CHAPTER 7

Of Unknown Relatives and Margaritas

I wanted to push Justin's words out of my mind, and walking around my living room was not helping. Fortunately, the law library kept late hours. I stomped from the bedroom to the kitchen shoving text books into my backpack. Loony or not, I did need to get to the library.

In the library, there was an empty table in the back of the third floor. I dug around my backpack for my Evidence text and a notebook. Chewing on the end of my pencil, I opened it and tried to read. The words lounged on the page, meaningless. An hour later, I stood up and stretched my arms into the air. I needed to move. Walking to and from the lady's bathroom further distracted me from school work. After another hour, I gave up, packed my bag, and walked home. The scenery of Oakland faded away, and my mind reviewed the behavior of each of my dad's relatives. As I approached my building, I launched into a mental review of every family event of my childhood, but that went nowhere fast. I spent the rest of the night trying to distract myself, but no part of me was really interested in watching Meg Ryan meet Tom Hanks on top of the Empire State Building, again. Even Saturday Night Live failed to entertain me. I went to bed.

In my dream, Mark and I were in the hospital waiting room. I tried to play hopscotch on the floor tiles and Mark sat in a squat vinyl and metal chair reading a Superman comic book. We were all alone.

I woke in the morning with an awful kink in my neck, which reminded me of Sam complaining that the sofa was too short. I shut off the TV. It deserved a break after staying on all night, and then I walked into the kitchen to brew some coffee. According to the clock on my stove, it was much too early to call Uncle Roy and say, "Hi, Uncle Roy, it's me, Maggie. Is our family nuts?"

Instead, I walked down the hall to my bedroom and began gathering up my laundry. Amy spared me the agony of sitting in a Laundromat by letting me use her machine. It was really a great deal. I saved money and time. She fed me. She didn't see it, but it was a win-win for everyone. Once the bag of dirty clothes bulged to the point of popping, I stripped the sheets off the bed and stuffed them into a separate bag with wet bath towels. Time crept by slowly.

At nine-thirty, my patience reached its limits, and I dialed Uncle Roy. As the phone rang, I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. My Aunt Dori answered the phone. "Hello."

"Hi, Aunt Dori. It's me, Maggie."

"Hello, Maggie, how are you? And school?" she asked, in her usual bubbly tone.

I, in turn, asked about her job. My Aunt Dori sold real estate in Bucks County. A tiny woman, always smiling, she exuded warmth. According to Steph, her mom's negotiating style involved serving homemade chocolate-chip cookies before taking a chainsaw to the asking price. She sold old stone houses that looked stunning from the outside, but needed to be totally rebuilt on the inside. After chatting for what I thought was an appropriate amount of time, I asked to speak with my uncle Roy.

Uncle Roy was the quieter of the two brothers. My dad could be loud and hyper, whereas Roy's demeanor exuded quiet and calm. I liked my uncle Roy. There was an aura of safeness that surrounded him.

"Good Morning, Maggie, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?"

"Uncle Roy, I need some answers." But, before he could say a word, the whole story poured from my heart and spewed out of my mouth. I told him about my episodes and how they drove Sam to leave me. I explained that the antidepressant wasn't helping me, and neither was therapy. Then I told him my therapist suggested I might be Bipolar 2. I relayed my conversation with Justin to him, hoping that he would tell me that it was just confused memories.

He listened silently--not interrupting to ask a question or even insert an "ah-ha," to show he was listening. By the time I finished saying what I needed to say, I wasn't sure if he was still on the line or not.

"Maggie, you've caught me off guard with this phone call. I didn't know you had these episodes, and I'm shocked to hear they started when you were so young. Your dad never told me. But, Maggie, most of all, I'm flabbergasted that your dad didn't talk to you and Mark about our family. Justin wasn't telling stories Maggie. Mental illness plagues our family--me, your dad, Grandma. The list goes back for generations."

I wanted to scream into the phone. No, that's the wrong answer. You're supposed to tell me that Justin lied and there is nothing wrong with our family, but the words and my mouth refused to cooperate.

I had this awful habit of pacing while talking on the phone. When he finished his last sentence, my body no longer felt like moving, I collapsed into a kitchen chair. The words "Maggie, Maggie, are you there?" came out of the phone speaker.

"Uncle Roy, maybe you should start from the beginning," I asked, with closed eyes.

"It runs on your grandma's side--depression, bipolar, mental illness, crazy, whatever you want to call it. Don't you remember Grandma being in the hospital for days and days? Do you remember all the times that your dad would stop speaking to everyone for a week and then suddenly everything would be fine? Maggie, it's affected all of us. I'm just so sorry that you've suffered alone for all of these years."

My mind lagged fifteen years behind my Uncle's voice...

***

"Wake up, Maggie," my dad said, while shaking my shoulder.

"Huh?" I said, squinting my eyes against the bright overhead light.

"Get, up and get dressed, we're going to the beach," he said, fingers still gripping my shoulder. "Once you're dressed, pack your suitcase. Quickly, your brother is already dressed." The words raced from his mouth faster than his legs propelled him out of my bedroom door.

