This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  “You don’t think it’s too on the nose?” I whisper to Will as “I Will Remember You” fills the room to a shot of my dad flipping the store’s CLOSED sign to OPEN.

  “What do you think?” Will says, smiling. I look over at my A-Plus family, and they’re all riveted. Miss Zhou is leaning forward half out of her chair with her chin on her hands. My dad’s the only one who seems even the least bit uncomfortable.

  Good, I think.

  “Hey!” Will nudges me as still pictures of the restaurant being built come up. “Where’d you get these pics?”

  “I did some digging,” I say. “Your dad’s friend at the chamber of commerce was able to get the contact information for the previous owners. They live in Kansas City now. Can you imagine?”

  “And you think I have all the answers?” Will says wonderingly, shaking his head.

  When the scene changes to focus on Amah’s jiaozi making, I notice my mother dabbing away tears. After a minute we pan over to a shot of Will making jiaozi, at which point Sarah McLachlan finishes and is replaced by circus music augmented by whoopee cushion sound effects when his jiaozi lose their structural integrity. Alan and Jin-Jin really enjoy that part.

  Then the Beatles’s “With a Little Help from My Friends” comes on to footage of the Boilermaker Expo. Priya’s cut together half a dozen reaction shots of happy customers, and when I look around the table I can see people lighting up as they see how much joy the food we make brings to people. Then there’s the time-lapse shot of a full day at A-Plus to the refrain of “Do you need anybody? I need somebody to love.”

  The pièce de résistance, though, is the single-shot clip of the very same group of people who are watching the film, winding down at the end of a long week.

  As Ringo Starr sings, “Oh, I get by, with a little help from my friends,” I watch my mom, ever the bedrock, carrying in the rice, using a paddle to serve it steaming, right out of the pot. For once, Alan and I haven’t scattered to our bedrooms at the end of the day, and we’re putting out the tableware—gosh, do we look young, but also older than our years. Jin-Jin comes in with his dishes, then collapses into an exhausted sprawl, but then he says something that I can’t quite follow and Miss Zhou laughs, the fatigue dropping from her face for just a moment. Will rounds out our motley crew, and Priya’s camera catches the deference with which he spoons out a plate for my amah and tops off my dad’s water when it gets low.

  If Priya’s video were a film, it’d be the kind that gets a Rotten Tomatometer rating from critics but scores off the charts in its audience rating. Even as I teared up the first time I watched her initial cut, the reviewer in me wanted to use words like “mawkish” or “sentimental.” And the tropes! I stopped counting after a while: The “Family Restaurant” trope. The “Multigenerational Family” trope. And here I am, the walking “Your Tradition Is Not Mine” trope.

  But the second time I watched it and burst into uncontrolled weeping, it occurred to me that the video works because the tropes hit so close to home, not in spite of them. That’s when I called up Priya and told her that my plan was to make this the most manipulative video in the history of man. If my whole life was a trope, I was going to own it.

  I’ve watched the video enough times that it doesn’t make me cry anymore, but I can see Miss Zhou scrabbling in her purse for a tissue. Even my dad looks a little stricken. And yes, I’m a total atheist (or at least an agnostic), but at that particular moment I pray. I pray to an unnamed God or Goddess that my dad will see. That he’ll realize that our family is so much bigger than him and Mom and Alan and Amah and me. I pray that he’ll understand that now is not the time to give up, and that he’ll see that he’s not alone anymore, that I have just as much a stake in the business as he does. Most of all, I pray that he’ll see that for the first time in my life I might have a chance at happiness—and that my dreams for the future might not look exactly like his.

  I turn the lights back on, and my mother is the first one to burst into applause. Everyone joins in, even my dad. And as people blink back into reality, I turn to Will.

  This Is My Brain on Pride

  WILL

  “I hope everyone enjoyed the video,” I say. There’s a chorus of approval and a grunt from Mr. Wu, who is giving off some very conflicted vibes from where he’s sitting with his arms crossed. “It’s the first time I’ve been involved in anything like this, and it was awesome because it was so easy to capture how much love people have for this place. I’ve only been working here for a couple of months, but thank you for opening up your hearts to me and making me part of the family.”

