FORTY SCRUBS
by
Joanna George
SMASHWORDS EDITION
*****
PUBLISHED BY:
Joanna George on Smashwords
Forty Scrubs
Coptyright © 2011 by Joanna George
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*****
FORTY SCRUBS
Prologue
‘So what you’re saying is true then?’ I shouted, striding up the front path after Sam.
No answer.
‘Sam! What the hell is going on?’
She took her sunnies off, fumbled with the keys and struggled with the lock. I grabbed her arm but she resisted.
‘Talk to me, Sam! I have to know what’s going on.’
She finally had the door unlocked and stood on the doorstep. When she turned around her eyes were filled with tears.
‘Wait until we get inside,’ she muttered, her lips firm.
‘Well, hurry up and get inside!’
She strode into the kitchen and put the kettle on. ‘We’ll have a coffee and sit in the lounge,’ she said, her cheeks stained from tears.
I was anxious.
I couldn’t stop moving.
I couldn’t sit down.
I stood in the kitchen doorway waiting for her to finish. I felt like a wind-up toy. I needed to stop my feelings of anxiety before I snapped.
‘You are taking your time, Sam.’
‘I – I know, but the coffees are ready now. Come on, let’s go in’. She handed me a mug, we walked into the lounge and sat on separate couches.
She breathed in deeply, sat forward, and looked up at the ceiling.
‘Well, it’s obvious you don’t know how to start, so I’ll start for you,’ I said. ‘Are you my mother or my sister? Or was that just something you said out of the blue?’
Sam looked down at the floor.
I asked the question again.
‘Okay fine,’ I shouted. ‘For God’s sakes, Sam, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m sixteen! Please tell me or do I have to assume that from now on I call you Mum instead of Sam?’ I felt so irascible I didn’t know how to control myself, control myself from going hysterical, control myself from going mad.
I hated Sam.
I hated myself.
*****
Chapter One
When I was younger my vomit obsession was almost uncontrollable. I couldn’t have stood near anyone who as much as coughed because I was frightened they would throw up. I always made sure my hands were squeaky clean, and I mean squeaky clean, to the point they turned red and my skin looked like old ladies’ skin crawling with psoriasis. I scrubbed away at the nails and scraped them against the palms of my hands with soap and water.
Forty times.
There was no way I could have those ‘vomit’ germs infesting my skin or under my finger nails. I used only the hand dryers in public toilets, never the paper towels or those unpullable pull-down cotton dryers.
‘Why do you keep on drying your hands like that, turning the dryer on over and over again?’ Dougall, my best friend, asked one day when we were at school washing our hands before lunch.
‘Because I once read on a label that using dryers is the most hygienic way of drying your hands.’
‘Look at your hands though, Keish. They’re all red and sore. They look like they’re going to bleed,’ he said, pressing his fingers gently on my skin.
‘Dougall! I’ll have to wash them again now! Why did you touch them?’ Damn, he made me angry.
My neuroticism (that’s what Dougall liked to call it) was thankfully diminishing over time. I still never sat on public toilet seats, but who did? I hovered above them like a bird, but I was the bird who always knew where its target was.
I still had some ‘vomit’ issues though. Just hearing the word made me cringe. But I didn’t think about catching a bug, accidentally stepping in vomit, or waiting for a cougher to throw up like I did when I was younger.
My obsession swayed over to something else. I had routines. And each routine had to be done a special number of times. When I showered I had to give myself forty scrubs everywhere. I could not live with thirty-nine scrubs. No, that would’ve been like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Thirty-nine and I panicked.
Forty-one and I panicked.
I had to start the climb again.
My routines took up a lot of time and were very exhausting, but I had to satisfy one crazy compulsion in my head – that if I didn’t, something bad or even terrible would happen to me. It was my own Morse Code. I always had to enter the correct number of scrubs to get satisfaction. That was how my mind worked, like the song by The Rolling Stones.
‘I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t get no satisfaction,
Cause I try and I try and I try and I try…’
Oh I tried alright.
A number of times.
I thought my obsessions and worries were normal. I thought everyone had them, like everyone seemed to have an obsession with being cool. I knew I wasn’t cool and never could be. Unfortunately, God or the Higher Power had shoved me in the back row with plenty of obsessions when He or She was handing out the free rides to coolness.
It wasn’t until Mum started taking me to psychiatrists that I realised I wasn’t normal. I remembered her coming into my room one night while I was checking my cupboard, behind the curtains and under my pillow. Then I heard her crying.
‘You scared me! Why are you crying, Mummy?’
Shaking her head she ran over to me and cradled me in her arms. I had no idea why until she had sat me down next to her on my bed and explained my rituals weren’t normal.
‘I was only checking because of the ants that time. Remember when I had all those yucky ants under my pillow?’
‘Yes, I do, but why three times, Keisha?’
‘Because if I don’t check three times the ants might come back.’
‘I think we’d better go to a special doctor because you are worrying too much about little things that don’t matter.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like being sick and the ants. Other seven year olds don’t worry about those sorts of things.’
What did other seven year olds worry about?
Being cool?
I certainly didn’t.
At first Mum thought I had been sexually abused. I had no idea how she related the constant fear of vomiting and checking to sexual abuse, but that was my mother for you. Personally, I thought she had gone nuts.
‘Are you sure no-one has been fiddling with your private parts, Keisha?’ she asked me one day after picking me up from the sick bay at primary school. I felt ill after hearing my teacher say one of the kids was away sick with a stomach bug. ‘Perhaps that’s why you’re so scared about being sick all the time?’
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. ‘Of course not, Mum.’
