The Weight of Zero (24 page)

I should've known that Mom's Saturday-night gift of privacy with Michael would come at a price. It comes on Tuesday, my official one-month anniversary of dating Michael.

We are en route to St. Anne's when Mom announces a little tentatively, “Dr. McCallum is supposed to call before the IOP. He wants to check in, see how things are going.”

“Well, if he calls while we're in the car, can you pull over so I can get out and talk to him alone?” I ask. I'm grateful that she's not dragging my ass into his office again.

“I'll get out,” Mom says. “It's too cold to be walking around outside. I could run into a store depending where we are.”

We're in front of a strip mall with a dollar store, a craft place and an Xpect Discounts when my phone buzzes and the screen flashes: Dr. McCallum. Mom hangs a hard right into the parking lot. “Text me when you're done,” she says, opening the car door.

“Hello?” I say as Mom jogs into Xpect Discounts.

“Hello, Catherine. It's Dr. McCallum.” His voice booms out of my phone. I check to make sure all the car windows are fully closed.

“Hi,” I say, sliding down in my seat. I'm hoping this base-touching won't take more than ten minutes.

We go through the preliminaries: I feel fine; yes, I am sleeping; yes, I am eating; no racing thoughts, no depression; all cool in Catherine-land. And then he broaches the real topic—my meltdown at last week's IOP.

“Catherine,” Dr. McCallum says, “I was in touch with Sandy. I understand that you were able to talk about the circumstances of your grandmother's death.” In his typical modus operandi, he pauses after that opening salvo and waits for me to fill the silence.

“I wasn't planning on it,” I say. On today's menu: the truth. It's a little easier when Dr. McCallum's not directly in front of me. It's almost like talking to myself, here inside the Accord. “Something happened to one of the kids….He was really upset…and he said something that I remembered about Grand—…my grandmother…when she died.”

“How did it feel?”

I pause. “Mostly awful. But…” What do I tell Dr. McCallum? That it feels better to have brought this memory into the light, diluted by the compassion of others? Better but also worse at the same time, because it lessened my link to Grandma. That raw, primal connection was weakened and she feels further away now.

“But what, Catherine?”

I put my feet up on the dashboard. “Well…a little lighter, I guess.” I can't go into the twisted aspect of my feelings. That the more intense the pain, the more alive Grandma remains to me. That may be a bipolar thing.

Dr. McCallum says, “It's hard to bear something like that alone. Sharing it doesn't change that it happened or what it felt like or what it feels like now, but at least you know that others have experienced that pain and you're not alone in that regard.”

Dr. McCallum rambles a little bit and I watch as Mom exits Xpect Discounts. She points to Harley's Craft Palace and I give her a thumbs-up. She hustles inside. My ears perk up when Dr. McCallum mentions Michael. He pauses again. That's my cue. And I missed the question. I go with a generic “good.”

That seems to satisfy him and I chuckle to myself a little. But I stop short when Dr. McCallum says, “Birth control. I urge all my sexually active adolescent patients to begin birth control.”

Whoa. I obviously missed a
huge
topic transition during my brief space-out.

“Uh…we're not…,” I begin.

“Catherine, you don't have to tell me if you don't feel comfortable. Let me just say this: Drugs are classified into categories depending on their known risk of causing birth defects.”

Jesus—I can't even wrap my head around this concept of me becoming a mother. It's like Dr. McCallum said I could live on Mars if I wanted to.

“You're taking Lamictal, which is not commonly associated with birth defects, but it's also not risk-free. Lithium is in a different category. If we feel the need to begin lithium at some point and you are sexually active, birth control is absolutely mandatory.”

I can't wait to tell Kristal all of this. Well, on second thought, I'd better not, given the fact that she's sexually challenged for the time being.

“So, if and when the time comes and you are engaging in sex,” Dr. McCallum continues, “you should be taking birth control. It is not safe enough to rely solely on condoms. I'm recommending to both you and your mom that you see your pediatrician…you see Dr. Coughlin, correct? Of Cranbury Pediatrics?” Dr. McCallum says, and I can hear some static like he's shuffling papers. No doubt scanning his Catherine Pulaski file for my info.

“Yes.”

“I'd like for you to touch base, find out if there would be an issue with the Pill. The Lamictal that you're taking lowers the Pill's effectiveness. But there are other options. An IUD might be a consideration. You wouldn't have to worry about taking another pill every day. You can discuss that all with Dr. Coughlin.”

“Okay.” Our Father, who art in heaven, when is this conversation over?

“One more thing, Catherine,” Dr. McCallum says, sensing my impatience. “I'll be brief. I don't want to make you too late for group, but I do want to remind you of something. The holidays are coming up. They can often become stressor events, like anniversaries of painful events. I'd like you to be especially on guard, so to speak, in terms of monitoring your emotions and sleep cycles, watching for any blips in the regular patterns, okay? Keep up with your sleep journal.”

“I will.”

After confirming our next appointment for sometime Thanksgiving week, we say good-bye.

As usual, Dr. McCallum stirs up shit I try to avoid thinking about. An innocent third party to the Catherine Pulaski saga? Not happening. No way. Don't worry, Doctor. I'll take whatever over-the-counter precautions I need to.

