Mercy Strongheart's Blog

A large arm wraps around me and pulls me close into a warm body that smells like pine trees and sweat.  Jamal spoons up to me from behind.  I smile, remembering the night before.  I breathe in the smell of him and press my back against his skin.  It was a good night.  Still, there is something that nags at me, like a faint voice repeating an urgent message, warning me that this familiarity might not be what it seems.  I push it out of my mind and turn my head to look at Jamal.  

His eyes are open but sleepy.  He smiles at me and kisses my cheek.  “Good morning,” he murmurs, and wiggles against me.

It’s pretty clear by now that we like each other.  A lot.  I’ve found this kind of matched adoration only a few times in my life.  It’s usually one person liking the other more, like David with me, and I with Sean.  Shut up, brain, those men aren’t supposed to be here.  This is time for Jamal.

“Good morning,” I answer, feeling a little bit shy.  Morning face, morning breath, morning hair.  I wonder if mascara is streaked around my eyes, and if my hair looks cute and tousled, or like a startled wild animal.  Jamal looks the same as last night, just sleepier and sexier.  In my bed.  

I roll over so we can kiss.  “Is my breath bad?” I ask.  He shakes his head.  His isn’t great, but it doesn’t matter.  Probably what he’s thinking about me, too.  “I’ll be right back.”  I climb over him and go to the bathroom, wondering what I look like from behind, naked.  

Giving my teeth a quick brush in the bathroom, I see my bottle of quetiapine on the counter.  I quickly shove it in the medicine cabinet, behind a cluster of bottles.  I hope he didn’t see it last night.  Speaking of, I didn’t take my quetiapine last night and feel noticeably more alert this morning.  I’m so tired of the grogginess.  I look at myself frankly in the mirror.  I haven’t weighed myself, but I’m sure I’ve gained ten pounds in the five weeks I’ve been on this medicine.  Am I less depressed?  It’s really hard to gauge that right now, as I feel over the moon about Jamal.  I’ll call Dr. Kim this week.  Tomorrow, maybe.

I crawl back into bed.  “What do you have to do today?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, and gives me a squeeze.

We spend the morning in bed.  I don’t think about my depression, I don’t think about work, I don’t think about Covid-19 (as this virus has been named).  I just think about Jamal, about his body and the way he looks at me, about all the little mysteries I want to uncover.  How does he drink his coffee?  What’s his middle name?  Does he like to dance?  Does he want to get married?  Have kids?  Does he want a serious relationship?  

After I’ve made us coffee and we are sitting up in bed, watching shadows of clouds sway across the basketball court out the window, I ask my most burning question.  “Why did you become a cop?”

He laughs.  “That’s what you want to talk about right now?  Wow, this really is a big deal for you!”

“It’s not really.  I mean, I don’t think it is.  I’m just curious.  You really don’t seem like a cop,” I say.

“OK.  Well, what’s a cop supposed to be like?”

“I don’t know.  Big, tough, macho…dumb.”

He laughs and puts his hands up, mock defensively.  “Don’t hold back!  So I’m not big and tough, but police officers are dumb and macho.  Ouch!”  

“You know what I mean.  Cops are violent!  You seem so sweet and gentle.  You seem more like a teacher, or a social worker or something.”

“That’s funny.  I almost went to social work school.  And I do teach basketball to kids, so you’re not far off.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, through the Boys and Girls Club.  I volunteer there with the police.  We also run the Sunshine Division, maybe you’ve heard of it?  We give food, money and clothing to families.  We teach free self-defense classes to women and girls.  National Night Out?  That’s us.  Living room roundtables, safety zone, youth forums, all-star fanfest, shop with a cop, neighborhood outreach—”

“OK!” I interrupt, laughing.  “I get it.  Cops do a lot of cool things.  I didn’t see that as much in New York.”  I’ve hurt his feelings a little, I can tell.  I reach over and rub his arm.  He is quite muscular, but still seems too lean and sprightly to be a cop.  “I can tell that part of the job means a lot to you.”

“It does!  Look, I know there are problems with the police.  I’m not dumb, like you seem to think all of us are.  I just think we get a bad rap.  We do a lot of good, and I see part of my job as keeping the police force moving in a positive direction.”

“All right.  Thank you for telling me all that.”  I take a sip of coffee and study his face.  “So is that why you became a cop?  To do good?”

“Sort of.”  He scoots up against the pillows and cradles his mug.  “It’s kind of a funny story.”  He pauses and gives me a quizzical look, as if he’s not sure if he should tell me more.

“I’d like to hear it,” I say.  “I promise I’m not closed-minded.”

“OK.  When I was a kid, my dad was arrested.  For something he didn’t do.  And the cops beat him up pretty bad.”

My eyes widen.  This is not what I was expecting to hear.  “Was he OK?”

“No.  He wasn’t OK.  He got sent to prison, and spent ten years there.  He’s got a felony charge for the rest of his life.”

“Oh my god!  Jamal!”  I set my cup down and hug him.

“Yeah.  My whole childhood, he was in prison for it.  He didn’t get out until after I graduated from high school.”

“And you became a cop after that?”

“I know.  It seems weird, but I decided that I really wanted to make a difference.  I was so angry after he was arrested.  I hated the police!  I hated the judge, and the prison, the whole system and whoever it was that actually committed the crime and got away with it.  But then, after a while, that anger burned away and I had to really think about what had happened.”  He’s become more animated and starts thumping his palm with the other hand.  “I knew the police hadn’t really looked for the guy.  I knew my dad didn’t even match the witnesses’ descriptions.  I knew he got arrested because they just wanted to close the case and say they had caught the perpetrator.  And I knew that the police would never change unless people changed it from the inside out.  So that’s what I’m doing.  I’m changing things from the inside out.”

I smile.  It’s really sweet, what he’s saying.  But I know that my smile can’t hide the skepticism in my eyes.  Jamal must have more faith than I do in one person’s ability to make a difference in something so big.

“Wow,” I say.  “That’s really powerful.  How is your dad now?”

Jamal rubs his forehead.  “He’s…well, he’s mad I’m a cop.”  He laughs.  “But he’s good, he’s good.”

I nod.  I want to ask about his grandma, too, but I’m starting to feel like I’m giving him the third degree.  “I really like you,” I say instead.  I smile at him, and am immediately afraid that was too much.

But he says, “I like you, too,” and we snuggle back under the covers.

I’m a little relieved when we finally say goodbye that afternoon, and he makes the short walk home.  Being around him is causing such intense feelings in me that I’m exhausted after just a few hours with him.  And as much as I like Jamal, I am still holding up a facade of a healthier person, afraid he’ll see my cracks and flaws, and it only adds to the exhaustion.  But I am thrilled when we text each other to say good night, and I can’t stop the inevitable vision of the future that my mind is starting to build: Jamal and I falling in love, Jamal meeting Liz, meeting his family, us on vacation, getting married, with children.  I would never say any of this to him, of course, but the sweet fantasies lull me to sleep.

My phone dings the next morning.  Good morning, beautiful.  Open your door, texts Jamal.  On the doormat, there’s a little bouquet of white and purple crocuses that I think must be from his garden.  I text back a happy face and a heart, then send a photo of the flowers to Liz, who texts back OMG YES!!!!  Then I worry that the heart emoji was too much and obsessively check my phone for the next several hours. 

There is nothing quite like the rush of falling in love, and for the first time that I can remember, Liz and I are falling in love at the same time—she with Dr. Green, and I with Jamal.  All day, I am floating everywhere I go, happy to see every single person in the world.  I like everything and everybody.  I have become gorgeous and hilarious.  I’m sure that everything about me is absolutely lovable, seeing myself through his eyes.  And Jamal is constantly on my mind.  Every little thought of him fills me with satisfaction and excitement.  I review our conversations and dates.  I hear his laugh in my head, and feel his hands on my body.  To say I am distracted is an understatement.  I am walking around in my own private movie that only I can see.

I don’t think Liz is experiencing falling in love in quite the same way.  That evening, I go over for dinner, carrying my usual bouquet of flowers and loaf of fresh, store bought bread.  Liz is humming and smiling as she finishes making dinner.  Even Binky is commenting on it.  “What is going on with you?” she asks her mom, repeatedly, and each time Liz smiles and says, “I’m just happy!”.  But when she turns away I catch the tell tale signs of anxiety in her face—pursed lips that scrunch in and out, quick sighs, and the knitted brow.  I’m beginning to realize that I never understood just how deeply Genji broke her heart.  

I can’t stop myself from gushing about Jamal at dinner, until Binky is staring at me with a stone cold look of boredom on her face.  Her shoulders droop and she pointedly flops her fork up and down on her plate, looking straight at me.  Point taken.  To make up for it, I devote my time to playing with Binky after dinner, even putting my phone on silent so I’m not constantly imagining a hear a text come in from Jamal.

I have to keep myself from inviting Jamal back that night.  I long to see him again, to spend the night with him again, but I know from past experiences that it isn’t good for me to dive headlong into a relationship, even though it feels like every cell in my body is screaming to see him.  We text instead.  Every ding on my phone causes my heart to speed up and my chest to feel hot.  Finally I have to force myself to say goodnight, knowing that lack of sleep will likely cause some hypomania.  

I get up from the couch and make my way around the apartment, turning off the lights.  In the kitchen, something sharp stabs my bare foot.  I wince and lift my foot to see a sliver of blue glass.  That’s odd.  I don’t remember breaking anything.  I yank it out and go to throw it away, but when I lift the lid of the trash can I freeze.  A layer of blue glass glints up at me.  I’m sure I didn’t break anything.  

My heart begins to pound in my chest.  Quickly, I grab my phone and text Jamal.  

Did you break a blue glass when you were here?

After a moment, the three dots blink at me as he types.  It feels interminably long.

No, why?

I pause.  I’m sure he’s telling the truth.  It would be a weird thing to lie about.  I’m also sure that I’d have heard him break a glass, since my apartment is essentially one large room, the only door being to the bathroom.  I think long and hard for a minute.  Is there any way I could have broken the glass and don’t remember?

My hearing feels ultrasonic all of a sudden, and my muscles are tense, ready to jump into action.  It has occurred to me that I might not be alone.  I want to text Jamal and ask him to come over, but if nobody is here I’ll feel stupid.  Still, who broke the glass?  Could somebody from the property management company have come in?  But why?  I try to remember who has a key.  Liz, but I think that’s it.  I moved in here after Sean and I broke up, so he wouldn’t have one.  So me, Liz and my landlord.  

There are only a few hiding spots in my apartment, the first being the coat closet, where the fire extinguisher is, and I’ve already chosen it as my weapon.  If anyone is in here, they know I’m here and have been keeping quiet for a long while.  My phone dings.  It’s Jamal.

Is everything ok?

I hesitate, then text back.  Fine, sorry.

I open the front door and examine it.  No signs of forced entry.  I close the door and walk slowly to the coat closet, then quickly open it and grab the fire extinguisher, stepping back and raising it behind my shoulder so I can whack the crap out of someone’s head if they are in there.  But it’s empty.  I check all the other spots someone could be hiding, feeling braver each time, until I come to the tall wardrobe in my bedroom.  This is one of Binky’s favorite spots when we play hide and seek, and it’s a great hiding spot.  It looks tall and menacing in the corner.  Still, I walk over and throw the door open, jumping back.  It’s empty.

I sigh, relieved.  This is silly.  Who would come into my apartment, break a glass, throw it away, then leave?  It must have been somebody from the apartment company.  I’ve wondered before if they’ve come in while I’m not home, and I’ve heard neighbors speculate the same.  Now I start to feel angry.  That’s a violation of my lease!  I brush my teeth and go to bed, determined to call the office tomorrow and speak my mind.  

My phone dings with one last text from Jamal.

Ok well sweet dreams.

You too, I text back, with a sleepy moon face emoji.

…

I’ve forgotten about the glass in the morning, until I go downstairs for coffee and step on another blue shard.  Cursing, I sweep and mop the kitchen, then dial the number of the management office.  

A perky woman named KC answers, and I explain the situation to her.  I’m less angry than I was last night, but still very annoyed.  KC assures me that nobody entered my apartment.  

“OK, but how can you be sure?” I ask.

“Because maintenance doesn’t have keys for all the units.  They have to come get one from us, and nobody did.”  She is chewing gum and it pops into the phone.

“But couldn’t they have made a key at some point?  Or someone from the office could have come in?”

KC pauses.  “I mean, why would someone do that, though.  You know?”  Pop, pop.

She’s right, why would someone do that?  “OK, thanks.”  I hang up and my thumb hovers over my phone.  I take a breath and then text Jamal.

Can you call me when you have a sec?

I assume he’s working today, so don’t want to call.  Can cops use their personal phones while on duty?  He rings after a few seconds.

“Helloooo!” he sounds happy to hear from me.  I hear a radio crackle in the background.

“Hi.  Um, I’m sorry to bug you at work but…I think someone was in my apartment yesterday.”  I explain the broken glass and my conversation with the leasing office.

Jamal’s tone becomes very serious.  “I’ll be right over.  You’re sure you’re alone?”

“Yes, I mean, I slept here last night.  If someone wanted to murder me that would have been the time.”

“Mar, you should have called me yesterday!”

“I…” I’m not sure what to say.  I didn’t want to be the helpless damsel in distress.  I didn’t want to look like I was overreacting.  “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“OK, I’m just a few minutes away.  Hang tight.”

I hang up and start biting my thumbnail.  Of course there is the other reason I didn’t call Jamal yesterday—he might have been the one who came into my apartment while I was gone.

The post Chapter Eleven: Tumble appeared first on .

It’s Saturday, I think.  My eyelids feel like tiny bags of cement over my eyes.  Someone is beside me in bed.  I flop my hand over and feel a small arm laying atop a fuzzy stuffed fox.  Binky.  That’s right, it’s Saturday.  Binky spent the night.  We ordered pizza and watched a movie.  I force my eyelids open.  I really hate this drugged feeling I get from quetiapine.  Binky has claimed most of the bed over the course of the night, and I am one last push from falling off the edge.  

I roll out and go downstairs to heat up yesterday’s coffee.  I drink my coffee and survey the scene in my apartment.  The living room has been converted into a fox den, with blankets strung up from table to couch, pillows piled beneath, and the houseplants gathered in front of the den to shield it from wolves.  The table is covered in drawings, and popcorn kernels are strewn about the couch.  Yep, looks about right.  My small apartment is run over by Binky in just a few short hours, and it looks great.  Full of life and happiness.  I wonder again why I’m not sure if I want kids of my own.  I love it when Binky spends the night, it’s usually my favorite night of the week.  But I also feel ready to say goodbye when I drop her at Liz’s.  I feel energized and happy when she’s with me, but exhausted afterward.  Maybe this is how parents feel all the time.

I bring my third cup of coffee upstairs and settle with my laptop next to Binky to do some writing.  But first, I open my gratitude journal, which is becoming soft from regular use.  

February 29th – Leap Year!

I am grateful for –

1. Sleepovers with Binky

2. Coffee

3. My health

4. A warm place to live

5. A date with Jamal!!  

I smile and close my eyes, letting my mind drift to tonight.  I get to see Jamal again tonight, for a second date.  I’ve been trying not to think of him too much, not to get too excited, but that has proved impossible.  I feel like I’ve been floating about these past three days, humming, and periodically blushing when I remember his kisses.  I’m both eager and terrified to accidentally bump into him.  I’ve never dated a neighbor before.  I can see how living here could get awkward fast if things don’t work out.  Which they probably won’t, because statistics.  But still, those kisses, his smile.  I almost drift back to sleep thinking about him, but then my eyes fly open and I sit up.  I have to get my writing done now or I won’t get to it today.  

I try to write everyday.  Creatively, I mean.  One day a week is reserved for copywriting work, and four days a week are in the shop.  So my own writing happens in the mornings, and sometimes the weekends.  I’m writing what I hope will be a series of young adult books about an angsty teenager whose family keeps moving from town to town.  It’s fun, but more importantly, I hope it will sell.  My poetry notebook is gathering dust.  I actually haven’t seen it in a while and don’t know where it’s got to.  But nobody buys poetry.  If I want to be a real writer, make a living at it, then I have to write something commercially successful, I’ve decided.  Poetry can wait.

I click away, immersed in the story, and don’t hear Binky wake up.  I suddenly become aware of two large, dark eyes an inch away from the side of my face.  Binky scratches out her familiar greeting, meant just for me: “Poooooooop.”

I pretend to ignore her for a moment or two, and then I quickly slide my computer off my lap and pounce on her.  “Baaahhh!” I yell, eliciting squeals of delight.  

“Guess what?” I say.  “It’s leap year!  We have an extra day!  Nothing we do today counts.  We can do anything we want.”

“Ice cream for breakfast?”  Binky asks.

“Yep.”  I throw the covers off and she bounces out of bed behind me.

After an admittedly disgusting breakfast of banana splits, it’s back to the fox game.  I crawl around, burrowing under blankets at Binky’s command, pretending to hunt rabbits, hiding from the wolves.  Eventually, Binky wants to draw out the characters we’ve been playing, and I take the opportunity to pack things up for her return to Liz’s.  I hear someone on the basketball court and I force myself not to look.  

“That guy is back out there.  Let’s go say hi!” says Binky, who has moved to the window at the sound of the ball and is peering through the curtains.

“No!  Shhhh, get away from there,” I whisper-yell.  Binky gives me an odd look and lets the curtain fall, pointedly.  “Sorry,” I say, embarrassed.  “I had a date with him and don’t want to see him.  I mean, I do, but not right now.  I don’t want to see him spying on us.”

“I wasn’t spying,” Binky says.  

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I just don’t want him to see me before tonight.”  

Binky looks at me suspiciously.  Oh well.  I can’t set a good example all the time.  This is Mar the Coward, hiding in her apartment from the person she most wants to see.  When Jamal has left, I quickly usher us to the car.  Binky thinks it’s a game now and is running, crouched down, her sunglasses on.  We laugh and speed away to Liz’s.

We’re getting close to Liz’s house when I see something odd.  Someone is at her front door.  It’s a man, and he looks disheveled.  He’s holding clothes and saying something to Liz, who is at the door.  I slow down, watching the scene.  The man turns and I gasp loudly.  It’s Dr. Green!  He has clearly spent the night and Liz is rushing him out before we get there.  He’s holding his shoes and leans in to kiss her.  

“What is it?” Binky asks from the back seat, having heard my gasp.

“Nothing!” I say.  “There was a cat that ran into the road.”  I give a beep of my horn and put the car into reverse, slowly backing away.  Liz looks up and sees me.  Her eyes fly open and she shoves Dr. Green away from her.

“Where are we going?  Who are you honking at?” Binky asks, having seen nothing from the back seat

“I’m backing up so the cat can get away.  I gave it a little honk to scare it away.”  

Dr. Green, you sexy prowler cat!  Go Liz!  I give him time to get into his car and pull out of Liz’s driveway.  When he’s half a block away, I park in the driveway.  Binky hops out of the car and skips up the steps. 

“Binks!” I call, holding out her backpack.  She comes to take it and drags it behind her, dramatically, as if I’ve given her a steamer trunk to carry.  

I force us to take as much time as possible getting to the front door so Liz can prepare.  I know she’s going to be freaked out.  When we walk into the house she calls out, a little too merrily, “Helloooooo!”

“Mama!” cries Binky, and runs into the kitchen.

Liz is in her bathrobe, her hair up in a bun.  She has a huge smile on her face and her eyes are sparkling.  Her whole face is frozen in forced alertness, as if trying to look like she’s been out of bed for hours.

“Good morning!” I say.  “Did you have a good night?  Nice and restful?  Some alone time?”

Liz can’t look at me.  She dotes on Binky, who is unloading her drawings from her backpack, telling Liz about the cat we almost ran over.

“Big cat,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.  “Black fur, green collar.  Looked like he’d spent the night away from home.”

“He did?” Binky asked, concerned.

“No,” says Liz, tousling Binky’s hair.  “Mar is teasing you.”  

I smile at Binky.  “He looked very well taken care of,” I say, then eye Liz.  

