Castles On The Sand Part 20

But he smirks at me. He doesn't mind.

"I shouldn't laugh."

"It's okay."

"I totally do not want to mock your mother."

"I know. You're nice. To everyone."

"No I'm not."

"Fine. To most people then."

Madison, I think, this is a pointless thing to argue about. "So... what's your mom's condition like? Schizophrenia. Isn't that the one where you have multiple personalities-"

"No. I don't know how everyone got that confused, but what you're talking about is called Dissociative Ident.i.ty Disorder, and it may not even be a recognized disorder for much longer. The whole multiple personalities thing is really, really rare. A lot of psychiatrists don't believe it really exists. Schizophrenia's just a psychotic disorder."

"Where a person sees stuff?"

"And hears it. Schizophrenics often have delusions."

"What does that actually mean? Having a delusion? Is it like when people call you delusional as an insult?"

"That you live in an imaginary world, basically, yeah. People think they're private detectives or superstars, or aliens, or other ones that don't make much sense. Schizophrenics' minds are just... they don't work right. I'm not describing that real well."

"So what caused it? Your dad dying?"

He shakes his head. "It's genetic, as best anyone can tell. She had it before he died, and one of her delusions is that he isn't dead. She still sees and talks to him."

"Oh. And she sees people coming to get her-"

"If you scare her. Not usually."

"So is schizophrenia hereditary?"

"Yeah. But it's pretty rare. My family only has this one case."

"Well, obviously you don't have it. I didn't mean to say-"

"It doesn't show until a person's late teens or early twenties."

"Oh."

"So I'm probably safe, but I won't know for sure for about ten years."

"That's gotta be hard, though. Wondering."

He shrugs. "At least I have some warning. Coulda been like my mom, whose family didn't know what was going on. You could have it too, you know."

"Thanks for that."

"Just sayin'."

"But if you're praying and stuff and investigating Mormonism..."

"Do I wonder if the answers I feel might be delusions? Sure. Guess that's why religion works best as a group activity."

"So that you can compare notes?"

"Something like that. You pay attention, you know? Is what you're going through making your mind clouded or clear? Is life better or worse? Is it easier or harder to interact with people?"

I think that over. "How is it so far?"

"Yeah. It's gone better than I expected. First time I went to church, I was sure they'd just throw me out. Tell me I wasn't welcome. I mean, those people are all the sheltered, suburban, ca.s.serole eating types. It's not like I was ever allowed to go over to their houses to play when I was a kid. But when I walked in, they were not just okay with me being there. They were happy about it. They wanted me there."

"Well, that's cool."

"It is, but it also means I really gotta think about stuff. Any religion worth having is one where you'd go even if everyone hated you, you know? It can't be about other people or superficial stuff."

"So, not to be rude, but why did you go? I mean, I gave you that card and you cut-"

"I remember."

"It's kind of funny, in hindsight."

"Sure it is." He rolls his eyes again.

I shrug.

"You remember what you said to me?"

"Don't be a jerk?"

"You told me I didn't have to be a jerk. And you were right. I did what I always do, which is push you away, try to freak you out so you don't even try to talk to me. Which doesn't work with you."

"I left you alone."

"After telling me off some more, and a week later you're mouthing off to me on Main Street in the middle of the night."

"You threatened to chase me-"

"I know what I said."

"You were a total jerk."

"Yes I was. I'm used to shoving people away. I'm used to defending myself from people who think I belong in jail and my mom belongs in an inst.i.tution."

"You realize that just makes people-"

"Want to throw me in jail. Yeah, yeah, I know. I figured that out, okay? I mean, I guess I always knew, but I didn't care. Those times, I figured out that I'd missed two chances to just be nice to someone who's nice to everyone, and I wondered if I miss a lot of chances like that. Thing is, I didn't know what to do about it, and then I remembered the smiling girl on the card... and some other stuff happened... I figured I had nothing to lose."

"My brother would be so proud of me."

"Yes, I'm sure he would."

"You know him?"

"I know about him. Come on, the big fight in front of Jacksons with your mom? Everyone knows."

