Almost Crimson (12 page)

TWENTY

FLOODGATES

 

 

CECE SAT AT HER DESK, trading attention between a desktop calendar, a calculator, two printed spreadsheets, and a legal pad covered with figures and scribbles.

“You don't have to keep pretending; I know you all don't do any work when I'm gone,” a man's voice spoke from her office door.

“You should be impressed I'm using props,” CeCe replied without looking up.

CeCe adored her boss. Kester Williams had been an enigma to her when she started four years ago, with his eclectic reading lists, couture socks, and bottles of hot sauce in his office. Following him around that first year, she learned the breathing definition of “dynamic.” Kester could negotiate contracts against blue-chip attorneys, consult with caterers about Moroccan versus Lebanese couscous, wage debates about cap and trade or redistricting or boxing or the best coffeehouses in the city. He was strategic, sophisticated, successful, and incredibly sexy with his rectangular spectacles, gleaming bald head, and skin as dark and rich as chocolate cake. He was also twenty years her senior and concretely devoted to his wife, but CeCe appreciated the view just the same.

Mostly, Kester had taken a risk in hiring CeCe. She'd been clumsy and unconvincing in her interview, a debacle he enjoyed referencing now and again, as she'd long since advanced from his personal assistant to the management firm's accounts manager. He'd never been anything but direct and demanding and managed to extract a brand of excellence CeCe hadn't even realized she possessed.

“You made a triple play, I see,” Kester said, his crisp cologne and deep baritone filling her small office. He stepped in to slide her cell phone on the desk. “You left this in the conference room. It's been ringing in there all morning.”

CeCe hadn't even realized her phone was missing, but she had been unconsciously grateful for the quiet. She scrolled through the call list while Kester peered down at one of the spreadsheets. Eric, Brian Clark, and Rocky.

“
All morning
, Kester?” CeCe said, giving her boss a scolding side eye. “Three calls.”

“I know. I was the one trapped inside the noise chamber,” Kester said, raising three manicured fingers. “Eric and Brian. Who are they? Rocky, I know.”

CeCe was accustomed to Kester's intrusions. He had counseled her through her makeover, selecting life insurance, dumping a cheating almost-boyfriend, transferring her mother's trust-fund accounts, the circus of being a bridesmaid in her cousin Tremaine's wedding, and discovering Rocky was back in town.

“Eric,” CeCe said, counting off with her fingers, just as Kester had done, “is a guy I met at the grocery story yesterday. Brian Clark is an attorney. I've sort of pre-inherited a house. I've been waiting for you to come in.”

Kester's eyebrows shot up above his purple eyeglass frames. CeCe registered at least half a dozen instant questions in his face. She didn't expect the single question he chose: “Rocky. What'd he want?”

CeCe took a deep breath. She knew Kester wasn't a fan. “He's returning my call,” she said, not looking into Kester's face. He had not been impressed with the way Rocky handled his homecoming to Prescott. “I wanted his opinion on the same thing I'm about to ask you.”

Kester pursed his lips, accepting her deflection. “What's going on?” he asked, folding his arms.

“I want the house,” CeCe said, her voice shrinking as she finished, “to myself.”

She looked up to scan Kester's face for a reaction. His eyebrows were peaked above his frames again, and she wasn't sure if it was shock or disappointment. In any event, CeCe was awash with shame all over again. Kester turned to close her office door, sealing them both in as her floodgates broke free.

TWENTY-ONE

CANDY

 

 

WHEN CECE LEFT AUNT ROSIE that first summer, she was clutching a promise in her heart. Once home, however, CeCe found the only way to honor her word to Aunt Rosie of being kind to her mother was to be quiet around her mother. She arrived in Prescott three weeks after school started; in the fourth week her mother had been in the apartment on her own. CeCe layered the still of their apartment with her own new brand of quiet.

CeCe peered at her mother over the edges of her novels and textbooks, searching for signs her mother might laugh, or speak a full paragraph, or stay awake past twilight. She wanted proof her mother was cured. Nothing. Her mother was more mobile now, CeCe noted, bringing in the mail, sweeping the kitchen floor, adding the courtyard bench to her rotation of gazing sites. The one intriguing habit her mother had assumed was going out to the corner store on Sundays to buy a newspaper. Throughout the week, CeCe watched her peel open a new section and slowly consume the pages. CeCe was surprised, but disappointed that the results of her mother's eight weeks of treatment weren't closer to astounding.