I don't text Mom that the phone call is over. Instead, I rush into Dollar Daze. In the back of the store, I find it. Red “satin” underwear, Silkeez Intimates. A buck each. I scoop up three in size large, pay at the register and stuff them into my jacket pocket.

Back inside the car, I text Mom: “ALL DONE”

I'm trapped in my seat as Louis Farricelli pants his dog breath on my neck. “Hey, dykie,” he whispers. It's Thursday morning, two days after the Dr. McCallum phone call. The call must've been triggered, at least in part, by Mom after she saw Michael and me sitting together on the sofa, flushed and a little disheveled, on Saturday night. I've quarantined the McCallum pregnancy discussion to the No Admittance office in my head, but Mom has already attempted an “us girls” chat about it. “I'll call Dr. Coughlin when I'm ready,” I told her, amazingly calm. Of course, I won't ever be scheduling that appointment. I'm sick of spewing forth my every thought and emotion, my sleep and eating cycles and every other bodily function for someone's clinical examination and dissection. I'm tired of questionnaires and health form updates and drug histories. I'm sure other girls,
normal
girls, have no problem chatting with their doctors about sex and birth control. But I want this one potential jewel in my life to be private. Just mine. My first and last connection is reserved for me alone.

Behind me, Louis Farricelli whispers my name again and I lean forward to escape his pocket of putrid breath.

“I want a rough draft of your biographies before Christmas break,” Mr. Oleck is saying, looking especially spiffy in a navy bow tie, starchy white button-down and polished loafers. There are the usual groans about the assignment, but it's no problem for Michael and me. I already have five pages typed up.

A boy with a brand-new deep voice whines from the back of the room, “But I thought this wasn't due until spring.”

I glance back to see who just graduated from puberty and spot Riley tapping away on her phone. The seat behind her, Olivia's usual spot, is empty. Weird. Scanning the classroom, I spot Olivia. She has relocated to the opposite side of the room, to the first desk in the aisle closest to the wall. She leans her head into her hand, her mousy brown hair lying flat against her cheeks. Olivia must feel my gaze because she glances over at me and we make accidental eye contact. In the millisecond it takes for my ocular muscles to snatch my gaze away, I detect the beginnings of an Olivia smile, a smile I have known for most of my life. And so rare now it could be on an endangered species list.

Mr. Oleck slams his hands against the podium in delight. “People, we are fast-tracking the project. Big plans for your biographies. The school will be doing an all-out blitz in getting these stories into local papers and magazines and on websites. Your projects will now be completed by February. So, I'll also need updated bibliographies as well as a game plan for project completion, including interviews to be conducted and your finalized timelines for these interviews.
Before
we leave for Christmas break.” He glances down at his iPad. “Oh yeah. Sabita found a great oral history collection online.” He moves to the blackboard. “Copy this link down.”

“Mmm, I like
oral
histories,” Louis breathes, his rancid breath again tainting my airspace. I lean farther forward, but he continues in a wheezy tone, stretching toward me now that his neck is free of the brace. “You must be especially good at that, right, Catherine? That's what ladies like you specialize—”

I jerk my desk forward. It screeches loudly and Mr. Oleck stops talking. He sizes up the situation in one glance. “Louis, I'm pretty sure your neck injury didn't give you any cognitive impairments. So why are you leaning so close to Miss Pulaski?”

The class chuckles, but there's no corresponding smile on Mr. Oleck's face, no good-ol'-boys' camaraderie that's usually evident between Cranbury High's faculty and the elite male athletes.

Mr. Oleck continues, “The next time I see you lurching over any student, you are out of my class. For good. Got it?”

The class goes silent, astonished at the public execution. Can Louis Farricelli fall any further?

While I appreciate the save from Mr. Oleck, I brace myself for Louis's wrath. It comes when the bell rings. Louis rises from his seat and, using the end-of-class exodus noise as camouflage, hisses the worst of all curse words as he passes me: “Cunt.”

Instinctively, I cringe. But it's not the stark ugliness of the c-word that unnerves me. It's the black malice in his tone. This is the kind of kid who snaps, someone who “out of the blue” brings his dad's gun to school.

The news reports would give the glorified stats: honors student and All-State football captain, sidelined by a career-ending injury.
Aha!
the older readers would say, desperate for a reason.
That had to be it.
But their high school memories have been repressed or dulled or grown outdated. Only the younger ones would know. They're well aware of the pressure and jabs and cuts and slices. The insults and ridicule complete with photos and videos flying at cyberspeed to reach greater audiences of “friends” of “friends” of “friends.” It happens every fucking day inside these hallowed halls.

I wait until Michael comes over before exiting the classroom.

“Is Farricelli bugging you?” Michael asks immediately, his eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Nah. No big deal.” I want to hug him right then and there. “I can handle it.”

Michael's face flushes. “I'm…I'll go talk to him. I don't want that asshole hassling you.”

That is literally the last thing I want. First, I do not need a knight. Second, Farricelli has at least sixty pounds on Michael. Sixty pounds of muscle and percolating volcanic fury. Farricelli would absolutely relish a fight to reestablish his place in the Cranbury High pecking order. Michael would get hurt.

“It's really just his breath,” I lie. “He must eat poop for breakfast.”