So it was decided I had to see a psychiatrist, and it didn’t stop at one. My first shrink had thin wavy hair, a bald patch, and a little grey beard sprouting from his chin like old grass. He looked like that sensei, Mr Miyagi, out of Karate Kid, the guy with the slanted eyes. I used to look at Mr Miyagi and think his sight was way too limited to teach that Karate Kid anything at all, let alone all those high kicks and lethal chops.
The shrink didn’t have karate students. He had cats.
‘I hope you don’t mind cats,’ he said and smiled as he sunk down into an old brown peeling armchair before crossing his legs.
No, I didn’t mind cats but he had more than fifteen prowling his quarters and keeping guard. They skulked around purring and miaowing, and pulling all sorts of nasty faces to let me know I wasn’t welcome.
I didn’t mind.
I didn’t want to be welcome.
‘Look at all these cats, Dad,’ I whispered, sitting down on the very edge of a tattered old couch. ‘They’re everywhere. Even on top of the TV. And it stinks in here.’
‘How does he expect his visitors to deal with how dirty this place is?’ I whispered again, looking at the clumps of cat hair clutching at the sticky carpet for dear life – scared someone might actually come along and vacuum them up.
That was highly unlikely.
Dad just shook his head and rested his hands on his lap.
He was clearly embarrassed.
When we left Mum said, ‘didn’t it stink of strong ammonia in there?’
‘Yeah, that’s the cat pee,’ I replied quickly. ‘Dirty old man. And I bet he doesn’t wash his hands. He would be sure to have a bug.’
‘Keisha!’ Mum said, shaking her head.
That was the one and only time we saw the sensei. Mum had taken me to other psychiatrists but none were that memorable. None made me cringe that much. None gave me so much to think about. She did enough research to write an encyclopedia on my problems and consulted the local doctor who referred me to yet another psychiatrist.
Mr Robbins.
‘Hmmm,’ he muttered, peering over his glasses and running his eyes over me at the end of my first session. ‘I am going to prescribe an anti-depressant for you. It will help with the anxiety and calm you down a bit.’
He smiled, took out his biro and wrote me the prescription.
‘This is called Zoloft.’ He handed the prescription to my mum. ‘I want Keisha to take one once a day in the mornings. And I’d like her to come and visit me for therapy.’
‘Yes, Doctor. How long will she have to come for?’
He smiled.
He did that often.
It made his black wonky beard more physically bearable.
‘Oh, I think we’ll say indefinitely for now and see how things go.’
Although I liked to think of him as Mr Smiley, Mum, Dad and my sisters called him by his real name. Mr Robbins was a name that became notorious in our household.
‘It’s funny,’ Dad said one night as he was flicking through a pile of medical bills, ‘I think we say that name more than we used to say Jordy when we tried getting him in of a night.’
Jordy was the cat that died when I was eleven. He had been eleven too.
Eleven.
An unlucky number.
After quite a few therapy sessions I remembered saying, ‘Mum, what do you think it means if I check under my pillow, in my wardrobe and behind the curtains only twice instead of three times? Do you think it means I’m getting better?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I really don’t know, Keisha. You’ll have to ask Mr Robbins.’
I also remembered saying, ‘I walked past a boy today who was coughing really badly. I think I might be getting better.’
The response again was a smile and ‘you’ll have to ask Mr Robbins.’
*****
Chapter Two
I liked Year Ten.
I liked school.
I didn’t like Chemistry or the bullies.
Chemistry and the bullies were too much alike. Both hated me and both liked to mess with my mind.
Year Ten gave me a new meaning to life however, though there were subjects I really couldn’t be stuffed doing like Chemistry, Geography and History. Why couldn’t I just do the subjects I liked such as English and Biology? I had only ever wanted to be an author or geneticist and there was no way I was going to change my mind.
I loved genetics and related to it more than anything else. If it were not for the fact that it couldn’t listen to me I could have made DNA my best friend. All those patterns fascinated me. How one protein base had to be matched to a specific other base to form a particular trait. And how a base matched to the wrong base caused what is called a mutation. A mutation is a change or alteration in nature or form – an anomaly.
I was a mutation.
My best friend at school was Dougall. He was my only friend and I was his only friend so it was only logical we be best friends. We were finishing yet another lackadaisical lesson (a brilliant new word I found on the dictionary website) when I stepped off the stool, closed my three books and stacked them up.
The largest sat on the bottom.
The smallest sat on the top.
The edges sat parallel.
Doug (pronounced Doog, not Dug) and the other kids were so used to my odd arrangements they didn’t say anything anymore. It was like the huge mole on the side of my sister’s neck. I was sure the Higher Power had put it there just to annoy me. I couldn’t help but stare at it when we were young.
‘Jessi, have you ever thought about getting that thing taken off?’ I asked one day when we were sun-baking beside the pool after school. The sun was glowing on the mole making it look like a big brown polkadot. If it were cute and tiny it wouldn’t have been so bad, but the thing was the size of a chocolate button – a misshaped hairy chocolate button.
‘No, I might get cancer,’ she replied.
‘What?’ I’d never heard such an excuse. ‘You’ll get cancer if you leave the thing on your face because of the sun, not if you get it taken off.’
‘No, Mum said I could get it if I get it taken off.’
‘Well, I think she’s wrong there.’
‘It’d only grow back anyway so there’s no point, Keisha. Just leave it.’
Unfortunately I never won the mole argument.
But I couldn’t win one argument when it came to Jessica.
‘So, did you take it all in, Keisha?’ Dougall asked, giving me a cynical grin as we walked towards the classroom door.
‘I wasn’t even listening, Doug. You know I can’t be stuffed with Chemistry. It’s so boring. I don’t know how you stand it.’
He held the door open and followed me out. ‘You know I love all those compounds. Anyway, what have we got now, Keish?’