I sat up in my bed, head still fuzzy from being startled awake. Just hours before I went to bed, my mom said our vacation was canceled because Dad wasn't speaking to any of us.

A few moments after my dad left the room, my mom scurried in and said, "Maggie, get up. We're going on vacation after all. Hurry, your dad can't sleep. He wants to get on the road right now."

"Mom, is he speaking to us?"

"Yes, pack your suitcase," she replied.

"Mom, why did he stop talking to us?" I asked, as my feet hit the soft carpet.

"I don't know why he stopped talking to us, and I'm not going to ask. Drop the subject and get dressed," she said. "Forget it, just stay in your pajamas. You can sleep in the car. It's four in the morning. You need more rest."

***

"Uncle Roy, did mental illness cause my dad to give us the silent treatment? My mom swore that she didn't know why he would stop talking to us. I didn't believe her. I thought they were fighting and didn't want Mark and me to know."

"Your mom wasn't lying. I don't think he knew why he stopped talking. When I'm depressed, I don't want to talk, but unfortunately, there were times I spoke and ended up regretting the horrible words that came out of my mouth. Maybe, it was the same for my brother. The greatest difference between us was that I accepted my problem, and he didn't."

"Yeah," I said. "I remember once, after ten days of the silent treatment, my mom got really mad, packed a few suitcases and took us to my other grandma's house. Later, that same night, my dad barged into my grandma's house and took us all home. To apologize, he bought my mom a new refrigerator, which baffled her because she didn't want or need a new one. He bought a lot of things that my mom didn't want to make up for the silence."

"That was the high side of the illness. He never became truly manic, more hypomanic, and he couldn't hide it from me. When he tried to be funny, but instead sounded loud and obnoxious, I knew he was in a hypomanic state, which also meant that some type of crash was imminent.

"It's safe to say, Maggie, incidents of outrageous behavior plagued our family, and I'm guilty of contributing to the collective insanity. I've been on various antidepressants for many years, but it's only within the last three years that I found one that really works."

"Do you stop speaking to Aunt Dori for no reason?"

"No and yes, I just disappear into myself, paralyzed by the pain, so to speak. The current antidepressant eliminated the suicidal thoughts and helped me learn to enjoy being part of the world."

"It's the same for me, Uncle Roy. The Zoloft took away my suicidal thoughts, but at times, I still pray to die." I paused for a brief moment. "Uncle Roy, I'm like my dad, I go hypomanic sometimes too."

"Have you seen a psychiatrist yet?" he asked.

"My appointment is on next Tuesday. Uncle Roy, tell me, so far it's you, my dad, Justin, and Grandma with problems. Anyone else that I should know about?"

"Ella," he said.

"Who is Ella?" I asked, feeling my facial muscles contort into a perplexed position.

"Ella is your great aunt," he replied. "Actually, she was your great aunt. She died when you and Stephanie were still babies."

"How is she my great aunt?" I asked--a stupid question since we were talking about his side of the family.

"Ella was your grandma's sister. You really should ask Aunt Mildred about her."

"Grandma only had two sisters, Mildred and Rose."

"No, my mom had three sisters. Ella, the baby of the family, lived in a mental institution in New Castle for most of her life. The family sent her there, not long after their mother died, and Ella never came out."

"She died in a mental hospital, and no one ever mentioned this? Did anyone visit her or take care of her? Please tell me our family didn't just dump her off at the door of this place and leave."

"I don't think so, but talk to your Aunt Mildred."

"I learned enough about our family for one day. So this means, Steph and Mark are fine, and Justin and me are messed up?"

"Not messed up, Maggie, more like cursed," he replied. "Unfortunately, you, Justin, and I drew the genetic short stick. I'm sorry."

"Me too," I replied.

"I'll cross my fingers and hope this new psychiatrist helps you. Maggie, for what it's worth, I'm always here. Just call."

A warm feeling spread through me. "I love you, Uncle Roy. I promise to keep you updated. Bye, kiss Aunt Dori for me."

My coffee mug was empty and so was the pot. I made another and puttered aimlessly around my apartment for a few minutes. Then I willed myself to focus and do the homework that absolutely had to be finished before I left for Mark's house. Staring at the pages of my Sales and Leased Goods text, I thought, My family should come with a warning label.

Amy called at about one o'clock to tell me that dinner would be on the table at six, and if I wanted to do my laundry to come around three.

After she hung up, I started thinking about my conversation with Uncle Roy. I loved my GreatAunt Mildred. She's the glue that held our family together. But due to her dictator-like tendencies, I preferred to love her from a distance. My dad and Uncle Roy made a sport of teasing her husband, Max. "Hey, Max," my dad would bellow, "If you say something in an empty room are you still wrong?"

Placing a phone call to Aunt Mildred involved blocking an hour or more out of your schedule. Family obligation required listening to her describe her various illnesses. According to my mom, Mildred once tried to convince the medical staff at the local hospital that she had malaria. Imagine the shock this caused in the tiny Ellwood medical community--especially, when the doctors learned that Aunt Mildred never stepped foot on the African continent, or any other place normally associated with malaria. As bizarre as the tale sounded, it was one hundred percent true. Mildred's issues could only be described as unusual. I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts. The name Aunt Mildred stared up at me. I called my mom instead.

