The Weight of Zero (31 page)

And just like that, her one text extends like a strong and solid tree branch to the slowly sinking-in-quicksand Cat Pulaski. Because right now, right this moment, Kristal is still here.

It's definitely party mode in Room Three. Holiday music plays softly in the background and today's snacks are candy canes, gingerbread cookies and hot chocolate. After we complete our DBT forms, Sandy opens group by thanking us.

“I am so proud of you all,” she says, her eyes getting misty. “You are all warriors. Heroes. Bringing your intelligence, your honesty, your courage, your warmth and humor and making our group exactly what it should be—a supportive, safe, nurturing zone. It's not easy, baring your souls, exposing your fears. If there's one thing that I hope you've learned from our meetings, it's this: that you are never alone and that everyone—
everyone
—experiences pain. You have the tools to manage that pain. Honesty with yourselves and honest communication with those around you—your parents, your friends, your doctor, your therapist. You'll be okay if you remember this one rule:
stay
honest and
say
honest.”

Lil' Tommy lets out a “woo-hoo” and then suddenly stands, thrusting a small, red, chafed hand over the coffee table and keeping it there, palm down. “C'mon, everybody, group huddle!” he yells.

Garrett hops up and places his hand in the air above Tommy's. John smacks his hand on Garrett's. Alexis, Kristal and I follow. “On the count of three,” Tommy whoops like a little cheerleader, “everybody shout ‘Go…go…um…' ” He stops, looking stymied.

What do you call our group?

Garrett supplies the cheer. “Go Room Three! IOP!”

Tommy beams his gratitude at Garrett. And then yells, “Okay, on the count of three! One! Two!”

He pauses and looks around. This is beyond dorky and stupid. Something outside these four walls we would all vehemently deny ever happening. Yet each one of my comrades is completely into it. Fully invested. Garrett with his blond baby dreadlocks, his blue eyes crinkled in laughter; bulky John in full Red Sox regalia, smiling and shaking his head in amusement; Alexis with her peppermint candy cane clamped between grinning candy-sticky lips; and Kristal the loudest one, cheering us all on, her free hand warming my shoulder. Sandy throws her hand on top of mine.

And in the second before we all act like the ridiculous bunch of damaged teenagers that we are, Tommy's other red, raw hand roars down on top of Sandy's, the slap reverberating through the room. His little face, with those glasses that constantly slide down his nose, smiles up at all of us. A laugh gurgles inside me, its source both that sense of exoneration I discovered yesterday afternoon in the library and this group bonding, this acknowledgment of what we've all been through, the pain that's brought us here and, for the briefest of moments, the safety and healing of this circle. I laugh out loud as Tommy shouts, “Three!”

At the top of our lungs, six kids with a buffet-worthy selection of mental health issues and their fearless leader, scream, “Go Room Three! IOP!” and then collapse, laughing and high-fiving, on the sofas.

With a smiling eye roll, Garrett needlessly reminds us, “Mum's the fucking word on that scene, folks.”

My favorite therapy dog, Lucky Boy, prances in for our final hour of IOP. As we hang out on the floor, playing with him, Sandy reviews next week's step-down program schedule. We'll meet in Group Room B on Wednesdays and Fridays from three o'clock to five o'clock.

Thanks for the memories, Room Three.

Sandy scratches Lucky Boy above the base of his tail, his favorite scratching spot, weirdly enough. “We've changed the timing a little,” she tells us. “The new group I told you about won't be starting until five-thirty. This way, we can try to protect the privacy of those of you who aren't comfortable seeing other people here.”

We settle into small pockets of conversation, and John moves his large frame to the carpet beside me.

“Hey, Catherine,” he says softly. “How you doing?”

I smile at him. I feel a kinship with John. Besides Kristal, he's the one I'm closest to here. “Pretty good,” I say. “How about you? How are things with your father?”

“Better,” he says. “My dad is finally coming around.” John had been sharing with us the aftermath of his decision to quit the wrestling team and how pissed his father was because it eliminated all chance of a wrestling scholarship for college. “What about you? With your PTSD or depression or”—he shrugs—“whatever, from your grandmother?”

The answer doesn't come easily. I have so strenuously trained myself to censor all responses, it takes me a moment to find the truth and not just formulate what I think John wants to hear. “Better. For sure,” I say. “Lighter. Like I don't have this big secret anymore. But…” I stop.
It's okay,
I tell myself.
Keep going.
I need to start doing what Sandy said—“say honest.” It's about fucking time. “But kind of worse too,” I continue. “Like…I don't know. Because it doesn't hurt quite as bad, I feel like I don't remember her as well. She feels further away.” I look at John to gauge his reaction. Does he think this is totally wacked?

