Lithium, Chptr. 2 – Xperience Fiction

Lithium, Chptr. 2 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

Every car driving down the street was coming for them. Every click of every latch was the nameless, faceless forces of property law with their doom spelled out in Times New Roman twelve-point font on standard multipurpose copy paper. Even the cries and barks of the neighborhood dogs may well have been announcing their intent to compete for any scraps not secured in trash bags. Every tick and every tock accused him from trying to sleep at a time like this. And so, in frustration, he pulled back his lids and downed his covers and once again introduced his aching feet to splintered hardwood.

Even with the symphony of ad hoc instruments, and the stresses that plagued him, he could still have slept but for one soloist; his son, who suppressed a sob every minute or so. Not loud; it didn’t have to be with the vent system in the apartment. It carried every whisper, every tone of every television past volume level three, and even the whispers of his wife from the living room one night that announced her adultery while Mel was catching a snooze before third shift.

He got up and tip-toed his way to Andy’s bedroom. The floor was cold and loud, and he had little doubt that Andy knew he was coming. He nevertheless made a concerted effort to be quiet as he turned the handle and opened the door.

Andy was still in his bed, his blanket draped over the race car frame Mel built him when he was on a tear, a frame Andy had outgrown by at least three years. He was still, not the usual toss-and-turn. Mel could hear the congestion as Andy tried to breathe through his nose. He let out what could have been a sob or a hiccup, hard to tell which.

Mel sat on the edge of the rail, where it leveled with the mattress. He put his hand on Andy’s shoulder and gave it a light rub. Andy stiffened and turned away, causing him to run out of the blanket Mel was partially sitting on. He knew Andy was awake, but he didn’t know what to say, a rare moment for him.

Andy spoke in a creak, “Dad, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, kid. I thought I heard you crying.”

“Oh.”

“Were you crying?”

“No,” Andy said. “Maybe a little.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I just had a nightmare is all. I was scared.”

“Nightmares can do that,” Mel said. “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

Andy sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I dreamt that they came and took you away, like they did when I was little.”

“That’s not gonna happen, kid. I won’t let them do it again.”

“You didn’t let them do it then; they just did.”

Mel’s heart sunk. As much as he could brush it off when people brought it up or get pissed when other people threw it in his face, he had no such luck with Andy. Andy was there. And crying. And terrified.

“Kid, it’s really hard to tell you what that was all about. I want you to know, I do, but you have to be older to understand it.”

“You’re sick. I know that,” Andy said. “But you could get sick again.”

“I have medicine now. I-,” Mel said. “Before, I didn’t think I needed medicine. Sometimes your mind… it’s like you live with something your whole life on your own, and being sick is all you know, you learn to deal with it.

“But I wasn’t living, not good. When they took me away, they got me good, gave me medicine. And I take it every night. I don’t miss meds, not ever. And I won’t stop taking them.”

“Even when we’re camping?”

“Not even when we’re camping,” Mel said. “In fact, I’m going to the doctor’s tomorrow to stock up on meds. And no matter where we go, I’ll find a doctor who’ll give me meds. I promise, kid. No one’s going to take me away from you.”

Andy turned over and propped himself up on his elbow. “You promise, dad?”

Mell gripped Andy’s balled up fist and shook it gently.

“I promise, bud. All I hold holy.”

 

Translucent orange plastic, just thick enough not to splinter should it fall off the nightstand. Mel had five of them. So foreign to him yet so comforting. He held the thickest bottle up as he laid down, though there wasn’t light to read the label, he knew that it read Lithium Carbonate, 600 milligrams.

He was telling Andy the truth; well, most of it. He was used to living like his experiences were normal. If he only knew how to glimpse the world through one set of eyes, act with one heart and process thought through one cerebral cortex, that’s what he’d come up with as ‘normal.’ He had no idea that other people were flat in their life, that they didn’t know the surges and the deficits, because he’d see them laugh and cry and isn’t that what he felt too?

