Shifting Tides

by Caitlin Ricci

  “Who are you, Amy?” her mom asked.

  Amy’s words tumbled out as limp and water-laden as she was. “Your piece o’ crap, screwed-up daughter. Isn’t that what you want me to say?” And, despite herself, a new flood of angst escaped Amy’s throat. Not rage, but shame, pain and aching need raced out from her soul and echoed around the shower floor. Once released, her sobs seemed to have no limits. How could I do this again? Why couldn’t I just control myself? Everybody else seems to be able to get a grip—why am I such a freak-girl? People are actually afraid of me! Afraid of me! If they could only see me now, sobbing in the shower, slobbering down my cheek. Only the constant stream of water washes my river of snot away. Oh God, what a hot mess I am. What a piece o’ crap, hot mess.

  “No, that’s definitely not what I want from you,” replied Mom, as if she had heard Amy’s thoughts. “I want a hopeful, dream-filled answer that will define your goals and pull your life forward. I don’t know how to help you find it, but it’s certainly not this way.”

  Amy had no other answer and simply lay crying in the shower. The water had washed away all her rage. The mania was ending and depression’s grip was squeezing her throat. Amy knew her mom would help her. But she didn’t know why she—or anyone—should, as that voice of shame wrapped its bony fingers around her skull, taunting her, teasing her. You’re such a screw-up. You’re a burden on the family. Just disappear, asshole, and never burden your family again. Really. You know you understand why bipolar kids kill themselves. Wouldn’t that peace be nice? It would just be so much easier… Life would be so much easier if…

  Deflated and empty, Amy had nothing left. She would have told her mother this fight was not done if she’d had the energy. She would have told her mom ‘thank you’ for coming to her rescue. But she couldn’t open her mouth to say it. She couldn’t say anything.

  Mom reached up and turned off the water. She dropped a towel over the back of Amy’s shoulders. “Come on, get up,” she said as she slowly pulled her daughter to her feet. “Be careful not to touch the shower door or it might break all over you.”

  Wordlessly, she began to dry Amy’s hair and face. Like a child, Amy sat on the toilet seat while her mom removed her shoes and socks then helped her discard her pants and shirt behind her towel-shield.

  Amy walked out of the bathroom and toward her room in a zombie-like trance. As she passed, she glanced at the living room. Throw pillows were strewn all over the floor. The plaid easy chair was turned on its side and the flower arrangement sprinkled like confetti all over the rug.

  “Clean it up,” her mother had said as the manic had begun. But Amy had only been able to destroy then. Now she could barely walk.

  She stumbled into her room and fell onto her bed. Only when she had already lain down did she realize that her light was still on. Too tired to do anything about it, she simply threw her arm over her eyes and fell asleep.

  * * * *

  As the morning sun shone on her face, the first thing Amy felt was that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach telling her something was wrong. Before she even opened her eyes, she knew she didn’t want to pinpoint the source of that feeling.

  Stupid. Stupid. But there it was. She couldn’t even forget for a second. The whole ugly scene spread out in digital clarity right there under her closed eyelids. Stupid. Crazy. Out of control. How humiliating. And now she had to walk downstairs and look them in the eye. She pulled the covers over her head. Couldn’t she just stay under the covers and die? Couldn’t she just disappear and never come back? Truth was, her folks would probably be happy if she were gone. No more crazy girl. No more drama queen. Oh God, did she really break the shower door? “Just shoot me and put me out of my misery,” she mumbled under her breath.

  “Get up, Amy, you gotta go to school,” Lizzie called into her room.

  “Leave me alone, I don’t feel good,” Amy snarled.

  “Well, duh! After your little episode last night? I should guess not.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Well, actually, it is. You don’t see me throwing tizzy-fits anymore. Thought about taking your meds?”

  “You don’t understand. You don’t have it as bad as me…”

  “Oh, puh-leese. Cut me a break. Don’t play victim with me. That shower door just cost us all the trip to Disneyland. So, thank you very much. As I see it, you have no reason to whine.” Lizzie turned and walked out of the door, then popped her head back in for a parting shot. “Just take your damn meds.”

  Amy hated it when Liz did that turn-on-your-heel crap that always stopped the argument. It made Amy feel as if she’d lost. And she hated to lose an argument. Disneyland. Damn. Why can’t life go back to how it was? She’d once been the star. An A student. A dancer. She had even been class president. Everything had been so easy then. She’d even been happy. Really. Happy. Then puberty came and with it bipolar disorder. Amy couldn’t remember a happy day since. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault she had manic episodes. Why should she be punished? Dad had the bad gene pool. Of course, Mom’s genes weren’t that great either. Amy was doomed by DNA beyond her control. Pills. That was Lizzie, of course. Pop a pill and life would be okay. Better living through chemistry. Well, Amy had her own chemistry.

