Well, now I can’t be mad at him. Especially since he remembered what I’d said long after I’d even forgotten about it. Bo listens. He’s a better listener than anyone I’ve ever met.
We kiss for longer than we should. By the time we make plans to meet back here the day after tomorrow, even this long summer day has had it.
‘Be careful,’ he tells me sternly. ‘If you see or hear anyone on the way back, get off the path and go around them. No one out here after dark is out here for a good reason.’
I’m about to crack a joke about him and me being out here after dark, but I can tell he’s in no mood for that. I nod and plunge through the icy river, already sprinting by the time I reach the far bank.
27 JULY
So here it is. Morning. Five amber-coloured bottles with childproof caps sit in a neat row on the shelf in the medicine cabinet behind my bathroom mirror. And a leather pouch full of don’t-know-what sits in my hand.
I’m already drowning, like every morning.
No, actually I think I’m burning. But it’s not where I am right now that scares me. It’s not that this, as uncomfortable as it is, is unbearable. It’s the thought that it might become unbearable that makes me think I should take my meds. I am an ant under a beam of light that will only grow brighter and hotter.
But taking my meds is what I did yesterday. And the day before. And I’m not better. I still haven’t paid for what I’ve done.
So here it is. Decision time.
OK. This is a terrible idea. No one in the history of the world has ever had something good happen to them when they either started or stopped taking prescription medication without a doctor’s supervision. But maybe Ray, the radical hippie genius in the woods, knows more than those quacks I had at the hospital. The doctors at the hospital didn’t really want to help me. They just wanted me to obey them. One of the possible side effects of clozapine is sudden death, and those doctors put me on it. On the other hand, Ray seems like a zealot when it comes to holistic healing. His beliefs could be clouding his judgement.
Stopping my meds could kill me. Continuing on my meds could kill me. I have no idea who to trust any more.
Well, fuck it. I’m just going to be chopping onions and scrubbing pots at the shelter. I don’t need to be anything but what I really am today. Tomorrow I might choose something else, but today – just today – I’m going to take the Gandalf pills from Bo’s renegade genius doctor father, and if my heart stops, I’m pretty sure they’ll have a kit at the shelter to revive me. In fact, a drug rehab shelter is probably the best place for me to be while I come down off my meds.
I try to think about nothing while I let the little white bead dissolve under my tongue, but the truth is I’m thinking about Bo. I’m wondering if I’m doing this for me or for him.
The answer will determine my success, but I honestly can’t tell right now, with Bo looming so large in my mind. I hope it’s for me, but I’m pretty sure it’s because I want to be the real me for him. That might still count as a good thing, though. This is the first time I’ve wanted to be the real me for any reason in a long, long time. Maybe ever.
I go downstairs to have breakfast with my grandparents. Is the sun always this bright?
I drink a cup of coffee and try to follow along with the conversation, but it’s like I’m only catching one in three words. The rest of the time, I’m fighting the urge to simply leave. They are ridiculous. How is it we’ve never talked about my time in the hospital? Worse – we’ve never spoken about why I was there to begin with. We just talk about the crap other people are saying about each other. And the weather.
They aren’t evil. They are pleasant people. We always have pleasant conversations. They were even pleasant when they agreed to let me stay with them, even though they knew it was because I had made myself into a pariah.
Here’
s the problem with always acting like everything is pleasant: zero accountability. My mother may be schizophrenic, but that’s not why she’s such a disaster. She grew up in a place where anything less than pleasant was hushed up and locked away, rather than dealt with openly.
My dad is the exact same way – when he’s around. He doesn’t do complicated or hard. If things get messy, he leaves. I think my mom chose him because that’s what she was used to. Or at least, that’s what she was used to manipulating. Not that it’s been better for her in the long run. My mother never became a fully functioning human being because she never learned to itemize her bullshit and call it her own.
And neither did I. Until I found myself in boiling hot water for the first time, and it was sink or swim. Of course I drowned. Or burned. Still haven’t decided which metaphor I’m going for on this one.
‘I’ve really got to get going,’ I say, standing suddenly.
My grandparents look at me, shocked. I have no idea what I just interrupted, but it’s totally awkward. They were saying something about the sheriff and the investigation? And then something about ‘those druggies out there in the woods’, I think. Wait. Did they say something about another body found in the woods?
‘Did I mention that I’m doing inventory now at the shelter?’ I add as an excuse for my hasty departure.
‘Yes,’ Grandma replies. ‘Several times.’ Her eyes widen anxiously.
‘I’m kidding,’ I say, nudging her shoulder. ‘I know I’ve told you; I’m just reminding you how awesome I am at chopping onions.’ I smile, but she still looks hesitant. ‘I’ll see you guys later,’ I say breezily as I hurry out to the shed to get my bike.
It’s rather a long bike ride to the shelter from where I live with my grandparents, but I’ve never minded it. I didn’t get many chances to ride bikes in New York City, so I’ve always seen it as a leisurely activity. Something you do in Central Park on a carefree day when you’re feeling extra whimsical.
Today the wind on my face is soothing. The exertion keeps my mind in one place instead of scattered across a million different narratives. I press down on the pedals and feel my breath go in and out, and that is enough to keep me focused for now.
When I get to the shelter, I take a quick look at the delivery receipts on the spike in Maria’s office and check to see that everything was logged on the clipboard that hangs just outside the walk-in. Then I go inside and count boxes.