* * *
Ludo
I’m beginning to hate Dr Farsi. When she screws with my normal, it’s hard to remember the times when she’s been the only constant in my life. That she’s agooddoctor, and it’s me, as always, messing things up.
“I don’t want to take more lithium. It fucks me up.”
Dr Farsi slow blinks like she always does when I so very rarely swear at her, as though my colourful language is a validation for whatever she’s itching to tell me about how I should feel. “Ludo,” she says after years of addressing me with my whole name. “The dosage you’re on may not be high enough, given the episodes you’ve had in the last week.”
“Anxiety isn’t bipolar. You’ve told me that a hundred times.”
“Yes, but one can exacerbate the other. Controlling your bipolar effectively will make the rest of your life easier.”
I scowl. “Not if it makes me a zombie. I’d rather feel everything than nothing.”
It’s a conversation that goes round in circles. Eventually I agree to the higher dose just to get rid of her, reasoning with my anxious self that I can cut the tablets in half. Or ditch them—
No. You don’t do that anymore, remember?
Of course I remember. Mania and meds mess with my short-term memory, but I never forget nightmares. Can’t, because they’re real, and so when the little paper cups come around, I swallow the new pill.
Numbness creeps through me far quicker than it should. It’s psychosomatic and I know it, but knowing something and believing it isn’t the same thing. I picture the numbness as the army of ants I see every day, marching en masse to ambush my mood. I let them for a little while, but agitation overwhelms me. I have to move, even if I only get as far as the next bed before a nurse tells me to return to my own.
Luck is rarely on my side, but today the nurse doling out the drugs pays me no heed as I ghost past her. I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth while I stare at myself in the mirror, even though I know it will do me no good.
My skin is too pale. My English father robbed me of the chance to have my cousin’s Mediterranean complexion. I lack Angelo’s poise too. Always have. Where he was a beautiful child, all big brown eyes and grace, I was gangly and awkward, and now, though I’ve grown into my limbs, I’m sullen to those who don’t know me and inexplicable to those who do.
Aidan falls somewhere in the middle.
It wasn’t my intention to visit him again today. Some days I can’t help myself. Others I fight to remember what happens when my brain becomes obsessed. When it can’t let go of things that aren’t mine. On those days, I visit him once and try not to imagine trailing my fingertip along his strong forearm like I did one time. I try not to imagine anything at all, to live in the moment and enjoy the bubble I’ve built around the short time I get to spend with him. Aidan isn’t much of a conversationalist, but that’s okay. Even his silence soothes me in ways I can’t explain.
I’m close to his bed before I know it, but for the first time ever, he’s not alone. A grave-faced doctor is sitting inmychair, and my heart turns over. Sometimes, when I force myself not to stare at Aidan too much, I forget he’s hurt. The gash on his head has healed to an angry line, and a series of plain T-shirts now cover the bruises and scrapes from his fall. He’s taken to hiding his leg under a blanket, as if he doesn’t want to look at it, and I’m so hypnotised by the rest of him that I forget it’s there.
Maybe my bad memory is convenient. Selective. Protective. I’ve given up any attempt to make sense of it. But there’s one thing I know for sure—a doctor who frowns like that is bad news.
The doctor doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere, so I go searching for a TV instead. I find one on the far side of the ward, and the return trip puts me in sight of Aidan’s bed again. He’s alone now, and it’s too easy to push the TV close enough to him that he glances up and spots me.
His lips twist into the closest he’s ever come to an actual smile, though his eyes are tight with stress. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“Ever?”
“No. Today. Thought you might want some time to yourself after seeing your shrink.”
Shrink. I’ve always hated that word. My twisted imagination has been known to convince me that it’s what they’re trying to do—to legitshrinkmy brain—and I cringe every time I hear it. But I don’t cringe now. Aidan speaks simply. Perhaps it’s time to listen simply too.
I focus on his actual words. “Nah. Shrink time is think time. I’ve had enough of that for one day.”
“That bad?”
I wheel the TV closer, pushing it with my good arm so it trundles along like the ancient TV trolleys I remember from primary school, the ones with a VHS consoles no one could work. “It wasn’t my favourite.”
Aidan accepts my answer with a grunt and eyes the TV. “How did you get that? Do you have to pay for it?”
He’s been here ten days... I think. How can he not know about the TV trolleys? I scan his bay for books and magazines or a set of weathered headphones like mine. But I find nothing and can’t help but speculate what he’s been doing all this time. Whenever I creep up on him, he’s either asleep or staring at the ceiling. Is that seriouslyallhe’s been doing?
Damn. He’ll be as batshit as me in no time.
I position the TV at the end of his bed and pull the curtain around it to let any pilferers know it’s taken. “They’re free,” I say. “You just have to know where to nab them from.”
