The Refrain (The Bridge Series) (16 page)

Okay, focus. I’m in my bedroom. The last thing I remember is stopping for coffee in Niagara with Dad, Uncle Dave and Nat . . . Natalie’s here.

I quickly stand and then quickly sit down. Shit, it’s hot – removing one of my sweatshirts should help. Why am I wearing so many clothes?

“Mom,” I rasp. My voice is entirely gone. “Mom.” I try again.

I remove my sweatshirts and then crawl to the bathroom. This feeling, at this very moment, makes hangovers feel like a fieldtrip to the planetarium. My mouth is dry, my stomach in knots and my head pounding to the beat of crappy techno music.
Thump, thump, thump, thump . . .

I stick my head under the faucet and pour the cool water all over my face and into my mouth. It’s the best water I’ve ever had – fulfilling.

There’s a knock at my door. “Chloe?” Mom asks quietly.

My voice is gone, but I manage to mumble, “Mom.”

She opens the door and sets a Snapple and some oatmeal on my desk. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, I think. Why was I under so many blankets? Where’s Nat?” I sit down at the desk and use all my strength to pop open the tea. It feels like such a huge accomplishment, tiny endorphins stinging my body. No matter what state of mind, I can’t resist the hidden factoid under the cap.

#214 Giraffes can lick their own eyes.

Mom moves to the bed and starts folding the quilts and blankets. “Oh sweetie, you had the chills . . . you were – it was an episode. I’m sorry, but we had to give you a mild sedative to calm your nerves.”

Oh.

Choking on dry tears I say, “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Chloe, that’s ridiculous. Your father would drive to Zimbabwe to help you . . . and Nat is downstairs helping Judy with dinner. She’s – she’s going to be okay.” Mom pauses and then sits on the bed. “Chloe, I made an appointment with Dr. McKinstry. You haven’t seen him in a few years and . . .” Mom clears her throat and looks at the ceiling.

“Mom, I’ll go.”

She stands from the bed and walks toward me. Mom smoothes my hair with her hand just like when I was a kid. “I’m proud of you Chloe, do you know that?”

“Best panic attack ever?” I smile but she frowns. “It’s a joke, Mom! Will you help me down for dinner?” I lift my weak body from the desk and take Mom’s hand. I need to see Nat – I need to apologize for my failure.

She leads me down the stairs one at a time like a helpless gimp caught in a bear trap. We make it into the dining room where Dad is setting the table and Uncle Dave is shaking a bottle of his famous Italian dressing. Nat’s seated at the table nibbling on some bread while Aunt Judy tops off her wine glass. It all seems very normal and comfortable, but I know I’m being watched – scrutinized.

I sit down in a chair next to Nat as she slides a glass of wine in front of me. “Hey C – you look like shit,” she says through a tight smile.

Grinning, I say, “Screw you, Nat.”

Natalie leans into me and taps her head against mine. “I love you,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry.”

Mom carries in a large lasagna bubbling with melted cheese and places it in the center of the table. It smells delicious and I don’t remember the last time I had an actual meal. I sip my wine and tear off a piece of bread, welcoming the bland texture.

Dad stands at the head of the table with a beer and bites his lip. He looks sad and tired, and it kills me to put my parents through this mess all over again. “Chloe, Natalie, welcome home.” Dad tilts his beer in our direction and gives us a sympathetic smile.

“To Chloe and Natalie,” Aunt Judy toasts.

“To us,” Nat whispers. “The two saddest fucks in North America.”

T
HERAPY IS TABOO.
All artists tend to struggle with their mental health, but it’s actually that streak of insanity that creates the brilliance. And as long as an artist can pump out creative nuggets of consciousness – drugs, alcohol, violence, depression, and even suicide are highly acceptable. But therapy?

I was sixteen when my parents discovered that my panic attacks were more than a bundle of nerves before the first performance of the school musical. It really came as a shock to us all . . . how can a performer, a happy musician with tons of confidence, be paralyzed with anxiety? Well, that’s what therapy’s for.

“Chloe, Dr. McKinstry is ready for you,” the nurse says. She’s new, but then again, I haven’t been in the office for five years.

“Okay,” I answer. I give Mom a shrug and leave her to wait patiently with my
People
magazine.

Dr. McKinstry’s office is exactly how I remember it – warm and masculine, nothing flashy or clichéd. He’s sitting behind his carved mahogany desk skimming through my old journal.

Stroking his beard he says, “Dang, Chloe, I was hoping you’d be famous by now. I’m dying to sell these notes to the tabloids.”

He’s a genius, really. Dr. McKinstry always knew exactly how to get inside my head, and although his sarcastic comments seem unprofessional, it totally works. “I see your beard is taking on a life of its own,” I tease.

He pats his fluffy brown beard and motions for me to sit. I pick the gold, velvet wingback chair – it’s always been my favorite. Dr. McKinstry taps his hands against the desk and smirks. “Wow, five years. How’s New York?”

“Wait, are we starting the session or is this just small talk?”

He stops drumming his hands and frowns. “Wait, I thought all my sessions were small talk?”

I relax as much as I can and cross my legs. “New York is amazing, there’s always something to do or explore.” I swallow hard and then clear my throat. “Life on the other hand, has been a little shitty.”

“Any episodes?”

“Only recently.”

“Scale of one to ten,” he prompts.

“Um, well, compared to what?”