Over Binky’s head I mouth the words Oh my God!, and Liz silently screams, shaking her head like her favorite band has come on stage.  I look down and see that Binky is watching us closely.  “What is going on?” she asks.

I feel bad lying to Binky.  I know that she picks up on so much, and I’m sure she can tell when adults lie to her.  But this isn’t my news to tell, and I know that Liz won’t want Binky to know about Dr. Green.  Yet.  

“We’re excited about my date tonight.  With Jamal.”

“Oh,” says Binky.  “The guy we hid from.”

“Yes.  Him.”  

Binky sighs.  “Grown ups are weird.”  

“Binky, do you want to watch a movie?” Liz asks.

“Yeah!  It’s leap year!  Nothing counts!” Binky yells, running out of the room to fetch Liz’s laptop.  

“New leap year tradition,” I say.  “We had banana splits for breakfast.”

“Thanks,” Liz says, sarcastically.  I shrug.

Binky comes back and flips the laptop open at the table.  She starts rattling off movie choices but Liz interrupts her.  “I need to talk to Aunt Mar, honey.  Can you pick something to watch by yourself in the living room?”

Binky frowns, clearly unhappy with that option.  But she takes the laptop into the living room and settles on the couch.  Liz and I sit at the dining room table.  

“You should get her a pet,” I say.  I feel bad for Binky being an only child.  Liz ignores me.

When we are sure Binky is engrossed in her movie, with her headphones on, Liz fills me in on Dr. Green.  They went out to what sounds like a very romantic dinner, then for drinks.

“Did you know he would spend the night?” I ask.  Liz shakes her head and covers her face.  “I can’t believe you slept with him on the first date!  Was the sex good?”

Her eyes grow wide and she nods.  “Really good.  And why can’t you believe I had sex with him?  People sleep together on the first date!  You do it all the time.”

“Yes, but that’s me.  I can’t believe you slept with him on the first date.  Do you think it’s going to ruin things?”  I’m thinking about Jamal three nights ago, turning him away from my door, literally and metaphorically.  

“No, I don’t,” she says.  “It wasn’t like that.  We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over these past months, at work.  We’re…friends.  It’s not like a dating website, where you literally just met someone.  Plus, it was really good sex!  It was like we already knew each other’s bodies.”  Liz’s cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright.  She looks ten years younger.

I quietly clap my hands.  “Liz, I’m so happy for you!  This is huge!  When’s your next date?”

“I don’t know.  It’s hard, with Binky.”

“I can take her for more sleepovers!  I can even come stay the night here with her.  She loves it.  I love it.”

Liz smiles.  “What about you?  Are you excited for tonight?”

I’ve already filled her in on all the details of my last date.  “I am,” I say.  “And nervous.  I keep trying to figure out why he likes me.  Wait ‘til you meet him, Liz.  He’s handsome and funny, and kind.  And grown up!  He’s not like anyone else I’ve gone out with.”

“You deserve all of that,” she says.  And for some reason, I believe her.

Liz showers while I snuggle with Binky and watch the end of her movie with her.  As I’m getting ready to go, Liz leaves the room and comes back with a 12-pack of toilet paper.  She hands it to me.  

“What’s this?” I ask.  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“So you don’t run out.”

I’m confused, and I eye Liz suspiciously.  She laughs.  “Haven’t you noticed the toilet paper hoarding?  Everybody thinks that, because of coronavirus, they’re going to be stuck at home with diarrhea for weeks on end.  Don’t hoard, but do take this.”

“OK,” I say.  “Hoarder.”

“Mar, Italy is heading into complete lockdown.  It’s not a joke.”

We’ve not spoken about this virus in a while, Liz and I.  I can see the stress move over her face as I take the pack of toilet paper from her.  Maybe I haven’t been taking this as seriously as I should.  I just can’t see what’s happening in Italy happen here.  America is too big.  

“Thanks, Liz.”  I smile and squeeze her shoulder.  “Have an awesome day!  I’m so happy for you.”

I can tell she’s remembering Gilbert Green as the stress shifts off her face and she smiles.

.   .   .

Jamal has kept it a surprise where we’re going.  He just said to dress “casual nice”.  I don’t know what that means.  To me, there’s dressed up clothes, regular clothes, and house clothes.  I choose my best pair of jeans and a dressier top.  I think “casual nice” must mean clean regular clothes.  I need to look these terms up.  He obviously cares more about fashion than I do.

He is picking me up tonight.  At six o’clock I hear his knock on the door.  I open the door and my heart quickens.  

“Hi,” we both say at the same time.  I’m standing in the doorway, not wanting to invite him in.  I’m not the world’s tidiest person, and the fox den is still sprawled all over the living room.  I see him glance past me, no doubt curious, as I am about his home.  

“Should we go?” I ask, closing the door before he gets too good a look.  We head to his car.  I wonder if it will be a police cruiser, but it’s just a car.  I climb in, surprised at how nervous I am.  A good kind of nervous.  

Jamal buckles his seatbelt and looks at me.  “Do you like jazz?”

“I do!  I do like jazz.”  I hope he doesn’t ask me more about it because I can probably only name two or three jazz musicians.  I can like jazz and not really know anything about it, right?

“Oh good,” he says and turns on the stereo.  It’s a hip hop station.  I consider joking that this isn’t jazz as we start to drive, but decide against it.  What if he really does think this is jazz?    

He asks about my day, and I tell him about Binky’s sleepover, and about Dr. Green sneaking out of Liz’s.  He laughs, delighted at the story.  Then I tell him about Liz giving me a big pack of toilet paper.

“I know!” he says.  “People are starting to freak out!  What is going on?”

“I guess I need to listen to the news more,” I say.  “I was totally out of the loop on this toilet paper thing.  But like, that’s not the problem with this virus, right?”

“I don’t think so.  I think people are more worried about not having essentials.  You know, for if things shut down like they are in Italy.”

“I think everyone is overreacting,” I say.

He nods.  “Me too.  Though someone died in Seattle yesterday.”  His eyes widen as he says this.

“Huh.  Wow.  Well, that’s one person.  I don’t think we need to be freaking out and hoarding toilet paper.”

“Exactly!  People are such over-reactors.”

We smile at each other, happy to be agreeing.  

Jamal drives us to an outdoor food cart pod.  We sit beneath big heaters that blast us with orange-lit warmth.  Before our food comes out he leans across the table to kiss me.  I have the same feeling of deep comfort, like I’ve known him for a long time.   

“So, let me ask you a question,” I say after our food arrives and I am trying to gather up the Thai Barbeque Mexican burrito that I am now regretting.  There is just no way I am going to be able to eat this without getting messy.   “What is your absolute favorite way to spend your time?  Like, a specific hobby or passion.”  I already know he’s going to say basketball.

“Just one?  Yeesh, that’s tough.  But, I mean, if you count watching and playing, it’s definitely basketball.”

“OK.  So God comes down and tells you that a person you’ve never met, on the opposite side of the globe, will die unless you give up basketball for the rest of your life.  What do you do?”

“What kind of question is that?  That’s terrible!”

“No, it’s not!  It’s just hypothetical.  Moral.  Like the people tied to the railroad tracks one.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know—a train is going to run over seven people who are tied to the tracks, but there is a lever, and if you pull the lever, you can make the train switch tracks where it will run over one person?  That question?”

“Well, that’s easy.  Pull the lever.  Save six people.”

“But then you will have murdered someone.”  

“Wait, what?”

“So if you do nothing, the train kills seven people.  If you interfere, you choose for that one person to die.”

“Oh, I get it,” he says, nodding his head.  “Interfering with fate.”  He says ‘fate’ rather sarcastically, which for some reason hurts my feelings.  “I would still pull the lever.  I can only assume that if I had time to ask that one person if they would sacrifice their life to save seven others, they would say yes.  I’d just have to think in the moment, decide who to save.  That’s it, Mar.”  He drums the tables with his fingers.  “You’re thinking about this like who are you gonna let die, and I’m thinking ‘who am I gonna save?”

“OK, fair enough.  For the record, I also choose to pull the lever.  But back to the first question.  Would you give up basketball—watching, playing, talking about it, anything—for the rest of your life in order to save a stranger’s life?”

“Who would say no to that?” Jamal asks.  “How can you weigh someone’s life against a hobby?”

“Is basketball a hobby to you?”

“No, it’s more than that.  But it’s not worth someone’s life, even if I’ve never met them.”

“OK.  What if you could know something about them, would that change your mind?  What if, for example, you knew they were a murderer sitting on death row.  Or what if they were incredibly old and not very nice?  Does that make a difference?”

“I mean, it might increase my resentment at giving up basketball, but no.  It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“Is there anything that would sway you?” I ask.  “What if they were a racist Nazi?  Or a serial killer?”

“This is almost a death penalty question.  But the death penalty is different because it involves a jury and a trial and careful consideration.  The thing is, I believe in the value of life.  I don’t think you earn worthiness through what you do or your character; I believe that just by being alive your life means something and is worth saving.  All life.”

I can’t help but smile at his beautiful answer.  It reminds me of Dr. Kim, my psychiatrist.  

“Now,” he says, crumpling up his paper napkin and tossing it onto his plate.  “Put me in a position of choosing between someone I love and someone else, and it’s no contest.  I will take you down if you mess with someone I love.  I don’t care.”  He puts his hands up in a position of innocence.  

We laugh.  

He glances at his watch.  “OK!  Come one, we gotta go!”  

We drive to a club I’ve never been to.  It’s small and cozy, but also new and hip.  The Portland Jazz Festival is happening, which is an annual event I always mean to get to but never do.  Jamal has timed it so we get a good table with a clear view of the stage.  

“Do you mind if I have a drink?” he asks.  I shake my head no, glad that he asked.  

We make small talk for a while, waiting for the music to start.  Our hands play with each other’s, intertwining and unraveling over and over.  Underneath the table, my knee has landed between his legs and he periodically slides his leg along mine in a slow, deliberate stroke.  My whole body is sizzling with heat and anticipation.  Once again, I feel myself becoming radiantly beautiful with his steady gaze upon me.  I’m surprised I’m not lighting this whole place on fire.

Drums start up, and we look over to see a young Black man at a drum set on stage, slowly tapping an increasingly elaborate rhythm.  Four other band members come out, pick up their instruments, and join in.

“They’re from New York!” Jamal says, and I can tell he knows I’ll appreciate that.  Watching them play, there is an edge to their presence that is lacking in Portlanders, a seriousness and determination.  I feel homesick watching them.

The music is incredible.  Dizzying.  The crowd is really into it, and people whoop and holler, which is more like New York than Portland.  I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off Jamal.  He looks so happy, dancing in his chair.  He grabs my hands and moves them to the music, furrowing his brow and pursing his lips.  I so badly want to leave my chair and straddle his lap, moving to the music with him.  I know right then that we are going to spend the night together, and I relax.

We stay until I feel drunk off jazz and the sweaty air, off my growing fervor for him, off his glowing eyes.  We make out all the way to the car and back to my apartment.  By the time we tumble inside, rolling in and out of each other’s arms, I don’t care about my messy apartment, or that I’ve grown plump from quetiapine, or that my sexy underwear don’t fit anymore and I’m wearing borderline granny panties underneath my dress.  I feel perfect when he looks at me, I feel gorgeous and pulsing with life.  His hands, his mouth, his voice, everything about him feels vastly familiar and like exactly where I’m supposed to be.       

The post Chapter Ten: Leap appeared first on .

I can hardly wait for Wednesday night.  By the time it rolls around I am a ball of nerves.  Brenna is on a video call, helping me choose my outfit.  We’ve narrowed it down to a blue dress, or jeans and a flirty yellow top.  

“It’s a first date, Mar!  You’ve gotta do it up a bit!”

I hold the blue dress up.  “I know, but what if I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“You want to look like you’re trying!  Sexy jeans for later dates.  Do the blue dress tonight.”

I put on the dress, do a little light makeup, and slip on some gold earrings, thankful I’ve ended the call with Brenna before she can consult me on makeup and jewelry.  I don’t want to shout into his face that I find him attractive and have boobs.  No offense, Brenna.

At seven o’clock I am stalling outside my front door.  David and Sean are two tiny ghosts circling my head, whispering that men only want to have sex with me and that it doesn’t even have to be me.  I unlock my door and go back inside.  I need to do a mini-exorcism.  

One thing I dislike about apartment living is that I can’t ever truly scream.  I bury my face into a couch cushion and scream into it.  “FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!”  I am screaming at Sean and David, screaming at them to back out of this date.  I don’t want them to be right.  I want to hold out hope that I can find a boyfriend who wants to connect on more than sex.  I stand up, double check my hair and makeup, and head out the door.

Jamal is waiting on the stoop outside his front door.  He is wearing a suit!  Well, a partial suit.  He’s wearing blue dress pants and a matching blazer with a t-shirt underneath.  He looks super handsome.  I’m really glad I didn’t go for jeans now.  We smile at each other as I open the gate and walk up the path. 

“Well hello!” he says, looking me over and nodding his head.  “You look fantastic!”  He sounds a little surprised, but I realize he has only seen me in the equivalent of sweat pants.

“You look very nice yourself,” I say, feeling awkward.  I take a deep breath and try to stand up tall.  I notice that our blue clothes match.  Is that weird?  Is it a sign?  I glance up at Jamal’s face and he is smiling.

“Shall we?” he asks, motioning down the walkway.

We start off in the direction of the restaurants.  There’s really only one nearby cluster of places to eat—a sandwich shop, a pizzeria, a sushi restaurant, the ramen place I went to with David, and a dive bar that sells greasy burgers and nachos.  It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date with someone who’s not from a dating website.  On those dates, we would already know each other’s favorite foods and favorite restaurants.  

“I feel like I don’t know anything about you,” I say.

Jamal laughs.  “You don’t!  But I’m an open book!  You can ask me anything.”

“Really?  That’s awfully trusting of you.  I could be a spy.”

He laughs again.  I like how easily he laughs.  “Sure, you could be a spy.  But you’re not.”

“How do you know?  I could be a really good spy.”

“Or a really bad one, if you’re this committed to telling people you’re a spy.”

I tap my temple.  “Reverse psychology.  Now you definitely won’t think I’m a spy.”  I’m nervous, and I can feel myself wanting to hide behind silly banter as long as possible.  I smile at him and try to be quiet.

“So what do you do for fun?” he asks.  I’m relieved that he didn’t start by asking me what I do for work.  I hate trying to answer that question.  

“I….” Oh God.  This is where my depression shows up to bite me.  Fun?  That’s a stretch.  I skip my bipolar meds so I can shop manically for a day and try to hook up with ex-boyfriends.  “Well, I spend a lot of time with my niece, who you met.”

“Binky.”

“Yes, Binky.”  He wants me to know that he pays attention, and that is hot.  If only guys knew that women have an entirely different criteria for what’s sexy, we could save ourselves so much heartache.  “I like to hike and go for bike rides, hang out with friends.  And I write.”  Mostly honest.  Brenna is the only friend I see with any regularity.  Except for Liz, of course.

“Wow!  You’re a writer?  What kinds of things do you write?”

“Poetry, short stories.  I’m working on a series for young adults.”

I love that he picked writing to ask about, out of everything I just said.  And I love that he asked what I write, not what I’ve published. 

“Young adult?  What does that mean?  Like, teenagers?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s cool!  I’d love to read your writing sometime, if you’d let me.”

“Sure!”  We haven’t talked about where we’re going to eat.  I’m just following Jamal’s lead.  He’s walking confidently and there’s something about him that makes me feel safe.  His smile is so warm, and I have an urge to shimmy up into his big arms.  I don’t follow the urge of course, thanks to my meds.  “So what kinds of things do you do for fun?” I ask.

This is a make or break moment.  With online dating, you know all this stuff ahead of time.  Or you know what the person has told you, at least.  They aren’t always honest, like when David wrote on his profile that he was a “staunch feminist”.  I wonder if some men think they are feminists but don’t actually understand what that means.  

I’m holding my breath a little.  What if Jamal says he plays video games all day?  Or is one of those people who dresses up like stuffed animals and goes to conventions with other stuffed animal people?  Furries, I think they’re called?  Actually, I think that’s a kink thing.  Probably not something you would say is a “hobby”.  I’ll find that stuff out later.  What if he has a weird kink?  I smile at Jamal.  Our hands are right next to one another’s.  I feel a tingle in the air between them.

“Let’s see,” he says.  “You already know that I play basketball.”

“Do you play it a lot?”

“I do.  A lot.  I play a lot of pick-up games, and have some buddies I play with.  I also like to watch basketball.”  

He grins at me.  I can tell this has been a sticking point in past relationships.  “That’s cool!” I say, honestly.  “You can teach me some more tricks.”

“Alright!”

“So is that all you do for fun?  Basketball?”

“No, I mean, I read.  I also like to ride my bike.”  He flashes me another grin.  He really seems to like me.  I catch myself wondering why.  Ugh.  Shut up, brain.

“Oh?  What do you read?”

“Young adult literature.”

“What?  Get out of here.”

He laughs.  “I do now!”

I give him a playful shove.  We are getting close to the sushi restaurant.  I consider making a joke that I’m allergic to seafood, but decide against it.  I don’t want to do anything to make him feel insecure.  This is going so well.  

Someone has left their recycling bins on the sidewalk.  Jamal steps aside so I can fit through.  My body brushes against his as I pass by.  I glance up and he raises his eyebrows at me, smiling.  My heart speeds up.

We reach the restaurant and pause outside.  “So, do you like sushi?” he asks, then laughs.  “I should have asked you a while ago.”

“I love it,” I say.  “I could tell where we were going.”  He opens the door for me and I step inside.

The next two hours are amazing.  We have no problem finding things to talk about.  He actually does read (some people say they do, but in reality haven’t opened a book in years), and even though it’s mostly science fiction, which I usually avoid, I love that he spends time reading.  He’s funny, and our chemistry is through the roof.   I relish each moment that our knees come close beneath the table.  Throughout the meal our hands move closer atop the table, bit by bit, until our fingers are close enough for him to tap mine when I make him laugh particularly hard over a joke about Portland culture.  

I learn that he grew up in Portland, and went to school in Philadelphia on a basketball scholarship.  He seems happy to find out that I grew up in New York, and has been to the city many times.  He’s been single for about a year, but has been trying to get out and date more.  He’s never done online dating and is weirded out that anyone would meet someone in person from the internet.  He has one sister, and a nephew, who live on the other side of town.  I want to ask about his grandmother, but haven’t found the right moment.  He wants to know about me, and I don’t feel shy telling him.  I feel like we’ve known each other for a while, like I’m sitting with an old friend.  I tell him that.

“I know what you mean!” he says.  “I feel so comfortable with you, so relaxed.”  His hand slides up over mine and he brushes my skin, then pulls away self-consciously.  “See?” He laughs.  

I’m blushing.  My whole body felt zapped with electricity with his hand over mine.  “So, why did you ask me out?” I say.

“What?!” He sets his drink down and grins at me, incredulously.  “You asked me out, remember?  The note?  That you broke into my house to leave?”

“Oh yeah.”  I feel myself turning red.  

“Why did you ask me out?” he says.  

“Um, because you’re gorgeous and have an incredible smile.  And I liked how you took the time to teach my niece a cool basketball trick.”

“OK!  Well, I’m very glad you asked me out.”

I smile.  I have had a growing question, throughout the meal, of why he would go out with me.  He seems…well, out of my league.  

As if reading my mind he says, “I think you’re gorgeous too, Mar.  And you have something about you, like a sincerity.  You seem like a very genuine person.  I could see that right away about you, and it’s not very common.”

“I know what you mean,” I say.  “I like that about you, too.”

“Do you want to walk up the street to get a drink?” he asks.  The bill arrives and he shooes my hand away when I reach for my wallet.

“I don’t drink,” I say.  Another make or break moment.  I don’t care if my date drinks, but I don’t want to date a frequent drinker.  I’ve discovered that many people don’t like dating non-drinkers.  “I’m fine if you drink, though.  And I actually really like bars.  It’s good people drinking.  I mean, people watching!”  

We laugh.  “That’s OK,” he says.  “I don’t drink very much, and I actually rarely drink on a weeknight.”  His hand is back on the table, resting next to mine.  He brushes his fingertips against mine.  “I’m not ready for this date to be over, though.”