He rattled the soft pressed-powder pills in the bottle and set them back down on his dresser. He lied to himself for so many years, the great defense of not knowing any better. But he endured regrets that had him kicking pebbles off the edge, he was so close to it. He knew, somewhere deep, somewhere through his years, that he was wrong in a right world and no one would point to his waves and yet all could feel their wake.

Mel’s fear, his terror, was that Andy would inherit his sickness, and it might be the only thing he ever inherited. He was right to be scared, no matter how hard Mel sought to shield him from his tears. In fact, Andy wasn’t worried about being homeless – he’d never experienced that. He feared losing his dad again. Mel couldn’t allow that, even if, in somewhere unspeakable, he felt that the only way to be Andy’s protector would make himself a former one.

 

***

 

Mel could see daylight coming through the gap under Bernie’s door. The television was on, the sounds of the morning news. That, and the smell of butter and eggs told him that it was safe to knock.

Bernie answered in his powder blue bathrobe with a steaming plate in his hand.

“A little early, right?”

“Yeah, Bernie. Sorry. I have a big favor if you’re up to it.”

“I’m not helping you move, if that’s it,” Bernie said. “Not that I don’t like you, but my back’s been fucked up lately. Let’s just say I’m glad I’m retired.”

“Nah, I don’t need help moving. But I gotta go to the doctor’s this afternoon, really important. I might not be home in time for Andy to get back from school. Can you just make sure he’s got somewhere to go if he needs anything?”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem,” Bernie said. “What’s he gonna need?”

Mel shrugged. “Really not all that much. He’s almost old enough to latch-key, I just don’t want him to be all alone. He had a rough day yesterday. We both did.”

Bernie backed up and waved Mel into the living room. “Yeah, I imagine. Look, I’m not one to pry, but Larry told me he’s getting rid of ya’, his words. He didn’t go into any details. Do you mind I ask what happened?”

Mel walked into center of the living room with his hand on his hip.

“It’s just money, Bernie,” he said. “Oldest story in the world. I lost the job over at ArTechnic, couldn’t find something else that would keep me here. And I got down on myself, started worrying about Andy, about everything, and just couldn’t get out there to find a new job. Or a new place, really.”

“So wait, are you gonna’ be homeless?”

“Looking that way, at least for a little while.”

Bernie rubbed the back of his head, brought his hair up. “Aw jeez, Mel. What about Andy? He staying with someone?”

“I gotta’ find someone. Or we’re both gonna’ have to go to a shelter. Maybe a motel; hopefully that. Better way to go.”

“I would watch Andy for you, but being totally honest, we’re talking one, two days here and there. Nothing like what you’ll need.”

“It’s okay Bernie. I wasn’t gonna’ ask.”

Bernie set his plate down on a TV table. “Jesus,” he said.

 

Maxwell Hospital had a one-hundred-and-forty-million-dollar upgrade, finishing up the year prior. A bright, spacious new ER was the face of the “New Maxwell” – a new look, a whole new hospital, it seemed, cutting edge and ready for the twenty-first century. And yet the water stains from more than a decade of leaks still decorated the drop ceiling of the outpatient mental health waiting room. It should’ve been expected that they wouldn’t upgrade the wing to a sort of medicine about which, a century later, they were still playing in guesswork.

Oversized puzzle pieces, blocks and a primary-colored bead maze filled the small table in the center of the waiting room. The walls were plastered with PSA literature, with black and white stock photography of women getting beaten and tendrils of smoke coming off a disembodied crack pipe. There was a television affixed to the wall, an old one which always seemed to be stuck on a daytime talk show. There were three adults and two kids waiting: on the phone, asleep, and kids more impressed with the empty seats than anything on the table.

Mel checked his watch. Dr. Lattimer was ten minutes late. Mel would begin the countdown of minutes before he would feel that he waited long enough to phone in his refill needs without incurring any uncomfortable lectures on attendance. They had an arrangement; he waited an hour and he could go, fault on the doc.

“Mel?” Mel turned his head to see Doctor Lattimer, a crisply dressed, gaunt man in a light blue button down, charcoal grey slacks and a burgundy tie. A hospital ID card was hung from his neck with a lanyard.

