Detached (15 page)

“Whatever they're doing, it's working, I guess.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. I mean, I didn't notice it so much before, like the last year or so. I guess it was gradual. But seeing you now, you're so much lighter. You seem almost happy.”

Another patient and visitor approached us on the path so we stopped talking until they passed.

“I think I feel better too. I'm sort of afraid to say that, you know? But I don't feel so, I don't know, desperate. I guess it snuck up on me and I got used to it being there. I felt like I was carrying so much weight around. It was hard to pretend that everything was okay every day.”

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” Joe said.

“It's not that I'm always feeling better. I mean, I felt like total crap this morning. I guess I was stressed about seeing you. But at least I have moments where something shifts and I get this little glimpse that things can be better.”

“And you can talk about it.”

“Yeah, I suppose. At least to you, I can. I couldn't talk to Mom and Dad like this.”

“Then promise you'll talk to me. Like if you're upset or something.”

“Or if I feel like killing myself?”

Joe didn't respond and I was hurt he didn't want to engage in our usual sarcastic jabs.

“It's okay to say it. It feels worse holding it in.”

“Then don't hold it in,” Joe said.

At my exit interview, the shrink asked me if I still had thoughts about harming myself. I was pretty sure he'd know if I was lying so I tried a bunch of answers in my head before I said anything out loud. I mean, I didn't want to get it wrong and get sent to jail without passing GO and collecting my two-hundred dollars.

“It's not that I really wanted to harm myself before. I mean, I'm terrified of pain and the thought of blood makes me pass out. It was more that I just didn't want to be alive than I wanted to kill myself.”

“And now?”

“Now, even if I just had to flip a switch, I don't think I would. I still think about it. I might always
think
about it, but there's more to consider now.”

“Like what?”

“My parents, my brother, my friends. There's stuff I want to do.”

“Such as?”

“Get the hell out of here,” I said and laughed.

He smiled. It was faint, but there it was, a little human smile.

“Seriously, I guess nothing is really any different. I always had people who loved me and needed me. I just didn't see it before. It was hard to see much of anything.”

“That was the depression. You know that now, right?”

“I do, now. Yes. But it wasn't easy to see.”

“That's why it's important you stay on your medication, even when you're feeling good. Especially then.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“So I'll see you next week?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want to walk out of here today.”

“Then I'll see you next week. I don't think I can stomach another Monday meatloaf.”

“Hang on to that thought.”

 

When my parents were killed, my email overflowed with sympathy notes. The phone rang so often we had to turn off the ringer and let the answering machine pick up. But when Anna tried to commit suicide, there was silence. Eventually her friends called for updates, but we didn't hear a peep from our family friends, and my long-time girlfriends avoided me like I was a terrorist. To tell the truth, I didn't mind the exile. It gave me time to try and order the thoughts swirling in my mind. I might have imposed the same sentence on myself anyway. Who can face listening to stories about your friends' kids when your own kid is in a mental health facility after trying to commit suicide?

While Anna was in the treatment centre I was a wreck. Had she been home with us, I could have peeked in on her and reassured myself she was still alive. But when I couldn't see her or touch her or even talk to her each day, there was a hole in my chest that nothing could soothe. I lived in constant fear that they wouldn't watch her closely enough and she'd find a way to kill herself after all. Whenever the phone rang, my blood froze. Each day when I woke up the feeling was the same: I had to catch my breath. I remembered where Anna was and my mind spit out a million questions that started with “why?” I saw the questions in my husband's eyes too, yet we didn't ask them aloud to one another. I was afraid to talk to him. I was afraid I'd detect blame in his tone and I couldn't stand the weight of any more guilt on my shoulders. I knew I was to blame without him spelling it out. It was stupid, I know, but I felt like if I could just talk to her, hug her, and tell her how much I loved her, I'd make her see reason. The psychiatrist told us many times that she didn't try to kill herself because of something we did or didn't do. He explained to us how depression is a disease and needs to be treated like any other illness — with medication and therapy. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I could make it all better if I tried hard enough.

During the time Anna was in treatment, a single letter came. It was from Mrs. Mahoody, an old neighbour from my childhood. I was sitting in bed, propped up against the headboard and a mound of pillows, when my husband came into the room with the mail.

“You're still in bed?” he asked when he handed me the envelope.

I glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was three in the afternoon.

“I've been up. Had lunch. Took Sherlock for a walk and all of that. I just felt chilled and came to warm up.” It was sort of the truth. I'd had a coffee and let Sherlock in the backyard.

He sat down on the side of the bed and picked up my hand.

