Dismantling Evan (9 page)

That night, I don’t see Gavin or Brody in the backyard, but then again I fall asleep before ten, unfathomable for me in such a long time. I notice a light glowing through the blinds of the window across from mine, so whomever the room belongs to, Gavin or Brody, he is still awake. Maybe they do go outside, into the yard, like they did the night before and I just sleep soundly through Gavin’s talking and Brody’s hushing him. Either way, I’m disappointed I miss them.

The next day, Mom is determined to get me out of the house. “School supplies first and then lunch,” she says as she starts the car and we both settle into our seats.

“Okay,” I say putting on my seatbelt.

She glances at me as she slowly backs out. “Really? No argument?” she asks.

I nod silently and she nods back.

“Okay,” she says with a hint of relief in her voice.

Suddenly, the car jerks to a halt and I brace myself, reaching my hand out to the dashboard.

“Oh, did you take your medicine?” she asks.

With my hand on the dashboard, startled by her jerking the car, I grimace. “Mom. Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am,” she says sharply and waits for my response.

I grit my teeth. “Yes! I took the stupid pill. Why did you jerk the car? I thought you had hit something!”

She doesn’t respond to my question or my attitude; she is getting really good at that. She doesn’t start with the, “You have to make sure to take your medicine Evan. It is for your health” speech, which makes cooling off on the drive through the neighborhood quicker. We exit the neighborhood and turn onto the frontage road of the highway. I am calm enough to consider what happened last night at dinner and decide to put my irritation aside for the moment and ask her. “So, what happened in high school?”

Mom keeps her eyes on the road, but I can tell my question makes her tense. “It was nothing, like I said last night.”

“Then tell me.”

“Just the normal high school stuff. Girls being catty with each other. Boys starting rumors. That kind of thing,” she says, checking her rear view mirror.

“Mean girl stuff,” I say.

“Yeah, pretty much.” She nods.

I indulge my curiosity. “Were you popular in high school?”

She turns down the radio before answering. “Uh, I guess. I was a cheerleader for a couple of years; junior and senior year.”

I am a little surprised she was a cheerleader and I guess she can tell. “What? Being a cheerleader is kind of hard work, Evan,” she defends.

I rest my elbow on the door and look straight ahead, forming my own opinion in my head. “Yeah, I’m sure it is hard work being peppy all the time,” I say under my breath.

“It’s more than that, Evan. We worked very hard on learning routines and taking part in competitions. We would spend hours after school practicing and weekends cheering on the teams,” Mom says, rebuking my snarky comment.

I wonder if Mom’s cheerleading squad was any different from what I witnessed at Paramount High. Better yet, I wonder if the cheerleading squad at Braxton Springs High School will be any different from the one my mom was a part of when she attended.

“Are you considering?” Mom asks, suddenly.

“Considering what?” I feel apprehensive.

“Joining the cheerleading squad for Braxton Springs,” she says like it is a possibility in my future.

How absurd!
I choke on my words as they pour from me, “What? No! I would never try out... like ever!”

“Why not?” Mom asks, laughing a little at my reaction.

She is off her rocker!
“Don’t you know your own daughter? I wouldn’t be capable of turning a cartwheel, let alone cheering!”

Her smile widens and she lets out a whole-hearted laugh. I smile finding comfort in the humor we share. Silence falls between us again and I have the urge to fill it with another question. “Are you going to go back to work?”

“Yes, I’m going to try. The cost of living is less here, but I would like to help out with expenses if I can; part-time maybe.”

“Is everything all right?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Well, you said expenses. What expenses?”

She turns into the Office Max parking lot and pulls into a spot. “The relocation package left some holes in regard to the move and your father’s pay structure. Technically he is getting paid less than he was back in San Francisco, but this position he has here...” She turns off the car and turns to face me, saying, “It is better for your dad and for our family all around.”

She places her hand on mine. “We aren’t destitute Evan. We will be fine once Dad gets settled into his position and I put my name out there in the community.”

