Art & Soul

by Brittainy C. Cherry

  Levi: Because the people in my old town always called my mom crazy.

  18 Levi

  crazy | adjective | cra·zy | krā-zē

  Mentally deranged, demented, insane.

  Senseless, impractical; totally unsound.

  Likely to break or fall to pieces.

  Weak, infirm, or sickly.

  My mom was the best mom in the world. Except for when she wasn’t. I hated her the same way I loved her: deeply. Both feelings came in waves. When I loved her, I loved her a lot. When I hated her, I couldn’t stand looking at her.

  She never hated me, though, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe she loved me too much. It was hard being loved too much by someone because as time went by their love started feeling like a chokehold. I worried too much about disappointing her, or letting her down because if I did, she fell apart. She panicked, feeling unloved. She went crazy.

  Being loved by a certain type of person was a tough job, and not everyone was right to fill that position.

  I hadn’t always known she was unstable.

  Growing up in the middle of the forest with only her and nature, I never knew there was anything wrong with her. We had fun together, laughing and singing and playing our instruments.

  When my aunt Denise would come over, the two of them would always laugh and drink a lot of wine that Denise brought with her. Then Denise would leave for weeks, and Mom and I would go back to our normal routine. Denise was the only other person I saw for a long time except for when I wandered into town for groceries and stuff, where people would whisper about my mom and me.

  “Is it genetic?” they would ask.

  “Is he crazy like her, too?” they wondered out loud.

  It took everything in me to not walk up to the strangers and punch them in their faces for talking about Mom. They didn’t know her. They didn’t know us. We kept to ourselves in our happy world. Why didn’t they mind their own business? Why did they think they were better than us?

  I would return home, irritated with their hatred toward us when they didn’t even know who we were, but Mom would talk me down from my anger when she was in her right mindset.

  “Words, Levi. Words. Those are just empty, meaningless words from empty meaningless people.”

  It wasn’t until I started going to visit Dad during the summer that I realized maybe our life wasn’t so normal. Maybe the whispering townspeople were onto something.

  It turned out that cleaning the outside windows of the house during a storm wasn’t the normal thing to do. Mom was convinced that using nature’s rain was the only way to truly get the windows clean, though. If I didn’t clean them well enough, she thought I didn’t love her.

  So she panicked.

  She started talking about voices in her head, claiming they were real. She started seeing things that weren’t there.

  Denise later told me it was called schizoaffective disorder. I didn’t know what that was, but it sounded scary enough to make me worry.

  Mom was put on medicines to help her troubled thoughts, and it worked for a long time. She wasn’t as afraid of things. She was my mom again—kind of. She smiled a lot less, but she said the voices were gone.

  Then she stopped taking the pills because she thought she was better.

  She wasn’t.

  I also learned that it wasn’t normal to be a kid with no friends. When I was nine and Dad asked me if I had a birthday party that past year, I said yes. When he asked how many friends came, I said two. Mom and Denise. If I asked Mom if I could join a sports team, she thought I didn’t love her. She had these fixed beliefs that if I were to find friends, it would mean I’d betrayed her.

  So she panicked.

  She took her medicine again for a little while, until she thought she was better again.

  She wasn’t.

  The first time I forgot to say my prayers at night, she had a panic attack. She told me she was dying and it was because I didn’t tell God thank you. She told me God spoke with her and was angry and going to take it out on her because of my mistake. I remembered crying over her, begging her to breathe. Just breathe, Mama. I’d dialed 9-1-1 and when they came, she had already calmed down.

  It was one of the first memories I had of her.

  Just breathe, Mama.

  * * *

  “Mom, relax,” I sighed into the phone receiver as I sat on top of Dad’s rooftop. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Mom because I could tell by the tone of her voice that she wasn’t completely with me. I heard her sounds, but it wasn’t really her. She was so far gone I wondered if she—my real mom—was ever going to come back.

  “Don’t you miss me, Levi? Why won’t you come home?”

  Because I don’t want to see you like this.

  “You know I’m figuring things out with Dad,” I lied. “We’re getting pretty close,” I lied again.

  Dad started drinking this afternoon, and he hadn’t really stopped. He received a call in his office earlier, and I guess it wasn’t the call he was expecting, because right after he hung up, he started drinking. I’d never seen him drunk before. He was currently pacing the backyard, muttering to himself with a beer in his hand, kicking around lawn chairs and anything else he could get close enough to. He was wasted off his ass.

  I’d told him earlier that he probably shouldn’t have been drinking so much seeing as how he was getting chemotherapy the next day, but he told me to fuck off and mind my own business. I guessed I wasn’t getting those driving lessons he’d offered me anytime soon.

  “Just come home,” Mom cried into the phone. “You aren’t being reasonable.”

  “How’s Denise doing? Has she been by to see you?” I asked, changing the subject. I already knew the answer to my question. Denise called me earlier this week, telling me that she worried about Mom not taking her medicine. I could tell that she hadn’t been too, seeing how I’d been getting more and more late night calls from her. Denise wanted Mom to check into some mental health complex for a few weeks, but Mom wouldn’t. She believed she was fine. Sometimes I wondered if Mom would ever really get the help she needed. Denise said all we could do was pray—but I’d been praying for help since I was five, and nothing so far had changed.

