The Opposite of Music (8 page)

Mom stays up late cramming information from her library books and articles. She reads paragraphs aloud, as if putting words in the air will pollinate Dad with a cure.

Like most Americans, she says, she has always known the basics about proper nutrition without bothering to follow them. But now, like the cop or soldier in the movies whose buddy is killed, she announces, “This time, it's personal.” She memorizes the foods and supplements that provide B vitamins 1 (thiamine), 2 (riboflavin), 3 (niacin), 6 (pyridoxine), and 12 (cyanocobalamin), as well as folic acid, inositol, vitamins C and E; crucial minerals such as calcium, chromium, magnesium, selenium, iron, iodine, and zinc; and the amino acids gamma-aminobutyric acid (GABA), S-adenosyl L-methionine (SAMe), serotonin, melatonin, L-tryptophan, 5-hydroxytryptophan (5-HTP), DL-phenylalanine (DLPA), trimethylglycine (TMG), omega-3 fatty acids, and tyrosine.

These substances, Mom learns, improve brain function, restoring the moistness and flexibility of certain membranes and helping brain cells to manufacture the chemicals they need to keep the neurotransmitters signaling. But so many expert opinions, she tells us, are difficult to sort out. One book says that serotonin and melatonin are chemicals that the brain will produce after a body consumes the right combination of foods. In another book, melatonin and seratonin are capsules you can buy in the health food store. If both are true, where did the chemicals for the capsules come from? Mom shudders. Maybe she's getting morbid because it's so late (Dad is already in bed and listening to a talk show on the radio), but as I pass by her chair, she tells me her thoughts are taking a ghoulish turn. You hear about gravediggers and organ thieves. Is someone stealing brains and selling the chemicals from them?

The experts in Mom's books agree that someone with Dad's symptoms should avoid coffee and cola, alcohol, sugar, and dairy products. But a major source of two crucial substances, calcium (helps to maintain a healthy central nervous system) and tyrosine (stimulates the brain's production of norepinephrine), is cheese. Mom wonders aloud if she should give him cheese or not. Should she look for a special, nondairy cheese? Kosher cheese? And where would she find extract of
Griffonia simplicifolia
, an African plant (and source of 5-hydroxytryptophan)?

And, Mom wants to know, what about Evgenia Sutter's habit of saying “widely celebrated in Europe,” “available inexpensively in Europe,” and “exhaustively tested throughout Europe”? Have these chemicals been tested in America? Are they known by the same names here? Do they maybe have a “street name”?

Mom tells me she fell asleep earlier this evening and had a nightmare that she was arrested for trying to procure
Griffonia simplicifolia
in a back alley. She describes the dream: A bus ride back to New York, the city she thought she had left for good. Returning just once more, for Dad's sake. Walking late at night from playground to decrepit coffee shop to back alley. Looking over her shoulder whenever she hears a sound. She can't find the right address, the city makes no sense. The layout of the city resembles Granada, Spain. Has New York really changed so much since she left? When she finds the place where the deal will go down, it's an alley behind a deserted high-rise. A gaunt, shivering figure approaches and asks for the password.

“Ignorance.”

“No.”

“Impotence.”

“No.”

“Hegemony?”

“No.”

“Fluoridization?”

“Okay.”

“How much?” she asks.

“Two thousand,” he says. “Cash.” Mom has only twelve dollars. In the dream, she forgets that she can go to an ATM. She finds a knife in her pocket, Grandpa Eddie's old fishing knife. The knife flashes under the streetlight, and a siren begins to wail.

Hours later Mom's reading lamp is still on.

“Mom, go to bed. It's the middle of the night. You're asleep again.”

“I never meant to cause any harm,” she says out loud.

“It all seemed so simple,” she says.

“Mom, you need to stop reading.”

I shake her awake. The tip of her index finger is white where she has used it as a bookmark.

The four of us are playing Monopoly in the dining room when Uncle Marty struggles into the house with his arms around a box, walking it in on top of one shoe.

“Good grief,” says Mom. Mom, Linda, and Dad crowd around him while I stabilize the game. Mom was winning.