“Please don't do this,” he said. “You've missed two weeks of work and you've barely stepped outside since we got home from the hospital. I can't do this alone. I need you.”

I couldn't watch his eyes fill up with tears. I didn't have the strength to prop anyone up, not even myself. Instead I looked down at the shape of the comforter stretched over my knees.

“I'm sorry. I just can't face anyone right now,” I whispered, surprised to hear that two weeks had already gone by. I'd forgotten to pay attention to time.

“I know you want to find someone to blame. So do I. I want to blame you. I want to blame myself. I want to blame Joe. I look at my boss and I want to blame him. But we both know it's not that simple.”

My body tensed up when he said the word
blame
. My throat closed so tight I couldn't speak. So I picked up the letter from where I'd dropped it on the bed and read the return address. I fluttered the envelope in the air and my husband nodded.

“How on earth could Mrs. Mahoody have heard?”

“I guess it's not such a big city after all,” he said.

My parents lived beside Mrs. Mahoody for fifty-one years, right up until they died. She watched me grow up and my kids grow up. The last time I saw her I was cleaning out my parents' house and I still called her Aunt Maggie. She brought me over a loaf of banana bread that day. She always made it special for me, the way I liked it — with chopped walnuts. When I said I couldn't believe she remembered, she laughed and said, “That's the way I like it too.”

Aunt Maggie was like a second mother to me. When my mother took her extended leaves, Aunt Maggie filled the gaps. I went to her house after school until Dad got home from work and called me to come home. Then I would run across the two yards in the dark and slam into the safety of our house. When he worked late, she brought me home to give me a bath and put me in my pajamas. She'd put his dinner on a tinfoil covered plate in the oven then sit with me until he got home and kissed me goodnight. Sometimes she took me for doctor's appointments or new shoes, and I still remember her taking me to get my first real haircut at a beauty salon.

When we were together, we never talked about my mother. I was about five when Mom disappeared the first time. I asked every day where she was and when she was coming home, but Aunt Maggie always said something vague before she changed the subject. As I got older, I didn't bother to ask anymore. I knew I wasn't going to get a straight answer and I think I was afraid to find out. My father would sometimes make reference to her being in a hospital, but he'd never be able to explain what illness she had or what operation she needed, so I never believed him. When she returned home after a few weeks, she wouldn't have any visible scars or look any different. She'd hug me tight and spend long hours watching me play with my toys. She'd tell me how much she missed me. Then we'd go back to our regular routine as if nothing had happened. I'd be suspicious for a few days, maybe a week, then I guess I'd forget she'd ever been away. But I grew up not trusting what anyone told me, especially where my mother was concerned.

When my parents died, Aunt Maggie told me how much my mother loved me, how I was everything to her. I certainly didn't believe such nonsense. How could a mother, a loving mother, leave her child for weeks, even months, at a time?

When I was old enough, I suspected she was having an affair that Dad helped her cover up. I imagined she had another family and was living a double life. I'd seen it in a movie once, where the father juggled two families for years before getting caught. It made sense to me that a woman could do the same.

I was still staring at the envelope when my husband broke my concentration.

“Are you going to open it?” he asked.

I looked up, surprised he was sitting there watching me.

“I guess.” I sighed.

I tore open the envelope and pulled out a piece of lined notepaper covered in Aunt Maggie's handwriting: long thin lines of cursive that was both familiar and surprising. I hadn't received a letter in years.

I'm sure the look on my face prompted my husband to look over my shoulder and read along. There had to have been horror in my eyes, if not shock.

Dear
Leslie-Marie
:

I'm writing to tell you I'm sorry to hear about Anna being in the hospital. One of my Bingo friends is the grandmother of one of Anna's school friends and the news got to me in that roundabout way.

I can't imagine what you must be going through right now and I don't want to add more of a burden on you, but I feel there is something I need to come clean about. I hope it will help you understand your past better and maybe it will also shed light on your current situation.

I need you to understand that I never meant to lie to you. You know I love you like a daughter and would never intend to hurt you. But your mother asked me, she made me swear I would never tell you what I am about to say. I don't mean to dis-respect her wishes, but it seems now that not telling you would be the more serious sin.

I am sure you remember the time we spent together over the years. I still cherish that time we had, but I regret the circumstances. When you were just a wee thing, you always wanted to know where your mommy was and I wish now I'd told you. I don't know if your parents ever told you or if they intended to and missed the chance, but your mother suffered from depression, especially when you were young. She was ashamed to admit it, but she had a terrible time of it and your father too. He was never sure when a bout would strike her or how she would cope. Sometimes there was no choice but to send her away for treatment.