Mel got up and nodded at everybody still waiting.

“Hey doc, you’re early.” He said as they walked down the hall toward his office.

Lattimer glanced at his watch. “I got ten after three.”

“Right. I’m usually a half hour waiting.”

Lattimer chuckled. “I had a cancellation the appointment before yours. You got lucky.”

“Imagine that, and you were still ten minutes late.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

They walked into Lattimer’s office. Every shrink or therapist in Mental Health had the same dimensions to their office, with a window in exactly the same place. The only thing that made Maxwell Mental Health such a rich tapestry of experience was how they chose to decorate. Lattimer chose symmetrical artwork, an angular sculpture, and a clutter-free workspace. Curiously, he had a pastel print of a circus bear floating above the Big Top, holding a red balloon. Mel often wondered if the print was for the patients, or for Lattimer.

“So, how have we been doing?” he asked as he sat down.

“Not so good. I’m getting evicted on Wednesday.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. Do you have somewhere to go?”

“No. I think we’re going to have to stay in my car for a little bit. I mean, the weather’s warming up.”

“Oh, your son, right,” Lattimer said. “Well, can you go to Social Services?”

“Not really. I got all the help they’ll give me. When I was, you know, not medicated, I was a mess for, like, almost ten years, really. But I was on public assistance for five years. That’s all you can get in New York.”

“Yeah, but you have a kid. I’m sure they have something.”

“I gotta make moves, try to get a job; I can’t afford to spend day after day in Social Services with no guarantee.”

“There’s no guarantee you’ll get a job living in a car either. They usually need an address.”

“I’m gonna shoot for something under the table. And they got day labor jobs.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Lattimer said. “I’m not all that comfortable with you living in a car, especially with your son.”

“Are you going to call Child Protective?” Mel hadn’t anticipated that Lattimer’s word could take his son from him.

“No, I know you love Andy, and you’ve done a lot for him, with regard to you taking your medication. I’m just not comfortable with it. I want to try to help you with some kind of referral, maybe. A shelter, or temporary housing, something.”

“I’ll be happy to get help,” Mel said. “One thing I could use is, well, how many refills can you give me on my meds?”

“I don’t like to go beyond two months. I don’t want people getting a bunch of refills and then not showing up for appointments. The drugs you’re on need to be monitored, bloodwork, you know what I’m talking about.”

“I know, and I have every intention, if I’m able, to make appointments. But I don’t know what’s going to happen three days from now, much less four-to-six weeks from now. It may be a rough few months. I’m going to have a hard enough time finding money for the meds, and it’s fifty bucks a pop to come here every month.

“I just have to make the best of shitty choices right now,” he said.

Lattimer twirled a pen in between his fingers and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Okay, tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give you a ninety-day supply of everything and give you one refill. That’s six months. And I won’t reschedule you for two months. But I have to see you then. And I’ll schedule blood work you can do downstairs today. Does that cost you anything?”

“No, insurance covers that.”

“Good,” Lattimer said. “Have you ever considered disability? I mean, you qualify, I know it’s not much a month, but it’s something.”

“I don’t want to go on that,” Mel said. “I’d rather work for a living. Besides, it’s time I don’t have.”

Lattimer hunched forward in his chair and started typing out Mel’s scripts.

“Food for thought,” he said.

 

***

 

There’s a tingle in the air of an upstate New York springtime, and if one were of a sort taken to New Age sensitivities, they would talk of tiny energetic crystals suspended in the air, adrift in the breeze, the stuff of promise and enthusiasm. Mel would’ve called it pollen, but he wasn’t complaining. His head was heavy, and he couldn’t leave his looming crisis at the side of the road, but rolling down the window sure did feel good,

He hadn’t yet decided whether to go to Social Services and give it a round two. It wasn’t even that he thought they’d give him a hard pass. It was that he’d gone above that dingy, crowded waiting room. When he was rough, he didn’t care about how it looked that he was in there. The illness could make him a king among commoners and a self-styled ambassador to poverty both in one. But things were different. He was a real person now. He didn’t have the luxury of being oblivious.