‘English. You should know that. You have your Macbeth right there.’
As I pointed at his book a boy next to us slammed his locker door open, clearly wanting the door to hit us.
‘Oh, sorry guys,’ he said and smirked. ‘I didn’t see you both there, but you’re both a waste of space so who cares anyway, right?’
‘Grow up already. You should be back at primary school, but I guess the work would be too hard for you,’ I shouted as he waltzed off to catch up with his mates.
‘You should just ignore them. They’re not worth it.’
‘No, Dougall, they make me too god dam angry. Ignoring them is the last thing I’m going to do.’
Students picked on me all the time. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it. It had been happening for so long now it felt like Chemistry.
It was something I hated but which happened almost every day.
It was something I tried to forget but the imprint was always there.
Kids loved to taunt anyone who was different. During Year Seven camp the group of girls I had to share a room with came in holding their stomachs and told me they all had a serious stomach bug.
‘Oh my God, Keisha, you’d better not come near us. We’ve been spewing all night. It can’t be food poisoning because we haven’t eaten anything here. It must be a very contagious bug,’ one girl said as she put her hand over her mouth and made a wretched gagging face.
I knew they could’ve been lying but because I was always so anxious about vomit and anything to do with it I was unfortunately inclined to believe them.
I must’ve turned pale because another girl said, ‘are you okay, Keisha? You look like you’re going to throw up yourself? Do you want me to get you a bucket or something?’
I couldn’t speak.
I felt sick.
I was shaking.
Finally I managed to say, ‘er… no, I’ll be okay,’ and ran to the toilet to take my homeopathic nausea pills that were in fact my other best friend. God help me if Dougall found out.
Before I met Dougall, I always sat at the front of the class by myself. When I was in primary school Mum was worried. I knew she thought it was my phobias that stopped me from making friends.
‘Keisha, what will the other kids think of you if they see you cleaning your knife and fork like that all the time?’ she asked me one night when I came home from school and sat at the table cleaning my cutlery in a napkin.
‘I don’t care, Mum, and if I don’t care why do you? I have to clean them because I have to get the germs off.’
Mum never won the cutlery cleaning argument.
‘Come on, let’s get to class, Doug,’ I said, grabbing the elbow of Dougall’s jumper and pulling at it to try and make him faster. His books nearly fell to the floor. He was the clumsiest person I knew.
‘It’s good I’m so organised, you know, because if we were both clumsy we wouldn’t get anywhere.’ I laughed as we walked past three boys huddled around a locker. Looking at Penthouse or Playboy, no doubt.
‘Yeah, well it’s good we both don’t have your disease, otherwise we would never have any fun at all.’
Dougall was usually so tactful but had clearly left his tact at home this morning.
‘For a start it’s not a disease, and secondly, think yourself lucky you don’t have it, Dougall Hunter. There are days I think I’m just going to crack it and go mental or something.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.’
‘You never do.’ I grabbed his elbow again and said, ‘come on, let’s just get to class.’
English was my favourite subject. It allowed me to express my feelings, thoughts and emotions as freely as I pleased. Some of my work was probably a bit too intense but I liked my writing. I liked writing poetry and recently handed in a poem titled I Want to Die, its contents being self-explanatory.
‘Keisha, I think you ought to go and see the student counsellor,’ my teacher said when she kept me back after class one day. ‘The content of your material is a little… um… morbid, especially for a girl your age.’
‘No, I’m okay. I see Dr Robbins quite often. He’s a shrink. I’m okay, really, Miss.’
She left it at that.
She knew she couldn’t win.
I also loved Shakespeare, especially Macbeth. My favourite quote was:
“Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.”
It signified many of the days I had.
‘This book is so boring,’ Doug said before slinging an old and tattered Macbeth in front of him.
‘You shouldn’t say that about Macbeth. Shakespeare deserves more credit. What on earth have you done to your book anyway? Did your mum put it through the wash?’
‘No, of course not, but I wouldn’t blame her if she did. There’s such crap inside.’
I shook my head. Sometimes Dougall made me really angry. As much as I tried to encourage literary interest in him, I never succeeded. He was a wordless book.
I knew I should’ve been fair. After all, no-one could ever have encouraged chemical interest in me. If anyone felt the same about English the way I felt about Chemistry, God (or the Higher Power) help them with their essays and stories.
‘Okay, have it your way, but I’m going to enjoy the book.’
Dougall put his wrinkled diary in front of him and started thumbing the pages. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I’m looking for some space so I can write down compounds.’
His diary was his temple. A temple teeming with scrawled letters, subscripted numbers and plus signs. I imagined the compounds flying out of the pages and throwing themselves together to produce injurious concoctions. The kind of scene you have in Harry Potter.
‘What are you thinking up now, Dumbledore?’ I said leaning towards him to read his jumbled letters.
‘Not sure, but I’m trying to work out how to make dry ice or frozen carbon dioxide last forever. It’s just a matter of getting the atmosphere right.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have a clue and it doesn’t really interest me, but you continue with your boring compounds if that’s your thing.’
Dougall chewed on the end of his pen while his brain clearly ticked away at a futile combination.
Mr Bryson told us to open our books to Act 1, Scene 7, Macbeth’s Castle.
Dougall took his eyes away from his scrawly writing for a moment. ‘”If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well”. What sort of crap is that? It’s total shite if you ask me.’
I was shocked he could even read the book for all the black fingermarks on the page. ‘No-one is asking you, you moron, so keep your thoughts to yourself.’
I aligned the bottom edge of my folder with the edge of the table. Then I put my black pen to the left side of my folder ready to take down notes. I only ever wrote in black because I once had a bad experience with a blue biro.
