‘Uh-huh. Catfish,’ she says. ‘They’re bottom feeders. They clean the water. They were Rain’s idea. He caught a few wild, raised them, and proved that they could create their own ecosystem. And now we eat fish once a week without having to work for it.’
I turn and look at her. ‘Who’s Rain?’ I ask. Bo never mentioned a Rain. ‘Bo’s dad?’
His mom gives me a strange look. ‘Bo. He never told you his full name is Rainbow?’
I turn away from her and gesture to the cannabis. ‘Bo told me you make herbal remedies,’ I say, purposely using the version of his name I have known, without answering her question.
‘The cannabis is used in several salves. It’s a powerful analgesic.’
She looks at me, waiting for a comment. I don’t fall for it. There aren’t enough plants in here for them to be real drug dealers. And honestly? So what if they sell a little pot on the side? It’ll be legal everywhere in a few more years.
‘I’ve heard it has many medicinal uses,’ I say casually.
‘You’ve heard?’
‘Yeah. But I’ve only ever smoked it to get high.’
She laughs, and I feel like I’m getting somewhere with her. She respects honesty, and she can smell bullshit from a mile away. Good. She hands me a basket and tells me to pick the vegetables I like to eat. But she’s a pro. Now that I’m relaxed because I think she’s relaxed, she drops the bomb on me.
‘What are you doing with my son, rich girl?’ she asks.
What am I doing with her son? I pause and really think about it.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I guess I’d have to tell you about me, or it wouldn’t make any sense.’
‘I’m listening,’ she says. And she really is.
‘It isn’t pretty,’ I warn.
‘OK,’ she says, and there’s no judgement in her eyes. She wipes her hands, leans up against the potting table and crosses her arms, waiting. ‘You’d better start at the beginning.’
Do I want to do this? I look her in the eye, and I already know two things. The first is I’m here because she wanted me here. The second is if I don’t come clean to her right here, right now, I’ll never see Bo again. She’ll make sure of it.
So I tell her. Like a reporter, I tell her everything. I tell her about the Five of us. I tell her about Ali Bhatti. I tell her about the Cultural Outreach Club and how far it went. Without feeling, I tell her about how it all fell apart – Rachel’s bat mitzvah – and how my friends turned on me. I tell her about my breakdown, the hospital, and the drugs they put me on. I even tell her some of the things I did while I was at the hospital. Didn’t think I was going to do that, but I do. I haven’t even said Rachel’s name in my own head since it happened.
It helps that I stick to the facts. I’m not actually going through it again. I’m not reliving it, or faking feelings about it that I don’t feel yet. I’m just giving her the facts.
She never flinches. Never backs away from me in horror. Never grimaces with disgust, though what I’m saying is disgusting, and the way I’m saying it is so unfeeling and inhuman. She just looks at me with patience and a little bit of sadness. So I keep going, because a part of me is scared that if I don’t recount everything, I might forget it.
I don’t want to forget it. I don’t deserve to forget it.
I tell her the whole truth. It’s too much to dump on someone, and too soon to do it. I know that. But here’s the thing. By the time I am ready to tell her this stuff, it will be too late. That’s always the way it works. You wait until you trust someone to reveal your darkest bullshit, but by then that person feels betrayed that you didn’t come clean right from the start.
If she’s going to hate me and forbid me to see Bo again, I want her to do it now, not when I’ve grown to trust her. Because by then, it would hurt too much. Like it’s going to hurt when I tell Bo. I just want a little bit longer with him. And then I’ll tell him.
When I’m finally done talking, she stares at me for a long time.
‘Stop taking the clozapine. It can cause thrombocytopaenia – fatal blood loss, from even a minor wound,’ she tells me.
‘Among other things,’ I reply, nodding. ‘Every two weeks I have to get my blood tested.’
‘It’s excessive,’ she says, shaking her head as if she can’t understand it. ‘I mean – clozapine.’
Clozapine is the nuclear option when it comes to antipsychotics, and I’m on the highest dosage my doctors at the hospital were willing to risk. A paper cut wouldn’t make me bleed to death, though the clean-up might require a mop. It is dangerous for a dozen different reasons, but it works.
‘You had a true response to a traumatic situation, and no one helped you. Not the doctors at the hospital. Not your parents,’ she says, like parents would be the last to abandon a child. Which they would, I suppose, if they weren’t mine.
‘They were too embarrassed,’ I say. Schizophrenia runs like wildfire in my family. It’s the dirty little secret creeping stealthily up the ladder of our otherwise pristine DNA. ‘My parents can’t even look at each other any more, let alone me. I can’t really blame them. I did a lot of shit that’s just wrong.’ I look off, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know why, really. I guess I was angry.’