Equilibrium (20 page)

She settled into the soft cushion beside Dr. Harvey, and he continued talking, as though her side trip had never happened. In her ears, the pounding slowed to mid-grade agitation. The cotton-wad-in-the-throat sensation softened to a tickle of hair, and the hot pressure behind her eyes retreated.

“Troy described the anniversary events very much like you detailed them for me,” Dr. Harvey said.

Right, she and her son were so much alike she could imagine what he was thinking. Usually.

“We attempted to get at what he was feeling, what might’ve derailed him.” The exact details she’d craved for weeks. Turned out, Darcy wasn’t her only offspring good at stonewalling.

She tried catching Dr. Harvey off guard. “Which was?”

“You know I can’t divulge. A deal’s a deal.”

She nodded. Troy had agreed to speak openly with Dr. Harvey only when she’d assured him their conversation would remain privileged. She might never know the details of her son’s mind, but she had a right to the general impression. “So would you say he had a manic episode, or what? I realize he exhibited some of the classic manic symptoms, but he’s never been depressed.”
That I’m aware of
scrawled clear as skywriting across her mind, trailing a secondary scribble of blame. “And depression usually precedes a manic episode, so perhaps Troy’s just been anxious?” For the entire car ride to Belmont, she’d hung her hopes on the diagnosis of
anxiety
, the mainstream malady of the worried well.

Dr. Harvey coughed. “Excuse me a moment.” He nabbed a fizzing beverage from his desk blotter, took a few swallows, and then set his lime-decorated seltzer water on the side table.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Dr. Harvey asked.

“Uh, gin and tonic?” Dr. Harvey formed his lips into an
O
before she let him off the hook. “Just kidding!” And her kids accused
her
of having no sense of humor.

Dr. Harvey angled toward her and took an audible breath.
Stay with me, Laura
, Dr. Harvey’s eyes seemed to say. She examined his tiny downward-arching lashes shadowing his cheeks.

“The details you mentioned on the phone—his agitation, self-deprecation, the crying, sharing stories about Jack—if not for Troy’s family history, I wouldn’t have bothered having you bring him in to see me. Nothing sounded extreme, and what Troy shared didn’t prove otherwise.”

Her lungs opened, and she sighed. “Thank God.”

“You understand, this certainly doesn’t rule out the possibility of bipolar for either Troy or Darcy further down the road. We’ll just have to wait and see,” he said.

“Wait and see?” Hearing the phrase she’d told herself only validated her worry. She hoped she sounded only faintly hysterical. She was clean out of patience. She’d used up her quota on Jack, waiting to see how long it took for him to cycle between mania and depression, waiting to see how long each episode lasted, waiting for his suicide attempts to earn the designation of
successful
. Dangerously warm again, she walked across the room and took off her blazer, not caring whether her blouse was still so damp her bra showed. Screw the blazer. Deal with it.

Dr. Harvey got up and came to where she was standing by his desk, digging her nails into her palm. He gentled his voice. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a more definitive answer at this time.”

He was trying to make her feel better, but his apology had the opposite effect.

Dr. Harvey slipped a hand into his desk’s side drawer, and then passed Laura a business card. “Grace Snyder is a very good therapist, easy to talk to, and much more accessible distancewise.”

Grace Snyder’s private practice was located in Peterborough. Well, that would certainly save gas. “I don’t mind making the drive for Troy.”

“I think
you’d
feel more comfortable talking to her than to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you spoken to anyone this year, joined NAMI or any other survivors’ groups, sought out any grief counseling?”
I know you haven’t
hung unspoken between them.

She shook her head, couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. How had the conversation turned? Her blouse had mostly dried, but she might as well have taken it off along with her undergarments.
Don’t look at me.

“Considering Jack’s illness and what you’ve been through, it’s understandable you’d be concerned about your children’s mental health. It’s not unusual for extreme worry to snowball into a full-blown anxiety issue,” he said. “Like what just happened here.”

No, no, no.
Laura’s gaze slid from Dr. Harvey’s to the closed window behind his desk. What did the man have against fresh air?

“A good therapist can give you tools to help you deal more effectively with your anxiety and help you recognize when you needn’t worry,” he said. “I’ve been wondering how you’ve been doing. When I got the message you’d phoned, I was sure the query concerned your mental state, and not the children’s.”

“Why?” She tilted her chin upward. She was never ashamed of her husband, but she’d always prided herself for being the glowing picture of mental health. She’d never thought of her behavior as extreme, until now.

“Because,” he said, “you were always so strong for Jack and the kids, unusually so, and I’ve a sinking suspicion, despite efforts to keep this information from the general public, that you’re also human.”