I was in Year Eight and had dropped my blue biro on the bitumen at school.
‘Aren’t you going to pick that pen up?’ Dougall asked.
‘Er, no… no, it’s fine, Doug. I have plenty of pens.’
The truth was I remembered a boy younger than me throwing up on that very spot about a year ago.
‘Ok then, but it’s your loss.’ Dougall was quite the cheapskate. He picked the pen up. ‘Waste not, want not.’
I never went near that pen again.
Blue biros were unlucky.
*****
Chapter Three
I didn’t usually sit at the back of the bus. That was where all the popular cool kids sat.
I wasn’t popular or cool.
I always sat at the front.
Today, however, I was pushed to the far back by the other kids because the bus was busy.
‘Can you all move down,’ the bus driver shouted out. ‘Come on, we haven’t got all day.’ I felt awkward being at the back but it was the only place to go.
I always envied the popular girls and wanted to be popular myself but I had clearly been dealt phobias and obsessions before looks. I got the luck of the draw with those.
My older sister, Sam, thought differently though.
‘You’re really beautiful, Keisha, you know. I wish I had your looks,’ she said to me one day when we were looking in the bathroom mirror and I was putting on some of her lip-gloss.
‘Are you kidding? No way. Trust me, Sam, you wouldn’t want to look like me. Not in a million years.’
‘Oh yes I would! Look at that gorgeous long dark hair you have and those beautiful blue eyes. Why wouldn’t I want to look like you?’
I was embarrassed.
I didn’t like people commenting on my looks.
I had three sisters. We were called ‘the Morgan sisters’ because our last name was Morgan. Original, I thought.
Sam, the oldest, was the sister I had the strongest bond with. She had always looked after me, especially after Mum died.
I had a connection with Jessica, the second oldest Morgan girl, but she was as temperamental as an inside aerial. She was kind and compassionate one minute and so elusive the next I thought she must have bi-polar. She was a big girl too.
Alex, the youngest of us, thought Jessi looked fat in the overgrown orange jumper she wore almost every day like she was homeless.
‘You look like an orange on steroids,’ Alex said one day when we were eating breakfast.
Jessica scrunched up her big nose, pouted her tiny lips and said, ‘well, look at you. You look like a blonde bimbo. You’ve definitely overdone that peroxide and push-up bra.’
Jessica always gave as good as she got.
Alex huffed. ‘At least I’m a thin bimbo, which is more than I can say for you.’ She strutted out of the kitchen twisting her hips as she went.
Alex always gave as good as she got too.
Jessi continued to eat chocolate and chips. Actually she ate anything, and it multiplied in her body like the fat virus and added large morsels of fat to her cottage cheese cellulite. It was like she ate to spite Alex. Maybe she was just past caring though or maybe it was Mum’s death that had made her immune to worrying about consuming copious amounts of junk.
When Mum died we were all very depressed, except for Alex that is.
Alex was the reprobate in our family.
‘Mummy, why is Alex so different to us all? Does she belong to our family or to someone else’s?’ I remembered asking when we were little and after Alex had pretended she wanted to push me on the swing but pushed me off instead.
‘It’s because she’s the youngest, Keisha. It’s difficult for her.’
It was difficult for us all.
I often wished I could stay back in my childhood where it felt much safer and where I felt protected and unharmed. I wanted to go back to believing in everything. It was way too fast moving from six to sixteen. It was like the Christmas holidays you wait so long for but which seem to go nowhere by the time you’re back at school and in another grade.
I weaved in and out of the sweaty kids to get to the back of the bus trying so hard not to touch them but that was as impossible as trying to turn off a tap in a public toilet without using your fingers.
Then I saw him.
Craig Foerster.
He was sitting right at the back.
He was a God.
He had sandy blonde hair that reminded me of Barbie’s locks, only shorter. His eyes were like blue marbles against white china and his body like an upside down elongated triangle. He had such pure delicate features.
‘Excuse me, please,’ I said as I put my head down to move between two boys.
‘Hey, you’re that nerd who hangs out with that Harry Potter nerd, aren’t you?’ one of them said and laughed.
I didn’t answer.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
I brushed past him and my bare arm touched his sticky shirt.
Hot and disgusting.
Germs always prospered in heat.
Sometimes I panicked when I saw Craig. My chest tightened and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My ribcage was closing in on me, acting like a clamping device.
I kept my head low and sat down. I was only three people away from him. I looked at his hands. It was safer than looking at his face.
‘Yeah, when I leave school I’m going to get one of those Skyline GTR’s and mod it,’ I heard Craig say to the boy next to me.
‘Ah, cool. What are going to do to it?’ the guy said.
‘Ah, man, what am I not going to do to it?’ From the corner of my eye I saw Craig smile (and what a beautiful smile he had) and shake his head slowly. ‘I’m going to give it eighteen inch chromies, a three and a half inch exhaust, cannon muffler, Momo gear, Alteza lights and I’m going to get it lowered.’
‘Wow, that’s going to look totally mad!’
‘Yep, it’ll be the best car on the road. It will stand right out.’
Craig didn’t need a car to make him stand out.
He did that all by himself.
I watched his hands the whole time. They were beautiful. His long fingers wrapped around the straps of his bag would have been able to span across ten piano keys. That was two more than an octave. I played the piano when I was younger but became frustrated with not being able to play perfectly that I gave up.
Craig didn’t play piano.
He played football.
I hated football.
But it was Craig so I didn’t care.
‘My God, he kicks that ball well. Look how fast that thing goes,’ I said to Doug one lunchtime when we were watching the footy from behind the bike shed.
‘Yeah, that’s why he’s mid-fielder.’
‘Watch how he kicks. He’s so amazing.’ I was mesmerised.
