The Weight of Zero (3 page)

It's beautiful out. The brilliant afternoon sun glints off the roofs of the cars as they stream out of the school parking lot. I was tempted to leave earlier because of the nightmare in the computer lab, but today is my intake appointment at St. Anne's, the home of the new intensive outpatient program Dr. McCallum recommended. Instead of scurrying home, I spent the rest of the day in the library, missing three classes. School is finally over, so now I'm shielded by a large bush and standing as far as possible from the throngs in front of the school's brick entrance, waiting for Mom.

She's got to drive me. There's no way I'm taking the transportation St. Anne's offers, with its pickup from Cranbury High at 2:45 sharp. We've only been in school for a month, but the unmarked white van is already known as “The Crazy Kids' Shuttle,” “Amwack” and “The Fucked-Up Express.” I'd walk, but I'd never get there in time since the place is a good two miles away, a safe distance from our “Quintessential New England Green.” Wise decision by the zoning commission: the good folks of Cranbury don't have to worry about psychotic teens roaming their quaint “shoppes” between sessions.

A cool breeze has chased the humidity out of the air and rustles the leaves, which are just starting to turn orange and red. The sky is a deep blue and dotted with thick white clouds, reminding me of the cotton ball taped to the crook of my arm after the blood draw my fledgling diet of lithium required. It's beautiful out and I'm going to another airless doctor's office at St. Anne's, where I'll sit in a stained, upholstered armchair facing yet another straight-faced doctor or social worker, going through the same Q and A for the tenth time with Mom in the other chair, a desperate, jittery wreck—all because Mom told Dr. McCallum that I had cut school.

“Cut school” is a smidge dramatic, I think. Truth be told, I just left a little early two days of the previous week. But two weeks ago, as Mom detailed the classes I had missed, a shadow crossed Dr. McCallum's face. He sighed, eyebrows scrunched, as he swiveled in his black leather desk chair to face me. I'd been seeing Dr. McCallum once a week for the last three months, and I'd learned to read his expressions. This one said, “Houston, we have a big fucking problem.”

“Catherine,” Dr. McCallum had said. “I've got to say this cutting classes troubles me.” His fingers drummed the desk as he opened his Catherine Pulaski file. I knew what he was doing—studying Dr. A's notes.
Again.
Dr. McCallum is way sharper and more hands-on than Dr. A, whose nonstop pharmaceutical defense hadn't prevented my fall suicide attempt, or its summer follow-up: my mother-of-all manic episodes—also known as the rather expensive “Highlights of the Mediterranean” period. I hadn't said anything to Dr. McCallum about the approach of Zero, but based on my history, he wasn't taking any chances.

“Catherine, I think you'd benefit from an IOP, an intensive outpatient program,” Dr. McCallum had said in the same tone a doctor suggests last rites. “These programs are ongoing. There's no start date and no end date. The particular group that I'd like for you to attend was meeting in New Haven but just moved to the new facility in Cranbury.” He stopped then to gauge my reaction, and I had nodded like it was a swell idea. Like spending fifteen hours a week with a bunch of kids as messed up as me seemed downright fun.

“Will you get reports of how Catherine is doing in this new program?” Mom asked, her eyes huge. This IOP thing had to be the last thing she expected, but she wasn't going to fight him on this. Mom thinks Dr. McCallum walks on water.

“I keep in contact with the clinicians. They'll advise me of Catherine's progress,” he'd answered. “There are less intensive programs, but I want Catherine to attend the daily program now, and I'll change our schedule from every week to once a month for a medication check. Of course, if anything comes up, Catherine”—Dr. McCallum turned to me again—“I'm here. Just call and we'll set something up.”

Five days a week. With no end date. It's a good thing I don't have a life, because this IOP time commitment is going to be a huge drag.

It's almost three o'clock and our appointment is at 3:15. Mom said she would be here. Before I can pull up her contact, there's that butterfly tap on my shoulder.

It's Michael. “Hey.”

He's the last person I want to see—the front-row spectator to my most recent humiliation.

“You didn't…I still need your number for the assignment. Is that okay?” he asks. His neck starts to turn splotchy again. Maybe he's embarrassed to be seen with me?

“It's all right.” I turn away. “Just tell me tomorrow what you've found.”

“Well…uh…it would really help if I could get your input,” Michael says. He steps in front of me so I have to look at him. “We're supposed to do this together.”

