Impulse (13 page)

Linda is all business--yes, no, shut the hell up--and

totally capable of a takedown.

Arlene lives in her own oddball world, one she dreamed up before my parents were born.

344

Guess she can't make it on Social Security. But working here? She must be as crazy as the rest of us.

I sit at the window, staring into the darkness, waiting for everything to fall completely quiet before making a bathroom

run. The inside of my

head feels like a blender, whirling a strange concoction of this morning's Prozac and this evening's lithium.

345

Enough Already

I really do need to use the bathroom-- a likely side effect from the blended mess in my brain. And how will I ever sleep tonight?

One problem at a time. I reach under my mattress, extract the blouse, stained red at the elbow, stash it under my sweats. Then I open the door, poke my head into the hail. "May I go to the bathroom, please?"

No answer. Unusual. Someone is always monitoring the cameras in the corridors. I decide to go anyway, plead diarrhea if I'm caught. 341

346

The girls' bathroom is five doors down, on the left. You have to ask for permission to go because once you're

inside, they kind of have to give you some privacy at least in the stalls.

I go on in, turn on the cold water, and as I start to rinse my sleeve, I notice I'm not alone.

347

One Stall, Four Feet

That's what the mirror reveals, and a volley
of shushes
at the sound of water in the sink. One pair of feet quickly lifts, and as I watch, it comes to me the shoes look awfully large to belong to a girl. That, and the soles are facing out, heels up.

I make a big deal of drying my hands, loudly wadding the paper towels and tossing them in the trash. Then I go to the door, open and shut it without exiting.

Quick! You
'
re squashing me.
Dahlia's voice.
Just a minute. I
'
m not finished.
Paul's.
Well, hurry up. We
'
re gonna get busted.
343

348

Whoever that was shouldn
'
t have been
here. She
didn
'
t get permission. So what are you going to do? Bust her?

No wonder no one was manning the cameras. Paul was manning Dahlia. Ugh. I make a quick escape before he
does
finish. And only when I'm back in my room do I remember that I really do have to go to the bathroom. Like, right

now. 344

349

Today We Eave a Visitor

In the classroom. I get there a few minutes before nine, overhear her conversing with Mr. Hidalgo, who whispers behind the half-closed door.
These

kids are the best of the worst--

bright, capable underachievers.

It
'
s truly bizarre

that they end up here. For

some it
'
s addiction, for others, abuse. A few simply

succumb to depression.

The others arrive. We push inside. It's the perfect chance to rub up against Vanessa, one I decide to take advantage of.

Nice, how the top of her head nests perfectly under my chin. I want to let my hands circle her waist, lift to her small breasts. 345

350

Something stirs, for the first time in weeks, and it has nothing to do with Emily-- or a taste for expert sin.

Vanessa can't help but react.
Unusual way to say hello, Conner.

Rather overt, in fact.

But she doesn't pull away, or move my hand from the curve of her back. And both of us understand the meaning of that. 346

351

Flushed to My Core

I walk stiffly to my seat. Stiff, yeah, that's it, okay. Three rows over, Vanessa smiles, and I wonder if

she's feeling a little "stiff" too. No time to think about it now. Mr. Hidalgo clears his throat, ready to do his thing.

We have someone special

here today. Ms. Littell is an artist-in-residence,
and we
'
re going to hear from her all about how to write great poetry. No groans.

I
'
m sure you all have what it takes to create a poem.

Ms. Littell draws herself up real straight. Teaching us posture, too? Or trying to feel more in control? 347

352

She talks about herself for ten minutes--who she is, w

hat she does, how well

published she is. Then she rambles on for another

half hour about what makes a poem good--word choice, the power of metaphor.

Finally she instructs,
Write a poem about your

happiest memory. Excite me with your words.
348

353

Excite Her?

Was she talking to me? Not if she expects that to happen over my happiest memory, whatever that

might be. I sit, dissecting my childhood, think about holidays and vacations, most of them good enough

if you measure by toys, clothes, cool things to do, but can
things
really make you happy? I suppose some

people think so. I remember one time spending a week with a friend. His family didn't have much. Except fun.

