Untethered (6 page)

She smacks her shiny lips together. “To be desirable you need to believe you
are
desirable.”

“What’ve you been doing? Watching
Oprah
reruns?”

From the way her face turns scarlet, that’s exactly what she’s been doing.

I sigh. “Anyways, I’ve got to go to my dad’s.”

“Oh, yeah.” She holds up the yellow bag of candy. “Sugar Baby?”

I take some. “You really think your parents will let you go to Milwaukee?”

She lifts an eyebrow at me. “They won’t even ask where I’m going.”

Outside the building, we meet up with Sam. He’s chewing the skin around his fingernail again. His right thumb is bleeding.

“Come on, Sam. That’s gross. If you’re hungry eat a sandwich.” I pull a wadded up bunch of Kleenex from my backpack and hand it to him. “Stop the bleeding.”

Sam wraps his thumb, but doesn’t say anything most of the way home. When we’re on our street, he finally opens his mouth. “It’s gonna be weird. Going to Dad’s.”

“Yeah.”

I think about it. Dad living somewhere else. It doesn’t seem possible. He was part of home. You could always find him at his desk working on the computer. Or at the kitchen table, a newspaper in his hand. Once in a while he left his post and took us places. He took me to the hospital for blood tests. To the DMV for my driver’s license (which was useless since no one ever lets me take the car –“too risky” with the cataplexy). And he went shopping with me a few months back, but that was a disaster: being so small I still shop in the girls’ department, and he kept picking out things with pink bows or princesses for me to wear. But mostly, Dad was around the house. Our house. And now, he’s gone.

Then I think about how Dad has said he doesn’t want to try with Mom, and yet here we have to give up our whole weekend to sit and listen to him tell us he loves us even though he left us. “Why should we have to spend time with Dad on the weekend, anyways? That’s the only free-time we’ve got!”

Cassie waves her hands in the air the way my mom does when she’s wafting incense around the room. “Come on, Sylvie. Cut your dad a little slack. It’s not like you’re ever that busy on the weekend.”

Okay. That pisses me off. She used to stay home on weekends, too, before becoming Miss-I’m-All-That-America. I whirl on her. “Who
are
you? I thought you were supposed to be my friend.”

“I am. I didn’t—”

“Go on your date, Miss Good Times.”

“You’re not the only one with problems.”

We’re in front of my house now. Sam kind of slinks around me and walks towards the back door. (The front is for visitors.) I stand and look Cassie in the eyes. “Yeah, well, when your problems equal mine, let me know.”

“You always think the world is out to get you, Sylvie.”

“Haven’t you noticed my life lately? The world
is
out to get me.”

We stare at each other for a long time, then for some stupid reason she starts laughing. Despite the hot anger still boiling in the pit of my stomach, I feel the edges of my mouth turning up, and a giggle escapes me. She laughs some more and I finally can’t hold back. We both laugh so hard our eyes leak.

“God, I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry, Cass,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Give me a call after your date.” I wave and head into the house.

A couple of hours later, my anger is still there, slippery and unsure of who to lash out at. But soon enough, I find a victim. From my bedroom window, I see Dad pull up.
That’s it. I’m not going anywhere with him
. If he isn’t going to try, neither am I.

“Sylvie! Your father is here! Come on down!” My mom’s voice has changed pitch since Dad’s left. Like by talking higher, she’ll sound happier.

I pop my iPod into the holder, turn the volume on LOUD and stretch out on my bed. Thirty seconds later Mom is at my feet.

She’s wearing a turquoise sweat suit. Mom is a massage therapist and regular energy freak. This weekend is some sort of Yoga convention at Festival Hall. Hundreds of women in their forties discussing chakras and sitting in the lotus position. She turns off my stereo. “Your father is here.”

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are. We agreed on this.”

Now I sit up. “We didn’t
agree
on anything, Mom.”

She glares at me, her eyes wet. Again. “Don’t do this, Sylvie. I’m having a hard enough time right now as it is.”

“Oh, and I’m not?”

You’d think I slapped her for how shocked she looks. Her eyes peel back real wide and she claps her hands to her mouth. And then, all of a sudden, she sits down on the bed and wraps her arms around me. They’re thin, but solid. She smells like lavender soap. “Oh, my baby girl. Oh, I’m so sorry, Sylvie.”