  “Thanks for making it so my math book doesn’t seem like it’s written in Dothraki,” Alan yells. I fight to keep a straight face as I continue my speech.

  “We’ve had an amazing summer, and Jocelyn and I wanted to show you exactly how amazing.” Jocelyn pulls up the PowerPoint that we made and turns on my laser pointer.

  “The most incredible growth we’ve had has been in our social media,” Jocelyn says. “We went from zero to one hundred in our presence online, and the number of check-ins and e-coupons we’ve seen has driven a twenty-five percent increase in revenue compared to last year. Thanks to Will’s online cart, we’ve also been able to be more efficient with taking orders—there are hardly any days when people have to wait on hold, and of course payment processing is a snap.”

  Jocelyn pauses and clicks ahead to her next slide, which is a picture of the A-Plus storefront. “So, I know there’s been some concern about rising rent costs.”

  Alan, who was there the day the men came by with the tape measure, grimaces. Mr. Wu just looks gloomily at a half-empty cup of tea.

  “The good thing is,” Jocelyn says, “we’re hopeful that sales growth will be able to outpace overhead. And Will has an update on the status of our lease.”

  That’s my cue. I clear my throat. Mr. Wu is staring at me with narrowed eyes. A month ago that look would have sent me scurrying. But today I eat that suspicion up like it’s gelato on a hot day. It fuels what I say next.

  “This morning I had the good fortune to meet with Mr. Berger, the landlord who owns a number of the businesses on the street. It turns out that he wasn’t aware of A-Plus’s anniversary, either, so I was able to share this video with him as well.”

  It took me five cold calls and twenty minutes of waiting on hold, but I finally got to sit down in the same room with the man. He wasn’t really thrilled about sitting through the video—in fact, he sent at least two text messages while “watching” it on my laptop—but was super interested in a report that I put together on the three brothers who were hoping to take over the A-Plus lease from the Wus.

  It turns out that exposure therapy is easier when you’re motivated by the threat of someone you love having to move away forever. I lost count of how many cold calls I made to public records and former associates and clients of the Brennan brothers. Near the end of my investigation, I barely broke a sweat when I made a phone call. More importantly, I discovered that the Brennan brothers have been involved with some shady deals, to put it mildly.

  “After watching the video and reflecting on how A-Plus has become a Utica institution, Mr. Berger told me that he is thrilled to extend our current lease for another six months,” I tell the crowd at A-Plus, clicking through our PowerPoint and bringing up a PDF of the new contract. “It’ll give us time to grow the catering business and further our ties with the local colleges, so maybe we’ll be in a better place to negotiate next February.”

  “Yussss!” Alan gets up and repeats his earlier victory lap twice, high-fiving Jin-Jin and Miss Zhou along the way. Mrs. Wu gasps and puts her hand to her mouth in disbelief, while Jocelyn’s grandmother beams and leans over to clasp my hand in hers, chattering away in Mandarin.

  Mr. Wu is the only one who doesn’t say anything, and the silence might be because he’s almost stopped breathing. I watch as Jocelyn walks over to him. She hovers for a second when he doesn’t seem to see h
er, as if she’s unsure whether to talk, or make a move, or make a strategic retreat. And then slowly, tentatively, like she’s reaching out to pet a shelter dog, she puts a hand on his forearm. He starts, as if seeing her for the first time. He closes his eyes. And slowly, tentatively, he hugs her.

  That afternoon, I finally get my interview with Rebecca Ross. After I showed Mr. Berger how narrowly he dodged the bullet of the Brennan brothers, he was more than happy to put a word in for me.

