No Love Allowed(9)

Why, oh why, of all days had her mother been home? Then she realized that she had left work early. Her shift at the country club wasn’t supposed to end for another couple of hours.

As if not believing Didi’s explanation, her mother sighed and began rubbing her forehead. “I think you really need to see a therapist. The meds aren’t enough.”

“No!” Didi caught her mother’s wrists in her hands. Those muddy brown irises that used to be so bright stared back at her. “Mom, you know we can’t afford weekly therapy sessions. I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not fine.” She shook her head, eyes flooding. “You jumped off a cliff.”

“I just needed to cool off. I accidentally dumped two glasses of water on this rich girl at the club and she started screaming at me. I lost my temper. . . .”

“And lost your job,” her mom finished, shoulders slumping.

“Yeah.” Didi dropped her arms, letting her hands slap against her thighs. “It was stupid. I was being stupid. I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to see all this.”

“D . . .” It came out as a long breath, then a pause. She knew what usually came with the utterance of the first letter of her name. All she had to do was wait. It didn’t take long. “You really need to consider attending group sessions. I found one that meets once a week at the community center. Those are free. Please. . . .”

What would group sessions do for her? It was bad enough that she had to go through life without a map, sometimes feeling out of control—like today. She didn’t need to share in the misery of others. The meds were enough.

“Mom”—she looked into her mother’s eyes without blinking—“I made a mistake. I sacrificed taking my meds so I wouldn’t be late and lost my job anyway. You have to trust that I won’t make that mistake again.”

The same stubbornness Didi possessed straightened her mom to her full height. “We’re not done talking about this.”

Didi rolled her eyes. “Of course not.” She unhooked her mother’s purse from the coatrack and slung it over the other woman’s shoulder. “If you don’t get going, you’ll be late. We can’t have you fired too.”

“Didi,” she grumbled. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine?” She waited with bated breath for the response in the game they played after each episode.

It seemed like ages, but finally her mother said with a sad grin, “As many times as it takes.” Then she kissed Didi’s forehead. “Take your meds.”

“Get going.”

“And laundry.”

Didi opened the door. “Will do a load as soon as I take my meds.”

“Dinner—”

“Mom,” she said in exasperation, practically pushing the woman out of the house. “Go. I got this.”

“I’ll check on you later,” her mom called back as she hurried down their walkway, passing an overgrown lawn and the car that didn’t have gas in the tank. Again.

Mow the lawn. Didi added it to her list as she watched her mother walk toward the bus stop that would take her downtown. Then she closed the door and twisted the lock. The dead bolt sliding into place seemed so loud in the now empty house. She hated that she worried her mother. But what could she do?

Taking a deep breath, she picked up her socks and shuffled to the kitchen. On the table she saw the first note: Honey, paid the power bill. Love, Mom. She smiled. Obviously, since the lights were on. At least it was one less thing she had to think about, especially since she had no job to help with the expenses. She turned toward the fridge and found the next note: D, made lasagna. The third note was stuck to the micro wave: Already precut the lasagna. Place one of the plates in for a minute. On top of the micro wave was a plastic cover with yet another note: Make sure to cover the plate or the sauce will splatter. Remember, just sixty seconds.

Didi shook her head when her eyes landed on the most important note of them all: Don’t forget to take your meds. It was stuck to the plastic organizer. Mothering from afar, that was what her mother called it. No use delaying the inevitable. She filled a glass from the tap, then opened the PM portion and took out the pills one at a time. Three hundred milligrams of lithium prevented the mania. Twenty milligrams of Prozac treated the depression. Fifty milligrams of trazodone helped her sleep. Klonopin was for her anxiety. And the propranolol was for the shakes. Each one vital. Each one she would take for the rest of her life.

Many viewed mental illness as a weakness. To her it was like being on a boat alone in the ocean, holding a kite string in one hand and an anchor chain in the other and finding the balance so she wouldn’t sink.

With each pill she swallowed, she felt some sort of normalcy return. Of course, the real effects of the drugs wouldn’t happen until she digested them, but the mere thought of taking them was enough to calm her down.

Breathing easier, she headed into the laundry room. Opening the washer, she dropped her dripping socks inside and began stripping. When she was in nothing but her underwear, she dumped the rest of the clothes from the basket she had left there the night before and scooped in detergent. With the last of her strength, she turned on the washer, then hobbled the final steps into her room. She fell into bed and dragged the comforter over herself. Painting Caleb could wait.