Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me - Gae Polisner Page 0,6

goes on and on about me becoming a woman, making me sure she’s trying to hint something awkward about Max and me. She barely knows him, only that we’re dating, and I haven’t told her or Mom that he’s a senior, or worse, that, since he was held back, he’s already nineteen. Nana would have a stroke.

“Look at these,” I say, stopping on a page full of Painted Jezebels. “These are my favorites,” I tell her.

In the end, Nana chooses the Glasswings, Greta oto, and I choose the Painted Jezebels. Delias hyparete metarete, indigenous to Sri Lanka, India, and Southeast Asia.

The Glasswings are prettier, for sure. But I like the Jezebels with their plain white moth wings on top, their vibrant reds and oranges hidden underneath like a secret.

MID-APRIL

TENTH GRADE

I watch the splinted Jezebel for a few minutes more to be sure she’s really okay, before heading down the hall toward Mom’s bedroom. I haven’t heard a sound since she got out of the shower. But she’s not in there; her bed is made up, no slight swell of the covers. Apparently she hasn’t given up for the night yet.

A spark of hope flares in my chest. Maybe she’s up doing something normal, cooking dinner in the kitchen for a change.

“Mom?” I call out. Maybe today with Dr. Marsdan was the magic session, and her therapy will have finally helped things. Maybe this new cocktail of medications is working.

At the entrance to the kitchen, hope deflates.

She sits with her back to me, in one of her dumb kimonos, her shoulders moving slightly, the sound of a pen scratching along an unseen sheet of paper.

She’s writing one of those stupid letters. It would have been better if she were sleeping.

“Mom?” I have a hard time keeping the fear from my voice. “Mom.”

She jerks her head around, her black tangle of hair whipping across her face. Her cheeks are wet. She’s been crying. The sides of her short silk kimono—this one fuchsia with embroidered burgundy flowers trailing down the hem—fall open, revealing too much of her chest.

She looks at me, but doesn’t see me.

I swallow hard and try again, louder, more forcefully. “Mom!

I told Nana she does this—disappears completely—and Nana says she asked Dr. Marsdan about it, and he said the trick is to re-ground her. “Give her facts that might pull her back to the present. She needs a little help focusing, that’s all,” Nana insisted.

Right, whatever.

“When did you get home?” I ask, trying. “Were you out shopping, or did you have an appointment with Dr. Marsdan?” Mom stares past me, eyes damp and distant. “Mom, was Nana with you?”

“What?” Her voice is soft, her question directed somewhere other than me.

“Mom. I’m asking you about today. Did Nana take you to your appointment with Dr. Marsdan, or did you go alone?”

With that, she snaps back, a mix of recognition and confusion playing across her face. “Oh, Jean Louise, yes. That’s right. Nana, yes. She has her bridge group this evening. She went with me, but couldn’t stay.”

Okay, then.

Mom turns away again, sighs deeply, and folds the piece of paper on the table, jamming it into her pocket.

I look around our otherwise pristine kitchen, devoid of any cooking or baking or other culinary endeavor that might amount to a meal resembling dinner, and back at my mother. She’s grown thinner these past weeks. The kimono hangs large at her shoulders.

Amidst the swirl of flowers is an embroidered symbol. It matches one my father sent me when he first moved out to Malibu. It’s the Japanese symbol for patience. I could use some of that right now.

“Mom?” I say, and she turns. “We should order something for dinner?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course we should. Could you call? Get me whatever you’re having. I might need to rest for a bit.” She heads to her room, leaving the pen, but taking the letter with her.

I think about calling Nana. At least last week Nana finally admitted that the doctor says Mom might have something seriously wrong with her. Something called dissociative disorder, which can cause both delusions and hallucinations. “It’s only stress,” Nana had added, reassuring herself, because she sure wasn’t reassuring me. “Nothing to worry about, really. She’ll be fine when your father gets home.”

But what if she isn’t?

And what if Dad never comes home?

Here’s what I’ve learned, Aubrey: If a person is crazy but beautiful like my mother, they get away with it.

If they’re rich and beautiful, even better.

Sure, maybe people talk behind