The concept stunned me. Fun, with his mom and dad? Fun, with his sister? He even had fun with his grandparents. Mine bore 349

354

me to death--the two that are still alive, anyway. Dad's parents died before I was born, left him a mint in their will.

Ms. Littell stands, hands on hips, waiting for me to write

something. I'm sure that she's

anticipating something else.

I put my pen to paper, begin:
My happiest memories are sun-streaked afternoons in the cinnamon arms of my Emily...
350

355

What Is It

With these artsy types? Happy memories? Excite her with my words? Does she have half a clue what kind of kids she's dealing with?

If we were wallowing in happy memories, would we be here at all? I can't remember a single

group session dedicated to happiness; not one

conversation about the Magic Kingdom called Home. Now Nathan might believe there's a Magic Kingdom in some distant galaxy, 351

356

and maybe he's happy, letting his mind--what there is of it--wander to that place. And no doubt Justin smiles when he goes to bed at night, chants a mantra to his Lord, prays for quick deliverance. I guess he might be happy in his dreams, rocking in the arms of seraphim.

But then I look at Conner, frustrated with his memories, and Vanessa, who stares at the table, longing for her knife. 362

357

I'm Pretty Sure

She knows that Conner and I know. What I don't get at all is that no one else seems to have noticed the way she hides the blood.

Maybe she'll write her poem about how happy it makes her feel to ease her skin open, drown herself in the ebb of tide within her veins. Damn if that's not poetic. Maybe I should write that, here on this blank, white piece of paper. Blank 363

358

as the slate in my brain that is supposed to have happy memories etched on its clean, shiny surface. All I find is black.

I close my eyes, assess my life, search for a scene worth reliving. The first thing that comes to mind is the day I got out of lockup, free to walk wherever I chose, talk to whoever happened

by, without having to ask permission. And then it came to me that I had only one place to go. 364

359

My Ma Picked Me Up

Apparently, like it or not, it was a parent's duty to sign a kid out.
Ready to go? Ha-ha! Stupid question. Would you get a move on?

Apparently, she had better things to do than catch up with me.
You sure are scrawny. Didn
'
t they feed you three squares in that place?

Apparently, she was worried that she might have to fatten me up.
I
'
m living in a new place--a studio. Have a new man, too.

Apparently, she thought I gave a fuck about who she was sleeping with. 365

360

Watch out for Pete. He
'
s

got a temper,
'
specially when he
'
s drinking.

Apparently she believed I would let another one of her lousy boyfriends abuse me--in whatever ways. Wasn't going to happen. Not ever again.

I followed her up two flights of stairs at a fleabag weekly motel. Took one look at the "studio" I was supposed to share with Ma and Pete. Hit the streets. 366

361

Prozac Lithium, and Conner

One, two, or all of them have put me in a completely happy space. Can I write about now--this instant? Pencil to paper, in perfect round cursive, I begin:

Memory is a tenuous thing....
(I know, I've lately said that, but it's true.)

flickering glimpses, blue and white, like ancient, decomposing 16mm film. Happiness escapes me there, where faces are vague and yesterday seems to come tied up in ribbons of pain.

(There must be happiness there somewhere, but I can't find it.) 357

362

Happiness? I look for it instead
in today, where memory is something I can still

touch, still rely on. I find it in the smiles of new friends, the hope

blossoming inside.

(Scary, but accurate.)

My happiest memories

have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.
358

363

Those I Have Yet to Create

That must mean I plan to create them. Funny, when I got here, coasting through life was the best I figured I'd ever do-- managing the seesaw with substances or the slice of a blade.

So much blue in my days, a spattering of white, an abstract of emotions, painting every choice I ever made, hope rarely represented on that deviant canvas. But here it is, a hint of bronze, a shimmer of gold frost.