  Ms. Ross, it turns out, is an incredibly nice woman. I probably didn’t need to rehearse my pitch quite as much as I did, but I know she responds to the part where I say I want to “shine a spotlight not only on stores that succeed, but on those that have failed. If I write about these losses to the community, it might prompt readers to get out there more to support local businesses instead of just buying stuff online.” She’s more than happy to put me in contact with businesses in the plaza that have closed down, as she’s still in touch with a lot of the owners.

  On my way home, I realize it’s the first time I’ve had a list of phone numbers that I’m actually looking forward to calling.

  I’ve just gotten back and am plugging in my car when my mom pulls in the driveway. It’s starting to drizzle so I run out with an umbrella to cover her as she unloads her laptop bag, white coat, and a few bags of groceries. Because she’s always the first one out in the morning, she never parks in the garage.

  “Bless you, William,” she says as we unload the bags in our mudroom. “The weather report this morning did not mention rain. I bought some yeast at the market. We have not made puff puff in some time, no? It used to be your favorite.”

  My mouth waters at the mention of the Nigerian fried dough balls. My mom used to make puff puff every year for my birthday, until I turned nine and begged for a “real” birthday cake to serve at my party. “I still love them, Mom. Can I make them with you? Learn the recipe myself?”

  “That would be lovely, William. Why don’t you get the flour and the big pot for frying? I will get the nutmeg and sugar. Oh, and I picked up your prescription for you.”

  I blink in alarm. “What prescription?”

  “The Zoloft that Dr. Rifkin ordered for you,” she says casually, as if she were commenting on how she got me a new tube of toothpaste because she noticed I was running low. “I saw it on the kitchen counter when I was cleaning up the other day.”

  “Um, thank you. I, uh, hadn’t decided on whether to take it or not.”

  “Is that so? May I ask why you would not?”

  I almost laugh. Why would I not? Because it still feels like a shortcut, like I’m being lazy. Because my nne nne would have a stroke if word got out that I was “mad” and was taking one of those American devil drugs. Because I thought my mother would think less of me if I did.

  “Well, there are a lot of side effects.” I say finally.

  She flicks her hand dismissively. “William, if there is one thing I know as a doctor, it’s that every medication has potential side effects. That does not mean that the risks outweigh the benefits.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a fan,” I mumble. “You never even take Motrin when your neck hurts.”

  My mother sighs in response and smooths a finger over the bottle of vegetable oil that she’s taken down from our cabinet. “Yes, well, I’m not the best role model. Doctors are always the worst patients, right?

  “But this is about you. Of course I was reluctant to jump straight to medications when you first started having problems, William. You are right, there can be side effects, including a possible initial increase in suicidality that is well documented if poorly understood and controversial. I always like to start with conservative treatment, even in my practice. However, we’ve given nonmedical intervention the old college try, have we not?”

  She turns to me and reaches out for my hand. Her palm is silky smooth; she’s always been obsessive about the use of moisturizer because she has to clean her hands so often every day. “I am so immensely proud of you, of all the work you have done to keep yourself mentally healthy over the years. But a person—anyone—can only do so much with the biochemistry they were born with. I do not begrudge my diabetic patients medications when they fail to control their sugars by diet alone. If you feel like you are ready to turn to pharmaceutical management for your anxiety, it is your choice.”

  I duck down to get our big stainless steel pot from the cabinet, so my mother can’t see the wetness in my eyes. Five seconds in, five seconds out. I’m proud that when I speak, my voice barely wobbles. “But how do I know if I’m ready?”

  My mother smiles. “You’ll know, William. You’re the only person who will.”

  This Is My Brain on Truth

  JOCELYN

  My dad drives me to my first appointment at the college’s mental health center. Last night, my mom finally told him about her own depression, and he’s been unusually subdued all day. Or maybe subdued is the wrong word—he’s just talking less, and watching and listening more.

  He looks at me intently when he drops me off at the clinic, and he swallows.

  “Qinai de xiaohai,” he says.

  I turn around and gape at him, my fingers curled around the handle of the door. The phrase is often translated as “dearest child,” but “qinai” has a much more tender feel to it—more like “beloved.”

  He’s never called me that before.

