Page 173 of The Menagerie

Sheila’s not here today, but they order from one of the waitresses, each getting an omelet—meat lovers for Mal, veggie for Rowan—coffee, and a blueberry muffin on the side.

They dive into the muffin as soon as they sit down, the sugary and tart treat melting on their tongues.

Conversation is light between them. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy or life-changing. It’s nice being face-to-face with another person again. Especially when said person has a face like Mal’s. A tone of voice like Mal’s. A sense of humor like Mal’s.

Their food comes out steaming hot and looking every bit as delicious as it always does. Rowan digs in, pan-seared veggies spilling from the cheesy center of his omelet.

“So depression, huh?” Mal says casually around a forkful of home fries.

“Yeah,” Rowan sighs.

“Have you always known you’ve had it?”

Rowan sets his silverware down, knowing this is going to be a story that takes him a few minutes to get out.

“I got diagnosed when I was sixteen. Didn’t know anything was really wrong at first. I ran away from home and joined a hard-core orthodox church group and had my first big episode while I was there….” Rowan stops, laughing a little incredulously at the memory. “Started seeing demons and shit and was convinced they were after me, then stole all the cash in the tithe box and went AWOL.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yup.”

“And you didn’t get arrested?”

“Not then. The police caught up to me eventually, though. Managed to avoid jail because my brother told them I was mentally ill and unable to take care of myself.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Had to spend a month in a psych ward, drugged outta my mind. Reminded me a lot of my mom, actually. How she said her meds made her feel.”

Telling Mal all of this feels good. Like an undue burden finally being released and freeing Rowan from the crushing weight of it. To his credit, Mal doesn’t judge or look pitying like Rowan had half been expecting.

“Was that before or after you worked at a club?”

Rowan’s surprised Mal remembered from when he’d shared snippets of his story at Mal’s birthday, but he sighs again and answers, “Before. After I got out of the hospital, I went pretty much straight to the clubs. Worked underage, front house, back house, you name it.”

A cold trickle of shame rushes through Rowan, still not quite dispelled even after over a decade.

“I’m sorry,” Mal says, and it sounds so sincere that the cold shame warms to a soft glow in Rowan’s belly.

Rowan shrugs. “Thanks. It wasn’t… a great time in my life. But I’m better now.”

“Good. You’re… stable? That the right word?”

“Stable, yeah. Take my meds regularly and adjust them when I need to.”

Rowan stuffs some home fries in his mouth, the butter and spices a shock to his taste buds after barely any food the past week.

“How often do you… get depressed or whatever?”

“Can’t tell ya,” Rowan says regretfully. “It’s sporadic. I’m always baseline depressed, but the meds help with that and mitigate the worst of the symptoms. But when something particularly emotional happens, there’s a chance of it getting much worse. Crashing, kind of. And sometimes my PTSD makes me go a little crazy if something sets me off. I get irritable and tend to go into an almost manic state, acting out and engaging in risky behaviors. It’s almost cyclical between the two of them. Highs and lows.”

“And it usually lasts a week or so?” Mal asks, eyebrows once again knitted together.

“Depends. This episode lasted about that long, but I’ve had better, and I’ve had worse.” Rowan shrugs apologetically. “Sorry I can’t give you any real answers here. It’s always different. A week is usually about right before I get my meds adjusted, and then things settle back down.”

“No, it’s okay. Just tryn’a understand.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes while they eat their food.

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