The Weight of Zero (11 page)

It's Tuesday at St. Anne's. Week Two. The intensive outpatient program runs for three hours, three o'clock to six o'clock, with a ten-minute snack break, usually around 4:15. As soon as group guru Sandy announces break time and everyone stands and stretches, Kristal catches my eye and does a subtle head tilt toward the door, her long silver earrings swinging.

Outside Room Three, Kristal gently takes my elbow and steers me toward the girls' bathroom. The others remain clustered around the Costco-sized jar of animal crackers and the bottled waters on the table. Inside the bathroom, Kristal plants her back against the door, blocking entry from the Immaculate Conception girls. “You've got to give me a heads-up when you're not coming, Cat. It is unbearable when you're not here.” Then, whipping out her iPhone, she asks, “What's your number?”

What's your number? What's your number? What's. Your. Number.
A surge of happy floods me. It is the second time in two weeks I've been asked for my number.

As Kristal pecks in my number, she asks, “Why'd you miss yesterday?”

“Medication check,” I say, astonished at how easy it is to be truthful with this girl I barely know. Maybe it's the free-to-be-fucked-up vibe at St. Anne's. Maybe it's the new nickname—Cat—that Kristal has christened me with, making me feel like somebody else. Or that she willingly makes physical contact with me—digging her arm into my side during discussions, taking my elbow, grabbing my hand to make a point. Or maybe it's that a girl like her, rich and polished and smart, seems to want to hang out, at least here at St. Anne's, with Cat Pulaski.

Kristal rolls her eyes. “Don't you hate all this? Shrink, IOPs, therapy…it's endless.”

“God, yes,” I say, loving how phenomenal it is to confide in somebody who understands completely. Especially on the heels of yesterday's hell session with Dr. McCallum.

Somebody raps hard on the bathroom door, and both Kristal and I jump. A girl's voice urgently shout-whispers, “I need to come in!”

“It's Amy,” Kristal whispers, bracing herself against the door. “Just a minute!” Kristal calls out sweetly before telling me, “Always text if you're not coming. 'Cause if you're not coming, neither am I. The only person I want to do a freaking collage with here is you.”

We roll our eyes about the arts-and-crafts project Sandy has planned for us today. We're going to cut out pictures from magazines to make special “self-soothing” collages. We have to select images of things that soothe our five senses when we're stressed. Sandy had offered up examples, such as a cozy blanket, hot chocolate, scented candles, relaxing music. Oh goody. All I need is for Mommy to hang it on the fridge.

Amy raps again. “C'mon already. I don't feel good,” she says in a low voice.

Kristal flings open the door and Amy barrels in. In the fluorescent light, the blue shadows under her eyes make the rest of her face a pale, greenish hue. She clutches her lower belly.

“Uh…would you mind giving me some privacy?” Amy asks, not quite making eye contact with us. She looks longingly at an open stall. “I'm sorry. It must be something I ate.”

These three sentences are the most Amy has ever spoken to me. And the sole thing she's ever said to Kristal was how disruptive Kristal's late arrival was that one time. Since then, she only talks with Sandy, the boys, or her Immaculate Conception sidekick, Alexis.

“Oh jeez, sure!” Kristal says, moving toward the door. “Can we get you anything? Water?”

Amy shakes her head and gives a forced smile. “Don't tell Alexis. Or anyone. It's embarrassing.” She moves quickly into the stall, slamming the door behind her.

As I follow Kristal out, there's an incredibly long, loud wet-sounding eruption from Amy's stall.

I start to smirk, but then Kristal says, “That's why I never use a public bathroom. No dignity.” Instantly, I'm brought back to yesterday's session with Dr. McCallum and Grandma, and I get an image of me rambling in the chair at Rodrick's salon about wanting to look like Audrey Hepburn for my fantasy trip to Italy. The happy buzz from Kristal wanting my number ebbs until Kristal whispers, “I actually shit in my pants in my mother's car. She was furious. We were at the mall and I had to go but wouldn't use the bathroom there. On the drive home, I just couldn't hold it in any longer.”

We both begin to crack up outside Room Three.

“The car reeked for weeks. Oh my God, Cat,” Kristal says softly, laughing and holding her stomach. “It was horrible.”

“When?” I ask, thinking it had to be a kindergarten kind of event.

Kristal grips my wrist, tears of laughter filling her eyes. “Don't tell a soul! Summer before sophomore year!”

We almost fall over laughing.

“It gets worse,” Kristal says between laughs. “My mother made me take off my shorts and underwear in the garage. I…I still have this image of her running to the garbage can with this…this
laden
pair of Victoria's Secret black lace undies.”

The two of us slump to the hallway floor. I'm laughing so hard, my stomach muscles cramp in the best kind of pain. Both Sandy and Vanessa come out to check on us.

For the rest of the afternoon, Kristal and I cannot control ourselves, pasting ads for toe fungus medicine and Depends next to the puppies and beach sunset pictures on our “self-soothing” collages. Cleaning up the mess on our table, Kristal leans close and whispers, “I have never told anyone that story, Cat. Not anyone. You're the only one.”

Her words make me forget that last night I added a new bottle of Tylenol to my shoe box. They make me forget that I am terminal.

This hour and a half has to be one of the best afternoons of my life.

As soon as I get home from St. Anne's, my phone choos. It's Kristal. “Still!!!! laughing!!!!
”

“Me too!!!!” I type back immediately.

Mom turns away from the kitchen sink, where she's scrubbing out a tall Tupperware container that held the chili she made on Sunday. She mouths, “Michael?” with her eyebrows raised questioningly.

I shake my head, ignoring the slow burn that ignites with every micromanagement of my life. I move to the living room.

“Are you missing any more this week?” Kristal writes.

“No. You?” I answer.

“Here all week but missing next Friday to check out colleges.
Would rather go to IOP! Hahahahahahaha!!”

Mom scurries into the living room and stands over me, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She stage-whispers loudly, “Who are you texting?”

“You do realize that I'm
texting,
right? Nobody can hear you when you text,” I say.

Mom asks in her regular voice, “Who're you texting?”

“Kristal,” I answer, and look back down at my phone. Mom returns to the kitchen and bursts into song. Jesus help me. I type Kristal: “You a senior?”

“Yes. Only seven months of chapman hell left. Counting the minutes. Haha,” she writes.

Wow, I can't believe she hates Chapman, the Yale of Connecticut high schools, maybe all of New England. I write: “You are so lucky you are almost done with high school!!” And then I add, “I hate it”

“Felt the same way too. Don't worry. It goes by even when it doesn't feel like it.”

Then she texts this: “Have to go to DC next weekend to look at schools. Waste of time. Want UConn. Are you around this weekend?”

My heart speeds up.
What?
What did she just ask? Am I around this weekend? Should I tell her I've been around for the last one hundred and sixteen weekends without one pathetic invite? We bipolarites generally have light social calendars. I'll keep it short and simple. “Yes”

“Have museum thing for my mother's work on Sunday. In new haven. Do you want to come with me? New exhibit opening. We can get froyo next to museum.”

Jesus! A positive rush roars through me.
Kristal wants to hang out with me. Outside of St. Anne's.

I text back: “Sounds like fun”

My phone choos right away with her response: “Awesome Cat! Will give you details tomorrow at St. A.
”