Laura translated Dr. Harvey’s shrink talk.
Human
meant
the worried well
.

She imagined telling Dr. Harvey about her night terrors and about the details of Jack’s death that plagued her, right in his waiting room. But the perfect opportunity couldn’t coax the words. Once you’d spoken your thoughts, they revealed a truth you damn well better be prepared to deal with head-on. Her truth could wait.

“You know, doctor, I’ve always respected your professional opinion, but this time you’re wrong. I’m Super Laura to the Rescue.” She took a wide-legged superhero stance, threw her blazer around her shoulders like a cape, and raised her arms to ensure safe flying.

He burst out laughing. “I’ve forgotten how funny Jack could be sometimes.”

She could never remember who’d started the nickname, Troy or Darcy, but Jack had made it into a term of endearment, and then gave himself several comic strip personas.
Super Bipolar Man, man, man, man
, he used to say, echoing like an old-fashioned cartoon character. She preferred his Super Writer Guy impression the best, her hero with fingers flying across the keyboard faster than the speed of sound.

Edging her way toward the door, she slid back into her blazer and buttoned the Peterborough therapist’s card into her breast pocket alongside Aidan’s note. “So nice to see you, Dr. Harvey.” She offered her hand, and he turned the businesslike shake into a hug, reminding her of Jack’s funeral. Dr. Harvey had hunched in the second row of folding chairs at the cemetery, crying uncontrollably, not as a doctor who’d lost a patient, but a man who’d lost a dear friend.

“Call me anytime,” Dr. Harvey said, releasing his bear hug before she was ready.

The glaring absence of Troy in the lobby drove home the obvious reason behind her son’s reaction. She and Troy were so much alike.

For a year she’d mourned her husband, the sick Jack, the man who made her so angry she’d wanted to scream. After the funeral last year, she’d hidden away the photo albums. She’d refused to look at pictures of Jack fishing with the kids on Hermit Island, teaching them how to ski at Crotched, or the sun-drenched shot Darcy had taken of Laura and Jack during the CROP Hunger Walk. Two weeks ago, Troy’s anger at Jack had broken, and the good memories, the good Jack memories had nearly broken Troy.

The good memories were so much harder.

“Dude,” Troy said in his husky thirteen-year-old voice, when she exploded out of the Admissions Building. He stretched out across a granite bench, partially concealed beneath the cover of an ancient maple.

“Dudette,” she corrected, and pointed to her vehicle.

Not a worry in the world, Troy had assumed she’d find him. He’d assumed she’d always keep him safe from harm.

But how could she keep her son safe when she was so utterly lost?

Chapter 24

T
he threat of vegetable oil frying potatoes into cancer-causing snacks did little to dissuade her son.

She pressed her back into the seat, making herself as flush as possible, so Troy could lean across her, reading the red-lettered drive-through menu. “Are you sure you can’t wait?” she asked him for the third time since fitting into the end of the rush-hour line.

“Mom! I’m so hungry I’m drooling.” He wiped his mouth for effect. “I, uh, didn’t eat lunch.”

“Troy Edward,” she said.

“I’m sorry! I just wasn’t really hungry earlier, and now I’m starving to death.” Troy plopped back. “I’ve decided. Value meal three.”

She nodded, gave Troy’s order to the disembodied monotone voice coming from the pitted circular speaker, pulled up a car length to exchange cash for what barely passed for food, and then angled into a parking space. Letting Troy eat on the way home was a better use of time than making him wait until eight o’clock tonight. Eating that late was plain bad for his digestion, and like he’d said, he needed a full stomach for homework.

Troy took five minutes to gobble down most of his meal, mowing through a double-decker burger, large fries, and massive root beer, as if fast eating were a universal test of manhood. He didn’t bother swallowing before diving into conversation, a habit Laura had cautioned him against since his toddler years, to no avail. “Tell Aidan we can have dinner another time. You should invite him over again. I could do my smoothies for dessert.”

“It’s okay, honey, no big deal. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Laura took her cell from the console and speed-dialed first Elle, and then Maggie, knowing Maggie was teaching a yoga class and Elle forgot to take her cell to the shop more often than not. She left the same message for both friends, who’d insisted she call after Troy’s appointment but weren’t expecting to hear from her till later.
I found that misplaced book
, she told their voice mails; the code they’d agreed upon to mean Troy had not lost his mind.

Next, Laura called Darcy. The phone rang once.

“What’s up?” Her daughter’s voice, but not an expression Laura was used to hearing from her offspring. Even the intonation rang foreign, coming out all ghetto and attitude.

“Did I tell you Aidan invited us to dinner?”

