This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,111

clutching a small silk pouch shaped like an envelope, the kind that Chinese people put jewelry in.

“Xiao Jia,” she says as she sits down on the edge of my bed. I shove myself up so I’m at least upright. “Xiao Jia,” she repeats, reaching out to hold my hands in hers.

In my entire life, I don’t think my mom has ever reached out to hold my hand.

“Is… everything okay, Mom?” It’s a stupid question. Things are definitely not okay in my family. But somehow, I figured that my mom was the one who was the most okay, if that makes sense.

“Shenme?” My mom gives me a deer-in-the-headlights look. “No, no, I just fine.” This just makes me more suspicious, especially when my mom works her jaw a bit, as if gearing up to say something.

When my mom finally speaks, it’s in this robotic tone she gets when she’s saying something that she’s practiced in her head a bunch of times but never said out loud, like when she went on a MVCA trip to Lake George and she had to struggle through “May I have a meatball sandwich, please?” when she ordered lunch from a food truck. It’s the kind of thing Alan and I like to make fun of. For instance, when she pronounces fettuccini alfredo “feh-TOOK-knee AL-fredo.” It’s less amusing when my mom recites:

“I feel like you has been very sad lately.”

My mouth literally drops open.

“I want you to know,” she goes on bravely, “that I always here to listen.” Then she looks at me expectantly, like a freaking dachshund jonesing for a treat.

“Mom,” I say helplessly. “Okay, thanks.”

When that’s all I say, my mom kind of crumples into herself a little. But then she clutches the little silk purse tighter, takes a couple of deep breaths, and jumps once more into the breach.

“If you are feeling depression, it is okay. If you ever feel like hurting yourself, that is something you should tell me and I will not get upset.”

I’m so embarrassed for both of us that I want to crawl back under the covers. Or open my window and shout, “Help! I’ve fallen into a bad PSA, and I can’t get up!”

The only thing I can think of that will end this horror is to give her what she wants, so I gear up to say, “I have been feeling a little down lately, but I don’t have a plan to die by suicide,” which is pretty much true. My fantasy about riding home without lights and getting hit by a car doesn’t count. Does it?

Before I can get the words out, though, my mom unbuttons the silk purse and pulls out an orange plastic prescription bottle. The words freeze in my mouth.

“Just after you born,” my mother says, “I very sad. Cry all day. That why your amah live with us now, because she have to help. I get better eventually, but when I have Alan, I very afraid same thing happen, so my doctor send me talk to someone, and they give me these pills. At first, I scared to take them. But then your amah tell me, I cannot have postpartum again, I have two kids take care of. And wha!” She throws her hands up in surprise. “I better. So much more happy.”

With a shaking hand, I take the bottle and stare at the label.

FLUOXETINE (PROZAC) 20 MG

TAKE ONE CAPSULE DAILY.

I check: It’s my mom’s name, and the date of the prescription is two weeks ago.

“You’ve been on antidepressants for years,” I say, stunned.

My mother nods. She looks relaxed now that she’s said her piece. She always looks relaxed, though—it’s something that’s always made me feel kind of broken, that I’m “so emotional” and constantly “making a big deal about things” when my mom’s always so calm.

“I can’t believe…” My voice breaks, and my mom straightens, as if she’s bracing for a hit. “I’ve always wondered what was the matter with me. And now to know that you…” I pull my knees up to my chin and shudder. “Does Dad know?” I whisper.

My mom shakes her head.

I wish I were surprised.

The minute Will opens the door I blurt out my news. Best to tear the Band-Aid off.

“I got into the JBP program, but I didn’t get the scholarship. My dad has until Friday to renew his lease, but Mr. Berger already has a taker for the space and they’re offering ten percent more than our current rent. So, I don’t know how