Page 57 of Score
“You have more energy than you’ve ever had. You’re productive and feel like you can accomplish anything. You’re the life of the party. You might be more confident. Bolder.”
My hands shake as I recall the weeks leading up to everything goingso horribly wrong. The reserve that was so much a part of who I’ve always been seemed to melt away. I’d felt invincible those last few weeks. My presentation in Professor Rollins’s class was one of the best of my life. And I literally danced on a table.
“But then it starts veering out of that sweet spot we call hypomania,” Dr. Simmons says, “into true mania. It would be characterized by symptoms like forced speech and—”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand to stop her before she goes any further. “What’s forced speech?”
“Words just pour out of you, fast and nonstop. You might talk over others because you literally have troublenotsaying every thought that passes through your mind.” Dr. Simmons raises her brows as if to saySound familiar?I stay quiet and wait for her to go on. “We often see outrageous spending sprees, being irresponsible with money, out-of-character sexual behavior.”
“Are you serious?” I gasp. “People do things sexually they wouldn’t normally do?”
“In some cases, yes, unfortunately.” Dr. Simmons offers a sympathetic glance, but speaks firmly. “If not appropriately addressed, these episodes can spiral into hallucinations, fixations, obsessions. It can become incredibly destructive.”
Destructive.Yeah, that’s one way to put it. I destroyed my college career. At least a few friendships.
The best relationship I’ve ever had.
“Your aunt Rosalyn was telling me some of your family history,” Dr. Simmons continues. “What happened with your mother and father.”
I stiffen, my fingers clawing the sheets.
“It seems your father may have been dealing with some undiagnosed SMI,” Dr. Simmons suggests, smiling wryly at my blank stare. “Sorry. Severe mental illness. We can’t know for sure what his condition may have been, but bipolarity is highly genetic, andifyour father was undiagnosed bipolar, the chances that you could also have bipolar disorder would be very high.”
“I’m not… no, I’m not like him,” I croak, shaking my head from side to side furiously. “Aunt Roz, you know I would never… do what he did. I’m not him.”
And yet the picture Dr. Simmons painted makes sense of everything that happened from the time I had to leave USC to last week’s disastrous episode. If she’s right, if I have bipolar, then as shattered as my heart is now, leaving Wright Bellamy was the kindest thing I could have done. I’ve seen how a love like this—tethered to something wild and dark—decimates. I saw it in the charred rubble of our house and in my parents’ gravestones planted in the earth, set together like two lovers.
I love Monk too much to ever let that be us.
Movement Two
“A burnt child loves the fire.”
—Oscar Wilde,The Picture of Dorian Gray
EIGHTEEN
Verity
Eleven Years Old
“Bernadette!”
My mother’s name bellows throughout the house, slamming against my bedroom wall.
I jerk awake in bed, my night-light offering the only break in the room’s darkness.
“Will,” Mama says, her voice quiet, but not so quiet that I don’t hear. “Verity’s asleep. Calm your ass down before you wake her up.”
“Fuck that! Ain’t no calming down when you cheating on me!” Daddy’s voice lifts and breaks. “I knew it. I been asking you and you been lying.”
“I haven’t,” Mama says in that way I think is supposed to soothe my father, but when he gets like this, especially if he’s been drinking, there is no soothing. Mama says he’s not a mean man, but he gets mean ways at the bottom of a bottle. He’s a storm you just have to ride out.
“Gimme that phone!” Daddy shouts, his words sharp, but a little sloppy like they’re sloshing in his mouth with tonight’s liquor.
“Now I told you there’s no text from nobody, Will!” Mama yells back.
I huddle under the covers with a pillow wrapped around my head, praying for Daddy to pass out or for the sun to rise, whichever comes first. Sometimes it seems like there’s two of him. The one who walks me to the bus stop at the end of our long gravel driveway and takes me to the library and helps braid my hair on days when Mama’s running behind, and the man in the front room now—accusing Mama of things that aren’t true and throwing stuff. When he’s not like this, they’re all cuddled up at the sink,Daddy’s hand on Mama’s butt. Mama whispering in his ear and giggling. Daddy kissing her neck, grossing me out. When they fight, it’sBernadette. When he’s himself, she’s back to being hisBernie. Not many Bernie days lately.
