The nurses wouldn’t let us all stay in Dad’s room at once. Between the four of us and Craig, there was barely room for even one nurse. So Mom made me wait in the lobby while she went to get us all lunch at the cafeteria. Dad’s attorney sat next to me, talking on the phone to someone in his office about who the judge assigned to my dad’s case would be.
Joseph Klein had known my grandparents for years. He specialized in dealing with cases involving mentally ill defendants.
“Can you talk to me about my dad’s case?” I asked him when he hung up.
He nodded, distracted by his phone. “Yeah, sure. What do you want to know, Ms. Holman?”
“Sydney,” I corrected him.
He turned his phone face down on his lap. “Sydney,” he echoed. “What do you want to know?”
“Officer Mills said Dad wasn’t new to the system. How many times has he been arrested?”
Klein looked through his notes. “Twenty-seven,” he said after a minute.
I coughed, choking on my shock. “Twenty-seven?” I repeated. “For what?”
“Mostly disturbing the peace, public urination, drug possession, or public intoxication. Once for violating a restraining order. It’s always misdemeanor stuff. He’s not violent. Just a nuisance.”
I didn’t know I could feel better about my dad being arrested, but I guessed it could have been worse than misdemeanors. But my attention had snagged a sentence back. “A restraining order?”
Klein grimaced. “Yeah, he had an obsession with this reporter for a while.”
“From Channel One?” I asked, remembering his emails to my mom.
He nodded. “He’d wait for her outside the studio, and he emailed her constantly. He was convinced she was a CIA plant and that she was sending information about him to them through her news reports.”
Oh man. That sounded straight up paranoid. It must have been so terrifying to live like that.
“But he’s moved on from her, and his record has been pretty clean for the last few years.”
“That’s good, then?” I asked.
The lawyer’s grimace wasn’t comforting. “Yes and no. Between his poor health and his recent record, I can probably get his case dismissed. And even if not, I’ll have an easier time making a plea deal for him. But he doesn’t always take the deals. He thinks he’s being tricked and tries to take it to trial, where he’s found guilty and put in prison. Or given time served, in a few cases.”
“Have you ever had any luck getting him to take medication?” I asked. “I know he’s . . . reluctant. But can’t a judge order that he has to? I mean, can he even understand that he’s killing himself?”
Klein sighed and scrubbed his hands down his face. He was clearly exhausted by this process.
“We’ll know more when he’s awake and we can try to talk to him. I’ll try to get a judge to sign an injunction to compel Richard to take antipsychotics. But honestly, I’d have an easier time proving he needed to be forcibly medicated if he were violent,” he said. “The steps to get the state to order someone to take medication are lengthy.”
My shoulders slumped. But Klein kept talking.
“If he were dangerous, he’d be sent to a state hospital, which could be the best thing for him. But if he’s charged and has to spend time in jail, they’d put him in the mental observation unit at Rikers.” He loosened his tie, as if settling into this conversation.
I had read stories about the mistreatment of prisoners at Rikers Island. A man named Bradley Ballard died after being confined to his cell for seven days. No one checked on him until it was discovered he had sepsis and was too weak to move. Another man, Jerome Murdough, essentially baked to death in his cell when the guard on duty failed to check on him and the heating equipment malfunctioned. He had been arrested for trespassing in the stairwell of a public housing building where he was trying to get out of the cold. A week after his arrest, he was dead from the heat in his prison cell.
But I wanted to hope that those stories were the exception, not the rule.
“Would they make him take antipsychotics?” I asked.
Klein shook his head. “No. Even the prison can’t force him. And we don’t want him being treated in prison. Those units are not restorative places. They’re full of inmates who are unmedicated or undermedicated. They’re filthy and smelly and loud. They use generic meds that are completely outdated, because they’re cheaper than the newer, more expensive meds.”
I bit my lip, hoping the pain would help me focus instead of shattering into panic.
“He needs more help than the government will provide. He’s lucky your grandparents continue to support him.”