His legs were magnificent. They were firm and hard like the seat he sat on. I could tell just by looking at the contours beneath his school pants. And then I looked at his crotch.
Even that was appealing.
What was I thinking?
I quickly turned my head.
I remembered when I was about nine Mum took me to the gym with her to do yoga. She thought it would help with her sickness. I sat against the back wall with my legs crossed and watched the women fling themselves into a mental delusion like they were doing some kind of sanctimonious ritual.
‘Push your feet into the ground, feel the earth,’ the instructor said almost too seductively while lunging and swaying her arms first to the left and then to the right. I never knew why but I always associated the movements, the way she spoke and the musky smell of the room with sex.
I wondered if women did yoga because they didn’t have anyone to give them sex, and yoga was their means to filling a void. When they closed their eyes and breathed in heavily I thought about this show I once watched at night on SBS with a man giving a woman sex.
My bus trips reminded me of the sweaty, musky smell of the yoga room. If it weren’t for Craig getting the bus I probably would’ve walked home.
Every inch of him was perfect.
Every cell of him was perfect.
He had no mutations.
‘Dad, do you think I have one big mutation in my genes because of my illness?’ I asked after studying genetics at school one day.
‘I don’t know, Keisha,’ he said and laughed. ‘I really don’t know much about genetics. Ask one of your sisters.’
He always passed me off to one of them even though they knew less than me about medical matters.
I stepped off the bus, and steered clear of the curbs and cracks in the pavements.
I knew the pavements and cracks off by heart. It was a five-minute walk to my house and I always kept my eyes glued to the ground in case some new cracks or a pile of vomit had surfaced since yesterday.
My obsessions were like Dougall’s compounds.
Kneaded together and ready to explode.
That was my mind in a nutshell.
*****
Chapter Four
‘I was reading about a new approach to help kids like you, Keisha,’ Sam said while munching on her muesli.
‘But I’ve tried everything possible – psychiatrists, different medications, everything. I’m not that bad now anyway.’
‘You’re certainly better, but I thought maybe this new approach I’ve read about could help cure you.’
‘Cure me? I don’t think that’s possible, but okay, you can tell me about it if you like.’
‘Well, it’s called “The Four Steps”,’ she said putting her spoon into the bowl. ‘Dr Jeffrey Schwarz is the one who introduced it. It looks really good. Perhaps you could look into it. You like researching different illnesses, especially your own. What do you think, Keish?’
‘I don’t think anything can cure me, Sam. You know I did all that research after Mum died, and it seems the only thing keeping my illness at bay is the medication.’
I didn’t see Dr Robbins anymore.
Eight years was more than enough.
He had been amazing in his own special way though. He always seemed to know the right questions to ask, and how to get right to the very core of the problems I was having even when I didn’t want to tell him.
It was like me and Chemistry.
My Chemistry teacher tried hard to teach me the basics but the basics just didn’t want to unveil themselves to me. Mind you, I wasn’t very assiduous when it came to probing my teacher.
Dr Robbins, as nice and smiley as he was, scared me sometimes though especially when he seemed to look at me for long times.
‘It’s funny,’ he said one day, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs and putting his hands behind his head, ‘but you do remind me of a girl I had a crush on in my class when I was about your age.’
I didn’t know what to say.
I was stunned.
‘Oh, ok. That’s nice,’ was the best I could do.
I often wanted to desensitize my mind, but had no idea how. Dr Robbins said Zoloft could help because it worked on the serotonin levels in the brain. Trouble was my serotonin levels caused havoc with my brain cells even when they were controlled. The two were in constant conflict like Alex and me.
Alex was my serotonin.
I was my brain cells.
Serotonin is the chemical that allows brain cells to communicate with other brain cells. After the serotonin is released it is taken back up quickly so it can be used again. Zoloft interferes with the way serotonin is recycled so that when serotonin is released it is given a chance to spend more time outside the cells.
I didn’t want Alex to spend any more time with my brain cells than what she had to.
Dr Robbins hadn’t been the only one.
Kids stared at me on the bus too.
People in shopping centres stared at me.
I never knew where to look so I played with my belt or counted my teeth.
‘Why do you think people look at me, Sam?’ I asked when we were walking through the mall one day with Dad.
‘They’re not looking at you, Keisha. You shouldn’t be so paranoid.’
‘But they are!’ I said watching a girl study me as she passed us. ‘See, she looked at me.’
‘Keisha, when you pass someone sometimes you automatically look at them without realising. Stop getting yourself so worked up about it.’
‘Well, believe what you like but I reckon they’re looking at me because they can see how deranged I am and they’re waiting for me to start chanting some loony tune. Maybe I should do it just to give them the satisfaction. What do you think?’
Dad shook his head and said, ‘come on, Keisha, you’re starting to get silly now.’
‘Ok, but I still think they’re looking at me.’
I was tempted to start jumping up and down and sing ‘I can’t get no satisfaction’ at the top of my voice while playing the air guitar. Give me some tight rocker jeans, collagen in my lips and tease my hair and I would have been well away.
That would have given them something to look at.
I placed my spoon in the bowl making sure it was parallel with the edge of the table. Sam watched and sighed.
‘See what I mean, Keisha. It’s things like that. No-one else even thinks about how they put their spoon in the bowl.’
‘It’s because I’m meticulous, Sam. Stop picking on me.’
‘I’m not picking on you. I’m just looking out for you, and really I think you should read “The Four Steps” theory. It might help you.’
Why did she have to keep going on about it?
I didn’t want to read about her stupid theory.
‘Alright, I’ll give it a read, but when I’ve finished all the reading I’ve got for English.’ The words just seemed to pour out of my mouth without any thought for my poor brain cells.