I work hard to keep my smile from taking over my whole face.  “Me neither.”  

We are quiet.  The unspoken question is whether one of us should invite the other over.  He lives with his grandmother, so going there seems odd.  I doubt his grandmother wants his dates coming over the first night they go out.  Or maybe she does.  Maybe she wants to vet them.  Inviting him to my place is too risky.  I don’t want to sleep with him right away.  It ruins things, I know it does.  I’ve made that mistake more than once.  But it’s cold outside, and there isn’t any kind of a late night tea house or cafe in the neighborhood.  

“Want to just go for a walk?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says.  He nods his head decisively.  This is the best plan, he seems to be thinking.

We walk West, toward downtown.

“This is my jogging route,” Jamal says.  I haven’t been able to help but notice that he’s incredibly fit.  

Suddenly, I think of Ahmaud Arbery, the Black man who was shot while jogging three days ago.  I don’t know why he springs into my head, but I open my mouth to say something about him and then think better.  Why would I bring that up, I wonder?  And why wouldn’t I bring that up?  In Manhattan, I grew up around Black people.  I had lots of Black friends and boyfriends, but it’s different here.  We never talked about race growing up, except to joke around about it.  When I’d go over to my Black friends’ houses and neighborhoods, I’d get teased for being white.  When they came over to mine, they’d be teased for being Black.  That was it.  We all understood what was meant by it, what was behind the teasing.  The danger of race, of racism, always hanging in the air, never directly acknowledged but danced around, like a shadowboxer, taking little jabs to keep it on its feet but also in its corner.  

Here, in Portland, race is this weighty thing that is either completely ignored, like it doesn’t exist, or discussed in heavy conversations.  It’s a huge bag dragged around by the mostly white city, unopened, talked about in hushed tones, what should be done with it.  I think it’s because of this that I’ve largely stopped talking about race at all.  Something is missing for me because of that.  Something that would have been fun and easy on a date like this, it’s gone.  I no longer feel like I can acknowledge out loud that Jamal is Black and I’m white.  Bringing up Ahmaud Arbery would do that, would mention our difference.  I feel surprisingly sad about this.  

Without thinking, I reach over and slip my hand into Jamal’s.  He gently squeezes my fingers and smiles, looking down at his feet as we walk.  We walk a while in silence.  It’s a cold and clear night.  A train rattles by as we near the tracks, whistling loudly to warn the city of its arrival.  Jamal stops and pulls me to face him.  I know he’s going to kiss me.  He smiles and strokes my cheek with his curled hand, his thumb.  I smile back and give a little nod.

He kisses me softly, then harder.  His hands reach around my back and pull me toward him, wrapping me in his arms.  It feels so safe in here.  We kiss for a long several minutes, the train rushing by.  He smells like cologne, a shiny, spicy smell.  I pull away, feeling suddenly shy, and he chuckles.  He turns us around and we start walking back.  We exchange shy smiles as we walk, our fingers interlaced.

“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks.

I pause, trying to remember what day it is.  I don’t want to think about work, or schedules.  I want to float along like this, just anticipating another kiss.  “Is it Wednesday?” I ask.  He nods and gives me a teasing frown.  I laugh.  “Yes, I work tomorrow.”

“Writing?  Or, in the shop?”

I love that he just acknowledged writing as a job.  I normally have to fight for that designation.  “In the shop,” I say.  “You?”  

He nods.  I suddenly realize that I still don’t know what he does for a living.  How did we come this far in the date without this coming up?  I’m slightly proud of myself.  I mean, it’s important to me, what he does, but really there’s so much else that I care more about.  His personality, his values, how he spends his free time.  How people spend their free time says so much more about them.

“What is your job?” I ask.

Jamal laughs.  “I was waiting for this to come up.”  He pauses, walking a little slower.  “I’m a police officer.”

I stop walking.  I can’t help it.  “You’re what?  You’re joking.  You’re a cop?”

He’s laughing.  “I knew it would freak you out!  That’s why I didn’t tell you right away.”

“It doesn’t freak me out.  It just…surprises me.”

“In a good way or in a bad way?”

We’re walking again.  He’s not smiling anymore.  I squeeze his hand.  He squeezes back.  

“Neither,” I say.  But that’s not quite true.  “It’s not good or bad.  It’s just…I’ve never dated a cop before.  It’s not something I would seek out.”

“So it is bad.”

“No!” I protest.  I don’t know what to do.  Why is this an issue for me?  I think about my 10th grade boyfriend, pressed against the back of a police car.  He was the only one of us they went after, the only Black one, too.  We hated the police, growing up.  They prowled the city, a force to be avoided.  We hid when they passed by, or stopped our play, waiting and watching until they were gone.  They’d wave, sometimes they’d pull over to talk to us, see what we were doing.  They were supposed to make us feel safe.  And they did make my mom feel safe.  She liked having them in the neighborhood.  My stepdad, Ray, loves the police.  He’s friends with them, always happy to pander to and impress any cop he meets.  But they didn’t make us teenagers feel safe, especially us girls, and our Black and Brown friends.

“It’s just, you don’t seem like a cop,” I say, feeling dumb as I say it.  What is a cop supposed to seem like?  I realize that I’ve never actually known a cop.

“OK,” says Jamal.  He’s nodding his head encouragingly, like I’ve given him something he can work with.  “That’s fair.  To be honest, I don’t date typical women for an officer.”

“Oh, really?  What’s a ‘typical’ woman?”

“Just, I mean, I like more artsy girls.  Like you.  Quirky.”

I look into his face.  He’s being sincere.  Nothing has changed about him.  He’s a cop.  So what?  So what.  I don’t like cops, right?  Do I?  I haven’t thought about this in so long.  Portland.  New York.  They both have story after story of Black people being shot at and harassed by the police.  How could Jamal be a cop?  I’ve never understood Black police officers.  They don’t make sense to me.  Like Black Republicans.  

“Are you a Republican?” I ask.

“No!” Jamal shakes his head and laughs.  “Have you been here for this date?  Did we not do a solid Trump bashing over calamari?  I’m a police officer, Mar.  That’s all.  That doesn’t make me a bad person.  In fact, I’m a really good person.  And I can do a lot of good as an officer.  It’s why I became one.”

“I wish this had come up earlier.  I have so many questions!”

“Good!  It will give us lots to talk about on our second date.”  He stops and pulls me against his body.  “Give me a chance on this,” he says.  “I knew this was going to be a surprise to you, I could tell.  You clearly don’t like the police.  I can just picture you as a scrappy teenager in New York with all your friends, flipping off the ‘pigs’ as they drove by.”

I throw my head back and laugh.  I have done just that very thing many times.  “OK,” I say.

He leans down and we kiss for a long time.  A car drives by and flashes its headlights at us.  A head pokes out of the passenger window and yells “Woo-hoo!”  Jamal pulls away and we laugh.  

“See?” he says.  “We are already improving the city!”

Our walk back is slow.  We have our arms around each other.  I haven’t enjoyed a date this much in a really long time.  I can’t remember when.  Not even with Sean.  Sean always felt…immature.  Being with Sean was like being a teenager again, lots of body jokes and pranks.  Jamal feels like a grown up.  Like a real grown up.  I also feel spectacularly beautiful when his eyes shine down on me.  I’m radiating happiness by the time we reach my front door.

“So this is where you live,” he says, his eyes circling the door frame and the number on the door.  “Now I know.”

“Yes,” I say.  “Now you can include me in your patrol.  Keep me safe.” 

He laughs.  “Nah.  I don’t want to make you part of my work.  I want this to be separate.  Special.”  

We kiss again.  I really want to invite him in.  Our kissing grows heavier and he presses me up against the door.  My body is screaming to take him into my bed.  

“I’m not going to invite you in,” I say, between kisses.

“Me neither,” he says, and chuckles.  

He’s kissing my neck now.  This is taking a lot of self control, but I’m proud of myself.  Mar in the past wouldn’t have thought twice about sleeping with someone on the first date.  It feels good to know that this isn’t going further, for now.  It makes me enjoy the kissing even more.  

I’m really pleased that he doesn’t try and talk me into letting him in.  After what feels like a really long time, he pulls away.  

“I should go,” he whispers.  “I’d like to take you out again.”

I nod, trying to catch my breath.  We both laugh. 

“Oh!” he says.  “Lemme get your phone number.”

I smile and pull out my phone.  I think it’s cute that we don’t have each other’s numbers yet.  So old-fashioned.  We exchange numbers.  My hands are shaking a little. 

“Good-bye, Mar.  Thank you for a wonderful first date.”  He kisses my hand, then my mouth.  

“Bye,” I whisper, a little sadly.  I really don’t want him to go, but I also feel like my heart is about to kill itself if it doesn’t calm down soon.

He stays to make sure my door unlocks, and then I watch him walk down the walkway to the parking lot.  Later, as I’m getting into bed, I hear the solid thwack-thwack of a basketball out on the court.  I peek through my curtains and see Jamal out there, making one perfect shot after another.    

The post Chapter Nine: Jamal appeared first on .

It’s been a week since I met Jamal on the basketball court, and I haven’t seen him again.  Several times I’ve heard someone on the basketball court and looked over, on my way to or from the parking lot, but it hasn’t been him.  I haven’t seen any signs of life from the blue house with the yellow door, but I’ve also been getting to and from my car very quickly, afraid to see him. 

The recent experiences with David and Sean—bad porn sex and the creepy masturbatory backup plan—have rattled me.  I feel like I’ve been allowed a glimpse inside the workings of men’s brains, where I’ve seen women getting chewed around and run through the gears like limp rag dolls.  Jamal seemed genuinely nice, but I don’t know that I have it in me to go through the steps with another person right now who will, in all probability, end up being a jerk.  Still… It’s hard not to think about how sweet he was to Binky, and his open, gorgeous smile.  And his hand touching mine.

I lock my apartment door and walk to my car, glancing over at the empty basketball court on my way.  The blue house across the street is quiet.  A white fence stretches around the neat yard, trimmed grass and hydrangea bushes.  Someone must be tending to that yard, but I’ve yet to see them out there.  

I’m on my way to Liz’s for dinner.  I’ve been trying to bring food over more often, or to show up early and do most of the cooking, but Liz fights me on this.  She has been overworked and tired, but still wants to be the nurturer.  I’m beginning to take the threat of this coronavirus more seriously just based on how much it’s stressing her out.  But Liz is so pragmatic.  There has to be something else stressing her out.  Maybe it’s Dr. Green.  I’ve been searching for an angle to get more information from her, but she’s been a closed book.  

When I get to Liz’s, she has dinner almost ready.  I sigh in defeat and set down the bread and wine I’ve brought over.

“Mar!” yells Binky, and runs into my arms.  She is warm and squishy and smells like soap.

“Why do you always bring wine?” Liz asks.  “You don’t drink.”  She is wearing her chicken apron.  It’s blue gingham with fat red hens on it and looks adorable on her, like everything does.

“Hello to you too!” I say.  “Can’t a sister bring something nice, even if it’s not for her?  Why do you always cook, if we’re accusing each other of being generous now?”

“I’m sorry,” Liz says.  “You’re right.  Thank you.  Would you like some mineral water?”

“Sure, I’ll get it.”  I practically have to body block her from the fridge so I can get my water myself.

Binky has fetched her latest favorite board game and is setting it up on the table for us to play.  

“How’s school?” I ask Binky, sitting down and helping her arrange the cards.  I don’t need to read the rules because Binky generally makes up her own way to play games.

“Meh,” she says.

Binky doesn’t like school very much.  She never has.  It bothers me because I don’t believe in spending time being unhappy.  Maybe this comes from fighting unhappiness so much of my life, often without success.  Liz is the opposite of me in that way.  She doesn’t believe in letting feelings rule your life.  She is constantly coaching Binky to get up and go, despite how she feels.  You simply have to compare my life to Liz’s to find which approach works better, so I zip it around Binky and try to just empathize with her boredom.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.  I had a ‘meh’ day, too.”

“You did?” Binky asks.  “What happened?”

I pause.  What did happen?  Nothing.  My day was just ‘meh’, nothing too bad, but nothing too good.  Why does this stand out to me?  I’m becoming used to my days being more exciting.  It dawns on me that, despite the morning grogginess and constant brain fog, my medication has changed my daily experience of just being alive.  

“I think it was just the weather,” I say.  “I’m ready for more sunshine!”  

It’s not the weather.  I’ve been listening to music much more, and really being moved by it.  I’ve been dancing in my apartment, and moved to tears sometimes, but with happy feelings instead of sad.  I’ve looked forward to meals, and I’ve been spending more time preparing food, actually finding energy to cook.  Smells are stronger.  Colors are brighter.  I think I’m happier.  I almost don’t recognize this state, it’s been so long since happiness was normal for me.  If only the quetiapine didn’t have the side effects, it’d be perfect.

“I think Mom’s coming out to visit,” says Liz, while we dish up.

“Grandma!” says Binky.

“Really?” I ask.  “When?”

“I don’t know.  Soon, I think.  I just talked to her before you came over.  I think she needs a break from Ray.”

Ray is our stepdad.  He’s loud and forgetful and very New York Italian.  Our mom, Julie, married him when I was in middle school and Liz was just graduating high school.  They had Frankie, our little brother, a couple years later.  Our mom is crazy about Ray.  He makes her laugh and dotes on her, but this year he retired and has been wandering around the house, a little lost.  “He hasn’t hit his groove yet,” is what I tell my mom when she calls to complain about yet another building project Ray started and abandoned partway through.  Ray doesn’t know how to build things, but it seems like that’s what he thinks men are supposed to do in retirement.  So he starts projects but then can’t figure out how to actually build them, because of course why would you look at instructions or ask anyone.  “Why don’t you just take him to IKEA?” I asked my mom last time we talked.  “Then he can feel like he’s building something and you’ll actually get bookshelves.” 

“That’s great!” I say to Liz.  “It’ll be great to see her.

“It will,” Liz says.

Liz and I have an agreement to only say positive things about our family around Binky.  We grew up hearing one disparaging comment after another about our own father, though our mom has legitimate reason to feel angry.  Our dad is completely MIA, and not in a soldier kind of way.  He left when I was a baby, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.  All our mom has told me about him is his name, that he is French, that he was probably an alcoholic, and that he spent her inheritance behind her back.  I’ve never even seen a photograph of him, since she set them on fire long ago.  So it’s no wonder that I don’t feel fond of this man I have no memory of.  But Liz does.  Liz has some happy memories of him, memories she has been unable to share because our mom can’t stand hearing them.  Only recently, away from our mom’s ears, can Liz share with me the few memories she has.  From Liz I’ve learned that he could be silly, that he sang while he cooked, and that he smelled like tomato plants.  Sometimes I do an internet search with his name, but I have no way of knowing which Mathieu Beausoleil he could be.  I could ask Liz to look with me, but so far I haven’t worked up the courage.  I don’t know if she wants to look into that Pandora’s Box with me.  Not when he has hurt our mom so deeply.

Around Binky, we keep our family comments positive.  There will be plenty of time for Binky to learn about her grandma’s chronic denial of evidence, Ray’s veiled racism, my ‘neurodiversity’, Liz’s perfectionism, and that her dad isn’t the smiling man in the photo on the wall.  

We eat in silence and I smile at Binky, her lips smudged with broth, blue marker streaks on her chin.

“Hey,” I say.  “Did you hear about the three holes in the ground?” 

“No,” she says.  “What holes?”

“Well, well, well,” I say.

Liz rolls her eyes.  Binky pauses for a moment and then chortles.  

“Knock knock,” says Binky.

“Who’s there?” Liz and I say at the same time.

“Interrupting cow.”

“Interrupting cow w-”

“MOOOOO!” yells Binky, before I can finish.  

Later, I am putting Binky to bed.  She usually insists that I do it when I’m here, instead of Liz,  and Liz seems happy for the break.  Binky is working her way through the Harry Potter series.  I’m reading to her from the fourth book and scrutinizing it to figure out how someone earns a fortune off such mediocre writing, and wondering how come I can’t figure out how to do it, too. 

“I like Harry Potter,” Binky says. She’s wearing pink pajamas and flexing her toes back and forth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I relate.”

“Oh?  You relate to the book or to Harry Potter?”

“No, to Harry.  We’re both orphans.”

“Orphans?  Binky, you’re not an orphan.”

“I’m not?”

“No!”  I can’t help but laugh a little.  “An orphan is someone who has lost both their parents.  You have your mom, and…you never lost your dad.  Your dad is just a really kind person who wanted to help your mom have you.  She couldn’t wait to meet you.”

“I know all that,” says Binky, but she looks troubled.

“You know, I don’t have a dad either.”

“What?  Isn’t Ray your dad?”

“Well, he’s my stepdad.  But I didn’t meet him until I was 12, and he’s never really felt like my dad.”

“But he’s my mom’s dad, right?  He’s my grandpa?”

“Yes, he is your grandpa.”  I pause.  I feel like I’m doing this wrong.  “You know, families can be made of all kinds of people.  Some have two moms, some have one dad, some have grandparents, some don’t…”  I know Binky knows all this.  “Why do you think of yourself as an orphan?”  

“Because I don’t have a dad.”

“Alright, kiddo.  Let’s be orphans together.”  I hold up my pinky and she loops hers around mine.  We give our hands a little shake.  Binky nods her head, satisfied, and snuggles up under my arm.  

After I say good-night I go downstairs and sit with Liz on the couch.  I give my lap a little pat so she can put her feet up and let me rub them.  

“Binky thinks she’s an orphan,” I say.

Liz’s arm is resting across her eyes.  “I know.  She was telling me that the other day after reading Harry Potter.”

“We agreed to be orphans together.”

Liz shakes her head.  “You guys are so weird.”

“Ok.  Tell me about Gilbert Green!  I’m getting so tired of asking.  You clearly have a crush on him, and he clearly likes you.  So?  What’s holding you back?” 

Liz peers at me.  “I’ve acknowledged that he’s cute.  And yes, I do have a little crush on him.  But so what?  That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, come on Liz!  When was the last time you liked someone?  Alfonso from the bakery?”

Liz laughs.  “I remember Alfonso!  Aw, Alfonso.  Remember he used to put the little hearts on the bread?”

“Only on your bread.  Stop changing the subject.  I want to hear all about Gilbert Green.”

“Why do you always call him Gilbert Green?”

“Because Dr. Green sounds too formal, and I can’t think of him as a Gilbert.  What would you call him?  Gil?  Gilly?  Bert?  How about Greenie!  Or GG.”

“I like the name Gilbert.  But anyway, it doesn’t matter.  He’s just here to do his project, and then he goes back to Philadelphia.” She takes her arm off her eyes and squints at me.

“Or not,” I say.  “There are doctor jobs here.”

“I just can’t start dating someone!  I have a daughter.”

“Oh.  Right.  I didn’t think of that.  Of course.  That makes total sense.  I mean, how on earth would you possibly find a sitter so you could go on a date?  It’s not like you have family here to watch her.  And she’s pretty committed to this whole orphan thing.  You don’t want to mess that up.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t!  People with children date all the time.  They even get married.  They even become stepparents to each other’s children and it can be really really happy.”

“I’m not going to start something with someone who lives far away, OK?  So can we just drop it?”

We sit in silence for a while.  I finish rubbing her feet and she rolls onto her side.  

“Thank you for the foot rub.”

“Liz, not everyone is like Ginji.  You guys were young, he was starting his life out.  This is different.  Dr. Green has a career, and seems like a grown up.  I think you could work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out, Mar!  There’s nothing there!  I think he likes Clarissa, and he’s probably just being nice to me.”

“Um, no.  You know none of that is true.  He’s probably just being nice to Clarissa, and he clearly likes you.  Has he asked you out?”

Liz is quiet.

“Liz?!?  Has he asked you out?”   She smiles.  “Oh my god!!  He’s asked you out?  Why don’t you tell me anything anymore?!”

“Shhh!”  Her cheeks are growing pink.  “He asked me to have dinner with him.”

“And??  What did you say?  I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this!  You’re going out with him, right?”