  Amy got up and started slamming around her room. She reached for her T-shirt, but it wouldn’t come out of the drawer. She jerked the shirt hard and the drawer flew open. Amy shoved it back and it crashed into the dresser, knocking over her bottle of Juicy perfume. Like dominoes, the perfume hit the cat figurine she’d painted at Coffee and Clay and chipped its chin. In anger, Amy spun away from the dresser and kicked her shoe across the room, where it bounced off the wall, leaving a black mark. It was going to be another rotten day.

  Sullenly, she went downstairs and sat at the table. She poured herself a bowl of cereal, hoping that her mother would just let her eat in silence.

  “How are you today, Amy?”

  No such luck. She was going to have to talk.

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t forget you have dance practice after school today, and here’s a check to replenish your lunch account.” Mom always began with business as usual. She started to reach out for Amy’s hunched shoulders. Amy could see her mom poised above her through her hair, but she didn’t move. Mom’s hand fluttered above Amy’s arm, hesitated and pulled back.

  “Mommy, can I get a check for lunch money? I’m out,” Lizzie said as she darted from cupboard to cupboard looking for something for breakfast.

  “Sure, baby. Just bring me my checkbook. I didn’t know you were out of money, too.”

  Opposite of Amy in every way, Lizzie relished being her mother’s ‘baby’ and, despite a stack of college applications as high as her head, was in no hurry to grow up. Or at least in the way Amy wanted to grow up.

  “Thanks, Mommy,” chirped Lizzie. “Here you go,” she said, handing her mother her satchel from beside the door.

  As Mom began to write out the check, she turned back to Amy, carrying on in the same matter-of-fact manner.

  “Do you need me to pick you up today or are you still going to Stacey’s?” Dr. David had said that Amy’s manics weren’t punishable offenses. “You can’t punish someone well,” he’d instructed. Dr. David had pointed out that Amy’s withdrawn behavior demonstrated her humiliation at her so-called ‘episodes’. Mom’s job, he said, was to help her find the tools to stop a manic before it started, or, failing that, to recover from it as quickly as possible.

  “No.”

  “No, what? You don’t need me to pick you up or you’re not going to Stacey’s?”

  “Mom! I don’t know. I’ll call you. Okay?”

  “Careful,” said Mom.

  “Sorry.”

  Her mom stood up and kissed Amy on the top of the head, then headed to the back of the house. Amy put her bowl in the sink, grabbed her books and went off to school.

  * * * *

  Stacey was waiting the second Amy go
t off the bus.

  “Giiirrrlll—get over here!” Stacey’s voice was playful as she grabbed Amy’s arm. “Jeff just talked to me. He came right up to the pole and leaned on the other side! I’m telling you— Hey, what’s with you? Why didn’t you straighten your hair? You sick? You look wrecked.”

  “I’m fine,” said Amy as she turned and sauntered back behind building B, taking the long way to humanities. Stacey followed at the same slow pace, walking beside her friend in total silence.

  “Whatever,” Stacey said, as if the conversation had never lulled. “We’re late for class—again. Let’s go in the back door.”

  Pulled from that silent place, Amy followed Stacey to the classroom. Stacey and Amy slipped in the back and quietly scooted into the back two chairs.

  “Nice of you to join us, ladies,” said Mr. Cooper, “but don’t even think of sitting next to each other. Stacey, up here.” Mr. Cooper pointed at the empty chair in the front row.

  Stacey smiled and winked at Amy before strolling to the front of the room. Tall and lean, with her copper-colored hair and copper eyes, Stacey was easy to spot in any room, but now she walked up the aisle in her best supermodel stride. In fact, she had been taking classes to try to pursue a modeling career, and if that catwalk was any example, she was clearly ready for the big time. And her sultry saunter was not ignored by any of the males in the classroom—not even Mr. Cooper, although he tried to hide his interest with a feigned look of irritation.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Cooper,” Stacey cooed, dramatically seating herself as the class twittered into their books.

  “As I was saying…” Without missing a beat, Mr. Cooper continued to drone on about the ancient Sumerians. With his slight build and big, dorky glasses, Amy thought he resembled one of those drone bees always hovering just outside the nest. Buzzing, annoying, but never quite fitting in. And speaking of buzzing, the man just loved to hear his own voice. Now science—that was a class. Everything was group projects and experiments. But not Cooper. Cooper was all about words, words, words. “And, class, don’t forget about your report. I’ll expect you to be able to read your thesis next class.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Amy was just about to doze off when the bell rang.

  Amy and Stacey shot out of the room. Pushing shoulder to shoulder, they negotiated past the crowds filling the hallway and managed to get ahead of the pack. Their timing was perfect, and they met Kairyn just as she was coming out of English.

  “So, we decided,” Stacey jumped in before Kairyn had even noticed her friends. “We decided that our costumes are too bland.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kairyn turned at the sound of Stacey’s voice.

