Schizo (6 page)

BY THE TIME I
GET home, my mom and dad are out at a movie with Janey, so I'm left on my own for dinner. But in all my nervousness and whatever, I find that I'm really not hungry.

I'm going crazy sitting here by myself. So I finally decide, like, fuck it, I might as well go to Preston's party.

I clean myself up as much as possible and put on what I would consider my coolest clothes—just a pair of jeans and a ripped-up T-shirt over a thermal undershirt—and a big fur-lined army jacket, because it's freezing outside.

Of course, I know it's fucking stupid to be going to this thing, but I go on anyway—walking down the avenues for a couple of blocks, crossing over Lake Street and heading up into Sea Cliff where every house is the size of a fucking castle and no lights are ever on in any of the windows and no music is ever heard on the street. People here are so rich, they're able to shut the world out completely and to shut themselves out from the world.

In our neighborhood, at least, people yell and laugh and fight and burn things and have dead chickens hanging in their storefront windows.

Here it's all imitation Italian villas and imitation French chateaus and imitation Bavarian estates and imitation Spanish whatever-you-call-them and imitation Japanese-style houses like Eliza used to live in. It's funny how rich people like to pretend so much. Rich people are like little kids—like Teddy used to be, with his toy cars and action figures and the Superman cape he made out of a bathroom towel. With enough money, they can be anything they want to be.

I remember Eliza's dad wanted to be a kind of samurai sushi chef—which is why they had that house like some Shinto temple.

Preston's parents want to be crazy bohemians traveling all over the world. And they can do it, too, 'cause they have the money. They can be whatever they want to be.

While the rest of us are stuck being what we are.

I begin to see cars parked up and down the street—cars that must belong to people attending Preston's party—lining the golf course and filling the upper parking lot of the Palace of the Legion of Honor.

Preston's always been super popular, and even though I know for sure none of these people are anywhere near as close to him as I am, I can't help but feel a little jealous—or just annoyed maybe. Because it's not like any of these kids actually give a shit about him. Not really. All they care about is the fact that he has a nice house and his parents are never around.

The house
is
nice, though, it's true: built alone on the jagged cliffs, surrounded by cypress trees and low-hanging fog, with a Gothic-style pitched roof and marble columns and all sorts of stained-glass windows and skylights.

I go in through the front gate, and there are some upperclassmen hanging out around the fountain, smoking a blunt, I think, and I wave to them meekly. They don't wave back or acknowledge me, and I think maybe I should turn around. I mean, really I hate parties and I'm not sure what the hell I'm even doing here.

It's strange to be with kids my age, trying so hard to be cool and fucking popular—especially when I just came from meeting with that woman who actually witnessed my brother being kidnapped.

The way she described that man. It's so terrible to think about. And yet she still tried to tell me that there is some kind of God looking out for us—protecting us, even.

Can that really be the way it works? I mean, I'm not saying I don't believe in God—I really do like the idea of some higher power like that. But I don't think it has anything to do with my brother being taken by some psycho—or these jackasses standing around smoking weed.

Looking at these kids standing in their designer fucking clothes, smoking their designer fucking pot, I can't help feeling like I want to tear the whole world apart.

It was a mistake to come; I can see that immediately.

I should leave.

Only . . .

Preston did say that Eliza was going to be here.

Not that it matters.

What matters is finding Teddy.

What matters is bringing my family back together.

Eliza doesn't matter at all.

But my heart beats painfully fast just thinking about her.

The idea of seeing her again is . . . almost more than I can stand.

My hands shake as I hold them out in front of me.

Past those boys smoking the blunt, past the fountain, and the statues, and the marble staircase, and the front door, Eliza is there—or, at least, she's supposed to be.

And Preston says she wants to see me, to talk to me, to apologize.

Over two years have gone by, and so much has changed.

I ring the buzzer.

INSIDE, THE MUSIC IS
loud, so Preston has to shout, “Yo, Miles, what's up?”

He has on this crazy knit hat that's, like, all these different colors of yarn stitched together.

“Come on in, man,” he says.

We walk in through the front entrance and up the stairs past the rows of framed photographs of Preston and his mom and dad. Tonight, since they're not home, we have free range of the entire house. We keep on walking up to the main dining room and kitchen, where I see maybe a hundred kids hanging out.

“Damn, there are so many people here,” I tell him, dragging hard on my cigarette.

He laughs. “Hell yeah, there are. I told everyone to invite as many friends as they wanted. This is gonna be the party of the century.”

He leads me through the throngs of people dancing and whatever while the rapper dude on the stereo is singing,
“Shake ya ass! Watch ya self! Shake ya ass! Show me what you workin' with!”