“No. When would you have told me? Maybe in your sleep this morning?”

“All right, that’s enough. I’m telling you now, but you sound as though you’re not in a very good mood.”

“I’m in a great mood. I mean I was. No way I’m going to dinner with you. I don’t want to talk to
him
,” Darcy said, referring to Aidan.

“I was really hoping you’d come with me,” Laura said. She wished Aidan could connect with her daughter, the way he’d connected with Troy. A girl couldn’t have too many positive influences.

“Is Troy going?” Darcy asked.

“No.”

Troy folded the last of the disease-causing french fries into his mouth, and then wiped his grease-splotched lips on his shirt, ignoring the stack of napkins.

“Is it okay if I make something for myself?” Darcy asked.

“You can’t avoid Aidan forever. You’re going to have to face him eventually.”

“Why should I? He’s not my father,” Darcy said, drawing Laura back to Monday night’s circular argument.

Give her strength. “How does fast food sound?” Laura asked, offering an olive branch to her daughter.

“Awesome!” Darcy said. “Large fries, please!”

 

Laura rested at the threshold to Darcy’s bedroom; amazed they’d made such good time returning from Belmont. The southbound lane had come to a stop, while she drove northbound at fifty-five. Troy was camped out in his bedroom, his boy cave, bent over schoolwork, having declined her offer to talk about his appointment.

Laura opened Darcy’s door wide enough to fit her arm and waved the white flag of a value meal. She licked her lips and stepped into the bedroom, expecting to hear Darcy laugh. Instead, she found her daughter stone-faced, sitting on her bed and clutching a throw pillow over her stomach.

“What did Dr. Harvey say about Troy?” Darcy snuggled the pillow closer and fidgeted a chenille pom-pom.

Darcy’s heartfelt question about her brother proved layers of sensitivity. Troy was Darcy’s constant sparring partner, but she’d defend her brother to the death. Ironically, when it came to Darcy’s relationship with Nick, this character trait worried her the most.

Laura closed the door and placed the fast food on Darcy’s dresser. She sat down on the bed, not too close, the way animal tamers lured skittish critters. She couldn’t help but sigh, even though it usually irritated her daughter. She couldn’t help but love her daughter more than ever. She couldn’t help but break into a grin and share the good news. “It seems, Darcy, that your mother is off her rocker.”

Laura inched closer and told Darcy as much as she knew. She left out the part where Dr. Harvey gave her the name of a shrink. She had no intention of signing up for weekly pity parties.

“We ended up talking about Dad’s Super Bipolar Man persona,” Laura said.

Finally, Darcy cracked a smile. Tears glazed her eyes. She went to the dresser for a tissue and turned her back to Laura. Darcy’s shoulders shook, either from relief or lingering worry.

“Angel, Troy’s fine.”

“For now,” Darcy said through her tissue, and she blew her nose.

Laura had never harped on Darcy’s and Troy’s genetic predisposition to their father’s bipolar disorder. But what had Laura expected? Between Google and books, her kids probably knew more about bipolar than she did.

Darcy’s turn to heave a loud sigh.

“I don’t think . . . I don’t believe Troy’s going to get sick,” Laura said.

“But you don’t know that.”

Laura sucked in a breath and considered lying, if only to convince herself. “No, I don’t know that. I wish I could make you a personal guarantee for the future. I wish—” Dr. Harvey’s phrase “wait and see” scrolled through her head. How could she share with her daughter what she could barely brook?

“Troy’s fine, angel, and so are you.”

Laura went to Darcy and wrapped her in a hug. She pressed her lips against the part in her daughter’s hair. The sweet scalp scent reminded Laura of a newborn, brimming with potential. Whether Darcy realized it or not, she had her whole life ahead of her. She didn’t have to end up like her mother, sidelined by the possibility of future disaster. “Try not to worry.”

Darcy straightened, scratching her head. “I’d like to be alone now.”

“I can stay—”

“Please,” Darcy said.

“You’re upset. You shouldn’t be alone. If you shared—”

“Please, Mom, I
really
want to be alone.”

Laura nodded and backed silently out of the room, responding to her daughter’s polite request before it dissolved into something infinitely less pleasant. Patience wasn’t Laura’s favorite virtue, but she could fake it, at least when it pertained to waiting for her kids to open up and come to her.

In the bathroom, Laura checked her watch, and noted just enough time to jump in the shower before heading downstairs for dinner. Short of lying, she’d said everything possible to assure Darcy. And Troy, well, once again he’d proven how very much alike they were. Tonight, he’d calm his residual nerves by sticking his head in his schoolbooks. Tonight, neither one of her children needed her. Tonight, Laura doubted any book could stem her tension.