Cameron and the Girls (8 page)

Well, well. Aren't we the little juvenile delinquent.

The voice throws me back. I stumble and struggle to stay upright. “Please,” I whisper. The rule is that I don't hear voices so soon after a shot. But this guy isn't following the rules. Something must be wrong.

Breaking and entering. I like this.

“Stop it,” I say, and gently push the door open.

The laundry room smells strongly of neglected cat, and it takes a moment for me to get used to it. I push myself against the door and close it. The chipped linoleum beneath my feet gives as I walk across it and into the tiny kitchen.

Old dishes wait to be done up in the sink. Plastic wrappers and an old greasy pizza box litter the counter. I smell something else in the air that reminds me of a few days in the hospital. Something that just plays with my senses, inviting me to explore further, to peek around the next corner.

To the side of the refrigerator, the room opens into a short hallway. I stand for a few seconds and scratch at my cheek. One foot gets courageous, but the other wants to grow roots.

“Nina?” I say.

The other foot finally loosens and I move into the hall. A few feet away a door stands open. A circle of watery light shines off a window. Below it, I see Nina in a T-shirt and boxers, her body spread out awkwardly on a bed. She is as still as a corpse. My breathing halts.

“Nina?”

I step into the doorway. “Oh God,” I say right before Nina bolts off the bed as if she's just been stung. She tries to pull the blanket around her, but it won't move.

“Get out!” she screams. “Get out!”

Her words are like gale-force winds and push me away from the door. I stumble against the jamb, right myself, and hurry back to the kitchen. I lean against the sink, breathing hard.

She's not shouting now, and I wait for some other noise. Pretty soon, she comes out.

“What are you doing here, you pervert!” she says.

I flee out the back. I'm already on the street before she can swing open the front door.

“Wait! Cameron! Wait!”

I stop and turn toward her. But as I do:

Be a man, Cammy. She'll only try to get in your head.

Now I fear what I might do. “I don't want to hurt you,” I say, and as she steps down to the grass, I add, “Stop right there. Or . . .”

“What's wrong?” she asks.

“The rules have changed,” I say.

Nina cocks her head. “How?”

“Don't ask me how, but he's back. The guy from under the bridge.”

Nina nods. I search for some bigger reaction on her face but don't find it. “He went away and now he's back?”

I check for The Other Guy, but my head is quiet. “They shot me up,” I say. “They took it all away.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Life sucks.”

 

“I'm sorry about sneaking in on you,” I say. “And about, you know, kind of threatening you just now.”

She stretches her back. “I wasn't scared, Cam. Just surprised. I trust you.”

“You do?” I feel a nub of heat start up in my gut, and it turns into a blaze. “It's all good,” I say.

“That's what I like to hear,” she says.

But it's something else that has me excited. If The Other Guy has shown up, what's to keep The Girl from being here also? “Hey,” I say. “Hey.”

“Hey back,” Nina says. She tries to take my hand, but I'm moving around too much.

I walk farther out in the street, trying to concentrate.

“Cam?”

I'm turning in a circle. Whose voice was that?

I feel Nina come up behind me. Her touch gives me goose bumps. I turn around and grab her arms. “You're the best,” I say, and feel the good words course through my body.

“Let's go inside,” she says. She snags my hand and tries to pull me.

But I take my hand back. “They're going to come looking for me,” I say. And I take off running down the street.

B
ack
at school, I'm relieved that Mrs. Owens has not called anybody about my absence.

“I really had to go,” I insist, and she reluctantly accepts my excuse.

“You know you have a doctor's appointment this afternoon,” she says as she unlocks a cabinet beneath the work counter on the side of the classroom. She peeks in and pulls out a paper cutter. “Your mother will be here to pick you up at two o'clock.” I must look worried, because Mrs. Owens touches my arm gently. “It's okay, Cameron,” she says. “You'll feel so much better afterward.”

I see right then that even the good people don't really understand. But I still try to convince them anyway.