“Is this really happening right now?” I whisper to him, but I know the answer and, anyway, he doesn't hear me.

On the little center island in the kitchen are a bunch of bottles of different hard liquors and orange juice and stuff, and the music is so loud, and there are all these bodies moving against mine. I suddenly feel that pain coming back in my stomach, and then I remember I didn't eat anything before taking my goddamn medication and so that must be why I'm getting so sick like this. Usually I'd try to space it out, but tonight, since I knew I was leaving, I took them all at the same time—the four tablets of lithium, the three capsules of Prozac, the two Lamictal, the two Zyprexa, the two Depakote, and the one Abilify. And so they are burning like an oil fire through the lining of my intestines.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey, do you have anything to eat here, man? I'm sorry.”

Preston hands me a drink in a red plastic cup saying, “Here, shoot this, dude, you'll feel better.”

I repeat my question, but he just keeps saying, “Shoot it!”

And so I fucking do, and it burns going down and I cough and I feel it like more fire in my belly. I imagine it mixing together with all the undigested medication, forming this acid substance that eats through the lining of my stomach and then comes spilling out through my skin right there onto the dark-colored tile.

“Man, I'm serious, do you have any food here I could eat?”

Preston takes his shot and shakes his head and says real loud, “BLAH! Yeah, sure, I think. Look in the fridge, man, you can have whatever.”

“Cool, thanks.”

I start walking over, but it's like that shot was injected straight into my bloodstream, 'cause I feel dizzy and weak. I crush out my cigarette on the floor 'cause I can't stand the smell of it for one more second.

Preston has gone now, and I'm all alone with these people moving together like some giant, pulsing organic life-form crawling out of the primordial sea, taking its first steps on land, writhing and gyrating and secreting fluids.

The electric lights seem to pulse and crackle with the sound of the bass thumping on the stereo. I close my eyes and reach out my hand and fall onto the tile. I wretch some, but nothing comes out, thank God, because then there's a voice and it's calling out to me, “Miles . . . Miles . . . Are you okay?”

I open my eyes.

I'm not sure if this is another hallucination or what, but she is there, crouching over me.

“Miles . . . What's wrong?”

She puts her hand on my forehead, and it feels so cool and calming somehow. I smell that old familiar smell of her—like shampoo and clean laundry and I'm not sure what else.

“Eliza?” I say. “Is that you?”

She smiles brightly.

“Yeah, of course.”

She helps me to my feet.

“Come on,” she says, her voice calming. “You wanna go get some air?”

I nod.

And we walk together back outside.

THE WIND IS BLOWING
strong across the stone courtyard and Eliza is shivering, so I give her my jacket.

“You sure?” she asks, pulling it tighter around her shoulders.

“Yeah, I'm sorry, I just didn't eat enough. We can go back inside.”

She shakes her head. “No, not yet. I wanna talk to you,” she says.

Her voice has gotten deeper somehow. Her black hair is pushed back behind her ears.

I struggle for breath a little, but I'm trying to hold it together, so I light another cigarette, looking down into those shining green-blue eyes of hers.

“Hey, I'm taller than you,” I say, smiling.

“Yeah, I wonder when that happened?”

She takes a step closer to me and turns and I can see her profile—her nose so delicate and sculptural, her full lips. I think for the billionth time how goddamn beautiful she is.

“Can I, uh . . . can I have one of those?” she asks, looking back at me.

“Y-yeah, sure.”

I hand her a cigarette and then try to light it for her, but the wind's too strong so she has to do it herself.

Somehow that feels like a really big failure on my part.

“I've missed you, Miles,” she says, handing back the lighter, and our eyes meet and then dart away quickly.

“Me too.”

She sits down on the step and zips up my big army coat. “I've been wanting to see you.”

I sit next to her and I can feel the heat from her body.

“M-me too.”

I keep repeating it like a goddamn idiot.

Me too. Me too. Me too.

“Have you really?” she asks, leaning against me.

“Yeah, totally.”

But there's an overpowering smell, like rotting flesh, and something burning that seems to come up from the ground around me, inexplicably, and I reel back.

“I heard about what happened to you,” she says plainly.

I move away from her, but not because of what she said; it's just that the smell is almost gagging me. But she takes it the wrong way.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she says. “We don't have to talk about that.”

“No, no, it's okay. Sorry. It's just my stomach.”

She nods. “Are you on a lot of medication?”

I try holding myself very still again the nausea.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

She smiles sweetly. “Well, I understand. I know it's not the same thing, but I've been seeing a therapist, too, for a couple months now. And she wants me to go see, like, one of those psychopharma . . . whatever they're called?”

“Psychopharmacologists.”

“Exactly.”

I drag on my cigarette, exhaling through my nose.

