Schizo (16 page)

THROUGH THE BLUR OF
too-bright light I see Dr. Dubonis looking down at me. He smiles then and helps me sit up, and I see that I'm lying on the couch in his office. Dr. Frankel is there looking through a stack of papers behind Dr. Dubonis's rolltop desk in the corner.

“Here, Miles, drink this,” Dr. Dubonis tells me, handing over a paper cup filled with water and what I think is some Emergen-C, electrolyte whatever.

I do as I'm told and then I try to stand up, but it's like my legs don't work.

“Just hold on,” Dr. Dubonis says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Dr. Frankel and I . . . We want to talk to you about something.”

My jaw clicks back and forth. “About my brother?”

“Miles,” Dr. Frankel says, “I know this is hard for you, but . . . listen. That name, Teddy Bryant, I knew it sounded familiar.”

“Yeah, duh, my brother.”

“Miles, please, just listen,” Dr. Dubonis tells me.

Dr. Frankel leans forward, handing me the stack of papers. “Teddy Bryant,” Dr. Frankel says, “is the name of a child who
did
disappear. You're not wrong about that. But . . . he's not your brother.”

I look down at the papers in my hands, but the words are all blurred out. There is a picture of Teddy, though. That's certain.

“This is him,” I say. “This is Teddy.”

“Yes, Miles. Yes. It is Teddy. But, look, Dr. Dubonis printed these just now. They're from the
Chronicle
website. Can you see what it says there?”

I squint and try to make out the words. “It's an article about Teddy . . . from when he disappeared.”

“Yes, but look, Miles. It's Teddy Bryant. Of the Bryant family.

“Teddy Bryant,” he continues, “is the son of Bruce and Lorraine Bryant. He has a sister, Sophie Bryant. He was seven years old when, two years ago, he disappeared from Ocean Beach. According to your file, it was exactly one week after you had your first psychotic episode at that same beach. You were probably still in the hospital and still recuperating from your attack when the story of the Bryant boy's disappearance was all over the news. After your episode, you were experiencing intense guilt and feelings of shame. You blamed yourself. And you thought your family blamed you. Somehow the news of Teddy Bryant's disappearance got all mixed together with your guilt for what you believed you were doing to your parents. The Bryant boy became the physical manifestation of your guilt. Your subconscious needed to assign your guilt to something solid and concrete—like a missing brother.”

I listen, flipping through the article in front of me. I read the names Bruce and Lorraine Bryant. I read the date. I read the description of the incident.

Dr. Frankel leans forward and smiles at me, his eyes flashing kindness and warmth. My hands begin to shake as I turn the pages over and over.

“You mean . . . ,” I start, my voice shaking just as badly as my hands. “You mean, all this time? For two years I've been blaming myself . . . I've been . . . trying to . . . You mean . . . it was all a . . .”

Could this possibly be true?

Tears burn in my eyes.

“Part of your disease,” he says gently.

My mind flashes back to the police department.
Teddy Bryant,
the lady at the front desk said. But I added the Cole.
Teddy Bryant Cole,
I'd said, but she was already on the phone, trying to get that detective for me.

The file I stole. The date that was wrong.

Except it wasn't wrong. I was wrong—or just fucking crazy.

Jane and my mom and dad—I kept apologizing to them for what happened. I thought they knew I was talking about Teddy. But they must've thought I was talking about my sickness.

My mom's office. The house. No pictures anywhere. No pictures because there never was a Teddy Bryant Cole.

There was only me.

I nod and shiver.

“Jesus, fuck, I'm crazy. I'm fucking crazy.”

Dr. Frankel leans forward and this time puts a hand gently on my back. “You're not crazy. You're sick.”

“Sick and fucking crazy.”

“But this means you're free now, can't you see that? You never hurt anyone. You're not responsible. You can stop punishing yourself. You can let yourself live again.”

I feel the barely there pressure of his hand on my back and I breathe and I close my eyes.

The son of a bitch is right.

If there's no Teddy Cole, then I can't very well go on blaming myself for his disappearance.

