Page 11 of The Truth About Love

“You’re four, silly billy.” She cups my cheek softly, stroking her thumb back and forth across my skin. “Now go and get changed, that’s a good boy.”

“Okay mama.”

I turn to go upstairs, planning to lay low in my bedroom until she inevitably gets distracted with some other task and forgets all about the gloop in the oven, but a knock at the front door has Mama snapping her fingers round my wrist.

I can hear her terror in her fast breaths and I don’t need to turn around and look at her to know her eyes are as wide as a deer that’s been shot from behind.

“Baby, listen real close to Mamamy, okay?” she whispers shakily into my ear. “Get down and crawl nice and slow to the living room. Find somewhere to hide and stay there until Mamamy comes to get you. Can you do that for Mamamy?”

All I can think about is the poor delivery guy trying to deliver a package that Mama undoubtedly ordered during one of her manic episodes earlier this week. I can imagine him scratching his head and looking at the house in confusion when no one comes to the door. Mama would have specifically arranged delivery for today because she never goes out on Saturdays.

But trying to reassure Mama that there isn’t a threat would only make the situation worse. She’d grow hysterical. Probably accuse me of conspiring with whomever has come to kill her by luring her into a false sense of security. Maybe even attack me before I could potentially attack her. That’s happened before.

But I learnt young that the only thing to do when she gets like this is to go along with whatever bizarre behaviour she’s asking of me and wait it out. So, I do as I’ve done countless times before. I crawl as quietly as my six-foot-two frame can manage and sit on the floor beneath the window, making a mental note to pick Mama’s missed package up from the depot on my way home from school on Monday.

The first time this happened, I was probably around seven and just as terrified as she was. I’d spent hours and hours trembling in fear from inside the TV cabinet that she’d folded my tiny body into to “keep me safe”. But the more often stuff like this happened, the more I wondered why nothing ever happened to us beyond a few knocks on the door, and the more I realised that the danger on our doorstep wasn’t really danger at all. And the fear I once had of being murdered by strangers in my own home slowly morphed into fear of my mother. Not because I was worried that she’d hurt me, though she had on some occasions when her hallucinations were particularly bad, but because I was too young to understand how to navigate my mother’s mental illness and I was terrified of making it worse.

My school teachers were oblivious to what I was dealing with at home and I would never have gone to CPS off my own back for fear of us being separated. She may not have been the mother I needed her to be, but she was still my Mama and I’d never turn my back on her.

A little after my sixteenth birthday, she finally received a diagnosis. Schizophrenia. She was prescribed anti-psychosis medication to help with her hallucinations that would have made life more bearable for the both of us if she’d have ever actually taken it.

But for the past year and a half, those pills have sat untouched in the bathroom cabinet. And I have continued to care for her, despite not having the depth of knowledge or understanding of the condition needed for me to actually help her. I’ve tried requesting emergency mental health assistance multiple times, but nothing has come of it. She’s not deemed a big enough risk to herself to be involuntarily admitted to hospital.

So, life moves on.

And I make it through by spending as much time out of the house as possible. At football practice. Parties. The library. Fred’s place. Auntie Rosie’s Diner. I throw myself into sports and my studies because college is the only solution there is for us. I’ll study psychology and specialise in schizophrenia and psychotic disorders.

And then, once I’m a licensed therapist, I can help Mama and make her better.

Later, once I’ve cleared up the mess in the kitchen and put Mama to bed, I text Summer-Raine.

Me:Are you ready for lesson number two?

Summer-Raine:Depends what it is.

Me:A surprise. Keep next Saturday night free for me.

Summer-Raine:Sorry, can’t make it.

Me:I can smell your lies from here. You know what W H Auden would say? “The way to read a fairy tale is to throw yourself in.” Come on, Summer-Raine, don’t make me beg. Throw yourself into the fairy tale with me.

Summer-Raine:You need to start reading other poets.

Summer-Raine:Fine.

It takes considerable effort not to burst into a celebratory dance. I don’t give her a chance to change her mind. I text her back instantly.

Me:I’ll pick you up at seven.It’s a date.

Summer-Raine:Not a date.

Me:Oh baby, it absolutely is a date.

And despite all I’ve dealt with today, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips, dreaming of a smart-mouthed girl with golden hair and eyes the colour of spring.

Chapter Four

Summer-Raine

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