“What are you seeing 'em for?” I ask. “Are you depressed?” And then I add, quickly, “That is, if you don't mind my asking.”

She leans against me again, and I watch her fingers twitching as she ashes her cigarette over and over.

“No, I don't mind. It's nice to be able to finally talk about it with someone. None of my friends understand.”

“Yeah, none of mine do, either.”

“
Right?
I missed you, Miles. Remember how much we used to talk on the phone and stuff?”

“Of course. Every night.”

My head is kind of spinning, so I rub my temple with the side of my thumb like I'm trying to put the world on pause.

“So what happened?” I ask hesitantly, not wanting to upset her too much by pushing the subject.

She breathes and smokes and breathes some more. Then she finally says, “You have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay?”

I give her my promise. “Believe me, I don't talk to anyone anyway.”

She laughs a little. “Well . . . the thing is, my dad left.”

A cold sweat has broken out all up and down my body now because of the goddamn medication.

“He met someone else,” she says.

“Jesus.”

“I know, right? The fucker. After all those years of fooling around and lying and everything, he finally just told my mom straight out he didn't love her anymore.”

“Jesus.”

My new fucking mantra.

“He moved out that same night, and we were, like, stuck, just the two of us, in this big town house off the French Quarter. My mom barely left her room for three months.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. She was . . . Well, I mean, seriously, don't tell anyone this, but she was even hospitalized. It was the doctors who thought we should move back here. At least in the city she has some family, you know? You remember my aunt who lives in Marin?”

“Of course.”

Eliza's aunt is this cool old lesbian who works as a park ranger out at the Point Reyes National Seashore. Eliza's family took me on a few weekend trips up there when we were kids.

I lean back against the iron railing. “So who was she? Another bimbo waitress?”

Eliza laughs. “No. She's actually a chef, too, if you can believe that.”

“I'd have thought with your dad's ego being like it is, that would be way too threatening.”

She smiles. “You remember that, too, huh?”

“I remember everything.”

She stops smiling.

“I know,” she says finally. “Miles, I'm sorry.”

And I say, “No, that's not what I meant. But . . . anyway . . . I'm sorry, too.”

She's closer to me now, so I can hear the shallow sound of her breathing against the cold night air. I remember when we went to Hawaii together, back when we were kids. Her mom paid for this cool Hawaiian guy to take us horseback riding along the tops of these cliffs overlooking the ocean. But at one point, when our guide was busy closing the gate behind us, Eliza's horse took off running and then, not even knowing what I was doing, I kicked my horse hard with my heels and went galloping after her. It was my first time ever being on horseback, but I had to catch her. So I got my horse right up beside hers and somehow that made the horse she was on slow down and relax, until finally we were both able to stop.

She was breathing fast then. I remember it—like she was hyperventilating, so bad she could barely even speak. “Take a deep breath,” I told her. “Come on, you can do it, just take a deep breath.”

And she did. She did what I told her. She breathed deep and long and slow.

I listen to her breathing now—slower, easier.

I kick the toe of my boot into the ground, trying to think up something to say to change the subject.

“Uh . . . did your, uh . . . dad stay in New Orleans?”

“Yeah, and you know how my dad used to be so obsessed with Japan? Now it's like he's totally changed and suddenly he doesn't care at all about the Japanese stuff and he's become totally obsessed with New Orleans. I swear, he's gonna start talking with an accent before long.”

We both laugh at that.

“You know . . . I . . . uh . . . Your dad . . . I mean . . . he was always pretty distant. And he was terrible to your mom . . . and to you . . . really. So maybe you guys are better off this way?”

“That's exactly what I told my mom,” she says. “I knew you'd understand.”

She takes my hand in hers for a second, and the feel of her is warm and electric all over my body.

“Well,” I tell her, “I am sorry this is happening to you. I know it must be hard.”

“Yeah, thanks.” She tilts her head to one side. “Anyway,” she adds, “at least we got to move back here, right?”

I nod, thinking that maybe I really should make getting food a priority—because the nausea is not letting up. The pain is still in my stomach, and now the veins in my skull feel all swelled with blood, squeezing in at my temples so goddamn tight. With each beat of my heart, it's like the veins clamp down even harder and I see this bright light flashing in the darkness when I close my eyes.

“Hey, are you all right?” she asks me.

“Yeah . . . no,” I say, standing up as slowly as I can so I don't do anything embarrassing, like maybe pass out completely. “I'm fine. You wanna . . . you wanna go get something to eat?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling.

“I can make something inside,” I tell her, not wanting to make her leave if she doesn't want to. “Or we could go to Video Café. They're open twenty-four hours.”

She nods. “Okay, yes, let's do that.”

