Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

“Nadia!” Maddy calls out, reading the name on the cup as she places the venti hot peppermint-white-chocolate mocha on the counter.

Owing to her experience as a barista over the summer in Connecticut, she was hired on the spot at the first Starbucks she walked into when she moved back to the city, only two blocks from Emily’s apartment. The pace is faster and the flood of customers, especially the intake of mobile orders, is more extreme than at the suburban Starbucks back home, but it didn’t take her long to fall in step.

Thankfully, her hand tremor isn’t as bad or noticeable as it was back in December. As long as she’s concentrating, she doesn’t spill the drinks she makes. Her coworkers have definitely noticed her jumpy hands, but no one asks about it. They probably assume she’s either an overly nervous person or a recovering addict.

As her body has adjusted to being on lithium, some of the side effects have resolved or have become tolerable background noise, but others are stubborn weeds thriving in the garden. Acne, fatigue, and dizziness are still her daily, unwelcome companions. She’s on an antiemetic, which has gratefully quelled her nausea, but in doing so, it has rendered another common side effect of both lithium and quetiapine unopposed. Weight gain. She’s packed on thirty pounds in barely more than two months, seemingly overnight. If she were having sex, she’d be convinced that she must be pregnant. She’s unreasonably and uncontrollably hungry, as if a grizzly bear were living inside her, and it awakens from hibernation many times a day, ravenous.

She’d gained twenty pounds over the course of her freshman year, but the accumulation of body mass was so gradual, it never felt alarming. By May all her jeans gave her a muffin top, but she could still suck her breath and stomach in enough to button them. And she lost all that weight over the summer.

At thirty pounds, she can’t zipper any of her jeans. None of her good clothes fit. She wears stretchy leggings and a big sweatshirt every day. She’d be on trend if this were the early nineties, but all the other girls her age are wearing cute crop tops and high-waisted denim.

She misses her favorite jeans, her clear face, her steady hands. She misses who she was before her diagnosis. She misses herself.

The medications for this illness have made her exhausted, dizzy, shaky, zitty, and fat. In what medical textbook or on what planet is that considered wellness? Every day, she wonders if the side effects of her treatment are worse than the symptoms of her illness. Her memory of the manic episode, spotty to begin with, has blurred further with the passage of time. Yes, she was hospitalized, but was that really necessary? Yes, she was depressed before and after that, but isn’t everyone her age anxiety-ridden and bummed out? Being depressed seems like a reasonable and normal human response for anyone paying close enough attention to the state of the world today. Maybe being on lithium isn’t worth what it costs her.

But then she remembers the woman on the bench in Washington Square, and a full body shiver ripples through her again. She doesn’t want to be like this, but she also doesn’t want to end up like that. Her head hurts as if she’s been working too long on a puzzle she can’t solve. She presses her fingers against her eyes, holding them there for a moment while she breathes in the smell of peppermint, resolving to put the puzzle down for now.

Her shift over, she buys a mocha Frappuccino and a lemon cake and takes a seat, as she does every day, at the counter facing the street. Her phone buzzes. Like clockwork, it’s a text from her mother.

M

MOM

2:01 PM

How was work today?

M

MADDY

Good

She typically hangs out here for about an hour before meeting Emily at home. Some days, she listens to comedian interviews on podcasts or watches comedy clips on YouTube. Sometimes she spends the hour reading blogs or listening to audiobooks, mostly memoirs narrated by comedians. She finished Bossypants by Tina Fey yesterday and Life Will Be the Death of Me by Chelsea Handler before that. She’s always sure to erase her browsing history and archive the books from her library once she’s done listening so as not to get caught with “unrealistic thoughts” about comedy.

On other days, like today, she writes. She’s on notebook #8, only a few blank pages left. Most of the pages are admittedly junk, more “Dear Diary” than anything, but she thinks some of them might actually be funny. She might even have enough material for a five-minute set. But probably not. It’s so hard to know. Good or bad, she enjoys the writing, the exploration, the tinkering. She’s definitely more into writing comedy than she was interested in any of the courses she took last semester at NYU.

Simone, one of the baristas also done with her shift, takes the empty seat next to Maddy. Maddy pauses her pen, slides her arm over the page to cover it up, and takes a sip of her Frappuccino.

“I’m not sure caffeine was the best idea for me,” says Simone, her venti cup in hand. “I have an audition in an hour, and I’m already jittery.”

