Who knew? The school’s game-winning kicker is apparently a low-key theater-nerd aficionado.
“Very good.” She beams. “And why sin?”
“Because Dante was obsessed with moral redemption.” Tony smiles wider, reveling in the attention ofthe professor. “The entire poem is about the soul’s journey toward God.”
“Precisely!” Professor Guppy punctuates the moment with an emphatic finger in the air, like a human exclamation point. “Each of the nine circles of Hell also represent a specific sin. We’ll unpack those later this week.”
From there, she pivots to the parallels betweenThe Divine Comedyand Greek mythology, noting how mythological references were part of the cultural fabric in Dante’s time, like how pop culture references are today. That’s why he encounters so many familiar mythical figures, like Charon, the ferryman who delivers souls across the River Acheron, and Cerberus, the three-headed hound that guards the gates of the Underworld.
She moves briskly, highlighting a few other terrifying creatures: the Furies, winged goddesses who exact vengeance on the guilty, and Geryon, a dragon-like monster with a man’s face and a scorpion’s tail.
At some point in the middle of her monologue, my thoughts drift, uninvited, to my father.
Of course I know he’s not really trapped in some imaginary underworld realm like the one Professor Guppy’s rambling about fromThe Divine Comedy. But then… where is he? Where has he been the last sixteen—almost seventeen—years?
Did he stay in California? Disappear into another state? Another country?
Wherever he is, I hope he stays there.
After what he did to my mother, he forfeited any right to everwalk back into our lives. His absence didn’t just leave a hole. It hollowed something out in her, carved a wound so deep she’s still trying to cauterize it.
After class ends, I drift through Vocal Performance and then lunch, counting the minutes until French—until Hayes.
But when I get to the lecture hall, his seat is empty.
I text him—once, twice, three times.
Nothing.
Just like yesterday.
I don’t understand. Even when he’s buried in football and school, Hayes always responds to my texts. It’s not just the missed class or bailing on coffee this morning without any notice, either. Last night at his house, before I unleashed my family drama, something felt… off. Like something was eating at him, something he didn’t want to say. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I know Hayes.
Something is wrong.
And whatever it is, he’s not telling me, which worries me most of all.
Idon’t see Hayes much over the next few days.
First, he’s out with the flu. Then he’s buried in makeup assignments and extra practices for the upcoming LHU Homecoming game. We barely exchange more than a few quick words in French class.
Without my best friend around to anchor me, my thoughts spiral, my brain switching to full doomsday mode. I can’t stop obsessing over my mother’s delusions. Though I should be spending my evenings prepping for my NYU transfer—polishing my music résumé, recording audition clips, tightening my portfolio—instead, I find myself diving into the internet’s darkest corners, trawling through articles and academic journals on mental illness. Diagnoses. Case studies. Firsthand accounts. Trying to find an answer that makes sense.
From what I can piece together, it seems like my mom may have experienced a brief psychotic episode triggered by intense stress or trauma. A break from reality where the mind short-circuits under pressure. It can cause hallucinations and delusions, like thinking your long-lost ex is an immortal god from Greek mythology. If left untreated, the psychosis can progress into something more serious, like schizophrenia or other schizoaffective disorders.
Or worse.
The more I read, the more unsettled I become.
It makes sense that being abandoned with two small children and no support system would trigger a breakdown. I get that. But then other things don’t add up.
Most people with psychosis experience other symptoms too. Personality shifts. Social withdrawal. Sleep disturbances. As far as I can tell, my mother doesn’t have any of that. Sure, she’s whimsical and free-spirited—if not a little flighty—but she’s been that way forever.
And the timeline doesn’t track, either.
It’s not like there’s been a sudden behavioral shift, the way most psychotic breaks seem to happen. If my mother is to be believed, she’s been having these delusions about my father since before I was born. That’s seventeen years, at least.
Isn’t that too long?