If there's no Teddy Cole, then I did nothing wrong.

If there's no Teddy Cole . . .

There
is
no Teddy Cole.

For two years he was all I could think about, all I would
let
myself think about.

Without that, what do I have?

Without that, who am I?

CLOZARIL, MAN, I HATE
sounding like a goddamn advertisement, but it does seem to be working. The crows are gone, Teddy is gone, the voice of God or the universe or whatever is gone, even my obsession with Eliza seems pretty well gone.

From what both doctors say, I'd come to hate myself because of my disease. And so I was always, like, desperately trying as hard as I could to run away from the fact that I was mentally ill.

But in here, they're trying to teach me how to accept my illness and learn how to love myself (as fucking lame as that sounds) in spite of it. They keep telling me it's not my fault. And I know it's not my fault, but I guess I don't always feel that way. So they're trying to get me to know it, like, for real inside of me.

It's all easier said than done, but I'm working on it. And it is getting easier. If anything, being with the people here, I've almost started to feel a little proud of my illness. Well, not proud of it exactly, but proud that I'm facing it and finally learning how to live.

The people I've met in here, they are some strong motherfuckers. Sweet Pea, Yuka, my roommate, Max. They've all been through more shit than anyone I've ever met before. And they are good people. Emotionally disturbed, sure, but good people nonetheless.

Of all the kids in here, it's really that poor Steven who's the hardest to figure out. Those vocalization things seem to get worse whenever he's in group or talking about any kind of emotional anything. When he's just hanging out watching TV or something they go away. It's totally weird. But he's super nice—gentle and sweet.

He sits cross-legged in the group and rocks back and forth.

There's a podium set up, and this young, very pretty woman, probably around thirty-five, is going on and on about how great her life is now even though she's a schizo, like us.

The woman said her name at the beginning of her share, but I can't remember it now. She's wearing a collared shirt and jeans and has really long, slender fingers that keep tapping on the podium as she talks.

To tell you the truth, most of what she's said so far has kind of just blended together into one generic self-help amalgamation. But then . . . slowly . . . a little bit at a time . . . I start focusing more on what it is she's actually saying, and it's crazy how similar her delusions were to mine. Not about Teddy or making up some person that doesn't even exist, but about God talking to her like I thought he was talking to me. About that power coming into her life the same way it did into mine.

She takes a drink of water from the bottle on the podium. “And I really believed it. I thought God was telling me things. To the point that God was telling me I should jump off the Golden Gate Bridge so I could prove to the world that I was an angel.”

She goes on to tell the story of how she tried to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, but was stopped by a man riding across on his bike. Then she tells us how she got into treatment and got on medication, and the rest is pretty typical, I guess.

But that stuff about God talking to her and all that, I keep on playing it over and over in my mind.

The woman finishes her talk and a few people clap.

Wanika, this girl around my age who's super nice—and super beautiful—gives me a look with her eyes wide and we go out to the balcony together to smoke.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, leaning out into the gray, looking down on the back loading dock.

“Yeah,” she says. “Another fun-filled day in the psych ward.”

I drag on my cigarette and ash over the railing. “You're leaving tomorrow?” I ask, even though I know the answer to my own question.

She nods.

“You think you're ready?”

“Yes, I think I'm ready. What about you? You're leaving tomorrow, too, right?”

“Yeah.”

I pause and think and pick at my thumbnail.

“How . . . how do you deal with knowing that so much of what you thought was real . . . totally wasn't? Like that woman thinking God was talking to her and everything.”

She smiles. “Or like you and your fake dead brother?”

“Exactly. I just don't know how we're gonna do this. Or how I will, anyway . . .”

“Yeah, man, I get it. The other day I had my mom bring in one of my old notebooks. I wanted to see what the hell I'd been writing all that time. You know what it was? Pages and pages of tiny little symbols. No words. Scribbles. Fucking crazy.”

I sit down next to Wanika and cross my legs and tell her, “I didn't just have an imaginary brother. All that God stuff she was talking about, I'm serious, I felt the same way—like God was talking to me.”

