The Weight of Zero (28 page)

I leave my phone off the entire weekend. I'm confused and sad about Michael.

What started out as a quest to experience has turned into a bittersweet entanglement—something that majorly complicates my plan, which makes it no longer possible. And that knowledge shakes me. I've been thinking about breaking it off with Michael, a preemptive strike that will hurt him less in the long run.

And hurt me less too. I know I can never tell him I'm bipolar. I could not bear to see his face.

And there's Kristal. I know I damaged our friendship last week. With that comment about the earrings. She's stopped asking about getting together, and soon she's going to start asking herself,
Why bother with Cat?
If she hasn't already. It's only a matter of time.

I'm trying to adjust to their future absence, so I shut off my phone to get myself used to the inevitable.

This turmoil is accelerating Zero's arrival. I felt him last week, breathing on my neck in the girls' bathroom. I saw him in the kitchen at the Pitoscias', circling like a shark. For the first time since starting Lamictal in September, I couldn't fall asleep Friday or Saturday. I know Dr. McCallum would tell me to note it in my nonexistent sleep journal.
To tell him.
But I trust my shoe box more than that.

I don't know what to expect when I turn on my phone this Monday morning. As I hold my breath and type my passcode, I avoid looking at my home screen photo. There are three voice mails from Michael and ten texts, three of which are from Kristal.

First one: 10:16 a.m. Saturday. “Hope M ok and you had a good time last night.” The next one: 4:37 p.m. Saturday. “In CVS feminine care aisle. Major envy. Ha!” The third is from last night: 10:51 p.m. Sunday. “Are you ok?”

I take my first full deep breath of the last fifty hours. I've been tightly compressed all weekend, breathing shallowly. I respond first to Kristal. “So sorry. Not good weekend,” and then I stop. I don't know how much more to say.

She responds right away. “You ok????? Was so worried”

I almost lose it right then and there, at the top of the steps, with Mom waiting at the front door. Kristal's concern is exactly what I need. But I can't tell her the truth. So I type, “M not great but things better now. He is hugely embarrassed. Can't come to group today. Dr appointment”

Kristal texts back, “Will give you big hug tomorrow! Hang in there!
”

“Catherine, c'mon! I can't be late today,” Mom calls from downstairs. “I want to warm up the car. Don't forget to lock the front door.”

I feel a million pounds lighter. So much so that I almost laugh at Mom's reminder. Don't forget to lock the front door. I've been doing that every single day since freshman year. Mom always starts the car and loads it up with her paisley lunch tote, the traveling polka-dot bag/medicine cabinet and, up until two weeks ago, the laptop. (She leaves the laptop in the kitchen now—unguarded and available. It is an unspoken leap of faith.) Regarding my door-locking task, Mom stubbornly refused to relieve me of it, even in my darkest hours, unwilling to acknowledge that I might not be capable of the simplest of functions.

I grab my backpack, open the front door and freeze. Because Mom's not in the Accord. She's standing on our cracked concrete walkway, talking with Michael.
Michael.
Who nervously shifts from foot to foot. A flesh-colored Band-Aid covers his chin. Our eyes catch. In my peripheral vision, the tailpipe of Lorraine's Subaru at our curb blows a steady stream of white into the morning air.

“Catherine.” Mom wheels around. “Michael asked if he could drive you to school today.”

“Uh…okay,” I say, trying to tamp down the relief and happiness flaring up in my chest, tugging up the corners of my mouth.

“Is this legal?” Mom asks Michael. “Has the required time passed for you to be able to drive friends?”

Michael tears his eyes from me and back to Mom. “Yesterday. As of yesterday, I'm allowed to drive friends. And I'm a good driver. My mom would have never given me her car if I wasn't.”

“Does she know you're driving Catherine today?”

“Yeah.” Michael flushes.

This is new territory for both Mom and me: Catherine driving with another seventeen-year-old. Jody is yet again pushed out of her comfort zone. And must handle the latest issue all by herself.

“Can I go with Michael?” I ask.

Mom's expression asks me if I'm really okay with Michael. As my eyes tell her yes, I notice that she looks old this morning. Older than she did when she handed me my toasted and buttered English muffin fifteen minutes ago.

I throw my arms around her. Mom is stunned, and before I pull back, I kiss her on the cheek.

Dear Lord, when was the last time I've kissed my mother?

“I'll see you at two-forty-five? On time, okay?” she asks, the code for “Don't forget we have a Dr. McCallum appointment at three.”

I nod. And then Michael takes my backpack and slings it over his shoulder. He opens the passenger door for me. It's so awkward between us. I slide onto the passenger seat and Michael takes the driver's seat.

“I have a lot to say, Cath, but let me concentrate and drive to school first and then we can talk in the parking lot. Is that okay?”

I nod. I'm not sure what to do. He must be mad at me for blowing him off all Saturday and Sunday.

But then he says, “That's for you,” and points to a Dunkin' Donuts bag on the floor. I open it to find two double-chocolate doughnuts. “That's your favorite, right?” Michael asks nervously. “I thought that's what you said.”

“But there's no jelly—your favorite,” I say. “Did you eat it already?”

“Nope,” Michael says, his eyes glued on the road. “Couldn't eat this morning.”

When we get to the student parking lot, Michael pulls into the spot farthest from the school. He turns to me, his face red and eyebrows rammed together. “I…I…had my speech all planned out. But…” He takes a deep breath. “I am so sorry about Friday. If I pushed you in any way. If you felt pressure. If I—I m-m-made you uncomfortable in the basement.”