Your mother never spoke about her time away. I knew it couldn't have been easy for her to be away from you or your father, not to mention the torture she must have endured. All I know is she was always so happy to come home to you. You meant the world to her. She loved you more than any mother ever loved a child.

I'm not a doctor and I am not a psychiatrist. I can barely even understand the instructions on my own prescription bottles these days, but I can't help wondering if there is a connection between your mother's depression and Anna's condition. I know they are alike in so many other ways. As I said before, I don't want to upset you further in any way and I love you like my own child, but I didn't want to be the person holding on to an important piece of the puzzle.

If you want to know more I'd be willing to tell you what I can. Please call or drop by when you have a chance. If it's any comfort, your mother suffered less as the years went by. Her art always seemed to help.

Love,

Aunt Maggie

I knew my husband had finished reading when he sucked in his breath. By then I was on my second read-through. I must have read it ten times and each time left me feeling more confused and angry. I couldn't believe it took Anna's crisis to for me to learn the truth about my mother. Just when I thought I might be able to catch my breath, I'd get dragged under by emotions again. Suddenly I wasn't just dealing with my daughter's attempted suicide, but with my mother's history of depression and a family secret I'd never been meant to know.

“Do you think she would have seen what was happening if she'd still been around?” I asked.

My husband didn't answer, but he squeezed my hand. I knew it didn't matter either way. The truth wouldn't change a thing.

I never questioned the letter. As soon as I read it the first time, I knew it was the truth. It made sense. But the news was unexpected and because I was feeling vulnerable in the first place, I wasn't sure where to slot the information. It left me with another gaping hole and another endless set of questions I would never have answers for.

 

Let me see. There was a lot of stuff I didn't expect when I got home. There was stuff I didn't expect to find hard and stuff I didn't expect to make me happy. Then there were just plain jaw-dropping surprises. I guess the good news is that it wasn't all hard and when something difficult did happen the happy stuff usually followed.

Of course, some of it downright sucked, like walking back into school while every single person turned to stare at me. But then I didn't expect it when Kyle saw me from down the hall and walked right toward me. He didn't even flinch. It was like he didn't notice the hall had fallen, like, deathly silent.

“Hey, Kyle,” I said as he approached. My words echoed off the lockers then dropped to the tile floor like bullet casings.

“Hey, Anna. You're back!” His voice sounded ridiculously happy, or maybe I was just imagining it.

“In the flesh.”

“It's better that way,” he said.

I laughed out loud. I was grateful there was at least one person who had the guts to face it head on.

“Are you going back to classes?”

“Well, I missed almost three months so I probably don't have a chance of passing, but yes, I'm here to try.”

“Cool,” he said. “I can help you with math if you want.”

I'd already decided that if I was going to totally bomb one course, I'd sacrifice math. But with his offer on the table I quickly reconsidered.

A sudden hot feeling in my cheeks made me feel awkward — not embarrassed, but shy. It was like I was meeting Kyle for the first time, or seeing him for the first time. And I liked what was in front of me. Green eyes and dark curly hair, I noticed, was an irresistible combination. The heat in my cheeks doubled when I realized we were standing in the middle of the hall, staring at each other and not talking. But that's when I noticed how he was looking at me too, like I was the only person in the hall, the only one who mattered anyway. He followed me to my locker, even though I didn't say anything more to him. He didn't say anything either, but he watched me fiddle with my lock. He opened his mouth, then closed it again when the metal door creaked opened. It was like he had something to say, but couldn't find the words.

“Thanks,” I said finally, in a rush. The pressure of so many emotions pushed my gratitude into the space between us. “I was afraid nobody would want to talk to me.”

“It wasn't the same without you here,” he said and for a split second something shifted and I got a glimpse of what I meant to someone else. I understood that, to Kyle at least, I was more than just a shadow moving through his day. I turned and looked around the hall. Some people were walking again, moving past us and to their classes, others were talking, others were stealing glances at me and Kyle.

I'm part of this
, I thought.
I'm just one small part, but that's still something.

Besides catching up on school work, I had other catching up to do as well. Like, I had to catch up on all the emotions I hadn't felt in so long. This was probably the most surprising thing. The colour of the green grass filled me with so much happiness one day, I thought I might explode, yet I couldn't stop staring out the window either. Talk about sensory overload.

“Anna?” Mom asked one Saturday morning when she found me standing at the bay window in the living room.

“Yeah?” I asked, but I didn't turn around.

