A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(47)
“Fuck you, Mel!” she yells down at me. “Fuck you, too!”
I’m going to throw up. I scramble past Holly—my heel lands hard on her toes and she cries out—and push past Declan and run down the hall.
In my room, door closed, puking bile and bits of toast into the trash can, I’m convulsing way more than my body needs just to empty my stomach.
During the heaving and sobbing, the yelling stops and the front door slams. Holly and Declan talk through my door, asking if I’m okay and to let them in until I shout “Go away!” enough times that they finally leave.
HAMSTER IS SPRINTING
HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED
HAMMERHEAD IS THRASHING***
HANNIGANIMAL IS CRASHING/MIXED
Mom tries not to stare at me in Dr. Oswald’s waiting room but she hasn’t turned the page in her magazine for six and a half minutes judging by the analog clock over her shoulder but I’m not fooled because she never reads architecture magazines at home—it’s just something to hold while we sit here trapped in silence since Dr. Oswald doesn’t play any music out here though that’s a small mercy if you ask me because there’s nothing worse than psychiatrists I’ve had who play music in their waiting rooms that were really depressing ballads even if they use the karaoke versions without the lyrics because you still know the songs and usually the music is sad all by itself or just as bad they play happy tunes that don’t match your mood and it makes you want to stand up and rip the damn speakers off the wall—
The door opens and Dr. Oswald says, “Oh, hello, Ms. Hannigan.”
“Hello, Dr. Oswald. Mel’s been having a bad couple of days. She’s on spring break this week and she’s been in bed. She didn’t have the energy to bike over here—”
“I have energy only it’s just on the inside which is really a better place for it since when I let it out I just start crying and can’t stop and after a while it hurts even to breathe—”
“Her period started on Saturday and it seems unusually bad—”
“I’m right here you know and I can talk about my own bodily functions—”
“She went out drinking with friends Saturday night and spent Sunday vomiting—we’ve had a talk about that—so alcohol might be part of this.”
Dr. Oswald says to me, “Did you throw up your medication yesterday?”
“Oh!” Mom says.
“I don’t remember much of anything yesterday but I know I’ve only skipped one day and that was today so I must have taken them Sunday but probably before I threw up—”
“Wait,” Mom says. “You didn’t take your meds this morning?”
“I turned my alarm off yesterday and forgot so it didn’t go off today and I slept in really late and then I didn’t think about it till afternoon and by then it was too late even though I know I’m supposed to take them anyway if it’s more than twelve hours till my next dose but I’ve been doing okay lately so I didn’t want to double up—”
“Mel, you haven’t been doing okay!” Mom turns to Dr. Oswald. “She’s been hiding in bed, crying off and on, ever since I got home from shopping yesterday.”
“I’ve just been stressed out and sad and anxious but for normal reasons with stuff that’s going on with my friends and at school and work and not my screwed-up brain making up stuff that’s not real—”
“Mel? Mel?” Dr. Oswald is saying my name over and over again like a parrot.
“What?”
“Two days without meds isn’t the end of the world, but you need to get back on. It’s also possibly contributing to your nausea and dizziness. I see you’re having tremors, too.”
I hold up a hand and it’s shaking and I let it fall again.
“You should definitely take your meds as soon as you get home. We need to get you back on schedule. Let me check my notes, but I think you should take some lorazepam now. I have a bottle in my desk.”
She glances at Mom and they both nod so I nod too so we’re all nodding.
“But can’t we talk out here because I’m really worn out and don’t want to move at all and I didn’t even want to come since I’m so tired and we could just talk next week but Mom wanted me to get out of the house like I don’t get enough vitamin D or something—”
“Come on, Mel,” Mom says and pulls me up out of the chair and walks me into the office while wiping my nose and face with some tissue.
Mom sits me on the sofa and I lie down and slide a throw pillow under my head but then she pulls me back up while Dr. Oswald hands me a couple of tablets and a coffee mug filled with water or just filled halfway actually and I think it should be funny because of how I only fill up cups halfway at work so residents won’t spill so it’s like I’m one of Dr. Oswald’s residents but it’s not funny because it just isn’t and I can’t really imagine anything being funny now when all I want to do is lie down again so I do.
Dr. Oswald walks Mom to the door and closes it and then walks back to her chair—
“Mel? There’s a tissue box by your head on the end table.”
I feel more tears on my face and think it’s weird she saw them before I felt them but I don’t want to reach for the tissue box so I just wipe my face and nose on my sleeve and sniffle—