Blackout Read online

  “True,” I admit, checking the speedometer. He’s going ten over the speed limit, but it still feels like we’re crawling. “So what’s she hiding?”

  Abe shrugs. “That’s a really good question. And stop looking at the dash.”

  It’s 10:30 exactly when we pull into McLean’s parking lot. I sprint full steam to the front door, terrified we’ll be too late and Dr. Netsky will move on to his next appointment.

  “Hey,” Abe pants as he catches up to me. “Slow down. He’s not going anywhere.”

  I shake my head. I just want to be there. Now. And you never know how long security is going to take.

  The clock outside Dr. Netsky’s office door reads 10:42 as I rap my knuckles against it. I hold my breath, praying there’s an answer on the other side.

  “Come in,” a pleasant voice says.

  I open the door and stop in my tracks. Dr. Netsky isn’t what I was expecting. I pictured someone grandfatherly, but the man before me is a lot younger than that, with hair that’s only starting to gray. He’s sitting behind a mahogany desk, gazing at me with a polite smile on his thin face. But that’s not what stops me. It’s the fact that I’m staring at the back of my mom’s head. In hindsight, I should have been prepared to meet her here today. After all, she’s the patient. She has the right to be informed about her medical care.

  My mother turns, and she has none of Dr. Netsky’s pleasant warmth. This is not the mom I like to remember, but this is a mom I know all too well.

  I look like her. A lot like her. We both have the same dark brown hair, the same olive skin, the same small nose, the same high cheekbones. But our eyes are different. Mine are a deep brown, like my dad’s, but my mom’s are the vivid green of polished peridot, her birthstone. When my mom is well, her eyes—her entire presence—is striking. But today her eyes are dull, angry.

  She’s lost weight. Too much weight. Skin stretches over her clavicle, and I can count the ribs peeking out above the deep V-neck of her shirt. She has on her skinny jeans—the ones she can fit into only during the periods of mania when she doesn’t eat. They’re loose around her waist.

  She looks past me to Abe. “He can’t come in.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Abe interrupts. “It’s fine. I’ll just wait outside.” He squeezes my hand before he slips away. My hand dangles by my side, empty and cold. I feel like it’s been amputated.

  “Amanda.” Dr. Netsky motions to the chair next to my mom. “Please sit. Your mother and I were just going over her medical file for her stay with us.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say as I lower myself into the chair. There’s a canvas resting against the side of my mom’s chair, but it’s turned around, so all I can see is the back of the frame. I don’t take my eyes off my mom. She’s staring straight ahead at the wall behind Dr. Netsky. She’s mad about being here. I bet you anything she thinks I went behind her back to set up this meeting. Which, you know, I did.

  “Joy has been living in our Appleton extended-care facility for”—he flips back a page—“over three months now.”

  My mother stays silent, so I say, “Correct.”

  The doctor flips forward a page. “And in that time, we’ve tried”—he blinks—“a very wide variety of pharmaceutical combinations to help treat your mother’s illness. We had initial success with lithium, but after a few weeks, Joy refused any further treatment.” Like always.

  The doctor scans the rest of the page. “After a number of unsuccessful combinations, we settled on carbamazepine and sertraline.”

  “Oh,” I say. Because I know where this is headed. I know exactly what happened.

  “Joy showed great improvement during the first two months on carbamazepine and sertraline, combined with intensive psychotherapy, but soon thereafter, she . . .” Dr. Netsky looks up at my mom, as if he just remembered she’s here. “I mean, you, Joy, decided to stop the medication and refrain from trying any further combinations.”

  My mom doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

  I reach over and touch her arm and try not to be hurt by how she tenses. “Mom?”

  My mom yanks her arm away. She leans over, grabs the canvas, and shoves it into my hands. “Look at that,” she practically spits.

  I’m scared to. But I do. It’s a painting of a white sailboat gliding across a glistening aquamarine sea. I lean in closer. She’s used about a dozen different shades of blue for the waves. It’s a level of depth and detail I haven’t seen from her work in a while.