“Have they always been able to get him out of jail when he’s arrested?”
He shook his head again. “There have been times when your father wouldn’t accept their help. He wouldn’t take their bail money, and he would refuse medication and the state couldn’t force him. Your grandparents begged for an administrative panel to rule to allow involuntary treatment. But it didn’t happen. So he stayed in jail unmedicated, usually in solitary confinement or a mental health wing.”
“My grandfather said that the mental health system is broken. Do you think that’s true?”
He grimaced. “Prisons and jails have become flooded by mentally ill people, but they aren’t set up for their care. Their symptoms worsen, they get put in solitary, they’re abused . . . It’s common for them to harm themselves or kill themselves.”
“But then why aren’t the states opening more psychiatric hospitals and institutions to help them? Instead of prisons?”
Klein whistled softly. “That’s a long, complicated answer.”
I stayed quiet, hoping he’d tell me anyway.
“Okay, I’ll try to boil it down,” he said. “It was a process called deinstitutionalization. It started more or less because of the availability of Thorazine, the first antipsychotic. People initially thought it was a wonder drug that would cure schizophrenia. When Kennedy came into office in 1963, he signed a law that would open community health centers, allowing psychotic patients to be treated in their own neighborhoods instead of big state hospitals, as long as they took Thorazine.”
I nodded, showing I was following. I took American History junior year. I knew Kennedy.
“Simultaneously, there was this backlash against psychiatry in the counterculture movement. And then One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest came out. The book, then the movie. It exposed the horrors of some of the state-run psychiatric hospitals.”
He sighed. “It was a perfect storm, really. Congress started passing laws allowing the mentally ill to be eligible for federal assistance programs like Medicare and Medicaid, food stamps, disability, that kind of thing, so they could be more independent. But it’s not an easy process for people who aren’t mentally ill. Imagine how hard it is for those who are. And meanwhile, state hospitals started closing. Between 1960 and 1980, the number of patients in state hospitals dropped from five hundred thousand to one hundred thousand.”
Jesus.
“Where did they all go?” I asked. I sounded like a child. And Klein’s pitying look told me he thought so too.
“To the streets. But the money for those community centers that were supposed to take care of them got eaten up by Vietnam, and then everyone got distracted by Watergate. There wasn’t anything left for sick people who the government didn’t seem to care about anyway.”
“Wow. I didn’t learn about that in American History,” I said. My shoulders slumped with the weight of all of this. “I feel like that might have been important information to share.”
Klein shrugged. “Yeah, well, people don’t like to think about people with mental illness. At least when they’re in prison, they’re not on the streets, making people see them.”
“God forbid,” I muttered angrily.
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to take in.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes. Klein went back to looking at his phone, giving me the chance to cry while he pretended he couldn’t see.
Finally, I wiped my tears on the back of my hand and exhaled a shuddery breath. “I just don’t understand why he won’t take the meds. Why wouldn’t he want to get better?”
“It’s called anosognosia.”
“What is?”
“His belief that he doesn’t have a mental illness. That he doesn’t need medicine. It’s called anosognosia.” Klein looked resigned. He’d seen this too many times.
After a moment’s silence, I finally asked the question I’d been avoiding. It seemed rude, ungrateful. But I had to know.
“Why do you do this? Why do you care about mentally ill people’s rights?”
He rubbed his hands down his face. When he looked back at me, his eyes were glassy.
“I have bipolar disorder,” he said finally. “And so does my mother. I grew up in and out of foster homes while she disappeared or was hospitalized. She didn’t know how to take care of herself, or me. And it wasn’t her fault. There isn’t a system set up for long-term care in this country, unless you have someone who’s willing to fight—sometimes for years—just to get a bed in a decent long-term facility. And the person is willing to go.”
“Did your mom ever get better?” I asked hesitantly.
When he nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “She did. She now lives with me and my wife and our daughter. She’s happy and healthy, she has a job, she has a boyfriend. She hasn’t had a manic episode in ten years.”