Her body brushes against mine as she starts to walk, and I feel this warmth in me just from the slightest touch. That strange rotting smell has gone, and I think maybe this might actually work out. After all, she seems the same. I mean, different—but the same. The same Eliza. And I think maybe I'm not that different, either.

It's just like it used to be.

But then Preston's front door opens and a bunch of kids holding forties come pouring out into the courtyard with us. They're seniors I know only by sight, but tonight, because of Eliza being so goddamn beautiful, they seem eager to talk. In fact, one of them even knows my name.

“Yo, what's up, Miles? Who's this you got here?”

He's sloppy drunk, but still handsome, I think. At least, I imagine Eliza must think he's handsome. He has his hair all shaved around the sides and long in front, sticking up straight, kind of like a pompadour. His teeth are bright white in the darkness, and he smiles big and reaches out a hand to shake Eliza's.

“Hey, I'm Kevin,” he says.

She shakes his hand, and then the other guys all introduce themselves, too—to her, not to me.

Besides Kevin, I don't process any of their names enough to remember what they are.

But then the one dude with the stupid hipster straw hat pulls out a blunt from behind his ear and asks us if we want any.

Eliza presses in closer to me and kind of looks up for approval, as if somehow it's up to me—I guess 'cause I was the one who wanted to leave so bad.

“Yeah, go ahead,” I say, and she smiles and leans against me, and the guy fires the blunt up and it's like someone is driving nails into either side of my brain, and so I press the palm of my hand against my forehead.

Eliza hits the blunt and then she coughs real cute-sounding and all the guys laugh.

She hits it again before passing it off and then standing up on her tiptoes and whispering in my ear, “Hey, you wanna go to that restaurant now?”

The two of us walk out through the iron gate and down the street past the wall of boxwood hedges surrounding the golf course.

Beyond the protection of the courtyard, the wind is blowing even stronger, and I shiver.

“Here,” she says, handing my coat back to me.

I want to take it, but I feel like maybe she'll think I'm lame or something if I do.

“No, it's okay,” I say. “You keep it.” But the cold is all the way inside me now, and that headache has gotten so bad that it's like whatever had been pounding there before has now just clamped down, so I have to keep my eyes pretty near shut.

I throw my cigarette out, but that doesn't help, either, and as much as I want to be hanging out with her, I'm suddenly wondering if maybe I should just go home and lie down.

So I stop and I breathe and I grit my teeth together, putting my hands on my knees and saying, “Hey, Eliza, look, I'm sorry. I want to hang out with you and get dinner and everything. I really do and . . . and it's so great seeing you, but I have this terrible headache right now for some reason. I think maybe it's all the medicine . . .”

I force my eyes open enough to see her smile, and her teeth are white and straight and perfect.

“Yeah, you look a little sick.”

I breathe, straining. “I'm so sorry, 'Liza.”

She nods. “No, I understand. I'll let you go. It's just so great to see you again. And, look . . . uh . . . Miles, I know I was terrible to you when we were younger. Really, I'm not sure why you put up with me like you did, but I am so, so sorry.”

“Please, no,” I say, but hoarsely, so I have to clear my throat before continuing. “You don't need to apologize. I understand. Anyway, I wasn't putting up with you. I loved—I mean, I . . . I liked hanging out with you.”

She touches me, just for a moment, and I feel it coursing through me again.

The sound of the wind is like the ocean waves breaking through the treetops.

The fog light at the mouth of the bay flashes across the dark silhouette of Eliza's body pressed close to mine.

“I think I was just too afraid then,” she tells me, looking straight ahead.

I laugh through my nose. “Afraid of me?”

“Yeah, totally. You always seemed so perfect or something. Like you had this perfect family and you were so . . . good . . . so sweet . . . so
perfect.
”

I stare down, suddenly, at the hole widening on the side of my boot where I can see black sock starting to stick out.

“Yeah, well, not anymore. Now I'm just crazy.”

She looks up and her eyes close and open, and she whispers, “I like you, so much, Miles. I've always liked you.”

She lifts up on the balls of her feet and suddenly she's pressing her full lips into mine and she's kissing me.

It's happening so fast, and I want to be able to just hold on to every fucking second. I mean, I've been waiting for this kiss with Eliza for my whole life, but now that it's actually happening, it's like I feel strangled somehow. We slide our tongues in and out, but the lack of oxygen to my brain is making the veins swell and pound and fucking press down even more. I feel dizzy, and something gags me at the back of my throat and I have to push her away.

I drop to my knees, hitting the pavement hard as vomit comes charging up out of my throat.

“Oh, my God! What's happening?” she yells.

I throw up over and over and over, retching, spitting up chunks of stringy I don't even know what—like pieces of shredded kelp and seaweed, all green and reddish purple.