Ballads of Suburbia (8 page)

“You're on acid?” I asked with naive excitement, my drug repertoire being limited to pot.

Cass shrugged. “Acid's what I do to escape.”

From the little bit I'd gathered about her family earlier, I knew she had a lot to escape. “I'm really sorry your brother couldn't come home.”

“That's the thing. My brother could've come home. He
chose
not to,” Cass stated icily.

“Wait…” Alcohol had impaired my thought process. I gripped the edge of the stair I sat on in hopes that the world would stop spinning so I could focus. “I thought you said that your parents decided—”

“Do you know why my brother left?”

“Maya told me that after he got expelled your parents sent him to California.”

Cass nodded with her whole body, rocking back and forth on the step. “That's what Maya and everybody else thinks. That's what Wes told them. But my parents didn't send Wes away. He chose to leave.”

“Why?” I scooted closer to Cass even though watching her rock made me dizzy.

“Wes doesn't deal well with our family. Our mom in particular. She has manic depression. And she's been way worse since my aunt…I can't really talk about that.” Cass cut herself off with a sharp drag from her smoke and stopped rocking for a second.

Then she continued, the flow of her words and the movement of her body quickly picking up speed. “After Wes got expelled, he was stuck home alone with Mom during the day. After a week,
he freaked out. He begged our dad to send him away so he could get his life together. Said he needed a fresh start, to get away from Oak Park and drugs and everyone and their problems. Dad agreed. When Wes asked me what I thought, I wanted to scream at him,
“Please
don't fucking leave me.'” Cass rolled her eyes upward, swallowing hard.

“But I agreed. He's my big brother. I've always wanted what's best for him. I even let him lie about being sent away so he could protect his rep or whatever. He promised he'd visit, though. This is the second time he's broken that promise.”

Cass dropped her head into her hands like she had in the driveway when Maya and I had found her earlier. My heart ached for her. I imagined she felt a million times worse than I had when Stacey moved and broke all her promises to me. I wished I had some sort of advice for Cass, but I coped by cutting, which wasn't any better than dropping acid. Even if I'd known what to say, I was so drunk I probably would have screwed it up. But at least the alcohol helped me do one thing right. With my inhibitions lowered, I had no qualms about hugging a stranger, even someone like Cass, who acted like one of those tough girls who didn't like to be touched.

She cried in my arms for five minutes and then she started laughing. “Acid,” she explained between giggles. “I can't help it. It makes the tears tickle.”

“That's so weird!”

Maya stumbled outside, looking for me. “What are you guys doing out here?”

“Talking about acid,” Cass said. She hugged me one last time and whispered in my ear, “Please don't tell Maya. She can't handle the family stuff, either.”

I promised that I wouldn't.

April 1994

C
RAZY RUNS IN MY FAMILY, MATRILINEALLY AT
least. My grandmother had a psychotic break back when my mom and aunt were in high school. She moved every electronic item in the house into the kitchen and blocked it off entirely to “protect the family from radiation.” My grandfather sat in the living room staring at the spot where the TV had been, incapable of dealing with his wife—kind of like how my dad is now. My mom, the oldest child by two years, dialed 911 and had her mother committed to an institution.

I wonder what that's like, watching your mom get strapped into a straitjacket. I wonder with half dread, when will I learn firsthand? Because I'll be the one to deal with it. My dad's always away—having an affair with his work or maybe another woman, who knows? And Wes can't deal with Mom. I've been running interference between them since I was five, which is my first memory of one of my mother's episodes. It might be my first memory, period.

It was spring, planting season. I wasn't in kindergarten yet so I spent all afternoon with Mom. She took me to pick out the annuals—marigolds, petunias, that stuff. When we got home she decided to dig up the entire garden. Every plant was carefully unearthed, ready to be rearranged, when suddenly she got overwhelmed. She paced from the front yard to the back for five minutes, repeating, “I can't do this!” She went to lie down and left me standing in a yard that looked like it had been descended on by a thousand dogs searching for bones.

Then Wes came home.

At seven, he immediately recognized signs of our mother's mental illness. Stomping two of the uprooted hostas with his sneakers, he exclaimed, “This is my fault! She's upset with me about school.”

Wes always blamed himself for triggering Mom's “sick days,” and I hated it. A week earlier he'd been told he would have to repeat the first grade because he had so much trouble reading. He was given a battery of learning disability tests before it was determined that he “just couldn't concentrate,” and was prescribed Ritalin, like too many of the other boys I've grown up with. Take a drug, problem solved. We're taught that from a young age.

Even as a kid, I innately knew that my brother already felt bad enough about himself and didn't need to be upset by Mom's weird behavior, so I stepped up, pushing Wes with my conveniently dirty hands off the plants he was trampling. “No, I did this. I wanted to surprise Mama. Help me fix them, Wes. Before she wakes up.”