I shrug. It's better that he gets used to working alone. There's an excellent chance I won't be around for the project's completion.

“Cath,” he says, and his use of my nickname draws my gaze up to his face, his dark brown eyes with their ridiculously long lashes. “Don't let those assholes get to you,” he says in a low tone.

I give a little shake of my head and roll my eyes. Like him and his eyelashes have a fucking clue. I sidestep him to view the parking lot, eyes scanning for Mom's battered silver Accord.

But Michael moves in front of me again. “I…I passed out in anatomy class last year. During a video on heart surgery. The nurse had to wheel me out of the room. In…in a wheelchair. I…I can't stand the sight of blood. So some football players decorated my locker with heart pictures, somebody sent me links to other videos, and somebody else threw disgusting shit on my lunch table. Over the summer, they posted stuff on my Facebook page.” He runs a hand through his short hair and swallows hard. “I don't care what those kids say. I asked Mr. Oleck if I could partner with you. I know you're really smart.”

I study his face. He seems sincere but this could be another joke. One more prank on the crazy girl. I look around to see if anybody is watching or laughing or filming us, but nobody's paying any attention.

“I'm not asking for your social security number or anything. C'mon. I want you to look up whatever soldier I find and see if he sounds good for the project. That's it.” Michael touches my arm lightly. “I won't give out your number.” And then he says something else, honest and a little raw, something no one at Cranbury High would ever say out loud. “I've only got like one real friend here. Tyler.”

The silver Accord flies into the parking lot. Mom will be rolling up in ten seconds.

Even though it completely goes against my judgment, there's something about this boy. He could be a candidate for L.V., at least. I take a deep breath and give him my number.

“Wait! Let me punch it into my phone.” Michael moves so fast he almost drops his cell. “Okay, say it again.”

The Accord is at the curb. And there's Mom. Staring at me with a look of wonder on her face.

I repeat my number. “My mom's here.”

Michael yells to me as I walk to the car. “Don't forget to check your phone tonight, okay? I'll text you!”

Inside the car, Mom turns to me, ecstatic over the fact that I was talking to someone. “Is that a new friend?”

“No,” I say. “Just somebody I have to do a history project with.”

“Well, he seems nice,” she says.

“How could he seem
nice
?” I snap. I'm not being fair, but the hope in her voice does something to me. It cranks up the guilt for the way I am. Sick. Defective. This is what she's reduced to: joy at the simplest of my social interactions. That's how little I can give her. “You saw him for what, all of two nanoseconds? And you're gonna have to call the office tomorrow. I missed my three afternoon classes.”

This deflates her. As planned. “Again? Why?” Mom asks. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “I just had a headache and fell asleep in the library.”

“Oh, Cath. Next time, baby, just head straight to the nurse's office. You can't keep getting these unexcused absences.” She takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand. “I'll call first thing tomorrow. Want to take some Advil?”

A different guilt quenches my anger. She tries so hard. Always.

I turn my head toward the window and push down the lump in my throat. “No thanks,” I say. “Headache's gone.” I take a deep breath. “His name is Michael. You're right. He seems pretty nice.”

Mom glances over at me and smiles before turning up the volume on a Bonnie Raitt song. “This IOP thing, Cath, I have a good feeling about it. A really good feeling.”

There's that hope again, but this time, I keep my mouth shut.

St. Anne's Outpatient Day Hospital is situated in the commercial, non-quintessential part of town, tucked behind an upscale housewife's dream strip mall: Target, Loft, White House Black Market, Whole Foods and that store that specializes in swanky fartwear, Chico's. Makes a lot of sense. While Jimmy gets his head straightened out, Mommy can bang out some errands.

The Day Hospital is a plain one-story building marked only with a number to identify it inside this small industrial park of corrugated metal warehouses and loading docks. Mom parks next to the dirty white St. Anne's van that must've just unloaded my chemically imbalanced colleagues from Cranbury High. Maybe we can all sit at one big unhappy lunch table at school. Over brown-bag lunches we can share funny stories about our suicide attempts, vomiting or cutting. Just what Mom wanted for me—new friends.

The little waiting room is empty, as is the darkened hallway with its four closed doors. A petite young woman steps from behind the reception desk. “Hello,” she says, her long brown hair falling like a veil over her face. “You must be…Catherine. Catherine Pulaski?”