“I get it.” John nods, absently stroking Lucky Boy's head. “Not that this is anywhere near the same, but when my dog died, it was horrible, but once that intense sadness lifted…I don't know, I felt like I was moving on and kind of forgetting him in a way.”

I nod, a little shell-shocked. That is precisely it. And all this time, I was worried my feeling was strictly a bipolar thing. I grasp his forearm, the material of his track jacket smooth under my fingertips. “Thanks for everything, John. I really mean it. Thank you.”

Kristal and I stand next to her car as the St. Anne's parking lot empties out. Mom is running late and texted that she'd be here in ten minutes. Music is blasting out of Kristal's car window and she dances around in the cold air, keeping me company until Mom arrives.

“Oh God, I hope I love it. I'm freaking out a little!” she says. “What if it sucks? It's too late to withdraw my ED application.”

Kristal's dad works with somebody whose daughter attends Vassar, and the daughter, Stephanie, invited Kristal to spend Saturday night with her. Stephanie and a bunch of her friends are returning early to school from Thanksgiving break. Kristal leaves first thing on Saturday morning for Poughkeepsie.

“It will be great! And if it isn't, you can text me all night,” I offer.

“
If
you have your phone on,” Kristal chides. “Seriously, Cat, do not do that to me again. It sucked. I really needed to talk to you.” She stops dancing and holds my gaze. “Okay?” There is a challenge in her tone, a veiled threat that I need to hold up my end of this friendship bargain.

“I will sleep with my phone on,” I say, holding my fingers up as if to swear on a Bible. “On my pillow, okay?”

Kristal spontaneously hugs me. “I wish you were coming with me!”

Mom pulls into the parking lot and into the spot next to Kristal. She waves and I can see she's on her phone.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” I tell Kristal as she gets behind the wheel of her car. “And remember, on Saturday, text or call me whenever! Even if it's in the middle of the night.”

Kristal nods, her body brimming with excitement. Again, I feel a jolt of abandonment, that sense that she can and will go on with her life.

I stand on the curb as Kristal backs her adorable Volkswagen out of the parking spot. Her car stereo is still blasting and she's waving to me instead of checking behind her. The parking lot is empty but for one pickup truck, which has been idling in the row behind Kristal. Kristal starts to dance inside her car, bouncing on the seat and clapping both hands over her head, leaving the steering wheel unmanned. All for my entertainment.

I laugh until I see the pickup's brake lights come on. The truck backs up, fast, its bed piled high with leaves tacked down by a tarp, obstructing the driver's rearview mirror. There's no way the driver can see Kristal. They are headed for a direct hit.

I rush forward, into the spot Kristal has almost vacated, and I can see her eyes widen in surprise at my charge. I bang both hands on the hood of her car, screaming “Stop!” just as the pickup truck screeches to a stop.

Their two rear bumpers are almost touching. As I rush to Kristal, still seated in her car, I catch a glimpse of movement inside the dark cab of the pickup truck. Its passenger-side door cracks opens just a couple of inches. I can barely see inside the truck, but it looks like two people. Is the passenger going to get out? Bitch at Kristal? Shit. But then suddenly the door slams shut and the pickup truck peels away, escaped leaves dancing in the air in its wake.

Kristal lowers her car window. With an embarrassed smile, she says, “Now your mom is never going to let me drive you home next Friday. Tell her I will never dance and drive again.”

It's Wednesday night, 1:16 a.m. So technically it's Thursday morning—Thanksgiving. I can't sleep. Like a few nights ago, my body refuses to unwind. I should record this in my sleep journal, if I actually had one. I've transported the troops downstairs already to Grandma's room. So all should be well.

It was a good day,
I tell myself. The last session of group was a riot with that ridiculously corny circle time.

I text Kristal again: “You will have a great time at Vassar!!! Don't worry!” I am pathetically proud of my little cheer of support. Catherine Pulaski is thinking of other people for a change! It's a start at least.

But the movie thing with Michael keeps intruding on all the good: St. Anne's circle time, my heart-to-heart with John, Kristal's hug. In the dark silence of my bedroom, Michael's withdrawal overshadows all of it. He's started the checkout process from Hotel Catherine.

