A Blue So Dark (21 page)

Catatonia can include stupor or bizarre posturing, as well as either extreme rigidity or flexibility of the limbs. See also. Inanimate Object.

ell flips the Closed sign to face the street, and before I know it, like she's some kind of pickpocket or something, she's got the keys to the Tempo. She speeds through the streets like she's a cop on a prime-time detective show. I sit in the passenger's seat like some half-assed, hopeless sidekick Nell doesn't trust to drive.

And suddenly, we're home, inside, though I don't remember coming up the front walk. I'm showing Nell the way down the hall, and she's following so close behind me that she steps all over my heels.

"Grace," Nell says as soon as she explodes into the bedroom. "Grace," she tries again, rustling Mom's shoulder. She pushes Mom's hair out of the way-the same hair I worked loose of its knot and brushed soft. She leans down so that her lips are about a millimeter away from Mom's ear. "Grace!" she screams.

But Mom doesn't move. It's like Nell's just whispered in her ear.

"How long has she been like this?" she asks me.

"I-I don't." I can't even remember, everything's so jumbled. When did she finish her mural? Two days ago? A day and a half? Three?

Stupidly, I twirl around, looking for the journal I'd desperately started to scrawl notes in as Mom started to deteriorate-the same journal I've already reduced to ash. It's like I'm suddenly on fire and I can't remember what I'm supposed to do. Sit, stop-no-stop, drop, and-and what?

Nell grabs the phone and dials 9-1-1. "Schizophrenic," she says. "Catatonic."

The paramedics show up-but they just look so wrong. It's so wrong that they're rolling that stretcher over Mom's scattered, balled-up drop cloths and pulling up her eyelids and thumping around on her.

"Just a few days," I hear myself telling them. "Before, she was working day and night-she's a painter."

"Manic, was she?" one of them asks.

Manic? Is that right? I nod. I think so.

"She was eating day before yesterday-a little. Yester day, just fluids. Gatorade and V8. But today-I can't get anything down her." And then a thought occurs to me that scares me so much, tears come, instant and effortless. "It hasn't already been too long, has it?" I ask the paramedics. "It hasn't been too long without food?"

"We're going to do everything we can," the medics say, and before I can get my bearings, we're all rushing out the front door, and the red and blue lights are swirling, and the neighbors have all come out to watch-even the damned Pilkingtons-and this is wrong, all wrong, Mom will never forgive me, but I let myself be swept inside the ambulance. Swept, like a piece of dust onto a dustpan.

Let me tell you something-the inside of an ambulance is one thing you never want to see for yourself. It means that the whole world has just gone to shit.

It means that death is dancing at your door.

Hospitalization usually occurs during or after a psychotic episode.

ad comes. I guess wonders never cease. He actually comes to the emergency room. But he doesn't come to me. I'm sitting in a chair right by the door, tear-streaked face, hugging my knees to my chest, and he heads straight for Nell. I feel like a piece of freaking trash that no one wants to bother with or be around. Everyone probably thinks I've really screwed the whole thing up. And the sad truth is, I have. Look where we are.

They're talking, and Dad is pointing at Nell you, you-making air-jabs at her chest. And she's jabbing back no, you; no, you. Blame like a game of hot potato. Every once in a while, Dad glances over at me, but since I'm just this smelly hunk of his former life, he doesn't even attempt to ask me if I'm okay.

I tune them out and stare at Dad's sweater-this time it's black, probably cashmere-and the pink striped shirt collar folded down neatly over the sweater's neckband.

I picture Brandi buying that pink shirt at the same ritzy men's clothing store where she buys all Dad's clothes. Imagine her charging it on one of her 153 credit cards, and bringing it home to the loft. I can see Dad gushing over it, too-the man who used to say that Christmas shouldn't bring a single store-bought gift. I'll bet he practically slobbered all over that designer shirt that Brandi bought him, not even for Christmas or a birthday, but just because, and it probably cost more than groceries for his family for the week.

Now that Dad and Nell are through pointing and jabbing, their heads are bobbing yes, yes, yes.

"I agree," I hear Dad say. "One of my greatest regrets is that we didn't do that years ago."

