The Weight of Zero (22 page)

Mom wants to hear the letter, so I read it aloud. Then I read the letter three, four, five more times to myself. And each time, my eyes drag on that last sentence:
…bring home lots of souvenirs from Europe.
I feel sick and sad. Because I know Jane will never bring home those souvenirs, that she'll never be a teacher, that she'll never set eyes on her mother or brother or sister again. She died in the jeep accident only a year after she wrote this letter, with the vast Atlantic Ocean separating her from her mama.

Tonight I don't take out my shoe box—it feels disrespectful in some weird way. My sleep is disturbed with vague dreams of a big gray ocean. And Mom drowning in it.

John walks into group late Tuesday afternoon, a good fifteen minutes after Sandy has collected our DBT mood forms. It's the first time I've seen him since the Halloween party. I was a little bummed he was absent yesterday. I had felt some ridiculous sense of kinship with him at Robbie's, like we were part of some underground society, not an intensive outpatient program.

John looks like shit. First clue: not one thread of Red Sox gear on his body. Second clue: unwashed, greasy hair and dark shadows under his eyes, emphasized by his pale skin. Third clue: Sandy. She pops off the sofa, puts an arm around his shoulder and escorts him to the sofa he shares with Garrett and Lil' Tommy.

“Hey, man,” Lil' Tommy instantly says. “What's wrong?”

Garrett stands up and gives John one of those emotional guy handshakes—an almost high five that melds into a hearty grasp lasting a moment longer than the standard shake. “Not your fault, dude,” Garrett says.

Kristal nudges me as a “Shit, man,” bursts forth from Lil' Tommy. His small hands begin their nervous travel up and down the tops of his thighs. “What the hell is going on? What's not your fault, John?”

Sandy interrupts. “All right, let's all take a deep breath for a minute, okay? I know some of you are worried about John. As you can see, John is here and managing, and he'll decide if or when he wants to talk.”

Everyone's studying John, and he gives a small shake of his head, crosses his arms over his chest and drops his eyes to the floor.

“Okay,” Sandy says, “I'd like to open a discussion on peer press—”

“Wait a sec,” Lil' Tommy whines. “How are we supposed to concentrate on anything if we don't know what's wrong with John?”

“Jesus, Tommy, shut up,” Alexis snaps. “He doesn't want to talk.” Since Amy's defection, Alexis seems different, more engaged. At break, Alexis, Kristal and I usually chat in the ladies' room. I mean, Alexis and I aren't friends by any stretch, but it's a lot more pleasant without Amy. Especially since we'll all be continuing on in the step-down program. Dr. McCallum was quick to okay my participation.

“Yeah, Tom, don't you understand the meaning of giving somebody space?” Kristal adds.

“But he doesn't look—” Tommy's anxious objection is silenced by Garrett.

“Tom,” Garrett says, his head whipping toward Tommy, “for once in your life can you just fucking chill?” It's the first time I've seen Garrett react to anything.

The words almost physically lash Tommy and he abruptly sits back on the sofa.

Everyone is trying to support John, but I think they're blind to something. I can see the tears gathering in Tommy's eyes.

“You guys, he's just worried about John,” I say. And then I look to Tommy. “It's okay, Tommy. It's okay.” My voice sounds abnormally loud in the brief sliver of silence, but somehow it calms everyone down. The effect makes me feel like an idiot savant who has just figured out the cure to Alzheimer's.

“Thank you, Catherine. Well said,” Sandy says. “I think we all need to take a deep breath. Remember, all of this, everyone's reaction, is born out of something good. And that's our concern for John.” Sandy turns to Tommy. “It's really wonderful, Tom, that you care about John. But you know that sharing here will always be a
choice
for each of you. We can't force—”

“It's okay,” John interrupts her. “I can talk about it. Thanks, little man.” John does an air–high five with Tommy. He turns back to the group and his eyes drop to the speckled gray carpet. “I…I quit wrestling….Something happened yesterday….” He rubs his hands together and then squeezes his eyes shut.

Tommy says, “It's okay, buddy,” and then his little Purelled hand actually pats the unsanitized cotton fabric of John's gray flannel button-down. Real, voluntary, physical contact. The shock is enough to pull John out of his private hell for a moment. He raises his head to look at Tommy. “Dude, did you actually just touch me? On purpose?”

