The Cure by Iris Rosewater

If I had really stopped to think about it, I would have been much more careful with my answers on that questionnaire.

“Have you lost interest in your hobbies?”

Yes, for the most part. (But, I keep up some extracurricular activities. It keeps me away from home.)

“Do you feel disengaged from your loved ones?”

Absolutely. Abandoned, in fact.

“Do you have difficulty facing the day, and wish to stay in bed?”

Who doesn’t?

I blitz through the questions like an easy exam, not thinking ahead to any outcome in particular, and hand the clipboard to the nurse, who whisks it out of the room. I sit uncomfortably on the exam table, my legs dangling, listening to the white paper crinkle beneath my backside. My hands are cold, so I wedge them under my thighs for warmth. I’m too tired to get down and grab an outdated magazine from the basket on the floor, so instead I think about all the times I’ve been to the doctor that I can remember. Pneumonia as a five-year-old, that nasty fall off my bike when I was nine, all the lengthy bouts with bronchitis in middle school… and now, at 15, mononucleosis. I didn’t get it in any worthwhile way, either. This is probably from a germy doorknob – because it definitely isn’t from any kiss. What a gyp.

The doctor finally meanders in. I know we’re at an army base clinic, but it still weirds me out to see nurses and doctors in camo. It makes me feel like I should be prepared to duck and cover in case war breaks out. I peek under my knees at the drawers in the exam table. Maybe they store ammo in there. He sits on his rolly-chair for a few seconds, flipping through my chart. Then, sticking the stethoscope into his ears, he starts listening to me breathe. The stinking thing is like an icecube, and I start to shiver. The mucous in my lungs rattles audibly as I take a deep breath (I don’t need any medical instrument to detect it), which triggers a deep, wet coughing fit. He asks if I’m doing any better than last time, blah blah blah, and then notices the questionnaire answers.

“How long have you felt like this, Beth?”

What was their wedding date, again?

“For a few months.”

“Months?”

Yeah, months. About six of them, unless you count the courtship. But, that wasn’t nearly as bad as living with him.

“Well, I’d like you to see Dr. Cromwell before you go. I believe he’s free at the moment. He may be able to help you that.”

Sure, send me to Dr. Whomever. Am I done here? He writes me another prescription for that terrible stuff I’m supposed to gargle to numb the ulcers on my tonsils, and then leads me down a hallway. The atmosphere gets progressively more nicey-nice the further we walk. Like we’re going to a place prepared for fragile people. Soft colors are painted on the walls, instead of sterile white, and bulletin boards covered in pictures of people with hopeful looks in their eyes. And then, we walk into Dr. What’s-his-face’s office, and my eyes squint and then widen, adjusting to the darkness. It is seriously dark in here. Maybe this guy treats people who are allergic to light. What am I doing here, exactly? Dressed in an argyle sweater vest and sky-blue collared-shirt instead of camo, he stands up and gingerly shakes my hand. He’s middle aged with a graying beard and receding hair line. They speak with low voices to each other for a moment, and then my doctor nods to me and shuts the door behind him. Then, daft, tired Beth, I finally put it all together. He’s a psychologist.

His dim office is covered in hunting décor. Apparently, he’s big into mallards. They are EVERYWHERE. Wooden figures, sitting placidly on the edges of his desk… a large painting on the wall with a whole flock of them trying in vain to make an escape. All of them have a vacant, soulless look in their eyes. Which, by the way, is not how a duck really looks. My aunt had a few. They were rather clever, I thought. I pictured them, waddling devotedly behind her around the garden while she pulled weeds, quacking happily when she’d toss a slug or a worm their way. How in the world am I supposed to take this guy seriously?