Liz buries her face inside her shirt.  “I said I was too busy!”

“Oh my god.  I don’t believe you!  Can I have his number?  No, seriously.  I’m getting his number.”  I stand up and go into the kitchen, where her phone is charging..

“What are you doing?”

I open the phone and send Gilbert Green’s contact information to myself.

“Mar?  What are you doing?  Mar, stop.”  She is laughing and panic-stricken at the same time.

“If you’re going to chicken out with someone like Gilbert Green, you clearly need an intervention.”

“Mar!”  Liz has stood up and is sprinting towards me.  “You are not going to call him!  Promise me!”

I stare at her for a moment.  “Ok.  I promise I won’t call him.”  I smile and nod, glad she didn’t make me promise not to text him.  For a scientist, she can overlook details sometimes.  “Here.”  I hand her her phone.  She takes it and hides it behind her back, glaring at me.

“If you call him, I am going to call that guy from the basketball court.”

“Jamal?  I don’t have his number.”

“Well, I will find it.”

“I don’t care.  I’ve decided men are jerks.  I’m going to be a lesbian.”

“Good luck with that—just switching to being gay at 34.  Anyway, it’s not any easier being a lesbian.”

“How would you know?”

Liz fills the tea kettle and puts it on the stove.  She rummages in the cupboard and pulls out a bag of Binky’s lunch cookies.  “I just have heard that from lesbians.  They have as many problems as straight people.”

“Yeah, except you can borrow each other’s clothes.”

“Are you going to post a dating ad looking for a woman who is your size with the same taste in clothes?”

“Pretty much.  And someone who doesn’t like sex, because I don’t think I could have sex with a woman.”

“Because you’re not gay!  Maybe Jamal would let you borrow his clothes.”

I laugh.  “Maybe.”  I’m quiet as she arranges cookies on a plate and puts teabags into mugs.  She wraps the string around the mug handles, and drips honey from a spoon.  “I really don’t think I can date anyone right now,” I say.  “That sex with David was so weird.  And hearing all that from Sean…I just feel like all men are sexist pigs deep down.”

“They’re not.  But they have grown up in a sexist society, so they need to unlearn some things.  We have to teach them.”

“We?  So are you thinking about teaching Dr. Green how to be a feminist?”

“Shut up!”  She throws a spoon at me that I don’t dodge in time and it whacks me in the shoulder.  “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t think that would hit you.”

“Ow!  Why would you think it wouldn’t hit me?  Hey, let’s make a deal.  I will take Jamal on as my Unlearning Misogyny student, if you take on Dr. Green.”

Liz shakes her head.  “No.”

“Why are you pressuring me to go out with someone if you’re not willing to, Liz?  What’s your reason, for real?  It can’t be Binky.  Is it just because he lives far away?”

Liz pours steaming water into the mugs.  She sticks her lower lip out and starts mashing it over her upper lip.  Uh-oh.  “It’s because…who would want me?” 

She hunches over the counter and starts to cry.  I go over and put my arm over her shoulders.  She hugs me and sobs.  I actually like it when Liz cries, which she doesn’t do very often.  I feel like I am the emotional wreck in our relationship, and sometimes wonder what I even have to offer Liz as a friend, besides hamming it up and hanging out with Binky. 

“It’s ok,” I say, and rub her back.  “You are so lovable, Liz.  Any guy would be so lucky to get you.”  This makes her cry harder for several minutes. 

“Then why didn’t Ginji want me?”  She pushes away and starts stirring the tea, the edge of her vulnerability reached.

“I don’t think it was like that,” I say. 

“No?  Then what was it?”

This is a conversation that Liz and I have every year or so.  I never have anything new to tell her, but circling around the rodeo seems to help her locate the heartbreak and make sure it’s all penned in.  We go through the steps together.

“He loved you, Liz, but you guys were young.  He wasn’t ready to marry and settle down.”

“We could have made it work!”

“You tried, remember?  You tried everything, besides moving to Japan.  But there was your career, and his family.  It was too much, Liz.  The pressure of it all was too much.”

Liz nods, remembering how this goes.  “And we just kind of…faded after being apart for a while.”

“Yeah, see?  Very few relationships can handle that kind of stress.”

Liz laughs bitterly.  “And now you want me to try that again with Gilbert.”

I twist up my mouth and carry the tea and cookies over to the table.  “I don’t want you to do anything, Liz.  But I do know that me and Binky, and your job, aren’t the same as a relationship.  You need love from a man!  Like Dr. Green!  Even if it’s just a little fling that doesn’t turn into anything.  When was the last time you had sex?  Wouldn’t it be great just to have sex?“

“Well, not according to you.”  She laughs and starts to eat a cookie.

“Hey.  Let’s not compare all sex to Conspiracy Porn Man.”  I think I’ve settled on a final nickname for David.

“Or Cheater Sean.”

“Yeah, but that sex was actually good.”  I sigh.  “I could go for some of that.”

“Ok,” Liz says.  “I’ll go out with Dr. Green.  I mean Gilbert!”

“You will??”  I stand up and do a little dance.  “This is great!  I’ll take Binky.  For an overnight, you know.” 

“Mar!  I’m not going to sleep with him on a first date!”

I smile.  First date.  That means she plans on more than one. 

…

When I get home I light the usual two sticks of incense to cover the smell of my neighbor’s pot that has flooded my apartment.  I love walking into Liz’s house.  Binky is there, running over to wrap me in a hug.  Even in her worst mood, Liz is happy to see me.  Coming home from Liz’s, my apartment always feels extra empty. 

I set my stuff down and pick up a pen and paper.  Quickly, before I can think too much about it, I scribble a note.

Jamal – We met last week at the basketball court.  Want to grab a coffee, or hang out sometime?
Mar

I add my phone number and then jog across the street to the blue house.  It’s after ten.  I open the low white gate slowly, but it creaks a little.  I tiptoe up to the door and look for a spot to stick the note, then fold it up and start to wedge it between the door and frame.  The door swings open a little.  Oh shit.  From inside, I can hear soft music and see a dim light.  What if he has someone over right now?  And I’m here, looking like I’m about to walk into his house?  I grab the doorknob and do my best to close the door quietly.  I see my note fall inside the house just before the door closes.

I turn around.  My heart is pounding.  He’ll find the note, surely.  And it’s sitting inside his house.  This is terrible.  I bury my face in my hands, not sure what to do.  Just then the porch light flicks on and the door opens behind me.

“Hello?” says Jamal.

I slowly turn around, my face burning. 

“Hi,” I say, grimacing.

“Mar?  Basketball Mar?”  He mimes throwing a ball.

“Ha!  I’ve never been called that before.”  The note slides across his floor as a little breeze hits it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I close my eyes, feeling as embarrassed as I’ve ever felt.  “I…I came to leave you a note, but then your door swung open and I tried to close it, but the note fell inside, and now it looks like I was in your house and I’m really sorry.”

He looks around on the floor and picks up the note.  He unfolds it and reads.  His face is overtaken by a beautiful smile.  “I would love to,” he says, shining his eyes on me.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!  I was disappointed when I didn’t see you again.  You knew where to find me.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I’ve been really busy.”

“With Binky?”

I laugh.  “Wow, you remembered her name!  No, just with work and other stuff.  So, I’m free every night this week.”  Ouch, that sounded dumb.

“Great!  How’s Wednesday?  Can I take you to dinner?”

“Oh!  Um, sure.  Yeah, that sounds great.  Do you want to text me your address?”  I pause, hoping he laughs.

He laughs.  “Sure.  I’ll text you very clear directions.  Let’s walk somewhere.  Want to meet right here at seven?  On Wednesday?”

“Yes.  And I’m sorry I almost broke into your house.”

“That’s ok.  I should have had the door locked.  Now I know to watch out for you.”

I laugh.  “Ok.  See you Wednesday.”

He smiles and nods. 

“Jamal?” a voice calls from inside.

I can’t help but startle a little.

“That’s my grandma,” he says.  “I better go see if she’s okay.”

“Oh, yeah.  Ok.  Bye, Jamal.”

“Good bye, Mar.  I’m very happy you decided to come find me.”

“Me too.”  I give him one last smile and turn and walk down the path to the gate, very aware of his eyes on me.  I hear his front door close and I exhale, embarrassed and thrilled.  So he’s close to his family.  I like that.  I wonder if his grandma lives with him.  Or his parents?  Do they all live together?  I get more excited as I near my apartment.  A date!  With Jamal!

I go inside and can’t wait to text Liz, even though she’s probably asleep.  I went and asked Jamal out!  We’re having dinner on Wednesday!

Liz texts back immediately.  Yaaaayyyyy!!!  DON’T CALL DR. GREEN!!!!!  Then a heart and a sleepy face emoji.

I go to bed, my heart still racing.  This will be good.  He seems good.  I smile, remembering his face when he read the note.  But still, beneath it all, a sense of dread snakes it way through the brightness of his smile.

The post Chapter Eight: Orphans appeared first on .

It’s been a week since I met Jamal on the basketball court, and I haven’t seen him again.  Several times I’ve heard someone on the basketball court and looked over, on my way to or from the parking lot, but it hasn’t been him.  I haven’t seen any signs of life from the blue house with the yellow door, but I’ve also been getting to and from my car very quickly, afraid to see him. 

The recent experiences with David and Sean—bad porn sex and the creepy masturbatory backup plan—have rattled me.  I feel like I’ve been allowed a glimpse inside the workings of men’s brains, where I’ve seen women getting chewed around and run through the gears like limp rag dolls.  Jamal seemed genuinely nice, but I don’t know that I have it in me to go through the steps with another person right now who will, in all probability, end up being a jerk.  Still… It’s hard not to think about how sweet he was to Binky, and his open, gorgeous smile.  And his hand touching mine.

I lock my apartment door and walk to my car, glancing over at the empty basketball court on my way.  The blue house across the street is quiet.  A white fence stretches around the neat yard, trimmed grass and hydrangea bushes.  Someone must be tending to that yard, but I’ve yet to see them out there.  

I’m on my way to Liz’s for dinner.  I’ve been trying to bring food over more often, or to show up early and do most of the cooking, but Liz fights me on this.  She has been overworked and tired, but still wants to be the nurturer.  I’m beginning to take the threat of this coronavirus more seriously just based on how much it’s stressing her out.  But Liz is so pragmatic.  There has to be something else stressing her out.  Maybe it’s Dr. Green.  I’ve been searching for an angle to get more information from her, but she’s been a closed book.  

When I get to Liz’s, she has dinner almost ready.  I sigh in defeat and set down the bread and wine I’ve brought over.

“Mar!” yells Binky, and runs into my arms.  She is warm and squishy and smells like soap.

“Why do you always bring wine?” Liz asks.  “You don’t drink.”  She is wearing her chicken apron.  It’s blue gingham with fat red hens on it and looks adorable on her, like everything does.

“Hello to you too!” I say.  “Can’t a sister bring something nice, even if it’s not for her?  Why do you always cook, if we’re accusing each other of being generous now?”

“I’m sorry,” Liz says.  “You’re right.  Thank you.  Would you like some mineral water?”

“Sure, I’ll get it.”  I practically have to body block her from the fridge so I can get my water myself.

Binky has fetched her latest favorite board game and is setting it up on the table for us to play.  

“How’s school?” I ask Binky, sitting down and helping her arrange the cards.  I don’t need to read the rules because Binky generally makes up her own way to play games.

“Meh,” she says.

Binky doesn’t like school very much.  She never has.  It bothers me because I don’t believe in spending time being unhappy.  Maybe this comes from fighting unhappiness so much of my life, often without success.  Liz is the opposite of me in that way.  She doesn’t believe in letting feelings rule your life.  She is constantly coaching Binky to get up and go, despite how she feels.  You simply have to compare my life to Liz’s to find which approach works better, so I zip it around Binky and try to just empathize with her boredom.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.  I had a ‘meh’ day, too.”

“You did?” Binky asks.  “What happened?”

I pause.  What did happen?  Nothing.  My day was just ‘meh’, nothing too bad, but nothing too good.  Why does this stand out to me?  I’m becoming used to my days being more exciting.  It dawns on me that, despite the morning grogginess and constant brain fog, my medication has changed my daily experience of just being alive.  

“I think it was just the weather,” I say.  “I’m ready for more sunshine!”  

It’s not the weather.  I’ve been listening to music much more, and really being moved by it.  I’ve been dancing in my apartment, and moved to tears sometimes, but with happy feelings instead of sad.  I’ve looked forward to meals, and I’ve been spending more time preparing food, actually finding energy to cook.  Smells are stronger.  Colors are brighter.  I think I’m happier.  I almost don’t recognize this state, it’s been so long since happiness was normal for me.  If only the quetiapine didn’t have the side effects, it’d be perfect.

“I think Mom’s coming out to visit,” says Liz, while we dish up.

“Grandma!” says Binky.

“Really?” I ask.  “When?”

“I don’t know.  Soon, I think.  I just talked to her before you came over.  I think she needs a break from Ray.”

Ray is our stepdad.  He’s loud and forgetful and very New York Italian.  Our mom, Julie, married him when I was in middle school and Liz was just graduating high school.  They had Frankie, our little brother, a couple years later.  Our mom is crazy about Ray.  He makes her laugh and dotes on her, but this year he retired and has been wandering around the house, a little lost.  “He hasn’t hit his groove yet,” is what I tell my mom when she calls to complain about yet another building project Ray started and abandoned partway through.  Ray doesn’t know how to build things, but it seems like that’s what he thinks men are supposed to do in retirement.  So he starts projects but then can’t figure out how to actually build them, because of course why would you look at instructions or ask anyone.  “Why don’t you just take him to IKEA?” I asked my mom last time we talked.  “Then he can feel like he’s building something and you’ll actually get bookshelves.” 

“That’s great!” I say to Liz.  “It’ll be great to see her.

“It will,” Liz says.

Liz and I have an agreement to only say positive things about our family around Binky.  We grew up hearing one disparaging comment after another about our own father, though our mom has legitimate reason to feel angry.  Our dad is completely MIA, and not in a soldier kind of way.  He left when I was a baby, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.  All our mom has told me about him is his name, that he is French, that he was probably an alcoholic, and that he spent her inheritance behind her back.  I’ve never even seen a photograph of him, since she set them on fire long ago.  So it’s no wonder that I don’t feel fond of this man I have no memory of.  But Liz does.  Liz has some happy memories of him, memories she has been unable to share because our mom can’t stand hearing them.  Only recently, away from our mom’s ears, can Liz share with me the few memories she has.  From Liz I’ve learned that he could be silly, that he sang while he cooked, and that he smelled like tomato plants.  Sometimes I do an internet search with his name, but I have no way of knowing which Mathieu Beausoleil he could be.  I could ask Liz to look with me, but so far I haven’t worked up the courage.  I don’t know if she wants to look into that Pandora’s Box with me.  Not when he has hurt our mom so deeply.

Around Binky, we keep our family comments positive.  There will be plenty of time for Binky to learn about her grandma’s chronic denial of evidence, Ray’s veiled racism, my ‘neurodiversity’, Liz’s perfectionism, and that her dad isn’t the smiling man in the photo on the wall.  

We eat in silence and I smile at Binky, her lips smudged with broth, blue marker streaks on her chin.

“Hey,” I say.  “Did you hear about the three holes in the ground?” 

“No,” she says.  “What holes?”

“Well, well, well,” I say.

Liz rolls her eyes.  Binky pauses for a moment and then chortles.  

“Knock knock,” says Binky.

“Who’s there?” Liz and I say at the same time.

“Interrupting cow.”

“Interrupting cow w-”

“MOOOOO!” yells Binky, before I can finish.  

Later, I am putting Binky to bed.  She usually insists that I do it when I’m here, instead of Liz,  and Liz seems happy for the break.  Binky is working her way through the Harry Potter series.  I’m reading to her from the fourth book and scrutinizing it to figure out how someone earns a fortune off such mediocre writing, and wondering how come I can’t figure out how to do it, too. 

“I like Harry Potter,” Binky says. She’s wearing pink pajamas and flexing her toes back and forth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I relate.”

“Oh?  You relate to the book or to Harry Potter?”

“No, to Harry.  We’re both orphans.”

“Orphans?  Binky, you’re not an orphan.”

“I’m not?”

“No!”  I can’t help but laugh a little.  “An orphan is someone who has lost both their parents.  You have your mom, and…you never lost your dad.  Your dad is just a really kind person who wanted to help your mom have you.  She couldn’t wait to meet you.”

“I know all that,” says Binky, but she looks troubled.

“You know, I don’t have a dad either.”

“What?  Isn’t Ray your dad?”

“Well, he’s my stepdad.  But I didn’t meet him until I was 12, and he’s never really felt like my dad.”

“But he’s my mom’s dad, right?  He’s my grandpa?”

“Yes, he is your grandpa.”  I pause.  I feel like I’m doing this wrong.  “You know, families can be made of all kinds of people.  Some have two moms, some have one dad, some have grandparents, some don’t…”  I know Binky knows all this.  “Why do you think of yourself as an orphan?”  

“Because I don’t have a dad.”

“Alright, kiddo.  Let’s be orphans together.”  I hold up my pinky and she loops hers around mine.  We give our hands a little shake.  Binky nods her head, satisfied, and snuggles up under my arm.  

After I say good-night I go downstairs and sit with Liz on the couch.  I give my lap a little pat so she can put her feet up and let me rub them.  

“Binky thinks she’s an orphan,” I say.

Liz’s arm is resting across her eyes.  “I know.  She was telling me that the other day after reading Harry Potter.”

“We agreed to be orphans together.”

Liz shakes her head.  “You guys are so weird.”

“Ok.  Tell me about Gilbert Green!  I’m getting so tired of asking.  You clearly have a crush on him, and he clearly likes you.  So?  What’s holding you back?” 

Liz peers at me.  “I’ve acknowledged that he’s cute.  And yes, I do have a little crush on him.  But so what?  That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, come on Liz!  When was the last time you liked someone?  Alfonso from the bakery?”

Liz laughs.  “I remember Alfonso!  Aw, Alfonso.  Remember he used to put the little hearts on the bread?”

“Only on your bread.  Stop changing the subject.  I want to hear all about Gilbert Green.”

“Why do you always call him Gilbert Green?”

“Because Dr. Green sounds too formal, and I can’t think of him as a Gilbert.  What would you call him?  Gil?  Gilly?  Bert?  How about Greenie!  Or GG.”

“I like the name Gilbert.  But anyway, it doesn’t matter.  He’s just here to do his project, and then he goes back to Philadelphia.” She takes her arm off her eyes and squints at me.

“Or not,” I say.  “There are doctor jobs here.”

“I just can’t start dating someone!  I have a daughter.”

“Oh.  Right.  I didn’t think of that.  Of course.  That makes total sense.  I mean, how on earth would you possibly find a sitter so you could go on a date?  It’s not like you have family here to watch her.  And she’s pretty committed to this whole orphan thing.  You don’t want to mess that up.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t!  People with children date all the time.  They even get married.  They even become stepparents to each other’s children and it can be really really happy.”

“I’m not going to start something with someone who lives far away, OK?  So can we just drop it?”

We sit in silence for a while.  I finish rubbing her feet and she rolls onto her side.  

“Thank you for the foot rub.”

“Liz, not everyone is like Ginji.  You guys were young, he was starting his life out.  This is different.  Dr. Green has a career, and seems like a grown up.  I think you could work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out, Mar!  There’s nothing there!  I think he likes Clarissa, and he’s probably just being nice to me.”

“Um, no.  You know none of that is true.  He’s probably just being nice to Clarissa, and he clearly likes you.  Has he asked you out?”

Liz is quiet.

“Liz?!?  Has he asked you out?”   She smiles.  “Oh my god!!  He’s asked you out?  Why don’t you tell me anything anymore?!”

“Shhh!”  Her cheeks are growing pink.  “He asked me to have dinner with him.”

“And??  What did you say?  I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this!  You’re going out with him, right?”

Liz buries her face inside her shirt.  “I said I was too busy!”

“Oh my god.  I don’t believe you!  Can I have his number?  No, seriously.  I’m getting his number.”  I stand up and go into the kitchen, where her phone is charging..