Tommy nods, slightly dumbfounded. For a germophobe with OCD, this is major progress. Ignoring the minor victory, Tommy graciously concedes the floor. “So, John, what happened yesterday?” he asks, resting the renegade hand conspicuously still on his leg like it's covered with Ebola virus.

John swallows, his Adam's apple moving with the effort. “I broke a kid's shoulder. During practice.” His eyes return to the carpet.

“But isn't it too early in the season to be practicing?” Tommy asks.

“Objection, relevance,” Kristal barks, and I have to stifle a laugh. “Tom,” Kristal continues, “can you
please
let the kid speak?”

Tommy nods. “Sorry.”

We all wait, but John doesn't say anything. A full minute passes. When John finally raises his head, his eyes are tortured.

“Something went wrong during a takedown…he moved wrong….And I landed on him funny…I…I felt the fucking bone snap.” John twists his hands around each other, over and under. He continues in a raspy voice. “And we both froze for a second and I looked at his shoulder, which was, like, two inches from my face. The shape was all wrong—distorted—and something white—the bone, I guess—was sticking out of the skin.” John drops his head into his hands. “Oh my God. I can't get it out of my head.”

The rest of us sit there, stunned. Alexis and Tommy stare at John, their eyes wide and mouths slightly open. Garrett's hands are pleated together on top of his head and he keeps looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head. Kristal covers her mouth with one hand. I'm suddenly cold.

“That wasn't the worst part,” John says, still cradling his face in his hands.

I feel the prickling of fear, a premonition of what he's going to say. I don't want to hear anymore. I want to walk out of Room Three right now. Instead, I pull my knees up to my chest, as if to defend myself against John's words.

“When it happened…,” John continues. “When the bone snapped, the kid went quiet. He stopped moving. And then…and then…he made this…this noise. It was so sick. I keep hearing it. It wasn't human…it wasn't human.” John's crying openly now.

Garrett pats John's knee, but Tommy doesn't get it. “What? What do you mean?” His voice is high and chirpy. “Not human? Like what?”

I can feel the blood pulsing in my ears, the pressure in my head elevating.

John doesn't respond and Tommy repeats his inane questions. He won't stop.

“Like an animal,” I say. “An animal in pain.”

I heard that same sound July 3 when I rolled Grandma over and saw her open eyes and bleeding nose. Her mouth, the mouth that had sung me silly songs and kissed me and told me she loved me, was making awful noises. My beautiful grandmother reduced in seconds to a tormented creature dying on the bedroom floor, and I knew that sound was the last I'd ever hear her make.

“I know it,” I tell John, a floodgate finally opened in my core. “I heard it too. My grandmother made that noise when she died….”

I feel Kristal's arms encircle me and John's eyes are holding mine. I am crying now, too. I see thirteen-year-old me calling 911 and then wrapping Grandma in her favorite yellow afghan, holding her as the keening ceased and she slipped away from me.

It's break time in Room Three. The mood is hushed and we all tread lightly around the table with pretzels and apple juice. I think Garrett was the only person in the room who didn't cry. Even Sandy was dabbing her eyes as she came over to sit beside me and pull me close. I cried again when John said in a deep, trembling voice, “Thanks for sharing that, Catherine. It helps me….I'm sorry you went through that. But I…I feel better knowing you know what it feels like.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

And it's true. I never told anyone about those sounds. Not Mom, or Dr. A, or Dr. McCallum. This memory has haunted me for years because I didn't think anyone would understand. But John does.

Kristal is still huddled over me, armed with extra tissues. “Jesus, Cat,” she says. “That was the fucking saddest thing I've ever heard. Your grandmother dying right in front of you.”

It is the first time someone has said this to me point-blank. I have run from these words for the past two years and four months. And then Alexis pops up and sits beside me. I am sandwiched between my two IOP comrades on the sofa. Alexis gently pats my back.

I can only respond, “It was horrible.” There's more, but I can't say it just yet. Yet speaking those three words aloud shifts something inside me. I feel a little lighter. I realize now the enormity, the weight of that secret memory, is part of what keeps Zero tethered to me.

