The Death Date

chapter twenty-two

The world was shrinking, smaller and smaller, until my mom's frenzied expression was at the end of a tunnel.

She darted to the sink and slipped on a pair of gloves. "This kitchen's so dirty. I've been trying to clean it all morning. The bathroom's next. I can't work in a dirty apartment. Never could."

"Mom," I whispered.

Nothing.

"Mom," I said, slightly louder, voice snagging.

She was aggressively scrubbing the sink. "What, honey?"

"Did you – did you" – I drew a breath – "have you been taking your medication?"

She whirled around. "Yes, of course, honey. Of course." Grinning, she added, "I'm fine. I'm really, really fine. I feel good today. Just woke up wanting to tackle the world. You know" – she peeled off the gloves and jetted to the table – "some days it's just black, but not today. No, today I am living in the light, and it feels wonderful, Delia!" After stacking the papers into a tidy pile, she veered towards me. "That medicine makes me feel sick, Delia. I take it, and I feel sick, and then I feel nothing. But not today. Today I am alive."

My temperature was plummeting, my hands turning ice cold. I drew a shaky breath and a single tear slid down my cheek. My mom was wild before me: eyes jubilant, smiled unabridged, body gyrating. She did look happy-- unnaturally so--and it was a knife to the gut. I had seen her this way too many times to be fooled. I knew better. Her bursting highs had duped me time and time again when I was younger, as, back then, to see her so happy, made me happy. That was a long time ago, and I was more aware now that there was no afterglow to her manic episodes, only a sinking depression, and the anticipation of that darkness wrenched the knife in further.

My mom was not well, and it was time I did something about it.

A knock rapped on the front door. Still too stunned by the display, my mom beat me to the door.

"Who is it?" she called, but before the person could answer, she swung the door open and the voice on the other side rang out clearly. I recognized it, even though I'd only heard it over the phone once in recent years. My mind reeled, and my vision started to go dark-- like that invisible knife had been pulled clean out of my stomach and my blood was draining from my body. I braced myself against the closest wall.

"Hi, Stevie."

"Matt, what are you – what are you doing here?!"

Overcome by shivers, my breath vanished the moment I saw my father emerge from around the kitchen entrance.

"Stevie – listen, I'm, uh, it's, um, it's good to see you," my father said, still not having found my frozen frame.

"It's good to see me? It's good to see me?! Is that why you're here, to see me? Did you finally realize the mistake you made? Leaving me all those years ago – are you back to finally apologize?" Like a switch had been flipped, my mom's happiness turned to anger. Her voice was increasing in volume with each question.

"What – Stevie, calm down."

"No! I will not calm down! You hear me?!"

"Stop yelling," my father demanded.

"I can yell all I want, and I will not stop just because you tell me to! What right do you have, huh? What right?!"

"Stevie – what are you –" a realization came over his face, "Stevie, no. Please tell me you've been taking them – taking your medication."

"Don't you tell me what to do!"

Lungs still empty, they collapsed when my father's eyes finally found me. His hair was tinged gray, his face tanned and weathered, but his eyes were still as golden and warm as I remembered.