Sixty-Two—Bo
T
he difference between being able to sleep on sheets whose history is unknown to me and not being able to sleep on them is Xanax. The difference between being able to shower in a bathroom whose history is unknown to me and not being able to shower in it is also usually Xanax. It had likewise been a major factor in my being able to drive across the country wearing dirty clothes. Of course, none of that had been on my mind when I left California with three bottles from my medicine cabinet—and nothing else. At the time, I had simply been overwhelmed and wanted to disappear. I had been thinking I had nowhere to go and plenty of time to get there, and no one would miss me because what good was I?
I’ve never been suicidal in the strictest sense. But there were many miles of obsessive solitude when I knew the reason I’d grabbed three bottles of Xanax had little to do with controlling my anxiety. I drove in this state of mind for quite a while. Blew off Mia’s calls. Blew off Mom’s calls. Blew off Ivy’s calls. But for some reason, I eventually called Lullaby. And finally, when the impulse to escape my self-loathing began to dissipate, I was simply grateful. I was grateful because, strangely, even in my self-destructive state, I did not take a single pill. I simply took comfort in the fact that I had the tiny benzos in my possession; they were there if I needed them.
Xanax had been prescribed for me for years, and for years I had filled the prescription. But I only took it in what I considered to be emergency situations. Certainly, full blown panic was an emergency, and the aura of a panic attack coming on usually gave me time to consider medicating myself. Unless it didn’t. I always carried one. So did Mia and Camille and each of my parents. Everyone knew how effective Xanax was for my condition. Even me.
And yet…Part of my particular weirdness is my need to control what I can control. When I’m successful, when my day goes as predetermined, when I limit my distractions, when my world is clean and organized, I don’t get anxious, and therefore I don’t need the pill. But when new things enter the picture, things outside of my control, I balance precariously on the blade of my two choices—debilitation or drugs. I often choose to be debilitated because I hate needing drugs. The needing somehow shames me. The needing makes me feel less than . I also have an irrational fear of becoming a drug addict, which I’ve been told for years is patently ridiculous. Four milligrams of Xanax per day is the high therapeutic threshold. I can get by on a half a milligram, repeated in an hour if I’m not back in control. And I take great pride in only succumbing on occasion. Like in extreme circumstances that necessitate sleeping in sheets whose history is unknown to me. Oh, and the turmoil of being in love with Ivy Talbot.
I’d explained all of this to Camille—well, not all of it—and she was nodding because she’d heard most of it before. We were driving in search of ice cream. Now she reached over and squeezed my elbow. “I know how much you hate taking them,” she said maternally. “But can I just say—you seem more comfortable in your skin than I’ve seen you in a while. That’s got to feel amazing for a change.”
“It does…but I will have reached the pinnacle of feeling amazed when I feel amazed without pharmaceutical assistance.”
“There is no shame…”
“I know…it’s just a personal goal. But thanks for the props. I could say the same thing to you,” I said.
“What? ”
“You look pretty okay in your own skin. I haven’t seen you this stress-free since… forever .”
She looked over at me and smiled. “Being here has given me some badly needed perspective.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
She blew out a sigh. “I’m not sure, but I know I’m not going back to him. Can you believe I have choices, Benjamin?” She looked over at me again, this time with a film of tears.
“I have a confession,” I said.
“What did you do now?” she groaned.
“I told Lullaby about you. I called her the day after you left because…well, she needed to know where you were.”
Camille laughed. “I know. She called me, and we talked for a long time. I told her all about Peter. And I told her about Geneva and Bree and Ivy and that I was in Savannah saving my life. She told me you had called. That was sweet of you.”
“Did she lecture you?”
“No. She just said it was about time.”
“Signature Lully,” I mused.
She was our touchstone, our aunt—mine, Camille’s, certainly Mia’s. We adored our parents and were adored in return, but Lullaby was our cheerleader, our advocate, a bit of a warrior on our behalf. It’s why she’d insisted I set up shop in her basement until I could decide about a loft—she knew I wasn’t functioning under that blade. She was my confidant and my base coach, and she cheered me on until I made it to Georgia. I did not tell my sister that Lully was the one who kept the thoughts of me snacking on my Xanax at bay. I didn’t tell her that Lully was the one who had talked me off the cliff before I was even out of California. And I never would because then I’d have to admit that for a while, there actually had been a cliff.
But because Lullaby was so far away, so far removed, and so willing to listen, I was able to spill, and she was able to scold in a language that I heard. I ended up telling her how I’d completely ruined my friendship with Ivy over my weakness, and I also admitted how I thought I felt about Ivy. Lullaby wept. So did I. She said the girl must be incredible, and I agreed. Lully also said that if there was a cure for my life, it would be found in loving someone else—the unsaid portion, I already knew: it did not lie in being loved by someone else in return. It was when I was leaving Albuquerque that she told me Ivy had a right to know what she’d done to me—that she had awakened an ability in me I had not known I possessed, a need and a gift all at once. Her words were lifelines. They made it possible for me to open myself up to the unknown with no expectation. “Risk your heart,” she’d said. “There are no guarantees, but that’s what makes life so interesting.”
And Lully was right. Somewhere just past Mississippi, I realized that loving Ivy was its own peace—and I desperately needed peace. But the best part was that I did not spend any hope on the possibility of reciprocal feelings. Ivy was my friend. And that was its own gift.
Camille and I had been gone about a half-hour, and all these thoughts of Ivy made me anxious to get back to her. She’d told me once that she was Tim’s safe place. I suddenly understood that. Not in the same context, certainly, as the loser who’d left her at the altar. But Ivy had a way of posing no threat, which made her the softest, indeed, the safest person to trust with one’s foibles. I’m sure that quality is what made it possible for Tim to even approach her after what he’d done. I know it’s what had made it possible for me to bare my soul to her.
All day today, I had watched her navigate her neighbors, her friends, her grandmother, me, with unimaginable grace, despite her emotionally fragile state. She was generous with everyone—even Tim, who was plainly just trying to assuage his guilt—anyone could see that. I sighed, recalling the way he filled out his suit. Clearly there were benefits that came from continually hefting heavy tires. Still, it was a little hard to hate the man when his idiocy had placed Ivy squarely in my path. I still managed. He was too tall for my taste, too good looking, and a bit too humbled to inspire anything but annoyance. But worse, surely—he was waking up to what he’d done to the beautiful woman he’d walked away from.
Surely, he would want her back. How could he not?