CeCe intended to tell Dr. Harper how unimpressed she was with his work. She sat in the waiting area of his office, kicking at his coffee table with the toe of her sneakers. Ms. Petrie, her social worker, sat two chairs away, ignoring CeCe's irritated foot. She stood to shake Dr. Harper's hand when he emerged from his office. CeCe walked past him without speaking as he and Ms. Petrie exchanged pleasantries.

When Dr. Harper took his seat across from CeCe, he gave her a warm smile and opened his mouth to speak.

“What's wrong with her brain?” CeCe said before Dr. Harper could vocalize his warm-up to her.

They sat in high-backed leather chairs with their knees pointing at one another. Three empty chairs lined the wall behind CeCe and four framed photographs of forests lined the wall behind Dr. Harper. CeCe had been on this side of his office door only two other times, once when Dr. Harper had invited her to choose a piece of candy from his credenza and once when she had had to sit in on one of her mother's sessions. Witnessing how her mother's silence had followed them into these expensive leather chairs all the way from their apartment, aboard two buses and up a long, narrow flight of stairs, had confounded CeCe. If her mother had scant words for Dr. Harper as well, how was she supposed to get fixed?

“Her brain is fine, CeCe,” Dr. Harper said, unaffected by her abruptness. “It's the chemicals that regulate her moods we needed to adjust.”

“Well, what's wrong with her ‘chemicals,' then?”

“Your mother has a dysthemia, which means she has a form of depression that will always be present and always need to be managed,” he said. “The problem is that she went undiagnosed and untreated for so many years, her mind and body have been stuck in what's called a major episode. The trauma of seeing your father after mourning him all these years pushed her over the edge. Treating her will be trickier now. Possible, but trickier.”

Dr. Harper's desk was positioned in front of the far wall. This room was larger than the waiting area, as though the front-room seating had been an afterthought. Soft light from the floor lamp that sat between their tall chairs and the desk made Dr. Harper's bald top gleam. Between their chairs was a low, narrow table holding a box of tissues and the bowl of hard candy. Dr. Harper reached in to the bowl for a piece. CeCe declined.

CeCe listened to the crackle of cellophane instead of Dr. Harper's descriptions of her mother's treatment and prescriptions and long-term therapy goals. She watched as he worked his long words around the pebble of candy.

“When is she going to be regular?” CeCe interrupted again.

Dr. Harper paused for a beat, seeming to weigh his response. “I think she'll be better than ever,” he said.

Dr. Harper offered a robust smile, intended to convey his confidence and reassure her, she knew, but CeCe didn't like his smile. Or his bald spot. Or the way he leaned forward in his chair to talk to her. CeCe wanted him to admit the real reason he'd wanted to talk to her.

“I need the medicine, too?” CeCe asked, challenging him with her eyes. “I have it too, right? Her chemical thing?”

Dr. Harper relaxed the tension in his jaw, understanding settling across his face. CeCe thought he looked real for the first time. All of his plastic smiling and forced cheer melted away. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. CeCe rested her hands on the armrests, like him, and braced for his reply.

“CeCe, mental illness doesn't work the same way as other inherited traits, like eye color or height.” Dr. Harper said. “Yes, it's true family history plays a part, but it's not a guarantee. It gives us something to watch for.”

CeCe considered his words. She felt his eyes warm on her while she thought.

“So, I have to wait to catch it?” she asked.

“It's not something you catch, CeCe,” Dr. Harper said. “It's like a wrinkle in a paper map. You and your mother may have the same map, but that doesn't mean your map has the same wrinkle.”

“But I might,” CeCe said, tilting her head. “The same way her mother had a wrinkle, right?”

“It's possible we all do, CeCe,” Dr. Harper said, reaching for a second piece of candy. “We just can't screen for mental illness. We can only treat it if it happens.”

