Novus - Latin. Adj. meaning new
She hasn't always been a light sleeper.
She remembers as a child how she could fall asleep anywhere and stay that way. She could lie down to rest her head for a moment and be dead to the world the next. She recalls drifting off in the backseat of her mother's car, on the porch swing in the yard, against her father's strong shoulder.
She wonders about the surrender; the energy it takes now for her to let her guard down, to drift unconscious, to fall asleep. She studies the way her baby brother does it, the effortless way Eli slumbers. He tumbles into rest without thought because he knows, without fully understanding, just how safe and secure he is.
At one, Eli's world is simple, small, and untouched as it should be. She is sure that the reckless abandon with which her brother relinquishes consciousness has something to do with a quiet mind.
A desire to yield to rest that is stronger than the compulsion to control.
She shakes her head against the silk of her pillowcase at the thought of how fast her brother is growing. Eli. She missed his first birthday because she had been In.
In-patient psychiatric treatment, therapy, rehab, help.
Thirty days was the prescribed sentence. Sixty had been her idea.
On the inside, she felt insulated and safe. Her actions were compartmentalized, analyzed, and learned from. Outside, her actions had consequences and she felt sure that thirty days wasn't enough for her to face all she had done. She heard the whispers about how few patients voluntarily commit themselves for a longer period, but she'd assured her mother it was right. She was all right and she would be better for it, so she stayed.
She hasn't let herself examine the implications behind her reasoning. The fear she has felt, the rootlessness, the anxiety that has nothing to do with her diagnosis but everything to do with being aimless.
Inside, she had made progress, gotten herself clean, and worked toward goals. Outside, she has lost months of her life, semesters of school, her brother's first birthday. She had come home in early December to her parents house, to her childhood bedroom, with a file folder full of reports about all the positive improvements she has made on the inside.
On the outside, none of that seems to matter. From the outside, she still looks like failure.
She now knows what's wrong though and that has to count for something. Bi-polar disorder. Two loaded words that gave her a diagnosis and with it came answers. Her "high highs and low lows" were identified and classified with names like "manic" and "depressive." Her inability to concentrate, her loss of focus, her erratic behavior, her brilliant ideas that one day seemed to energize her beyond recognition and the next to drain the life out of her for weeks on end.
The sex, the drugs, the lies...
She gasps sharply into the quiet of her empty room and shakes her head once more. Don't go there.
She can't think about how she has disturbed everything. How her family all seems to tip-toe around her as though she is a fragile porcelain doll like the ones she and Maureen used to play with at her grandmother's home. There had been one doll for each of them, with curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and little floral dresses that Grandma Bee made out of the cheap fabric she found in the odds and ends bin at the craft shop. She remembers a time when she sat her doll too close to the edge of the dresser and the harrowing childhood memory of hearing the crash against the hardwood floor moments later.
She sees the fear of the crash in her mother's eyes every time she looks at her. Her mother hasn't let her out of her sight for weeks. She knows her mother blames herself for leaving her alone long enough for that near-fatal overdose that she doesn't even remember...
She only knows about it because she has heard them talking about her.
Between their quick perfunctory words to each other like the baby tried pudding today and the repair man comes tomorrow, she has heard them. Late into the night and in the stolen moments between her father's unpredictable hours and her baby brother's sleeping schedule, she has heard them. Her parents' hushed voices sometimes rising briefly and passionately as they try to make some sense of her before crashing into the rocks like the volatile tide.
The tide.
It reminds her. She has learned that there is a genetic component to bi-polar disorder. Her grandmother, Bernadette. Her eclectic, eccentric, extravagant grandmother is her own personal link. She wonders about her. How she lives alone in that reclusive hideaway on Long Beach Island.
No one is there to judge her grandmother, to worry about her, to weigh her every move. She sees the appeal, but knows that she would never be allowed to go.
Who in their right mind would leave the two family headcases alone together? Still, she wonders about the house and whether it would feel like a reprieve or more like she was running away. She also wonders about what it took for her grandmother to see her like that, her granddaughter, in prison...