She laughs and her eyes turn brighter green and her teeth flash white and I think, for the fifty-billionth time, how goddamn beautiful she is—and how that shouldn't matter at all.

“That's nothing,” she says. “I think we've all had God talking to us at one point or another.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The sliding glass door opens then, and that creepy Carl comes lurking out. “You know you aren't allowed to be out here without supervision?”

Wanika narrows her eyes at him. “We'll come inside in a minute.”

“No, you'll come inside now.” He stands watching us from the doorway.

Wanika puts her hand on my shoulder. “Look,” she says, “you can do this. I don't wanna see you turn into one of these people who end up stuck in institutions their whole life. Like that roommate of yours. He's been in and out of psych wards for over three years. He could leave if he wanted to; he's just too scared.”

“Yeah, I know. But I want to go home. I want to be with my friends and family again.”

She turns to look at me. “What about that girl, huh?”

I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray. “Eliza? No. I don't want to see her.”

“Good. Because she sounds like a bitch to me.”

I shake my head. “She's not a bitch.”

“Trust me, man, I can be a bitch—so I know what I'm saying when I say that
she
is a bitch.”

I laugh with her. She is such a strong, beautiful girl. Dr. Frankel is right. I need friends right now. And I think maybe Wanika is my friend.

“Look,” she continues, “you're sick, I'm sick. You made up an imaginary brother; I stalked my anthropology teacher. But you're a good fucking person. And I'm a good fucking person. The only reason we did that shit was because we were sick. But so what? We're fucking sick and we take medication. What's the big deal? Would you be blaming yourself if you had fucking cancer or some shit?”

I laugh. “Probably.”

“Well, that's because you're a nice person. But you gotta stop it. Stop being so nice.”

“Okay,” I say. “I'll try.”

She stands up straight, and I stand up, too.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “You're sweet to me.”

“We're both gettin' out of here tomorrow, man. We gotta stick together.”

“We will.”

Carl yells at us again to come inside.

Wanika takes my hand in hers.

And we go in together.

TODAY I LEAVE THE
psych ward.

I'm fucking scared, but I'm ready.

The only thing is, in order to agree to let me leave, Dr. Frankel and Dr. Dubonis want me to have a meeting with my parents to finally talk about Teddy and what that means going forward. Because as it is now, I still haven't told them anything about what happened.

I guess it makes sense. Keeping our disease a secret—and hiding our symptoms—is part of what makes recovery from this fucking thing so goddamn hard. That's what they say here, anyway. I've got to learn how to open up about my illness. Like those crows I was seeing all the time; I should've talked about them with someone—Dr. Frankel, at least.

If there's a silver goddamn lining to all this, it's that I'm learning to manage my illness. It doesn't get any fucking better than that.

But, still, that's not so bad. Not really.

So I make my bed like I'm supposed to every day.

I make my bed, and Max makes his bed and he says to me, “Y-your parents coming today?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod.

He keeps on scratching behind his ear and does a little head twitch thing. “G-good luck.”

I reach out my hand. He shakes it nervously.

“Thanks, man.”

Both Dr. Frankel and Dr. Dubonis are already in the group room, sitting and talking with my mom and dad.

My parents have been here several times before, obviously, but it's actually the first time we're all meeting together, with both of my doctors.

It's a gray day. The cold light streams dully across the polished linoleum tile floor. Artwork is hung around the room—including one of my own drawings done with colored pencils and charcoal, faces coming out of faces, crows circling a young boy crouched on the sand.

I walk into the room, and my mom and dad both get up and they hug me, and my dad says, “We're proud of you,” and my mom says, “Hey.”

She looks the same in many ways—pale, weathered, and exhausted. I wish she could change like I've changed in here.

Because I really have started to believe since being here that it's possible for me to live a good, normal life on medication. That's the biggest fucking gift they could've given me. And they have given it to me. I have hope. And it seems totally founded. We've had so many guest speakers come in to share with us about how great their lives are now that they're stabilized on medication.

And this new drug does seem to be pretty awesome.