  “She’s still with that sleazeball Brian. Can you believe that? I don’t like him,” Mom said, snapping me from my thoughts.

  Of course she didn’t. The only guy I’d ever known her to like was me.

  “I don’t want to be here alone anymore, Levi,” she whispered, making me feel bad.

  “Mom, have you been taking your medicine?”

  “Those don’t work for me anymore. And now that you’re gone, I’m all alone. Did you know that? I’m all alone.”

  My stomach tightened, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course she wasn’t taking her medicine. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they fucking piss me off, you know that.” Maybe. Maybe she knew that.

  “Levi Myers, do not speak to me like that. You’re sounding more and more unlike yourself.”

  You mean sane?

  We talked about pointless things until I forced myself to tell her I had to hang up.

  “Levi?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “I love you till the end.”

  I echoed her words, but then I felt bad because sometimes I wished the end would come sooner than later. Maybe I was unwell, too.

  It wasn’t long until Dad stumbled back into the house and headed straight for the bathroom. He wretched so loud that I could hear him through the door, so I moved to his study and grabbed some of his nausea pills and a glass of water. When I reached the bathroom, the door was flung open and Dad’s head was leaned into the toilet, violently vomiting.

  When he sat back against the closest wall, he wiped his mouth with tissue.

  “Here, Dad,” I said, holding out the nausea pills and water. “This would help.”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” he mutt
ered, waving me away.

  “The doctor said they will help with the upset stomach. Here.” I held it toward him.

  “I don’t want that,” he sneered.

  “It’s for the nausea, Da—”

  “I said I don’t fucking want it!” he screamed, taking the glass from my hand and throwing it against the bathroom wall, making it shatter to the ground. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  I stepped out of the bathroom and paused. My fingers formed fists, and I slammed them against my sides. “I’m trying!” I hollered, turning back to face dad. “I’m trying to help. To make this easier on you. To build some kind of relationship with you!” I knew I was taking my anger off on him. My anger with Mom. My anger with cancer. My anger with life. I tossed the pills at him. “Take the pills or don’t, but when you go in for chemo tomorrow, you’ll wish you’d taken them.”

  “I ain’t doing that shit.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Chemo, I’m done.”

  “Done? What do you mean done? There are four more appointments on the calendar.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Dad,” I said, my anger shifting to concern. “Don’t be stupid, you need the chemotherapy to get better.”

  He reached his foot out toward the bathroom door and closed himself inside.

  I headed to my bedroom and reached for my shoebox filled with the past that Dad and I had used to share together. All of the Christmas cards, all of the Post-it notes, all of the small things I’d held on to that he somehow chose to forget.

  I should’ve stopped looking at the stuff. I should’ve closed the box, headed to the woods, and played the violin, but I didn’t. I kept flipping through the notes and cards, hoping that in that moment I was just having a bad nightmare, and that when I woke up, Dad would love me again—or at least like me.

  Time.

  We were running out of time.

  Merry Christmas, Lee. I love ya, son.

  -Dad

  Happy 7th birthday, my boy. We’ll celebrate this summer.

  -Dad

  Missin’ you on the old creek.

  -Dad

  Maybe next year we’ll spend Christmas together.

  Love you, Levi.

  -Dad

  We’ll feed a few deer in the woods again when you come for a visit.

  -Dad

  Love you, son.

  -Dad

  I sat up all night, pinching myself, trying to wake up from this nightmare. I was tired of everything. I didn’t think it was normal to be a seventeen-year-old and feel this tired. I was tired of faking that I was happy at school. I was tired of worrying about if Mom was going to hurt herself because I left her. I was tired of wondering if I would wake up one day and Dad wouldn’t be here anymore.

  I was tired of my nightmare of a life, and I just wanted to wake up from it all.

  * * *

  The next morning at 5:58 A.M., Aria showed up in the woods. I was pissed off and tired from the night before with Mom and Dad. My body ached and slumped. I hadn’t slept at all.

  Aria stayed at a distance, frozen still.

  Her brows lowered.

  “You okay?” she mouthed.

  I tried to give her a smile, but I couldn’t. Anyone else would’ve received the biggest grin and a lie, but with her it didn’t seem necessary. With her it felt okay to be broken. I shook my head. “No,” I mouthed back, leaning against a tree.

  With a nod of understanding, she walked toward me. She leaned against the closest tree and faced me. I stuffed my hands into my sweatpants, and we stared at one another, completely silent, but saying so much.

  For the first time, I showed Aria the real me. I showed her my truth.

  She saw the seclusion in my eyes that I never shared. She saw the pain in my soul that I hid behind smiles and lies.

  “You can talk to me,” she said. “If you want.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, debating if I wanted to talk about it. Talking made things real. But maybe realness was what I needed most.

