So I didn’t think of death as a sad thing. I didn’t fear it the way other people do, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was only ever bad when I craved it because being me was exhausting. Death seemed like a release that I was too cowardly to reach for because of my family. Even if I could settle on a method that didn’t repulse me, I could never have put my mom through the pain of finding my body.
Every day I worried about what I looked like to everyone else and what that would mean for my mom. And I was afraid. Rebecca looked really bad back then.
But I don’t think about death anymore. At least not the way I used to. Now I’m more concerned about noticing the ToZaPrex’s side effects before anyone else does. But sometimes I miss things, like this week, when something new sprang up.
I didn’t know there was a name for it until it started happening more frequently, but it’s called tardive dyskinesia. Involuntary muscle movements. It’s one of the side effects of the drug—so, yeah, you should probably write that down somewhere and make it official. In my case, it appears to be manifesting itself in grimaces and smacking of lips, which isn’t awkward at all. I probably look like a toothless old man eating soup.
I didn’t even know I was doing it until Maya stared at me in our religion class and sent me a text: “Why are you frowning like that? Knock it off, you look scary.”
It must have looked pretty scary for Maya to text me during class. Sister Catherine has a strict no-cell-phone policy. She confiscates them and hangs them like dead bodies in a bag at the front of the class. But I risked getting caught to text her back: “Bit the inside of my cheek. Ow.”
Maya shook her head and turned her attention back to the front of the class. There was sympathy for headaches, a shoulder shrug and a knowing expression that usually meant This too shall pass. But there was no sympathy for stupidity. I could almost hear her. You bit the inside of your cheek? Dumbass.
But Rebecca, at least, looked sympathetic. She always does.
Sometimes it just takes a little effort to squish my face back into the shape it’s supposed to be. I have to focus on the tiny muscles in my cheeks and press my fingers into the skin until the weird flutters of movement stop. It’s not so bad. It’s easy to pretend I’m just tired.
DOSAGE: 3.5 mg. Same dosage.
FEBRUARY 6, 2013
I’d been asleep for about an hour when Paul opened my door. I could see his silhouette through the hallway light. I could tell he was nervous.
Paul never came into my room. He avoided it completely if he could help it. He’d just poke his head in if he needed something or talk to me from the hallway. I sat upright in bed.
“Your mom is bleeding, and I need to take her to the hospital.” The words sort of washed over me as my mom stepped past Paul and through the door.
“Just a little bit. It happened once when I was pregnant with you,” she said, touching my face. “We’ll be fine. If you need anything, Paul’s mom is on standby.” She pressed her lips together like she had just eaten a lemon. Her classic I’m lying to sound brave expression. Then she kissed me on the cheek.
Paul didn’t look convinced. His lips were also pressed together when he nodded, and he met my eyes just once before gently steering my mom toward the garage. Their car pulled out of the driveway almost silently, but I knew Paul was going to floor it the second they pulled out onto the main drag.
The minute they left I realized that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even if I wanted to, I knew the minute I dozed off, I’d have to deal with the voices. This was probably one of those selfish moments when I shouldn’t have been thinking about how hard it was to get back to sleep. I should’ve been focusing on my mom and Paul and the baby, but those were the things I couldn’t control. It never made sense to me to worry about what happened to someone else unless I could help in some way.
And I couldn’t help.
It was just past midnight, so I sent Maya a text telling her what was going on. It was kind of shitty of me. She was probably sleeping and I could have woken her up. If not, then she’d be awake reading and I’m bothering her with something she can’t fix, either. But I ended the text with: So I’m texting you because I can’t sleep.
There was no response, so once again I was wide awake and alone. I recited some of my favorite lines in my head. The Saint Crispin’s Day speech. The warning in front of Gringotts Bank.
So I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of Mom and Paul’s car. I knew it wouldn’t happen for hours, but I needed something to focus on and I didn’t really want to give up on sleep. If I turned on the TV, I would have absolutely no chance of dozing off at all. If I opened a book or the blinds, I might get distracted by something. If I started baking now, I’d never stop, and my mom would never leave me alone in the house again. Paul’s mom would move in with us, and that would be the end of my life.
I was starting to think about my new little brother or sister, and my insides had started to go cold when my window opened of its own volition and a pair of legs stepped through. I pulled the blanket back up to my throat and waited. My nighttime visitors had never been real before, and my bedroom is on the second floor, so it was unlikely that someone had climbed the lattice leaning against the house, but when I heard the visitor speak, I doubted myself.
“Adam?” she asked in the darkness.
“Maya, what are you doing here?” I whispered.
“Being rebellious,” she said, and I could tell even in the dark that she was smiling.
Without warning, she kicked off her shoes and slipped into bed with me. My whole body went rigid when she threw her arm over my chest.
“You said you couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“And you thought you’d come help?”
“Nope.”
She kissed me and everything sort of went fuzzy.
With one leg on either side of my body she reached down to tangle her fingers in my hair. Maya was not this girl. She was not the girl who climbed through her boyfriend’s window for some midnight fondling. It wasn’t her. And I knew better than to assume that my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. It seemed more likely that Maya was in her room, sleeping in her own bed. So while she was kissing me, I reached over her shoulder for my phone and sent her a text that said “Hi.”
The tiny buzzing in her pocket was the most welcome sound I’ve ever heard in my life. How else was I supposed to tell if she was real?
She pulled out her phone and raised an eyebrow.
“Did you seriously just text me while we’re making out?” And of course I didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound crazy.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Idiot,” she whispered, and she latched her lips back onto mine.
We kissed for a while, hours maybe. My hands went everywhere, and for a few blissful moments, it felt like nothing was off limits. They drifted over her stomach and then lingered on her breasts. She breathed in deeply but didn’t stop me.
I’ve never really understood the preoccupation with the size of a girl’s breasts. I mean, yes, we are drawn to an ample bosom the same way other primates are drawn to brilliantly colored hindquarters, but as my fingertips traveled over Maya’s nipples, it didn’t matter that her breasts were small. It didn’t make me want them less, and I could feel her heart race when I circled them with my fingers, tracing the curve.