“Are you okay?” It was a question she asked me at least ten times a day and I tried not to let it bug me.

“Uh huh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at the grass.”

“Is there a problem with it?”

“It's so green.”

She came and stood with me at the window. She probably thought my meds were making me hallucinate, but I didn't try to explain. I didn't want to interrupt the colour flooding into my brain. I could tell the grass didn't hold her attention like it did mine. Her eyes were drawn to the neighbour's flowerbeds and the birds at the feeder in our tree. Me, I just kept staring. It was so alive. Everything had been grey for so long, it was like my brain was finally broadcasting in colour again.

“Anna?” Her voice was hesitant and put me on edge. “There's something I need to tell you. Something I just found out recently.”

The muscles in the back of my neck tightened and pulled me straight.

“When I was a little girl, Granny would go away sometimes. She'd be gone for weeks at a time. Nobody told me where she was. Nobody would ever talk about it. But I got a letter from Mrs. Mahoody while you were away. You remember Mrs. Mahoody? Granny and Gramps's neighbour? Well, Mrs. Mahoody said Granny suffered from depression when I was little. It might have started when she was pregnant. I don't mean to upset you, but I thought you should know.”

I wasn't sure where she was going with the story, but my head start to spin and I had to sit down on the couch. She sat beside me, but not too close.

“Gramps always told me she was sick and in the hospital. People didn't talk about mental illness back then, not openly anyway and definitely not in front of children.”

“Did Granny take meds?”

“Apparently, yes. But I never knew. She was too ashamed to tell me, I guess. People didn't understand depression like they do today.”

“It wasn't Granny's fault,” I said defensively. “I mean, what if she'd been diabetic or something? Would she have been ashamed to take insulin? It's the same as any other disease.”

Mom turned to look at me and I saw about two years' worth of anxiety drain out of her body. “I wish I'd known so I could have said that very thing to her. Depression can be genetic, you know. If I'd known, I might have seen the signs with you. I wish I had. I just thought it was part of being a teenager.”

“How could you have known when
I
didn't even know? It's like a parasite. It gets into your head and changes you so slowly you don't even realize what's happening. Now I see how it changed everything. It turned me into someone else, someone completely different.”

Food was another thing that surprised me. Whatever I ate burst into a million flavours on my tongue and after so many months, maybe years, of everything tasting bland and dry I wanted to eat everything in sight. Ice cream was sweet and creamy, the way it was supposed to be, and hamburgers, well, the first one Dad grilled on the barbeque almost blew my mind. I ate two before Mom finished one. It wasn't just my eyes and mouth on fire. Songs I'd heard twenty or thirty times suddenly had emotions attached to them, emotions I hadn't recognized before. I felt like I'd been given back my senses. I felt more alive than I could ever remember being, even though that meant feeling intense sadness and anger too sometimes.

“Honey, are you crying?” Dad asked when he found me on my bed one day after school, bawling uncontrollably. I nodded and hiccupped, then wiped my nose with the bottom of my hoodie. My eyes were hot and swollen.

“What's the matter?”

He sat with me on the bed.

“I miss Granny and Gramps,” I sniffled.

“We all do, honey. We all do.”

“But I just started,” I said and burst into another fit of sobbing. I was out of control. But it was true. They'd been dead over two years and I was shedding my first tears.

“I guess you have a lot of catching up to do,” he said.

I struggled to breath. When I finally got enough oxygen into my lungs, I managed to squeak out a few more words.

“It's a relief in a way.”

“You let it all out,” he said, and for a moment I was almost happy to be crying, to be feeling something. It was like the feelings, whether good or bad, made me feel connected to the world. I wasn't floating above my body like I had been before, I was solidly inside myself, feeling every last tear as it rolled down my cheek.

The anger, though, it hit with such force I wished for the numbness again. Being sad brought a certain comfort and being happy was a no-brainer, but the anger was so consuming I didn't stand a chance. I seethed with so much hate for the drunk driver that plowed into my grandparents' car, I didn't have enough space inside me to hold it all in. I had to let it out so I started throwing things. I threw the books off my bed and smashed my hand through the door. It hurt and there was blood trickling down my wrist, but my rage didn't care. I picked up my cellphone and hurled it at the wall. I didn't even flinch when it shattered into pieces. I threw my hairbrush hard against the floor and watched it bounce into my mirror, splintering it into long thin strips.

“Anna! Calm down!” Dad yelled as he pulled my hands down to my sides and wrapped his arms around me so I could only kick the air with my legs.

