Chapter 12
By the time Dr. Kristy phoned at noon the next day, I’d caught my school work up in three subjects and was feeling pretty good. Hearing the doctor's voice —a mixture of intelligence and bedside kindness, which she used even when having the most mundane of conversations —brought back my concern for the little dog.
"How is she? How’s Lucy?" I asked, my voice cracking a bit.
"Lucy's going to be just fine. She's still groggy from the anesthesia, and she'll have to wear an e-collar on her neck for the next couple of weeks, but she should be up and running around in no time."
"What was it?"
"Well, there was a mass on her right lung. I was able to remove it completely. I'll have to wait for the pathology to be completed before we’ll know if it was malignant or benign, but I have high hopes. Lucy is only three years old, so even if it’s cancer and we have to do chemo, she has a very good chance at a normal life."
A bit of the weight resting on my shoulders lifted.
"Cady," Dr. Kristy's tone turned hesitant, "I still would like to know how you were able to feel the tumor. Mark and I are going to do some research on it. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all. I'm curious too. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before."
"Good. I'll let you know what we come up with."
After hanging up the phone, I showered and got ready for my appointment. What did one wear to see a psychologist? Would the doctor form opinions about me based on my clothing choices? You know, some sort of fashion Rorschach test? I wished I knew what kind of clothes crazy people wore so I could avoid them. I decided to go as safe as possible —dark jeans, an olive-green sweater and my hair slicked back into a ponytail.
When I finished, I walked quietly down the hallway to my mother's bedroom. If she wanted to go with me to my appointment, she’d have to start getting ready. I rapped at the door softly.
"Mom?" I called. There was no answer. "Mom, are you coming to my appointment with me?"
"Wha...?" she said groggily.
I opened the door and stepped inside. "Mom, if you want to come with me to the grief therapist —" I couldn't finish my thought. Sadness dropped on me like an iron anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote in the old Looney Tunes cartoons. My palms went clammy and my pulse jumped. My heart broke in my chest all over again. I rubbed my eyes to keep the tears from spouting.
With great effort, my mother propped herself up on the edge of the bed. Her hair was a nest of tangles, greasy from lack of washing. On her night stand were several prescription bottles and an empty bottle of Gray Goose vodka. Not. Good. The room stunk of neglect and depression. What was it about this room that sent me into an emotional spiral? I’d felt fine two minutes ago. Now, I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking.
"Cady, hun, can you run a bath for me?" my mom asked. She was bent at the waist with her elbows propped on her knees. She rubbed her eyes with her fists so hard I worried for her corneas.
Steeling my shoulders, I pushed through the gloom. I didn't have time today for a breakdown. Forcing one reluctant foot in front of the other, I made my way to the bathroom. I plugged the tub and turned on the hot water, dumping a heaping dose of bubble bath into the swirling water, sending the scent of cucumber and melon swirling around the room with the steam.
I sat down on the closed toilet lid. The gloom was less intense in here, but no less depressing. Dirty pajamas and underwear were balled up in a heap behind the door. The towels were soiled and spots of water dotted on the mirror. These things just didn't happen in my mother's house.
Crossing over to the linen closet, I found a set of fresh towels and replaced the ones on the rack. I then scooped up the dirty laundry and piled it in the hamper, squishing it all in to fit. When we were expecting company or planning for an occasion, my mother occasionally would hire a maid to come in to clean. She received a discount because she referred the maid service to her clients for their open houses. I made a mental note to look up the woman's name in Mom's planner and have her come in, at least until Mom was back to functioning like a normal adult.
I blew my nose on a wad of toilet paper and took a couple of deep breaths.
"Mom," I said, leaving the bathroom. "I'll make some sandwiches for lunch. You should eat something. You look like you've lost twenty pounds."
She stood in front of her dresser, fingering a pair of socks like she couldn't figure out what they were for.
"Do you need any help?" I offered.
She looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time. Lately, that was how she always looked at me. "Oh... no. I'll be down soon."
"Don't forget the bath water. It's still running, and you don't want it to overflow."
She nodded, selected a pair of socks and closed the drawer.
By the time I reached the kitchen, my sadness had begun to abate. Maybe it was just the horror of my mother's depression that was triggering it. She was supposed to be seeing a therapist as well. She'd gone to two appointments so far, one while I was still in the hospital. Obviously, it wasn't working.
I slapped together a couple of double-decker PB&J's and set them on the table with an open bag of potato chips. I was almost done eating by the time Mom stumbled down the steps dressed semi-normally in wrinkled slacks and a sweater which fit her fine a few weeks ago, but hung on her now. Her breasts had shrunk so much, they were practically invisible under the fabric.
Just being in her presence filled my mind with grief. The strange thing was I'd thought I was getting better...or at least making some progress. I no longer slept all day, I was dressing in regular clothes rather than lounging in pajamas, I even went for stretches of time without thinking about Lony, not that she was ever very far from my thoughts. But seeing Mom set something off in me, triggering the sorrow to bubble back up.
I got up to wash the dishes so I didn't have to watch her nibbling at her sandwich with squirrel bites. We didn't talk.
I ended up driving us to the appointment in her BMW. She never mentioned that she was too impaired by pills to drive. She simply handed me the keys and climbed in the passenger side without a word.
We pulled into the parking lot of a new office building on the west side of town. My father's company had constructed the building only a year before. As with many of the buildings and homes he’d built, I couldn't look at it without pride catching in my throat.
Speaking of my dad...across the parking lot, he leaned against his work truck, talking to someone through his bluetooth. I didn’t know he was coming, but the pleasure at seeing him improved my melancholy. Mom didn’t have quite the same reaction.
"Julia," my father greeted with a bob of the head. He'd been calling the house every night to check in with Aaron and me, but Mom refused to speak to him.