Simone is tall, probably six feet, her body elegant instead of awkward for her height. She wears exaggerated false eyelashes and black liquid liner that accentuate her huge brown eyes. She has a tiny diamond nose ring, the word WORTHY tattooed on her forearm, and a dense, puffy Afro that Maddy envies, especially in comparison to her own flat, bodiless bob. Like a lot of the baristas at Starbucks in New York City, Simone is an aspiring actor, but unlike most who would kill for a role on-screen and who audition regularly for a spot on NCIS , Simone’s dreams are exclusively on the stage.

“What’s the audition for?” asks Maddy.

“An off-Broadway musical, an ensemble role.”

“I hope you get it.”

“Thanks.”

Maddy sips her drink and stares out the window. She’s never been good at conversation with people she doesn’t know well, and that shortcoming has only worsened since being on meds. She likes Simone, but she can sense that her face lacks expression, and she can hear that her voice is flat. Simone probably regrets sitting next to her.

“So what are you writing, the great American novel?”

Maddy’s face reddens. She deepens her lean into the arm covering the page.

“I don’t know, it’s nothing.”

“Come on, what is it?”

“It’s probably stupid.”

Or crazy.

Simone tilts her head and raises her eyebrows as if to say, So what if it is? Her gaze, so open and curious, waiting in silence, patient for a real answer, creates a safe space for Maddy to step into, an invitation she dares to accept.

“It’s stand-up comedy.”

Simone blurts out a honker of a laugh. People waiting in line turn to look at them.

“I’m sorry, I did not see that coming. You’re a comedian?”

“No, I’m not. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m just writing. I’ve never spoken any of it.”

“Why not?”

Maddy shrugs. Simone keeps her big, unblinking eyes glued to Maddy’s and says nothing, coaxing Maddy to articulate something specific.

“What if it’s not funny?”

“What if it is?”

“Yeah, but it’s probably not.”

Simone nods, takes a sip of her coffee, and stares out the window.

“There’s, like, a ton of comedy clubs around here,” Simone says. “You know they all have open mic nights.”

“I know.”

“Like every week.”

“I know.”

“And you only need, like, a five-minute set.”

“I know.”

“Girl, you have to do one!”

“I will. Someday, when I’m ready.”

Unconvinced, Simone angles her stool to face Maddy. Her eyes grow even wider, turned on.

“Let me tell you something. You start before you’re ready. You jump into the fire. That’s how you cook your craft.”

Simone waits, enthusiasm sparkling in her eyes as she anticipates an affirmative reaction. Maddy wishes she could mirror Simone’s positivity, but even if she wholeheartedly agreed, her pharmaceutically blunted face isn’t going to show it.

“I see you here every day,” Simone says, stabbing her index finger repeatedly on the opened page of Maddy’s notebook. “How many of these notebooks have you filled?”

“Eight.”

Simone laughs.

“Wow, okay. So how many do you need to fill before you’re ready? Ten? A hundred?”

“What if I’m awful?”

“You probably will be. You think Audra McDonald won a Tony right out of the gate? My first audition was a disaster. I totally bombed one last week. I might suck it today. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

“But—”

“No. No buts. You have to give yourself permission to be horrible. Who’s your favorite comedian?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Amy Schumer?”

“Okay, you think she was anyone’s favorite comedian after her first open mic?”

“Probably no.”

“Definitely no. You learn and get better each time you do it. A cake doesn’t get baked in the first minute. Come on. Pick a night, and I’ll go and cheer you on.”

Maddy imagines herself standing on a stage at a comedy club, actually doing a five-minute set. Her heart races as her breathing stalls, and the mismatch makes her head go woozy. Aside from the terrifying prospect of a dead-silent audience, she’s also afraid of being judged for her appearance. She’s pimply and fat. She doesn’t want to be seen anywhere right now, especially by men, never mind on a stage, under a spotlight, all scrutinizing eyes on her.

She glances at Simone’s tattoo, WORTHY , and admires her for having the courage to own such a big word. Maddy tries to imagine the same letters inked into her own arm, claiming it for herself, but a cruel and mocking voice inside her head laughs, both at the idea and at her for even considering it.

Crazy people aren’t worthy.

“And hey, good or bad, you know what?”

“What?”

“You will have done it, and then you get to say that you are a stand-up comedian.”

