Dismantling Evan (32 page)

“I would never harm anyone,” I say shakily.

Dr. Larson keeps her eyes on me for a second too long, then looks down at her notepad and scribbles more notes. She stops and places her notepad behind her on her desk then folds her hands on her lap as she looks between the three of us, then rests on me. “Evan, no one ever wants to be told that they are mentally ill or have a mental disorder.”

Shit. Here it comes.

Dr. Larson continues. “It is a fact that you are suffering from the initial symptoms of bipolar disorder and since we met a few months ago, the symptoms have expanded some.”

I melt a little deeper into the leather chair.

The look of sympathy on her face is accentuated by the pity-filled shake of her head on my behalf. “You have been avoiding treatment by not taking your medication regularly. Medication that is necessary for your disorder, Evan.”

I think of Gavin and the multitude of disorders he has been affected by. I picture Mrs. Ferguson with a small, white Dixie cup in one hand and a palm full of brightly colored capsules in her other, standing before Gavin. All those pills were necessary for Gavin too, but the Fergusons’ circumstances have stripped necessity down to its bare bones.

I look down at my hands. I am absently picking at a dry piece of skin on my thumb as Dr. Larson continues to speak. “Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, I tend to be on the mild side when determining medication for bipolar symptoms. However, with Evan’s lack of participation in taking her medication properly and the fact that the insomnia and auditory hallucinations are more prominent and are effecting her life and those around her, by law I have to notify you of in-patient facilities in the area that can assist your family.”

In-patient facility?
I look from her to Mom and Dad. Dad’s eyes widen and Mom’s eyes drop to her lap as tears begin their descent down her cheeks.

“You have failed Evan,”
the voice in my head says.

“No, I will take the medication. I don’t need to be put in a psych ward.”

I won’t deny that I am scared out of my mind both from her “by law” crap and by Mom and Dad’s visible reaction to Dr. Larson.

“Evan, we can’t trust that you will take the medication,” Mom whimpers and wipes her eyes with a tissue. “I’m so sorry Evan. I’m sorry that you have this illness,” she says, her soft cry silencing her again.

Dad leans over and pulls Mom to him, resting his lips on the top of her head.

No! This isn’t happening! They can’t give up on me like this and put me in some hospital!

“There are many ways this can work...” Dr. Larson starts explaining to Mom and Dad, no longer looking at me. The way she sits, facing Mom and Dad, her eyes fixed on them, eliminates me from this equation.

I try to gain some say. “No, I don’t need to go to a facility!”

Mom blows her nose and Dad’s trembling voice carries over the sound. “How can we not, Evan? You aren’t taking care of yourself. You told us you would, and you didn’t! You lied to us and now look at you! You aren’t sleeping, you are blowing up at school, your grades Evan...you are letting yourself slip and you can’t even see it!”

He’s right. I hadn’t been seeing it. I was only seeing everyone and everything else around me: Gavin, Lia, Brody, Nikki, Asher.

“You are right, but I see it now. I do!”

“How do we know you aren’t just saying that, Evan? You have done this before!” Mom weeps, wiping her mascara smudged eyes.

I shake my head, mostly at myself and how I have avoided and ignored seeing myself for what I am. “You are right. You can’t believe me. I haven’t given you any reason to believe me because I have neglected myself.”

Weighted tears swell behind my eyelids and my voice is tight with emotion, it sounds like a whisper when I speak. “I’m sorry is all I can say. I don’t expect you to trust me, but if there is a way to earn it, I am willing to do it.” I blink and the trickle of hot tears land on my cheeks. “But I don’t belong in a facility. Please.”

Dr. Larson speaks up, “I strongly believe in second chances, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. I’m not sure how you feel about this, but Evan is a very strong young woman and to be honest, I haven’t seen her as candid as she is now.”

Dad nods and stares at Mom, tenderly. “Her mother and I both believe in second chances as well.”

Mom glances at Dad then me. “Evan, last night you asked about my secret...”

I breathe in deeply, feeling the pressure of guilt as I remember how I yelled at her.

“When I was in high school, I started having problems with classmates. Kind of like you,” Mom says, her voice quaking. “Things haven’t changed much when it comes to those problems...those people, I guess,” she says and wipes her nose with a tissue.

“Depression wasn’t diagnosed for kids in my day, Evan. My family, they felt that I needed to keep my feelings to myself. That is the way everyone thought back then. Five years ago, during a rough patch between Dad and I, I went to a psychiatrist and he diagnosed with bipolar II,” Mom chokes out.

She wipes her chin where the tears have pooled, and clears her throat. “I told your father a year ago and after all these years of ups and downs with me, your father didn’t bat an eye when I asked him to forgive me for keeping it from him.”

I can’t believe what I am hearing. I can’t believe what she is saying.

“The story your grandmother started to tell at the dinner table that night. How I worried her so much... It started in high school and carried through college. Some days I was happier than others. That is what kept me from believing that something in me could be unstable.”

Dr. Larson hands Mom a few more tissues. “Your mother told me about her diagnosis when we met at your first appointment.”

I shake my head, feeling sorry for my mom at first. Then, it quickly turns to a pain. The kind of pain you get in your chest when someone has knowingly watched you downward spiral from afar. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“The same reasons you have... you don’t want it to be real.”

“Why would you let me go through this?”

“But, it is and you need to face it sweetheart,” she says over me.

Her telling me to face it is bullshit!
“Alone? You could have faced it with me, Mom!”

I look through each of them now, yes, through them, at what they have kept from me, withheld while watching me struggle for so long. I can’t forgive that right now. Right now, they aren’t human to me. They don’t deserve humanity.

“You won’t have to do it alone, Evan. We will do this with you,” Dad says as he wipes his own teary eyes with the back of his hand.

