The Weight of Zero (36 page)
Read The Weight of Zero Online
Authors: Karen Fortunati
JULY
“Dear God, Catherine! Brake, for Christ's sake! And move over!” Mom shouts from the passenger seat. “Center! Center! Move! You almost sideswiped those parked cars.”
My driving lessons with Mom are going pretty darn good but for my tendency to hug the right side of the lane. On the mornings she's at Dunkin' Donuts, I drive her there, and usually Michael or Olivia picks me up. I'm scheduled to take the test for my license in three weeks, and the Accord and Bonnie Raitt are waiting for me, since Mom just bought herself a two-year-old Subaru.
It was Mom who decided it was time. Between our work schedules and my internship at the New Haven Museum in the visitor services department, Mom was constantly chauffeuring me around. That and the fact that my Lamictal has kept me stable, along with my “stay honest, say honest” mantra, Dr. McCallum, Mom, Aunt D, my sleep journal, Michael and Kristal.
It takes a village.
“Catherine, see those two parking spots ahead. Pull into the first one and keep going to the second,” she says unnecessarily. “This way you don't have to back out of the spot. A pull-through parking spot is always the way to go.” Mom glances at me before starting to laugh. “Duh, I know. You don't have to say it.”
Mom and I walk in together. I get an iced decaf with two sugars and wait for Michael to arrive. High Honors student Michael has already started writing his Common App essay. He's chosen the “what has been your greatest challenge” question and he's writing about being bullied.
I know I will be using the same prompt for my application. And I know only too well what my answer will be.
We've already started the college tours. The first was with Kristal to Wesleyan, where she's headed in thirty-seven days, four hours and sixteen minutesâshe texts me the freshman move-in date countdown every morning. Turned out that she fell more in love with Wesleyan than Vassar. Michael came with Mom and me to UConn for an info session and campus tour. The main campus in Storrs is huge and surprisingly beautiful. Mom, of course, freaked out over the size of the school and has made me agree in advance to a substance-free dorm wherever I wind up.
I have no problem with that. How can I? I never thought I'd be here, walking into student unions, libraries, athletic centers and cafeterias, checking out dorm rooms and bathrooms. Me, Catherine Pulaski, headed to college.
My life resumed.
MARCH, SENIOR YEAR
“Cath!” Mom calls from the front door, her tone carrying both elements of shock and excitement. “Cath! Where are you?”
“I'm in the den!” I yell back. I'm at the desk, finishing up an AP English paper on
Beloved.
Mom hurries in. “Cath.” The word is heavy with meaning. Because she's holding out a light brown envelope. Addressed to Catherine Pulaski. From UConn. It's about half the size of an eight-by-eleven envelope. This doesn't look like good news. I've heard acceptances come in large envelopes thick with admission info.
I stare at the envelope and then open it with shaky fingers. The papers are folded in half. Slowly, I unfold them. And read.
Dear Catherine,
Congratulations! It is my pleasure to inform you of your admission to the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences as a psychology major at the University of Connecticut Storrs Campusâ¦
Mom pulls me into a bear hug, screaming and crying, “My baby's going to college! My baby's going to college. You did it!”
I cry. Hard. Because I can't believe this is a realityâme, going to college.
I am going to college.
I pull back to look at Mom. “
We
did it,” I say, my voice cracking on the “we.” I want this to be our moment. I need her to know that I know I couldn't have done it without her. That she's my anchor, and that I'm so infinitely grateful. But the words aren't coming. Instead I repeat, “
We
did it.”
Mom nodsâshe understandsâand then pulls me close again. She buries her nose in my neck and breathes in, her voice muffled. “You smell like peppermint.”
I inhale the scent that has floated over us. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to see. A future.
My
future, unspooling before me: college, job, friends, marriage and maybe,
maybe
even kids. It's there. It's been there all the time. Definitely not perfectly rosy and bright. But mine for the taking. All mine.
Private First Class Jane Talmadge is a fictional character, but her experiences are based on the recollections of real women from the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion found in Brenda L. Moore's wonderful book
To Serve My Country, to Serve My Race,
as well as in
One Woman's Army,
the amazing autobiography of the commanding officer of the 6888th, Lieutenant Colonel Charity Adams Early. Both books, along with Cheryl Mullenbach's
Double Victory: How African American Women Broke Race and Gender Barriers to Help Win World War II,
were instrumental to the writing of this story. I was incredibly moved by the courage and perseverance of the 6888th. Kristal's mom put it best: “You think about what these ladies were facing. It was a double whammy of prejudiceâthey were women and they were black.” Despite the discrimination and danger, the 6888th persevered and triumphed.
Early in the writing process, I knew I wanted Catherine to be inspired by a figure from history, someone who had moved forward despite overwhelming odds. That idea led me to think about the first waves of soldiers who stormed the heavily fortified beaches in Normandy. It was complete serendipity that while doing research on the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, I found an article about the four women buried among the 9,383 men. Three of these women were from the 6888th: Mary H. Bankston, Mary J. Barlow and Delores Browne. They were killed in a jeep accident in Rouen, France. Their tragic story, as well as the overall courage of the 6888th, gripped me and became the inspiration for Jane Talmadge.
High school is a strange, surreal and sometimes intensely difficult four years when most of us, for the first time, take a long, hard look at ourselves and our parents, family and friends and start to see cracks or flaws. These years seem like a recipe for turmoilâhuge physical and emotional changes are experienced within a very contained community. It can be destabilizing, but when our world has contracted, when our sense of self is often defined by the labels of others, it can be brutal. Let's throw in social media that can publicize on a large scale the slightest incident. It jacks up the consequences of every action and increases the pressure.
Now let's add more: anxiety, depression, eating disorders, drug abuse and addiction, alcoholism, obsessive-compulsive disorder, cutting and bipolar disorder and other disorders or afflictions, physical or mental. In addition to all the usual turbulence of these years, there are now these great, deep pockets of pain, of more pressure, many covered with a stinging layer of stigma. My heart is with those who bear this heavy weight. Know that this story exists because of you.
I wrote this book because I wanted to talk about handling pain: We need to acknowledge it out loud. We need to tell someone. We need to
stay honest and say honest.
I worry that we are programmed not to discuss pain; we manage our profiles with only our best photos and our happy times, and this filtering seeps into our personal interactions out of fear. Fear that too much disclosure will result in different treatment or outright rejection. But pain is a constant in life. The only way to get through it is to talk about it. To not keep it locked inside. Because not talking about pain means it doesn't go away. And by talking about it, we may find others who share a similar pain. Who understand. Who can help.
There are many resources out there. If you are suffering or if you feel the urge to harm yourself,
please
tell someone. Let your pain out. And if the first person you contact doesn't hear you,
don't quit.
Talk.
Keep talking.
Call 911 if you are in immediate danger of harming yourself.
Call 800-273-TALK (8255) (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline) if you are in crisis or having suicidal thoughts. It is a twenty-four-hour, toll-free, confidential hotline.
Contact the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Health) HelpLine at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or
[email protected]
. The NAMI HelpLine can be reached Monday through Friday, ten a.m. to six p.m. EST, for answers to questions about mental health, including symptoms of mental illness, treatment options and support groups.