It feels like I’m six again and waking from nightmares. She’s hugging me with that same intensity, like if she squeezes me close enough everything bad will disappear. I give in for a few seconds and lean into her, wanting to stay like that forever. She’s always been there for me. Put me first. From the moment I told Dr. Hong the truth about what was happening to me.

I still remember how the doctor’s lips puckered with determination. “You’re not having out-of-body experiences, Sylvie. You’re hallucinating.”

I still remember the look my parents shared when he said that.

I’ve looked it up. Online. Starting with the cataplexy and its link to sleep disorders. Then the out-of-body stuff. The first article I read said, “Neuroscientists have proven electric currents to the brain can create the illusion of an out-of-body experience ...” Which didn’t scare me. But when I kept skimming and saw the word
schizophrenic,
I was too terrified to read on.

I’ve gotten treated for everything, you name it. With no results. Just a spectrum of allergic reactions to all the medicines.

Even so, Mom sees me like her cooking: I’m a strange concoction she believes she can turn into something palatable if she tries hard enough. And like her cooking, she never gives up. No matter how obvious it is it won’t get better.

Right now, in her arms, I crack. I know if I don’t push Mom away, I’ll start bawling. So I pull back and push hard. Despite the fact that I don’t feel it, my voice comes out determined. “I’m not going with Dad, Mom. That’s it.”

She gently pulls my hand but when I refuse to move, her face turns stony and she nods. She leaves the room. I turn my stereo on again and fall back on my mattress. I wiggle my foot to the music and then Poof! The music’s gone.

“Hey!” I sit up to see Dad standing next to my bed.

“You’re coming with me, young lady.”

“No. I’m. Not.”

But suddenly he’s grabbing me, scooping me off of my bed and over his shoulder.

“Let me down! I won’t go! You can’t make me!” I kick and scream as he descends the stairs, but it does no good. He’s stronger than me. We pass Mom at the front door and I give her a dirty look. She hands my dad a bag with my stuff.

In the car, Sam is huddled under his seat belt in the front. I slide in the back, trying to make my anger as palpable as possible when Dad puts the car into drive. “You’ll see, Sylvie. It’ll be fun.”

Really?
What planet do my parents come from anyways?

Dad’s apartment is small and beige and smells like vinegar. There’s a bar in the kitchen but no table. He has folding chairs instead of real furniture. Dad shrugs. “I just moved in.”

He orders us all pizza. We eat it on the living room floor. “Pepperoni and double cheese! Your favorite,” Dad says as he slides about five slices onto my plate.

I cross my arms and refuse to look at him. “I’m not hungry.”

My stomach growls like an angry bear.

Sam reaches into the pizza box. “Well, I am!”

I watch Sam suck down strings of cheese and cram two pieces of pizza into his mouth at one time.
Ugh.
I think I prefer him eating his thumbnails. I stand up. “I’m going to bed.”

Dad, too, has his mouth full. Tomato sauce is smeared on his upper lip and he wipes it off with a napkin. “But I rented a Disney movie.”

My eyes actually hurt I roll them so hard. “Then I’m definitely going to bed.” Mom threw my pajamas and a toothbrush into the bag she gave to dad. I take it with me to the bathroom, which is the size of a Tic Tac, and change into my pj’s. Then I go into Dad’s study, where a blanket and a pillow have been laid out on the floor for me.

“I promise I’ll get something more comfortable for you to sleep on for next weekend.” Dad stands at the door. He has a plate piled high with pizza in one hand and a Coke in the other. “I know you’re not hungry, but I’ll leave this in here for the rats. I like to stay on friendly terms with them.”

He still thinks I’m ten. If I weren’t so angry, I might love him for it. Maybe.

He puts the plate on his desk and takes his laptop out of the room. My entire childhood is filled with memories of him writing. The newspaper constantly has deadlines; I know he won’t be able to stay away from work the entire evening.

Despite wanting to make a statement by not eating, I snarf down the pizza right away because my stomach is killing me. I guzzle down the Coke and throw the empty can in the cardboard box doubling as a garbage can when Cassie calls me on my cell.

“How’s it going with your dad?” she asks.