“I wish I didn't need a crutch, Mrs. Owens,” I say.

“And I'm sure that's what everyone wants for you too.” She raises the curved sharp handle of the cutter and places ten sheets of colored paper beneath it. I have an image of a guillotine and shudder as she brings the blade down, severing all the sheets cleanly.

“Are you happy?” I ask.

“Me? Yes, of course.” But I don't believe her. I see her eyes dart away too quickly. She hurriedly places more paper beneath the blade and grabs the handle.

“You don't look happy,” I say.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she says, and brings the blade down in a hard swift movement that makes me jump again even though I knew it was coming. It loosens something up in my brain.

Nobody gets you.

“I know,” I say out loud.

Mrs. Owens pauses with the blade in her grasp, and I have to think quickly.

“Can I go to the library?” I say.

 

Mom pulls up into the lot at precisely two o'clock. Not 1:59 or 2:01. She doesn't see me until I'm right next to the window.

“You shouldn't scare people like that,” she says as I slide in and she puts the car in gear.

“People shouldn't be scared,” I say. Already my shoe is tapping out the anxiety I feel whenever I go to see Dr. Simons.

Something starts curving up inside me like the blade on Mrs. Owens's machine. It beckons me with its threatening shine. I glance secretly at my mother. Her hands are solid on the wheel, her eyes unwavering on the road. Little does she know that one of the voices has come back so soon. And if one of them has come back, that means . . .

“I don't want to do this,” I suddenly say.

“Cameron . . .”

“I'm fine,” I nearly shout out. “I don't need it.”

“You do need it,” she says back. “You can't be trusted to take the pills.”

I wait through two red lights before I say, “But what if I don't need the pills? What if this is just my normal way of being?”

“Cam, it can't be normal to hear and see the things you hear and see.” Her voice is more modulated again, like something coming out of a hospital intercom.

“Maybe not for you,” I say. “Maybe not for Dad and Beth. But for me, maybe it's a different kind of normal.”

I spy on her again and see that she is struggling.

“Nobody knows for sure,” I continue. “Even Dr. Simons says nobody really knows what normal is.”

“Cam!” she says sharply. “I don't want to talk about this. We're going to Dr. Simons's office, and you're going to get a shot. That's all there is to it.”

I lean back against the seat and fold my arms. “We'll just see about that,” I say.

 

At 2:35 we are in Dr. Simons's office. We haven't exchanged words since the fight in the car. I am sitting in the big leather chair, and I swing it back and forth while we wait. My mom holds her paperback in front of her.

Soon, Dr. Simons walks in. Pens are perched behind each of his ears, and he carries one in his hand. “Hello,” he says cheerfully.

“Hello, Doctor,” says my mom. She puts down the book and smiles.

“Well now,” Dr. Simons says when he sees I'm in his chair.

“Let the doctor sit,” says my mom.

But I stay put and the doctor says, “It's okay. Really.” He takes a wheeled chair nearby and rolls over to me. “Well now, how are we doing?”

“Not good,” I say.

“Better,” Mom says.

Dr. Simons looks from me to her and then back again.

“He's not all manicky,” my mom says.

“Is that true?” asks the doctor.

“Do we know what normal is?” I ask.

Dr. Simons scratches his chin. “Well, we know what normal isn't, if that helps.”

“You see?” my mom chirps.

I get up from the chair and start pacing the room. Dr. Simons follows me with his eyes. He is used to this, used to figuring out what is going on with his patients simply by observation. I stop at his fish tank and tap a couple of gourami away from the glass.

“He doesn't want to take his shot today,” says my mom. “We've had a few words about it.”

“Hmm-hmm,” murmurs Dr. Simons. “How are the voices, Cameron?”

“You lied,” I spit out. “You told me once that nobody really knows what normal is.”

“They don't,” the doctor agrees. “Normal is different for different people.”

“See?” I say back to my mother.

