“Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
She sighs. “Yesterday she skipped her tennis lessons, which isn’t a big deal, but she’s supposed to call ahead. Then, this afternoon, she missed her group sessions. We searched the grounds and found her in the fountain. She was naked and dancing to a ballet she’d written.”
Mother was never a ballerina, but she could make a person believe she was.
I sigh as I picture the fountain in the manicured gardens, a large statue of an urn pouring out water into a large pool. I imagine her there, blonde hair shining, eyes bright.
Nella continues. “She hit one of the attendings, nothing serious, but I felt this deserved a phone call. She appears to be in a manic phase. I’ve scheduled her to meet with her doctor tomorrow.”
“Where were your people? Why didn’t you check in on her when she missed her tennis lesson?”
“Tuck, she has choices, and we’re just here to help her make good ones. We aren’t an institution—we’re a residential facility.”
I sigh. “I know. I just don’t want anything to happen to her. I saw her a month ago, and she was fine.”
But was she? Wasn’t she talking faster than usual? Wasn’t she jumping from topic to topic? I was just happy she asked to see me. Maybe that feeling felt so good I ignored the euphoric gleam in her eye.
“Your mother is a charismatic woman, manic or not. Sometimes medications stop working, or it’s possible she’s decided not to take them. She’s settled now, so I don’t want you to worry.”
“All right, let me know how it goes. Has she asked for me?”
“I’m sorry—she hasn’t.” Her voice softens.
When Mom showed up at my doorstep five years ago, she chose to live at Greenwood, but on her terms. She only sees me when she wants.
My throat tightens as past hurts coil around me.
“Yeah. Okay.” I inhale. “Just thought I would check.”
I click off with Nella and lean against the wall.
A dad with anger issues and a bipolar mom. It was a spectacular childhood.
I was thirteen the first time she frightened me. Dad was out of town, and she stayed awake for days claiming demons were hiding in the walls. She drew pentagrams to banish them. The housekeeper called Dad, and he came home—and they fought.
Once she picked me up at school in a bathrobe, took me to a bar, and left me in the car for hours. Dad showed up and dragged her out. A half-dressed man followed them and fought with my dad in the parking lot. As our chauffeur drove us home, I watched my father fist his hands over and over, spewing cruel words toward her.Whore,slut,bitch,psycho. His fists would hit her later that night as I pounded on the door for him to let me inside their bedroom.
My mom wasn’t any of those awful words he called her.
She told fantastical stories.
She called me her sunshine.
She played the cello with such emotion people wept.
She was heartbreakingly beautiful.
My father loved her. And hated her.
She loved him. And hated him.
With those turbulent emotions boiling, they barely noticed me.
I grunt as a pain slices through my chest, lingers for several seconds, and then subsides. My heart pounds, heavy and thick, as if I’ve finished a ten-mile run. I slide down the wall to the floor and hold my head in my hands.