Simone checks the time on her phone.

“I gotta bounce. We’ll talk more tomorrow. You’re doing this.”

Simone zips her coat, takes her cup, and leaves.

“Break a leg!” Maddy calls after her.

She watches Simone cross the street through the window, her long legs walking confidently in the direction of her dreams. You will have done it, and then you get to say that you are a stand-up comedian. Maddy repeats Simone’s words in her head, daring to try them on, and to her tickled surprise, they fit like a new pair of favorite jeans. She can’t say what her face is doing, but she knows she’s smiling on the inside.

Emboldened, she googles comedy open mic nights NYC and writes down the clubs, days, and times in her notebook. Then she swipes the open pages upward, removing the evidence of her search history from her phone. She turns to the next blank page of her notebook and writes a single word in the center, big and in all caps.

WORTHY

Before the mocking voice can weigh in, she closes the notebook and caps her pen. Then she looks out the window, in no hurry to finish her Frappuccino, and daydreams.

Emily is standing at the stove, scraping minced garlic with a knife off a wooden cutting board into a pan of hot olive oil. Maddy is sitting on a stool at the small kitchen island, watching her. They’re having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Emily is wearing a red apron, just like the one their mother wears during the holiday season.

“How was today?” asks Emily as she lowers the burner heat.

“Good.”

Maddy feels pulled to elaborate, to come clean and share her embryonic excitement with her sister, but she refrains. Comedy is near the top of her Does Not Fly list, and she fears that Emily would see her genuine interest as a sign of genuine illness. Best-case scenario, Emily would argue against it, warning her of all the possible dangers. Maddy’s willingness to try, to actually get up on a stage, is so newly imagined and fragile, she worries she’d back down without a fight if challenged and forget about it. Worst case, Emily would blow the whistle and tell their mother, who would see Maddy’s desire to do a five-minute set as something to medicate until it’s eradicated. She’d probably have Maddy on the next train home to Connecticut.

“My manager wants me to work two to eight.”

“Okay, on what day?”

“From now on.”

“Oh,” says Emily, now chopping a yellow onion. “What will you do in the mornings?”

“I’ll read, go for walks. I’ll be okay.”

Emily adds the diced onion to the pan and stirs.

“Eight at night is late. What about dinner?”

“I can pack a dinner same as I do for lunch and eat it on break. I’ll be home by eight fifteen. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, okay,” Emily says, rolling ground beef into balls. “It just doesn’t leave us much time together. I like hanging out with you.”

Maddy likes hanging out with her, too. One of the very real silver linings of this less-than-flattering chapter in Maddy’s life has been this chance to reconnect with her sister. They eat dinner together every night. Emily likes to cook for them, says she’s practicing for when she and Tim move into a real house with a dining room and have kids and dinner parties, but they also regularly get pizza and sushi. They watch New Girl and The Bachelor and sometimes Hannah Montana , like the old days. They finished a one-thousand-piece puzzle called Dogtown on the coffee table yesterday. Emily talks a lot about wedding plans, which can be a bit tedious for Maddy, but she gets it. Emily knows exactly what she wants her life to look like, and she can’t wait for it to start.

They’ve still never discussed what happened on Thanksgiving or that ugly text diatribe, but even though it’s unspoken, Maddy knows she’s forgiven. She doesn’t like lying to Emily now, but she has no choice. She’s standing atop the rim of a volcano, toes curled over the edge, ready to jump into the fire.

You’re doing this.

M

MOM

9:45 PM

Did you remember to take your evening meds?

M

MADDY

Yes

M

MOM

Are you getting ready for bed?

Maddy takes a deep breath.

M

MADDY

Yes

M

MOM

Good night honey. Sleep well. Love you.

M

MADDY

Done with another day, Maddy opens the mood app on her phone and signs in.

Maddy’s Self-Rated Daily Mood Chart

0= none

1= mild

2= moderate

3= severe

Most depressed mood: 1

Most elevated mood: 1

Anxiety: 2

Irritability: 1

Psychosis (hallucinations, strange ideas): 0

Hours slept last night: 8

Weight: 155

Did you take all of your medications: yes

# text messages sent: 8

Did you purchase anything too expensive or impractical: no

Did you have any unrealistic thoughts about Taylor Swift: no

Did you have any unrealistic thoughts about writing comedy: no