“What are you doing?”

I open the phone and send Gilbert Green’s contact information to myself.

“Mar?  What are you doing?  Mar, stop.”  She is laughing and panic-stricken at the same time.

“If you’re going to chicken out with someone like Gilbert Green, you clearly need an intervention.”

“Mar!”  Liz has stood up and is sprinting towards me.  “You are not going to call him!  Promise me!”

I stare at her for a moment.  “Ok.  I promise I won’t call him.”  I smile and nod, glad she didn’t make me promise not to text him.  For a scientist, she can overlook details sometimes.  “Here.”  I hand her her phone.  She takes it and hides it behind her back, glaring at me.

“If you call him, I am going to call that guy from the basketball court.”

“Jamal?  I don’t have his number.”

“Well, I will find it.”

“I don’t care.  I’ve decided men are jerks.  I’m going to be a lesbian.”

“Good luck with that—just switching to being gay at 34.  Anyway, it’s not any easier being a lesbian.”

“How would you know?”

Liz fills the tea kettle and puts it on the stove.  She rummages in the cupboard and pulls out a bag of Binky’s lunch cookies.  “I just have heard that from lesbians.  They have as many problems as straight people.”

“Yeah, except you can borrow each other’s clothes.”

“Are you going to post a dating ad looking for a woman who is your size with the same taste in clothes?”

“Pretty much.  And someone who doesn’t like sex, because I don’t think I could have sex with a woman.”

“Because you’re not gay!  Maybe Jamal would let you borrow his clothes.”

I laugh.  “Maybe.”  I’m quiet as she arranges cookies on a plate and puts teabags into mugs.  She wraps the string around the mug handles, and drips honey from a spoon.  “I really don’t think I can date anyone right now,” I say.  “That sex with David was so weird.  And hearing all that from Sean…I just feel like all men are sexist pigs deep down.”

“They’re not.  But they have grown up in a sexist society, so they need to unlearn some things.  We have to teach them.”

“We?  So are you thinking about teaching Dr. Green how to be a feminist?”

“Shut up!”  She throws a spoon at me that I don’t dodge in time and it whacks me in the shoulder.  “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t think that would hit you.”

“Ow!  Why would you think it wouldn’t hit me?  Hey, let’s make a deal.  I will take Jamal on as my Unlearning Misogyny student, if you take on Dr. Green.”

Liz shakes her head.  “No.”

“Why are you pressuring me to go out with someone if you’re not willing to, Liz?  What’s your reason, for real?  It can’t be Binky.  Is it just because he lives far away?”

Liz pours steaming water into the mugs.  She sticks her lower lip out and starts mashing it over her upper lip.  Uh-oh.  “It’s because…who would want me?” 

She hunches over the counter and starts to cry.  I go over and put my arm over her shoulders.  She hugs me and sobs.  I actually like it when Liz cries, which she doesn’t do very often.  I feel like I am the emotional wreck in our relationship, and sometimes wonder what I even have to offer Liz as a friend, besides hamming it up and hanging out with Binky. 

“It’s ok,” I say, and rub her back.  “You are so lovable, Liz.  Any guy would be so lucky to get you.”  This makes her cry harder for several minutes. 

“Then why didn’t Ginji want me?”  She pushes away and starts stirring the tea, the edge of her vulnerability reached.

“I don’t think it was like that,” I say. 

“No?  Then what was it?”

This is a conversation that Liz and I have every year or so.  I never have anything new to tell her, but circling around the rodeo seems to help her locate the heartbreak and make sure it’s all penned in.  We go through the steps together.

“He loved you, Liz, but you guys were young.  He wasn’t ready to marry and settle down.”

“We could have made it work!”

“You tried, remember?  You tried everything, besides moving to Japan.  But there was your career, and his family.  It was too much, Liz.  The pressure of it all was too much.”

Liz nods, remembering how this goes.  “And we just kind of…faded after being apart for a while.”

“Yeah, see?  Very few relationships can handle that kind of stress.”

Liz laughs bitterly.  “And now you want me to try that again with Gilbert.”

I twist up my mouth and carry the tea and cookies over to the table.  “I don’t want you to do anything, Liz.  But I do know that me and Binky, and your job, aren’t the same as a relationship.  You need love from a man!  Like Dr. Green!  Even if it’s just a little fling that doesn’t turn into anything.  When was the last time you had sex?  Wouldn’t it be great just to have sex?“

“Well, not according to you.”  She laughs and starts to eat a cookie.

“Hey.  Let’s not compare all sex to Conspiracy Porn Man.”  I think I’ve settled on a final nickname for David.

“Or Cheater Sean.”

“Yeah, but that sex was actually good.”  I sigh.  “I could go for some of that.”

“Ok,” Liz says.  “I’ll go out with Dr. Green.  I mean Gilbert!”

“You will??”  I stand up and do a little dance.  “This is great!  I’ll take Binky.  For an overnight, you know.” 

“Mar!  I’m not going to sleep with him on a first date!”

I smile.  First date.  That means she plans on more than one. 

…

When I get home I light the usual two sticks of incense to cover the smell of my neighbor’s pot that has flooded my apartment.  I love walking into Liz’s house.  Binky is there, running over to wrap me in a hug.  Even in her worst mood, Liz is happy to see me.  Coming home from Liz’s, my apartment always feels extra empty. 

I set my stuff down and pick up a pen and paper.  Quickly, before I can think too much about it, I scribble a note.

Jamal – We met last week at the basketball court.  Want to grab a coffee, or hang out sometime?
Mar

I add my phone number and then jog across the street to the blue house.  It’s after ten.  I open the low white gate slowly, but it creaks a little.  I tiptoe up to the door and look for a spot to stick the note, then fold it up and start to wedge it between the door and frame.  The door swings open a little.  Oh shit.  From inside, I can hear soft music and see a dim light.  What if he has someone over right now?  And I’m here, looking like I’m about to walk into his house?  I grab the doorknob and do my best to close the door quietly.  I see my note fall inside the house just before the door closes.

I turn around.  My heart is pounding.  He’ll find the note, surely.  And it’s sitting inside his house.  This is terrible.  I bury my face in my hands, not sure what to do.  Just then the porch light flicks on and the door opens behind me.

“Hello?” says Jamal.

I slowly turn around, my face burning. 

“Hi,” I say, grimacing.

“Mar?  Basketball Mar?”  He mimes throwing a ball.

“Ha!  I’ve never been called that before.”  The note slides across his floor as a little breeze hits it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I close my eyes, feeling as embarrassed as I’ve ever felt.  “I…I came to leave you a note, but then your door swung open and I tried to close it, but the note fell inside, and now it looks like I was in your house and I’m really sorry.”

He looks around on the floor and picks up the note.  He unfolds it and reads.  His face is overtaken by a beautiful smile.  “I would love to,” he says, shining his eyes on me.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!  I was disappointed when I didn’t see you again.  You knew where to find me.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I’ve been really busy.”

“With Binky?”

I laugh.  “Wow, you remembered her name!  No, just with work and other stuff.  So, I’m free every night this week.”  Ouch, that sounded dumb.

“Great!  How’s Wednesday?  Can I take you to dinner?”

“Oh!  Um, sure.  Yeah, that sounds great.  Do you want to text me your address?”  I pause, hoping he laughs.

He laughs.  “Sure.  I’ll text you very clear directions.  Let’s walk somewhere.  Want to meet right here at seven?  On Wednesday?”

“Yes.  And I’m sorry I almost broke into your house.”

“That’s ok.  I should have had the door locked.  Now I know to watch out for you.”

I laugh.  “Ok.  See you Wednesday.”

He smiles and nods. 

“Jamal?” a voice calls from inside.

I can’t help but startle a little.

“That’s my grandma,” he says.  “I better go see if she’s okay.”

“Oh, yeah.  Ok.  Bye, Jamal.”

“Good bye, Mar.  I’m very happy you decided to come find me.”

“Me too.”  I give him one last smile and turn and walk down the path to the gate, very aware of his eyes on me.  I hear his front door close and I exhale, embarrassed and thrilled.  So he’s close to his family.  I like that.  I wonder if his grandma lives with him.  Or his parents?  Do they all live together?  I get more excited as I near my apartment.  A date!  With Jamal!

I go inside and can’t wait to text Liz, even though she’s probably asleep.  I went and asked Jamal out!  We’re having dinner on Wednesday!

Liz texts back immediately.  Yaaaayyyyy!!!  DON’T CALL DR. GREEN!!!!!  Then a heart and a sleepy face emoji.

I go to bed, my heart still racing.  This will be good.  He seems good.  I smile, remembering his face when he read the note.  But still, beneath it all, a sense of dread snakes it way through the brightness of his smile.

The post Chapter 8: Orphans appeared first on .

It’s 6am.  The sound of my alarm rolls around in my head.  I do my normal eye-blinking to swim up from the fog that my bipolar medication buries me under, then sit up and pick up the blue journal next to my bed.  I have switched to making my gratitude entry in the mornings.  I’m finding that it helps me feel more appreciative all day.  And besides, I sort of unravel as the day goes along, and bedtime is the worst version of me.  Not really when I’m feeling the most grateful.  I open the notebook and write:

February 17, 2020

I am grateful for – 
1. Sunshine
2. Flowers
3. My bed
4. A day with Binky
5. Good coworkers

Today’s list is borne directly out of the early hints of spring that are peeking out all over Portland, the memory foam mattress I splurged on a few months ago, and the fact that my co-worker traded shifts with me so I can spend the day with my niece.  Today is Monday, and I am taking Binky all day because schools are closed for Presidents Day.

With the quetiapine, I need three cups of coffee just to feel like I can function.  I stand in the kitchen and drink them, one after the other, staring dumbly around my apartment.  A basketball sits in the corner, wedged beneath a little table.  I blink at it, feeling like it means something but I don’t know what.

When I get to Liz’s, Binky is still asleep.  “I’m letting her sleep in because she can,” Liz says, pulling her coat on over her blue scrubs.  

“Go save the world,” I say, only half joking.  Liz is a superhero in my eyes.

I poke around Liz’s house, waiting for Binky to wake up.  Everything is organized and clean.  Even with a huge job and being a single mom, Liz manages to stay on top of her life better than I do.  But one of the best things about Liz is we don’t compare ourselves to each other.  I want her to succeed more than anything.  Especially now that Binky is here.  

The story of Binky is a funny one.  Years ago, when Liz was in nursing school, she met Ginji, an exchange student from Japan.  They fell in love, hard.  Ginji stayed on past his visa to be with Liz, but eventually he had to go back.  They tried to make it work.  When Liz got the job at OHSU and moved to Portland, they even talked about getting married so Ginji could return.  But pressure from his family, and just the toll of trying to keep up a long distance relationship, got in the way.  Liz’s heart was broken.  She has been single since.  When she was 31, she decided to have a baby through artificial insemination.  Choosing the donor, she only looked at Japanese files.  We never talked about that.  So Binky is half Japanese.  You wouldn’t guess it looking at her, she actually looks a lot like Liz.  Liz still has a photo up of her and Ginji.  Binky used to ask if that was her father, and even though Liz and I tell her no, I think she still believes he’s her father.  I think Liz sort of believes it too.

I go to Binky’s room and snuggle up with her on her bed.  She rolls over and opens her eyes, blinks at me.  “Poop,” she says.

“Poop,” I say.  This has been our way of saying ‘hello’ lately.  Potty humor is big with eight-year olds, I’m learning.  Though it was pretty big with seven-, six-, and five-year olds.  Come to think of it, potty humor is pretty big with people my age, too. 

“We have the whole day together!” I say.

“I know,” Binky says, and sits up, throwing the covers off.  “Let’s get to it!”

We make pancakes, draw, play checkers (which we both realize we don’t like, and then remember we realized that last time we played), and run around the house pretending to be baby foxes looking for a den.  I’m exhausted by 11.  I lie on the couch, wondering how people have children.  Then I remember the magic of coffee and answer my own question as I get up to make a cup.

“Look!” says Binky, holding up a drawing.  “Do you like it?”  It’s me, Binky and Liz, smiling out of the colored pencil world.  Binky is looking at me with that sweet face of hers when she wants to be told she did something great, that she is wonderful and amazing.  Do we ever stop needing to hear this?  “It’s great kiddo,” I say, tussling her hair.  She smiles and spontaneously hugs my leg.

Liz has invited us to meet her for lunch at the hospital, which is exciting for Binky, who doesn’t get to see her mom at work very often.  After driving up the winding, tree covered road, we navigate parking and enter into the chaotic sprawl that is Oregon Health and Sciences University.  I’m sure there must be rhyme or reason to this hospital/medical school, but I get lost almost every time I come up here.  Add to that the adjacent Veteran’s Hospital and Shriners Hospital, all woven together into a tangled strand that seems in the beginning of a slide down the steep hillside, and I just give in to the disorientation and end up wandering around until I find someone at a desk who can give me directions.  Then I get lost again and repeat until I end up where I need to be. 

 We find our way up to the cafe, passing multiple signs alerting us to let someone know if we’ve recently traveled overseas, and others requesting that if we have symptoms of cold or flu to please wear a mask.  I know this is all related to the coronavirus, which is now being called COVID-19.  Liz and I have stopped talking about this virus because, I think, she is frustrated by my lack of worry.  I told her, “Why should I worry when there are people like you in the world?”, which was supposed to be a joke but she didn’t laugh.  I just can’t get worried about every new virus, or civil war, or flood, or asshole company caught exploiting people.  I’ll fizzle out.

Liz meets us a few minutes later.  She swoops Binky up and plants kisses all over her cheeks, which makes Binky squirm away.   Binky wriggles out of her arms and then takes her mom’s hand, beaming up at her, excited to see her at work.  We order and sit.  Doctors and nurses come and go, orderlies, janitors, I don’t know.  They are all in scrubs.  I like that about hospitals, it’s not as easy to spot the hierarchy.  As we eat, visitors stop at our table to say hi to Binky, or to meet her.  Binky acts very formal and leans forward to shake their hands.  Liz introduces me, too, I think just not to be rude, but I can tell they don’t care.  I smile and wave, my mouth slurping up pasta.  My obsession with food has not let up since going on the quetiapine, and a new plumpness is settling over my body.

Then a very handsome doctor walks over and smiles at us, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets.  He leans forward and addresses Binky.  “You must be Binky!  Your mom has told me a lot about you.”  Binky leans forward and bows, shakes his hand, acting like a newly hired diplomat.  I look at Liz and am surprised to see her blushing.  I give her a little kick under the table.

“Hi!” I say, leaning forward with my hand extended.  “I’m Mar, Liz’s sister.  What’s your name?”  

Liz kicks me back.

“Gilbert,” he says.

“Oh.”  I realize I sound disappointed.  Who names their son Gilbert?  “Nice to meet you.”  Liz likes him, I can tell.  “Would you like to sit with us?” I ask, scooting my things over to the next chair.  

Gilbert looks at Liz, who nods and wipes her mouth on her napkin.  Gilbert sits down and Binky clasps her hands under her chin, smiling at him coyly.  She is smitten, too.  I have a grin on my face as I study him.  He looks like Superman.  Like Christopher Reeves playing Superman, as a doctor.  Gilbert glances around the table at the three of us, Binky and I smiling expectantly, and Liz looking down at her napkin, her cheeks pink.  She is trying not to burst into a smile.  

“So, are you a doctor?” I ask, motioning to his name tag that reads Dr. Green.

“I am,” he laughs.  “What do you do?”

“I’m a shopkeeper.  I sell pencils.”  Binky laughs at this.

“She’s also a writer,” Liz says.  “A really good one.”

“Oh?” says Gilbert.  I know the question coming next, and already feel my chest beginning to cave inward.  “Would I have read anything of yours?”

This is why I don’t call myself a writer.  Without anything published, what does being a writer even mean to people?  “Do you read blogs about vacuum cleaners?”  I’m referring to a recent copywriting job I did to make a little extra money.

“Stop,” says Liz.  She turns to Gilbert.  “She’s writing a series of young adult books.  And Mar also does copywriting.”

“When I can get it,” I say.  “But enough about me.  What kind of doctor are you?”

“I’m an OB/GYN.”

My eyebrows raise.  Liz must have a giant crush on Dr. Gilbert Green!  Why hasn’t she mentioned him to me?  Just then, almost as an answer to my question, a gorgeous woman in a white coat, with long red hair and the type of athletic body you see beaming out of a rowing team photo walks up to our table.  She smiles cooly at me and Binky, and hardly looks at Liz at all.  Then she turns her full attention to Dr. Green (I’m going to have to call him that, I just can’t call him Gilbert), and I swear her red hair fans out as she smiles.

“Are you ready?” she asks him.

“Oh,” says Dr. Green, and looks at his watch.  “Ten minutes?”

“Well, I thought we could walk down there together.  I have some ideas I’d like to run by you.”  She is playing on his niceness, I can tell.  So he’s a nice guy, and cute, and he must be single or what is going right now?

Dr. Green smiles defeatedly and turns to Binky.  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Binky.  I hope you come back to visit soon.  And Mar, nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Binky and I say in unison.

He smiles at Liz and stands up.  “I’ll see you later.

Liz smiles up at him.  I can feel the wrath of the red-headed ice doctor slashing across everything that is happening right now.  

After they walk away, Liz exhales loudly, as if she’s been holding her breath for a while.  

“What is happening?” I whisper-shout.  “Are you guys filming an episode of ER here today?” 

“Yeah, who was that guy?” Binky asks.

“Yeah, who was that guy?” I repeat.

“Stop it,” says Liz, glancing around.  “Shhh!”  She closes her eyes and takes a minute to compose herself.  “That’s Dr. Green.  Obviously.  He’s here to do a research project.”

“He’s cute,” I say.

“He’s nice,” says Binky.  “I like him.”

“Well, yes,” Liz says.  “And he’s a very good doctor.”

“And who’s the charming redhead?” I ask.

“Clarissa.  She’s helping him.”

“Ah, Clarissa.  We can get rid of her,” I say.

“Stop!” Liz admonishes, kicking me again beneath the table.  Oh, this is going to be fun.  I have not been able to tease Liz about a crush since she was in high school.

“Does he have a dog?” I ask.

“Why?” says Liz.

“Because I saw he had a bone.”

“Mar!” cries Liz, and then she crumples onto the table as her nervousness gives way to a fit of laughter.  

“A dog!” cries Binky, not understanding the joke but wanting to be in on the laughter.  

Over Liz’s quaking back, her head still on the table, I see Dr. Green heading back our way.  Oh no.  I prod Liz with my foot but she waves me away with her hand, her head on the table.

He stops next to Liz.  “Wow, what joke did I miss?”

Liz bolts upright, her face red.  

“Do you have a dog?” Binky asks him.

I turn to Binky, my eyes wide.  I shake my head no.  She looks at me, confused.  Liz buries her face in her hands.

“Nope.  No dog.” He says.

“Oh,” says Binky.  Despite the frantic appeals in my head for her to be quiet, Binky persists.  She turns to me.  “Why did you say he had a bone?”

I could answer that she misheard me, or that I was talking about someone else, but that would be throwing Binky under the bus.  So instead I turn to Dr. Green and say, “I made a joke about you having a bone when you walked away from our table.  I have the humor of a seventh grader.”  I feel my face flushing.

He smiles and opens his mouth.  Liz has turned so red she looks like a derma peel gone horribly wrong.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Dr. Green looks at Liz with what can only be adoration.  “That’s ok,” he says.  “I kind of did.”

Oh my god.  Now I stare at the table, probably beet red myself.  This is by far the best and worst lunch I’ve had in a long time.  

“Um, I was wondering if you could show me the projector setup later?” he asks Liz.

“Of course!” she says.  “Yes.  I can meet you there in a couple hours?”

“Ok.”  He grins and looks embarrassed.  Aw, I like Dr. Green!  “I’ll see you later.”

Liz watches him walk away.  “Bye Gilbert!”  Binky calls.  He turns to wave.  My mouth is hanging open when Liz turns back to me.

“He kind of did have a bone?” I say.

“Mar!  Stop!  That is so crass!”

