I remember what Shelby said today in the kitchen. She said I needed to be the good that comes out of my family's bad situation. I needed to get my life together and let my dad go into that residential program and be the good thing. I think that Haze and Pete and Shelby are all the best that has come out of their families' tragedies, and I believe it's a great goal to be that good thing, that is, if I can let go of my dad enough. And I don't know why that's so hard, especially since I'm still so angry. It should be easy to let him go.
LAUGH TRACK: Forgotten. Invisible.
Okay. I know. I'm scared of that. Maybe I'm afraid that I might forget him once he goes into that program. Maybe I want to forget him because I'm so angry with him and maybe I don't want to be around crazy anymore. It's getting too close to me.
***
I hate that I've spent my whole life scared of going crazy. I hate that I keep wetting the bed because of what my dad did to me. Why can't I stop having that dream?
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Because you never see it.
See what? Shit! I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. I wish tonight I had my glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. I long for the comfort of those plastic stickers.
Nobody answers my question, so I ask again. "See what?" Still there's no answer. I'm worn out, but I can't sleep. I don't know what to do about my anger now. What's the good of yelling at Dad and blaming him? He doesn't care. He's in la-la land, the same place I could be in a couple of years.
Do I have to go around yelling at the world, tipping over desks and throwing tantrums to get rid of this anger? I hate him for this—for all of it!
Finally, I fall asleep and I dream that dream. There's the ocean; it's green and foamy and deep, so deep. I go down and down and down to the sandy bottom and then below this to the pitch-black terror of the underworld. I hear screaming voices and I see that somebody is there. Somebody is struggling under the weight and pressure of all this water and sand—he's alive. He's alive. Somebody...
I sit up in bed, panting, trying to get air. My blankets are twisted around me. Sweat trickles down my sides. I scoot to the edge of the bed and feel for the wet spot on the sheets, but they're dry.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: What did you see?
It's dry.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: In the dream. What did you see?
I stop and think. I recall the dream—the ocean, the sand, the darkness, a chilling terror—voices screaming—Furies? I'm fighting, struggling to breathe, to break free, but there's all this weight and pressure and—wait—no, it's not me. That's not me down there. It's Dad. Dad's the one buried alive. It's not me at all. I jump out of the bed.
"It's Dad!"
I pace, then stop, pace, then stop. "It's Dad!" I stand still, my legs straddling the line down the center of the room as I feel the weight of this dawning knowledge—my dad, my brilliant, wonderful dad, buried beneath a craziness he can't break free of or control.
LAUGH TRACK: Isn't it a shame.
AUNT BEE: Poor, poor Dad.
It isn't me at all. I start to cry and I try to stop. I wipe away my tears, first with my arm, then with the front of my T-shirt. I rub and rub my face, but I can't stop. I flop onto my bed and cry some more. I feel so sad, so sorry for all that my dad has lost: my mom, his writing, his sanity, his house—everything but me. All the anger I felt last night is gone. I thought I could never get rid of it, but now I see. He's lost everything and I have so much. I can leave. I can get away from the insanity, but he can't. And I have this warm place to live with food and clothing and the Lynches looking after me, and I have my friends and, at least for now, my sanity.
I look at my watch. It's only six in the morning, but I just have to see my dad. I convince Cap to take me to the house early. We pull up outside, and I jump out of the car and run into the house. I rush down into the basement and go through the files of Mom's pictures till I find the one I want; then I rush upstairs to my dad's room.
I step into the room. He hears me and rolls over.
"Apollo! What news have you of the war?" He sits up and adjusts the aluminum foil on his ears.
"Dad." I climb onto his bed and kneel beside him, sitting back on my heels. "I had to come and tell you that—that, when you leave here, I'm letting go, but it doesn't mean that I'm giving up on you. You'll be taken care of in that residential place, and I'll be able to have a normal kind of life, but I know what's inside you, and I won't give up until we've found the right medicine or the right diet or the right doctors or whatever it takes. I know what it's like to feel buried alive, and I will never, never give up. I'll come see you and you'll always be my dad and you won't be forgotten and you won't ever become invisible. I'll bring my friends to visit you, and I'll make more friends and I'll bring them, too. You'll always be a part of my life. Do you know what I'm saying? Do you hear me?"
Dad reaches for the helmet and puts it on, then looks at me through the eyeholes. "They'll pluck your eyes out," he says.
I take his hand in mine and it's cold and bony. I squeeze it. "Dad, I know that you're still in there, somewhere." I poke him in the chest. "You're in there." I poke his head. "And you're in there. And I know you want to come out." I look in his eyes and they stare back at me blankly.
"I—I've been so mad at you, and I didn't even know. I couldn't let myself know because, as Mom used to say, you can't help the way you are. But deep down I've been so angry, and I think since I couldn't get mad at you, I took it all out on myself. But I forgive you—and I forgive me. And I forgive Mom." I take a deep breath and let it out. "What I know is that I love you, Dad. I don't think I knew that for sure until this morning. I really love you. There's no more pain, no more pain of us. Remember when you said that? Well, it's over. It's just us, okay?"
"Jason, what is all this dithering? Have you brought the Golden Fleece or haven't you?" Dad says.
I smile. "Well, maybe I have." I lift the picture I brought with me from the basement and show it to Dad. It's a picture of the three of us on top of Mount Washington. I'm ten years old in the picture and it's my first time climbing the great mountain. Mom and Dad stand proudly on either side of me, squinting into the bright sun, and I stand pointing to the sign marking the top of the mountain.