I think back to my first ten. It was 1995 and all the signs were there, but even I thought I was just a teenager struggling through puberty. There was this
one
week, one week that changed the course of my mental health. A week full of constant personal battles, from a theater audition that I bombed, a class presentation that I failed, and my first real love confessing that he was a homosexual. I could feel every eye on me, whispers taunting me, and I desperately wanted to disappear. But I couldn’t, I was a LeGrange girl – we don’t blend well.

So, being the pathetic loser I was, I convinced myself that if I slept with Jamie, he would fall in love with me. If I auditioned for a garage band, I would be relevant. If I flirted with my Social Studies teacher, I would ace the class.

I fucked it up.

The entire school found out about the awkward night Jamie and I spent fooling around in a trashy motel, and subsequently, Jamie’s sexuality. He was a hockey player and got the shit beat out of him for weeks. Jamie was called every derogatory name in the book and even left school for a month . . . just in time for a new rumor to take the spotlight.

Word got out that I slept with Mr. Collins. It was a total lie, but he was suspended from teaching until further investigation. The entire town perceived me as a slut, and my poor parents were so embarrassed. Mr. Collins eventually transferred to another school by choice, but people always enjoy a scandal.

So when I finally put Humpty back together and joined the garage band, it was time to redeem myself. We had our first gig at a house party and I was actually excited to perform, music was what made me feel whole. Our little band set up in the corner of a living room and rocked the shit out of that party! Things were going as planned.

Midway through our set, I spotted Jamie shoving a guy defensively against a wall, either for me or because of me. My throat closed, my eyes lost focus and I heard whispers, violently attacking me. I don’t remember anything after I collapsed onto the blue carpet, but I do remember waking up in the hospital. Several kids had called an ambulance, thinking I was having a drug overdose . . . but the actual panic attack happened the next morning in a hospital room. With Mom and Dad’s worried faces staring down at me and Jamie and Nat hiding frightened in the corner – I fell apart.

That
was
my ten.

“Chloe, let’s not make comparisons. How bad was your most recent episode?”

“I guess, if you count integers and add the fractions of other times . . . a 10.1,” I answer.

Dr. McKinstry jots in his notes and asks, “Was there a specific trigger?”

Even though Dr. McKinstry knows the most private accounts of my life, I can never seem to talk about relationships – that’s including people in my sickness without them knowing. “Not really a trigger, more of a – a downward spiral. Natalie lost someone. Zach was very special and she lost him.” My heart races at the thought of that wedding ring hiding in Molly’s Gucci purse.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Experiencing loss, even through the eyes of a loved one is a very difficult process.” Dr. McKinstry leans forward and cocks his head. “And what about you, Chloe – anyone special in your life?”

“No,” I say quickly.

Dr. McKinstry narrows his eyes, but then gives me his sarcastic smirk of compassion – that always works.

“There was a guy. I guess we were dating, I’m not sure.” I look down at my hands and pick at my stubby fingernails.

Laughing he says, “I thought you didn’t date.”

I look up defensively. “Yeah, but he’s different. He challenges me – and I suppose he grounds me.”

“Chloe, you’re speaking in the present. Do you still want to be with this person?”

I exhale and turn my head to the wall of photos – mostly beachfronts and exotic locations. “Yeah, I need him,” I manage.

“Then let’s talk about the trigger . . . how did you fail?”

I turn my attention back to Dr. McKinstry and shake my head. He shakes his head and smiles. With a tiny snort, I say, “You and your stupid theories.”

“It’s kinda my job, well that and getting to wear jackets with elbow patches.”

Let me think this through . . . that night at the bar, things were great. We were all having a fantastic time and Adam was incredibly horny . . . he was watching me so intently with his dark eyes and private smile – God, if felt amazing with him there. Singing to him, for him . . . oh shit.

With new clarity, I shout, “Jamie. I mean, the trigger’s not Jamie, but he’s the . . . what’s the right word?”

“Distraction,” he answers.

I’m suddenly embarrassed by this revelation, but Dr. McKinstry simply nods in agreement. I start rambling, hoping to explain what I mean without blaming Jamie. “Being on stage is like an alter-ego, ya know? But the real me, the anxiety-fueled freak, needs a focus. If that balance is removed or I’m distracted, I panic.”

“And then things slowly start to spiral out of control – if you don’t have something to regulate your emotions?”

“That’s an accurate assessment, Doc,” I tease. “But yeah, there’s the Chloe on stage and there’s the Chloe hiding in fear . . . I need something to be the middle.” I use my hands to emphasize where the middle is – my heart.

“Or someone,” he mumbles. “How long have you been off the medication?”

“I started weaning myself off after college . . . three years, maybe?” I fidget in my chair because I know where this is going.

Dr. McKinstry takes out a prescription pad from his top drawer and scribbles something down. He passes it across to me and I snicker at the smiley face inside the ‘o’ of my name.

“Don’t panic, but you suffer from a mild case of panic disorder.” He laughs at his horrible joke. “Chloe, this is treatable! But it’s important to find a balance between your highs and lows. Medication shouldn’t be a permanent fixture, but for now, 25 mg of Mr. Zoloft is going to be the Regulator,” he says in a Schwarzenegger growl.

“Mr. Zoloft sounds super sexy.”

“He is, and super mellow.” Dr. McKinstry glances at his watch and smiles. “We have a few more minutes – so hey, have you seen
Wicked
on Broadway?”

And that’s how therapy works.

C
HRISTMAS AS A
child is magical! Christmas as a teenager is mandatory. Christmas as a single, childless adult . . . is melancholy.

Considering what Nat has been through and my recent brush with insanity, it’s unfathomable that we were even able to function through the LeGrange Yuletide Festivities.