We flung dirt at each other as we put the plants back into the ground. We rushed to get it done before our dad got home or before dark, whichever came first. And when we finished—fingernails so caked with mud that they wouldn't be clean for a week—Wes was so amused and exhausted that he forgot entirely about our mother, who was still locked in her room.

That's when I became Wes's family protector. I can't count how many similar situations I've defused.

But with our friends, Wes was the kingpin, the boss, the father figure. Everyone went to him with their problems. He'd cuff them on the cheek to get them in line when they needed it, or fight an entire army for them when
someone had done them wrong. I'd say he was a shoulder to cry on, but no one cried that often. Our friends didn't deal that way. You cheered them up with drugs and parties. Wes always had the best drugs and he threw the best parties at our house when Mom went into one of her Valium coma phases and Dad took one of his fishing trips to avoid it.

The party I remember most fondly took place the summer before my freshman year. I was sitting on the kitchen countertop, slightly drunk, when Adrian shoved a strip of paper in my face, crowing, “Look what I got!”

“A litmus test?” That's what it looked like, except it had tiny pictures on it, clowns and circus animals. “What do you wanna test with it?”

Adrian rolled his eyes. “It's acid, dumb-ass!”

“Oh! What do you wanna do with
that
?”

Adrian set the ten-strip on the counter, reached for a knife, and—
wham!
—hacked into it. He gave me the slightly smaller half and instructed, “Let it dissolve for as long as you can, then swallow.”

I spent the next twenty minutes whining to him that nothing was happening. Right when he told me for the millionth time, “You're gonna feel it, Cass,” I saw the wall wiggle a little bit, like Jell-O.

I ran over to poke the wall and it rippled
exactly
like Jell-O. Adrian and I wandered my house poking the walls and burrowing our feet in the carpet, which felt like freshly cut grass.

Eventually we went outside to smoke on my front porch, but I never got around to smoking. I jumped up and planted both feet on the porch railing, no hands. “I'm perching!” I exclaimed. “Like a bird! Perching is awesome, you should try it.”

So Adrian did. We hopped down and up again for who knows how long. Eventually, Adrian got sick of perching and sat on the steps.

My brother suddenly appeared. He stared at me without blinking, his huge pupils revealing that he'd dropped acid himself. I told him brightly, “I'm perching.”

“She looks like a pigeon,” Adrian added with a chuckle.

Wes stared at me and said, “No, like a guardian angel.” And we had a silent moment. Then he shook it off and asked, shocked, “Holy shit, Cassie, are you tripping?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he panicked, turning to Adrian. “You gave the acid I sold you to my little sister?”

“I'm okay,” I reassured him. “I'm great, actually.”

Wes shook his head.” Just wait for the comedown.”

And he was right. The comedown was awful. It happened in the very early morning when everybody had finally staggered out of our house. Wes, who'd mostly sobered up by then, tried to convince me to go to bed.

“But when I close my eyes I see snow, like the static kind on a TV with no reception. I'll never sleep again,” I informed him, bug-eyed. “I'm scared.”

“Let's go someplace you'll feel safe, then.”

He led me to our parents' bedroom. Mom was so zonked on her meds that she didn't even notice when we climbed into bed beside her.

My parents had a California-king-size bed, probably inspired by John and Yoko's whole bed-in thing in the sixties. They'd been hippies after all, met during the civil rights movement, protested together, fell in love, and got married when it was still kind of a big deal for a white woman and a black man to do that. In Oak Park, I didn't really have to think about my race as much as I might have in other places. Children raised by PC parents didn't tease too often, but I was well aware that I was different. I stood out among my mostly white friends and I didn't look like either of my parents. Deep down, I didn't really feel like I fit anywhere or with anyone.

For some reason, being on acid and seeing my ghostly pale mother, whose skin was nothing like mine, intensified my usual feelings. I looked at my brother and pressed my hand to his. Our skin tone—like milk with just enough chocolate syrup to make it taste good but not so much that it's overly sweet—seemed identical. I reached up to touch his wool-thick dreadlocks, a shorter version of mine.

“You are the only one in the world who matches me,” I told him. “You are the only one who understands.”

“I know,” he whispered sleepily. “I will always match and I will always know how you feel.”

We communicated on some higher level. We talked without words about our mother. But as he drifted off, my panic renewed.

“Wes?” I shook him slightly. “I'm still scared.”

His toffee eyes fluttered open. “How can you be scared? You're the guardian angel. You take care of everyone. Especially me.” He squeezed my hand. “Don't be scared. I'm here. I promise I'll always be here and one day I'll take care of you like you take care of me. I love you, Cassie.”

I was able to close my eyes without being fear-stricken. His gratitude, his promise, were all I needed to feel safe.

When we woke up midafternoon, a miraculous thing had happened: our mother was out of bed. She cheerfully cleaned up the party mess, chiding, “You kids need to learn to pick up after yourselves.” She offered to make us breakfast and called the old folks' home where she volunteers when she has it together.