Mom smiles her “everything is fine” smile. “I am from here, Evan. This is my home town. Finding business won’t be hard. Plus...” she squeezes my hand, “and this is a big plus, we are only a few miles from Grandma and Grandpa. They loved coming over and visiting last night. There is something to be said about being close to family.”

Seeing Grandma and Grandpa did bring back fragments of being just regular old me again.

“Now that we are here in Braxton Springs, we can see them more often,” she says and her eyes start to mist. She quickly looks away, taking her hand from mine, and dabbing the corners of her eyes. “Damn allergies!” she scoffs.

The core school supply list for Braxton Springs is fairly generic: 5-subject notebooks, pens, pencils, scientific calculator, lined college ruled paper, and seven folders with prongs in a multitude of colors. I’ll get a more detailed list of supplies in each of my classes, no doubt. I know Mom envisions a fun lunch with lots of chatting and eating after supply shopping, but I don’t feel hungry. The discussion of where we will go to eat makes me feel tense and the tension carries over into the meal when I order a small salad with ranch dressing. I feel bad that I’m not hungry, but it isn’t something I can force or control. I blame it on the damn medication, and I tell her so in a not so nice a way in the restaurant. For the remainder of lunch, we sit in silence as Mom eats her grilled chicken sandwich with fries and I pick at my small garden salad with croûtons and ranch dressing.

Little is said on the drive home, either. Mom makes sure we have everything on the list, and I give her one word answers. Once we pull into the driveway and unload, I spend the rest of the day in my room organizing my desk and fiddling with my camera. Dad gets home around six. I hear him and Mom talking down stairs. I avoid the whole thing by staying in my room, listening to my music. I know she’ll tell him about our flop of a day together.

FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS I unpack with Mom, lending a hand and bringing in boxes from the garage. We get one spot in the two car garage cleared, so Mom can pull her car in. Even though I sleep solidly each night, I still feel sluggish and tired each day. Completely unlike that one morning a few days ago when I was, dare I say, perky.

“You all right?” Mom finally asks after I take yet another break

“Yeah, just a little tired,” I say, slightly out of breath.

Mom makes a few trips to the local Good Will to drop off donations; each time I stay at home to rest until she comes back. By the second day we have only a handful of boxes left in the far corner of the garage: boxes that say “storage” from the old house mostly and a couple that say “Lucy’s stuff.”

When Dad returns he tells us how things are shaping up at work. He says the new team is more flexible, creative, and innovative than they were in San Francisco. He sounds excited about his job again. It’s like new life had been breathed into him. I wonder whether that might happen for me at Braxton Springs High? 

I eat as much as I can, which to my Mom’s standards still isn’t enough. When I excuse myself from the table, Dad adds, “Hey kiddo, how about we watch a movie tonight - here at the house?”

“I think Evan unpacked all the DVDs today, didn’t you baby?” Mom comments.

I nod. “Umhmm.”

“So, what will it be? What do you feel like watching?” Dad inquires

I don’t want to let him down, so I stall. “Can we watch it a little later tonight? I kind of want to unpack all my photography stuff.”

The box with all my developing equipment is among the boxes in the garage. I used our garage, back home, as my workstation, but now that I have some shelving, cabinets, and drawers in my desk, I want to store at least some of my equipment in my room. Mom and Dad glance at each other, then dad speaks up as he finishes chewing his bite of food. “Well, don’t unpack too much. Your grandpa and I start work on your photography shed next weekend.”

“I thought we couldn’t as renters,” I say, looking to Mom.

Mom looks at Dad and they both smile.

“We wrote an offer on the house,” she says.

“An offer that was well below their asking price,” Dad adds.

Mom continues, animatedly, “We figured it was worth a try since we all like the house so much. They accepted the offer earlier today.”

Two days ago, I would have smiled, but tonight, my smile stays below the surface, not wanting to show itself.

“Cool,” is my vocal attempt at enthusiasm.

Mom’s smile fades. “Oh, honey. I thought you liked the house.”

I quickly respond, “I do, I do. I like the house.”
I just can’t get enough emotional energy together to show it, damn it!