I know what they're talking about-I may be a lot of things, but I'm no dope. And I feel like shit because, after these years of being in it together, I've done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. I've given her up. I've handed her off to the enemy.

They're going to send her away. And it's a selfish thought, I know it is, but I wonder-What will happen to me now?

I'm at the freaking breaking point. So I bolt-right out of my chair and the waiting room and the hospital itself.

But, come on, where did I think I was going? The Tempo's still at home since I came to the hospital in the ambulance. And it's way too dark now to even consider hoofing it. Pitch black sky and glittering stars above, a la Starry Night.

I hate, hate, hate that picture.

So I plop down on the sidewalk. And when I put my hands in my lap, I hear an old pack of cigarettes I'd forgotten about crinkle in the front pocket of my hoodie. I light up right there, even though the cigarettes are maybe six months old, stale as molded bread, and even though there's probably some ordinance against smoking so close to the hospital.

In front of me, the parking lot lights pop to life. A helicopter swarms overhead-probably some car accident victim, I think. What I wouldn't give to trade places with them, because anything would be better than knowing that I put my mother away, that I sent her to a fate worse than death. I've tied a box of TNT to all the promises I madeno pills, no doctors, no Dad, no Nell.

Boom.

Footsteps clicking on the sidewalk get me geared up for a fight. Just try it. You just try to take this cigarette and I will scratch your eyes out. I am so ready to kick somebody's ass. I dare you. Tell me-

But whoever it is doesn't say anything-just sits down beside me on the sidewalk.

When I turn, there she is, white hair and black glasses.

"This sure is some shitty coffee," Nell says, pointing at the cup she's gotten from the hospital vending machine. "But you can have some if you want."

"No, thanks," I say, hiding my cigarette and knocking it out against the sidewalk, because Nell would probably put me away for cigarettes, for all I know.

"No, no, don't mind me," Nell says. "You go on. I respect a girl who doesn't let some arbitrary rule like `must be eighteen to purchase' get in her way."

I shrug and pull another cigarette out of my dwindling pack. And because she's being cool about this, at least, I light one for her, too.

"Wow," she says. "March 15, 1982-last time I had one of those." She shakes her head and gives me this please, don't look, like I'm some sort of drug pusher, Come on, Nell. Don't be lame. Everybody's doing it. "What the hell," she finally says, and slips it from my fingers.

"You know," Nell says after a cloudy exhale, "I thought I had it all figured out when I was young. Freedom. God. I didn't need anybody's rules. Nobody gonna tell me what I could and couldn't do. Nobody gonna tell me I had to get married-so what if I was pregnant? What did that mean? I got married on my own terms. Because of love, not biology. Grace was four," she adds quietly, like a side note. "She was my flower girl." Her eyes get this funny, faraway, inward look, until she shakes her head and brings her thoughts back on track.

"And so what if I used to like to smoke every once in a while?" she asks. "What if," Nell confesses, leaning in to whisper in my ear, "what if, even, I liked a little weed? Really," she goes on, her voice gathering strength, "so what? I mean, so what if I decide to drink my lunch? So what if I eat a whole chocolate cake for dinner, nothing else? Who am I hurting other than me, right?"

I nod, watching as she takes another drag on her cigarette. After a few minutes, she takes off her glasses. Her eyes are all watery and her nose is turning red, even though it's really not all that cold outside tonight. "Only maybe I did hurt somebody else," she says. "Maybe the way I lived, maybe it was wrong. Maybe I did something..."

We sit there a few more minutes, just sit and smoke.

"She said we were in it together," I finally tell Nell. "She depended on me, you know? Because she didn't want to be medicated anymore, like Dad made her. Because she-"

"God, we used to fight," Nell interrupts. "I never fought with anyone the way I fought with her. Not even my own parents. I slapped her one time-not one slap, but once, when I was mad, I started slapping her until her cheeks were bright red. Flaming. Because I knew it-she hadn't been diagnosed yet, but I knew there was something about her-it wasn't just adolescent bullshit. And she blamed me, you know, for the way her dad died. Blamed me-we were in the midst of this awful tug of war. Her wanting me to tell her I'd done something wrong, that I'd made a mistake with her dad. Me wanting to make her less like him. Because we knew, both of us, what was happening. I knew. And she must've thought I was being so cruel that day when I started slapping her, but I was so scared, so desperate, and it was like I thought I could beat it out of her.