Acid, I decided, equaled good things. It was fun plus it made my brother tell me that he loved me and it made my mom better. Like maybe I'd taken her craziness and channeled it into my trip somehow. I could do that. I could do that forever.

Of course it was just a coincidence. A month later Mom had another episode.

They got worse and worse every time. But at least now I had a way to escape into my own head when Mom retreated into hers and Dad and Wes disappeared. I tripped a lot, but usually no one noticed. I guess I'm that good at covering up insanity. It's like I was born to do it. Or I was born to be crazy. Sometimes I lie in bed with Mom for hours. We both stare at the ceiling and I wonder if we're seeing the same thing. Every once in a while I ask her, but she never answers.

At least she never lies to me the way Wes did. I really thought that he meant it, that one day he'd step up and take care of me for a change. Instead, he left and everything really went wrong after that.

Right before Christmas, I tried to throw a party at my house like Wes used to. Dad was gone on business and Mom had been in bed for two days. Nobody
had any acid, but I was okay with that. Quentin and I had started spending a lot of time together. He'd been really sweet, consoling me after my brother left. When I was with Quentin, I didn't need acid or even pot or beer to have a good time. I just needed him.

The party was going well at first. I'd taken the opportunity to spread the word that Wes would be home for the holidays, so everyone was in a good mood. Everyone but Jessica. I'd noticed her stomping around scowling that night, but figured she wasn't getting enough attention from whichever boy she'd been flirting with lately.

Apparently, she had a problem with who
I
was flirting with.

I was talking with Quentin and Adrian in a corner of the living room. Quentin reached over and took my hand. I didn't think too much of it because he did it a lot when we were alone. But I guess it was the first time he'd done it in public and as soon as it happened, Jessica swooped in, dragging me into the dining room.

Pink-faced, she ranted, “When Mary told me that she thought you
liked him
liked him, I told her, ‘Cass would never do that to me. We've been friends for too long and there's a code.'”

“Whoa,” I interrupted, putting my hand up between us. “What the hell are you babbling about?”

“Quentin! You can't go out with him. He was my first boyfriend!”

I brought my hand to my mouth, attempting to conceal my laughter. “You can't be serious. You were in seventh grade. You went out for like five minutes.”

“We went out for a month. He was the first guy to tell me I was beautiful. He said I looked like Winona Ryder.” Her eyes grew wistful and she tugged at her Winona Ryder haircut.

I laughed openly. Quentin and I had recently discussed this. I'd told him, “You know you upset the whole balance of our friendship by telling her that. Suddenly, she was the skinny starlet, and Mary and I were the chubby girls who wore baggy clothes because we hated our big boobs. She made us feel like shit and ordered us around.”

Quentin smiled at me and said, “I don't think anyone could order you around.”

He was right.

I told Jessica, “This is ridiculous. You broke up with Quentin. It's not like he broke your heart or anything. You've dated a bunch of guys since. And it's not like I'm mad at Mary for going after Christian. He was
my
first boyfriend, remember?”

“That's your business. I don't want you with Quentin.”

I softened for a moment. “Do you still have feelings for him? If you really do, I'll back off.”

“No.” Jessica wrinkled her nose. “He's too short for me. I just don't want
you
with him.”

“Jessica…” I took a deep breath, preparing to reason with her.

Then I heard my mother call out for me.

She'd never left her room during our parties before—even if there was a band playing and kids all over the house. No one had known she was there until that night when she stumbled into the living room like a zombie, moaning, “Cassandra! Wesley!”

Jessica craned her neck to look through the doorway at Mom in her stained blue nightgown and tangled blond hair sticking up every which way. “Oh my god,” Jessica snorted, stifling a giggle.

I wanted to tell her to shut up. I wanted to slap her. Instead, I raced into the living room, telling myself:
Get the situation under control. And don't cry. Whatever you do, don't let them see you cry.

Everyone had backed up, giving my crazy mother a wide berth, like she was an animal who might attack. I put my arms around her skinny body and tried to steer her toward the hallway that she'd come from, saying, “Mom, let me get you back to bed.”

She refused to move. She reached up to pet my hair and said, “Cassie, get your brother. I took too many pills. He needs to drive me to the hospital.”

When it came to my mother, I'd dealt with a lot, but nothing that bad. I froze, stammering, “Mama, Wes isn't here.”

Confusion filled her gray eyes. “Get Wes. We need Wes!” she insisted loudly.

We really fucking did need Wes, but he wasn't there. I had to handle it.

“Adrian, I need you to give me a ride. Everybody else needs to get out of here now!” I barked.

No one needed to be told twice. The house cleared and Adrian and Quentin helped me lead my dazed mother to Adrian's car. I stayed calm. I didn't even cry when the doctors told me they'd have to pump Mom's stomach.