Can my world fill with color? Will I ever live shades of red? Yellow? Green? 359

364

When I think of Mama, it all goes blue; memories of Trevor are rooted in white.

Conner's hand at my back, and the surge of his masculinity at the tip of my tailbone, made me shiver copper. I don't know what that means. I only know I liked it. 360

365

Suddenly, My
Hands

Begin to shake, just a little at first, then building, building, tremoring, an earthquake. My pencil falls to the floor with a loud clatter and everyone turns to stare. I bend to retrieve it, but my hand refuses to go where my brain tries to point it.

Vanessa? Are you

all right?
Mr. Hidalgo

jumps from his chair, reaches my side almost as quickly as Tony.

Vanessa? What
'
s wrong?
Tony's eyes, frightened, tell me I look even worse than I feel.

Vanessa?
Conner joins the party.
Let me help you.
361

366

The three of them, all talking at once, make my brain hurt, trying to keep up, churn it into dizziness. And that makes me want to throw up. I feel the blood rush from my face and jump to my feet. "I have to go to the bathroom."

No one tries to stop me, which is a very good thing.

I burst through the door, into a stall, lean over the bowl, let fly.

367

Ms. Littell Looks Horrified

Oh, the poor thing,
she says.
Hope it wasn
'
t my assignment.
She leans over Vanessa's desk, decides to sit, reads the neatly scripted words.
This is beautiful,
she tells the entire room.
I wonder if Ms. O
'
Reilly would mind

if
I shared her poem.
So she does, and it is more than beautiful--it lets us see the inside of Vanessa.

She's looking for happiness in today, and some unknown part of me--some stranger-- wants to give some joy away.

I wonder if Vanessa would take it from me. When I look into her eyes, I find surprise. Suspicion. Fear. Curiosity. 363

368

I wonder which of those

brought her to this place, what monsters--internal or external--she has fought.

I wonder what drives her to give in to the goddess of lust and sharp edges, open her skin and bleed, to purposely walk where most

digress, lost in the moment.

I wonder how it feels to possess such courage.

369

I Also Wonder

Why Vanessa got sick. She looked fine just a few seconds earlier. Of course, she's not one to whine about an upset stomach. Still, the way her hands shook was scary--kind of like how my grandfather's used to betray him.

They say Parkinson's isn't genetic, so it probably won't ever affect my athletic abilities, or hinder my GPA. But hey, knowing my luck, I'll beat the odds and shimmy my way into an early grave.

Mr. Sykes,
exhales Ms. Littell,
would you please share your words?

She sighs, and I try not to notice the view of her neckline. 365

370

I look down at what I've written, smile. "I'm not sure this is appropriate for the rank and file. It's more than a little suggestive." I wait for her to read over my shoulder, expect a swift, negative reply.

Instead she says,
You are a skilled poet, gifted with an ear for metaphor. This
is filled with passion. Read!
366

371

Guess I'll Excite Everyone

With my words. Oh, well, she asked for it. I glance around the room, face-to-face, find unmasked inquisitiveness.

"My happiest memories are sun-streaked afternoons in the cinnamon arms of my Emily--the evening star

glowing in a dusk-choked sky. She wraps me in pleasure, silent except for her occasional sigh, and I

whisper, 'Keep me here, beside you, where I can breathe you in. Keep me here, inside you, Emily.'

She makes no promises, only tells me I can stay for now. 'Sometimes it's good to be lonely, good to feel 367

372

pain. But not now, my love.

Now I want you here beside me, where you can breathe me in.

And I need you inside me.

You make me young again.'

Pressed against the curve of her back, my fingers trace the contours of one breast, and then the other. Such perfection in the texture of her skin, sublime petals, pressed into recollection.

My Emily." 366

373

Whoa, Baby!

Who the hell is Emily? If I were straight, I'd have to get to know her. Think she has a brother? Wonder why I haven't heard about her before.

The classroom breaks out in applause. "Damn, Conner, could you make my poem look any worse? Here I write about getting out of lockup and you go and write about sex. Why didn't I think about that?" Maybe I would have, if sex for me had ever come close to that.

