Chapter Nine

Miranda recommends that Alice check herself into a mental health clinic. Meanwhile, Alfonso works on driving her nuts.

“My step-father molested me as a child.”

Four hours of sleep with my lungs barely functioning, drifting through nightmare after nightmare while drowning in an ocean of my own sweat, and I have to wake up to this.

When you’re behind on sleep, your body knocks you out cold, trying to restore as much energy as possible while using the least it can.

Your breathing slows down and the lack of oxygen keeps you passed out in a very, very deep sleep for as long as humanly possible, until your cell phone makes a loud noise at 7AM, causing you to stir from your impossibly heavy coma and suck in the biggest breath of your life before reaching for the little piece of plastic that insists someone would like to talk to you.

My eyes are practically stuck shut when this happens, and I have to sit up and rub them for several minutes before I can even look at the cell phone’s liquid crystal display.

“My step-father molested me as a child,” says Alfonso’s text message.

Um… Okay?

What the hell am I supposed to even say to that? And why would you just blurt out something like that to a complete stranger? Trying hard to comprehend this ridiculous message, dazed and confused on four hours of sleep, I send my reply.

“Sorry.”

I roll back over in bed and rest my head in the window sill, parting the blinds with my fingers as I look out at the rapidly brightening sky.

As much as I would like to go back to bed, I can’t stop thinking about Alfonso, wondering if the person text messaging me night and day is really him.

In his email, he seemed perfect. He seemed sweet and polite. But the person on the other side of the phone seems to be a little bit mentally ill, to say the least.

In the past day, he’s sent me an average of about 30 messages an hour. If I don’t answer him within the first five minutes after he sends a message, he will get cold and accuse me of ignoring him.

Anything that I type, he takes personally. If I put an ellipsis at the end of a sentence, he has to question it.

I can understand that it is hard to interpret someone’s inflection through text alone, but phones were made for more than just sending text messages.

The phone vibrates an ugly noise against the table, and I pick it up, lazily.

“I just thought you should know up front that I’m damaged goods.”

No offense, dude, but I don’t really care. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re damaged or not. You shouldn’t unload your emotional baggage on a person you just met. It makes you seem hopelessly desperate for attention..

If only I had the balls to actually say that.

“Why don’t you just call?” is my true response.

Not that I really want to continue speaking with this guy, but maybe he’s only a freak through text messages. I would hate to throw something good away because I didn’t take the time to explore it completely.

I hoist myself up off the bed and trudge out to the kitchen to throw some eggs in a pan.

The phone yells at me again.

“I’m too awkward on the phone,” says the text message.

I grind my teeth and slam the phone down on the counter, pulling a frying pan from the cupboard, and trying hard to restrain myself from using it to smash the phone.

Now, now. It’s not the phone’s fault this guy’s a loser.

As I open the fridge to pull out the carton of eggs, I realize for the first time since waking up, that I’m really not in a very good mood.

In fact, I feel completely hopeless and depressed.

I crack the eggs against the side of the pan before spilling their contents into the center.

Depression is not something that you can affect, just by changing your outlook.

Everyone seems to have this idea that depressed people are these horrible drama queens who want attention from everyone.

People with depression.

It isn’t something that you have the power to change by yourself. The feeling of being depressed is an awful one. The things you used to enjoy doing no longer seem fun.

You don’t want to be alone, but being around other people seems to make you feel worse. You’re afraid that your being depressed annoys everyone around you.

Bad thoughts, memories and potential scenarios haunt your mind day in and day out, until you can no longer see anything good in the world, and it’s all just a dark, doomed hunk of rock that you don’t want to live on anymore.

Depression is not a cry for attention.

It’s not something an attitude change can fix.

It is a chemical imbalance in the brain and can only be cured through proper care and medication.

As I watch the clear, snotty outer part of the egg turn white, I hope to myself that it’s not depression I’m feeling.

I hope that all I’m feeling are the effects of not getting enough sleep for the past couple of days.

The phone buzzes on the counter, and I ignore it, staring into the pan, watching the eggs change color.

You know… I’m not even really hungry.

I roll my eyes as I realize this. Why do I start cooking before I discover that I have no appetite?

Well, I’m not wasting these eggs. I’ll eat them even if I have to force myself.