“You thought Christmas was over,” he tells the family, “but it's not. A late Christmas gift for the lord of the manor—my big brother, Bill.”

Even Dad is impressed. When Marty lays the mammoth gift in the center of the living room, Dad crouches over it to peel away the Christmas paper. Large block letters on the side of the box say
VITA-LITE
.

“I can't get the flaps open,” Dad says over his shoulder.

“I've got it, bro, no problem.” Marty borrows my pocket knife and pries off the heavy-duty staples.

Dad removes several sheets of crumpled newsprint and slides out the light box. It's about the size and depth of a small kitchen table. Marty pulls out the rear leg to stand it upright.

“Thank you, Marty,” Dad says.

“Don't thank me yet. Wait till you see this.”

Marty crawls under the Christmas tree, reaches for the outlet, and unplugs the holiday lights.

“Oh, no!” Mom complains.

“Mom,” Linda says, “it's January eighteenth. It had to happen sooner or later.”

“But it was so cheerful.” She drops into a seat in the conversation area.

“Sorry, Adele,” Marty says. “But this thing uses a good flow of juice. I wouldn't want you to short anything out.”

Half the lights in the house pulse, then flicker. The part of the living room where Dad is gets flooded with white light, like a prison courtyard during an attempted break.

“Aack,” Linda says, lifting an arm to shield her face.

“I think it's too strong,” Mom agrees.

“But this could be just the thing for Bill,” Marty argues. “Don't close your eyes, bro—open them. You have to have them open so it can act on your retinas.”

“It's going to blind him.”

“No, it has to be strong in order to work. Look at him—I think he looks better already!”

“That's because he's getting a tan,” says Linda.

“Such a costly gift, Marty,” Mom says. “You must have spent several hundred dollars.” Normally Dad would have said something like this too. He was always warning Marty that his credit card balances were too high.

“It's just a way of saying thank you, Bill, for all the support you've given me this year, with everything I've gone through. I can honestly say that this has been the worst year of my life. Without you to talk to, I don't think I would have made it.” He presses one eye with the back of his knuckles.

Then he takes Dad by the elbow. “Sit down, bro, and I'll tell you more about how it works. This unit runs at twenty thousand lux—that's up to forty times the brightness of normal indoor light!”

“What good does that do?” Linda asks.

“You just sit in front of the light each morning—”

“For how long?” Mom asks.

“Up to about an hour—and the light travels up your optic nerve and basically tricks your brain into thinking it's summer. The light tinkers with the chemicals in your brain, and you, you know, just stop being depressed. Everyone is happier in the summer and sadder in the winter. Haven't you ever felt that way? Doesn't it make sense?”

“The theory sounds plausible,” Mom says. “But the execution is so
extreme
.”

“It only seems that way, Adele. You find yourself getting used to it. Come on, bro, we'll sit in front of it together and test it out. You don't have to look right into it, you just glance at it from time to time. The instructions say you can read if you want to, or knit. Come on, buddy.”

“Dad knits?” Linda asks.

“It's so big—,” Marty begins.

“I hadn't noticed,” Mom says.

“It's so big that I suggest you decide on a permanent spot for it,” Marty continues. “So it won't be in the way.”

“Why don't you put it against the north wall there,” I tell him, referring to the divider between the living room and the kitchen. “That way Dad can get light from this in the early morning, and then natural sunlight from the picture window in the afternoon.”

“Marty,” says Mom, “all kidding aside, I just have to question whether this is really safe.”

Marty drops into the loveseat opposite Mom. “I thought you'd all be pleased, Adele. This technique is medically approved. By the American Medical Association and the National Institutes of Mental Health.”

“And the electrical utilities, no doubt,” Mom says. “I'm sorry, Marty. I shouldn't joke. I do appreciate that you're only trying to help.”

At last I join the family in the living room. “Well, I think it makes a lot of sense,” I say, as if I just decided.

“Good boy,” Marty says, and winks at me.

The others have no idea that this was all my suggestion. I read about it, I researched it on the Internet before Christmas, and I got Marty to pay $729 for it. Soon, I know, Dad will be well, and the expense will have been worth it.