Conner's face flushes.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
369

374

"So tell us more. 'Who is she? What does she look like? Blond, I bet."

An odd smile creeps across his face.
Yes, she c blond. Everywhere.
Things could get out of control, but Mr. Hidalgo reins it in.

Okay, everyone. I think we
'
ve heard enough about Emily.
Now the room breaks out in a chorus of boos. Mine is loudest. 370

375

Mr. Hidalgo Takes Control

Enough, already. Mr. Ceccarelli, since you seem to be so communicative today, I
'
m sure you
'
ve penned a masterpiece. Please read.

I quit booing, clear my throat. "I can't write poetry, not like Conner and Vanessa can. All I have is some words. Scrambled thoughts."

Ms. Littell comes over, stands behind me, reads.
You have a lot more here than scrambled thoughts, and it
'
s most definitely poetry. Please share.
371

376

Here goes nothing. "Six years they took away. Six years not allowed to say much but 'Yes, sir; no, sir.' Today, I breathe a free

man's air, walk without sacrifice anywhere I choose. A woman passes by. Without hesitation, I say, 'Hello. Beautiful day, isn't it?' She turns

my way, smiles, a bright hint of hope that all might one day be right in whatever world tomorrow brings me." Still waiting for that. 372

377

No Applause

But I do get a couple
Way to go
'
s.
Better than total silence, anyway. And I guess it was good to hustle up a halfway decent

memory. I had one or two others, but they involved Phillip. These voyeurs might like hearing about Conner's romantic

adventures, but I seriously doubt they'd want to hear about Phillip and me. Anyway, that is a very private part of my life, something I keep stashed 373

378

away and only withdraw in moments of weakness. I'd rather share tales of Ma, the ol' dead ho', or Larry the pervert, who got what he deserved.

Thank you for working with me,
says Ms. Littell.
I hope you
'
ll all keep writing. There
'
s a lot of talent in this room. Please don
'
t waste it.

Ms. Littell takes her leave, and its on to algebra, or in Conner's case, calculus. I think he knows more about it than Mr. Hidalgo, but that's just my

uneducated opinion. 374

379

Kate Finds Me

In the bathroom. The heaves are gone, and I've blown my insides out the other end. My hands still shake and I try to comfort them with cool water.

Dr Starr heard you

weren
'
t feeling well.

Kate's tone is almost

apologetic.
She wanted

me to let you know it
'
s

probably a side effect of the lithium.

I knew there were side effects but didn't realize they could be so intense. Depression is bad. This is worse. My brain feels like it's squishing through mud. "Can I quit the lith?" 375

380

You have to give it a chance. We
'
ll reduce the dosage until your

body adjusts. It might

take a few weeks.

Nausea. Diarrhea. Tremors. Thick head. Mouth like cotton balls. "I need water. And I need to lie down." 376

381

No Wonder

Mama refused to stay on the lithium. Yes, she was diagnosed bipolar, with a tendency toward schizophrenia. They tried to correct her brain's mad

zigzag with medication. But she was stubborn--swore the only thing wrong with her was her damnable

sidekick, the angel.

When they locked her up, force-fed her pills, she cleared up. Sooner or later, they always let her out, and she'd be the mama we always hoped she'd be. For a few days.

That last day, she'd only been out of the hospital for a few hours.

382

Still had the bottle of Xanax in her pocket.

The only problem was she swallowed a few too many. One extra is one too

many. She yacked down a half dozen.

Her doctors said she wanted to die. I thought so too. And who was I to argue?

383

My Own Overdose

Or whatever the problem is, is making me sick again. I don't want to go to the bathroom, chance prying eyes or questions. So I lay very still on my bed, give myself to the thrashing surf inside my body, my brain.

Quick, Vanessa, think of something still, something serene. Sand. I think of sand. Lying on a thick carpet of sand, somebody warm beside me. My memory holds Trevor. I replace his face with Conner's.

