And she was alone even now. The Media Center was silent that afternoon save for the pounding of her heart moving through her head and out her ears like a drum line. She sat staring at the screen saver on the computer monitor, aware that her eyes were gushing tears. She wiped at her face knowing it was streaked with rivulets of soft black mascara. She was afraid, finding herself in the throes of complete hysteria when Beatrice wasn’t around. The debt that seemed so manageable just a few short days ago now appeared impossible. She could never pay it off. She received a notice from Collections in the mail yesterday for the electric bill. A new charge. Interest that accrued for the unpaid debt. She was drowning, and she couldn’t scream.
Evan sat beside her all week in health. She tried her best to appear indifferent to his conversation. She did not want to engage him, make him think it was going anywhere. But he was relentless in a gentle way. He did not give up, and every day he would sit with her in class and reveal something new about himself in the hopes that she would return the favor. She seldom did.
She wiped her face as the tears continued to pour forth. She could not remember the last time she cried so effortlessly. She did not even force the tears, not a little. They spilled over involuntarily, even more desperately than the evening she cried into her pillow after the yogurt trip when she realized for the first time that she could not be with Evan. No, these tears were not just for Evan. They were coming from another place, a deep dark recess of her heart where depression sits like a monster, quietly waiting until the right moment to tear through the fragile chamber, rocket into the brain and explode with insanity.
“Hey Clara,” Evan said. She did not hear him come in. She whirled around to look at him, forgetting that her face was muddied with runny mascara.
She jumped from the seat and grabbed her book bag. Evan blocked her escape.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his face full of concern.
He placed his hand on her upper arm, and she lost it completely. It was a strangled sob; she tried desperately to choke it down, but it burst forth against her will. He took her in his arms. She was willing at first, never having felt the rush of a boy’s arms around her, and for one brief, thrilling moment, she forgot the hell she was entering. Like her body was spiraling downward, but then God had a change of heart at the last minute and drew her back up towards heaven instead.
She wanted his arms around her forever. They were gentle and reassuring and protective. They convinced her for a moment that she was okay. But then she felt his cheek press against the top of her head and drew back abruptly. She hadn’t washed her hair in three days. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t see the point and didn’t care. She wondered if it was the depression or if she was just exhausted. She was afraid her hair smelled, knowing her roots were slippery with oil, and pushed against him harder trying to escape his grasp.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She was apologizing for her hair, but she knew he didn’t know it.
“It’s okay. Just tell me what’s wrong,” he said releasing her. His voice was low and tender.
“I . . . I have a headache,” she said. She threw her bag over her shoulder and turned to leave, evading his reaching hand as she hurried towards the exit.
“Wait!” he called. “Clara!” But she flew out of the Media Center and disappeared from sight.
***
Snap out of it, Clara. Snap out of it. Clara? Snap out of it. Clara . . . Clara . . .
SNAP OUT OF IT!
Clara sat straight up in bed, eyes wide, skin and clothes soaked with sweat despite the chill in the room. As though Mother Nature decided to mix it up, summer went directly to winter, or so it seemed. The nights grew terribly cold in the middle of October, and Clara knew she and Beatrice would have to start building fires at night in the living room fireplace.
The silent darkness of the room made Clara want to burrow under the covers and hide. But she was wet through and needed to change her clothes. She got out of the bed, drawing in her breath sharply as her feet hit the cold hardwood floor. She tiptoed to her dresser and pulled out a pair of cotton pants and a fresh T-shirt. She peeled her clothes from her body and dropped them on the floor, standing naked for a moment to see how cold she could get. She thought she deserved to feel so cold for letting Beatrice down. For failing to pay off the debt. It was punishment to stand naked and endure the chill that wrapped painfully around her body.
She didn’t know if the voices were inside her head or inside her dream or if that was one in the same. She read about psychotic episodes, how it was common to have them going into a depression, and she feared for her sanity. She listened for them. If they talked to her while she was awake, then she knew she had a huge problem on her hands. But if they only talked to her in her dreams, she thought she was safe.
The room was quiet. She closed her eyes and listened hard. Nothing.
“I’m not crazy,” she said out loud. She didn’t believe her own voice. She said it again, this time trying to sound more convincing. “I’m not crazy,” and she halfway believed it.
She pulled on the dry clothes and went back to bed. She ran her hand gingerly over the bed sheets and discovered that her sweat had soaked them, too. She considered sleeping on the couch, but it was uncomfortable, and she would freeze. She thought she could squeeze into Beatrice’s bed. Beatrice wouldn’t mind.
She crept quietly into her sister’s room and slid into bed beside her. It was a twin that afforded little room, but Clara liked the snugness. Beatrice stirred.
“Clara?” she asked drowsily.
“Shhh. Go back to sleep,” Clara whispered.
“Are you okay?” Beatrice mumbled.
“Yes,” Clara replied. “I just wet the bed,” she said, and then giggled.
Beatrice didn’t understand but giggled like she did.
The girls fell asleep, Clara cradling her little sister against her body and feeling safe.
***
Beatrice didn’t know how to broach the subject, so she simply blurted it out.
“Clara, it’s not uncommon for teenagers to wet the bed,” she said the next morning as Clara watched the bacon sizzle in the pan on the stove.