My mom and Ed were lunching with their golf friends, so she wasn't able to talk for very long. She reacted with surprise when I asked about Ella. "Maggie, no one has mentioned Ella's name in twenty years. Even when she was alive her story was rather mysterious."

"Why," I asked.

"I don't know. I learned fast after I married your father that asking about her was politically incorrect." For a moment, the line went quiet. "Maggie." My mom hesitated. "I attended her funeral. Only a few people sat in the pews of the church. The priest gave a short eulogy. There wasn't much to say, because Ella never really got to live."

It was beginning to seem inevitable that I would have to call Aunt Mildred.

As I dragged my laundry bags from the bedroom to the living room, a text message from Steph popped onto my cell phone screen:

"Arriving Friday morning. I'll bring the booze, you supply the blender. Tell Amy to ditch the husband and kid. She's in charge of the chick flicks. Friday night, the ladies are going to Margaritaville. I'll send flight time later. You better pick me up--no money for a taxi."

Word traveled fast in my family. I looked at the clock, only four hours had passed since I spoke with Uncle Roy. Rather than being upset with him for telling Steph, I couldn't stop grinning. We hadn't been able to get together for three months, a record for us. Always more than a cousin to me, Steph sometimes acted like a sister and, at other times, a best friend. She was born in the Ellwood Hospital one month before me. Our mothers enjoyed whining about their alleged miserable pregnancies. My mom complained about her heartburn and swollen ankles, and Aunt Dori enjoyed graphically describing her seven months of morning sickness.

Our place of birth was about all Steph and I had in common. I was rather tall and lanky and, as the kids in middle school pointed out, one step away from being totally flat-chested. Steph took after her mom's side of the family, vertically challenged. In sneakers, she could honestly claim five foot, two. My dad described girls with her body type as being "built like a brick shit house." In high school, she was voted the most bubbly and crowned Homecoming Queen. Now, a graduate student, studying architecture at the Pratt Institute in Manhattan, she went through boyfriends faster than the speed of light. I was always the Eyeore to her Tigger. I loved her dearly.

My excitement over the text from Steph pushed Aunt Mildred from my mind for just a few minutes. However, my imagination conjured up a vision of Ella as a frail woman dressed in a bathrobe, staring out a dirty, curtainless window. I dialed Aunt Mildred.

The first fifteen minutes of the conversation focused on her kidney infection. I used my appropriately concerned voice as I uttered monosyllabic words of acknowledgement.

When her monologue started to wind down, I took it as an opportunity and asked the question. "Aunt Mildred, did any members of our family suffer from a mental illness?"

"Of course not, Maggie. No one in our family ever had mental issues."

"Why did my grandma spend so much time in the psych ward of the hospital?" I asked.

"Maggie, you know damn well your grandma ended up in that ward because of her diabetes," she replied.

"Maybe that's true, Aunt Mildred, but do you know Uncle Roy takes antidepressants?" I countered.

"That's because of your dad passing away, not because of bad biology," she snapped. I could hear the exasperation growing in her voice.

"My dad passed away six years ago. Uncle Roy said he started taking antidepressants a long time ago," I replied, forcing my voice to sound controlled.

"I wouldn't know about that."

"Okay, Mildred, explain what happened to your sister Ella? No one ever mentioned her. My mom never met Ella and no one in the family told her the entire story," I said.

"Ridiculous. You know the story, Maggie. When our mother died, Ella couldn't take it, so she went to live in a home for people like her."

I could hear Mildred banging something at the other end. It sounded like she was kicking pots and pans. "Aunt Mildred, I just learned four hours ago that Ella existed," I snapped back.

Hearing the air being exhaled through her nose, I knew I had ventured into a potentially explosive area. "I don't know the whole story, and I sure as hell don't understand what a 'home for people like her' is, so skip the euphemisms, and say it," I demanded. "She lived in a mental hospital for her entire life. That's why no one talked about her. It's embarrassing. I want an answer, please. What was wrong with Ella?"

"The only thing wrong with Ella was my mother's death." Aunt Mildred spat out the words. "After that, she didn't want to get better. I know because your grandmother and I used to take the bus twice a month to visit her. Ella wanted to live in that hospital."

Catching my breath, I said, "Aunt Mildred, no one wants to spend their entire life in a mental hospital."

Mildred did not respond, so I said good-bye, in the most respectful tone I could muster, and hung up. I didn't learn a lot from the call, but she did confirm Ella existed, suffered from a mental disability, and lived in an institution.

I stared out my kitchen window, replaying Aunt Mildred's words in my head, 'She wanted to live in that hospital.' The tears streaming down my cheeks were for a great aunt I never knew. My mom was right. Poor Ella was born, but never had the opportunity to live. I couldn't help but to think there was some meaning in all of this--a meaning I needed to unearth.