitresses at the Vietnamese place.”

  I go back downstairs, where the whole A-Plus staff is finishing up their evening meal. Will and I have set up his dad’s portable projector against the side wall of the dining area. I had to take down a couple of framed TRAVEL CHINA posters from the wall, and seeing the empty space gives me ideas. What if we replaced the decor with canvas enlargements of some of Priya’s shots? I file the thought away and double-check that Will’s Bluetooth speakers are still connected to my laptop and playing the most aggressively positive music I can find.

  Halfway through the B section of Sara Bareilles’s “Brave” we hear a loud shout from upstairs and my brother comes storming down. “Holy cow! I got one hundred percent! Will!
I didn’t get a single one wrong on my full-length practice test!”

  “That’s my man!” Will and Alan fist-bump as Alan does a victory lap around the room before plopping his worksheet next to my dad’s plate.

  “Bucuo,” my dad says, nodding his head. Then he amends himself in English. Instead of saying “not bad” like he did in Mandarin, he says, “Very good.” My brother beams.

  A minute later, Amah finally comes down, and Will pulls over her special cushioned chair from behind the counter. I clear my throat.

  “Thank you all for being here. You may not know it, but this is A-Plus’s fifteenth anniversary week. Obviously, none of us were here when the original owners started the restaurant, but the fact that we’re still thriving and doing strong business fifteen years later shows that Utica really loves its Chinese food!”

  Amah, my plant, bursts out in spontaneous applause, and Will and Alan join her. My dad looks a little like he’s opened a tin of cookies only to realize that it’s been repurposed as a compost bin, but my mom looks genuinely happy. Miss Zhou actually cracks a smile.

  It makes sense that the restaurant’s lease gets renewed on the anniversary of its opening, but I didn’t realize A-Plus had been open that long until I dug through our maintenance records.

  “In honor of our fifteenth anniversary, my friends Priya and Will and I put together a little tribute to A-Plus and our customers. We hope you enjoy it.”

  Because I’m a drama queen, I turn off the lights. It’s only dusk, so there’s enough ambient light from the street so it’s not completely dark, but it’s enough.

  It was Priya’s idea to open with an old-timey movie countdown, and I have to admit that it gives me chills when the final beep sounds, the screen fades to black, and Sarah McLachlan starts singing.