21. Nicola #2
“Nicola, I’m not able to prescribe you anything. I can have my colleague do it. But I need to understand. What happened to your medication?”
My body bolts forward. “How the hell should I know? It’s just gone. All of it. I don’t know what she did with it!”
A deep jab into my ribs. Stop!
“You said Emmy didn’t take your medication.”
I think for a second and collect myself. “Yes. She did. She must have. Okay?”
She writes more. My temples throb. The AC hums even louder, and I feel the chill of the cool, artificial air on my arms. It could easily be 50 degrees in here right now. If I could throw myself out the eighth-floor window into the fresh air, I would.
“When your father killed himself, what happened to your family?”
“I told you this before. Things fell apart. My mother got depressed and started smoking again. My sister developed an eating disorder. And I was … I was fine. I was the strong one, you know? And my father was selfish. He took what he wanted and left us all to rot. When I was eighteen, I left home, and I haven’t bothered to go back since, okay? ”
“People who commit suicide are not well people. They are mentally ill. They need help,” says Constance. “Do you see that?”
“I see that he was a monster.”
And he had to be stopped.
My hand claps close to my left ear, as if swatting a fly.
Dr. Constance flinches at my movement.
“We don’t see mental illness because oftentimes, it is invisible until it becomes visible.”
A tingle at the back of my neck. Martha’s nails scratch at my insides. She’s right, you know.
“Fair enough. But people have a responsibility to seek help for their condition. Especially if they have kids. My father never did that. He went right on living until he couldn’t anymore, and now, here we are.”
“Here we are,” says Constance. “Do you see that your life now, after the loss of Ben, is very similar to your family’s experience after your father died?”
“Not really, Dr. Constance. My dad had his problems, okay? He lost control over his life and had to end it.”
She stares at me, letting the words sit idly in the air between us.
Constance writes something, then puts her pencil down and folds her hands. “And do you worry that you will be the same? That your father’s sickness may become yours, too?”
My throat tightens. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Really?” Constance probes. “What do you think Ben would say about all of this?”
I feel my palms moisten. I don’t talk about Ben. It’s a rule I have.
I want to tell Constance the truth, that the reason I can’t talk about Ben is that I’m too broken, and I’m too angry, that if I have to utter his name or conjure his face one more time …
things start to happen inside me. I hear his voice.
I see his expression. I feel his heart beating through his tee shirt, my ear pressed to his chest, listening to it slowing.
I want to tell her that if I talk about Ben, I will lose my mind.
That my world will fall apart, and my one true reason for living—our beautiful Emmy—might not be enough anymore.
If I tell her this, I worry she will become afraid of me, that she will have me locked up and medicated.
She will take away my child. If I tell her how I lost my will to live after the accident, she surely won’t let me see Emmy again.
And the worst thing of all, I fear Martha and what she will do this time.
“I don’t want to talk about Ben.”
I stare at the ground. Martha starts scratching again. You need to get better at lying, sweetie. You need to get better at a whole lot of things. Or is that why you brought me here to begin with?
“I have to go,” I say. “I’m not feeling very well.”
Constance’s eyelids flutter. “That’s okay.” She writes something on a notepad and hands it to me. “Call this number so you can see my colleague next week for your medication.”
Next week. May as well be next year.
“I told you, I need it now. Right now.”
She shrugs, an air of resignation in her. “It’s the best I can do.”
I take the slip of paper, and I head out past all the other patients. Silvia squeezes past me in the narrow hallway.
Once I’m in the elevator, I feel Martha start pricking again at the back of my neck. You wanted to tell her about me, didn’t you?
I say out loud. “Of course I didn’t.”
Well, I think you wanted to. You can’t do that, Nicola.
I slap the back of my neck where I think Martha will feel it. It’s relieving to hit her. To keep her at bay. She disappears for a moment, and there is quiet. All I hear is the ding of the elevators and the sound of the tiny box moving eight floors to the ground.
At home, I find Emmy making grilled cheese sandwiches in our old panini press. She looks up at me, holding a packet of cheese.
“I thought you didn’t eat that,” I say, pointing to it.
“It’s vegan,” she says, holding it out to me.
“Sounds fantastic,” I mutter and start rummaging through the cupboards and drawers, searching.
“What’s gotten into you?” Emmy asks.
“I’m out of meds. I need more.”
“But you threw them all away.”
“I know that,” I say under my breath. “I made a mistake.” The pounding in my temple is creeping forward, sneaking under my eye. It’s happening fast now.
Pounding.
Sickness.
Days without light.
I check the stash of junk in the far-right kitchen drawer, the bottom of my old purse in the closet, and a jacket pocket from last winter, still stuffed with tissue—jackpot! A small plastic baggie filled with two Imitrex. This will buy me a day, maybe more.
I sit on the barstool while Emmy serves me a toasty brown sandwich and brings me a glass of water. Down the hatch. I swallow the two Imitrex whole but push the plate of food away.
Emmy takes a ketchup bottle from the fridge and squirts a puddle onto my plate. The smell and color make my gut roll.
“Where were you last night?” she asks, putting another sandwich on the griddle.
I clear my throat and feel the heaviness of the Imitrex taking hold, the blinding stab in my temple fading to a dull, warm ache.
“You were gone last night. You missed dinner, remember? After CelebrityStalkShow.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Mom? Where were you?”
“I had something I had to take care of, Em. Me and a friend.”
“Wow, that’s freaking vague.” Emmy opens the panini machine too soon, the sandwich still not done. She slams it back down, making a loud clang.
“Yeah. It is. Just leave it alone, Emmy, okay?”
She rolls her eyes, but not in a pissy way—in a hurt way.
“So did you go to that restaurant where Jason Redfern was?”
“No.”
Careful.
“No. And don’t talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Why? Did something happen?”
I reach out and grab her hand. I pull her toward me across the counter. “Look at me,” I tell her. “Stop asking about it, okay, Em?”
Emmy nods slowly. Her eyes brighten. “You went, didn’t you?”
“I’m not going to discuss it, Em, okay?”
Her eyes grow bigger. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I told you. Please, just leave it.”
“Did you see him? Did you see his wife?”
Keep her out of this.
“Emmy, please …” I beg her.
“What were they like?”
“Em, stop!” My fist comes down hard on the counter. So hard, I don’t think it’s my fist. In fact, I know it isn’t mine. It’s Martha’s.
Damn, Emmy. Look what you did.
I climb off the stool. No. She climbs off the stool. She takes the plate of grilled cheese and hurls it at the wall, the plate smashing behind Emmy’s head.
“Mom, stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
Emmy’s cries are distant now. Martha squirms through like a cockroach beneath a doorjamb. She’s so quick, so relentless. Emmy screams, and I know it must be loud because of the look on her face. I know I’m scaring her, but there’s nothing I can do.
It isn’t me anymore. I feel myself sinking back into that black space where I can’t be a part of anything, where the world is not mine anymore, and life continues on without me.