  “What do you see?” she snarls.

  I look at Dr. Netsky, who has his eyebrows raised, then back to my mom. “Um . . . a boat?”

  And then she rips the canvas from my hands and cracks it over her knee. I jump in my seat. “It’s a boat. The most literal, piss-poor, goddamned boat you’ve ever seen. The kind of stuff that talentless hacks paint, then mass produce so doctors can hang it in their offices.” She throws Dr. Netsky a look filled with venom more poisonous than a black widow’s, then she whips her head back to me. “Do you think I’m a hack, Amanda?”

  “Of course I don’t.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Mom, that painting is really good.”

  “Oh, what do you know? You don’t know anything. I don’t paint boats.”

  And this is sort of true. My mom’s known for being an abstract painter. She’ll throw down a dab of yellow, a swirl of blue, and she’ll blend it all together until you can’t help but stare at it. She’ll tell you it’s a boat, and you’ll think she’s crazy, but then you’ll squint—and you’ll see it. Some semblance of a boat peeking out from beneath the globs of paint.

  “It’s like five years ago. Exactly like five years ago!”

  And there it is. What I knew was coming. This conversation is over. My mom has checked out.

  Dr. Netsky looks from me to my mom, then down to his chart. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him flip back a page, then one more, trying to match the dates. “I’m not seeing anything in the notes that details any incident from five years ago.” He looks up at my mom. “Can you enlighten me?”

  My mom leans forward in her chair.

  “Carbamazepine and sertraline. Let’s just call them by their real names. Tegretol and Zoloft. The medication that nearly killed us.”

  I slowly shake my head. “Mom,” I say in the softest voice I can. “You know that’s not true. The art world is cyclical. Even Adam said that.”

  “Cyclical,” my mom sneers, pushing herself back in her chair. “Right.”

  Dr. Netsky is staring at me. I swallow the lump in my throat. “We’ve tried carbamazepine and sertraline in the past. And you’re right. It’s a great combination for my mom.” I pause. I don’t want to say anymore.

  “But?” the doctor prods. “Five years ago?”

  I glance over at my mom. She’s not looking at me. “Five years ago was when we first started the combination. Five years ago was also when . . . we kind of had a rough patch.”

  “I didn’t sell a goddamned single painting for an entire year,” my mom says through gritted teeth.

  “It wasn’t because of the meds, Mom. I heard what Adam said. He said it was some of your best work yet and that the lack of sales was just due to a dip in the market. We were in a recession! Adam said you were going to sell soon and even bigger than before. He practically promised us!”

  “Who’s Adam?” the doctor interrupts.

  “Her publisher. Kind of like a manager.”

  “Former publisher,” Mom adds.

  Dr. Netsky flips through the file. “I don’t see any of this noted in your file, Joy. Did you tell Intake about your history with this drug combo?”

  Mom doesn’t answer, and I wish I’d gone with her that day, now more than ever. But I didn’t. I was stuck in 1917.

  Of course she didn’t tell them—being honest wouldn’t let her play the victim card she loves to throw out. Five years ago, when I was twelve, was the best year of my life. Mom met with her medication manager ever
y month, like she was supposed to. She was happy. She was healthy. She slept. She ate. She kept a normal schedule—not painting for twenty hours in a row, only stopping when she passed out from exhaustion on the living room floor.

  That was the year I had a mother.

  I want it back.

  “You’re just scared, Mom,” I whisper. “I am, too. But you promised this to me. Remember how you felt that year.”

  “Destitute? Like I didn’t know where the next rent payment would come from?”

  “No, Mom. Healthy. Stable. Happy.” My breath catches as I remember the late night talks we had that year. How my mom made me swear I’d remind her to take her meds every single day. And then I remember how no amount of begging is ever going to get her to refill the prescription now. “You promised me you’d try again.”

  “Well, I take it back.” My mom drops the broken canvas to the floor. “You remember what happened when I stopped taking those drugs, right? I sold a painting the next month. And it took me only two weeks to paint, not two months.” She kicks the broken canvas across the room and looks to the doctor, nodding her head forcefully, like she’s waiting for him to acknowledge that she made the right decision.