“Oh, okay,” is all Mom says as she goes back to eating. Dad stares at his fork and pushes mac n’ cheese around his plate, looking defeated.

“Honey, if you don’t feel like watching a movie tonight, it is okay with us,” he says, meeting my eyes long enough for me to see his disappointment.

“No, I do want to watch a movie, just later, all right?” I say as I rise from my seat.

Dad smiles thinly and nods. “Sure honey.”

“I’ll set the box in your room,” Mom says as I take my plate to the kitchen.

As I pick and choose what to unpack from the box and what to leave, I berate myself for being such an emotional, moody wreck when it comes to the smallest gestures, smallest activities my parents suggest. It doesn’t make me feel better, but it does release some of my self-loathing and leaves me feeling satisfied in a strange way.

The way my desk is set, I have the large window to my right and the small window to my left. I place the last few rolls of both colored and black and white film into the top cabinet of my desk and walk towards the small window by my bed. The window in the Ferguson house is glowing again. The likelihood the window belongs to Brody Ferguson is 33.3 percent repeating, but for now, I happily fantasize that he is sitting on the other side of those blinds.

As though summoned by my thoughts, the blinds shift, revealing a man’s smooth chest; Well, Brody’s actually... and he qualifies as a man, because he looks nothing like a boy at all.

I’m frozen, in shock, and I’m thinking I should move away from the window, duck, do something other than stand there drooling. He doesn’t see me when he opens the blinds. I know because he turns away from the window and stands in front of a desk, his back to me. I finally get control of my motor skills and will myself to MOVE AWAY FROM THE WINDOW, EVAN. When I do, I find myself peeking around the corner to see what he is doing. He sits at a desk, leaning back in his chair, his back still turned to me. He stares at an empty wall over his bed; I guess he must be thinking. He tilts his head back suddenly, the copper and brown mixture of highlights shine as he sways in his chair side to side. It sounds ridiculous, bonkers even, that I miss seeing him, because I literally just met him, like three days ago, but there was something about talking with Brody that first night; watching Gavin walk circles in the yard; feeling a genuine truth about him and his apology to me for acting so odd earlier that morning. Getting stuck is what Brody calls it. It’s like both brothers are comforting and dismantling to be around all at the same time. The dismantling effect with Gavin’s strange behavior and Brody’s greater than average good looks and tough guy persona make me feel vulnerable. The comfort they exude though, makes me feel accepted and understood in a way I haven’t felt before.

I’m not sure whether it is the pendulum motion of Brody swinging in his chair or the fact he is half clothed that hypnotizes me; maybe a little of both.

My reverie is broken by yelling. It sounds like Gavin’s voice. I angle my body away from the window, only seeing a sliver of Brody’s immediate reaction; dodging from his chair.

“Gavin, get back here,” says a woman deeper in the house.

“No, Mom! Leave me alone!” Gavin yells.

The sound of a door slamming then the woman calls out again. “Get back in the house Gavin. Gavin! Brody!”

I try to make sense of the yelling.

“Gavin!” Brody shouts.

My heart pounds and panic courses through my veins as I try to angle further to the corner of my window and find the front door from which Gavin might flee, but I can’t see it from here.

I move from the small side window stealthily, turn off the light switch, and rush to the big window, facing the front of the house. Finally, through the branches of the oak tree that shield my window, I see Gavin in the front yard, pacing.

“I’m not coming in, Brody!” Gavin yells as the front door shuts and Brody and their mom come into view.

Brody’s voice is even as he approaches Gavin. “Hey Gav, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

He inches toward Gavin as the latter continues to pace back and forth. Finally, Brody comes to stand beside his brother somehow making Gavin stop walking, although he continues to rock side to side.

I’m too far away to hear Brody’s words, but whatever he is saying is obviously calming. Gavin stops rocking and looks directly into Brody’s eyes. I can see Gavin’s face, under his green and beige army cap. His expression troubles me, full of pain combined with a wild rage in his deep set eyes. Why is he so upset? Did his mother do something or did he do something to her? I look back at her still standing at the front porch, her hands raised to her mouth, covering her own sadness. I think of how I must look when I spiral out of control. Probably how Gavin looks like now, standing in front of his brother like he is challenging the mood within him to be triggered. That defiant look and the feeling I am getting from the scene is all to familiar. It frightens me for a moment to consider that is what I must look like.