I flailed and screamed and kicked with all my strength until I was exhausted. Then he lowered me onto my bed and I started sobbing again. He pressed a tissue against the cuts on my knuckles to stop the bleeding, then he sat with me. I think we were both shocked by what happened.

I don't know when Mom showed up or why she enraged me again, but when she came in with a glass of water and my pills, I flung my hand toward her and sent everything flying across the room.

“It's not time yet,” I shouted, even though I'd meant for it to come out gentler.

Mom took a step backward and I saw the look of horror pass between her and Dad.

“I know what you're thinking,” I shouted. “You preferred the old Anna better. At least I was quiet then. You wish I was dead!”

“No,” Dad said sternly.

Mom backed completely out of the room.

Then I was crying again, and begging Dad not to send me back to the loony bin.

“We're not going to send you back,” Dad reassured me. “But maybe we need to move your session with the doctor to tomorrow.”

He always said doctor, never something like shrink or psychiatrist. I didn't know if he couldn't face the truth or was afraid of upsetting me.

I curled into a tight ball on my bed and faced the wall while Dad rubbed my back the way he did the time I had the flu in grade five.

“I'll be right back, okay? I'm just going to make a call,” he said when I was breathing calmly again.

I nodded and took a long, deep breath. I listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall. I was so worn out from my outburst I plummeted into a jittery sleep. Images and sounds were jumbled together and I couldn't make sense of anything. The homeless dude was suddenly at my side, handing me a daisy and telling me to pull the petals. When I hesitated, the jogger emerged from the fog and pulled the first one. Instead of falling over the side of the bridge though, a breeze came and the petal floated above us. I watched it swirl higher and higher.

“Go ahead and see for yourself,” the jogger said, then he sprinted off into the sunlight.

The highway man was there next. He reached out and pulled another petal. It floated past the traffic and to the safety of the far ditch. I had an overwhelming urge to run and get it, but I knew it was too dangerous. Finally, Ray and Sam showed up. They ran toward me and started picking the petals so fast I pulled the daisy to my chest and told them to stop before they wrecked it.

Then I twitched myself awake. Dad was back on the edge of my bed.

He's probably going to sit with me until I fall asleep again
, I thought, without opening my eyes.

I fell quickly into my dream again, where daisy petals were swirling all around my feet, lifting me up into the sky. I was afraid of falling and landing on the ground because it was so far down, yet still I drifted higher.

The next time I woke up, something was licking my ear. At first I thought it was Dad, but then I realized it was Sherlock. Dad wasn't on my bed at all.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” I asked, then rolled over. “You know you're not allowed up here. Down!”

But Sherlock didn't listen. He licked my cheek frantically and squirmed closer. When I tried to roll onto my stomach and hide my face, he got me in the ear again. Sherlock has a thing for licking ears.

“Stop, Sherlock. Stop,” I said.

When I opened my mouth to protest, his tongue flicked into my mouth.

“Sherlock!” I gagged.

He barked his approval and licked some more. My whole face was covered in long, wet trails of dog slobber and the more I fought to get away, the more excited he got.

Before long I couldn't help myself, I started to laugh. And the harder I laughed, the more Sherlock licked. Soon I was pinned under all seventy pounds of Sherlock, trying to fend off his lolling pink tongue.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” I squealed. “You love me!”

He licked and squirmed and licked some more.

“I love you too!” I finally said and ran my hand over his head.

He laid his chin on my chest and stared at me. I knew it was his way of worrying about me and that if I so much as twitched, he'd start licking again.

I reached down and patted his back. He licked my cheek.

“Thanks for saving me,” I whispered.

He flicked his tongue across my ear.

By the time Dad came back, we were both dozing. I heard him vaguely when he walked into the room and stopped. Sherlock thumped his tail once on my bed, then lay still. Dad turned and went back down the hall. In the distance I heard him say to Mom, “She's in good hands now.”

What surprised me most, I guess, when I finally calmed down, was being blindsided by the anger. I hadn't felt anything for so long, I'd forgotten what it was like to be overcome by emotions. I guess the second thing that surprised me was the calm I felt after I let it all out. Somehow the outburst — the screaming and kicking, the throwing and the sobbing — all of it left me feeling tired, yes, but quiet too. I'd felt more in an hour than I had in the previous six months. I couldn't believe I was so void before and I shivered to remember the zombie-like shell I'd been. Sure, it was tough climbing up and down through a range of emotions in one day, or one hour, but once I started to feel confident that I'd always return to a happier, more rational place, I knew I'd never lose myself completely again, that I'd always find my real self in the end.