I stare into the pan, blankly, as they continue to cook.

All of a sudden, my phone bursts with a loud melody, causing me to drop the spatula into the pan.

I groan, picking up the spatula and seizing the phone from off the counter.

Flipping it open, I spit a nasty “What?!” into the receiver.

“Um… is this a bad time?” comes the voice of Alice.

I shake my head, rubbing my eyes.

“Oh, my gosh,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even look to see who was calling. I thought you were… someone else. What’s up?”

“Well…” her voice breaks, and then she’s clearing her throat. “Floyd mentioned that he saw you at the bookstore the other day?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“He said you wanted me to call.”

“Yes,” I tell her. “Very good. I’m glad to hear you up and talking. Tell me what’s been going on.”

Amidst the silence I hear Alice sniffle slightly. I hear the sound of her blowing her nose, and then she’s clearing her throat again.

“Well, the, um… The vision is getting clearer now,” she says, slowly. “I can at least make out faces.”

“Okay,” I tell her, “That’s good. Would you like to tell me who the people are?”

Alice wastes some more time, stifling her tears. I turn off the stove and scoop my eggs onto a plate.

“There is a man and a woman,” Alice breathes. “I feel strongly toward them both. The man,” she tells me, “is Floyd. And the woman is probably a friend that I haven’t met yet…”

“Well,” I cut in, “You’re not too likely to meet any new friends if you never leave the house, so you’re probably good.”

Alice cries softly into the phone, as I pull a fork from a drawer and take my eggs to the table to sit down.

“Listen, Alice,” I say, scooting my chair in close to the table. “I really think it’s time you consider getting some professional care. See… it doesn’t matter who the other person is… For all we know, it could be your brain’s own interpretation of yourself. It seems to me that you’re afraid of losing Floyd, or perhaps even afraid that you’ll both get hurt somehow. I know how much you value your relationship, and sometimes these things just happen. People can become paranoid because they don’t want to lose that thing they love so dearly. But you can get through this, Alice. You can overcome it. You just need to hand yourself over to someone who can help you. You need to go somewhere that you can get a good rest.”

Alice takes a quivering breath.

“It just… seems so real,” she says.

“And that is why you should seriously consider seeking help,” I tell her. “The vision is becoming more and more real, and eventually it could take over your life. You could get stuck there, living your entire life hallucinating that you’re standing there watching people getting killed over and over again. You don’t want that.”

“No,” Alice sighs. “I don’t.” She blows her nose, yet again.

“I just don’t know anymore,” she says. “I know I should listen to you… You’re my best friend, and also an expert on these things… You’re probably right. Maybe I do just need some rest.”

Alice takes a long, deep breath.

“Okay,” she says. “What do I need to do?”

A smile creeps across my face. She is really going to get help for herself. Thank God.

“Grab yourself a phone book,” I say,” and find a place called River Ridge. That’s where most of my patients who were committed stayed. Then, just get in your car and drive over there, tell them you would like to check yourself in, and explain the situation. You’ll be just fine.”

After a moment of silence, Alice thanks me.

“I’m trusting you on this,” she says. “If you think it will help, then I’m sure it will. So, I should probably go get ready for that, huh?”

“Yes, Alice, and don’t forget to pack yourself a bag. You will need it. Pack some clothes, shampoo, soap, toothbrush… just pack like you’re on vacation.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for everything. I love you, Miri.”

“Love you, too,” I say through a mouth full of eggs.

“If I can, I’ll call you from there.”

“Alright,” I tell her. “And I’m sure Floyd and I will come visit you every night.”

“Good… I’d just… well… Bye, Miranda.”

“Bye,” I say, waiting to make sure she’s got nothing left to say.

As soon as I hear her hang up, I set my phone down on the table, where the still lit screen advertises three new messages.

I pick it back up and wade through “Sorry.”
“Miranda?”

“Are you there?”

No, I’m not. Miranda’s not here. Miranda should be in bed, sleeping. Your stupid a*s woke her up, now she’s pissed.

She doesn’t want to talk to you.

Get. Over. It.

I take the dirty plate to the kitchen and set it in the sink. Turning off my phone, I snuggle up on the couch with a nice, warm blanket, and turn on the TV, hoping that, like always, it will lull me to sleep.