“Hmmm. Well, the apartment’s practically empty and it smells bad. He forced me to come, Cass. Literally. He picked me up, put me over his shoulder and carried me to the car.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“The only good thing about being here is that I got pizza instead of Mom’s lentil lasagna.” I switch the cell phone to the other ear. “How was your date?”

“Victor didn’t have any plans to take me to the casino,” she says. “He drove way up to Grant Park just to make out. He was all over me, Sylvie! And when I told him to get off, he was blown away. He actually said, ‘But I don’t get it. I’ve got a condom.’ Ugh!”

Even after all the dating she’s done over the summer, Cassie’s still shocked that guys are basically jerks. Too many years of no experience. We laugh about tonight, but she’s lucky. Things could have turned out differently.

“Stick to nice guys from now on, why don’t you?” I say before hanging up, meaning it.

Just not Kevin nice.

After the phone call, I can’t sleep and I have nothing to do. I haven’t charged my phone since Dad moved out. The thing’s dying and Mom didn’t pack my charger, so I have no internet access. There’s no TV. No computer. Mom didn’t even pack a book in with my stuff. And my backpack is out in the living room where either Dad or Sam must be sleeping on the floor. So, I have a lot of time for introspection. Mom would be thrilled:
introspection
is her word. Goes along with the yoga.

Dad doesn’t have any curtains. The street light shines right into the room, right onto me like a spotlight in an interrogation:
Who do you think you are, anyways?
I lie on the floor, my thoughts keeping me awake, slamming constantly into each other in my brain, ripping away my resolve to stay stoic.

I think about the time we all camped out up north at Luna White Deer. I must have been six, maybe seven. Sam and I took turns jumping from a huge moss covered rock in the forest. On my third jump off, I twisted my ankle. That was before things got bad with me. Before I had lots of “incidents.” There was no checklist yet as to what to test when I got hurt. No constant questions or calls to the doctor. There were just my Dad’s strong arms around me and his kisses on my forehead. Just my mom’s gentle grip on my ankle, doing magic with a bandage and her fingers. No one freaked. Instead, the four of us made popcorn by shaking a metal box full of kernels over the fire. Sam threw the burnt pieces towards the targets I drew in the dirt with a stick. And Mom and Dad fought over who got the last cold beer.

Not over the cost of my medical insurance.

Or whether all the tests are helping or hurting.

Or about their lack of time together as a regular couple.

Or because all my mom’s energy is spent worrying. About me.

I break down. For the first time since Mom and Dad have separated, my tears get the best of me, and I cry until nothing more comes. My head is pounding and my insides feel like they’ve gone through a cheese grater.

It’ll be okay
, I tell myself.
Everything will be okay. All will be okay.
I concentrate so hard on making myself believe it, that I don’t notice right away when my limbs go numb. I take a breath to brace myself, knowing I can’t control what comes next. And with a pop I’m out of my body.

I wait, fear keeping me still and silent. But I don’t hear the hissing. I slowly gaze around me. No shadows. No menacing fingers.

Thank God. They ruin everything.

Navigation outside my body isn’t easy. I’ve been slipping out of my flesh for eleven years and I still move like I’m drunk. Plus, I never know how long I have before I’m sucked back into my skin. That’s the worst part. The not knowing when it will happen and when it will stop.

I move towards the window and race through the wall instead, right through the layers of plaster and wood. It feels like going through a puff of steam.

Outside it’s humid, and I feel the stickiness instinctively rather than physically. I bask in the night air, taking in the way reality is amplified when I’m not in my body. The whole experience is like it used to be, when I was happy and didn’t encounter the shadows: it’s soothing and lovely. The moon is honey gold, and paints the roofs with its glow. Fireflies create a light show in the darkness while crickets provide the background music. All the pain I felt earlier melts like chocolate in the palm of my hand.

I’m free and light and calm.

Sometimes this out-of-body stuff is a major affliction.

But sometimes, it’s a gift.

Eight

A Memory: The Truth, Nothing but the Truth

Age thirteen was the year of sleepovers for me and Cass. I’m not sure why, except maybe because right after catching us in the backyard my mom was vigilant. The only way for us to have midnight conversations was to invite each other over to sleep, since no way in hell would Mom authorize a cell phone for me until high school.