She stood in the dark at the top of the stairs last night on her way back from brushing her teeth in the bathroom and she listened for the sound of her parents' voices, but they never came. They didn't talk about her. They didn't talk about anything.
She wonders what kind of tenuous silent consensus they have come to about her life, but have yet to let her in on. She wonders about her parents, about what she has done to them, about what she has cost them both.
Don't go there.
She sits up on the side of her bed and lets her toes brush against the soft carpet. Without school, or work, or life outside the house, she doesn't know where she stands. Her mother keeps insisting that her only job right now is simply to be. Not to worry about anything, simply to be, to exist. But she has been for a month now and the stagnation and silence are slowly suffocating her.
Sometimes she feels like a ghost, haunting them all because there are moments she isn't sure she still exists - at least not the same way she did before.
She is restless.
She glances up at her open planner that sits atop her vanity. She avoids her own gaze in the mirror reflected back at her through the shadows of the early morning. She wraps her bare arms around herself against the chill of her room and squints her tired eyes to read her own handwriting.
Sandra - 1:00pm
She has a session this afternoon, but for the first time since she has come home, she doesn't want to go. The medication is working and it's a God-send. It's helping. She is the first to admit it. It's the one thing she feels like she can control and so she takes it religiously.
The therapy, on the other hand...She has been working with the same therapist she was paired with during her time in treatment. Sandra is a great help, but there is only so much that she can do. Only so far they can go together. She feels as though they've reached a stalemate, a plateau, and she also knows why.
It's simple.
The real world is different and she is changing. Or at least she is trying to.
She isn't sure what she wants or what she is looking for, but she thinks if she could just have a moment beside someone who didn't look at her like she has been ill, insane, or away for too damn long. She doesn't want to talk because she isn't sure she has anything left to say. She thinks it's funny how when someone is in therapy, people always call it "seeing someone."
She is seeing someone for her issues.
She doesn't want to see anyone anymore. She has decided that what she needs more than that is for someone to see her.
She pulls the worn blue sweatshirt from the floor at the base of her bed and slips it on over her soft pajamas. She hugs herself, tugging her knees to her chest, and burrowing her feet back into the warmth of her comforter.
She takes a deep breath and tries to let the air settle deep into her lungs. She can't go back there. She doesn't know how or why she knows this, but it's a conviction deep inside of her that is telling her she needs to try something new. She is well aware her mother will never knowingly allow her to miss a session, but she can't explain to her mother what she doesn't yet understand herself. She just knows she can't keep repeating the same behavior over and over and expect a different outcome. Someone once called that the definition of insanity. She almost laughs aloud because the irony isn't lost on her...
She has an idea. One that she has been tossing around inside of her for days. It's a little far-fetched, but she can't shake the peculiar feeling it's important that she try.
All at once she hears him.
The soft rumble of her father's voice in the hallway. There is a familiar cadence his voice takes on when he speaks this way and so she knows he can only be talking to one person in the entire world. She hears him call his partner by her name, the word he uses that doubles as an endearing nickname, and all at once she understands.
She has to find a new way to live.
She sways back and forth on her feet just enough to keep her baby brother comfortable.
Eli's light curls are wild from sleep and his ocean blue eyes are serious in his survey of her, as if he is about to ask her what the hell she thinks she is doing.
In the ten minutes since her father left for work and her mother stepped into the shower, she has rescued the fussy baby from his crib and called her therapist's office to leave a message, in her best imitation of her mother's voice, cancelling her session for this afternoon. Her brother had fussed on her hip through the brief phone call and she wants to thank him because he has unknowingly made her sound all the more convincing. She almost laughs at how Eli, of all people, has become her accomplice.
She presses a kiss to the top of his head and silently fights the irrational fear that she is already a bad influence on this kid.
"It's for a good reason, I promise," she whispers, rationalizing her actions at the same moment she gives her brother her word that this is the last time she will deceive anyone. She takes a deep breath and follows it with another.
She needs one more favor, just one.
She knows that she won't be allowed to go into the city by herself and her mother will literally walk her to her therapist's doorstep, but her sister is off from school today. A teachers in-service day that is almost too timely to be a coincidence.
