It was time to move again. Mattie and I were arguing about everything, mostly because of my frequent “flu” spells. There was no way I could continue homeschooling her in the Mouse House in my condition. I decided we had to return to Bozeman so she could enroll in the same elementary school that the boys had attended.
Suzy Nixon, a friend of mine, said her boyfriend wanted to hire me. He lived in California and was the absentee owner of two Bozeman businesses that were hemorrhaging cash. Suzy had bragged about how well I had managed the Leaf and Bean and Poor Richard’s, so he hired me by phone. He told me to start work the next morning, because the sheriff would be escorting his shops’ current managers, a couple, out the door at 9:00 a.m., and he wanted me there.
I told Mattie and Calen that I had no intention of selling the Mouse House and the adjoining studio, where Calen stayed. We could use it on weekends as a getaway.
Suzy invited us to stay at her house with her three children until we could find an apartment. In addition to my kids, I brought along three dogs. Suzy had dogs, too, as well as cats. We had two women, five children, five dogs, and seven cats all under one roof. It helped that Mattie was close friends with Suzy’s daughter, Madison, who was the same age. Suzy’s sons, George and Tommy, were friends with Calen and Sander, although Sander was still at boarding school.
I jumped right into my new job and quickly deduced that both businesses were heading for bankruptcy. Suzy’s boyfriend asked me to keep them open as long as possible so he could consider his options. I spent most of my time fending off creditors. It was exhausting, and by the end of each workday I was badly in need of a drink—or so I thought.
Suzy and I soon developed a routine. I would come home from work in my business clothes, briefcase in hand, and yell, “Honey! I’m home!” She would laugh and pour me a large goblet of red wine. Suzy would cook dinner, and afterward I would wash the dishes while she gave our girls and Tommy their baths. I would read to them and put them to bed. We worked well together, but the stress of so many people living under the same roof and the pressure from my job soon got to all of us. After several weeks, Mattie, Calen, and I moved into an apartment over one of the stores that I was overseeing.
Living downtown without a man in my life caused me to fall into my old habits. Each evening, I would meet my girlfriends at a restaurant and bar called Boodles to let off steam. Suzy would join us. We would congregate at the end of the bar, where there was a group of green-velvet-covered stools unofficially reserved for us. Liza Hella, a concert pianist and former San Francisco model and actress, Suzy, and I were the regulars. Sometimes my friend Pam Roberts, who produced documentary films, would be there, as well as some other women who owned downtown businesses. On some weekend nights, after the bar closed, we would move to Suzy’s house. The three of us were blondes, and we began getting quite a reputation for our antics and partying ways. At Boodles, I made fast friends with several men, as only drunks can do, over many drinks. Most were local businessmen who stopped in for a nightly drink or two. I told myself that I needed the adult company, but I was really after the alcohol.
As I had predicted, the two businesses that I was managing had to be shut down, and I was out of work. Because we were living above them in a tiny apartment, I needed to find a new house for us. I was tired of walking everywhere and tired of living with three dogs and two children in such close quarters. I had to walk the dogs very late at night so no one would see they were off lead. Through a friend, I met Mike Shafer, a roofer with broad shoulders, huge biceps, and wild, long hair. We decided to share the cost of renting a house. I developed an immediate crush on him and started acting seductive. I would find one of his T-shirts lying around the house and breathe in his scent. I decided to try to get him into bed, but despite my efforts Mike spurned my advances. That had never happened before, and I was incredibly frustrated, but I learned that I could actually become friends with an attractive man without bedding him.
Seven-year-old Mattie adored Mike, especially when he would hoist her up onto his shoulders and “gallop” from our house down the street to a Dairy Queen for ice cream. He taught her how to ride a bike. She also continued to see her father, Noah, who took her out for meals and on jaunts to visit his family.
Mike tolerated Calen but mostly avoided him because his actions were growing more and more bizarre. One afternoon Mike and I were in the kitchen discussing whether or not we needed a new refrigerator when Calen burst in and lunged toward me.
“What the fuck are you saying about me?” Calen screamed.
