Chapter 57. Micah
MICAH
Back in NYC. We need to talk.
My thumb presses the back arrow key. My unsent text disappears.
I’m not ready to see Brynn, though this pulsing thing inside my chest tells me otherwise.
She worried she’d be the joke at work if the team found out about us.
She must know by now I hold that title. My glorious mental breakdowns reside in Kershaw McKenzie infamy.
But I don’t care what they think of me. Like my fellow NAMI-ites, I didn’t choose this. Schizophrenia chose me.
I do care, though, what Brynn thinks. She makes me want to work on myself.
Get better. Group therapy left me feeling raw, yet anxious to reveal my secret to her.
Learning that others living with my psychosis have lovers and spouses turned the story I’ve been carrying on its ear.
I could have someone in my life. Maybe even someone like Brynn.
My feet turn up Bleecker Street before my mind follows.
The charged air of a Friday night in the Village surges with shiny, happy people.
Headlights stream at me, passing open-air restaurants and bars with couples dining inside and at sidewalk tables.
A guy on the corner plays his sax next to a karaoke speaker, some catchy Billy Joel song.
I dash up her steps, my hand outstretched. She could have someone with her. I yank it back like I’ve been stung. Finding out another guy’s up there with her would kill me. I step onto the street and gaze up at her window. No lights.
I wait near the curb. Seconds tick by, my resolve shrinking.
I wimp out and head back toward my house.
On cue, the crowd thickens around me.
Every cell in my body snaps to attention. My gut clenches like I’ll be jumped from behind before I can get to my door. The random shouting and raucous laughter, combined with the sweaty bodies on either side of me, escalate the pulsing in my throat.
Navigating Bleecker on a Friday night: huge mistake.
I walk in the street to create a buffer for myself. I gulp pockets of air, unable to take a full breath. I hold the oxygen in my lungs, gnashing my teeth. I plow through the crowd, entering the crosswalk, and clip some slow-walking tourist’s shoulder.
The guy flinches and stops in his tracks.
“Sorry.” I lift my hand.
“Asshole.”
Right back at you.
I call Dr. Val once I’m safe inside the house.
She takes a moment to turn on her video.
The pink and orange California sky behind her relaxes me, soothes my racing heart. My breathing begins to return back to normal. I help it along with a few audible exhales.
“Were you out run-ning?” She peers over her glasses.
“Something like that.”
“Oh?”
“You’re looking at a proud participant in NAMI’s Hearing Voices Support Group.”
“Oh, Mi-cah. I’m so glad you went!” She beams her gummy smile and adds a flexed hand clap—not an easy feat for her.
“Better than I expected,” I admit. “I may go back.”
“Look who’s learn-ing to trust. Shar-ing your stor-y with o-thers. The old Mi-cah would have re-sist-ed. I’m proud of you.”
The Woman in Black rests her backside on the arm of the yellow couch. She switches her combat boot to the other knee as she listens in, her arms crossed, head down.
Dr. Val leans back on her headrest. “Post E-C-T and start-ing the new med-i-ca-tions, I need you to log your symp-toms so we can track your pro-gress, in-clud-ing how oft-en you’re see-ing your moth-er and other hal-lu-cin-a-tions.
. . and an-y ep-i-sodes of pa-ra-noi-a you’re ex-per-i-enc-ing . . . like this last one.”
“How’d you know?” I give her a weak smile.
“I have a con-fess-ion, Mi-cah.”
“You’re surveilling me?” I tilt my head, smiling.
She clears her throat. It tumbles into a cough that won’t stop. Her body starts rocking in fits. Her face draws tight. She releases a faint, high-pitched cry.
“Are you okay?” Shit.
Her bird hand flies all over the place.
I run my hands along the couch and floor for my phone. “I’ll get help.”
“A mo-ment of hon-es-ty,” she wheezes. “And look what hap-pens.” She pulls her bird hand firmly into her lap. Seconds drag. Her coughing takes time to teeter off. Her stillness resumes.
“You alright?” The boulder in my throat remains lodged in place.
“When you asked a-bout my re-la-tion-ships and trust-ing peo-ple . . . it pissed me off.”
I hang my head. Tonight’s been a lot.
“I’m not say-ing this to make you feel bad. I know you were look-ing out for me. I’ll let you in on a se-cret . . . I talk a big game . . . but I have-n’t been in a re-la-tion-ship in a long time. Some-thing I need to work on.”
“You, Dr. Val?”
“Yep. Like you, I’m hu-man.”
“So, no sex tips?”
Laughter ripples from her chest. She presses her head back into her headrest, beaming.
I sigh, smiling at her jovial return and the fact that she trusted me with a secret.
“I got you, Dr. Val. I got you.”
After our call, I pull out my notebook and review the letter I’ve been working on since I got back into the city.
I lose interest in most things pretty quickly, except writing.
I could write all day and night. My dad calls them stories.
The truth is, I’ve been composing love letters to my mom since I was eight.
Back then, I imagined her to be a badass superhero, one who needs to be away from home to make the world a safer place. My embarrassing teenage rants filled up later notebooks, until my psychosis reared its ugly head and my writing came to a halt.
It wasn’t until I met Dr. Val that I started again.
She helped me get back to my word-collecting and prose-streaming ways, restoring the temporary peace they bring me.
I’ve never shown anyone my writing outside of Brynn that weekend.
A big step for me. Words come out better on paper for me than they do from my lips.
I’d hoped showing her would bring us closer.
I think she needs to know my story to fully understand.
I start my letter: Dear Mom, It’s rude to eavesdrop on my life. The Woman in Black smiles and lays her head on my shoulder.
I fill up the pages with my anger and love for her.
It’s confusing, for sure. I hate her for leaving me and effing everything up.
Still, I can’t help loving her for giving up her life for mine.
If she had lived, maybe my dad would have stuck around to raise me.
Then again, they could have fallen out of love and divorced like my grandparents.
Perhaps my fantasies of her don’t come close to reality. I’ll never know.
I fall asleep as soon as I close my eyes.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but I know I just slept better than I have in a long time.
The Woman in Black is gone.
She’ll be back, I’m sure—after she fights some crime.