Michael laughed at. He still heard voices, even warnings, but they were underneath this bubble of happiness and connection. It had been years since he'd had a friend, much less two.
But at the end of the first week he called my mother. He was alone in the apartment. He begged her to come get him, but not to bring my father. The guys he was living with were working, getting overtime on a Saturday at the weapons station. She asked if he had taken his medicine. He said yes.
Sensing a real problem, my mother agreed and drove the ten miles to get him. He had sounded urgent, but it was hard to tell what that meant with Michael. He reacted to dreams and imagined things as if they were real. Robert Tilton speaking in tongues on TV might send him into a funk as deep as if someone he loved had died. And the real stuff, the stuff that ought to upset a person, he often missed. She tried not to think about it. She couldnât bring up anything else to think about. An image of her son replaced the highway and strip malls. She wondered how life had become like this. She knew, of course, knew the facts, but she couldnât trace things back and make much sense. She had been beautiful, a popular girl in school, with friends and dreams. She fell in love with my father, who was maybe a little gruff, maybe he had a bad temper at times, but his heart, she knew, was good, and when he was in a good mood, he was funny and laughed a lot. She loved his smile, his face, those sad eyes. He was passionate, she thought, and for any anger he showed there was more than an equal and opposite reaction of love, more passion, a complete, even suffocating, devotion to the things he cared for most. There were babies, picnics, relatives, school pictures, sports . . . time slipped, sped ahead . . . but at some point, and she couldnât even remember when now because it was so long ago, Michael had changed, had gotten darker and stranger and unknowable, and everything had begun to crumble and rot. And then here she was, driving to get him.
It was a perfect spring day. The Virginia sky, in the spring when the humidity is low, is vibrant and crayon-blue, and now it filled up her windshield. She listened to the oldies station, the Ronettes, the Beach Boys, nostalgic for her youth, being in her twenties, feeling love the way you do when youâre young.
Michael was an emotional mess, she thought, untrustworthy. Probably nothing had happened and he just missed the comforts of home, where she bought any food he wanted, gave him his medication on time, drove him to the mall, to the doctor, let him watch religious television all day as he rocked and smoked, sometimes calling her a cunt, a bitch, as she brought him cheese and crackers, bowls of soup. It was like she had to keep a lid on a boiling pot.
Pulling into the parking lot, she saw him sitting on the curb with his head between his knees. She couldnât believe how heavy he'd become, how the antipsychotics and antidepressants and sleeping pills, those endless bottles of expensive pills that still barely contained him, had made it even worse.
She almost started crying. My mother has an astounding ability to ignore the harshest realities, to hover above even death and depression and mayhem and float through the day, somehow, smiling. I deplore and admire this ability by turns. But today, looking at him touched something raw in her mind. All the stuff inside her started coming to the surface. He looked like a bum, a wino, and he was still just a boy in her eyes. Despite everything, she still loved him so much, which simply didnât make sense to herânot after her life, not after our lives; but isnât love, like God, inexplicable, a bond that transcends reason and sense? She still imagined, despite everything she'd heard, that he might snap out of his disease one day with the right medications, some new treatment.
Michael stood, got in the car. He didnât have any of his things. My
But at the end of the first week he called my mother. He was alone in the apartment. He begged her to come get him, but not to bring my father. The guys he was living with were working, getting overtime on a Saturday at the weapons station. She asked if he had taken his medicine. He said yes.
Sensing a real problem, my mother agreed and drove the ten miles to get him. He had sounded urgent, but it was hard to tell what that meant with Michael. He reacted to dreams and imagined things as if they were real. Robert Tilton speaking in tongues on TV might send him into a funk as deep as if someone he loved had died. And the real stuff, the stuff that ought to upset a person, he often missed. She tried not to think about it. She couldnât bring up anything else to think about. An image of her son replaced the highway and strip malls. She wondered how life had become like this. She knew, of course, knew the facts, but she couldnât trace things back and make much sense. She had been beautiful, a popular girl in school, with friends and dreams. She fell in love with my father, who was maybe a little gruff, maybe he had a bad temper at times, but his heart, she knew, was good, and when he was in a good mood, he was funny and laughed a lot. She loved his smile, his face, those sad eyes. He was passionate, she thought, and for any anger he showed there was more than an equal and opposite reaction of love, more passion, a complete, even suffocating, devotion to the things he cared for most. There were babies, picnics, relatives, school pictures, sports . . . time slipped, sped ahead . . . but at some point, and she couldnât even remember when now because it was so long ago, Michael had changed, had gotten darker and stranger and unknowable, and everything had begun to crumble and rot. And then here she was, driving to get him.
It was a perfect spring day. The Virginia sky, in the spring when the humidity is low, is vibrant and crayon-blue, and now it filled up her windshield. She listened to the oldies station, the Ronettes, the Beach Boys, nostalgic for her youth, being in her twenties, feeling love the way you do when youâre young.
Michael was an emotional mess, she thought, untrustworthy. Probably nothing had happened and he just missed the comforts of home, where she bought any food he wanted, gave him his medication on time, drove him to the mall, to the doctor, let him watch religious television all day as he rocked and smoked, sometimes calling her a cunt, a bitch, as she brought him cheese and crackers, bowls of soup. It was like she had to keep a lid on a boiling pot.
Pulling into the parking lot, she saw him sitting on the curb with his head between his knees. She couldnât believe how heavy he'd become, how the antipsychotics and antidepressants and sleeping pills, those endless bottles of expensive pills that still barely contained him, had made it even worse.
She almost started crying. My mother has an astounding ability to ignore the harshest realities, to hover above even death and depression and mayhem and float through the day, somehow, smiling. I deplore and admire this ability by turns. But today, looking at him touched something raw in her mind. All the stuff inside her started coming to the surface. He looked like a bum, a wino, and he was still just a boy in her eyes. Despite everything, she still loved him so much, which simply didnât make sense to herânot after her life, not after our lives; but isnât love, like God, inexplicable, a bond that transcends reason and sense? She still imagined, despite everything she'd heard, that he might snap out of his disease one day with the right medications, some new treatment.
Michael stood, got in the car. He didnât have any of his things. My
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