He took a right on Twelfth Street and followed the small line of cars into the gas station parking lot. He still had Terrence’s three-hundred dollars and he planned on converting a third of it to unleaded.

He got out and fished for a bill as he walked around the car to pop the cap and pump sweet octane. No dice: pay first, a thing he had to be reminded of ever since he gave up on having a debit card. He replaced the nozzle and turned to head inside. He made it halfway across the lot before a hunter green pickup truck with chrome fog lights pulled into the pump next to him. The truck was familiar; the outline of a twelve-point buck in crosshairs even more so. Roger McKinley.

He and Roger hung in the same circle of stoners and rocker-wannabes in high-school. He’d seen Roger through the years, and in fact spent New Year’s last with him and the remainder of the gang. He walked into the store, not certain he wanted to catch up with Roger, but not certain it would be avoidable.

Mel hopped in line and counted the people inside. Five; not too many. One was at the counter with a plastic Lottery sleeve, and another directed the girl at the other register to their correct cigarette, which seemed to change every time the girl had her hand on a pack. Two of the remaining three were chatting it up with the guy on the store’s deli counter, and the last one was reading the paper. Having counted all of the people, Mel relaxed just in time to see Roger walk in. They caught eyes.

“How you doing, Mel?”

“Eh, life, you know. How about you?”

“Can’t complain,” he said. “Wife won’t let me.”

“That’s the way.”

They stood quiet for a moment as the two people up front kept convenience court.

“You still working at, where was it, ArTechnic, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right, but I haven’t been there for a few months.”

“Couldn’t take the grind?”

“Nah, that wasn’t it. I needed medical; you know the story.”

“They didn’t have medical? I’m surprised.”

“They did, but it wasn’t good enough. I mean, I got a kid I gotta be sharp for.”

“Oh yeah,” Roger said. Mel didn’t know if Roger knew about his illness, but the look on his face said it was somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Where you working now?”

“Kinda in between jobs right now.”

“Gotcha.” The lottery player got their fix and took off, leaving the space for Mel.

“Fifty on pump two,” he said. Money lifted, change given and he spun to face the door. Mel tried to move casually, didn’t want to run from Roger. Well, he did, but he didn’t want to be seen doing it. His escape hit a snag as he dropped one of his twenties, forcing him to do a waltz with a light breeze.

“Hey Mel, hold up.” Mel got a hold of his twenty and looked up to see Roger holding a business card in one hand and a pack of reds in his other.

“Hey, since you’re between jobs, I’m looking for a couple of guys to do some work for me. It’s concrete and paving, nothing easy, but I’m looking at having ten days of work, hundred a day off the books. If you’re interested.”

“That actually sounds good. I could use some good news right around now too.”

“There’s no medical, obviously,” Roger said. “And I still have to call a few guys. But I don’t see any reason right now I can’t get you on the site, say, Wednesday?”

Wednesday. The day he’d lose the apartment. Or maybe it would be the day he almost lost the apartment.

“Okay. Sounds good, man,” Mel said.

Roger handed him the business card. “Call me Tuesday; I’ll know for absolute certain. But like I said, I need people, and you’re the first person I’m talking to.”

“Okay. I’ll call ya’.” Mel gave his hand, and they shook.

Mel cruised around what the city advertised as “the scenic route” with a full tank of gas and a hot coffee in the center console. Jimi Hendrix asked him if he was experienced, and he was. He drank in the budding green of the oak and maple trees that contrasted with the dark greens of the pine and spruce that stood guard over a glorious chasm of the sheer cliffs that braced the Mohawk River as it pushed its way into the Hudson. It was beautiful; he was beautiful, and he was going to pull himself and his son out of poverty in a way seen only in the movies. They’d have a memory of the time they almost lost it all, and it would mark every moment they shared from then on; it would be the rock bottom upon which they would build.

Roger was their hero, and someday Mel might tell him so. But there was more work to be done.

 

 

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