One hour later, I am only a little tired but also jittery. Fuck. Has it started? Has the stress triggered another chemical miscue in my head? Which will lead to another manic episode? What will it be this time? I've already done the home improvement and vacation disasters. And now there'll be a whole new cast of witnesses to my freak show, lacing up their sneakers and getting ready to run.

I force myself to lie down. To take deep breaths.
Relax, Catherine. Relax.
I think of my self-soothing collage from group. The one Kristal and I had almost peed in our pants laughing about. In addition to the joke pictures, I had also cut out from magazines photos of a fluffy white comforter and an apple pie and an ad for dryer sheets because they remind me of Grandma. I hum “You Are My Sunshine” softly and, finally, drowsiness descends. My limbs feel weighted in a blessed way and my mind slows. That current of exoneration, the one I had first felt outside the library, thrums softly through me. It had gotten muted by the debris and clutter of the day.

I am still innocent.

I remember Dr. McCallum talking about Grandma and her death and my disorder. This was sometime back in July, when we were first getting acquainted and I was still unaccustomed to his blunt questions. I was startled when, with no warning, he opened with something like, “I believe your grandmother's death played a role in the onset of your depression and bipolar disorder. I think we need to talk about your grandmother, what happened that day, how you're coping, how you feel now. I think it would be enormously helpful.”

“What?” This was the first time any doctor had linked Grandma's death and my sickness. “Are you saying because Grandma died…I mean, the way she died,
gave me
bipolar disorder?” I asked.

“No. I am not saying that at all, Catherine.” Dr. McCallum leaned forward. “Let me be very clear,” he said slowly. “I do not believe grief or trauma
causes
mental illness. We know that grief can be a severe
stressor.
That
stressor
can trigger the
onset
of a mental illness. Do you understand that?”

“So I would've gotten sick even if she hadn't died?” I already knew the answer.

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Probably. Catherine, most studies indicate that there is a strong genetic factor for bipolar disorder. So, the answer is yes, it's likely you would have gotten sick. If not after your grandmother's death, then maybe as a result of some other stressor, or else it would most likely have developed on its own.”

That stung, as it always did. I despised that my fate was determined when I was only a zygote.

But I understand now what Dr. McCallum was saying, and I can finally put the guilt for that malfunctioning aside. I am a victim of genetic roulette.

It's not my fault.

Mom wakes me at eleven on Thursday morning. My eyes are gritty and my muscles ache. I slowly sit up and take a groggy self-inventory. I'm not jittery anymore; now it's the opposite. I feel completely and totally wiped. The warmth of my white cocoon draws me back down until Mom wakes me again at noon.

“Happy Thanksgiving. Baby, you okay?” she asks, smoothing the hair at my forehead. “How do you feel?”

It's a double-edged question. We both know it. I don't want to worry her. I won't tell her I couldn't sleep last night and that when I did, it was fitful, with vivid dream scenes I couldn't understand. I am scared something is starting to happen with me. That the Lamictal is losing its footing, and my defenses are weakening.

I force myself up and scoot to the end of the bed. “I'm tired, that's all. What time are we leaving?”

We've been celebrating Thanksgiving at Aunt D's since I was born.

Mom studies me. She doesn't quite believe me but doesn't push. “I'm already done with the pies, and we don't have to leave until four. Uh…I was thinking that maybe we could go through some of Grandma's things? Clean out a little?”

My heart picks up its pace. The suitcase. “Did you start yet?”

“No. I'm not touching a thing until you're okay with it.”

I exhale. Disaster averted. But I am so not equipped for this discussion right now. I busy myself with throwing on some socks.

“Cath, hon, we could really use the space,” Mom says, standing to make my bed. “We'll keep a lot of her stuff. I promise. It's just that if,
when
you have friends over and you want some privacy, we could have a little study or den. You guys could hang out there, or I could go there when you want to hang out in the living room.”

The hope on Mom's face subtracts ten years and I catch a glimpse of what she looked like as a young woman. Without me shackled to her. And now she's feeling like things are okay, that we've found a new equilibrium, that it's fine to start making plans and moving forward to a future with friends again. Guilt presses down on me, and I find myself nodding.

“Really, Cath? You think you're ready?” she asks. “I don't want to push you.”

“It sounds like a good idea,” I respond slowly, not wanting to age her any more than I already have. “But can we do it together? Can we do it over Christmas break? Can you wait for that?”

“Of course.”

I know I can delay this cleanout for a long time. “So you won't touch anything until I'm ready?”

“Scout's honor,” Mom says. “I won't take one crappy tchotchke off her dresser without your consent.”