Sandy forges ahead with discussion even though the fifteen-minute break isn't over. She directs us back to our sofas to “process” our emotions.

“So we've all just heard the events that happened to Catherine and John. The freak accident while John was wrestling and his opponent so horribly injured,” Sandy says. “And Catherine witnessing the death of her grandmother. Extraordinarily traumatic, painful things. So how do we deal with this?
How do we deal with pain?
We are human. We suffer. No one,
no one
escapes that fate.” She pauses and her eyes travel to each of us. “So this is the question for all of us: how can we ride out the bad times? And I'm using the phrase ‘ride out' on purpose. Because our lives are in constant motion, and everything in life passes. The best of times don't last, as much as we'd like them to, but the worst of times don't last either. Even though it may feel like they do.”

Sandy leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, as if to get closer to us. “Everyone in this room has experienced pain. You each have your challenges. But I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. In a way, I think you guys are a little ahead of the game. Lots of people don't deal with their issues until much later in life when, believe it or not, it gets even more complicated. I like to think that
because
you're handling these tough issues, you will be stronger and better for it.”

This is a novel spin on the IOP experience—Sandy pitching our mental illness issues like they're black badges of courage.
The few, the brave, the bipolar.

Tommy does a few enthusiastic claps, which makes the rest of us break out into small smiles.

Sandy scoots forward on the sofa so she's perched on the very edge. I've never seen her so intense. “My goal is for you to leave this program with not only a greater degree of honesty with yourselves but also a greater willingness to be honest with others. And with greater coping skills to handle what happens next in your lives. I want you to think about the safest ways for you to deal with pain.” She pauses and then continues in that deep, slow tone. “Whether that pain comes from anxiety or loneliness or a traumatic event or a condition, it doesn't matter. Pain is pain. This is the reason you're sitting here in this room today. The bottom line for all of this is to learn to safely deal with your pain.”

“Are you a virgin, Cat?”

It's two-thirty in the morning on Saturday, and Kristal and I are in her bedroom. I'm stretched out on the luxurious daybed and Kristal sprawls under the covers of her queen-sized bed with its upholstered headboard. Kristal's question has not quite come out of left field, since the topic of conversation is Michael, but it still throws me a little. She left the light on in her walk-in closet, so the room is pretty well lit and I'm worried she'll be able to see the red heat in my cheeks.

“Uh…yeah,” I say.

Kristal and I haven't stopped talking since Aunt Darlene dropped me off tonight loaded with two boxes of doughnuts. Incredibly, Mom had offered no resistance to the sleepover plan—perhaps a by-product of the new anxiety support group she's just started attending. She took a Friday-night shift at Dominic's since I wasn't going to be home and Aunt D was headed to New Haven anyway for dinner. So Aunt D's dropping me off at Kristal's only a few miles away was a no-brainer. I stalled on taking the doughnuts, but Aunt D said it was good manners to bring something for the host. So I walked in carrying my duffel and twenty-four wheels of iced, sugary goodness. Kristal dropped a dozen on the granite island in the Walkers' grand kitchen and hurried the second box upstairs to her bedroom. “Shhh,” she had said. “This will be our reserve. Don't tell my mom.”

Kristal kicks off her covers now. “Sorry. Was that virgin status question a little too personal?”

“No,” I say, even though I'm thinking,
Kinda.
I forgot about this girlfriend intimacy. With no topics off-limits.

“How long have you guys been going out?” she asks.

“We had our first kiss on October eleventh,” I say. I know this from studying my list. I also just added entry number seven: Michael's first scheduled dinner at the Pulaski household for later today, Saturday, November 8. Mom had insisted.

“Congrats!” Kristal gives a low whistle. “You're coming up on your one-month anniversary. Do you celebrate stuff like that, or is it too middle school?”

I rest my chin on a pillow. “I have no clue. I've never had a boyfriend before.”

“Wow, I'm surprised,” Kristal says, the relief obvious from her tone. “You're so pretty. You seem like one of those girls who always has a boyfriend.”

“That's what I think about you!” I don't share that my bipolar disorder has majorly impacted my desirability to the opposite sex. Or that Zero is terrific at pulverizing one's sex drive. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No,” Kristal says.

