Waiting for Fitz Read online

  But I want to start with that first day for two reasons. One, obviously, it was the beginning of my journey. But it was also the day I met Fitzgerald Whitman IV. Totally pretentious name, I know. And don’t worry, he knew it too.

  So, Group Talk. The seven of us sitting there on cheap metal chairs with one of the main therapists in the ward who ran the whole thing. Sometimes Dr. Riddle sat in and listened, but more often than not it was one of his lackeys. That’s what I called them, anyway.

  Dr. Tabor was the leader of the group that first day, and most days thereafter. He wore these oversized glasses and was balding and looked to be in his late-twenties or early-thirties. He had this corny smile that reminded me of the guy on the Quaker Oats logo. Dr. Tabor started every freaking meeting by asking us to explain our most recent encounter with our “Core Issues.”

  We met in this lousy room with a bunch of over-the-top clichés printed on the walls. Things like “Stop Wishing, Start Doing” and “Your Only Limit Is You” and my least favorite, “What You Are Looking for Is Not Out There, It’s in You.” You know, overly trite quotes that made me want to throw up all over the walls. I was pretty sure I was allergic to banal platitudes. Whatever.

  But that first time I really didn’t notice the quotes. I just walked in and sat down and blinked at the floor and tapped my leg six times on each foot and rubbed my hands together and waited for something to start.

  After Tabor talked about our core issues, he related a story—as he would do every day, I’d come to learn—that we could discuss. We had to introduce ourselves before making our first comment: first name, age, what you were in for (like I was in prison or something, no joke), and how you would cope with the issue presented that day or that week.

  “Addie. Seventeen. OCD. And I came in late so I didn’t hear the prompt or whatever,” I said.

  I looked at my feet and then back up and noticed that, while most of the group were staring at the floor or at Tabor, one boy across the room was looking right at me and smiling with this ridiculous, smug grin. He had curly, dark brown hair and these really cool gray eyes and these broad shoulders. He looked to be about my age. He slouched in his chair and had his feet crossed and his arms folded over his sweats. He was wearing a tie-dyed bandana and a hoodie that said Om Is Where the Heart Is.

  “It’s a real crumby situation,” he said.

  “Thanks, Fitz. I’ll fill her in,” said Dr. Tabor. “But first I’d like you all to say hello to our newest member of the group, Addie.”

  They all gave me halfhearted waves. Except Fitz, who just nodded his head like he was hip or something—or too cool to raise his hand.

  “I often start with current events, Addie. Then we gauge our reactions and discuss the emotions inherent in those reactions,” he said, smiling and leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees. His massive, white doctor coat fell over the chair and made it look like he was floating. I hated that coat.

  “In the news this morning, there was a story about a man found dead in a giant dough mixer at a bakery on Beacon Hill. He left behind two dogs. His neighbors loved him. His family is seeking millions of dollars from the bakery for this accident. Now, I want you to consider what you’d do, as a family member. How might you react? What would be the best way to deal with the situation? How would you cope?”

  Dr. Tabor opened up one of those stupid manila folders and prepared to write down my comments, I assumed.

  “Sounds like he really loafed on the job,” I said.

  Look, it’s not like I was trying to get a laugh. In fact, it was way too easy. I like challenges for my comedic outbursts, but this one was meant to deflect, which is why I passed over all the great proving jokes available. I hated being put on the spot, and I hated talking about my emotions, so I pushed them away by being deadpan or whatever.

  Fitz sniggered, and Dr. Tabor ignored my comment, maybe hoping my comment was accidental in nature. Hint: nothing I say is accidental in nature, or in any other way. I’m kind of always acting, if you will. And you will.

  “What’s that?” said Tabor.

  “I take it his family is suing because he just couldn’t rise to the occasion?” I said, raising my eyebrows and feigning seriousness.

  Dr. Tabor didn’t know me yet, so he was unsure how to respond. “I doubt his family is worried about how hard he worked, though I’m sure they are saddened by his passing. What would you do, if you were his sister?”

  “I’d tell my parents that at yeast they still had me,” I said, hurrying over the pun so Tabor would think I was actually being honest.

  “That’s good, Addie. Remind them that they still have things to look forward to, people to care for, and other fires of love to stoke.”

  “Guess that’s what happens when you stand a scone’s throw from a mixer,” said Fitz, smiling at me.

  “That’ll be all, Fitz,” Dr. Tabor said. “This is a real person.”

  “A real person working on a recipe”—I paused—“for disaster.”

  I smiled. That one had been for Fitz, if I’m being honest. And I am. But then I was immediately aware of how inadequate I felt in the presence of so many people. I was talking like I was at home in a familiar setting. Maybe it was because that’s how Fitz made me feel, because he kept the joke going.

  He smiled back, and I noticed he had this huge Julia Roberts-type smile, but with a big gap between his two front teeth.

  My look: I was in jeans and a sweatshirt, balling the sleeves up in my palms because that’s what I did when I got nervous. My long brown hair was always twisted into a bun on my head with a pen in it to keep it stable. I had dark brown eyes that I hid behind numbered blinks, and a chest that was smaller than I’d hoped and legs shorter than I’d like. I was entirely average.

