I’m feeling so tired again, like the air above me is pushing me down so that the bed will swallow me whole. “Will we go back to Seattle?”
“We’ll talk about it, baby. When you’re feeling better, okay?”
That means yes. Good. For some reason, going back feels like the right thing. We stare at each other, and I don’t know how much time passes before I whisper, “Okay.”
But it doesn’t feel okay. I feel like I went to sleep, and my whole world changed. My summer nosedived right into the ground. I’m too tired to keep up with all this new information. I’m too tired for anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jonah
I’ve seen Vivi twice since her accident, but she hasn’t seen me yet. She was drugged and out of it both times I was there. This morning she was transferred to a different hospital, in Santa Rosa. A hospital with a psychiatric ward. Which makes a bit more sense now than it did right after her accident.
I’m leaving for Santa Rosa soon, and I keep checking the time. Vivi’s mom thought I should wait till the afternoon to visit. So Vivi has some time to get situated in the new place. I’d rather keep myself busy in the meantime.
There’s a ring of sweat around my T-shirt collar as I power wash the hell out of the patio’s concrete floor. It’s not a pretty task. Let’s just say birds flying overhead have created graffiti in a few spots. The spray is so powerful that it feels as if it could do damage. Instead, it blasts them clean. It’s useful stress relief, as it turns out. I actually wish I had more stuff to power wash.
Vivi’s mom has been at the hospital most of the time. She did leave to give me Vivi’s house keys so I can take care of Sylvia. We sat on the front stoop because she didn’t seem to want to come in.
“Viv has bipolar disorder,” her mom said. “She said I could tell you.”
I failed to move or speak for at least a minute. She gave me this sad, gentle look during the uncomfortably long silence. It was a lot to take in. I mean, I thought “bipolar” meant, like, really moody. Which I guess Vivi is. I just . . . I didn’t know where to start.
“I only knew about her arm,” I said eventually. “I mean, the scar. Is that even the same thing?”
“Part of it.” Carrie turned to look at me, watching my reaction. “I thought it was depression last year—we all did. We got her on meds after that. And it was depression, but that’s just not all it was.”
“So they didn’t work?”
“They worked for the depression. She was happy again, sewing and painting. I caught her drinking, smoking pot, taking my credit card, sneaking out. But I thought it was teenager stuff. Acting up. A sign that she was definitely okay. I had no idea they were symptoms until it got really bad. Then we got her help. And different medicine. There’s a lot I didn’t know.” She turned her gaze to the ground. “There’s a lot I still don’t know.”
Her mom was clearly torn between wanting to be honest with me and wanting to protect Vivi’s privacy. I told her that it’s okay, that Vivi can tell me more when she’s ready. Really, I needed some time to Google it.
Now I’ve read a lot. Irritability, sexual behavior, disjointed thought and speech patterns. Bipolar I, bipolar II, mixed, rapid cycling, cyclothymic. They seem pretty clearly defined, in separate boxes with definitions. But I honestly can’t even guess which one Vivi has.
I sat in front of the computer, head in my hands. She’s been different the past week. Should I have known? Did I take advantage of her, without knowing it? I absolutely didn’t mean to. Will she feel different about me now? I know it’s not about me, but I’m the only person I’m in charge of. And I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.
So I let the restaurant consume me.
The new menu debuts in three days, and we’re having a party to celebrate. It’s not fancy or anything—just a celebration for all the people who have helped us with changes.