“And you?”
He smiled. “I take my meds religiously. And I see a therapist and a psychiatrist regularly.”
I knew it was an invasive question, but I had to ask: “Do you worry about your daughter getting it too?”
Klein swallowed. “Every day. But if she does, we’ll figure it out. She’s seen me deal with it, and she understands it’s not something I can control, but that medicine makes me better. I can only hope that if she does have bipolar disorder, or another mental illness, she’ll remember my experience and ask for help.”
I hoped so too.
That night, I waited until I heard Mom’s snores from the bedroom before I stepped out into the hallway. She’d said we could share Chad’s bed, but I’d rather have gnawed my own arm off. Aside from the snoring, I was still too mad to be that close to her.
In the hall, I stared at Grayson’s number on the screen for a full minute before I actually hit call. He answered immediately.
“Hey!” he said. His voice held a note of surprise, but he sounded happy to hear from me. “How’s your dad?”
“Um, not great. It’s a wait-and-see situation.” And then I waited to see if he would say anything that would clue me in to whether or not he knew about my dad’s mental illness.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”
Damn him for being so nice. How was I supposed to get over him if he kept this up?
“You’re sweet,” I said. “But there’s nothing you can do. Except maybe talk to me for a little bit?”
I was going to hell. I was using my dad’s health crisis to force Grayson to talk to me.
“You don’t even have to ask,” he said. My heart lifted even though his voice was soft. Cautious. “I could use the company too. Cynthia and I broke up today.”
I almost yelped, but managed to clap my hand over my mouth just in time.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” I said after a few seconds. When I could trust myself to talk without giggling. “I had no idea you guys were . . .” I was flailing, trying desperately not to let the smile on my lips echo in my voice. “Having problems,” I finished. I sounded almost giddy.
But Grayson sighed. He didn’t seem to have noticed. “I guess we weren’t. But we also weren’t having much fun anymore. We’ve always been different, and trying to make it work long-distance was only going to make things worse. It just . . . It wasn’t fun,” he repeated.
My heart started beating again, a stuttering rhythm.
“She mentioned she was hoping you’d figure out that music was a useless career and come to Yale to study something else,” I said.
I was taking shots at his girlfriend after he’d already dumped her. Straight to hell.
“She told you that?” he said. I could hear the hurt in his voice.
“Yeah. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel the same way,” I said with a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach.
I’d just realized something awful. By insisting that I wasn’t going to study music because it wasn’t practical, he might have thought I was saying I didn’t believe music was a worthy career. I still believed it wasn’t right for me, but anyone with even the slightest bit of hearing would know Grayson was a genius as soon as his fingers touched the strings of a guitar.
Which is what I told him.
“Stop, I’m blushing,” he said with a laugh. But then his tone turned shy. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that. I got your lyrics.”
Sweat prickled at my hairline. “Oh, um, it’s okay if you hated the song. I know it’s dumb. First draft, and all that.”
“Syd,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up. I’m trying to tell you I loved it,” he said.
My mouth dropped open. I was momentarily speechless. But he wasn’t done.
“And, um, I hope you don’t mind, but I wrote music for it.” Then it was his turn to be the panicked artist. “If you hate it or feel like it doesn’t match the tone you were going for, I understand, but I hope you like it.”
“Gray,” I mimicked him. “Shut up. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
He was quiet for a few seconds, but it felt like a happy silence. It wasn’t full of anxiety for me anyway, which is as happy as I get.
“Do you want to hear it?” he asked finally.
I grinned, hoping this time that he could hear it in my voice. “Of course!”
“When are you coming home? I kind of wanted to play it for you in person. I was hoping to do it at the community center the other day.”
My smile fell. “Oh, right. I’m sorry about that. I was just . . . having a shitty day.”
“Annabeth mentioned that she saw you that morning. I have this feeling she might have had something to do with why you weren’t there.”
I was glad I wasn’t face-to-face with him. Because I couldn’t help the angry scowl that formed on my lips. I’m sure it wasn’t cute.
