The St. Ambrose School for Girls(23)
As I picture myself in new clothes with new hair, I can feel myself sliding into place for the first time in my life, no longer half-cocked and at odd angles in the company of so many who have smooth fits around their jambs. I will be one of them. They will call me Bo, and they will sit with me at lunch, and even if I am never in Greta’s group, she will be so taken by my improvement, she will not just leave me alone, she will even smile at me a little as we pass on the stairs.
When the summer comes, I will even have a proper birthday party for the first time. I will invite friends over to my mother’s house and we will have a cookout. These girls and boys my own age will be everyone I meet at my paying job, not internship, at a law firm’s legal library in July and August. My contemporaries will all be smart and on their way to good colleges. And I will not be embarrassed by where I live. My mother, having been inspired by my own example, will throw out her magazines and deep clean our home, no more clutter, no more frivolous purchases. She will hang new drapes and get new countertops in the kitchen before my party. She will start wearing age-appropriate clothes. She will stop smoking. She will settle down with a nice, slightly pudgy man who has a kind smile and a good heart. He will be only a year older than she is, and they will primly hold hands on the sofa and do nothing else in their bedroom.
My mother was right. Ambrose was the absolute perfect place to send me. My doubts during that first day, and in the subsequent couple of weeks, have been dashed by this uncovering of my true self, and as soon as I go home for Thanksgiving, I will make an exit interview appointment with my psychiatrist. Dr. Warten will look up in shock and awe at me as I enter his office with a confident smile on my face, a spring to my step, and nothing black on my body, not even the belt threaded through the loops on my new jeans. I will sit down across from him and place my unfinished bottle of lithium on the coffee table between us. I will tell him that I want the seventeen pills left inside of it to be given to some other patient who needs them, a donation from a previous sufferer to one who remains in the trenches. Dr. Warten will tear up at my shining example of complete recovery and my beneficence to those in need. He will take the pills and tell me that I am such an inspiration to him and so many others. I will be modest, but I will rejoice with him. I slew the beast, I conquered the enemy, and now, at the end of my book of trials, I will enjoy smooth sailing into the warmth of the setting sun for the rest of my days.
And my greatness will not stop there.
Later, after college, I will write about my hard time and my moment, this moment, when all became clear. I will go on talk shows like Phil Donahue, Sally Jessy Raphael, and Jenny Jones, and morning shows like the Today Show and Good Morning America. I will become a nationwide spokesperson, a courageous woman who breaks down prejudices and taboos to talk about mental illness. I will do speaking tours. I will advocate at the White House and in front of Congress. My entire life will be in service to others, and when I am on my deathbed, I will have nothing to apologize for, nothing to be ashamed of. I will die an old lady with a fine reputation, and my funeral will be at the National Cathedral because that is the only church big enough to handle the mourners. The anticipated weeping will require a pallet of Kleenex to be delivered prior to the service, and even still, they will run out of tissues.
It is coasting on this wave of future ensured success that I sail into the front of Tellmer Hall. Magnanimously, I hold the door open for one of Strots’s teammates, who is exiting. She is Keisha. She is African American and very beautiful with her braids. She is an accomplished athlete, but I understand she’s here on an academic scholarship because she is also very smart, proof that you can be both.
As she gives me a nod, I am certain that, if I followed her to whatever workout or practice she is going to, I could keep up. I wouldn’t be as good as her, no, because athletics are not my strong suit. But I would not fall behind and I would not embarrass myself. Afterward, she would urge me to join the field hockey team. Strots would agree. I would demur until the rest of the team starts to chant my name, and only then, out of a feeling of obligation because I do not want to let them down or cheat them out of the benefits of my association, I would pull a singlet over my head and everyone would cheer. The singlet would bear the number two, not number one, because I don’t want to be showy. I would become the heart of the team, the person who inspires all by my hard work, dedication, and calm demeanor under pressure. And when we are down by a goal with two minutes to go at the end of the state title game, I will score on a Hail Mary, and they will retire my jersey at the gym, never to be worn again.
The door closes and I turn to the mailboxes, ready to find a winning lottery ticket, a letter from my father telling me where he lives, and an invitation to meet President Bush in my slot. Mail has been delivered on time because all of that urgently needs to reach me. There are colorful flyers in all the boxes, a pretty display of pinks, oranges, whites, and yellows that is random, given that some mail we all receive, and some is specific to our particular classes, our extracurriculars, our clubs. In my cubby, I have three notices, but tragically my lottery winnings and missives from my father and President Bush have been lost somewhere in the system. They will be here soon, I am quite sure.
The top memo is in pink and has been received by everyone. It’s a reminder to donate gently used clothes to the bin in the phone room so that they may be disseminated to the poor through the school’s relationship with St. Francis Church in town. Upon reading it, I find myself disappointed that I cannot give away my black clothes yet, and I hope that there will be a similar drive during the second semester after the break, after I redo my wardrobe.