A silence falls, and I don't know if she's getting sleepy or doesn't want this discussion to go any further. I lean back against the pillows.

“It's…it's hard for me,” she begins. “I've had these issues for a while….”

Another silence. I have to say something. It feels rude not to.

“It is so hard,” I say. “It's much harder for people like us. Dealing with the regular bullshit of high school and then adding all this extra crap—psychiatrists, counseling, IOPs.”

“I'm so glad I met you,” Kristal says. “Just so fucking glad. I don't know about you, but I just don't feel connected anymore to my friends at school. I can't tell them anything. They're really nice and all, and I'm sure they'd be okay with it. A couple of them go to counseling too. But it's for stuff like divorce. It's just…I don't know. It doesn't feel right. I hang out with them and do stuff on weekends but it feels kind of superficial. But with you…we're in this together. You understand. I don't have to edit myself.”

“Oh my God, me too,” I say. I can't tell Kristal the full truth, so I give a watered-down, edited version. “A lot of my friends left when I…when things got bad. It was rough.” It feels safe in the dim light of Kristal's room. I feel safe. So I add, “It still is rough. They're pretty mean to me now.”

“That sucks, Cat. I'm so sorry. But you have me now. I'll be your new BFF.” Kristal sits up. “You never really talk in group, about yourself. What's going on with you?” she asks softly. “Depression? From your grandmother dying in front of you?”

God. She says it so openly. So easily. I'm still getting used to the very publicness of my most private pain.

“Yes,” I whisper. Another partial truth.

I know I could tell her right now that I have bipolar disorder. She's asking. Part of me reasons,
The IOP gang doesn't give a shit about your diagnosis. Kristal will be fine with it.

But Riley and Olivia asked too. I remember Riley studying her phone and then glancing at my hair, the glaring evidence of my instability. I remember how her mouth opened in shock, and how quickly she scrambled to her feet after probably reading Wikipedia's take on bipolar disorder. She couldn't get out of my house fast enough.

So I decide not to tell Kristal. I couldn't handle her rejection, couldn't bear the way it would destroy the safe zone of St. Anne's forever, especially in my final chapter, when things are going so well. Being blacklisted at group would definitely accelerate Zero's arrival.

“I have anxiety,” Kristal says. “Horrible anxiety. That's why I got bulimic. I thought it was a way I could control things. Or so says one of my eating coaches. But that's over. I'm done with that. It's really disgusting to me now. I hope I helped Alexis a little. Amy really screwed her up. I felt bad for her, didn't you?”

“Definitely,” I say. “She must've felt betrayed in a way.”

“Good point,” Kristal says. “You know, you should talk more at group. Don't be afraid to share. Rule number one at St. Anne's: Don't be stingy with the wisdom, Cat. That's why they want us together, right? Peer support.” Kristal sighs and grows quiet.

Okay. She wants support. I can ask this. “You said you have anxiety. What are you anxious about?”

“Everything.” In the dim light, I can see Kristal lean against the headboard. “School. Friends. Guitar. I quit guitar. Got rid of that stressor. But I can't quit school. Or college. Get this, my brother is a freshman at Harvard.”

“Shit,” I say. “Do your parents put a lot of pressure on you?”

“Not at all,” Kristal says. “They'd be happy with me at community college as long as I stop putting my finger down my throat. Which I
did.
It's all me, Cat. It's me who inflicts all the pressure.” Her voice sounds small and defeated. “We were supposed to look at schools in D.C., but my mom doesn't want me that far from home.
Just in case,
she keeps saying.”

“You really want UConn?” I ask.

“No, I just told you that because…I don't know why. I guess to make you think I didn't care. I really want Vassar. But I don't think I'll get in.”

“You go to Chapman,” I say. “You have a great shot.”

“It's probably better if I stay in Connecticut. I've got other stuff going on….” Her voice trails off.

What else could she be dealing with?

“Do you want to talk about it?” I swing my legs off the daybed so my toes scrape the plush Oriental rug. I lean forward. “You can trust me.”

“I know. I do trust you. I told you my poop story.” We laugh a little and then there's silence. I hear Kristal sigh. “It is just so fucking, mind-bogglingly, insanely humiliating, Cat. Only my parents know.” The sadness in her voice is almost palpable.