“Why?” asks Binky.

“See?” says Liz.  “Now I have to explain this to Binky.”  She smooths Binky’s black hair down.  “I’ll tell you later, sweetheart.”  Liz looks at me and says, “You are never allowed to come here again.”

“You’re welcome!” I say.  “Now you know that he likes you.”

“Ok, stop.  I really don’t want to talk about this.”  She starts stacking our dishes.  “Besides, he lives in Philadelphia.”

“So?  It’s not-” I catch myself.  I almost said it’s not Japan.  Liz knows what I was going to say and shoots me a withering look.  Hmmm, we are in more delicate territory than I thought.  

Liz isn’t really mad at me, I know that.  But it hits me that if she truly likes Dr. Green, this is a really big deal and I should be kind.  

“I’m sorry, Liz.  He seems really great and I shouldn’t have been so juvenile.”  

Liz smiles and I spontaneously hug her.  Binky joins in.  We say our good-byes and I watch Liz walk briskly back up the hallway.  I hope Gilbert Green is a goddamn superhero because Liz deserves nothing less.

Binky and I head to my apartment.  We still have a few hours together.  I watch her little head bobbing to music in the backseat.  I love my time with Binky, but I’m still not sure I want kids of my own.  You’d think that by 34 I would know.  Maybe the very presence of my uncertainty is evidence that I don’t want to be a mom.  Liz always knew.  When I was very little she used to dress up and pretend to be my mom.  Mostly that entailed sitting in chairs, drinking from coffee mugs, and reminding me to do my homework.  I was three.  

It’s a nice day for February, so Binky and I decide to play outside.  My apartment complex has several outdoor courts – tennis, basketball, volleyball – and I grab the basketball I noticed earlier in the day.  I hear the echoing thunk thunk of a basketball as we walk to the court.  Binky and I are usually the only ones playing, but there are four hoops so we’ll be fine.

“Let’s play PIG!” says Binky.  She grabs the ball and dribbles to the hoop.  The hoops are high for her, and she rarely makes a shot, but she keeps trying and I admire that.  

It’s not long before I start to pay more attention to the person shooting hoops next to us, specifically his tall, graceful frame, and gentle lope as he dribbles the ball.  I haven’t noticed him in the building before.  He looks over at me and gives me a quick, self-conscious smile.  Binky notices me noticing and makes a bid to get my attention back by throwing the ball at my stomach.  “Let’s keep playing!” she says.  

But it’s too late.  My attention is split between Binky and the other basketball player.  She and I shift into a game of keep away, and I can tell that I’m showing off a little.  Not with my basketball skills, which are pretty much nonexistent, but with my playfulness.  I’m using my relationship with my niece to attract the attention of a cute neighbor.  I try to stop myself.  But Binky says, “Look,” and I follow her eyes to the man, who is doing some cool trick where he spins the ball backward as he throws it and it ricochets right back to him.  Binky takes the ball and starts trying to do it herself.  The ball keeps bouncing away from her.

“No, it’s like this,” I say, and take the ball, flicking it quickly away like I saw him do.  It spins back faster than I anticipated and whacks me in the face.  Binky shrieks with laughter, and I self consciously glance at the neighbor, who I am mortified to see is watching us and smiling.

“Come here,” he says to Binky.  “Let me show you.”  

Binky looks at me to see if it’s okay to go over to him.  I nod and walk over with her.  There is an excited rustle in my chest as we get close.  He’s actually quite gorgeous, and shyness radiates off of him.  He crouches down a little to be closer to Binky.  “Look,” he says, and spins the ball in slow motion in his hands.  “Can you do that?”

Binky copies him.  “Good!” he says, and then shows her how to do the same spin as she lets go of the ball.  After a few tries she’s got it.  

“Look, Mar, look!” she yells, flicking the ball away from her and catching it on the rebound.

“That’s awesome!” I say.  I smile at the neighbor.  “Thank you.  That was really cool.”

“No problem!”  He grins at me shyly.  His smile is genuine in a disarming way.  He looks down at his feet and then back at me.  “I’m Jamal,” he says, and extends his hand.

“Mar.”  I shake his hand.  Even his handshake feels shy.  I’m suddenly acutely aware of his being Black.  There are very few Black people in this neighborhood.  Portland is a pretty white city, but also fairly segregated.  It still bothers me, having grown up in Manhattan, but I’ve grown used to the culture here, where Black people rarely reach out to whites.  It hits me that Jamal is being brave, and even more so because he is obviously shy.  

“Is that like, Spanish for the ocean?” he asks.  

“Yes,” I say, “but in my case it’s short for Martina.”

“Martina.  That’s pretty.  How come you don’t go by Tina if you want a nickname?”

I scrunch up my face in disgust.  He laughs.  

“Do you live here?” I ask.

Jamal turns back to the hoop and flicks the ball, making a perfect shot.  “Why?  Would that be weird?”

I frown, not sure what he means.

“I’m just kidding.”  He laughs and shakes his head.  “I live over there.”  He motions across the street, to a small white house with a brown door.  “But don’t get me in trouble.” He grins and makes a perfect shot while looking at me.

“Ok, that’s really annoying,” I say.  Jamal laughs and catches the ball, then does a little lap while dribbling.  Binky is still practicing the throw Jamal taught her.  

“Watch Mar!” she says.  “Can I teach you?”

“Sure!”  I go over and bend down, acting very intent on learning.  Binky loves teaching.  Out of the corner of my eye I watch Jamal make one perfect shot after another.  He throws the ball in such a way that it goes through the hoop, then hits the bottom of the post, and flies perfectly back into his hands.  It’s beyond impressive.  

Binky finishes the lesson and hands me the ball.  “Your turn,” she instructs, then gives me careful pointers while I practice.  We play for a while longer.  I catch Jamal watching me several times, and he catches me watching him.  Binky has tuned into what is happening, and wiggles her eyebrows at me every time I look at Jamal.  When it’s time to go, Binky and I walk to the edge of the court and pull on the hoodies we had tossed off.  

Jamal catches his ball and watches us.  “You leaving already?”

“Yeah.”  I smile at him, wanting to talk more but feeling awkward with Binky there.

Jamal motions to the apartments behind me.  “So, you live in one of those?”

I hesitate.  He seems really harmless and nice, but I’m not sure I should tell him where I live.  “I do,” I say, without looking at the apartments.

“You two and… her dad?”

I try to hide the huge smile that wants to bust out of me.  “No.  Binky is my niece.  I live alone.”

Jamal doesn’t try to hide his smile.  My heart skitters.  “That’s good,” he says.  “Well, I’ll be out here tomorrow.”

I nod, feeling embarrassed.  “Cool.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I hope so,” he says.  He waves at Binky.  “I’ll teach you another move next time.”

“Ok!” yells Binky, waving and walking away, her mind already onto the next thing.  

“Bye Jamal, nice meeting you,” I say.

“Bye Martina.”  

“Martina?” says Binky as we walk away.  “You hate that name.

“I know, but I didn’t want to be rude.”

“It’s rude of him to call you a name you don’t like.”

“He doesn’t know I don’t like it.”  

I don’t like my name, but I honestly didn’t mind the way it sounded when Jamal said it.  I listen to the steady thunk thunk of the basketball get quieter and quieter as we walk back to my apartment and tuck my orange basketball back under the table.  I pause, then take the ball out and set it by the door.

The post Chapter Seven: OHSU appeared first on .

David’s house is cold and smells like paper.  I think he is asleep beside me.  His body is scrunched up to the edge of the bed, which is a little too small for two people who aren’t cuddling.  I’ve given up on sleep and am now working up the courage to sneak out.  Last night was not great.  I had forgotten how awkward it is to have sex with someone you barely know.  Plus, it was like he was somewhere else, which reminded me of being with Sean, and it pretty much went downhill from there.  The entire experience felt forced, from me texting him after seeing Sean at the bar, to both of us pretending to fall asleep afterward.  I never did fall asleep.  

I feel around for my clothes in the dark, sweep them up quietly into my arms, and creep into the living room.  I dress quickly and reach around in my purse for my phone.  It’s a little after 4am.  I really need to pee, but I don’t want to risk waking David.  Should I leave a note?  Eh, I can send a text later.  I pull on my boots, realizing that my socks are still in his room.  Oh well.  I slip out and hurry across the frosty ground to my car.

A familiar feeling is rising up in me.  I should be tired, but instead my mind is starting to gallup about, listing all the things I can get done today.  Go to sleep, Mar.  Go home and go to sleep, says the wise me.  But I already know it’s a lost cause.  Since I slept at David’s, I didn’t take my medication last night and this is the first morning in over a week that I haven’t felt groggy and drugged.  I want to take advantage of it and tackle things on my to-do list!

Sleep deprivation is not good for people with bipolar disorder.  I know this, and yet I still sometimes play around with putting myself in a mild hypomanic state so I can enjoy the burst of energy and productivity that comes along with it, and also get a short reprieve from my ongoing depression.  I did this for years without realizing it.  On some level I had figured out that skipping sleep usually makes me more energetic and creative.  I used to push it to the point of becoming fully hypomanic, before I knew what that was, and end up doing things I would later regret, like quitting jobs, and having unprotected sex with strangers.  Nowadays, I use it to catch up on my chores, even though half the time I end up abandoning responsibility and instead sit for hours scribbling excitedly in my journal.  I once planned an entire utopian community in a day, detailing how they would distribute work and resources, and creating sketches for their planned city.  A week later, studying the drawings, I could hardly recall the wild enthusiasm I had for it, though at the time I was sure it contained the answers to all the world’s major problems.

I have to be careful, is the short of it.  I have a better understanding now of what hypomania is, and how to create just the right amount of it so I don’t lose too much time starting, and abandoning, outlandish projects.  Dr. Kim doesn’t know that I intentionally go hypomanic, and I’m sure she would disapprove.  Liz doesn’t know either.  But I doubt either of them understand what it’s like to be weighed down by depression for months or years at a time.  It’s like having a wet, heavy blanket draped around your shoulders.  You feel tired from the sag of it, and irritable because it’s uncomfortable and gets in the way.  It slows you down and is distracting.  Hypomania throws the blanket off and makes me feel like I can move and breathe again.  I need it from time to time.       

When I get home my phone dings.  It’s a text from David.  Where did you go?  I was hoping for breakfast.  I was hoping for breakfast… What does that mean?  Was he going to make me breakfast?  Or hoped I would make it for him?  Is breakfast a euphemism for more sex?  Did he mean going out for breakfast?  That sounds good.  When was the last time I took myself out to breakfast?  No, I should save my money.  But really, when was the last time I treated myself to a Portland weekend breakfast?  I take a shower and then speed clean my apartment.  

Next I call my friend Brenna, waking her up with a made up song.  I make up a lot of songs, especially when I have a reprieve from depression.  “Good morning little Brenna!  I hope you are all right.  We should go have breakfast ‘cause I haven’t slept all night!  And I had weird sex with a kind of weird guy, and you should hear the details.  Maybe after breakfast we can go hit up some retails.”  She laughs and we make a plan to meet.  Brenna is my most fun friend, and who I generally call when I am hypomanic because she is usually up for anything.  I consider inviting David, just because it would be weird and then Brenna could see who I’m talking about.  Should I?  My thumb hovers above my phone keyboard.  My wise brain wins out, this time, and I text David- Sorry!  I have a really busy day.  Thanks for last night!

Brenna and I arrive at the restaurant early enough to beat the long wait.  People in Portland will wait three hours for brunch sometimes.  Brenna dresses like she might be invited to a wild party at any moment.  Today she is wearing a white fur jacket that is cropped at the waist, tight yellow pants made out of something shiny, giant green earrings, and bright pink lipstick.  Sometimes, when I imagine myself on my deathbed, which I do at least once a day (how else are we supposed to know we’re making the right decisions?), I imagine I’ll regret that I didn’t live more spontaneously and without giving a damn what other people thought of me.  I don’t think Brenna will have that regret.     

We order a decadent breakfast and drink lots of coffee.  I fill Brenna in on the details of David and Sean, and listen to funny stories about her husband.  For as loud and spontaneous as she is, she has a very stable life. After breakfast we go to the thrift store, where I find a body-hugging white satin dress.  I should wear this for Sean.  I buy it. I’m feeling better and better as the day goes on.  I feel beautiful and witty.  Hypomania makes me shine in a shiny world.   We have more coffee.  I should do chores.  Isn’t that why I skipped sleep?  To catch up on my life?  But this is my life too, right?  I should have fun and play.  That’s also important.  My mind hop-skips about like frogs at a pond.  Brenna’s gregarious laugh keeps me and everyone around us tickled.  

In the early afternoon, I say goodbye to Brenna and then I impulsively go into the nail salon and ask for a pedicure.  I choose a pink as bright as Brenna’s lips.  Leaning back in the salon chair, I already know where this day is heading.  Almost as if bewitched, I pull out my phone and text Sean.  Hey.  That was weird running into you last night.  Can we get together and talk?  After a few minutes he texts back, What’s up?  

What is up, Mar?  Are you lonely?  Are you wanting to get back together?  Are you needing answers?  I close my eyes.  Images from the night before come spilling into my consciousness.  David’s hands crawling up my shirt while we kissed.  His fingers fumbling, tripping over themselves, as if unsure of what to do.  His closed eyes that would occasionally open partway, but with a dim, unfocused look to them.  At one point, he jammed his finger into my belly button and swirled it around, as if it was supposed to feel good.  The growing realization, as the night went on, that he was going through motions he’d learned somewhere else, that had nothing to do with the signals I was giving off.  Worse, they were the moves you see men doing to women in porn, the things women supposedly love, like having our hair grabbed and heads moved up and down while giving a blow job, or having our bodies flipped around willy-nilly.  By the time I realized I didn’t want to be there, we were already having sex.  Stupid Mar.  Why hadn’t I realized sooner?  And then I went ahead and finished the sex, even though I didn’t want it, because that’s what we’re supposed to do.  

And now I want to see Sean, because…?  Because I’ve never had a chance to really find out why he cheated on me, and seeing him last night, and having bad sex with David, has stirred something up in me that is restless and demanding.  I don’t want to be doomed to a life of mediocre internet dates and bad porn sex.  Sean and I had something good, I thought, so what happened?  I mean, I knew we were unhappy for a while, but to cheat on me?  I need to hear Sean’s answer because I need hope for men in general.  There has to be something that went wrong, that can be avoided.  It can’t just be because he is a schmuck.  That would mean that I don’t know how to distinguish decent men from schmucks.  Or worse, that all men are schmucks.

I text back, Nothing.  I just would really like to talk.  As friends.  Maybe dinner before your date?  I’m assuming he has a date because it’s Saturday night.  This way he won’t think that I’m jealous.  I am a little jealous.  I text, My treat.  He texts back, Sure.  I need to hear him out.  I just hope he’s willing to talk.

Coffee helps keep the hypomania going.  So does skipping meals.  I go to a cafe and write in my journal for two hours, then go home to get ready.  I really do it up.  I shower, shave, fix my hair and makeup, and put on the new dress, even though it smells like the inside of an old trunk.  Then, so I don’t look like I’m trying too hard, I throw a sweater over the dress.  I leave my messy apartment with a stab of regret.  I didn’t do anything productive today.  

As I park in front of the restaurant, a sour twinge rolls through me, revealing a dark patch of abysmal grief in its wake.  It’s gone in a moment, but it leaves me on guard because I know what it is—the stirring of the depression that waits on the other side of this hypomania I’ve been riding all day.  If I’m not careful, a great hand will reach up and pull me down into gloom and eventual paralysis.  I know I’m playing with fire by not sleeping.  I need to sleep tonight, as much as it sounds fun to stay up again.   

Sean is at the bar when I walk in, texting on his phone.  He looks handsome, apart from the moustache.  I never did learn to tell his clothes apart.  Always some version of slacks and plaid.  “You look nice!” he says, sounding surprised.  

“Thanks.  So do you.  Thank you for meeting me.”  I feel stiff and apologetic.  

After ordering, we spend a little time catching up.  Not much has changed for either of us, apart from our relationship status.  

“Were you on a date last night?” I blurt out, after he’s finished updating me on his leaky bathtub.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Oh.  She was pretty.  So you know her from school?”

“From OSU.”

“OK.  What happened to Angela?”

He sighs and leans back.  “Is this what you came to talk about?”  

I chose a little Italian restaurant that I discovered on a date a couple months ago.  The date didn’t lead to anything other than the discovery of a great restaurant.  It’s small, and the tables are close together, so I’m vaguely self conscious asking him these questions.  It doesn’t seem like anyone is listening, though I definitely would if I overheard this conversation.  

“Sort of.  I mean, you ended our relationship to be with her and now you’re not even with her?  Why?”

“I didn’t end our relationship to be with her.  It just happened, Mar.  It didn’t mean anything.”

“How can it not mean anything?  We were together for a year!”

“Haven’t you ever had sex that didn’t mean anything?”

My mind flashes to last night.  “Of course.  But not while I was supposedly in love with someone else.”

“We weren’t in love anymore though, were we?” he says. 

I’m too surprised to say anything.  Is it possible I was in love with Sean, but he wasn’t in love with me?  How does that work?  Did he ever love me?  The answer comes like a sack of rocks to my gut.  No.  He didn’t ever love me.  It’s weird that I can see this now, but couldn’t see it then.  Who was deceiving me?  Was it Sean, or myself?  

All I can manage to say is “Wow.”  I stir my pasta.  When were Sean and I happy?  Were we happy at the beginning?  “Did you ever love me?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes.  “Of course I loved you.  What kind of question is that?”

“When?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Mar!  In the beginning.”

“Do you remember falling in love?” I ask.

“No.  I remember really liking you, and trying to get you to go out with me.”  Our server stops by to deliver Sean’s glass of wine.  Sean takes a sip and smiles at me.  “I remember our first date.”

I smile back.  “It was a good first date.”

“It was a good first date.  I remember how hot you looked in those jeans, and how your hair smelled.”

“You do?”  I don’t remember what he was wearing, or any smells.

“Yep.  And I remember being surprised when you kissed me.”

I laugh.  “I wasn’t sure I was going to.”

“I know!  You had already rejected me.”

“We weren’t on a date when you tried to kiss me before.  We were at work.”  Sean and I met when I started working as a cocktail waitress at the restaurant where he tends bar.  Angela started working there a year later.

“Well, I wasn’t totally convinced you liked me,” he says.

“Even though I went on a date with you?”

“What can I say?  It messes with a guy’s head when he gets rejected.”

“I didn’t reject you!  I just wasn’t ready to kiss you yet.  But then, when we were on a date…and it was a good date.  You had me over and cooked a delicious dinner for me.  Then I was ready to kiss you.”

“Oh, so that’s what it takes?” he teases.  “Cooking for you?  You trade kisses for food?”

There is a nice banter happening between us.  It almost feels like flirting.  I have an urge to reach across the table and hold his hand, but I refrain.  Instead I laugh and nod my head yes.

“I was pretty sure you would kiss me,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.  But I had a backup plan for if you didn’t.”

“A backup plan?  What do you mean?”  Something about this feels eerily familiar. 

“You know!  Pretty sure I already told you.”  He pauses and looks at my confused expression.  “OK, the backup plan.  I was going to try and kiss you again on our date.  Invite you over, cook you a nice meal, and make my move.”  He slides his hand forward as though sliding into home base.  “But, if you rejected me again, I was going to leave the room and come back, naked, and masturbate in front of you.”  

I feel like the color has drained from my entire body.  The sound in the restaurant becomes instantly muffled and far away.  I can only assume everyone’s heads have turned to our table.  I stare down at my pasta—little curled-up tubes dotted in red.  Has he told me this before?  Why wouldn’t I remember this?  I look back up at him.  He is smiling and swirling the wine in his glass, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Why would you do that?” I ask.

“Do what?  The backup plan?”  He waits for me to nod my head yes.  “Because then you would know how much I liked you!”

“First of all, I am really glad you didn’t do that because it would not have shown me that you liked me.  It would have scared me, and I would have left your house and not come back.  Second, why on earth would you think that would show somebody you like them?”

“Is this bothering you?” he asks.  “You didn’t seem to care last time I told you.”

