After Veronica learned I had decided to submit my application for the vet tech program, she had given me even more responsibility. The funny thing was that, ordinarily and in any other circumstance, this would have been a punishment, but she knew I would take the extra work in stride; I enjoyed volunteering at the vet and all the learning that came with it, and Veronica had known this truth long before I had.
So, while much of my time was still spent checking in dogs and taking their weights, I was now in the exam room with Veronica and the other technicians just as frequently. Every dog was different and came with its own unique case, and I had catalogued each over the last four weeks.
I was checking out a woman and a chihuahua at the register and assembling some flea and tick medicine in a to-go bag when the door chimed. It was late, almost closing time, and when I glanced up, I had to brace myself against the edge of the counter.
Staggering inside was a man dressed in jeans and a crewneck. His dress blues were absent now, but I would have recognized his clean, strong face and steely eyes anywhere. With a German shepherd pacing beside him, the man from the Navy Ball came to a halt at the counter.
"Oh, hi, Mr. Lewis," Bethany greeted. "I didn't know I'd get to see you two today." She beamed at the German shepherd.
"Just wanted to pick up some flea medicine before I forget."
"Mmmhpphh, excuse me," the woman I was supposed to be helping fussed.
Snapping my jaw into place, I continued with the transaction, making two errors with the register as my mind detached from the present, falling through time to weeks previous, in that dark hallway.
"Delia, can you hand Mr. Lewis some flea and ticks meds. The large breed pack." She turned around. "I'll ring you up."
Lewis didn't answer and I knew it was because he was equally distracted equally. Carefully withdrawing the correct flea and tick medicine, I handed the box to Bethany and mustered the courage to lift my eyes to Lewis. He was glaring at me with a hardened mouth and a gaze so steely that it had the potential to dice me into pieces. I flinched away, broke eye contact, and finished taking the woman's payment as my heart hammered in my ears. Bethany quickly charged Lewis's card and he and the woman left the store at the same time.
When the door shut, I finally inhaled, but the anxiety he'd made me feel never completely left me.
Once the clinic closed for the evening, deciding I had definitely earned the four rolled tacos I usually treated myself to after volunteering, I walked down the alley and into Achiote. While eating, it was all I could do to keep the image of Lewis's metallic eyes out of my mind. It was all I could do to suppress the fear I had felt.
xxx
The following afternoon I came home from work to find my mom hunched over the dining table. A series of papers was strewn around her, and she was holding a pen and drumming it against the wood with her foot tapping in time. Cleaning supplies were gathered over the countertops, and the air was saturated with bleach.
I eased into the kitchen, her fidgeting adding to my apprehension. "Hi, Mom."
She shot out of her chair. "Oh, hi, Delia! Are you back already?" She swung around to locate the clock. "I can't believe it's already past noon! Do you want something to eat?"
"No," I said, chest tightening. "I already ate. Um, what are you doing?"
"I've decided to write a novel. I've always wanted to – I've got so many ideas, Delia. They just come to me, and when I woke up this morning, I just felt like I needed to start writing." She pointed to the jumbled papers. "Look, I've already got over ten pages written. I was thinking of typing, but handwritten is so much better, don't you think?"
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.
"Delia," he exhaled deeply, and I wondered if his lungs were now as empty as mine. "Delia," he continued, "I can't – I can't believe – oh, Delia, you're so grown up."
"Don't you dare talk to her! How dare you, Matt?! How dare you?!" my mom shrieked.
Stepping around her, my father slowly walked towards me. "Delia," he said again. "Delia, honey, I –"
My mom charged after him, yelling his name, yelling profanities. She was feral; her hair splayed every which way with eyes dark and alive at the same time. My father reached his hands to try and contain her, uttering words that had no sound, or maybe I had lost the ability to hear because of how my ears rang.
Eventually, she subdued and melted onto the floor, now wailing profusely.
"How long has she been like this?" my father asked me.
I didn't answer.
"Delia, how long – we have to take her to the hospital."
"NO!" I shouted, finally finding my voice.
"Delia, honey, she's not well. It won't be like last time, okay? I promise. Things have changed since then, okay? She needs a hospital. She needs medical attention."
"Don't call me 'honey.'"
"We have to go, Delia."
I wanted to cry, to scream, to tantrum, to throw my clenched fists into his chest, but I didn't do any of that, because deep down I could see the truth. He was right, and oh how the thought turned my mouth bitter. My mom needed help. She had needed help, and there was no way around it. My brain latched onto this purpose, and with sudden clarity, my vision focused and I found my breath.
I brushed past my father. "Come on, Mom. We have to go, okay?"
"No, Delia." Tears streamed her face. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
My heart hurt, but I crouched beside her and found the bravest part of me I could muster. "I know, Mom, I know you're fine. But we need to go, okay, because I want you to be safe. I need you to be safe, Mom."
Face glistening, she said, "Delia, I can't go."
"Yes, you can, Mom. Yes, you can."
Tears still spilling, she ambled to her feet as I supported her side. My father marched around and attempted to aid her other side.
