Chapter 3

Three

Ezra

December 27, 2018

“ D id you increase meds as I advised?” Dr. Katz asks, over the phone line.

My mom answers, “Yes.”

She’s being quiet—maybe to keep this from Rich, my ex-stepfather, who Mom’s dating again, and who doesn’t want a fuck-up like me in the house—or, more likely, to keep me from hearing.

I hold the landline phone against my ear, smirking even as Dr. Katz says, “That’s a good thing. It’s a high dose. In a few more days, he’ll be more soundly medicated. Missing one session of ECT is okay. We can resume Monday.”

“I just want to get him out of this depression.”

I roll my eyes.

“I understand. Sometimes after one round of sessions, there can be a relapse. But it’s not to worry. Having such a strong semester—with the football, too—that says a lot about his resilience.”

I ease the phone back onto its base. Walk downstairs to get some fucking food. Since apparently I am a goddamn football god, I need to keep my weight up.

Saw my stats the other day online. God-like.

Do I remember any of it? Not a damn thing. Mom told me Carl was a dickwad and when he found out I’m gay, he called her up and told her that I had to go. Convenient that he called Mom up after I led his town’s team to an undefeated season. He told her they don’t roll that way in Alabama—no surprise. Seems like it was pretty shitty, so I guess it’s good I don’t remember.

I’ve felt tempted once or twice to check out social media. Try to figure out who I was hanging out with down there. See if “Miller” matches up to someone. But what’s the point? I’ve never been close to my dad. Honestly, I barely even know the guy. I don’t give a fuck about Alabama. There’s a guy from football that I might look up. Marcel Dubois. Seems like we played well together. He got some of the same scholarship offers I did. But…I guess I just don’t give enough of a shit.

I feel like I always do from all the meds I’m taking—like a piece of furniture. Life’s just boring. I’m so tired, sleep is honestly the best thing. I don’t feel like killing myself, so I guess that’s something.

College football was always my goal.

Mom said I told her the only thing I liked in Alabama was playing. I’m sure that’s true. I guess I must have gotten down there and gotten immersed in the game. Otherwise I would have fucking hung myself. That was the plan last year, I remember. I have memories from a few weeks before I went to live with Carl.

I step into the bathroom that’s attached to my room. Pull my dick out to take a piss. I squeeze it a few times, confirming I can’t feel a thing, but I don’t care. Who am I gonna get with? No one wants me. I don’t want that shit either. I’m too fucked up .

All I’m interested in right now is this fucking mystery shit on my chest.

I lift my shirt up, frowning at the tattoo in the mirror. Yeah—I got a fucking tattoo at some point. I don’t know when. I damn sure don’t know why. I haven’t shown it to my mom because I fucking hate her.

I rub my hand over the little symbol. It’s a little black infinity symbol, but the weird thing is, it’s not symmetrical. Looks like someone drew it on there with a pen or some shit—but it’s permanent ink. I frown at the thing, wishing I had some way to find out where I got tatted. I have a debit card and online bank account, but I don’t remember my password for either. It’s pretty weird the way I don’t remember anything.

But I don’t give a shit. Not really. What am I really missing? Other than this weird-ass tattoo.

It’s a blurry weekend. Maybe it’s the pills, but I feel sped-up. Panicked. When I get in bed at night, I can’t sleep, and I end up playing on my new cell phone for hours. Mom says I must have lost the old one. We can’t find it.

I can’t remember login info for any of my shit except Snapchat. I haven’t used that in a long time—since before Alton.

I make a new Instagram and look at football shit. Planning for next year. It’s weird, but it doesn’t bring me much joy.

I can’t get to sleep until the sun is almost up, and when I do, I dream of four dark walls and my handwriting and the whispering of nurses. Wake up screaming, and after that I get a shower. When I wake up screaming, no one ever comes. My mom pretends it didn’t happen. That’s because she feels like shit about it.

Two nights of dreaming, and shit’s worse for me on Sunday. I get the clawing feeling again, like my whole body is coiled up, desperate to grab onto something, stop the panic, but there’s nothing I can hold onto.

I take a walk around the neighborhood around sunset, checking out all the shiny new SUVs and big-ass yards with ivy-covered brick mailboxes, the status houses that look like mini-mansions.

I try to think about football. That’s always helped before, but this time it doesn’t do it for me. I still feel coiled up, a sense of panic just under the surface.

Back home, I take some pills I found in my old hiding spot. Couple Xanax and I’m nodding on my bed, looking at the glow stars I put on the ceiling back in eighth grade. Eighth grade, man. Nothing but football.

I fall asleep with my hand over the small tattoo. Wake up screaming at 3:20. This time, shit turns into crying in the shower.

I hate crying. Makes me feel so stupid. Helpless. I get out and wrap myself up in the covers—like a damn burrito. Then I watch the sky outside my window. When that’s not enough, I push the pane open and wish there was a little roof outside it that I could climb out onto. I don’t like a dark room. I don’t like the walls around me.