“You have made me do this alone! I have been going through shit for years and you had some kind of fucking insight?”

All three of them look at each other, seemingly shocked by my reaction. It seems ridiculous to me. The revelation that this “condition” runs in the family. Dr. Larson hasn’t said so. She said she was trying to treat bipolar symptoms. She hasn’t determined a diagnosis yet. She hasn’t determined the possibility, the plausibility, without a shadow of a doubt. A doubt that I will continue to hold onto until she has undeniable proof. I glare at each of them, then rest my eyes on Dr. Larson.

“Are you diagnosing me with bipolar or not?”

“I feel it is too soon. I need more time with you.”

Time? Time to see what my condition does. Time to study me, medicate me, find the right dosages, the right medication for my symptoms. Time to buy more time.

The air in the car on the way home is heavy. Dr. Larson’s recommendation is to raise my antidepressant by another ten milligrams; she wanted to prescribe something that I had feared from the very beginning of this journey into my flawed psyche - Lithium Carbonate. Yep, the metal that would be put into my body in small doses to level the chemicals in my brain.

Mom was quick to react saying that we should have a trial period with just the antidepressant now that I will be taking them regularly. Dr. Larson agreed to it for a two month period to give her time to see how the antidepressant works.

I look at the back of Mom’s head and imagine how she might have felt just like me, reacted just like me when she found out her diagnosis. Did she fight it? Did she fight Grandma and Grandpa? Were they upset that their daughter had a disorder? Something they couldn’t control. Did Mom’s symptoms show up like mine, or were they different? How were they different?
How were we different?

Keeping my eyes frozen on her brown wavy hair, I continue to remind myself that I hate her as an assault of sympathies for both of us rush around in my head.

I look out the window at the overcast sky. I touch the glass and sense the cold bite of it on my fingertips. As we drive on the highway I think on how Mom has reacted to me over the past year, her knowing that I had very well inherited this disorder from her. I mean, there is always a genetic possibility. The chance of me inheriting this flaw was there from the beginning. It will be if I have children too.

“Mom.”

She angles her head in my direction, surprised that I am speaking to her. “Yes.”

I can hate her and love her; that is what daughters do, right? “I love you.”

She lowers her head, still angled toward me, then turns to face the windshield again. “I love you too.”

I can hear the self-blame in her “I love you too” and that is enough for me right now.

We are sitting at the kitchen table eating Mom’s left over beef stew from the night before when the doorbell rings. It is a double ring which sounds odd. Dad scoots his chair back and crosses the living room to answer the door.

“Hi. Brody Ferguson, right? We met at the BBQ thing.” Dad’s voice has me up on my feet and by his side immediately.

“Yes sir. Nice to meet you. I mean nice to see you again,” Brody says as he shakes Dad’s hand.

I totally forgot about them coming over to work in the darkroom with me. I feel Mom walk up behind me. “Who is that behind you there Brody?” Mom asks, pleasantly.

I notice Gavin’s army cap poking out from around Brody’s arm and look at Mom, judging her reaction. She doesn’t have the snide and cocky face she had yesterday when she spoke about my friends. Quite a bit has changed since yesterday. It makes me happy that Mom is trying to get to know them even in the smallest way.

“Hi Mrs. Phillips,” Brody says to Mom and shifts, bringing Gavin into sight. “It’s Gavin, my brother.”

Gavin’s head is hung low and he is swaying from side to side. Brody probes him for an answer. “Say hi, Gav.”

“Hi,” squeaks Gavin.

He glances up at Mom then Dad before darting his eyes back to the ground. I feel bad for him being so nervous, so I step out on the porch with them both. “Uh, I kind of promised Brody and Gavin I would show them the darkroom. Gavin is interested in photography. I totally forgot about it with the appointment and all this morning.”

The reason for the visit clicks for Mom and Dad simultaneously. “Oh.”

Mom smiles and adds, “Well, that is fantastic.”

She leans against the door and reminisces, “I remember when I first started taking pictures... so long ago. It was with the camera Evan uses actually.”

A little anxious as Mom makes small talk, I try and speed up the process, “Um, yeah, I need to run up to my room and grab my camera.” I look over at Brody. “I’ll meet you out back?”

“Don’t be silly. You two boys come in here... no sense in you waiting out back in the cold if you can avoid it,” Dad says.

“Yes, that is just silly. Come in,” Mom adds.

Ugh!

Well, I can’t get too upset. At least they are making an attempt to get to know them. I did say that they didn’t know anything about them during the heat of the argument yesterday.

“If you get too cold out there, just come in and you all can have some stew,” Mom comments as I walk past her and head toward the stairs.

Brody and Gavin are standing in the living room as Dad flicks on the television.

“Either of you watch football,” he asks.

I stop and glance at Brody to see how he reacts. He smiles and looks down, awkwardly. “Yes, sir. I used to play.”

Dad nods and smiles. “Really, for Braxton Springs?”

“Yes sir,” Brody replies.

I don’t like the direction this is heading. It’s only going to lead to questions that could upset both him and Gavin. I take each step on the staircase quickly, push open my door, grab my camera bag, then take the downward descent of the stairs like a gazelle just as Dad adds, “That is very responsible of you Brody.”

Shit, what did I miss? What did Brody say? What did my dad say?
I glance at Mom; she has this sad look on her face all of a sudden.

Before anything else can be said, I interrupt. “K, got it. Let’s go.”

Mom meets my gaze. “Okay, it is cold out there though. Don’t be too long,” she says in a concerned tone. Her sudden shift makes me wonder whether I will have to take back the wish that Mom might be able to accept Brody and Gavin and all the baggage that comes with them.

Shutting the door and catching up to Gavin and me walking briskly to the shed, Brody asks, “Are you all right? You seem upset.”