Eli tugs on the long strands of her hair that have escaped from her loose ponytail as she carries him back up the stairs. The morning light is just starting to drift along the floor leading down the hall. She can hear the steady sound of the shower running behind the bathroom door and it gives her time, mere moments, but she hopes it will be just enough.
"Hey mister! That's mine," she whispers in playful admonishment, gently prying her blonde locks from the baby's chubby little fist.
Eli protests emphatically in babbled syllables before she shakes her head so that her ponytail swishes over her shoulder. He watches the motion and giggles madly. She kisses his forehead in the instant before he grabs another handful of her hair. She lets him go because she knows this particular battle is one she is not going to win.
She stops her bare feet where the shadows end and the sunlight begins on the carpet and taps lightly on the half open bedroom door. Her younger sister is still cuddled in bed, propped up on pillows while she reads.
"Liz?" She says quietly, but Elizabeth looks up so suddenly it's as if Kathleen had shouted her name. Her book slips from her slack grasp to land with a soft thump on the floor.
"Are you okay?" Lizzie asks, sitting up and passing too quickly from relaxed and reading to concerned and conscientious for Kathleen's liking.
She nods as Eli chimes in and he is either affirming her well-being in so many nonsense baby words or spilling her secrets, she can't be sure. She leans against the doorframe, adjusting Eli on her hip as she takes her sister in. Lizzie's hair is mussed from sleep. There is an imprint from a crease in the fabric of her pillowcase that is fading slowly from the fair skin of her cheek. Her brow is furrowed and she surveys her with a tentative brand of curiosity that seems too old for her only-just-sixteen year old sister.
"I wanted to ask you," Kathleen starts, choosing her words carefully. "Would you wanna drive me to my appointment?"
Elizabeth's blue eyes light up as she leans forward on her bed. "Are you serious?" She asks eagerly. Kathleen knows that Lizzie has been excited for the chance to use her brand new driver's license to day-trip into the city.
"Yeah, I'd love to," she says, nodding enthusiastically before she asks the million dollar question. "Does Mom know?"
"Does Mom know what?"
They both hear the sound of their mother's voice issuing from down the hall at the same instant and Kathleen doesn't miss the look of apology that passes through her sister's eyes. Mom's voice sounds light, but somehow Lizzie seems to understand there are things her older sister has left unsaid and she wordlessly takes them it into careful consideration.
Kathleen turns to see their mother coming down the hallway. She is wrapped in her long fluffy teal bathrobe and wringing her blonde hair with a soft towel. Her mother smiles softly at her before she catches sight of her youngest on Kathleen's hip, playing contentedly with her ponytail.
Kathleen watches a brief but unmistakable flash of emotion cross her mother's pretty features before she reaches for the baby in her arms. Kathleen feels as though she has been struck by lightning.
"Eli! Oh no! Did he wake you up? Was he crying? Was he fussy?" She lets their mother's bubbling concern wash over her.
Irrationally, Kathleen doesn't want to let him go. Eli is comfortable against her side; he is sucking on his fingers and clutching at her hair. The warm weight of his little body is grounding her and without him she doesn't feel as though she has roots where she stands. She lets her mother take because she doesn't have footing anymore.
The loss of her brother is disorienting and she feels almost dizzy as she slips past her mother and down the hall.
"We were just saying...I'm gonna take Kathleen to her appointment at one." She hears her sister take over, talking smoothly, confidently, assuredly. Without missing a beat.
She owes her sister, for much more than this.
"There's this new music store I've been wanting to stop by. It's right down the block. I'm looking for some-"
"Sweetheart, where are you going?" Mom interrupts Lizzie's explanation. Kathleen knows that she means well, but in this moment her mother's voice is full of ill-disguised worry and suddenly she is drowning on dry land. She turns at the top of the stairs to meet her mother's eyes.
"I need some air," she explains sharply. She can't breath up here in the hallway beneath her mother's scrutiny and her sister's care. She needs, she needs...
