Lisabeth Posthuma - Baby and Solo

Royal Oak, Michigan August 1996

I think Joel is ready, Dr. Singh concluded.

I was on the couch, sitting up because it was only my brain and not my whole body being examined. There werent enough chairs for us all to have one, and since I was technically still the patient, I followed rank.

I dont know how I feel about this, Dr. Singh, my mom said. It doesnt sound like there are safeguards in case of a relapse.

I hated that word. Relapse. It made me sound like a druggie.

There havent been any occurrences in almost two years. He glanced at my chart to confirm this timeline, but he was right. I hadnt had a major flare-up of What Was Wrong With Me since I was fifteen. I think its time we let him try life out, Mrs. Teague.

Mom scowled. Shouldnt we try another medication?

Im ready, Mom, I assured her, though she wasnt asking me. I was used to that being discussed instead of participating in the discussion.

My dad said nothing, but he squeezed Moms hand. She sighed. What does it mean to try life out, exactly? she asked. Were not talking about backpacking across Europe, are we?

Is that something that would interest you, Joel? Dr. Singh mistook my mothers absurdity for a legitimate suggestion. An adventure could be highly beneficial to Joels recovery.

Both of my parents looked horror-struck.

I thought about making light of things and pretending that Id always dreamed of running with the bulls in Pamplona, but Mom and Dad had already been through enough. The Bad Thing That Happened had happened to them, too. Besides, I disagreed with Dr. Singh. What Was Wrong With Me had been adventure enough.

Im good to experience life on a smaller scale before becoming a world traveler, I said, to my parents obvious relief.

How so? my dad asked. If anyone invited my opinion in discussions about my mental health, it was always him. What sounds fun to you? Would you maybe want to join a sports team?

The genericness of his suggestion proved how little my dad knew about me.

Maybe, I answered. Well see.

Its important to set concrete goals as you fully integrate into normal life, Dr. Singh cautioned. We need to have a plan in place before you all leave here today. And Ill be following up to make sure you actually take whatever we decide the first step is. Then he recited the words printed on the motivational poster hanging on the wall behind him: Its never too late to become what you might have been.

Motivational posters were staples in child psychiatrists offices. These posters typically featured cheesy advice splashed across scenic mountain photographs, puppies and/or kittens, or, for reasons I will never understand, Charlie Brown.

Charlie Brown. The kid so mercilessly bullied by his so-called friends that he couldnt even grow hair was somehow the (literal) poster child meant to rally the mentally ill youth of this world. His picture was usually paired with such pandering catchphrases as Anything is possible with determination! and Success is up to you! and, worst of all, Never give up! The Never give up! poster featured that heartless bitch Lucy yanking the football away from Charlie just as hes about to kick it. In the history of Peanuts, Charlie Brown has never gotten to kick that goddamn ball because Lucy always, always pulls it away. But, you know, Never give up!

My father turned to Dr. Singh. What do you think of him getting a job? Something part-time with other kids his age?

Thats a great idea, my mom agreed, shockingly.

Without consulting me, the doctor said, That sounds perfect. Lets aim for it!

OK. I shrugged, climbing onto the bandwagon. A job did appeal to me more than sports. For one thing, Id be getting paid. Plus, a job felt like less of a commitment. If you quit a sports team, you were considered a wuss, but people quit jobs all the time, and no one cared. That was Normal, and lets be honest, Normal was the ultimate goal. I used to be Normal, after all. Maybe all that remained between me and being Normal again was providing goods or services to my peers for minimum wage for a while. It was worth a try.

Ill spiff up my resume.

Everyone was all smiles after this, though I knew my moms was forced.

The doctor gave me a two-week deadline to set up an interview. He wrote this on a prescription pad and handed it to me like it was an antibiotic for a bacterial infection.

I thanked him, and we left his office. It was the first time in seven years that I thought that someday I might not have to come back anymore.

So, what makes you want to be a part of the ROYO Video team? Jessica Morrison, the manager of a video store, read from a form.

It had been roughly a week since my appointment with Dr. Singh, and Id already landed an interview. Well, technically my mom landed me the interview through my cousin Devin. He was Jessicas live-in boyfriend, and when Mom told him I was looking for a job, he hooked me up.

I like movies seemed like the best answer, since I wasnt planning to disclose that my shrink had prescribed that I enter the workforce.

Jessica jotted down my answer. What sort of movies are you into?

I fixed my eyes on her hands as she wrote, since any other part of her wouldve blown my concentration. Jessica was curvy, doe-eyed, and centerfold worthy, and I, a seventeen-year-old just coming off medication that had suppressed his sex drive for his entire adolescence, was not at all immune to her allure. But since ogling my potential boss was probably not going to help get me this job, I kept my eyes to myself.

I like all movies action, horror, comedies. I moved my eyes to the floor and then back to her hands.

Jessica wrote all on her form.

Cool, she said. Where do you see yourself in five years?

I plan to graduate in the spring. Then maybe college. Higher education wasnt exactly on the docket for me, but I said it anyway. After all, it was never too late to become what I might have been.

Oh, OK. Great. She jotted some more notes. You know what? Why dont you just fill the rest of this out for me? Devin said youre cool, and you can work nights and weekends. Thats all I need to know. She offered me a stack of paperwork, but before I could accept it, she paused. Wait... youre not still sick, are you?

Sick...? I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

Yeah, Dev said you had leukemia or something when you were younger, she explained. Is that still going on?

Anemia. I corrected her honest mistake with my go-to lie. And no, its all cleared up.

Mom had decided on anemia as the ruse for What Was Wrong With Me. Shed needed a serious-but-not-too-serious disease to blame my hospitalizations and school absences on, and alphabetically it was the first one in the medical dictionary that seemed believable.

Jessica nodded and handed off the paperwork. Then she pulled out a plastic name badge strung on a lanyard. You can start tomorrow, right? Come in at five oclock. She popped the cap off a black Sharpie and poised it beneath the HI! MY NAME IS heading on the name tag. What do you want to be called?