Mike stepped between us. I couldn’t physically control Calen, who by then was six feet tall and weighed more than 175 pounds. Mike could, if he needed to. Calen glared at us and left the room without saying another word.
Mike and I decided to buy a house together on Rouse Avenue because I had good credit and he had the cash. Calen moved into a loft above a garage next to the house. Mattie, Mike, and I each got our own bedroom.
Almost immediately, Calen’s moods worsened. He looked haggard and was lost in his own thoughts. By the fall of 1998, nearly all Calen’s friends had stopped coming to see him. Even his three-legged border collie, Jack, seemed to sense something wasn’t right and began hanging out in the house with us instead of in Calen’s garage-loft bedroom.
The Bozeman psychiatrist treating Calen prescribed a strong antipsychotic, Seroquel, commonly used to treat bipolar disorder. But it didn’t seem to help.
Unsure how to help Calen and with no job to keep me occupied, I began spending my days watching the clock, anxiously waiting for happy hour at Boodles. It was my escape. But my coming home late, drunk, and noisy soon got on Mike’s nerves, especially since his roofing job required him to leave the house before daybreak. I promised that I would be quiet when I came home, and I meant it, but I was always tipsy when I got in and I was always loud.
Calen recognized that he needed help, and he asked me to take him to a naturopath in Bozeman because he had become suspicious of his psychiatrist. The naturopath told Calen that his body was out of harmony physically, mentally, and spiritually. The first step to getting in sync was to stop taking his antipsychotic medication and begin using only natural plants and minerals as remedies. This naturopath further advised Calen that his mental confusion was being caused by his liver, which had fallen out of whack because of the deep-seated anger that Calen felt toward Tom and me for divorcing.
Calen bought it hook, line, and sinker and immediately stopped taking Seroquel. He went on a strict natural diet, as prescribed by the healer. Within days, Calen was in even worse mental shape.
Frantic, I persuaded Calen to visit a counselor, since he didn’t want to return to his psychiatrist. He didn’t like the medication his psychiatrist was prescribing for him. He hated how drugged it made him feel. The counselor told me that he thought Calen would benefit from going on a “personal vision quest.” Calen would be left in the mountains with only the barest essentials. Surviving on his own for three to four days would force him to take a hard look at himself and eventually help him stop his “negative behavior.” Thank goodness Tom and I refused to allow Calen to go on this “quest.” We realized that this counselor knew nothing about serious mental illness, even less than we knew, which was not much.
One afternoon when Calen and I were sitting in the living room, my friend Pam dropped by for a visit. Calen was sitting on the couch, rocking back and forth while keeping his feet frozen in one spot. The pupils in his blue eyes were so dilated that they looked jet black. Pam saw him and asked me to leave the room.
Then, when Pam asked Calen if he was feeling okay, he burst into tears and told her that he was hearing voices.
“What are they telling you?” she asked.
“That I don’t know anything. I’m stupid. I’m a piece of shit.”
“Calen. Don’t listen to them. You’re not stupid.”
“They’re watching me, too,” he added.
“Who? Who’s watching you?”
“Them. They have eyes everywhere. They’ve hidden cameras in the walls.”
Pam took me aside. “I think Calen has schizophrenia,” she said. “You need to get him help, get him to a psychiatrist.”
I didn’t know what schizophrenia looked like, but my firstborn could simply not have it.
My father also was concerned. “Jess,” Dad said during a visit, “you’ve got to do something.”
By Thanksgiving, everyone in my family knew Calen was mentally unstable. Yet no one seemed to know what to do about it, or if they did they didn’t tell me.
When I mentioned that Pam thought Calen might have schizophrenia, the reactions in my family were pretty much the same. Schizophrenia? That was an illness for other people, people we didn’t know, people locked up in asylums. It wasn’t something that could happen in our family and definitely not something that could happen to my son. There were two cases of schizophrenia in the Moore family, but we didn’t talk about them. These individuals had been sent to live in asylums, and one, younger than me, had died. I remembered this cousin and had loved her when I was young. She had been a sweet girl. Schizophrenia? No. This couldn’t be something Calen would be saddled with. Not Calen.