Dr. Cromwell starts asking me some questions about my home life. I explain about my stepfather, who lays on the couch day and night, with the TV blaring away. I explain that I am sick with mono, and of course I want to sleep all the time – I have been asleep 16 hours of every day for the last few weeks. He asks about school, and I tell him how I’m first chair cellist in my orchestra, I am in 3 honors classes and have a 3.8 GPA. Do I think it will get better? He asks. Well, I can’t be sick forever, I reason. If only my stepfather was a nasty disease that I knew would run its course and then we’d all have antibodies that would keep him away forever. He seems to pick up on the unspoken, never-ending half of my depression. He looks at me for a while – an uncomfortable amount of time, I might add – leaning back in his black leather office chair. And then he starts to tell me what a great kid I am, how I really seem to have my head on my shoulders… how lucky my parents are. Clearly, I don’t seem to be “clinically” depressed (which is apparently much worse), just “situationally” depressed. Well, I think, if the situation doesn’t end, does that make it clinical? But, I don’t want to tamper with his tidy diagnosis, so I don’t say anything more. I let him prescribe me something that will “help get me through this difficult transition”.

In the car, my mom seems relieved… almost a little happy as we head to the pharmacy. We sit silently, and I think about what makes me happy anymore. I mentally comb through my everyday life. Rehearsals, essays, tests, sleep… all that comes up in the way of happiness is my golden retriever, Ranger. He’s getting old, even though I don’t like to admit it. His muzzle is turning white and his eyes look a bit saggy. I think if what few endorphins I have left in my brain and how they start to trickle out when I sit and touch his silky ears and let him lick my hands with his velvety tongue. I like the happy grumbling noise he makes when I scratch his tummy, and the little tufts of fur that grow between his toes. I even like the way he smells – sweet, and a bit like warm sand. Then, delving further into the last time I was really happy, I think about my sister, Sarah.

When Dad left, our Mother went to pieces. She stopped eating or leaving the house. She seemed only capable of two activities: sleeping and sobbing. Sarah was in high school at the time, and I was in middle school. I dreaded coming home from school for the first half of eighth grade. Sarah dreaded leaving… maybe because she was afraid of what she might come home to find if she left Mom alone all day.

We soldiered on, the two of us, through that horrible year. And, just when Mom had started to go stretches of days and then weeks without crying, and Sarah and I thought we were going to be okay after all, she met Bob. Bob the blob. They met online of all places… both feeling lonely after messy divorces. He lived a few hours away, so Mom would leave us for a week at a time to visit, leaving Sarah in charge, of course. (As if that was any kind of change… Sarah had been running things for the last year).

It’s funny that, in the midst of all the garbage I had suffered, my mind pinpointed these times as the happiest for me. When Mom went on her visits, Sarah would shoot me a sly smile, explaining that I was needed at home that school day, or gee, didn’t I look sick this morning…

We ate lazy breakfasts… like bowls of an assortment of sugary cereals mixed together. We laid on a blanket under the tree in the back yard, sunbathing with the cat. We got fountain drinks at the drive-through during happy hour. We did puzzles. We laughed. She played the piano and we sang songs from old musicals like West Side Story. Sarah was my sister and my best friend.

And then Mom decided to marry Bob the Blob. And take me with her. Sarah was starting college by then, and had no plans to move five hours away to live with Bob. So, it was just me against the world, instead of the two of us. I was alone.

I am alone.

Mom has started to talk by the time we pull into the pharmacy drive-thru line. She’s obviously happy at this point, and a clear endorser of anti-depressants. Someone should hire this woman to do an ad, the way she’s going on. Isn’t it wonderful this day and age to have medicine like this… something to get us back in “the right frame of mind.” She wishes someone would have told her sooner about them, when Dad left. It would have changed that whole experience. You mean, we wouldn’t have been orphans for a year? I almost ask. She pulls up and pays for my prescription, reaching for a white bag through the little window.

As we drive away, I take out the little orange bottle with my name printed in capital letters. My Mom leans over and smiles, patting my leg reassuringly.

“See, Honey?” she says, “Everything is going to be all right.”