  “Yeah, to pervy old Mr. Jotkins, who only bought it because you practically gave it away and because he liked to stare at your boobs!”

  She narrows her eyes and looks away.

  “Mom, if it’s money you’re worried about, I’m making a salary now, too. I mean, it’s not a ton of money, but I can cover rent and utilities.” I have been, the whole time she’s been here at McLean. Sending money each month to a neighbor to hold onto for my mom. But telling her that would only make things worse.

  “I don’t want my daughter to take care of me. I can handle myself. I just need things to be like they used to be.”

  I take a breath to compose myself. “Mom, things can’t be like they used to be. Deep down, you know they can’t. Maybe we should just listen to Dr. Netsky. Maybe he has some suggestions for us?” I give him my best pleading stare.

  He clears his throat. “Yes. Our options.” Another throat clear. “Joy, I really think we shouldn’t be so quick to give up on medication that’s proven successful in the past. However, I’ve asked a colleague to be available to join us, if you should wish to speak with her about a more permanent type of option.” Dr. Netsky hesitates and looks at my mom. I hold my breath. “Dr. Singh is the director of our electroconvulsive therapy service—”

  Dr. Netsky is still talking, but you can’t hear a word he says because my mom has jumped up so fast her chair bangs to the floor.

  “No!” she yells. “Absolutely not!”

  I’m frozen in my seat.

  “You want me to do shock therapy?” Abe doesn’t have to be in the room to hear this. I’m sure they can hear her down in patient check-in.

  Dr. Netsky is on his feet, holding out a hand to my mother. She doesn’t take it. “Joy, we don’t call it shock therapy. What you’re thinking of is a fiction of movies and television shows. The service we provide is a safe and effective procedure—”

  “Safe and effective, my ass!” My mom grabs my arm, and I gasp. “Is this what you want, Amanda? You want them to strap me to a board and run an electrical current straight into my brain?”

  I don’t answer her because . . . Yes? No? I have no idea.

  “You would be anesthetized,” Dr. Netsky points out.

  My mom flings my arm to the side and shakes her head with such force I’m scared she’ll give herself a concussion. “I’m not doing it.” She turns to me and wags a finger in my face. “I’m not doing it!”

  Cautiously, I say, “Mom, it might not hurt to meet with this doctor. Dr. Singh, was it?” I look to Dr. Netsky, and he nods in confirmation. “We don’t have to make any sort of decision right now, but maybe we should hear from her whether she thinks it’s a good option.”

  “It’s not.” My mom’s voice has gotten small. She’s gone inside herself. I’ve seen this before. So many times I can’t count. My mom is gone.

  I touch her shoulder. “I want you to be well.”

  She recoils from my touch. “Fuck you.” And then she throws open the door and leaves, slamming it behind her.

  I look at the chair lying on the floor, at Dr. Netsky’s diplomas, which are now hanging crooked, at the broken canvas she kicked across the room. I quickly right the chair and mumble an apology.

  “It’s quite all right,” the doctor says calmly. “I’ve seen worse, I assure you.”

  That doesn’t assure me of anything. I look the doctor in the eye. “So where do we go from here?”

  Dr. Netsky purses his lips. “We can’t force treatment on your mother.”

  “I know that.”

  “And we can agree that psychological care is not enough to combat your mother’s illness, correct?”

  “Yes,” I say, though I hesitate. Not because it isn’t the truth—it is; shrinks alone do nothing for my mom—but because every statement I agree with seems to be putting another nail in the coffin of my mom’s McLean stay. And there aren’t any other options on the table after this.

  “We’ll gladly keep your mother at Appleton for another week or so, to continue with the psychotherapy and to give her a chance to reconsider her options, but after that, she’s best suited elsewhere.”

  The final nail bangs down with a thud. This conversation is over. My mom’s time here is over. The relationship I’m trying to rebuild with her is over. Over over over.