The morning is crisp and cold and full of clouds. It is the kind of late winter morning that is easy on the eyes with its soft gray clouds that hide peeks of the sun. The blanket of snow still covers the ground and if she looks hard enough she can see the faint imprints of her brother's tiny footprints from yesterday when he had been bundled to the hilt and taken his first wobbly steps in snow far too deep for his tiny legs. Her father's deep footprints are there, too. Right behind Eli's. Supporting him, holding him, making sure he didn't fall.
She takes a breath and the cold air bites at her throat, but somehow she finds it easier to breathe out here. She tries to quell the trembling which has started in her arms that she knows has nothing to do with the temperature. She thinks back to moments ago and shame creeps through her veins. She knows she should not have left like that.
Everything she has learned during her time in treatment has taught her the importance of sitting and staying in the discomfort, talking things out rather than running away and looking for a band-aid, but in this moment it feels like it's too much.
She needs to breathe.
She can't shake the memory of the look on her mother's face moments ago, when her mother realized she was holding Eli. Her mother had looked at her with the most recognizable of all emotions, undeniable fear. As though she was afraid that Eli wasn't safe with her, as if she would ever let anything happen to her baby brother.
Kathleen's stomach rolls at the thought and she focuses on the gentle scuff her blue slippers make on the snow dusted porch.
Her mother's anxiety isn't entirely unfounded. In her previous life, as she has taken to calling it, when she was out of her mind, she very well might have neglected Eli, forgotten him, done something so irresponsible that it would make it impossible for her to live with herself.
But now...Now, her mother's uneasiness doesn't add up to the person Kathleen is desperately trying to become. Her mother had looked at her like they had traveled back in time to five months ago when she would swing from high and full of overwhelming chaotic clashes to exhausted and emotionally crippled by her own mind.
She had lived like that for so long.
Realistically, she knows that she has to prove herself. She has to make sure her mother sees her for the good that she is frantically trying to find inside herself, for the stability she is groping for in the dark.
But that doesn't make it hurt any less.
She thinks of her younger sister. How Lizzie had just taken charge with their mother and spoken for her, covered for her, without having any reason to do so. Her little sister is respectable, responsible, and realistic. Elizabeth is everything Kathleen wishes that she could have been, should have been. There is no mystery when it comes to her sister. She is calm, quiet, and collected. She also has a heart of gold and a maternal streak that Kathleen will never allow herself to abuse. She shakes her head at the decisions she has made, continues to make, even in this moment.
Today.
She has asked Liz to take her into the city. So she can avoid her mother's hovering, so she can skip her therapy session, so she can look for answers somewhere different. She is essentially asking her sister to be her unwitting getaway driver. Kathleen reasons that what Lizzie doesn't know won't hurt her. She will make sure of it. She will keep her sister blind. She takes full responsibility for the consequences of what she is about to do.
She hugs herself for warmth, cocooning into the oversized sweatshirt that she wears. It's years old, maybe more than a decade, and it's too big for her. The elastic has worn out around the left wrist cuff and it has softened from being washed so many times, but she can't bear to part with it. She found it weeks ago, sitting on top of a pile of clothes marked "to donate" sitting outside of her parents bedroom and she had adopted it. It's hers now, but it used to belong to her father.
She remembers him wearing it around the house, on the long walk to the playground in the autumn. She remembers holding his hand, swinging playfully on his strong arm while he pulled Lizzie and Dickie in the wagon behind them. The left cuff had begun fraying way back then. She is sure at one point it had to have been whole, but her memory doesn't extend back to a time when she remembers.
All she knows is the sense of comfort that she finds when she wears it, like her father has left her something to keep her warm.
Her father. The man is an enigma. She has realized over her time in treatment and in the months since, that she knows next to nothing about the man she calls her Dad. She wonders how much of that is on purpose and how much of it is her own fault.
She feels the familiar prickle of emotion in her nose, across her cold cheeks, her damp eyelashes.
Her father hasn't looked at her since she came home. He kisses her on the top of her head when she sits at the breakfast table, brushes her shoulder with his palm when he is leaving for work, but he hasn't looked at her in months. He hasn't seen her and she isn't sure that he wants to.
She knows what she has to do. She has to make herself into someone worthy of being seen.