  “Shenme, Baba?” I ask, feeling wrong-footed. Raw.

  “Ni yao…” He shakes his head and switches to English, as if to make sure that I understand him. “You must always feel free to talk to me.” He says it like a command, but I know it’s not. It’s an opening.

  “Sure, Dad.” I swallow. “I will.”

  My father drives away, and I square up my shoulders and shuffle into the clinic.

  Will warned me that the initial intake visit can be, in his words, “unsatisfying.” So I’m not expecting much. The shrink they match me with, Dr. Julie Cotton, is a thirtysomething white woman who is a personification of every psychiatrist stereotype I’ve ever seen on TV—soft-spoken, open-ended-question asking, nonjudgmental. I guess they teach that in school.

  Our appointment starts out with me just talking, which I suppose is the point, but I don’t think I ever realized how much deflection I do during normal conversations. Even with the easiest questions about my family, it’s tempting to just skim the surface of the truth.

  “Tell me more about ____,” I discover, is one of Dr. Cotton’s favorite prompts. Then, as our visit goes on, there comes a point where all she does is sit there and nod, and when the silence gets too uncomfortable I blurt out more detail just to fill the pause. It’s like therapy magic.

  After about half an hour of information gathering or, as Will put it, “creating rapport,” Dr. Cotton asks me the million-dollar question: “So, what are you hoping to achieve with these visits?”

  “Everyone’s telling me I’m depressed, so I’m here to get help.” If a little bit of resentment bleeds through my voice, it’s because, okay, I know she can’t wave a wand and make things better, but shouldn’t she be the one who has answers here?

  “Do you feel like you’re depressed?” Dr. Cotton asks, face neutral.

  I don’t answer right away. First it’s because I’m pissed, because, well, obviously, but after a second, it’s because I realize with a shock that this is the first time anyone has actually asked me. Everyone has just assumed that it is cool for them to tell me how I feel. It’s always, “It seems like you have depression,” or “Here are some resources if you’re feeling down.” This is the first time someone’s actually asked me, point-blank, if I’m depressed.

  Maybe that’s why, for the first time, I actually admit to Dr. Cotton: “Yes, I am.”

  After that, Dr. Cotton’s questions change subtly, like she’s a circling airplane that’s just been cleared for landing. Have I been feeling hopeless, or like I’m a failure? About what? Her questions are so gentle that I ba
rely feel a bump of surprise when she asks:

  “Do you ever think about dying?”

  Do I ever think about dying.

  “Well, sure, doesn’t everybody wonder?” I hedge, thinking of the night at the Venkatrams’ and how close I was to riding home without my bike lights on. “But if you’re asking me if I’ve ever thought about, like, taking a bottle of pills? No.”

  Dr. Cotton nods, somehow managing to just signal acknowledgment rather than approval or disapproval. “Do you ever think the world would be better if you were dead?”

  “No.” The lie sits there uncomfortably for a second until I nudge it straight. “Not exactly. Maybe. Sometimes I just think things would be easier if…”

  I shrug, and Dr. Cotton goes on. “When people are sad and feel like nothing is helping, they sometimes think about what it would be like to just leave life to chance, by driving recklessly or not looking both ways while crossing the street. Have you ever felt like that?”

  Have I ever felt like that.

  The shiver of recognition that slides through my whole body makes my throat close up for a fraction of a second. When I can breathe again, the air comes out in a shudder of relief. I nod wordlessly.

  “It’s a common misperception that passive thoughts about losing one’s life don’t ‘count,’” Dr. Cotton says, and that rings true, too. It’s as if I’m so down on myself even my suicidal thoughts aren’t good enough. “It’s my job as your doctor to assure you that they’re valid, and that they deserve treatment.”

  “What kind of treatment?” I ask through the lump in my throat.

  “That’s going to be your choice,” she says. “Every person will have a different answer to that question. Want to go over some options and come up with a plan?”

  Of course, I think as I nod, still dizzy with relief. That’s usually a good first step.