“No,” I tried insisting, “I just needed . . . some time. To do . . . things.”
I’d practiced the lie I was going to tell, but I didn’t like lying to him. I didn’t want to lie to him.
“That wasn’t at all convincing,” Grayson said. But he sounded more curious than annoyed.
I sighed. “I know, but . . .”
“You don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “It’s okay, you don’t have to. Annabeth just looked so smug when Elliot said you weren’t coming to the show. And then you left town without telling anyone, and I just knew she had something to do with it.”
“She may have had a little something to do with it.” I paused, my heart pausing too. “She didn’t mention anything to you about me, did she?”
“No, she wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
We were quiet for a few seconds. I was relieved Annabeth hadn’t told him about my dad, but now that worry was going to hang over me until I did.
I cleared my throat. “My not showing up may also have had something to do with Cynthia,” I said. Blood rushed to my cheeks.
His silence felt impossibly long.
“Yeah . . . I know,” he said finally. “I wish we’d broken up before you left. Before you ran into Annabeth. I have the feeling she was retaliating because she knew how I, um . . . how I feel about you.”
It was my turn for silence.
It had been such a monumentally awful day. And now, suddenly, I was given this tiny bit of hope. A dandelion fluff that could float out of reach if I moved too quickly.
“Sydney?” Grayson said after too long. The fluff of hope drifted just within reach.
“How do you feel about me?” I said so quietly I wasn’t sure he could hear me.
I could picture him rubbing the back of his neck nervously. It would be stupidly adorable and irresistible.
“I wanted to do this in person too,” he said almost as quietly. But then he cleared his throat. “I know I should take some time before I jump into another relationship, but I really like you.”
I wanted to be in the same room with him so badly that it hurt.
“I like you too,” I said. “You know I do. I think I made that kind of clear when I tried to make out with your face.”
He laughed, which made the next thing I had to say even harder. It was the last thing I wanted to say. But it was the right thing.
I cleared my throat. My heart was beating so hard it felt like a punishment. “The thing is, we have really bad timing. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. My dad needs me.”
Grayson sighed heavily. I wished I could see his face, even though I knew I’d never have been able to turn him down in person. I’d be too captivated by his beautiful face and his warm eyes, the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth. I’d want to kiss that scar. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
“I know,” he said. It sounded like it hurt. “I just don’t like it.”
I forced a laugh. “I don’t either. But as soon as I’m home, we’ll talk. Okay? I’ll come hear the music you wrote. And, um, thank you.”
“For what?” he asked. He sounded sullen and sulky, but I felt the same way.
“For caring enough to write music for my terrible lyrics. And for being willing to talk to me on the phone after the whole fiasco with Elliot’s mom. That’s a lot of phone time.”
“I’m blushing again,” he said with a laugh. A real one this time. “But you’re welcome. I’d talk to Elliot’s mom anytime for you.”
“Now that’s romantic,” I said.
He laughed again, and I couldn’t help the smile that crept onto my lips. I liked making him laugh.
“I should go,” I forced myself to say.
“Me too,” he said quietly. “Good night.”
I let him hang up, then I leaned against the wall and sank to the floor. My smile hadn’t yet faded.
But my giddiness only lasted a minute. The reality of being in a relationship with Grayson, who knew nothing about my family or me, looked very different from the dream sequence I had in my head.
What if I could convince my dad to get help, but he’d only do it if he was living with me? What if I needed to defer school for a year to take care of him in New Jersey? What if, when Grayson found out about my dad, he got scared off?
And then there was the big question. The one I wanted to avoid.
What if I developed schizophrenia too? Even if I was like Dad’s lawyer and took my meds religiously, it could take years to find the right balance, and even then, it’s a lifelong process.
Grayson deserved someone who could help his music career. If I ended up as sick as Dad, he might never feel like he could leave me alone or go on tour without me. He deserved better than that. I couldn’t hold him back. I’d never be able to live with myself.
And I’d never do that to him.