Gray

Chapter 19

I fly back to Chicago for a week. Have a minor panic attack on the ride to LAX. Take three Ativans to settle myself down. This is becoming a daily occurrence. When I land at O'Hare, no one is there to greet me. I take a cab to my apartment, realize I don't have my keys, make the driver take me to my parents' house. My mom asks me if everything is okay. I tell her I don't know and go to sleep in my old bed. I wake up a day later, my cell phone on the floor, the message light blink- ing violently. I go to Her apartment. Her bed isn't made. Nothing is sadder than an unmade bed. We go see Her mother in the hospital. We hug awkwardly, and I can feel her shoulders twitching as I hold her. Spend the next few days wandering the hallways, poking my head into mysterious, darkened rooms, eating french fries in the cafeteria. I smoke cigarettes with Her outside the emergency room. We don't talk about much. At night, I hold Her while she sleeps. We don't have sex. Her mother doesn't die. All in all, it was a bad trip. 

As I am waiting for my return flight, I am suddenly and inexplicably overcome with terror. I shouldn't be leaving. I should stay here where I am safe. The floor goes out from underneath me. My pupils become black holes. I am shaking and sweating, my stomach is tumbling. Tears are streaming down my face. I fumble for my phone, call Her to come save me. She tells me to calm down, that she will call me when she's done talking to the doctors. My flight will be gone by then, and so will I. She tells me to take my medication and says she has to go. Silence on the other end. I was calling for a little compassion. I got none. I am aware of the irony of the situ- ation. 

I swallow a handful of Ativans—who's counting anymore?—and crash out on the plane. I ar- rive back in Los Angeles, call the Disaster to see if anyone died while I was gone. He asks me if I'm all right. I tell him I don't know and hang up. I call Her to say I made it to LA. Voice mail. When I get back to the Oakwoods, I close my blinds and crawl into bed. I pull the sheets over my head and try to imagine what it would be like to be dead. The air-conditioning kicks on. Out- side, silicone and meat are stewing in the hot tub. I fall asleep flat on my back, my arms at my side, like a cadaver. I wake up a day later, when Martin starts pounding on my door. He comes into my room and sits in the corner, asking me if I feel okay, if I need a doctor. He doesn't say it, but I can tell he's worried that I've gone off the deep end. I don't blame him. I'm worried too. I can't even begin to explain what's happening to me.

I am informed that some doctors in Los Angeles can get you anything you need, no questions asked. They will even come to your "temporary furnished and serviced apartments" if necessary. They are quick with the diagnosis and even quicker with the prescription pad. I figure now is as good a time as any for a consultation. The Disaster knows a guy who knows a guy, so I have him summon a doctor to my bedroom. A slick-talking guy, with a wide tie and a white smile. Tan. Pager on his belt. He looks like he just stepped off the set of a soap opera. Maybe he did. It doesn't matter all that much. He listens to me talk for a while, then whips out the pad and gives me a script for Zoloft. The little, blue miracle workers. He doesn't even ask if I'm taking any other medications, probably because he knows the answer already. Or he doesn't care. If only Chicago had doctors like him. As he's leaving, he gives me his pager number, tells me to call if I need anything. I am now officially taking meds for anxiety and depression. I am now officially under his care. 

 • • • 

 A week or so later—who's counting anymore?—I am wandering the aisles of a bookstore in a haze, and during a momentary break in the clouds, I find myself staring at The Pill Book, "the illustrated guide to the most-prescribed drugs in the United States," according to a blurb on the cover. I have always liked illustrations, so I buy it. Thousands of pills are listed inside, of every shape and size, potency, ability. They have fantastically foreign-sounding names, such as Aba- cavir and Norvasc and Zaroxolyn, that clog the tongue and bunch the lips. Betatrex and Cerebyx, Lorazepam and Mevacor, Questran and Rynatan. My old friend Ativan. My new nemesis Copax- one. Anoquan. Decadron. Guaifenex. Norethin. Roxicet. Warfarin. Names that recall distant gal- axies hovering on the rim of space. Placid resort towns in Arizona. Snow-dotted villages in New England. Sterile stops on the sterling-silver superhighway of tomorrow. Misty, quartz-powered home worlds of superheroes. Letters seemingly chosen at random to make words—new words, a new language, a new world. Alphabet soup. Flurries. Each of them is a unique, little snowflake. Each of them is beautiful.