"Didn't know you paid attention to that kind of stuff."

"Nah. I don't."

I realize that I've cut off circulation in one of my legs and shift my weight. Pins and needles spread down to my foot, which I rub to get the sensation to go away.

"Listen," says Alex, "if my mom makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to be around her. I understand."

"Huh? No. I mean, fine if you want time alone with her, but I volunteered to come, you know?"

"I know she freaks people out."

"Is there anything I need to be careful not to do? Besides threaten her?"

"Yeah, no calling her a jerk or creepy or telling her off."

I flip my hair back over my shoulder. "I only do that to jerks and creeps."

"I know." He says it without irony. "I was kidding. No, there's nothing really to do or not to do. If she makes you uncomfortable, let me know. She might want to touch your face. She does that a lot to people."

"Okay."

"But she's never violent or anything. Most mentally ill people aren't."

"And there will be other people there, right? With different things wrong?"

"I'm thinking I'll just take my mom out. Go somewhere and get dinner."

"You can do that?"

"Yeah. If you're a relative."

"Okay." This whole outing isn't quite as daunting as it seemed at the outset. "So, does anyone at church help you with this at all? I mean, do they even offer any kind of services or anything like that?"

"I don't know. I don't ask. I'm not ready for that. Last thing I want is to get my mom involved and then decide I don't want to join."

"Oh, yeah. That's smart."

"Thank you, by the way," says Alex.

"For?"

He laughs. "For? Coming. Helping me."

"Yeah, sure."

"Your mom gonna worry about you if we get back kind of late?"

"Uh, you ever see my mom worry about me?"

"I wouldn't know."

"No. She doesn't even care if she hears me sneaking back into the house." I glance at my phone.

"Time to call your brother?"

"No, not until I get there, so if you kill me now, you have about an hour before he calls the police."

"I really won't hurt you. I wouldn't, okay? Ever."

"But you think he should worry?"

"If I had a sister as cute as you, I'd probably sneak a GPS tracker into her purse."

Cute? Alex called me cute? To my face? I don't know how to respond.

But he doesn't seem to care, just keeps driving as if it's nothing, and after a moment, I realize that maybe it is.

I wake up to the sound of Alex pulling the parking brake and wonder when it was I drifted off. It must've been a while ago because my legs and back are cramped from me being curled up. I unbend slowly, wincing at the muscle twinges as I extend first one leg, then the other. We're in a parking lot of a large, concrete building that looks more like a prison than a hospital. There's even a fence with razorwire. We're inland now; I can't tell how far, but there's no hint of beach or bluffs in any direction, just forest. My back pops as I sit up straight.

"Call your brother," says Alex.

I tap out a text instead: I'm not dead. Call off the dogs.

Alex gets out his side and through his open door comes chill air that smells like pine sap. I zip up my coat before I get out my side and I wonder if I've got weird marks on my face from his upholstery. I can't feel any with a brush of my fingers over my skin. I'm sure it's very red, at least, and that my hair's flat on one side. As I follow him towards the building, I do my best to fluff it, running my fingers through the roots and teasing it back into shape.

The front door of this place leads into what looks like a hospital lobby. Alex goes straight to the desk and leans against it. When the woman talks to him, he answers her, so I hang back. He seems not to need any help from me.

After a brief exchange, the woman directs us to sit on a row of chairs, the generic industrial kind that are all welded together with shared armrests. Alex is fidgety, his fingers tapping together. I can almost see him mime the act of flipping his lighter.

But before we can even get comfortable, if it even is possible to get comfortable in chairs like that, the elevator door at the back of the lobby opens and out walks a guy in scrubs and Grace Katsumoto, who wears her usual skirt, sweater, and blouse. She looks so normal. I hadn't known what to expect. A hospital gown, maybe? A straightjacket? I figure this is a good time to keep my mouth shut and my ears open.

She looks at me with curiosity before giving Alex a warm hug. "Are we going home?" she asks.

"No. Just getting dinner."

"When am I going home?"

"I'm working on that, okay Mom?"