Sweet Forty-Two(45)

“And it was several months before that.” She gave a firm nod, as if to signal the end of the discussion.

Only, it wasn’t. There was no end in sight to these discussions.

“Susan—”

She cut me off at the mention of her sister’s name. “I have a condo. I don’t need to stay with Susan, and I will not be staying with you. Also, I need to talk to you about a decision I’ve come to.”

Her words didn’t make me nervous, but Daniel taking a purposeful step toward me did. I looked at him for a few seconds, trying to determine the risk I was about to take simply by listening to her. His face was set like stone, though.

“Georgia,” my mother confidently brought my attention back to her, “I’ve decided to go forward with the ECT.”

“What?” I shouted, causing Daniel to take another step forward. My mother didn’t flinch. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Darling,” she put her hand on my leg, “that’s not a decision you get to make.”

I stood. “Oh, so now it’s not a decision I get to make, but you drilled into me for, like, five years that when it was my decision to make, it was to be a hard no every time? What the hell? What’s going on?”

I knew my ability to make medical decisions for my mother was only covered insofar as she was incapacitated. Once she left the confines of the hospital, she could do whatever she wanted. Including zapping the hell out of her brain.

“It’s my best chance against staying out of here for the long term. The medication and the talk therapy can only carry me so far, honey.”

“But, you—”

“I know what I’ve said in the past. Things have changed. I’m getting worse.”

“So you want to fry your brain to get better?” I stood, the vomit working its way up my insides, needing more room to settle, or else it was going to be all over my mom’s room.

She sighed. “Georgia, you know that’s not how the therapy works.”

“No, Mom, I don’t. You spent several years making damn sure that I knew the exact and horrific reasons you didn’t want that therapy. Now you’re asking me to forget it?”

“I’m asking you to think of the times where it works. This is the last solid option I’ve got. Come on, Alice, take a deep br—”

“Stop!” I cut her off with a garbled yell, prompting Daniel to put his hand on my back. “Don’t start with that bullshit now. You can’t calm me down by making me pretend, Mom. I’m not eight, and that was just a f*cking story.”

Of a lonely girl. With no prince.

My mother’s face fell; her lifetime tactic with me no longer effective. She looked at Daniel, then at me, then got up and walked to the window, saying no more.

“Please get my things.” I looked at Daniel’s shoes as I spoke. Once they moved toward the door, so did I.

“Georgia, I want to encourage you to stay. Don’t leave like this.” Daniel’s movements were slow as he gathered my bag from behind the nurses’ desk.

Tears welled in my eyes and threatened to burst at any moment. Now wasn’t the time for discussion. I sniffed as I snatched my bag from his hands.

“Sorry,” I sniffed again, tears fleeing the pressure of my head, “I can’t. It’s just ... I can’t.”

Once in my car, I let myself cry for exactly ten seconds before cranking the engine and getting the hell out of there. I’d been so tired when I got there, having lived off of three, or so, hours of sleep a night for the last several days. But, now I was drained and vibrating with angry energy all at once. Worst of all, it was three-thirty in the morning and there was nowhere for me to go, except home. To my empty apartment.

To fill the deafening silence of my car for the next twenty minutes, I picked up my cell phone. It was still drinking time on the East Coast.

“Hello? G? Everything okay?” CJ was in a bar, that much was clear based on his needing to shout over the noise around him just to hear himself. No matter that I could hear him just fine.

The panic in his voice was certainly justified. I would never normally call during hook-up-o’clock. But, I had no one else to talk to who got it.

“I ... sorry to interrupt your night.” I kept my voice quiet so he couldn’t hear the trembling behind it.

“Give me a second to get outside. There,” he said after a few seconds of human static, “now I can hear you.”

“For God’s sake, CJ, it’s February. Get your ass back inside before you freeze!”

“I’m sober enough to listen now, G, and drunk enough not to care about the blizzard.”

Sadly enough, I understood him completely. Still, I vowed to make it quick.

“I ... she wants to do the shock therapy!” I didn’t mean to shout, but when you’re trying to speak through years of frustrated tears, yelling is the only way to hear your voice.

“Are you driving? G?” CJ was so loud, so intense; it was like he was next to me.

I nodded, because that’s what rational people do during a phone call, and then said, “Yes, I just left the hospital. She’s fine. She’s checking herself out tomorrow and informed me she wants the ECT.”

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull the f*ck over and talk to me. I’m getting in my car.”