“I don’t remember hearing this before,” I say.  But that’s not exactly true.  Some faint memory of this conversation is stirring awake deep in my brain.  But how it ended up way down there, I’m not sure.  “Do you remember what I said when you told me?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The memory surfaces and spins around for me.  Yes, I remember now.  We were lying in bed, late at night, reminiscing about how we’d gotten together.  It was a few months into our relationship and I was newly in love.  Happy, shiny, adoring of everything Sean did.  We had just had sex and our bodies were close, the sheets damp.  I was laughing as Sean told me the story of trying to kiss me at work, of how I had turned away and shoved a basket of bread into his hands before running off, embarrassed.  Then he had told me of his backup plan, of emerging naked to masturbate in front of me if I didn’t want to kiss him again.  At the time, the information was so at odds with the person I was falling in love with, I didn’t know what to do with it.  I remember lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this meant I had to break up with him.  And then, in the middle of wondering, I rolled over and fell asleep, probably burying the entire thing into my subconscious mind so I wouldn’t have to make that decision.

But now, sitting across from him and knowing that I’m no longer in love with him, the story feels sinister.  I still can’t reconcile his smug look with what he’s just told me.  I know I’m missing something important.

“Sean, do you think I would have liked it if you did that?”

“What do you mean?  I masturbated in front of you plenty of times.”

“But that was different.”

“How so?” he asks.

“That was consensual.  We were in a relationship.  It’s very different from pulling out your dick and masturbating in front of someone who hasn’t even kissed you.”  Especially if she’s just rejected you, I think.  

“I don’t know, Mar.  Yeah, I thought you would like it.  But who cares?  I never did it, and this is all so much water under the bridge.”

“You’re right.  It’s stupid.  I don’t even know how we got talking about it.”  But the cold feeling won’t leave me.  Whatever feelings of affection I’ve held onto for Sean have vanished.  I don’t even care anymore about why he cheated on me.  I just want this dinner to end.  

I reach down and pull my cell phone from my purse to look at the time.  “It’s getting late.  I have to go get Binky.”  I’m not really picking up Binky tonight, but I need a solid excuse.

“OK.”  He drains the wine from his glass and signals the server for the check.  

I look down at my lap, at the white dress I bought in hopes this dinner would lead to some kind of renewed interest.  Not that I wanted to get back together with Sean, but I wanted to feel like he still found me attractive.  I suddenly realize that I have copied Ashley’s look from the night before.  That’s why the white dress appealed to me.  I feel stupid and want to throw it in the trash.

Out on the sidewalk, Sean opens his arms to give me a hug.  I lean in and hug him.

“Thought you might reject me again,” he jokes.  

I force myself to smile.  “Bye,” I say.  And I really mean it.  I don’t care if I ever see Sean again.  Guess there’s the closure I wanted. 

I get in my car and drive to Liz’s.  The great hand is coming up for me.  I can feel it below, cold and grey.  I am going to regret this whole day, and last night, too.  

After Liz puts Binky to bed I tell her everything, except the part about cultivating the high of hypomania all day.  I tell her about David, and then I tell her about Sean.  She looks as stunned as I feel.  

“Why would he think masturbating in front of you would show you that he liked you?  Right after you refused to kiss him?”  She asks for the third time.

All I can do is shake my head in wonder.  “I keep thinking of Louis C.K.”

Liz shudders.

“And all these stories from the Me Too movement” I say.  “This is a common thing, right?  You hear about these executives calling women into their offices and masturbating in front of them?  Do you think they actually think the women are going to like it?”

“I’ve never thought about that before.  I’ve always assumed men do this kind of thing out of power and aggression.  And I still think that.  I think Sean wanted to make you feel intimidated.”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I think he actually thought I would like it, though.  Like it would make me tear my clothes off and have sex with him.”

“Maybe that’s their biggest fantasy, that a woman will come into the room without any clothes on and masturbate in front of them, so they just assume we will love it, too.”

“Poor men,” I say.  “If that’s true, they really don’t understand women.”

It’s late and I should sleep, even though I don’t feel tired.  Liz offers me her couch, but I need to go home and take my medicine.  I feel so sad on the drive home.  I had been sad for the loss of my relationship with Sean, but now I feel a deeper sadness as I realize that the relationship I miss never existed.  Ever since I got my diagnosis of bipolar disorder, I’ve felt an uneasiness when I look at my past.  I wonder how much of what I did was because of my condition, and what has been me versus the bipolar, and if they’re even possible to separate.  I’ve wondered if I can trust my feelings anymore, if they’re possibly stemming from faulty brain chemistry.  Now I wonder if I can trust my perceptions at all.  How did I not see this side of Sean all that time?  Or, worse, did I see it and just willfully ignore it?

I get home, take my quetiapine, and get into bed.  The nice thing about this medicine is it makes me fall asleep.  I look over at my gratitude journal.  I have no reason to feel gratitude today.  All I feel is regret and shame.  I go to plug my phone in and see I have a bunch of unread texts.

Liz- Sweet dreams my love.  I forgot to invite you to Binky’s talent show next Friday.  I’ll call you tomorrow.

Brenna- Sooooo much fun with you today!  Did you end up seeing Sean?  What happened????  Call me!!!

David- Hope you had an awesome day!  There’s a documentary I want you to watch.  Want to come over tomorrow?

Sean- That got weird at the end.  Can you call me?

Mom- Hi Marty!  I tried calling you several times today.  Call me when you get a chance, ok? Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx kiss kiss kiss!

Ugh.  I want the world to go away.  I know I have people who love me.  I know these situations with David and Sean will pass.  I know I have a good job and generally like my life.  But right now I can’t feel any of that.  Right now the grey hand is curling around me and I can feel myself folding up into it.  I know things could be worse.  But right now, it’s hard for me to see.

The post Chapter Six: Hypomania appeared first on .

I think I have gained three pounds in the past week.  I am hungry all the time and everything looks delicious.  At first, when Dr. Kim told me that some people gain weight on quetiapine, I assumed she meant weight would just appear on me, like my metabolism would slow down.  Now I understand she meant that I would be willing to eat my own hands if there was enough butter on them.

I’m at Liz’s for Friday night dinner.  My newfound interest in food has inspired me to make lasagna for us.  Liz had to work late, so I picked Binky up from aftercare and we went to the store, where I had to restrain myself from buying a block of spanish cheese and also the bakery tiramisu.  I successfully resisted the cheese but not the tiramisu, much to Binky’s delight.  Liz watches with fascination as I eat a large bowl of greek salad, two servings of lasagna, about eight slices of garlic bread, and now most of a large slice of tiramisu.  

“I can’t remember when I saw you eat so much,” she says. 

“I know!  It was delicious!” says Binky.  She pulls her shirt up and sticks out her stomach.  “Look at my tummy!”

I know Liz means this in an appreciative way.  I have been mostly uninterested in food for years.  

“It’s the new meds,” I say.  “They make me hungry!  I have to be careful.  But right now I’m just enjoying eating again.”

“That’s good!” she says.  “So they’re working out?”

“Too soon to tell.  It’s only been a week.  But I am so tired in the mornings.  I feel like someone has slipped me a roofie.”

“Slipped you a what?” asks Binky.

“A drug,” I say.  “That puts you to sleep.”  

“Oh.”

“That’s why I never leave you alone when I take you to the bar,” I say to Binky.

“Mar!” says Liz, while Binky gives me a confused look.

“I just said I don’t leave her alone!  Oh, you mean the part about taking her to a bar.”  I’m having a harder time than usual getting Liz to laugh tonight.  She looks tired and is distracted.  “Do you want me to run a bath for Binky?” I ask.

“That would be so great.  I think I’ll lie down for a little bit.”  Liz takes her glass of wine and goes to the couch.  

Binky and I go into the bathroom.  “Do you know what a bar is?” I ask her.

“It’s where grown ups get drunk and fight,” she says.

“Huh.  That’s about right, actually.”  I love asking Binky questions.  I have no idea where she gets some of her information, but the way she applies it to the world can be spot on.  I rinse off her plastic mermaids and dragons in the sink, then hand them to her as she settles into the bubbles.     

“I’ll turn off the water,” Binky says, cueing me to leave.  She likes to disappear into elaborate pretend games while in the bath.  I go back out to sit with Liz, but Binky calls for me to leave the bathroom door open.  She is afraid of being alone.

I sit next to Liz, settling her feet on my lap.  “Are you OK?” I ask.

Liz smiles but doesn’t open her eyes.  Her shiny dark hair is spread all around her head like a seaweed crown.  Tiny strands of grey are starting to emerge here and there.  I reflexively touch my own hair.  I’m six years behind Liz, but she often seems more stressed than I.  She has been my overseer for my whole life, but the more I learn about myself these past few years, the more I realize how much I’ve needed that.  I shouldn’t diminish my own stress.  Mental illness takes quite a toll, I hear.  Mental illness.  I really dislike that term.  I make a mental note to find something better.

“Neurodiverse,” says Liz.

My body jerks.  “What did you say?”

“That’s a better term for you.  Not mentally ill.”

“I was just thinking that!  Did I say something about it earlier?”

“I don’t think so,” says Liz, smiling.  She opens her eyes and peers at me.  “I’m psychic!” she whispers.

We laugh, both at how she says it and because it’s partly true.  Liz has been eerily accurate about things lately.  Last summer, Binky wanted to try climbing a wall at the playground and Liz said, “You’re going to break your arm.”  Three minutes later, Binky broke her arm, though not from falling off the wall.  A much larger kid slammed into her coming off the slide and snapped Binky’s humerus.  Liz predicted that Sean would cheat on me, and lo and behold he did.  Though maybe that one was a little obvious.  There have been lots of little things, too.  Like knowing that certain things will be sold out at the store, and knowing that specific people will call her right before they do.  Liz thinks they’re all bizarre coincidences, but I’m going to keep thinking she’s psychic.  It’s more fun.

“What are you laughing about?” Binky calls from the bathroom.

“Your mom’s funny!” I yell back.

“Oh. Yeah,” Binky agress.

“Thanks,” I say to Liz.  “Neurodiverse.  It makes me sound special.”

“You are,” she says.

“Seriously, though.  You seem really tired.  What’s going on?”

“It’s just work,” says Liz.  “It’s flu season, so we’re always really busy anyway, but then there’s the coronavirus.”

“How is that affecting your work?” I ask, preparing myself to talk Liz down from worrying about things that aren’t in her purview.  She often takes things on because she thinks nobody else is doing them, even when people are doing them fine, just maybe not to Liz’s standards.

Her eyes pop open and she wriggles up to sitting so she can reach over for her glass of wine.  “Mar, this virus is going to be huge.  Hospitals all over the world are starting to prepare for it.”

“Really?  But it’s barely leaving China.

“They just discovered it in Italy!”

“Yeah, but weren’t those people who had just been in China?”

Liz looks at me with a concerned expression.  “That’s how viruses spread, Mar.  Through people.”

“Or pangolins.”  I pause.  No laugh from Liz.  I try to look more serious.  “OK, but didn’t we just restrict travel from China today?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t matter.  It might help slow it down, but the virus is out.  Yesterday the World Health Organization declared an international public health emergency!” 

I don’t say anything.  I’m not sure how to help lessen her worry.  Liz knows far more about this than I do, and if she says it’s a big deal, it’s a big deal.  I can hear Binky talking softly to herself in the bathroom, as little plastic figures splash around in the water.  

“So what kinds of things are you doing at the hospital to prepare?” I ask.

“Well, we’re having daily meetings.  We’re reviewing inventory, staffing, supplies.  I’m pretty much only doing trainings now, besides my classes.  It’s amazing how lax our protocols have become when we really start examining them.”  She pinches the bridge of her nose.  

I pat her foot and say, “You know, everything I’ve read says the risk to Americans is really low.  I just don’t think this is worth getting so stressed about.  Isn’t it like MERS and SARS?  They didn’t really turn into a big deal here, right?”

“You shouldn’t get too hung up on what the news is saying,” Liz says.  “There’s a lot of misinformation.”  She shakes her head and says, “Bring me my phone.”

I get her phone from the kitchen and peek in on Binky, who has propped two mermaids on the edge of the tub and is chatting away to them.  “I can show you the way to the palace, follow me!” she says, and dips below the water.  

Back on the couch, Liz pulls a photo up on her phone and shows it to me.  It’s an eerie shot of a person in a white hazard suit, like you see in the movies.  The suit is drawn tight around their face, which is mostly covered by a blue mask with ventilation holes.  Large goggles cover the rest, and they are steamed up as the person peers into the camera, looking like a strange space bug, or an astronaut.  The caption reads ‘HEALTH WORKER IN SUIZHOU, CHINA’.

“We have to be prepared for that,” says Liz.  “We just don’t know how big yet.”

I don’t envy Liz’s job any day, but especially not now.  I get up and bring the bottle of wine into the living room to refill her glass.  I stopped drinking once I got diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which has weirdly made me more aware of when other people need a drink.  Maybe it’s actually that Liz’s stress is making me feel like I need a drink.  

“OK,” I say.  “Let’s just talk through this.  What’s the worst case scenario?  The virus turns out to be big, and?  Millions of people get sick?  And what…die?  That seems pretty unlikely.  It’s not 1920 anymore.”

“Yes, that is the worst case scenario.  People will die.”

“So that’s what you’re trying to prevent.  I mean, not you, but your hospital.  All hospitals.”  I say this, but I actually think that Liz believes it is up to her to prevent this worst case scenario.  Ever since we were kids, she’s acted like the weight of the world is on her shoulders.  Our dad skipped out when we were little—I was three and Liz was nine—and our mom, a nurse like Liz, was constantly stressed out while raising us alone.  Also like Liz.  Huh.  Funny how we do that.

“It’s such a shithole, Mar.  You don’t even know.  Our whole national pandemic response is a joke.”

I feel a little hurt by this exclusion.  “Everything on the national level is a joke right now.  But there are people like you all over the country!  Good fighters, smart.  I’m sure if you’re starting to organize now, this virus doesn’t stand a chance.”

I can tell by Liz’s face that I’m only adding to her worry.  I probably sound just like the naive public she feels responsible for training and preparing.  “Besides,” I add, “we have access to such great nutrition here.  I know Americans aren’t the healthiest bunch, but we do alright every year with the flu, right?”

“Oh Mar,” Liz says, and hangs her head.  Liz is in a sinking boat of misery and I am walking around the deck, punching new holes.  “Thirty million people get the flu every year.  Fifty thousand of them die,” she says.

“Right, but twenty nine million, nine hundrend and fifty thousand don’t!  Look, if you catch it early enough, give people good medicine-”

“You’re not a doctor,” snaps Liz.

“I know that,” I say.  “You don’t have to remind me.”  This is a sore spot between us that doesn’t come up very often.  Years ago, after Liz moved to Portland to work for OHSU, I transferred to Portland State University to finish my pre-med program.  The classes were hard for me, but the stress of the MCAT and applying to medical schools proved too much.  I failed, spectacularly.  I’m still not sure what happened.  It might have been self sabotage, or it might have been my first big hypomanic episode.  All I know is that instead of studying and preparing, I shopped and went to the movies, took random men home and skipped classes.  I’ve been a failure ever since, as far as I can see.    

“I’m sorry,” Liz says.  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That’s OK.  I can see how worried you are and I want to help, but I don’t think I am.  How can I help you?”

“You are helping.  You do help.  So much.”  She smiles and I give her legs a squeeze.  I want to ask her again if this is why she seems so tired, but I know she hates being asked that.  So instead I say that I’ll get Binky into her pajamas.

The warm water has made Binky sleepy.  I help her brush her teeth and put on her blue pajamas with the unicorn cats.  When did every animal start having a horn on its forehead?  Then I take her to the couch, where she snuggles into her mom’s arms and they both yawn.  I do the dishes and then eat another piece of tiramisu.  This quetiapine is making everything taste like the best version of itself.  Maybe it will make me start feeling like the best version of myself, even if I am three hundred pounds by then.

I leave a little before ten, and without thinking I drive to Sean’s bar.  I sit in the car, wondering what I’m doing there.  The conversation with Liz has left me feeling a little down.  Not what she said, but how upset she is.  It’s rare that she brings up my medical school failure.  It stung more than I want to admit.  

The clock in the car reads 9:58.  It’s Friday night.  Why am I always going home so early on Friday night?  I leave Liz’s and just go home, week after week, to watch TV by myself.  It’s depressing.  I’m still young, I should be out!  I take out my phone and open the Bumble app.  I haven’t been on a date since the ramen dinner with David.  He and I have texted a little bit back and forth, but I just don’t know that I can handle his intensity around all the government stuff.  There’s another cute guy I’ve been messaging with this week.  Zach.  He’s really into yoga.  His profile picture has a weird object behind his ear, and I finally realized it’s his foot.  I open our text thread and pause, then impulsively write Hey!  I just finished dinner with my sister.  Want to meet up somewhere?  I press send and instantly regret it.  Getting to know a new person is not what I feel up for right now.

Fuck it.  I drop my visor down and use the mirror to put on lipstick, smooth my hair down, and flip up the collar on my coat.  Then I get out of the car and walk into the bar.  Somehow I know Sean is here.  I step to the side of the door and scan the room.  There are lots of beautiful people in their twenties and thirties, but no Sean.  I walk across the bar to the next room and look around, trying to stay in the shadows.  It’s a lounge type bar with red booths and dim lighting.  Sean and I used to sit in these dark booths and make out.  He was a great kisser.  In the farthest booth, next to the window, I catch sight of his telltale messy hair and plaid shirt.  He’s talking to someone, but I can’t see who.  I return to the bar and order a ginger ale.  What’s your plan, Mar?  Are you going to go talk to him?  Why?  What if he’s with a woman?

Sean and I broke up at the end of last summer, when I discovered he was cheating on me.  We had been together a little over a year.  I thought I was in love with him, but now I’m not so sure.  Now I wonder how much I knew him at all.  It’s a bizarre feeling when someone you think you know well betrays you.  It’s difficult not to take it personally, and my confidence has been pretty shot since then.  It has not crossed my mind that he might be with Angela, the woman he cheated on me with, but I think of it now.  I still miss him, and I hate myself for it.  I want to be angry at him, and to move on into an even better relationship, but every time I’ve gone on a date I end up thinking of Sean.  Closure!  I need closure.  That’s why I’ve come here tonight, I think.  Yes, that’s definitely why I’m here.  It’s a very healthy, healthy reason to be here.

I pull myself up straight and walk over to his booth.  As I get nearer, I can see that it’s not Angela.  It’s another woman, also very beautiful.  She’s wearing a white mini skirt and has long, shiny tan legs.  Also high heels, which I find intimidating.  I’ve never learned to walk in those.  She notices me first and stops talking, looking up at me with an expectant smile, like maybe I’m bringing her a gift.  

“Hi,” I say.

Sean turns and sees me.  His eyes widen and he definitely looks surprised, but not happy.  “Mar!  What are you doing here?”   I’m startled to see a moustache on his face.  A thick, evenly combed moustache that doesn’t fit him at all.  It’s not a good look.

“Just stopped for an ol’ ginger ale,” I say, and give my glass a little shake.  Ginger ale splashes onto the floor.  

“This is Ashley,” he says.  “We went to school together.”

“That’s great!” I say.  “Nice to meet you!”  I am forcing a smile that is much larger than I feel.  

Ashley gives me a little wave.  They are definitely on a date.  She sits like a posed doll.  Everything about her is held just so.  She clearly spent a lot of time on her hair and makeup.  I want to tell her not to try so hard, that he’s not worth it.   I want to say ‘Don’t give him your best self!  He won’t notice, and then you’ll feel like crap because you showed off and he didn’t even see.’  What a bastard.

“Are you here alone?” Sean asks, dread in his voice.  He is probably wondering if I am thinking of joining them.  For a second I consider the idea of sitting down, just to make them really uncomfortable.  Ashley has dropped her head and is studying the wet napkin beneath her drink.  Ashley.  Angela.  Is it A names that he likes?

“No, no,” I say.  “I’m waiting for my date.”  

“Oh,” Sean says.  “Well, it’s great to see you.  You look really…great.”

