Sweet Forty-Two(53)

Thank God he didn’t toss the letter.

I hate being startled—life holds enough surprises—so I decided I should clear my throat, or something equally as juvenile to announce my presence.

I sniffed.

Of course, as intended, he looked in my direction, though I was embarrassed at my choice of greeting.

“Hi.” My voice was shaky and I braced for his retreat. Certainly there was some hole behind that rock he could heave himself down.

“Hey,” he mumbled back, wrapping the towel around his waist and sitting on the flat ledge of sea-bathed stone.

I made my way to the edge of the wall, keeping a five foot space of uncertainty between us

“I just wanted to say,” I started, wanting to get out as much as possible before he decided he’d heard enough, “that I’m sorry about this morning. I wasn’t ... I wasn’t all the way honest with you, and that wasn’t fair. I’m ... just ... that’s all I can say.”

Regan stared straight ahead, watching the water, maybe, or the space above it. He nodded once, no change in his face to tell me if he accepted my apology or was just acknowledging that I spoke.

After a few seconds of silence, I figured it was the latter, and decided I should leave. Leave him alone with the grief of that still unopened letter splattered all over his face. He didn’t want me, a liar, there to help him deal with what was the loss of a true love.

I took a few steps backward, sketching his silhouette into my memory so I could have a happy place to call upon in the days and months ahead. A friend. Even if it was all over. Finally, I turned, unable to keep my head up as a heroine might do in the movies, looking down at my chipping pedicure as I walked away.

“Georgia,” he called out, sounding as tired as I felt, “wait.”





Regan

Georgia stopped mid-stride, but didn’t turn around. It was as if she were waiting to see if she’d heard me correctly.

“Georgia,” I called again.

She turned around this time, her face caked in a shame I wanted to take away. It didn’t belong there.

“Come. Sit.” I moved over, patting the place next to me.

She tilted her head to the side, like she couldn’t understand me, but she walked anyway. When she reached the wall, she put her palms behind her on the ledge and lifted herself so she was sitting next to me.

“I’m sor—” we spoke at the same time, both snickering nervously.

She put her hand on my leg. “Me first. I’m sorry about this morning.”

“What are you sorry for?” I wasn’t testing her. I just needed to make sure we were on the same page.

“Well ... you met my mom. Because she’s alive.”

“You never told me she was dead.” I’d come to that conclusion somewhere during my swim, but that was all just a technicality.

Georgia crossed her legs in front of her. “We both know that’s bullshit, Regan. I don’t know why you’re being so decent about it.”

“So, what’s ... the deal there?” I tucked my hair behind my ears and leaned back.

“Did you open your letter?”

“Uh-uh. We’ll talk about that later, though. I think we can agree that I’ve shared a bit more than you have in recent weeks.”

Her shoulders sank as she sighed. A long, thoughtful sigh.

“Schizophrenia.”

She paused, looking up at me and squinting the sun away from her eyes. I didn’t react. Not a twitch of a muscle or a blink of an eye. She expected me to, maybe wanted me to by the challenging look on her face, but I wasn’t going to. She wasn’t getting away without giving me some actual information.

I lifted my eyebrows, urging her to continue.

“My mother has schizophrenia, and she’s spent the last few weeks at Breezy Pointe, an inpatient psychiatric facility north of La Jolla.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I replied stupidly. Of course I didn’t know.

“That was by design.” She seemed to echo my thoughts.

“Why?”

Georgia shifted so she was facing me, her bent knee resting warmly against my outer thigh. “Why what? Why she was at the Pointe or why I didn’t tell you?”

“Both, I guess.”

She cleared her throat. “My mother has catatonic schizophrenia. With the right blend of meds and therapy, she can function just as well as you and me. If something gets out of balance with the therapies or in her brain, everything goes haywire.”

“She didn’t look catatonic,” I interjected.

“I was getting to that. It’s kind of on a spectrum, erratic behavior on one end, and catatonia, like you’re probably thinking, on the other. It’s rare she has episodes like you’re thinking, but when that happens she needs medical intervention. She’s completely unable to take care of herself. Feeding, bathing, all of it.”

Georgia’s cheeks reddened as she spoke. I reached my hand over and touched her knee, but she bounced it, indicating she didn’t want me to touch her. I pulled away before she did.

“Anyway, that’s what sent her in a few weeks ago, then the weekend that I met you guys, I went to visit her and she had kind of a mental flare, you know, like a solar flare. She grabbed my wrist and had to be restrained, and that earned her another week and a half...” She trailed off and looked skyward, taking a deep breath.”