Whisper to Me(31)

Anyway.

You probably remember that whole conversation at your car differently, of course. I am quite sure you were confused and maybe even a little hurt by my flatness, I mean; in those days I could barely motivate the muscles of my mouth to smile. That’s the thing. Our versions of reality always differ, even when we’re supposedly sane.

But I thought you were cool, even right then at the start. I want you to know that.





I think it was maybe a week later that I saw Paris again. I hadn’t really seen you in that time. I mean, I’d passed you and Shane on the lawn a couple of times, drinking your beers, and I’d seen you drive past in your truck, sometimes laden with bags full of Elmos or Beanie Babies. We’d said hello and stuff. Had some epically awkward interactions in the laundry area—Dad and I used the same machines—some painful false starts.

“Oh, you wear T-shirts too!”

That kind of thing.

Awful.

Anyway, I was on my way out of the hospital from seeing Dr. Rezwari and Paris was standing there smoking by the revolving door. It was hot, and she was wearing a string vest. I mean like an old man’s mesh tank top; you could see everything.

“Hey, Fortune Teller,” she said.

“Hey,” I said.

She was leaning against the wall right by the door, in the cool blast from the air-conditioning inside; the air in town was muggy, full of rain that needed to fall. “Appointment?” she said.

“Yeah. You still here?”

“No. Outpatient too now.”

“Good,” I said. When they let you out it means they don’t think you’re in imminent danger of doing something stupid. “You got an appointment too?”

“Done. Now I’m waiting for a ride.” She examined me. “You look ******* terrible, BTW.”

“What?”

It really was a tic, see?

“Your skin, your eyes, everything. Diazepam? Valium?” She peered at my eyes. “No. Haldol. Wait, no, that’s kind of a big gun, you’d be drooling more. Risperidone. Yep. Risperidone. I’m right, yeah?”

I stammered. “Y-yes.”

“You feel like you’re wrapped in cotton?”

Fog was how I thought of it, but, yes, close enough. “Uh, yeah.”

“Me too. You have to stop that shit, seriously.”

I shook my head.

Paris flicked her cigarette; it exploded on the concrete, sparking. “Afraid of the voices?”

I nodded. Then I shook my head. “Just one voice.”

“Same thing. Anyway, I stopped it. You can too. ’Course, the docs go ape if they find out. But the docs think drugs are the answer to everything.”

“You … heard voices too?”

She made an equivocal motion of her head. “Kind of. Visual phenomena. Apparitions. Which would sometimes speak as well.”

“Like ghosts?”

“Like ghosts.”

“And you still see them?”

“There’s a woman standing behind you right now. Half her face is missing.”

I whipped around, heart jumping.

“Kidding,” she said. She gave a wicked smile. “But yeah, I still see shit.”

“I don’t want to hear my voice. It … It wasn’t nice.”

She waved a hand, dismissing this. “You have to learn to deal with it, is all,” she said. “Dr. Lewis can help with that.” Then she leaned closer. Suddenly she was conspiratorial, serious. “Here,” she said. She handed me a card. On it was printed:





NEW JERSEY VOICE SUPPORT GROUP


Under it was a number and an e-mail address.

“Thursdays, at the bowling alley on Elm,” she said. “There’s a room at the back. If I’m not there, tell them Paris sent you.”

I looked at the card. “Is it … safe?”

She laughed. “It’s not a cult. It’s run by a super-respected guy. Dr. Lewis. It’s just … they’re psychologists, mostly. The docs aren’t on the same page as them. Though there are a couple who are coming over to the light.” She paused. “Who are you seeing? Rezwari? Yeah, she’s not one of them.”

“And the people in this group … don’t believe in drugs?”

“They begin with the principle that the voices are real, and are created by trauma, and must be accommodated, not silenced.” It sounded like she was reciting something.

“My voice scares me,” I said. Admitting this out loud seemed major.

Paris glossed over it though. She waved a hand. “Thursdays, seven p.m. You don’t have to go. But give it a chance. Those drugs they’re giving you are just putting a lid on things. They’re not turning the heat down on the range.”

I glanced at the paper bag she was holding, which obviously contained prescription drugs.

“These are antidepressants,” she said. “Different ball game. Without these, my life isn’t worth living, seriously. I’m not, like, antipsychiatry. Just the way they deal with people like you.”

“Which is?”

“Tell you you’re schizophrenic, or whatever. They did that, right?”

I nodded. It was one of my three possible diagnoses.