I try to smile at him, but the best I can do is sad disappointment.  It’s hard to read his expression beneath the thick mouthbrow.  I turn to Angela.  Ashley!  I turn to Ashley.  “Take good care,” I say, and walk away.  I hope he notices that I didn’t say goodbye to him.  So much for closure.

Wow, if I felt shitty before stopping here, I feel horrid now.  I go out to my car.  Now that I know where their booth is I can see part of Sean’s profile, and Ashley’s white outfit.  I sit in my car and watch them for a few minutes.  It’s 10:12.  That used up fifteen minutes of my Friday night.  Now what?  The prospect of my empty apartment feels even more lonely now.  My mind flashes to Sean and Ashley making out on his bed.  After I found out about him and Angela, I would have constant, unwanted flashes of them together.  I couldn’t stop seeing what I didn’t want to see.  

I pull my phone out again.  Yoga man hasn’t responded, but he did send me a video of himself jogging.  He’s running through a park at sunset.  Someone else is clearly holding the phone and recording it, as it follows him while he runs for a while.  Who did he ask to help him make a jogging video to send on a dating app?  I should send him a video of myself watching TV and eating popcorn.  I can ask Binky to record it, slowly moving the camera around me.  

Almost without thinking, I dial David’s phone number.  He answers right away. 

“Hi!” he says, sounding genuinely happy to hear from me.

“Hi.  I’m sorry to call so late.  I just had this weird thing happen and I needed a friend to talk to.”  I cringe.  I know this isn’t why I am calling him.

“OK.  What happened?”

“Eh.  It’s not really even worth talking about.  I just wanted to hear your voice.”  Please invite me over.  Please invite me over.

“Sure, I understand.  Where are you?”

“Just leaving Liz’s.”  Another lie.

“Well, do you want to come over?”

“Oh. Um, yeah!  That sounds great, actually.”

David gives me his address and I turn the car around.  I haven’t slept with anyone since Sean, and that is exactly what I am determined to do tonight.  That is just the kind of closure I need.  

The post Chapter Five: China appeared first on .

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been making up excuses for missing work.  I used to think I was just lazy.  I can be a go-machine for several days, on top of every little detail of my job, and then I just have nothing.  I’m a heap of exhaustion and deflation.  This state lasts anywhere from a day to a week, and it’s in this state that I sometimes call in sick if I can afford to.  It’s also in this state that I delay taking care of my home and my body.  I stay in bed and escape into sleep, or the internet, or just stare at the ceiling, beating myself up internally the whole while with name-calling and feelings of guilt and shame.  

I’m finally on a medication that helps, and I don’t cycle between these extremes as much.  Now when I miss work it’s usually to come see Dr. Kim, but I still make up excuses, like telling Darren today that I was going to have a ‘procedure’.  My experience has been that mental health is not an acceptable reason to miss work, unless you are institutionalized, which is something I have so far avoided.  Knock on wood.

Dr. Kim is smart and kind.  I like her because she treats me as though I’m completely normal.  Her office is on the top floor of a medical complex in North Portland.  Sometimes, when we’re talking, she stares out the window at the sky for a really long time and I think she has forgotten I’m there.  But then she’ll turn her eyes back to me and they are like sharp rays of sun cutting through clouds, like she’s gathered all the energy from the sky and is shining it into me.  

“So,” says Dr. Kim, tapping her pen on paper in front of her.  “You think maybe the Lamictal isn’t working anymore?”

We are talking about my worsening depression.  It’s been four months.  I had thought it was just the seasons, as heading into winter always worsens my depression, but it’s not.  

“I don’t know,” I reply.  “Maybe I just need a higher dose?”

“Didn’t we try that?”  She flips through the papers in front of her.  “You got a rash when we went over 150.”

“Oh yeah.  But maybe we could try it again?  Maybe the rash was just a fluke?”

“Possibly.  What kinds of thoughts have you been having?”

“Well, I haven’t been thinking about killing myself, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That’s good,” she says.  She stares at me patiently.  I know from experience that she will quietly sit there for a long time.

“I guess I’ve been having a lot of thoughts of ‘What’s the point?’  Like, everything I do seems so meaningless.  I mean, not everything.  I love my family.  And hanging out with Binky is the best thing ever.  But my work, my job, my writing, dating, eating, cleaning…what’s it all for?”

Dr. Kim nods.  Nothing I’ve said so far seems to alarm her.  I want to be honest with Dr. Kim.  I want to be well, and I know she is here to help me.  But I also don’t want to be institutionalized.  I often find myself walking a thin line between telling her the truth of what goes on inside my head and reassuring her that I’m not going to kill myself.  

“These are normal thoughts, right?” I ask.

“Very normal,” she says.  “Most people want their lives to have meaning.  Where do you think that meaning can come from, for you?”

I close my eyes.  The amount of weight I give this question cannot be understated.  It seems to always be on my mind, spinning in the background of whatever I’m doing.  What’s the point?  What difference is this making?  Who are you to think you can change anything?  Everything is going to be the same tomorrow.  I know from experience that I have to be careful with these thoughts, because if I stop guarding them they can become sinister, psychotic mermaids pulling me into depths I don’t want to go.  You are meaningless.  You’re not doing anything with your life.  Your existence is a burden on the world.  Everyone would be better off if you were gone.  These are the thoughts that led me to my suicide attempt when I was seventeen, and subsequent suicidal ideations.  And yet, the lighter version of them feels important.  What IS the point?  I want there to be a point to my life.      

“Mar?”  Dr. Kim interrupts my thoughts.  

I open my eyes.  “My writing, I think.  I just feel like if I could really write, if I had the time and space for it, I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Dr. Kim nods.  She doesn’t seem to be agreeing or disagreeing with me.  “What’s preventing you from writing?”

“Money!”  I laugh.  “I mean, I work so much.  Between the stationery job and the writing jobs I do for money, there just isn’t time left.  I’m so tired by the end of the day.  I try to carve out time, but I just can’t seem to stick to anything.”  I’m embarrassed by how I sound, so whiny and helpless.  Pathetic.  If you were a real writer you’d have written more by now.  

“So you think if you had enough money you could be a writer?”

“No.  It’s not that.  It’s time.  Money equals time.  I need time.  I’m stuck in this catch-22 where I have to work to have money, but I need time to write so I can create the work I really want to be doing.  I have to trade my time for money!  I need to make more money so I can work less, I think, and be able to write more.”

“I wonder if there is another source you can find meaning from,” says Dr. Kim.  Or she asks it, I’m not sure if it’s a question.  “Something that is outside of what you produce.  Something enduring.”

“Like god?”  I’m not sure what else she can be talking about.

“Maybe.  For some people that is their source of meaning.  But what if your life had meaning just because it existed?  What if you didn’t have to do anything to matter?  What if you just matter because you’re alive?”

I want to believe what she’s saying.  I desperately want to believe it.  But I can’t.  It’s too simple.  “That doesn’t make sense to me,” I say.  “What about all our great people?  What about Gandhi and Martin Luther King?  What if they just stayed home and were content to exist?  All of our great art and literature and achievements are because people wanted more.”

“Do you think you have to be like Gandhi or MLK?”

“No, of course not.  But I have to be something!  I can’t just work in a shop.”  My words hang in the air.  They feel so stupid, yet I know I believe them.

“Mar, you are something,” says Dr. Kim, leaning forward.  “Where you work, what you do, what you wear, none of those define you.”

I know Dr. Kim’s big objective is to keep me alive.  But I want more than to just be alive.  I don’t want to just be, to just exist.  “I know,” I say, and smile.

“Do you?” she asks.

No.  I don’t know that I matter just because I exist.  But I lack the words to argue the point I’m trying to make.  The thoughts keep spinning in the background, leading me to somewhere there are answers to these questions, real answers.  I just have to wait.  I need time.

“No,” I say, “of course I know none of those things define me.  I just want my life to matter.  I want it to be worth something to other people.  And to me.”  Uh-oh.  I’m getting close to the line.  I try to summon an expression of happiness on my face to back away.

Dr. Kim turns to her notes in front of her.  “There is a medication I’d like to try, if you’re up for it.  It’s called quetiapine, or Seroquel.  It’s an effective antidepressant for bipolar.  We could see how you feel on it, and maybe even take you off the Lamictal?”

My eyes widen.  Lamictal is the only thing we’ve found that makes me feel better, that keeps the hypomania at bay.  “Why would we get rid of the Lamictal?” I ask.

“It doesn’t seem to be as effective against your depression anymore.  We could certainly keep you on both, but quetiapine can be used as a mood stabilizer on its own.  If it works for you, we wouldn’t need to keep you on both.”

I nod slowly.  “That makes me nervous.  But I trust you.  If you think that’s the right thing, then let’s do it.  I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

“Great.”  She goes over the dosage with me, how to wean off the one medication while titrating up on another.  Nothing new to me.  “How’s the gratitude journal?”

“Fine.  It’s hard.  I don’t really feel grateful for anything.  I mean, that’s not true.  I feel grateful for a lot, but it’s hard to think of five new things every day.”

“You can write the same five.  Just don’t lose sight of them.  How about exercise?  Sleep?  Nutrition?”

Yes, yes, yes.  We review the same things every appointment.  Even though my motivation for taking care of myself has been very low lately, I am still managing to do it.  Somewhat.

After the appointment I head downstairs to the pharmacy to fill my new prescription.  Waiting in line to take a number, the person in front of me is coughing.  I watch as they cough repeatedly into their hand and then touch the machine to take their number.  Liz would be so offended right now.  Cough into your elbow!  She would say, unafraid to reprimand them in public.  I make a grossed out face to their back as they walk away and then touch the ticket machine with my knuckle.  The person behind me hasn’t seen, and they touch the machine with their finger.  

The pharmacist reviews the quetiapine with me, and asks the same question I get asked every medical appointment for the past five years, ever since I got diagnosed with bipolar II disorder.  “Are you thinking about hurting yourself or others?”  I shake my head no and smile.  Then I take my little white bag and head to my car, with a heavy feeling in my heart and legs.  I don’t like switching medications.

I decide to swing by the store for flowers, for Liz and Binky.  My mind is replaying the conversation with Dr. Kim.  Could I really be happy if I worked in a shop for the rest of my life?  People all over the world do it, and do much less.  Are they happy?  Why do I need to be happy, anyway?  What is this fixation on happiness we have?  Is this what Dr. Kim meant when she said I could just be?  Just be…anything?  Is this what the buddhists mean?  But what if I give up striving for happiness, what then?  Will I just sink into a big blah blob state of ‘fine’?

I thumb through the flowers at the store.  All the ones I really like are so expensive.  Why did I come to the health food store?  The flowers are gorgeous, but ridiculously priced.  Should I get a cheap bundle of wax flowers?  Or a single beautiful lily?  Why am I being so spoiled?  What’s wrong with wax flowers?  Think about all the people in the world who can’t stop at some bourgeois store and buy beautiful flowers.  Six dollars is a fortune to most of the world.  My mind is starting to race.  I need to calm down.  I pick a beautiful stargazer lily, and then impulsively take another.  What the hell, Liz feeds me all the time.  I can spring for an extra flower.  

I have a great time at Liz’s.  We play charades, and I forgot how funny she can be.  While I’m there I get a text from David.  I’m sorry.  I overreacted today.  I think we should hang out again.  Maybe not talk about 5G?  Hope you’re having a good night.  I show Liz and she raises her eyebrows and makes an encouraging face.  I put my phone away, not sure yet what I want to say to him.

That night, I take out my gratitude journal and open it, determined to make a sincere entry.  I close my eyes.  If I’m not truly grateful for the things I have, then what am I?  Ungrateful?  I look around my room and try to cultivate feelings of gratitude for what I have.  I just feel that I have so little, and need so much.  But really, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t I so very fortunate?  For so many in this world, if they were plopped into my apartment, wouldn’t they be astounded that this is all mine?  Hot running water.  My own bathroom.  A bed, my own bed!  All my clothes.  Shelves and shelves of books.  Cupboards of dishes and food.  A refrigerator.  A car!  An iPhone.  Do I think I am owed any of this?  Why do I always compare myself to those who have more?  

My eyes still closed, I try to think of the person in the world who has the least.  I picture a tiny baby in Syria, born into war.  I imagine this baby will die within a couple of months, only ever knowing suffering.  It will never have a childhood, never have a chance to dream.  It’s entire life filled with fear, cold, hunger.  Do I think I am owed more than that baby?  I could have been that baby.  Instead, I was born here.  It hits me that everything I have, all my possessions, all my health, my life I’ve built, it’s all a gift.  I am not owed any of it.  Suddenly, gratitude fills me at the same time as immense grief.  I’ve been crying a lot lately, and so this cry isn’t unexpected, but it feels more imperative.  I think I am beginning to understand.  

I make a massive entry in my journal.  I suddenly feel grateful for everything, even my new medicine, which I take.  The pharmacist had warned me that it is sedating, but within twenty minutes I can’t keep my eyes open and I slip into a deep, tired sleep.    

The post Chapter Four: Quetiapine appeared first on .

The stationary shop I work in is tiny but beautiful.  We sell weird little things from all over the world, like scratchy ink pens from Japan, and delicate British planners that make the writer in me swoon.  I love my job. I work alone and my boss lets me write if all my work is done. It makes the fourteen dollars an hour tolerable.  

This morning, two middle-aged women have been standing outside for five minutes with their coffee.  We don’t open for another ten minutes, but I open the door and shoo them inside from the cold January morning.  I listen as they ooh and ah over our collection, and comment on the news from the radio. I’m not supposed to listen to the news when we’re open.  

“Milk!” one of them says.  “Please.”

“I’m sure they’re sneaking bourbon into it.  I mean, wouldn’t you?” says the other.

The radio host is talking about senators drinking milk on the senate floor during Trump’s impeachment trial.  

“Why are they drinking milk?” I ask, setting down a box of planners.

“It’s all they’re allowed.  That or water.”

“And candy!” chimes in the woman with orange hair.  I can’t tell if it’s a hip Portland look or botched dye job.  The line is thin between those two, maybe even only exists in the eye of the observer.  “They have a candy drawer they’re allowed to eat from.”

I picture a bunch of hypoglycemic white men with milk moustaches.  Our leaders. I listen to the gentle hum of the radio host’s voice as she soothingly narrates news of one disaster after another.  It makes my little corner of the world seem so peaceful and safe. Another thing for my gratitude journal – peace.

The bell on the door jingles and I sigh.  We’re not open yet and I’m still setting up, but my fault for not locking the door after those two women came in.  I turn around to see David walking in. I nearly drop the notebooks I’m holding. “Hi!” I say, trying to hide my surprise, or at least make it look less than it is.  “Did you know I work here?”

David laughs.  “Of course. You told me last night.  That would be weird if I just happened to walk into your workplace.”

I don’t mention that it is weird anyway.  We just had our first date last night! Is he a stalker?  Clingy? Clueless? Falling in love with me? Am I falling in love with him?  He starts picking things up and setting them down without really looking at them.  I watch him closely. He looks paler in the daylight. There is definitely a handsomeness about him, but you can almost see the handsomeness fading, like a photograph being washed out by the sun.  It’s unusual, as I generally think men become more attractive with time. It looks like a dark basement is winning in his life. I wonder if he plays lots of video games.   

The orange-haired woman walks to the counter holding a calendar.  “Do you have this in a different size?” she asks.  

Relieved to not have to talk to David, I tell her I’ll check, and go into the back.  I pull out my phone to text Liz. The guy I went on a date with last night just walked into my STORE!  WTF?!?!

I take a deep breath and pour myself another coffee.  This isn’t a good sign, that I’m bothered by him showing up.  If I liked him, I’d be excited, right? I come back out, holding a horizontal version of the calendar for the woman.  I force a smile at David, who has put his hands in his pockets and is shuffling his feet. He raises his eyebrows at me and I swear he seems annoyed that I’m making him wait.   

“Oh my god, I didn’t know that!” the orange-haired woman is saying to her friend.  “Where? My sister lives there!”

“I don’t know,” says her friend.  “It could be Vancouver for all I know.”

“It’s Snohomish County,” says David.  

 “What’s this?” I ask, setting the calendar and my coffee down next to the cash register.

“That coronavirus thing.  It’s in the United States now!  They just said it on the news!” She points to the speaker in the ceiling.  I grimace and turn the news off. Oops. This is just what we’re supposed to avoid.  Agitated customers don’t want to buy a twenty-two dollar calendar when there are things like the coronavirus, and milk-drinking senators arguing impeachment.

David has a weird smile on his face.  Is it a smirk? “That’s near Seattle, right?” he asks.

“It is!” says the orange-haired woman, banging her wallet on the counter.  “That’s where Sandy lives! Ooooh no!”

“It’s ok,” her friend says, gently grabbing onto the orange-haired woman’s arm.

“Um, twenty-two dollars,” I say.  

She hands me her credit card and touches her forehead.  I run the card and flip the ipad around for her to sign.  “It’s probably going to be fine,” I say, although I don’t really know what I’m talking about.  “I mean, these kinds of things make big news stories, but end up not being that big a deal. It’s like snow storms here.  The whole city shuts down and we get a few flurries.”

The woman nods at me but doesn’t really seem to have heard my words.  She leans forward and looks me in the eye. “She survived cancer, you know!  Only this year. She can’t get any viruses! It’s too dangerous for her!”

I smile and nod.  “Who’s Sandy?” I ask.

Her friend rubs the orange-haired woman’s arm some more and says, “Her daughter.”

“Oh.”  I walk across the small store and grab a pretty card with hearts on it.  I put it into a bag, along with the calendar. “Here. For your daughter.  I’d love to get that card from my mom.”

“Thank you,” says the woman.  She is dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.  “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. It’s probably nothing.  I’m just still worried about her, you know?” Her voice breaks and tears fill her eyes.

“Come on, Robin,” says her friend.  “Let’s go get our pedicures. We can call Sandy during!”

I hand Robin the bag with her things in it and she unexpectedly wraps her arms around me.  “Thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK!”  I pat her on her back.

David clears his throat and shuffles his feet again.  Fuck me, what a weird morning! My cell phone dings. That’ll be Liz texting me back.  She would know just how to handle this situation. She would get all authoritative with her nurse’s voice, taking over the room with her get-things-done energy.  Everybody would feel better, like mom was here. Instead I’m awkwardly trying to comfort someone else’s mom while her friend tries to pull her away from me.

Robin pulls back and looks at me, her eyes shiny.  “How old are you?” she asks.

“Um, 34?”

“Do you have kids?  You’re kind of old to be working in a shop.  Do you own this?”

My cell phone dings again.  “Um, can you excuse me? I think that’s my boss.  I’m really sorry for your daughter. I hope she’s OK.”  I back my way into the office, smiling forcefully. I can’t even look at David.

Once I turn the corner I whip my phone out to read the text from Liz.  Definitely weird!  But this could mean he really likes you!  Did he bring you anything?  I peer around the wall to see if the women are leaving.  They are standing by the door talking to David. I hear him say “5G.”

No.  I text back to Liz.  Just his conspiracy theories!  Help!!  I fiddle with the stereo and put on some hip hop, hoping it will shift the mood in the store and make the middle-aged women feel like leaving.  I quietly walk back to the counter and move things around to look busy. Robin seems to be eating up David’s words, while her friend is pulling her arm more aggressively.  

“It’s not that hard to find information about it, if you’re willing to spend some time.  Google ‘5G radiation’ and tons of stuff will come up.”

Oh jeez.  I am really not ever going to let people into the store early again.  I call out to David and give him a little wave. He excuses himself to Robin, whose friend practically pushes her out the door the second David turns away from them.  I raise my hands and shake my head questioningly as he walks over.  

“What?” he says.

“Dude, you can’t just bring your conspiracy theories into people’s stores.” 

“Conspiracy theories?  Really? Is that what you think?”

I stare at him and blink slowly.  Peril seems to greet me with any answer I could give.

David raises his hand and takes a step back.  “Look, I just wanted to come say hi. I thought you were more open-minded.  My mistake.”

I watch him walk out the door.  I take out my phone and text Liz.  He’s gone.  I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.