  “I understand,” I say as politely as I can. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” My voice is cracking. I bite my bottom lip—hard. The pain centers me. “I know you’re a very busy man.”

  Dr. Netsky takes my outstretched hand and shakes it. “I’m truly sorry, Amanda. I’ve seen your exact situation time and again. But you’re young and optimistic, and if there’s anyone who can convince your mother, it’s you.”

  And now we’ve gotten to the bullshit portion of the meeting. Optimistic? Me? Yeah, no. But there’s no point in arguing.

  “I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

  Dr. Netsky lets go of my hand, and I can’t get to the door fast enough. Abe is waiting right there, but I don’t stop. I walk toward the elevator, and I punch the button so hard that pain spirals down my finger. “Dammit!” I shout as the doors open.

  Abe slips in behind me and quietly presses the button for the first floor. The doors slide shut.

  “Dammit!” I turn and punch the air, stopping just short of the back wall. Then I open my hands and press them against the wall.

  “Hey,” Abe whispers. His fingers graze my shoulders. Lightness courses through my body, making me feel warm—and guilty. As if I shouldn’t be allowed to feel anything but pain, anger, and sadness right now. I step away.

  The elevator stops and the doors open, and I whirl around to get out. But then I pause. Because we’re only on the second floor. And because I’m staring at Tyler Fertig.

  Old Blue. I haven’t seen him since he tried to kill himself four months ago back at Peel, right after he shot Yellow.

  “Tyler!” I gasp.

  He looks lost. He has on a long-sleeved thermal and baggy jeans that hang low on his waist. His sandy hair is thin and unwashed and desperately in need of a cut. He stares right through me.

  And then I notice the plastic bracelet dangling so far down his wrist that it’s about to slip off. It’s the same bracelet my mom had on. Tyler’s an inpatient here.

  The doors start to slide shut, and I’m not sure whether to put my hand out to stop them.

  “I can wait,” Tyler says.

  And then I’m staring at silver metal. The elevator lurches, and after a few short seconds, the doors open into the lobby. I look back at Abe. He doesn’t need to say anything.

  I’m sick of this. All of this. Tyler is just the icing on the cake. Annum Guard did this to him. Alpha did this to him. And we’re not even trying to make sure it never happens aga
in. I push through the doors into the parking lot, and I’m running to the car and I want to punch things.

  Abe’s footsteps are right behind mine. I don’t fight him off when he grabs onto my arm and spins me around into him.

  “Can just one thing go right in my life? Just one!” My hands are shaking. I really, really want to punch things. I ball my hands into fists.

  “Hey,” he whispers, and this time I lean into him, let myself feel. His arms wrap around my shoulders and I don’t know how much time passes, how long I spend with my cheek pressed into his chest, inhaling the lingering scent of bodywash. But before I know it, I’m full, complete. Everything I never felt growing up and everything I ever hoped for.

  “Do you want to stop at Mystic Valley on the way home?”

  I keep my head tucked into his chest. My face is flush with anger, and my thoughts are a swirling mess, but an unexpected laugh escapes my lips. I can’t help myself. Mystic Valley is a shooting range just outside of Boston. Trust Abe to know the one thing that would make me feel better.

  “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I tell him as I gently pull away, ignoring how sappy I sound. “But I really think we should just head back. I’m tired.”

  Guilt bubbles in my chest because this is a lie. I’m not tired. Not anymore, not since I found Zeta’s testimony. The only reason I want to get back is so I can go through these pictures on my phone, then delete all trace of them. I’m keeping secrets from Abe, from my friends. I know I can trust them, but I still don’t say anything. And I’m not a hundred percent sure why.

  Abe unlocks the car. “Well, if not Mystic Valley, you know what would make you feel better? Tonight Coolidge Corner Theatre is doing a special midnight showing of Night of the—”

  “Not a chance.” I slide in and buckle my seat belt.

  Abe clutches his heart as if he’s been shot. “I’ll remember that.” He slips the keys into the ignition, and the engine roars to life. He throws it into reverse. “Yep, I will definitely remember that.”