  “My mom’s not doing too well. I wanted to get as far away from her as possible—which meant coming to stay with my Dad. I thought it would be easier up here, ya know? But now my dad’s refusing to continue his chemotherapy, and I’m not sure how to deal with that.”

  “Geez, Levi. I’m so sorry. That’s a lot,” she whispered. “That’s too much.”

  I agreed. “What am I supposed to do about him not wanting chemo? How can I convince someone that their life is worth saving if they don’t have any desire to save themselves?”

  “You can’t,” she said with a sad smile. Sad smile—so nonsensical. “That’s the thing about lives. We’re all so tangled up with one another, but at the same time, we’re very much alone.”

  “Being alone is pretty lonely.”

  She nodded. “Yes. But sometimes being together and lonely is even worse.”

  “Not right now, though.”

  “No. Right now is okay. Right now is good.”

  We didn’t speak anymore.

  She wasn’t trying to make me happy. I wasn’t in a place where I wanted to be happy, and Aria understood that. All she was doing was leaning up against the tree, looking at me with sympathy.

  A look of complete understanding.

  It was as if she were saying, “I see you, Levi Myers. And I’m lonely, too.”

  * * *

  She stood closer to me at the bus stop that morning, our shoulders almost brushing against one another. I imagined what it would be like grazing her arm, holding her hand, or heck, just holding her pinkie. I wondered if she was cold or hot. Soft. Comforting. Who made you untouchable?

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were sad?” she asked, staring down at our shoes, kicking invisible rocks.

  “I didn’t know I was allowed to be.”

  My parents were broken enough, so it felt as if I didn’t have the right to break down too.

  When her shoes stopped moving, I looked up to find her doe eyes staring at me. “You can be sad with me,” she offered. “You don’t have to hide it anymore.”

  I cleared my throat and nodded. “Thanks, Art.”

  “You’re welcome, Levi.”

  The bus pulled up and as she stepped away from me, her shoulder brushed against mine. We were covered in fabrics, both wearing jackets and T-shirts underneath, yet her small touch was enough for me to know what she felt like.

  Somehow she was warm and cold all at once, the same kind of feeling the rising sun brought to the frosted forest in the mornings.

  The only time I’d ever felt that way was when I played the violin and was able to escape reality for a little while. Shutting my eyes and feeling the bow roll across the strings was the only way I’d found warmth until Aria looked at me. She looked at me as if she really saw me, the real me, and she was okay with it, too. She stared as if I deserved to be happy. The real kind of happy.

  * * *

  That night, Dad was drunk again. Instead of watching him stumble around, I went over to Lance and Daisy’s apartment, ate tofu that tasted like feet, and stayed on their pullout couch.

  Aria: This afternoon I found out that the baby is sixteen weeks old and the size of an avocado, finished my calculus homework, painted a bit, and downloaded the whole Mumford & Sons CD to my iPod. Your turn.

  I smiled.

  Me: I ate tofu.

  Aria: That’s it?

  Me: We had calculus homework?

  Aria: You’re never going to graduate.

  Me: I think you’re beautiful.

  Aria: Shut up.

  Me: Your avocado is pretty cute, too.

  Aria: I bet you say that to all the pregnant girls at school.

  I hadn’t stopped smiling.

  I imagined what she was doing. When a person wasn’t allowed to touch someone who they really wanted to touch, they settled for noticing every little thing about them instead. When Aria was happy—really happy—her dimples deepened. When she was unco
mfortable, she chewed on the collar of her T-shirts. When sad, she bit her bottom lip—but she did the same when she was nervous or deep in thought, so I’d had to pay very close attention to make sure which she was. That wasn’t hard, though. She was very easy to pay attention to.

  I hoped her dimples were showing. I hoped I made her happy.

  Me: Why did the chicken cross the möbius strip?

  Aria: To get to the same side. You’re such a nerd. And I think I’m more of a nerd because I knew the answer to your terrible math joke.

  Still smiling.

  Me: Goodnight, Art.

  Aria: Goodnight, Soul.

  19 Aria

  Each Thursday, Dr. Ward stared at me with the same concerned eyes. It was annoying how much he pretended to care. I wondered how much he would care if Mom wasn’t writing him such a big check.

  This time the candy bowl was filled with black licorice, which was worrisome. Anyone who believed that black licorice was candy should see their own therapist.

  Our conversations became cliché, each week echoing the last. He started with the same question each time, I spoke about an artist, and then he followed it up with one more question.

  “What’s on your mind, Aria?” he would ask.

  “Banksy,” I replied.

  “Who’s Banksy?”

  “He’s this amazing street artist who uses graffiti art to express his controversial views on the world. He’s loud with his artwork, but quiet at the same time. No one really knows who he is, but they know him. The Balloon Girl is my favorite piece because it just captures everything within it.”

  He arched an eyebrow like he didn’t understand what I meant.

  I sighed. I wanted to say Google it and you’ll understand, but I explained, because I liked talking about art. It was the one thing I understood, the one thing that was meaningful. “It’s a little girl reaching out toward a heart-shaped, red balloon, but the balloon is already floating away.”

  “Do you feel like you’re floating away sometimes, Aria?”