“He's been like that since I picked him up,” she says. “Like a smart aleck.”

“Frankly, that seems normal to me,” says the doctor. “He is, after all, fourteen.”

“See?” I say again.

“He's driving me absolutely crazy,” my mom says.

“It's hard,” the doctor agrees.

While Mom is busy trying not to cry, I try desperately to get the doctor's attention. When I do, I whisper, “Please don't make me take another shot. Please. I don't need it. I don't have any more voices. Please.”

My mom suddenly jerks her hands from her face. “Cameron, I am your mother, and I make the decisions about what's good for you. And I think getting a shot is what's best for you. Therefore, you will be getting a shot today. When you reach the age of eighteen, then
you
can decide.”

She finally says the thing I've been waiting for her to say. Now I can tell them what Nina helped me learn in the library. “Not exactly,” I say.

“What do you mean, not exactly?” she asks.

“In the state of Washington, the age of consent for mental stuff is thirteen.”

I look quickly at Dr. Simons and then back over to my mom.

“What are you talking about?” she says. “That's preposterous. A thirteen-year-old can't consent to this.”

“Oh yes, he can,” I say.

My mom rolls her eyes and says, “Dr. Simons, will you please set him straight?”

“Actually, he's right.”

“But kids Cameron's age can't make that important a decision. They're not mature enough.”

“In some ways, I agree with you. For example, if they are at risk of doing harm to themselves or others. But otherwise they can.”

“But he lives under our roof,” my mom complains. “He lives by our rules.”

“I understand that,” the doctor says. “And that's a different issue.” He starts rubbing his fingers rapidly. “All I'm saying is that if you were in a court of law, the law would say Cameron can make up his own mind.”

“But look at his mind—” Mom starts to say, but realizes it's mean and clamps her mouth shut.

“I am perfectly okay,” I say. “Really, I am. Whatever it was that caused that thing to happen is all gone now.”

“Cameron,” says Dr. Simons. “We really need to talk about this. You are aware that you have been a sick young man, and this disease is not likely to remit so quickly.”

“Yes.”

“And we talked before about how this could get out of hand for you again and how the best thing for you may be to have a consistent medication regimen to keep it under control.”

I nod. “The earlier you catch it, the less severe the symptoms are.”

“Well, I might as well not be here,” my mom says, getting up from her chair. She heads for the door, already pulling the cell phone out of her pants and pushing buttons.

When she is gone, Dr. Simons faces me. “This is very serious business you're involved in here, Cameron. Very serious.”

“I know,” I say. “But I don't want any more shots. They make me feel like I'm not a real person. I don't want to feel weird anymore.”

Dr. Simons smiles and scratches above his ear. “I understand what you're saying. But you know who your mother is talking to out there? Your father. I predict he will come home from work early today to have a conversation with you about this. He will try to talk you out of your decision.”

“Is it really true, Doctor, what I said? That I can make up my own mind?”

“Yes, it is ultimately true, Cameron. But with it comes a great responsibility. The state is asking you to take the best care of yourself that you possibly can. Do you feel up to doing that?”

I nod again. “And then some.”

“Here's what I'd like to do. I'd like to keep prescribing you the medication. You seem reasonably good right now, so I won't insist that you have an injection. But I want you to continue to take the pills. Will you do that for me, Cameron?”

I bring my fingers up to my chin.

Sometimes adults are almost too easy.

“It will show you're willing to take the responsibility necessary to keep this thing under control,” the doctor says. “And it will help calm down your parents.”

“Sure I will,” I say, hoping my face is as straight as it can be. I stand up to shake the doctor's hand. When I leave, I can almost feel the clouds leaving my head. And now, I'm floating on them.

A
ll
the way home, Mom cannot stop talking about how if my dad hadn't been training a new guy, he would have come home early and set my thinking straight. She says she is going to ask around and see if she can find a different therapist for me, one who appreciates the needs of the parents as well. All the while, I look out the window and think the day is sunnier than normal.