"D-don't you t-touch me!" she hissed.
His hands fell to his sides, and the three of us exited the front door. I had been in tears the last time I traveled down these steps after one of my mom's episodes; this time, though they burned, my eyes were dry. Maybe they were frozen. My body still ached from the shock I'd felt.
We rounded the corner to emerge into the parking lot. My father signaled he would drive, and we aimed toward a beeping black truck. Just before we arrived, I briefly locked eyes with a person standing frozen beside another car. With a grocery bag in his arms, Warner was watching me with an expression I didn't have the energy to decipher. I herded my mother into my father's truck and made sure she was buckled in and comfortable. As we drove away to the hospital, I had just enough awareness to see in the mirror that Warner hadn't moved.
xxx
The sterile colors and clean lines of hospitals never calmed me. They made me feel offensive, like a dirty smudge staining the pristine surroundings. This hospital was no different. As I sat in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting lobby surrounded by nothing but white walls and sharp edges, I was but a giant stain.
My mom had willfully checked herself in. After signing about a dozen forms and answering three times as many questions, she was escorted to a room. My father and I were not allowed to see her but remained in the lobby until we heard from a doctor.
We waited in silence.
The open seat between our chairs felt like a massive canyon. And somehow, it still wasn't wide enough.
"Delia," my father said, coughing. "I need to – I didn't know."
Silence.
"I had no idea it was this bad." He sighed. "Look, you have every right to be upset."
Slowly, I twisted to face him. "Do I?"
"Of course, Delia. You just have to understand that when I left –"
I forced a laugh. "No, no. You don't get to do this."
"Delia, listen, I made sure your mom was okay back then – before I went to Florida. She was taking the right dosage. She was doing fine. I didn't –"
Shooting out of the chair, I exclaimed, "Then why are you back now? She was fine, it was fine, I was fine. If all that's true, why are you back?"
"To see you."
"Did you ever stop to consider that I didn't want to see you?"
"Delia, I understand –"
"No, you don't."
"Excuse me."
I snapped my attention to a woman in teal scrubs with golden skin, curly black hair.
Happening too fast to avoid it, the air whirled and filled with electricity.
February sixth, two thousand and fifty-seven.
She eyed my father and me curiously. "Hi, I'm Doctor Montoya. I have some news about Stevie." Her eyes bounded between us again. "She's doing fine. We've got her in her own room right now and are closely monitoring everything." Glancing at her notes, she continued, "She was prescribed and has been taking lithium for over eight years now, is that right?"
I nodded twice as long to make up for my father's lack of reaction.
"Well, we spoke to her psychiatrist" – she cleared her throat – "Doctor Warton, and I'm not under the impression the particular dose or medication itself is appropriate for her needs. We're going to try a combination of fluoxetine with olanzapine right now and closely watch how it affects her." Doctor Montoya placed the clipboard against her chest. "She'll be in her room for no less than seventy-two hours, after which point she'll have a stay in psychiatrics."
I gulped. "She had a bad experience there last time."
"I understand," Doctor Montoya said. "I'm, um, very aware of the last clinic where she had her stay, and her psychiatrist for that matter. But I can assure you, we're much better equipped here. Research around mental health and mental illness has come a long way even in the last five years, and so has the means of treating it. I promise you, your mom will be well looked after here."
Her words comforted me in a way I hadn't expected, and I felt myself relax. .
"How long will she be in psychiatrics?"
"Her time will greatly depend on how she's doing and responding to treatment. The program is very general to start, but if she needs a more tailored stay, we will certainly accommodate. Typical patients are in for about a week, maybe a bit longer. It just depends."
"Can I see her?" I asked.
"Not until she's checked into psychiatrics, I'm afraid. It's protocol, but if you have any questions, I'll give you my number. Please don't hesitate to call." She scrawled her pen across a piece of paper and tore it off. "Here. Day or night. You'll be informed once she's in psych."
"Thank you," I said.
"Do you – either of you – have any questions?"
I shook my head and Doctor Montoya's silence indicated my father did as well.
"Alright, well, get some rest. We'll be in touch soon." She departed the lobby.
"She's going to be taken care of, Delia." My father's voice threatened to bring back all the tension I'd been feeling before.
"What do you care?" I said and began walking away.
"Delia, wait! We need to talk about this!" my father jumped up out of his chair.
"No!" I whipped around, oblivious to the other occupants in the lobby. "We don't. You left, remember? You don't get to talk to me." With that, I stormed from the room and down the hallway, my feet only losing stability when I knew I was out of his sight. I pressed my back against the wall, withdrew my cell phone, and pressed the first contact.
"Hi, Delia."
"Vi," I croaked. "Can you come get me?"
xxx
A/N: Not gonna lie, this was a hard chapter to write for so many reasons. I tried to write everything as sensitively as I could while keeping true to the emotions Delia was feeling. Mental health is so, so important, and EVERYONE deserves the right to seek help.
Anyway, I hope you liked it regardless. I will be posting another chapter tomorrow!