21. Nicola
Nicola
The hum of lawn mowers outside wakes me. Downstairs, Emmy must be making toast. I wince, thinking of my daughter alone with her—Martha. She’s still nearby.
My esophagus burns, and my stomach feels sour.
There’s something lurking in my awareness that makes me feel uneasy, but I can’t recall precisely what.
Moments later, I remember: Martha sold my engagement ring.
Fuck! How did I not notice until now? I sit up and feel the empty place on my ring finger, the subtle indentation of the lines from where it was.
Instinctively, I reach for an Imitrex and my morning Topamax, but then I remember.
Thanks to Martha, they’re all gone, too.
No more pills. I hear her in the back of my head, nails tapping on a window. We’re done with that, Nicola. Done. Done. Done.
My hands clamp over my ears, and her voice disappears into the recesses of my skull. A slight throb in my temple emerges, like her fingers pressing on me from within. I get ready and dress quickly—8:45 a.m. I need to get all the way down to Wilshire before it’s too late. Before she comes back.
Downstairs, I hug Emmy and try to leave before she has a chance to ask me anything. She looks up at me from her laptop with big, concerned eyes. “You okay? You look freaked out …”
“I’m not freaked out. I’m fine.”
You don’t seem fine.
My head twitches at the sound of her voice coming through so strongly. Emmy doesn’t notice. I breathe a quick sigh of relief.
“I was worried we didn’t have the money,” Emmy says, chewing.
“What?”
“You threw away all your pills. I was worried we didn’t have the money to replace them.”
The money. The money. Right, we didn’t have the money. Until Martha sold my ring.
“Did you get a new job?” Emmy asks.
“Not yet. I will, though.” My armpits start to sweat. The unbearable itch of Martha beneath me is constant now. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Are you going to Dr. Constance?”
I start to answer, but Martha interrupts me. No. You’re done there. Things are changing, Nicola. Try to keep up.
Emmy stares at me while I think of what to say. Damn you, Martha.
“I’ll be home later, and we’ll talk about everything.”
Emmy makes a face. “Ew, that sounds bad.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Emmy rolls her eyes and replaces her headphones. “If you say so.”
I park on the road adjacent to Wilshire, feed the meter, then head into the office building, the fog of last night still distant and strange, like a half-formed dream.
As I turn and head into the lobby, I catch myself in the reflection of the mirror and stop for a moment, noticing my tired, skinny frame, the weakness that’s formed in my limbs, the slight, stooped position I now walk with. Martha pokes at me.
Do you see now? I had to come.
“Go away,” I whisper low enough so that no one hears me. “Not today.”
Her voice burns in the chamber of my throat. You can’t keep me back now. Look at you. You know this is right. You need me. Emmy needs me. We have to fix things, don’t we, Nicola?
“Everything was fine. We were doing fine.”
But you weren’t. You were one bad day away from a total breakdown. Admit it.
“It’s not true.”
I turn and notice the security guard behind the desk staring at me. A woman brushes past me, giving me a concerned glance. I quickly dart to one of the open elevators, willing Martha to be quiet.
For a few moments, I try to keep my thoughts from her, but Martha is so close now. I get the chilling sensation that she hears everything I think, even though I’m getting only a tiny bit from her. The balance is all wrong.
Inside Constance’s office, a woman with headphones rocks back and forth in her chair, saying, “It’s gonna be okay,” over and over under her breath.
A man in dirty clothes sits next to an old woman with a walker decorated like it’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
I wait in the chair furthest from the door, my feet positioned on either side of the large reddish-brown stain in the carpet. Grape juice? Vomit? Blood?
The door parts, and I hear someone else’s name, but I bolt up anyway and tell Silvia, “It’s an emergency.” She takes one look at me and doesn’t argue. Back I go into her office, the AC blasting, and the scent of stale plants and old furniture overwhelms me. Dr. Constance ushers me in and sits.
“Nicola, you look very upset. Tell me, what is going on?”
I swallow, thinking of what to say. Don’t do anything stupid, Martha instructs.
My head shakes involuntarily, and Dr. Constance watches.
“I’m having some kind of a crisis here …”
Constance’s brow narrows. “What do you mean by crisis?”
“I feel like I’m losing control.”
She pulls my file and notes something down. “Losing control, how?”
My leg pricks with numbness and sends a shooting pain of electricity down the back of my leg. “Of everything. My life. My thoughts. Myself.”
“How are you losing control of yourself, Nicola? Can you give me an example?”