Dad takes the picture from me and stares at it for a minute. Then he places his hand over my mom so that it's just the two of us. "That's the way it is," he says.
I look at him and I see tears in his eyes.
"I knew it. You're still in there," I say. I grab him by the head and hug him.
My dad lets go of the picture and hugs me back.
Chapter Fort-Two
Dear Mouse:
I've wanted to write this letter for a long time. I'm almost fifteen years old and I have these imaginary friends I talk to. I can't see them and I can't hear them; they're just thoughts in my head. But they're very real to me. I have a whole cast of characters in my head. The problem is, I like having them around. They give me good advice, most of the time, and they're kind of addictive. They were my only friends for so long. They've been with me since the fifth grade. So I want to get rid of them, but I don't know how to say good-bye. Any ideas? Do you think I'm crazy?
Mouse
CRAZY GLUE: You're crazy if you send that out to anybody.
AUNT BEE: We'd all miss you so much if you let us go.
SEXY LADY: Who's going to tell you how hot you are?
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: I think we're being replaced.
LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh. (Nervous laughter).
I reread my letter several times; then I send it—to Dr. Gomez, to Shelby, to Haze, and to Pete.
I stare at my computer a long time before I leave it. Then I go take a shower and eat breakfast. At the table, Gwen sticks a Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny decal on my cheek and kisses it.
As far as little sisters go, I don't think she's half bad.
I borrow a hammer and some picture hooks from the Lynches and head back to the room to hang my photos of Crete an
d the new one I brought from the house this morning of me, my mom, and my dad on top of Mount Washington.
On my way down the hall the doorbell rings.
Cap answers it and I stand behind him waiting to see who it is. It's Shelby. She's wearing her biking clothes and she has her helmet tucked under her arm. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she looks so fresh faced and beautiful that my heart leaps in my chest.
"I'm here to see Jason," she says.
I call out. "Let me get my coat and I'll be right there."
I put the hammer and nails on the hall table. I feel nervous. I wonder if she's read the letter. Ever since I sent it, I've been too scared to look to see if anyone has answered it.
I wonder what Shelby's going to say.
CRAZY GLUE: She's going to tell you you're crazy, you goob. You shouldn't have sent that. It's all over now.
Cap pats me on the back as I step outside to join Shelby. He closes the door behind us and I feel even more nervous. I stand on the stoop and kind of bounce on the balls of my feet like I'm really cold or something, but it's all nerves.
Shelby sets her helmet on the metal dog sculpture, then puts her hands on her hips and squints at me. "So you're Mouse," she says, and her voice sounds angry.
"Uh, yeah. I guess I am."
CRAZY GLUE: Goob.
"You give crappy advice." She turns and goes down the steps. I follow her.
"What's so crappy about it?"
She walks toward her bike parked at the curb. I'm right behind her.
"You keep telling everyone to dump their friends and dump their boyfriends and girlfriends and dump their parents. You're always dumping people." She spins around and glares at me. "Is that how you treat your friends? Ever heard of working things out and working through your problems?"
"Yeah, sure, but..."
"Is that what you'll do to me if things don't go your way?"
"No, of course not, I just..."
"'Cause I want a boyfriend who can stick it out through thick and thin—not one who's going to dump me at the first bump in the road."
"The first bump? Your road is so full of bumps, you make my teeth rattle."
"I know that! That's why I'm saying..."
CRAZY GLUE: Take the cotton out of your head, goob. She called you her boyfriend.
"Wait, did you just call me your boyfriend?" We're standing facing each other now. Shelby is leaning against her bike and I'm in front of her with my hands dug deep into my coat pockets.
She looks down at her feet, then off to her left. "Yeah."
"What about the letter? Do you think I'm crazy? With all my imaginary friends?"
Shelby reaches up and puts her hands on my shoulders so that we're standing really close. I lick my lips.
"Jason, I think that's probably the sanest thing you could do, given what you've been going through, don't you? I mean, they're not telling you to jump off a bridge, are they?"
I swallow. "No. They tell me to keep my cool and to shut up and, I don't know, do the right thing. They're just kind of fun characters I've invented."
"Right. They'll go away when something better comes along to take their place, don't you think?"
"I think something already has," I say. I set my hands on either side of Shelby's waist.
She tilts her face up to me and smiles. "Are you going to kiss me?"
"I will if you don't tell me I need a haircut first."
Shelby laughs.
CRAZY GLUE: Way to go, goob.
Sorry, you're not invited.
CRAZY GLUE: You mean this is goodbye, after all I've done for you?
AUNT BEE: Say goodbye, Crazy.
CRAZY GLUE: Goodbye, Crazy.
LAUGH TRACK: Ha, ha.
AUNT BEE: Take care of yourself, Jason.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Well done, son, well done.
SEXY LADY: There'll never be anyone hotter.
I lean in to kiss Shelby and she stands on her tiptoes. Our lips are about to touch.
YOU:
Oh, no you don't. You had your chance to say something. You chose to stay a part of the audience. You can't change your mind now. It's too late. This isn't a peepshow, you know. I'm doing this completely on my own.
Audience, out!
* * *
HAN NOLAN is widely acclaimed for her evocative language, her gritty subject matter, and her ability to plumb the psyche of her multidimensional and quirkly characters. Her books include Dancing on the Edge, which won the National Book Award, Send Me Down a Miracle, a finalist for the National Book Award, Born Blue, A Summer of Kings, and several other acclaimed novels. She and her husband live on the East Coast.
www.hannolan.com
Jacket design by Christine Kettner
HARCOURT
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
www.hmhbooks.com
* * *
Han Nolan, Crazy
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