“It's so
bright
, though, Billy,” Mom says. “Just look at it. I'd be afraid of it burning a hole in my retina or something. Marty, isn't it dangerous to look directly into the sun?”

“Mom, this isn't anything like the sun. The sun is—I don't know—probably a million lux, probably. A lot more than this, anyway. And remember: It's only for a few weeks.”

“Well,” Mom says, “I speak on behalf of my husband when I say that it's very impressive, dangerous or not.” Mom all at once looks younger—but just a couple of months younger, like the way she looked when we started going to Fritz.

“Why don't we try an experiment?” Marty suggests. “Everyone, make note of your mood right now. Then we'll try it for ten minutes and see if anyone feels better.”

“Okay,” Linda says, “name your mood. Amused. Next?”

“I didn't mean name your mood like name that tune, hon. I just meant make a mental note of it to yourself.”

Mom, Dad, and Marty line up on the couch facing the north wall, while Linda and I sit on the floor in front of them.

Actually, once I experience the light I almost think Mom has a point. Its intensity is hard to get used to, like it might burn away even the memory of color. But Dad seems calm. So we keep doing it.

The books contain so many valuable suggestions that it's hard to know what to choose. But after deliberating, I choose three areas: affirmations, occupational rehabilitation, and light therapy. Mom feels that diet and exercise are surefire winners. Linda wants to work on aromatherapy.

So Mom presents a plan for the three of us, the treatment team. Already, Linda has begun wafting Kleenexes saturated with lemon oil under Dad's nose. Every time she does this, his eyebrows shoot up. The lemon oil has a piercingly clean smell, like furniture cleaner or dishwashing liquid. Mom has determined a nutritional baseline for Dad. Each day he will eat a bowl of hot bran cereal, an ounce of aged natural cheese, a slice of health bread with natural peanut butter, a serving of seafood, a cooked salad of kale and onions, a mound of navy beans sprinkled with brewer's yeast, and twenty pomegranate seeds. The Curtises call these the Seven Brain Foods. Mom likes the idea of brain foods, because in addition to making Dad less happy and less confident, the depression has also made him less smart.

As for the remaining approaches, first thing in the morning Dad will be expected to switch on his light box and sit in front of it while Mom reads him the most uplifting highlights from the morning newspaper. When I take over after school, I'll work with Dad for fifteen minutes on repeating powerful phrases: “I am well.” “I am happy.” “The universe is moving toward perfection.” Afterward, we'll spend an hour or two on cards, board games, and educational television—as long as Dad can stay still. No junk TV, like reality shows or cop shows—only things that are soothing and that elevate the mind. After Mom gets home and we have dinner, Mom will lead him through a program of calisthenics demanding enough to tire him out but not so stimulating that they would wake him up at night. I'll keep periodic records showing changes in sleep, appetite, concentration, and mood.

“I call that a plan,” Linda says.

“Okay, but…”

“You have an objection?” Mom asks.

Although I hate to be a wellness wet blanket, I have to ask how, if we try so many different treatments at once, we will be able to tell which ones are working.

“What about the whole idea of the scientific method? Controls and variables. You maintain the same conditions for a set period of time and change just one factor.”

“You don't have to tell me about the scientific method,” Mom says. She seems miffed that I haven't swooned over her program.

“Well, what if one of these treatments works and the others don't? How will we know to keep doing the right thing? Or what if one of them causes him to backslide, and they cancel each other out?”

“Well.” Mom places her glasses on top of her head. “I appreciate what you're saying, Billy, but I think, given the fact that your father has already been ill for a couple of months, we should try everything we can in order to save time, even if that means employing many treatments at once and not developing the kind of complete data set you think would be so edifying.”

“I totally agree with Mom,” Linda adds. “You're going off on a tangent as usual. Don't you even care whether Dad gets back to normal?”

“Of course I do. Don't you care about anything other than agreeing with Mom? Mom, say Dad suddenly starts to get better—”

“Then he gets better, right? And that's what we want. End of story.”