Suddenly, Gavin moves, shuffling his feet toward the house and his mother. Brody walks next to him, shoulder brushing shoulder; the only contact I have seen Brody make with him since we met. Gavin stops in front of his mother and speaks under his breath. His somber face and downcast eyes suggest it is an apology. Then all three of them walk up onto the porch and disappear into the house.

“Honey, why are you in the dark?” Mom asks, startling me nearly out of my skin. She flips on the light switch and spies me at the window. Still flustered, I stumble over my words, “Um, just looking out the window.” I gesture toward the glass with my thumb.

“Oh, okay.” Unexpectedly, she comes in and sits on my bed. I move away from the window and sit at my desk, making little eye contact with her. I pick up my camera to busy my hands.

She looks around the room then asks, “Can we chat?”

I stop fiddling with the shutter-release dial. “About?”

“Well, school starts in a few days and I have scheduled an appointment for you to see a doctor.”

“What kind of doctor?” It is rhetorical; I know where this dialogue is leading; her warnings were clear in the car. But for some reason, I cling to the hope that the last few good days, being in a new home in a new city, she might change her mind.

Mom looks at me like I just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “You know what kind of doctor,” she says softly then continues. “Her name is Dr. Felicia Larson. She is a psychiatrist who specializes in adolescent mental disorders.”

“So, she is a shrink.” My aim, to fluster Mom in return for her coming up here and dropping this bomb in the middle of my room.

Mom rises from the bed and crosses her arms over her chest. “She is a psychiatrist and she will have answers for us about your state of mind, Evan. There is no need to get defensive.”

Here we go again!
I set my camera on my desk, expecting a lecture.

“You were there when I told Doctor Middleton I wanted an objective opinion from someone specializing in mental illness.” She pauses, waiting for me to give some type of acknowledgement that I understand what she is saying, but I am bitter and resentful and I give her nothing.

“Evan, we need to establish you with a doctor here. What if Dr. Larson suggests a medication change?”

“What if she says I don’t need medication?” I retort.

“We need to speak to someone that is familiar with your condition,” Mom says firmly.

That word, “condition” sets me off. “Damn it! Again with the condition thing! IT has a name. IT is depression and some probable bipolar shit that I am not buying!”

I think of Gavin standing out there minutes ago, raging over something that could be as mundane as what I am spiraling over now. Was it something that small? Am I just like Gavin?

“EVAN! ENOUGH!” Mom hisses at me, sharply.

Dad knock my door and peeks in. Mom and I clam up.

“Hey you two. Everything okay?” Dad says with a tone of concern.

I look to Mom, aiming to put her on the spot, before I whirl around in my chair to face the desk.

Dad claps his hands to try and clear the air. “Okay, can my two ladies break away for a movie and popcorn? Picked out a classic.”

Dad is holding Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; a movie that I have seen about thirty times. The go-to movie for good humor. Mom is looking at Dad smiling. She knows he has picked a good one.

“How about it, Ev?” Mom says.

I really just want to stay up here, but I figure doing that will only make Mom and Dad more confident that my moodiness is in dire need of a specialist.

“All right, “I smile weakly. With a loud sigh I release the last remnants of irrational anger.

Dad pats the door frame with his hand. “Okay, I will go pop the popcorn.”

Once Dad disappears from the doorway, Mom turns to me, her arms folded over her chest. “I didn’t mean to upset you Evan,” she says in a guilty voice.

Frustrated that she is apologizing, I quickly respond with empty words. “It’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.”

I look away from her pitiful gaze to make it known that I am done talking. A shuffle of her feet on carpet and she leaves the room. The claustrophobic walls of my room expand again.

The anxiety isn’t improving; the spiraling is still there. I am not getting better. The medicine isn’t working. It’s not working because I don’t have bipolar. This is just me.