I lean forward, whispering urgently, “You don't have to tell me. But I'm here whenever you want to talk. If you ever want to talk about it.”

Kristal inhales deeply. “Okay, then. Here it goes. My body doesn't work right,” she says quickly. “Down there.”

“Uh…what do you mean?”

“I'm like a Barbie doll.”

WTF does she mean?
“You don't…don't have a vagi—” I can't finish the rest. Maybe she's a hermaphrodite.

Kristal laughs. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Yes, I have a vagina. But it doesn't work right. Due to my anxiety.”

I have no clue how to respond. What does she mean by “doesn't work right”?

“God, I'm so sorry,” I say. “Do you need surgery or something?”

“I wish,” she replies. “That would be awesome if they could just
do
something. I have vaginismus. Ever hear of it?”

“No.”

“It's where the muscles inside your vagina completely tense up. It feels like the Berlin Wall down there.”

Shit. Could I have that too? “How did you know you had it?” I ask.

“I could never get a tampon in. Never. Finally, my mom took me to the gynecologist. It was bad. I had to have an ultrasound since there was no way for her to do an exam.”

“Oh my God, Kristal. That is horrifying.”

“You have no idea, Cat. It is beyond humiliating. On top of everything else, I get stuck with
this
? An anxious vagina?” She pauses. “That would make a good name for a band, right? The Anxious Vagina.”

We burst out laughing.

“I won't be sharing this at St. Anne's. There's no zone safe enough for this one,” Kristal says, chuckling and wiping her eyes. “It just really sucks. I have to go to a physical therapist who specializes in this kind of stuff. Pelvic floor dysfunction. I still can't believe this is my life.”

“I am so sorry,” I say again.

“I hate that my body doesn't work right. It feels so unfair.”

Her words vibrate inside me. Yes, yes, yes. I know that feeling. I live that feeling. I want to tell her I understand the pain of a body malfunctioning. I could tell her that my brain doesn't work right. But the confession hides low in my gut, nowhere near ready to be released into the realm of public pain.

Kristal gets out of bed and opens the box of doughnuts on her desk. It looks like she has one in each hand as she climbs back into bed. An alarm bell goes off in my head. I hope it's just what Mom does, stress eating. And that the food stays put, in her stomach.

Kristal says, “My mom calls it ‘nature's chastity belt' and thinks it's just gonna relax on its own all of a sudden. But when? You know what it's like to go shopping for period stuff? I have intense tampon envy.” She finishes the first doughnut and starts on the second. “And I'm jealous of you. You have a boyfriend. You can be with him without worrying about something like this.” Her voice trembles. “How am I supposed to go off to college like this? With this fucking vagina…vagina lockjaw?”

“Well, what does the therapist or your doctor say?” I ask. “Maybe it will be gone by then?”

“They won't give me a time frame. They just said to focus on the therapy and it happens when it happens. And not to worry because it's completely curable. But who the fuck knows when the miracle cure will happen? Ugh. Enough of this.” Kristal gets up for another doughnut. “What are you doing with Michael this weekend?”

“He's coming over tomorrow, well, technically tonight, for dinner. With my mom. I'm dreading it, actually. It's just me and my mom, and compared with Michael's noisy house, it will probably be so damn awkward. Michael's kind of shy and my mom…God knows what will pop out of her mouth. She already started pulling out the board games.” I cringe in the semidarkness. “She'll be hovering the entire time.”

There'll probably be no alone time with Michael either. But I don't mention that. Why rub salt into Kristal's wound?

Kristal wants details on Michael—height, weight, eye color, build. Then she tells me about the guy she's been crushing on for all four years of Chapman. We strategize ways for her to get to know him better for at least a half hour, but around 3:10, I start to fade, my eyelids heavy and the daybed just too perfect with its fluffy pillows and cozy blankets. The ceiling fan blows a soft breeze.

I'm awakened around 3:30 by the sound of the shower running in Kristal's adjoining bathroom. Her bed is empty and I can hear low, coughing sounds. Like someone's throwing up. Instinctively my eyes go to Kristal's desk. The box of doughnuts is gone. Oh Jesus.