  But at that moment I realized my sweatshirt was, like, incredibly bland, and I felt super self-aware. Whatever. We were all in the same adolescent psych ward, and clothing options were limited.

  Dr. Tabor was explaining how our jokes were a typical avoidance tactic, but I was ignoring the doctor because I was watching Fitz. I thought the gap in his teeth was kind of handsome, especially when his gray eyes lit up his large features. I’m not trying to fixate on the fact that he was attractive—he was attractive—I just wasn’t sure of anything else about him at that point. Well, I knew he was clever, but that was also partly based on basic assumptions.

  I decided I’d keep looking at him throughout the meeting to show him that I wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe that’s not a good way to put it. I mean, I wanted to be going somewhere—read: home. Anyway, he seemed very confident—not just based on posture, but the way he ignored Dr. Tabor and kept whispering to the people on either side of him. I’m surprised the doctor didn’t ask him to stop talking.

  Next to me was Doug. He was fourteen, had Tourette’s, and was a pathological liar. Like, something beyond what you’re thinking. Something serious. He was wearing this massive fur hat with the earflaps poking out from either side of his head. I learned to really like Doug because he was totally arrogant but had no idea that’s how he was coming across. And he was kind.

  Across the room, next to Fitz, was Junior. That’s the only name I ever heard him mention, anyway. He was a big seventeen-year-old who looked like an all-star athlete, but he had this crazy-bad acne all over his face and it made me feel sorry for him. I hate that sometimes we don’t get to choose what our masks look like. At the same time, I guess that’s what makes us turn on other parts of our personalities that otherwise would stay hidden. You know, like working a muscle that would otherwise atrophy or something. Fitz looked like an athlete too, but a little smaller, I guess.

  Anyway, Junior was in for anger issues and seizures—I know, a super weird combo. He often said, “It’s just funny, that’s all,” and that’s how we knew he was starting to get really angry and on the verge of completely exploding. He said
when the seizures were on their way he heard something like birds’ wings rapidly beating in his ears, or the sound of cards shuffling.

  I liked Junior because he was the most honest of anybody in the group—meaning he didn’t cover up his emotions by putting on a comic (or even a tragic) mask, or anything in between. What would that be, anyway? A rom-com mask? A tragicomic mask? C’mon. Semantics.

  Dr. Tabor finally got around to Fitz for real and had him introduce himself.

  “Fitzgerald Whitman IV. Seventeen. Hold on, I’m getting some new information,” he said, leaning sideways. He wasn’t leaning into Junior next to him, but acting like he was listening to someone just behind Junior, some imaginary person.

  “You sure?” Fitz said, then waited as if for a response. “Okay, I’ll just roll with it. Thanks.” He turned his attention back to the group. “Apparently I’m in for schizophrenia, according to my friends over there.” He pointed to an empty corner of the room near Dr. Tabor.

  Dr. Tabor immediately settled his face in a Let’s be serious look, lowering his eyebrows and looking at Fitz in that annoyingly doctor-ish way—a mix of disappointment and encouragement.

  Fitz looked at me and saw that I was smiling, I think, because he smiled pretty big himself before turning back to Tabor. The hour and a half flew by, and I started looking forward to spending my mornings perpetually disappointing Tabor by not ever allowing true emotions to enter the room.

  True emotions would mean that I was facing my OCD, and that would mean I was ready to do some actual work. I didn’t want to do either. I hated the fact that I needed serious help, but more importantly I hated that I knew I needed serious help. I couldn’t deny it anymore. But I wasn’t just going to let it happen. I was too defiant for that.

  My junior year had been a mess. I spent pretty much all of my time at school, or visiting the psychologist, or at home reading or just hanging with Mom.

  Mom taught history at the high school near Puget Sound where we lived. Dad was out of the picture pretty early in my life; he’d died of heart failure. It always made me angry. Everything was now post-death. Post-Dad. And it’s genetic, so I’m constantly listening to my heart and counting the beats and wondering how big my heart is. That’s another thing I do in the shower—I have to count seventeen beats before I can wash my hair, and if I miscount, I have to start over. Like, the whole process has to begin again. The paradox of Addie. That’s me. Sometimes I wonder how big my heart is not because of Dad or death, but because I tend to push others away. I wonder if my heart is abnormally small in that way.

  Mom was fun to talk with, and she kept me living outside of my disorder at the worst times, but I spent most of my time reading short stories or plays or screenplays of movies I really liked. Sometimes, if Mom wouldn’t let me see a movie in the theater, I’d order the screenplay and read it anyway. Sounds nerdy, but nerds are cool. Get used to it.

  I wanted to be a playwright someday, so I was working on reading all the classics and studying story arcs and how they created emotions in the audience, and how they built characters and all that. Everything from Shakespeare—I called him Mr. Shakes, but that might be inappropriate with Junior’s seizure issue and all, right?—to August Wilson.

  I wasn’t a shy person or anything, but I also wasn’t one to show off my, like, performative disorder. I didn’t want to go to a friend’s house and alternate eye-blinking and hand-washing and throat-clearing in specific, numbered intervals and have everyone be all uncomfortable and afraid of how to respond or how to avoid mentioning something that I was struggling with. It made me a selfish person, but I had no other options.