CeCe stared at him as he popped the candy into his mouth. It rolled around and in between his advice about managing stress and opening up and watching for signs and asking for help. CeCe crossed her arms, trying to pin herself still against the chair. Her head throbbed.

“You seem upset,” Dr. Harper was saying. “Can you tell me what you're thinking right now?”

“I'm
thinking
,” CeCe said, wedging her words through her clenching teeth, “you're telling me to be honest about my feelings, but you're lying to me.”

Dr. Harper did not flinch from her flung words. He stilled the candy that had been dancing in his mouth, giving a single nod for her to continue, instead.

“Why don't you just say it: she got the crazy gene from
her
mother and I'll get the crazy gene from her,” CeCe said. She sat straight up. The pulsing behind her skull was relentless.

“CeCe, I know you—”

“You don't know anything!” CeCe screamed, leaping from the tall chair to her feet. Her hands were knotted into small, brown fists and she leaned over the candy bowl at him. “You don't even know how to fix her!”

“CeCe—”

“Shut up!”

CeCe lifted the candy dish and threw it across the room. Candy gems rained across the beige carpet in muted thuds and the glass bowl exploded against the front wall. CeCe heaved, and Dr. Harper gazed coolly at the empty space on the table where the candy had been sitting.

There was a knock at the door, and he stood.

“Everything OK?” Ms. Petrie called through the door.

“Yes, everything's fine, Jeannette. Thank you.”

Dr. Harper didn't look at CeCe or betray his impassive expression. He walked around his chair. He scratched at his silver beard before clasping his hands together and leaning his forearms over the back of his seat. He kept his eyes on his hands and CeCe kept her eyes on him. Still breathing heavily, she did not try to filter the rage gurgling through her veins.

She immersed herself in the feeling for the first time since Camp Onondaga. CeCe was furious all the time now, like she'd been the previous summer at camp. The events of this summer had awakened her darkest, densest rage. When she was mandated to return to her mother after starting school with her cousins in Decatur, CeCe strained to keep this bigger and heavier anger pinned in place. She was relieved to let it growl at Dr. Harper, to hurl dishes and watch them smash against the wall.

In the extended quiet, CeCe's fingers loosened and she was aware of the sting where her nails had bitten into her palms. Dr. Harper stood casually, as if waiting for her to tie her shoes. He still did not look up from his hands. CeCe watched his hands, too, and then her eyes moved to the wall and down to the shrapnel of glass and wrapped candy. CeCe's heartbeat quickened as the pulsing in her head subsided.

“Better?” she heard Dr. Harper ask.

CeCe looked at Dr. Harper, who met her eyes now. She was nervous to respond, but Dr. Harper stepped around his chair to sit again. CeCe followed suit.

“CeCe, you had to carry a tremendous amount of responsibility when most kids were learning to ride bicycles, playing kickball, and having sleepovers with their friends,” Dr. Harper said. He crossed his legs and returned his folded hands to his lap. “I imagine that might make you angry.”

Dr. Harper looked to the trail of candy and back to CeCe with a small smile. “Really angry.”

CeCe flushed and a small grin winked from the corners of her mouth.

“You're also scared,” Dr. Harper said. “You don't know what's going to happen next to you or your mother. And you feel like you're all alone.”

CeCe listened as Dr. Harper plucked her thoughts from the air and strung them together like a beaded necklace. He fit words around her every dark emotion. Her head filled with light and air for the first time. She wanted to spring from her tall chair and tie her arms around Dr. Harper's shoulders and cry. Her body stayed pressed to the chair. Tears fell anyway.

“How do you know all that?” she asked.

“I don't
know
anything, like you said,” Dr. Harper said, leaning forward in his chair. His face was soft and amused. “I
understand
how your situation can affect the way you feel. My job is to help you figure out how to keep the way they feel from disrupting the way you want to live your life. Does that make sense, CeCe?”

CeCe nodded. Dr. Harper sat with her for a short while longer, saying anger was an important emotion and CeCe would have to work at facing her feelings instead of trying not to feel them.

“I'll bet you have painful headaches,” Dr. Harper said.

CeCe's eyes went wide. Dr. Harper grinned.

“I bet you want a piece of my candy now, too.”

CeCe grinned back at him.