"Beat it," she repeats, shaking her head, spitting a chuckle like it's the most harebrained thing she's ever heard, even to this day. "Like dust out of a rug."

She takes another drag and shakes her head. I remember how angry I was at Mom for clipping the strings in the Ambrose Original, and I know exactly how easy it would be to lash out in frustration.

"I don't think I was supposed to be somebody's mother. I'm just-toxic." Nell shudders.

I light another cigarette for myself and hand another to Nell, too. Because we're laying it all out on the line, I say, "I guess at least I know what to expect when I go nuts."

"Oh, please," Nell says. "You're not going nuts."

I'm offended at how easily she can dismiss this, brush it away like it's a gnat. "Everybody in my family goes nuts."

"Thanks a lot," Nell says.

"You know what I mean. Come on-my mom and my grandfather. You can't deny that it runs in the family."

"Yeah, well, so does heart trouble," Nell says, snatching the cigarette out of my hand. She drops it to the pavement and snuffs it out with her shoe. But she keeps hers burning.

"Oh, Aura," she sighs after our quiet grows cumbersome. "You're the sanest person I know. Ever since you first set foot in my studio-I knew exactly who you were. God, you look so much like your mom did at your age. You're almost her exact double. Except for the eyes. I've seen madness up close, twice, you know," she says softly. "It doesn't have you."

Quiet settles between us. I'm not sure how Nell can make such a damned sweeping statement. It almost seems like a stereotype. All women are bad drivers. All black people can dance. All granddaughters are safe from mental illness.

"I admire you," she says. "I really do. You should be proud of yourself, truly. You took good care of her."

"Big deal."

"It is a big deal. You took far better care of her than I did, and I'm her mother. You did it, Aura. You did good, hon. Real good."

"What good did it do her?" I scream. Oh, here we go, now I'm exploding. "Big deal, Nell. I took care of her. For what? So you can put her away? I know you're going to put her away."

"What were you going to do, Aura? Were you just going to sit in that house with her the rest of your life? You'll be graduating before you know it. Were you going to give up on college? Or were you going to take her with you? Set up your mentally ill mother in your dorm room?"

Bull's-eye for Nell, but there's no way I'm going to tell her she's right. "You can't just lock her away like you did her dad!" I scream. "She's Grace Ambrose, born April 3, 1970. She is your daughter, and she is still alive."

"Whoa-" Nell says, holding her hand up. Her cigarette has burned all the way down to the filter but she hasn't noticed, and when it starts to singe her fingers, she just drops it onto the parking lot, lets it roll away. She keeps her eyes on me the whole time.

I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have somebody look at me. Really look, and see me.

"I'm not shutting her away, locking her up, no key. I'm not institutionalizing her, Aura."

"You're not?" I say. I'm blubbering, just like a little kid, like some baby.

"No-honey. No. A short-term care facility."

"Short-term," I repeat. "She's coming back?"

"Yes-yes."

I stare at her, mouth dangling open. How is this possible? How can this be? She comes back? She comes back?

"How have you been managing to juggle school and your mother?"

I shrug.

"Well, that's the first thing that's going to change," Nell says. "I'm going with you to that school of yours tomorrow, and I'm fixing everything. Get you right back on track, you hear me?"

I tug my sweatshirt over my hands, like Katie Pretti in English class.

"And after we're done there, you can help me move my elliptical trainer."

"Move your-what?" My brain is spinning.

"My trainer. I can't go a day without it. I've got a bird, too. You like birds? Nasty creatures, birds. Worse than men, sometimes. 'Course, if I get too sick of the bird, I can always roast it."

I keep staring at her, bewildered.

"Look, I'm not going to leave you alone while your mother's gone. I know I haven't been any kind of a grandmother to you, but I think it's high time I started, all right?"

"High time-"

"I don't snore, I make a mean veal parmesan, and I even promise not to make fun of your mother's decorating."

"So you're moving in," I say slowly, though it doesn't seem real.

"Temporarily. Unless, of course, you'd rather stay with your father." She wrinkles her nose with disgust.