Drowsy. I am drowsy in his arms, feel his bloom against the small of my back. 379

384

Like today. It is bright in the desert sun--beneath magic clouds of white. Sucked into the white, I give myself to Conner. "Make love to me," I tell him.

And he answers,

I can
'
t deal with your

freaky mood swings,

Vanessa. One minute

you
'
re solid, the next

you
'
re like water.

Boiling water...

It's Trevor's voice, and

I scream. 380

385

Thursday P.M.

Dr. Starr calls me to her office, points me into a chair, laces her fingers under her chin. Where is this going?

Conner; I
'
m pleased with your

progress,
the bulldog says.

But I really think we need to address the issue of your not wanting to go

home for a visit this weekend.

The Easter holiday provides

connection with your family.

I know that frightens you, but I don
'
t know why. There
'
s

no history of abuse. Why shut yourself off from them?

"
You
'
ve
got it all wrong. I'm not afraid of going home. It's just that I'm happier here, where I don't have to evade 381

386

questions no one wants the answers to. At least when
you

ask me something, it's because you want to know what I've

got to say. Mom and Dad

expect only what they want to hear, and only then if

it's said with total respect.

Going home can only lead to confrontation. Why

would I want that when I've

finally freed myself of it?"

387

As I Wait for Her Reply

I study her face, find an odd blend of amusement and understanding. But she doesn't pretend sympathy.

You have to face them sometime,

Conner. No parent is perfect, no child always right. Climb into their shoes, take an honest look at yourself Do you like what you see? Can you try just a little to understand their point of view?

Their son tried to kill himself--
a parent
'
s worst nightmare because they must accept blame.

They want to forgive you, but first

they have to forgive themselves.

That
'
s tough for anyone to do;
for some, nearly impossible. Do you think they
'
re strong enough?
383

388

I just stare. How can she be so dense? She's only met them a time or two, but can't she see through the pretense?

"You really don't get them at all, Dr. Starr. Blame themselves?

Forgive themselves? For
my

fall from grace? Not even!

My father can't be to blame. He's never home long enough to be an influence on me. And Mom? If she ever took

responsibility for this, what would her bridge club think? Nope, the only person

they could blame at all is me." 384

389

We're Not Through Yet

Okay, Conner And who do

you blame? Who do you think is responsible for you?
She's made it a whole new game.

I've had plenty of time, alone in my room, to consider that very thing, hours and hours to hone

my reply. "I blame Dad for my drive for perfection. He's always demanded that Cara and I strive to attain the highest grade, highest score, to bring home gold. A silver medal meant losing, nothing more.

Mom I blame for making me cold. What kind of mother flat-out refuses to hold her children, make 385

390

them feel wanted, warm, safe? Emily made me feel all those things and more. Is that really so hard to understand?"

The bulldog's growl softens.
No, of course it
'
s not. But

surely you knew your affair

couldn
'
t go on forever.

"Forever has no meaning when you're living in the moment. I wasn't ready for that moment to end."

Amen. 386

391

Easter Weekend

And the place has mostly cleared out. Aspen Springs, graveyard. Kind of fitting, I guess. My dad asked if I wanted to go visit him. Not ready for that.

Apparently, Conner wasn't ready to go home either. He's sitting, staring at mindless television. But I can tell he's not concentrating on the screen.

Unusual, considering this sitcom features big-breasted women, with a minimum amount of clothing covering their silicone.

"Hey, man. Damn quiet in here, huh?" I say. "Kind of spooky." 387

392

Not as spooky as home,
he answers.
Besides, I don
'
t mind the quiet.

"Uh. Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to crowd your space or anything."
No problem. Crowd my space. I
'
m done brooding, anyway.

Brooding? Good word, one I've never once used. "About what?"

Just thinking about home. Will I ever want to go back there?
388

393

Carmella Bustles In

Hey, you two. Want some company? Looks kind of lonely in here.
She plops down on the couch, very close to Conner, who doesn't move.