  My mind didn’t allow me much time between washes. The hospital was different because they didn’t allow me to wash, so I just got angry. Junior understood that world better than I did.

  “How would you deal with this incident, Fitz?” said Tabor, drawing my attention back to the story of the man who died at the bakery.

  “Well,” he said, looking at me, then at Tabor, “I’d make sure to check with my friends first.” Fitz looked at the empty corner just behind Tabor. “But then I’d approach any extended family and see if there was anything I could do to help.”

  “Very good,” said Tabor.

  “But that wouldn’t work,” I said, surprised at my own boldness and eagerness to engage in the conversation.

  “Why not?” said Tabor.

  “Because people don’t do that. Nobody asks the family if they need anything, if they can help, and really means it.”

  “That’s a pretty bleak perspective, Addie,” said Tabor.

  “But it’s the truth. Nobody in this room is going to say anything that’s true and completely unmediated. We all have masks we wear and games we play to try to portray the least vulnerable version of ourselves. We want to be looked at but not really seen. It’s all a performance. We might ask that family how we could help, sure, but we’re doing it while wearing the mask of ‘the helpful neighbor.’ We’re doing what society expects of us, not something we truly want to do.”

  “Okay,” said Tabor. I could see he was formulating a response, but he was too caught up in writing down notes in his stupid folder.

  “In the end, we’re all pretty selfish. We like the stage and we like the lights on us and we like hearing the crowd roar, but we don’t really want anybody to know just how long we studied those lines or worked on those facial expressions or sweated and prayed to find some understanding of what it all means to be given a role in life and how we are supposed to play it. We’re all just comic figures hiding the tragedy beneath. Or we’ve given up and accepted that our play ends in death, so why bother getting the makeup on or even performing to begin with? We don’t really want to help that family. Especially when it’s a family in knead. Get it, Tabor? K-N-E-A-D?”

  I couldn’t help myself. I felt myself getting too serious, so I turned back to humor. I didn’t like facing the serious side of myself.

  “I get the first part, Addie,” he said. “And I think we should discuss the idea of vulnerability at our next Group Talk.”

  I saw Fitz roll his eyes when the V-word was mentioned.

  “We should also discuss what she said about acting and masks,” said Fitz. “That was interesting. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Shoot, maybe it’s all just an act, Tabor. Maybe you feel like you’re under the lights right now, and all you’re doing is playing a part. Do you really want to help us, or do you just want to study us so you can write a paper for one of those pretentious journals? What are you after?”

  Dr. Tabor brushed the comment aside and told us we’d come back to my comments the next morning. Then he instructed us to all say something positive to the person next to us. As group ended, orderlies waited at the door to direct us to our next therapy sessions.

  “Don’t worry,” said Fitz, walking my way as we all stood. “The orderlies only help you for the first couple of days. Then you get some freedom.”

  “Freedom?” I said, pointing to the barred windows on the far side of the room. Not all the windows had bars, but our room did for some reason.

  “Don’t worry. One day Junior is going to rip those out of the wall and we’ll all be able to jump. Also, be careful saying that word around here. We’re all a little jumpy.”

  He shouted the last part and smiled at Dr. Tabor, who just shook his head disapprovingly.

  “Quite the mask,” Fitz said to me.

  “What?”

  “The one you’re wearing. It’s gorgeous. And if it is really all an act, I want to see you take the stage, Addie. Front-row seats, please.”

  “I’m jealous of you,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, why’s that? Can’t do a one-woman show? Or do you just like the handsome gap in my teeth?” He smiled bigger and pointed at his mouth.

  I laughed. “It’s just that if I had you on the stage, I’d have a full
cast. Do you have names for your invisible friends?”

  I was worried I may have overstepped, but I tried to act confident in my comment.

  Fitz sidled up to me, leaning in and almost whispering. “That’s not a good way to introduce yourself, Addie. I mean, I can call them imaginary because we’re so close, but when you say it like that, it makes them feel like you don’t believe in them. It’s okay, Toby. Don’t cry,” he said, acting like he was putting an arm around someone’s shoulder to console them. “Big, crocodile tears,” he mouthed to me, as if shielding Toby from his words. I’d learn later that Fitz kept up this cheery façade so he didn’t have to confront the shame of those insistent voices and their ever-present squeeze. But like I said, that came later.

  I coughed three times because two made me feel uncomfortable and four was a number I equated with death. Sometimes. Sometimes four was nice. Whatever. Then I blinked, alternating eyes, seven times. Being this close to someone I found attractive made me nervous, and when I got nervous I got anxious, and when I got anxious my compulsions tended to skyrocket. Like, to an obnoxious level.

  “Morse code isn’t going to work either,” he said, pointing at my blinking, “but it does make those big brown eyes even prettier. If you want to get to know the whole gang, we should meet up for lunch. I know this great place. They have these awesome orange trays and this incredibly runny applesauce. It’s so runny you could swim in it. Just imagine it—it’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I was kind of turned on by the way he stared at me with so much confidence. He had zero apprehension, or so it seemed.