So far, at least, I haven't had any hallucinations or heard any voices or anything. It
is
kind of a miracle, like Dr. Fliederer said to me that first day.

Not that I won't have relapses, as they call them, but as long as I'm honest about it, they can adjust my meds and I should be okay.

I guess that's the main fucking point. I will be okay.

I believe that now.

And I tell it to my mom and dad.

“I'm gonna be okay.”

My dad smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. He's shaved his beard and is wearing a button-down shirt.

“We do want you to come home,” my mom says. “And we love you very much. But we're worried. At least in here, we know you're safe and taken care of. Coming home, we can't have you disappearing like you do, or going off and staying with some girl—like that Eliza.”

I grind my teeth together. “Mom, I'm not seeing her anymore. I don't want to see anyone like that. I'm just gonna focus on myself and my recovery.”

Dr. Frankel jumps in then to help me out, saying, “The way I understand it, Mrs. Cole, is that part of Miles's obsessive behavior with Eliza was due to the fact that he was simply on the wrong medication.”

“That's right,” Dr. Dubonis adds, looking at his clipboard as though reading something. “Miles appears to have been in a semi-psychotic, not properly medicated state for the entire two-year period following his first incident.”

I'm looking at the mud dried on my shoes as my dad says, “Wait, I'm sorry. What do you mean exactly?”

Dr. Frankel turns and prompts me, though I still don't look up. “Do you want to tell him, Miles?”

I breathe in and out.

I kick the ground and grit my teeth and fidget with my hands.

I tell the story.

I tell them about Teddy and Dotty Peterson and Simon Tolliver.

By the end of the whole thing my mom and dad are both crying—my dad massaging my shoulder, my mom covering her face with her hands.

“Miles, we had no idea,” my dad says. “Why didn't you tell us?”

“Well . . . because I thought it was all my fault. I wanted to protect you and Mom from having to think about it.”

“But that is exactly the point,” Dr. Dubonis says, clearing his throat as always. “We need to get an open dialogue going among the three of you. We need to make sure Miles is comfortable expressing any fears or doubts he might have. If he's feeling shaky—even just the littlest bit—it's imperative that he can come share that with you.”

“Of course,” my dad says. “That's what we want. That's what we've always wanted.”

“And Miles knows that,” Dr. Frankel adds. “We just wanted to bring it up so we're all starting on the same page.”

My mom wipes her tears away and sits up straighter and pushes her hair back.

“But . . . do you think he's ready?” she asks, then turns to me. “Do you really think you're ready?”

I lean forward and can see the blue of her eyes bright against the red burning there. The tears well up and spill over again.

“Mom,” I whisper hoarsely. “Mom. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's okay.”

She looks up at me then, her face contorted, her eyes narrowed. “
Don't!
Don't say you're sorry, Miles. Please. Please don't say you're sorry.”

She keeps on crying, and Dr. Frankel goes to get a box of tissues off the arts and crafts table.

“What's upsetting you so much right now?” he asks her, handing over a few tissues to my mom.

“I . . . I . . . I . . . ,” she starts, blowing her nose. “I just feel so . . . so terrible that my . . . my son . . .” She turns to me. “That I made you feel so guilty, that you had to invent this . . . this character. You always say you're sorry. But, Mie,
I'm
sorry.”

She cries more, and I get up and say, “Mom, come on. It's okay. It's not your fault.”

“That's right,” says Dr. Dubonis. “It's not anyone's fault.”

I hug my mom to me then, and she hugs me back, and I feel her frail body and smell the familiar smell of her.

“No more apologizing,” my mom says.

“Yeah, well, you either,” I tell her.

My dad stands up then, too, and rubs my back.

“If you can just stay honest with one another,” Dr. Dubonis says, “then you shouldn't have any problems.”

“But we're here if you need us,” Dr. Frankel adds. “And Miles will have meetings with me twice a week.”

“I know you're ready,” my mom says to me, straightening my shirt. “I can see you are.”

She hugs me again.

We all sit back down.

We finish the meeting.

We are all together.

And I am going home.

And everything is all right.