With her lips pursed tightly, Mom wound her arm around my shoulders possessively and said, "Tim. We didn't expect to see you here. Do you have an appointment also?"
"Well, no, Julia, I'm here to support our daughter."
I hated this tension. It was so thick I was suffocating.
"Let's just go inside," I suggested, stalking off and not caring if they followed or not. I was so sick of the fighting. You'd think they could be a little kinder to each other in light of their daughter’s death, but instead, the accident seemed to sever any lingering ties there might have been between them.
We entered the waiting room. Mom notified the receptionist we were here, then settled into a chair and roughly flipped through the pages of an outdated issue of Glamour.
Dad blew out a long breath of air and took the seat opposite her. He glanced at the magazines on the coffee table, but didn't see anything of interest. I gave him a weak smile which he returned just as weakly.
"Arcadia Day?" a woman called from the doorway leading back to the doctor's offices. All three of us stood and followed her down the hall where she invited us to sit on a couch in a comfortable looking office with purple walls and a stack of toys on the floor in the corner.
"It’s nice to meet you, Arcadia. I'm Dr. Carrick, but you may call me Elaine. I like to keep things informal in this room. I find it helps us to get to know each other."
Elaine had one of those unfortunate faces with a weak chin overshadowed by a large overbite. Her nose pointed long and straight like a beak. Her eyes were soft and gentle though, the kind that might belong to a priest or grandmother in some movie where things were stereotypical and perfect.
"It's Cady," I said. "Arcadia is also too formal."
Elaine smiled and talked to my parents for a few minutes about what the goals were for my treatment and what they wanted me to get out of it. When that was done, she excused them to wait for me back in the other room.
The soft click of the door closing behind them brought back my nervousness. Sitting in a room with a shrink makes a person self-conscious. I stopped picking at my cuticles and folded my hands in my lap.
"So, Cady," she began. "Why don't you tell me about how you’ve been since your sister's death. I understand you were in the hospital also."
Elaine was very easy to talk to, but I wasn't sure how much I trusted her. I started telling her about how each person in the family was dealing, omitting the part about my mother's drug stupors. I told her about my attempt to go back to school, but glossed over the details as to why I felt I had to leave after one class. Before I knew it, the hour passed, and I left with an appointment for the next week.
As we were leaving, Dad asked if I wanted to have a late lunch with him. I knew I shouldn't let my mom drive herself home, and besides, I had plans to meet with Bronwyn. The glint in his eyes dimmed when I asked for a rain check, making me feel both guilty and sad at the same time. He gave me a tight hug before climbing into his truck and driving away.
Mother was quiet in the car on the way home. Elaine had stressed during our session the importance of maintaining an open dialog with people to prevent feeling alone in my grief. I figured that was Mom's problem. She hadn't been dialoging with anyone except Prince Valium. Since I had her captive, I decided to confront her.
"Mom, I'm worried about you."
I felt her stiffen in the seat beside me, but she didn't say anything in response.
"I was thinking that until you’re feeling better, maybe we could have that maid come in a couple times a week. I know how an ordered house always makes you happy."
Mom stared out the window a long moment before answering.
"Happy," she whispered as if it were a new vocabulary word that she was trying out on her tongue for the first time.
"Well?" I asked.
She sighed, "I guess.”
Silence again.
“So,” I said, grasping for something to say that might draw her out of her shell. “Aaron went back to school this week, and I’m going to go back on Monday. I’m almost caught up on the assignments that I missed.”
Saying nothing, Mom pulled her sunglasses out of her Coach bag and shoved them on her face —the universal sign that a person does not wish to converse. Whatever. I focused back on the road.
“Swing in there, will you?" She gestured suddenly toward the Hy-Vee grocery store.
I braked hard in order to make the quick turn. The car was barely in park before Mom snapped open her seatbelt and flung the door open, narrowly missing hitting the side mirror on the Jeep parked beside us.
“Wait,” I said, flipping the ignition off. “I’ll go with you.”
“Stay here,” Mom snapped, closing the door hard behind her.
I watched her walk across the lot to the door, her gait slightly off. A few minutes later, she returned with a brown sack. The bag clinked as Mom slipped into the passenger seat and set it between her feet on the floor. I leaned over to peer into the top and saw at least four large bottles of alcohol and a small bag from the store’s pharmacy.
“Let’s go,” Mom said, clicking her belt back into place.
I started the car and drove home, gritting my teeth the whole way.
The last thing my mother needed was more drugs and alcohol. Even if her doctor didn’t know she was mixing, what kind of doctor prescribed that much medication to a woman who had nothing physically wrong with her? I mean, yes, her daughter died. It sucked. But it’s not like if she slept long enough the sadness would magically disappear. My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
As we rounded past the high school, a thought occurred to me. Was it possible Mom was using more than one doctor to prescribe all of these drugs? There had to have been four orange pill bottles on her night stand this morning and a few more on the bathroom counter. As far as I knew, she hadn’t been on any medication prior to the accident. That was a lot of bottles to accumulate in only a couple weeks.
Multiple doctors required the use of multiple pharmacies, right? Otherwise, the pharmacist would notice a person was being over-prescribed. I thought about this a moment. When I’d had bronchitis last year, Mom filled my antibiotics at the drug store next to the hospital. I’m pretty sure that was where she sent Lony to get her birth control pills too. I remember because she and Lony had gotten into an epic argument in the pharmacy parking lot while I sat captive in the backseat. Lony kept complaining that she didn’t want to take pills that would make her fat when she and Cane weren’t even having sex, but Mom had insisted on taking precautions. Yes, it was definitely the other store, not the one in Hy-Vee.
My skin paled as I began to realize my mother’s problem was bigger than I’d thought.