I should crack through this thick wall of nothingness and find the will to kill myself.

I play it all cool for my mom on the way to my ECT session.

Got my AirPods in, got some Cigarettes After Sex going on my new Apple account. I remember listening to this album before leaving for Fairplay. Usually, I like it, but when Mom is driving, I get that feeling again. It's like a fucking claw in my chest. Clawing. Pulling on me. More like ripping.

I don't like it. It like...hurts.

I'm in the chair behind Mom's. Maybe she can hear me breathing.

"Christopher?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"No you're not. What's the matter?" She asks in an almost whiny tone, like this shit really puts her out.

"I just told you, nothing."

"You're grabbing your chest. I see it in the rearview mirror. Are you having the racing heart feeling again? From your medications?"

"No. It's heartburn."

"Well, you haven't eaten."

"I don't make the rules, Mom."

She's quiet for the rest of the drive. After I sign in, she sits beside me with a magazine. When I'm called back, she says, "I'm going to gas up the car and get some snacks for you. I'll be back before you're finished."

"Okay. Bye."

She never really says bye. Since what happened on the bus—since she found out for sure about me—she hates being near me.

I think as I follow the nurse down the long hall how it's funny that these people here have no idea what happened to me. And they never will. No one ever will. I get that old, familiar sinking feeling in my stomach. Hey, at least it’s better than the clawing one.

It's the same old song and dance each time. This time, the counselor asks me if I'm okay doing it.

"Yeah. How many more now?"

"After this, I believe it will be four more sessions."

I shrug. "Let’s just get it over with."

Since I'm outpatient, I wear my own clothes. I'm getting up onto the bed when I look at my elbow.

MILLER.

Why does it fill me with so much dread? I look down at the spot where the name was written last time. There's just a gray smudge now.

MILLER.

"Is there a chance that every time I do this now, I might forget more and more?" I can’t help asking.

What if I forget how to play football?

That leads to a ten-plus-minute talk with Dr. Katz, which basically yields the information: almost definitely not.

He leaves, and the nurse is back. "Do you know why I had the word 'MILLER' on my arm before?” I ask. “Like, before last time?"

She frowns. "No, I don't think we knew. You didn't tell us." She smiles like she's sorry.

I pull up my shirt and show her the tat over my pec. "What about this?"

She frowns. "I've seen it before, when we're attaching leads. Which—speaking of—why don't you leave your shirt up. I'll get all that hooked up."

I don't like it when they touch me. Usually it's okay, but this time my eyes throb and my throat tightens. I get the clawing feeling again. Almost like I lost my keys or something. Like I lost something important, I've been looking, and I can't find it. Like I’ve been looking for a few days straight. It's like...an agitation thing.

I breathe deeper.

"Are you having anxiety, Christopher?"

"Ezra."

"What?"

"I go by Ezra now." I remember I decided that before I moved to Dad’s, and when I looked online the other day, all my stats were under the name Ezra Masters.

"That's your middle name?" She frowns.

"No. It's my first name. It’s in my chart."

"Okay, Ezra. It’s a nice name.”

She tries to be nice, but I don't like the wires and monitors all on me. I close my eyes, but all I see is Alton and that bed I got put in after they moved me down to the clinic .

"Ezra?"

I blink up at the nurse.

"I'm going to place your IV now, and get you started with a little bit of sedation. Are you having anxiety, due to what happened last time?"

"What, losing my fucking memory?"

She recoils at my F-bomb. Regret swamps me. "Sorry. I'm not mad at you or anything."

"I know. It's okay."

Her hands on me feel cold. I put an arm over my face, gritting my teeth as the needle goes in.

"Did that hurt?"

"No."

She tapes the fucking thing in place. I want to get up, walk outside, and walk as many miles as I have to, until this clawed-up feeling lets go of my throat and my chest.

A monitor starts beeping. The nurse says, "I'll be right back" and steps out.

When she's back, she starts a bag of something. I can't see what.

"Dr. Katz said we can do a bit of haloperidol to get you comfortable before you go to sleep."

I don't like this stuff. It makes me feel so weird. Like I can't sit still. But I can't move because my mind is so numb. So I lie there feeling weird inside. It makes me want to cry, but I can't cry when they give it to me.

"You can skip it," I manage. "I'm fine."

"Oh, it's okay. We want to help you feel relaxed."

She pats my hand, and I grit my teeth so I don't recoil. It's not long before the room gets blurry and I feel all numb and heavy. The team comes into my room, and somehow, I sit up.

"I need a marker."

"What?" the anesthesiologist asks .

"I need a marker. To write stuff...on my arm."The words slur.

I can't write because this stuff makes me shake. But I try.

MILLER.

Maybe when I wake back up…I'll find out what it means.