And it was a lie. I finished the reading for English weeks ago.
‘Okay,’ she said and gave me a side-glance like she didn’t believe me.
I watched her stack the breakfast bowls.
‘Why did you put the empty bowl on top of that one with the Cornflakes in?’ I asked.
‘I’m going to wash them up so does it really matter?’
‘No but now the bottom of the top bowl is dirty and it didn’t need to be.’
Sam was my favourite sister even for all her lack of common sense. I didn’t love her any more than the others. I just had a stronger connection with her. She was so kind to me, and when she smiled her whole face lit up. She was beautiful - twenty-nine – and had Mum’s piercing blue eyes. She always wore a suit and makeup to work, and was the chief editor of a fashion magazine.
Dad should have been proud of her.
But he wasn’t.
He and Jessica treated her like an outcast.
‘Sam’s right, you know,’ Jessica said, buttering her fifth slice of toast like she was icing a huge cake soaked in butter icing. How she managed to eat so much always had me stumped.
‘Look, I understand where you’re both coming from, but I have a lot of schoolwork at the moment. I’m in Year Ten for God’s sakes. I’ve got so much work that even my illness hasn’t had time to rule my brain.’
The last part wasn’t true.
Biting into the toast, Jessica looked at me and chewed. Her mouth was open and I watched the oily butter seep off her teeth and onto her lips. If she wasn’t careful she would have had long yellow drops all down her orange jumper. Yellow and orange just didn’t match.
This was our Saturday morning ritual. Usually all four of us – Dad, Sam, Jessica and myself – sat down to breakfast. Of course Alex never made it because she was at her boyfriend’s. Why he stayed with her I had no idea.
‘She treats you so badly,’ I said to him one day when he was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Oh, she’s okay. She just likes to have fun. That’s all,’ he said.
‘And what about that thirty-year-old millionaire she kissed?’
‘That was a one off and she said she’d never do it again. I believe her, Keisha.’
He was the only one who did.
He was brainwashed.
Brainwashed like my mind.
Boys were drawn to Alex like I was to routines. I knew she was beautiful but embedded deep under those perfect looks was a sly little feline.
She was definitely my least favourite.
Unfortunately, Dad wasn’t here today either. He was working. He was a barman and had to go to work to help with the deliveries. I loved him being at home. He was always so kind to me.
He was a big soft bear.
A big soft bear in a fantasy world.
He thought all things were good even when they weren’t.
That’s why I loved him so much.
‘What are you both doing today?’ Sam asked getting the detergent from the sink cupboard.
‘I was going to the movies with Dougall but his parents won’t let him go now, so I’m just going to lounge around and do some homework,’ I said smoothing the margarine over with a knife to make the surface nice and level. I was surprised there was any margarine left after Jessi had plunged her chubby little fingers into it.
‘I’m going shopping with Karen,’ Jessica said pushing her chair back.
Sam turned around.
I stared at Jessica.
We never knew her to go shopping.
We never knew her to do more than bury herself in lard.
‘Oh,’ Sam said. ‘And um… are you going to buy anything in particular?’
‘I’m going to buy some clothes. Must rush, I’m going to be late.’ She bustled through the kitchen doorway. She was either oblivious to our shock or had eaten so much breakfast it had gone right through her.
Sam turned to me and smiled. ‘So, kiddo, what are we doing today?’ It wasn’t often we had time to spend alone together.
‘I really don’t know. Do you have any ideas?’
‘Well, I was thinking about the movies. Maybe see that new film with Brad Pitt in. You like him, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, but I think that film goes on forever.’
I couldn’t sit in one place for longer than two hours. After a while I became fidgety and found myself counting my teeth three times over. That was one of my childhood habits that went hand in hand with my ant checking ritual. It started after the orthodontist wanted to cage my teeth in with revolting metal because my two front ones had a gap the thickness of a fifty-cent piece.
‘You’ll need braces, I’m afraid, Keisha. It’s all we can do now. It’s because you’ve been sucking your thumb for too long,’ the dentist said.
I panicked.
I wasn’t wearing braces.
I had to suck my thumb differently.
When I went back to the dentist two years later he said, ‘hmm, that’s amazing, Keisha. That gap has really closed up.’
‘Yes, I sucked my thumb on the right side instead of in the middle,’ I spluttered while his rubbery fingers poked and prodded the inside of my mouth and while I tried hard not to think about gagging.
‘Very good,’ he whispered to himself.
Now I had a gap at the front the thickness of cotton thread and a small gap at the side, but anything was better than having all that metal in my mouth.
I still had my teeth counting ritual.
Only when I was bored or stressed though.
And it was always three times.
‘How about shopping? I can buy you some new clothes. I think you need some actually.’ Sam frowned as she looked down at the bottoms of my jeans. They always seemed to be riding up my ankles. I was growing too fast.
‘Yeah, that sounds good, but are you sure it’s okay? I can buy them myself.’
Sam loved to treat to me to new clothes.
‘Of course it’s okay,’ she said stroking my head. ‘I don’t think you’re getting enough pocket money from Dad anyway, Keisha, and I know how girls of your age love clothes.’
‘Thanks, Sam. Dad gives me what he can though. He is only a barman and doesn’t earn heaps like other dads do. He works from six every night until two in the morning.’
‘I know. That’s why I want to help you a little myself. Poor Dad never seems to have any money.’
Sam was my merchandiser.
I was her favourite sister.
*****
Chapter Five
Sam had a black Holden Astra convertible.
My favourite car.
It was neat and compact.
‘Don’t forget your seatbelt, sweetie. I think we’ll have the top down today. The sun’s out,’ she said.