Martha pokes me. She will think you’re crazy. And you know what happens to crazy people.
“Right,” I agree and stop myself. I feel a bubble of shame starting to form around me. No one can know about this. No one. “Someone took all my medication,” I blurt. “I need my medication, Dr. Constance.”
Constance frowns, looking rather irritated. “What happened to your medication?”
“I just told you. Someone took it.”
“Someone like Emmy?”
“No. Not Emmy. I don’t know, but it’s gone, okay?”
“You’ve been robbed, then?”
A low grunt escapes me. “It’s not like that. It’s my fault. I lost track of it. It’s just gone.”
“Nicola. What you are saying isn’t making sense.”
“I lost it, okay? And I need to get more. But my prescriptions … I need new prescriptions.”
“I hate to point this out, but it’s important you understand: you are more anxious than usual. Agitated even.” She notes something down and stares at me with interest.
“I am. Yes, to tell you the truth, I’m very agitated. I’m anxious. I’m depressed. I’m scared …”
Constance frowns. “Scared? Do you feel that you may hurt yourself or someone else?”
I shrug uselessly.
Not a good answer, Martha warns.
Constance continues writing something in my file, waiting for me to elaborate.
My stomach churns. I pinch the bridge of my nose, focusing the pain into the tips of my fingers.
I dig into my purse for the Imitrex I didn’t take at breakfast. But, of course, I come up empty.
A sense of panic runs through me. How can I function without it?
“I didn’t come here for a session, Dr. Constance. I need more pills. For the migraines. It’s an emergency.”
“Your doctor must prescribe that. I’m not a physician.”
“Yes, but I don’t have time to wait for an appointment. I need them now. Today. Immediately.”
“Are you in physical pain?”
“Yes! And it will get worse if I don’t take them. They’re preventative. I need them.”
“I can send you over to urgent care.”
My temple throbs as I stare at her. Urgent care took hours last time. The thought of waiting brings forth a new stab of pain behind my left eye. “I can’t wait.”
Constance leans forward and folds her hands across the table. “You see, that’s what concerns me, Nicola. Your urgency for the pills. It suggests a dependency. And your PTSD and panic attacks have been getting worse. These are warning signs. Do you understand that?”
Somewhere deep inside me is a kernel of recognition that I should be remembering something important. But I can’t.
“The pills help me function,” I say to her. “I need them.”
She stares at me, contemplating a response. “I will ask my colleague to write you a temporary prescription as long as you will do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
She leans back, apparently pleased with herself. I can feel the heat of the sun rising against the glass. In the park across the street, a homeless woman rummages in a trash can near the bus stop.
“I would like you to talk about your father.”
My arms tense. A trickle of sweat forms under my breasts and down my back despite the AC. “What do you want to know?”
“What emotions do you associate with your father?”
I don’t have to think about it. The answer lives with me. “I hate him. I’ve always hated him.”
She pulls another piece of paper from a folder and continues scribbling.
“And why do you hate him?”
“He was abusive. A drunk, too, if you want to know.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before.” Dr. Constance stops and looks at me. “But there was something else, wasn’t there? Your father suffered from mental illness. Panic attacks. PTSD. And the thing your family called ‘his sickness.’ Do you remember?”
I remember. Of course I remember. How could I forget the thing that haunted my childhood?
“Is that why you’re angry?”
“I appreciate the deep dive and all, Dr. Constance, but this isn’t about him. Something is happening to me, and I need help.”
Constance’s face scrunches. “I am trying to help you, Nicola. But I can’t if you don’t want to face the truth.”
“What truth?”
She notes something down. “You are self-reporting to be anxious and depressed and showing signs of paranoia.”
“Paranoia?”
“Yes. And you are experiencing an increase in panic attacks and worsening PTSD symptoms. You are not taking care of yourself. These are the warning signs of psychosis. Do you understand why that might be a concern, given your family history? Given your father’s history?”
“My father wasn’t psychotic. He was just a bad father.”
“A bad father with his own demons, as you once told me.” She pauses, staring at me. “What did you mean by demons, Nicola?”
Careful, Martha warns.
“Look, I’m trying to take care of myself,” I tell her. “That’s why I came in here. I am trying, but it’s not all up to me.”
“What does that mean?”
I slam my hand down, starting to feel heat rising in my belly. “I told you! I’m totally out of meds. I have no idea where they are, but they’re gone. All of them. I need a prescription, and I need it now. I need to get my thoughts in order.”