  “Everyone is going to have leotards and skirts,” Amy began. The energy of the hallway had begun to revive her from Cooper’s anesthesia and her manic malaise. “What if we went techno and filled our arms with bracelets? I got the beads the other day. We can all come to my house and have a candy party.”

  “Sounds great!” said Kairyn. “‘You got enough for everyone?”

  “Probably. Maybe. Who knows? Let’s just string until they’re gone and find out. After dance?”

  “Cool,” said Kairyn as she turned back to head to Mr. Cooper’s room.

  “Later,” chimed Stacey and Amy as they headed off to English.

  “So what’d you do to get Jeff to talk to you?” Amy winked. “A little tease?”

  Stacey hit Amy in the arm. “Gross. Stop. No, really. He just wanted to know if we were going to the beach this weekend. Let’s go, okay? God, Amy, he’s so cute.”

  “Yeah, let’s go. It’ll be fun. Did you see my new gold bikini?”

  “No, did your mom let you get it?”

  “Yeah, but she may change her mind.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “No reason. You know how she is.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s the bell. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  After school, the girls raced into dance. Everyone loved dance, but it was Amy’s sanctuary. The flow of energy through her trunk and into her elongated arms and legs felt like ecstasy to her. Amy’s body just knew how to move. She didn’t have to think. She didn’t have to listen to the teacher or concentrate. It was as if each muscle and tendon knew the dance before the teacher ever began. Ms. Grayson would make a move and Amy’s body could answer before the set was finished. If only the rest of her life could work so flawlessly.

  “Five, six, seven, eight…” Ms. Grayson pulled Amy from her dreaming. “Step ball change, step ball change, plié, step, plié, drop, three and four, roll, roll, seven and freeze. Again.”

  Amy didn’t need to do it again. Her body knew every move, but the others were struggling with the set. Amy stood up and flowed in complete harmony with the universe.

  While they practiced, one by one the rest of the troupe caught up to Amy. As they did, her eyes tracked the flow of arms in unison, the wave of bodies dipping and lunging in perfect time, the colorful flash of myriad leotards leaping and dropping as one. She breathed in the smell of women and sweat and jazz shoes. In her bones she absorbed the sounds of the music, the beat of their steps on the wooden floor and the soft feminine pants of hard work. Lost in her joy, before Amy knew it, the hour was gone and it was time to go home. Back to her mom. Back to the scene of her latest destruction. Back to her misery.

  * * * *

  Dear Diary,

  So, I manic-ed again. Shit. I didn’t tell Stacey because she thinks it’s funny to call me ‘crazy girl’. I really hate that. The truth is, I’m afraid she’s right. I sometimes look at Ray when he’s collecting cans from the dumpster outside Taco Heaven and wonder—could that be me? You know they say that most homeless people are crazy.

  Why do I keep doing this? I’ll be fine. I’ll just know I have it under control—just know. And then it hits me again. I work so hard, so hard, to keep things under control. I know other people don’t have to work this hard. Yet I fail…every time.

  But maybe it wasn’t my fault this time. Yeah, I was pissed, but Dad called me ‘manic’. He knows I hate that word and he said it anyway. If he hadn’t said it, I bet I wouldn’t have flipped out. He’s just got to learn to not call names. Anybody would get pissed if they got called a name like that. Not just me.

  I’m not even sure you could call it a ‘manic’. Yeah, I broke the shower door—damn, can you believe Mom canceled Disneyland because of that? I can’t believe she’d act like that. If the towel rack wasn’t right there, it never would have happened. Anyway, it could have happened to anyone. You didn’t even have to be mad—just open the door too hard. It really wasn’t my fault and now look. It just feels so unfair. I hate my life.

  Amy

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  About the Authors

  Caitlin Ricci

  Caitlin was fortunate growing up to be surrounded by family and teachers that encouraged her love of reading. She has always been a voracious reader and that love of the written word easily morphed into a passion for writing. If she isn't writing, she can usually be found studying as she works toward her counseling degree. She comes from a military family and the men and women of the armed forces are close to her heart.

  She also enjoys gardening and horseback riding in the Colorado Rockies where she calls home with her wonderful fiance, their dog and Blue Tongue Skink. Her belief that there is no one true path to happily ever after runs deeply through all of her stories.

  Email: authorcaitlinricci@gmail.com

  Caitlin loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.finch-books.com.

  A.M. Burns

  A.M. Burns lives in the Colorado Rockies with his partner, several dogs, cats, horses, and birds. When he’s not writing, he’s often fixing fences, splitting wood, hiking in the mountains, or flying his hawks. He’s enjoyed writing since he was in high school, but it wasn’t until the past few years that’s he’s begun truly honing his craft. He is the president
of the Colorado Springs Fiction Writers Group. Having lived both in Colorado and Texas, rugged frontier types and independent attitudes often show up in his work.

  Email: Andy@amburns.com

  A.M. loves to hear from readers. You can find his contact information, website and author biography at http://www.finch-books.com.