She looked in the rearview mirror, pouted her lips and drove out the driveway. ‘So, what clothes do you need?’ She looked down at my ankles from under her sunnies and smiled. She was beautiful. ‘You need new jeans, that’s for sure.’
‘Yes, I know but really, Sam, you don’t need to get me new clothes. I don’t want you to feel obliged because you earn money and I don’t.’
‘Keisha, I buy you clothes because I like doing it. If you hadn’t noticed I buy enough for myself, and besides, I think it’s nice to treat my little sister.’ Sam worked hard for her clothes.
She always looked stunning.
I wanted to be just like her.
‘Okay, I’ll park over here and we’ll check out Myer first,’ she said turning into a car spot at the Mall after a twenty minute drive.
Before we walked through the entrance I was careful not to step on an ominous dark patch in the bitumen.
Probably a vomit stain.
Definitely a germ fest.
I saw Sam shake her head. ‘The stain won’t bite, you know.’
‘I know, but it’s just something I can’t do yet, Sam, okay?’
‘I’d understand better if you tried to help yourself more and read about The Four Steps.’
She was beginning to infuriate me with her Four Stupid Steps. Once she had an idea in her head that was it. She went on and on. She was like a blowfly trapped in a car on a long drive.
Buzzing and touching you until you set it free.
How I would set Sam free I had no idea.
‘I am going to read about The Four Steps, okay. Just please don’t keep going on about it.’
We walked to the teenage clothes department and looked at the jeans. I tried on a number of pairs but it took an hour to find a pair I was comfortable with.
‘They look fine to me, Keish.’
I sighed.
‘Come on. You look gorgeous in them. Nothing would make them look any better.’
I sighed again.
‘We’ve been looking for ages. I’m sure you’ve tried every pair on now. Would you please just take these ones.’
My clothes had to be symmetrical in colour.
Symmetrical in style.
And fit every part of my body perfectly.
After examining every angle of myself in the mirror I said, ‘okay, I’ll take them.’
With lots of bags and three hours later we decided to get some lunch. I used to be very suspicious of restaurant and food court meals.
I imagined the cooks would have chef meetings out the back where I couldn’t see them and I was on the agenda for them giving me an overload of germs. Their meetings would go something like this. The head chef would stand with his hands on his hips, belly out in full view, and to the other chefs he would growl, ‘on today’s agenda is the usual topic of Miss Keisha Morgan. We must come up with a plan to give her more germs, germs that are going to make her vomit from every orifice. Do you cooks have any suggestions?’
Then there would be answers like: ‘gather up huge slimy balls of mucus and spit them out on her food,’ ‘lick your fingers and run them over her food,’ and ‘drop her food, stomp on it and smear it all over the floor before putting it on her plate.’
I was better now.
I still had the imageries going through my mind though.
But I tried not to think about them.
‘So, what shall we eat? What do you fancy?’ Sam asked, carrying five bags of clothes for herself while I carried two.
She wasn’t fussy like me.
She didn’t have to be symmetrical like me.
‘How about some pizza?’ she asked and walked over to an Italian place.
‘Um, yes, I suppose that’s okay.’ I looked through the glass at the pizzas. The outlet looked clean and the pizzas okay.
We ordered two Hawaiian slices each and took them over to a table.
Sam bit into a piece and said, ‘it’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it looks nice.’
She looked at me and frowned.
‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.
‘I was just wondering why you have your obsessions, where they come from in our family.’
‘I’ve asked you that before, but you haven’t really given me much of an answer.’
‘No, I guess you’re right.’
She leaned in further and put her hand on top of mine. ‘I’m sorry I never really looked into it after Mum’s death, but I’ve never known anyone in our family to have anything like it.’
‘I did some research a while ago on the net and found out it is sometimes connected to strep throat. I had that tonsillitis for years until I was nine and then I had my tonsils out,’ I said.
‘How on earth could the two be related?’
‘Well, it has something to do with the streptococci bacteria caused by strep throat. The bacteria build up a huge amount of antibodies in the body’s immune system, and for some unknown reason these antibodies attack the basal ganglia, which sits at the back of the brain. This part has trouble communicating with the orbital cortex, which is the front of the brain. There is a big link between streptococcal infections and neurological disorders, and strep throat can cause Tourette’s Syndrome too.’
She widened her eyes and smiled. ‘Wow, you’re such a clever girl, Keish. I didn’t know you knew so much.’
I wanted to say, ‘yes, that’s because no-one takes the trouble to really know me, to really know what goes on inside my head, to really know how my brain cells use up serotonin like it’s their last meal’, but I didn’t.
I knew Sam tried her best to comprehend me but my brain had a mind all of its own. Even I didn’t understand it sometimes, why it pondered over the things it did and why it was always so active. I felt like one of those naughty kids in a toy shop that screams, cries and stamps their feet when they want the most expensive toy in the shop. At least some parents had a harness to have some power over their kids.
I never had power over my mind.
My mind had power over me.
But it was something I couldn’t live without.
‘I read up on a lot of things.’
She bit into her pizza crust, chewed and swallowed. ‘Yes, I know that Keish, but you are very intelligent.’
She often flattered me.
I liked it.
I hated it.
She was always so sincere, not like one of those sales assistants you meet who suck up to you with their big toothy grins and say, ‘wow, you look so good in that and it makes your bum look so small,’ even if you’re wearing a skirt the size of a handkerchief with the viscosity of masking tape.
I didn’t like words like ‘bum’ and ‘arse’, or ‘tits’ and ‘boobs’.
They were dirty.
And I didn’t like dirty.
I looked at Sam and said, ‘thank you. You’re quite intelligent yourself,’ and then scrubbed my hands with the disposable wipes I always kept in my purse.
‘Thank you, Kiesha. You’re a real sweetheart.’
It was late afternoon when we walked back to the car and put our bags in the boot.
‘We’ll keep the top up because it looks like rain,’ Sam said, screwing her face up as she looked out the side window.
Then she looked at me and said, ‘So….’
I hated the ‘So…’.
It was time for The Four Bloody Steps again.
‘Yes, Sam?’
Driving out of the car park she said, ‘I’ve um noticed your symptoms don’t seem to be getting much better. I mean, I know you’re on the medication and everything, but...’ Then she turned to me. ‘I really think this Four Steps could help you, Keisha.’
‘Sam, just please stop going on about the bloody Steps! I will look into it in my own time. You can’t force me, you know.’
‘But what’s stopping you? It’s not hard. In fact it’s quite simple.’
‘Sam, no therapy is simple. I should know, I’ve been there.’
‘I’m just saying I think you should give it a try. I’m sure there’s no harm in that, is there?’
‘No, but when I’m ready to, Sam. I’m not going to do it until I’m ready.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘I don’t know! I have so much schoolwork at the moment, I just don’t have time to read a book that’s not on the curriculum.’
That wasn’t true.
‘Well, don’t you think that by trying to help yourself mentally you’ll be helping yourself academically too and in turn increase your grades?’
She was frustrating me.
‘Why, Sam? Do you think my grades are that bad? Is that it? I’m getting As and B pluses for God’s sakes!’
‘I know you are, and there’s no need to shout. I just think you’ll feel better about yourself if you try out different methods, and this one I read about was the best I’ve seen yet.’
‘Sam, you can’t keep on pushing me, okay. I will read it in my own time. Just stop pushing me… please! You’re driving me mad.’
‘Fine, suit yourself then. I won’t help you if that’s what you want. If you prefer to be a bloody martyr, that’s fine.’
‘A martyr? Why on earth did you call me that? I’m not a martyr at all. How dare you say such a thing!’
She slammed on her breaks at a red light and turned to me. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, okay. What I meant is that you shouldn’t complain about yourself so much if you’re not prepared to do everything you can.’
‘But I am, Sam! I’ve already explained that to you. I will read the book when I get time.’
She swerved round a corner and almost landed us on the curb.
‘Watch out, Sam!’
‘I’m sorry, okay. I’m only worried about you, Keisha. I want what’s best for you. That’s all.’
‘Yeah well, don’t worry about me so much. I’m old enough to look after myself. I’m sixteen for God’s sakes.’
I had never seen her so angry.
Her face was a flaming red.
She was going to burst.
Then with her eyes bulging and through clenched teeth she said, ‘you might be old enough to do what you want but I’m your mother and I have some say!’
*****
Chapter Six
Sam finally spoke. ‘Yes, you are my daughter, Keisha.’
I was amazed. Was it a lie or some stupid sick joke?
‘You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?’ I managed to whisper.
‘Yes – yes, unfortunately I am.’
I didn’t know what to do, what to think.
And for the first time in my life I felt such hatred for her.
Her skin was inflamed, her eyes so red I was scared they would start offshooting blood.
It wasn’t the face I was used to looking into.
It was the face of a stranger.
I wanted to shout out all the words swirling around in my head but I couldn’t. My mind was teeming full of crazy obsessions, an army full of brutal occupation.
There was an open CD case on the coffee table I had to close.
Fingermarks tainting a film of dust on the TV I had to clean off.
A DVD case lying down in the cabinet I had to fix.
It took what seemed like hours of deep breathing before I could respond. How was I to fathom out something as unexpected, as mentally incomprehensible as this? It didn’t fit into my orderly life. It wasn’t something I could count. It wasn’t something I could use as a ritual. It was a disturbing aberration.
Like the cracks in the pavements.
Like the ants under my pillow.
Like my mind all over.
‘I – I er don’t know what to say. Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ I whispered because it was all I could manage. I lifted my gaze from the coffee table to look at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It wasn’t that easy, Keisha. I’m twenty-nine. You’re sixteen. What age did that make me when I had you?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Yes, exactly. To have a baby that young makes me look like a slut, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, what else are you if you’re not a slut?’
‘I guess you have a right to your own opinion.’
‘Why didn’t anyone tell me earlier?’
‘Because of what it looked like. Because it was much easier for Mum to bring you up as her own even though I always wanted to take care of you myself. Mum and Dad didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘And what about Jessica and Alex? What do they think about it?’
‘Only Jessica knows. That’s why she tends to leave you and me alone. Alex was too young to tell. She thinks Mum was your birth mother.’
I sighed and buried my head in my palms. ‘I just can’t believe it. All these years. Sixteen years and no-one’s ever told me! Why? Why, Sam?’
Tears cursed her eyes again.
Tics cursed her bottom lip.
‘We couldn’t tell you because Mum was always your mother. She was so good with you and you idolized her. You thought she was the most perfect person in the world.’
Then it occurred to me.
The mother I loved and adored had lied to me too.
‘Then why didn’t she tell me?’
‘You don’t understand, Keisha. It’s not as easy as you think. Do you think I wanted to give you up to Mum? Do you think Mum wanted to keep that deep dark secret from you all those years? No, neither of us wanted to hurt you like that, but what were we to do?’
‘What made it so hard?’
‘A lot of feelings were involved, Keisha. Most importantly, we had you to consider. If we told you when you were young that I was your mother, you would have felt so hurt by the woman you idolized and thought was your real mum, you probably would’ve neglected her. We just couldn’t tell you, Keish, as much as we wanted to.’
‘But why wait until now? I understood things when I was ten. I think I was pretty mature then, so why didn’t you tell me then?’
‘You wouldn’t have understood. You would have been really hurt. Look at you. You can’t take it now.’
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