He gave a small, nondescript grunt. “Adrian, it’s normal to be happy and sad. That’s human life.” I definitely didn’t correct him there. “What’s not normal is to be so drastically sad that you can’t go on with typical activities or to be so happy that you impulsively engage in grandiose activities without thinking through the consequences—like excessive spending. And it’s definitely not normal to switch so quickly between these drastic moods with little or no provocation.”
I wanted to tell him that there was provocation, that spirit did these things to me. And yet, did the cause matter? If fire users burned themselves with their magic, it didn’t change the fact that they needed first aid. If spirit was causing this bipolar thing, then didn’t I still need treatment? My mind spun, and I suddenly found myself caught up in a chicken-and-egg dilemma. Maybe spirit didn’t cause mental illness. Maybe people like Lissa and me were already “off” chemically and that’s what made us gravitate to spirit.
“So what do you do about it?” I asked at last.
He took out a small notebook and scribbled something onto it. When he finished, he tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. “You get this prescription filled and take it.”
“It’s an antidepressant?”
“It’s a mood stabilizer.”
I stared at the paper like it might bite me. “That doesn’t sound right. Is it going to ‘stabilize’ me so that I don’t feel happy or sad? So that I don’t feel anything?” I stood up abruptly. “No! I don’t care if they’re dangerous. I’m not giving up my emotions.”
“Sit down,” he said calmly. “No one’s taking away your emotions. It’s what I said before: We’re all chemicals. You’ve got a couple that aren’t at the right levels. This will adjust them, just as a diabetic would correct their insulin. You’ll still feel things. You’ll be happy. You’ll be sad. You’ll be angry. You just won’t swing unpredictably into such wild directions. There’s nothing wrong with this—and it’s a hell of a lot safer than self-medicating with alcohol.”
I sat back down and stared bleakly at the prescription. “This is going to kill my creativity, won’t it? Without all my feelings, I won’t be able to paint like I used to.”
“That’s the cry of artists everywhere,” said Einstein, his expression hardening. “Will it affect certain things? Maybe, but you know what’ll really interfere with your ability to paint? Being too depressed to get out of bed. Waking up in jail after a night of drunken debauchery. Killing yourself. Those things will hurt your creativity.”
It was surprisingly similar to what Sydney had said about how I’d be able to accomplish things. “I’ll be ordinary,” I protested.
“You’ll be healthy,” he corrected. “And from there, you can become extraordinary.”
“I like my art the way it is.” I knew I sounded childish.
Einstein shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Then I guess you have to decide what’s most important to you.”
That required no thought at all. “She is.”
He stayed quiet, but his expression said it all.
I sighed and stood up again. “I’ll get it filled.”
He gave me some information on side effects and warned that it could take trial and error to get things right. Walking out of that office and going to a pharmacy, rather than a liquor store, took more self-control than I’d had to muster in a while. I forced myself to listen as the pharmacist talked about dosing—and warned me against alcohol while on the prescription.
But when I got home, I didn’t have the courage to open the bottle. I put on a record at random and sat on my couch, staring at the bottle in my hand, more confused than I’d ever expected to be. This mood stabilizer was a mystery. I’d thought I’d go in and take something like Lissa had, and even if I wasn’t a huge fan of pills, at least I had her as a reference. But this? What would happen? What if Einstein was wrong, and I stopped feeling any emotions? What if it didn’t do anything except cause the ghastly side effects he’d said were extremely rare?
On the other hand . . . what if it didn’t stop spirit but did curb the darkness? That would be a dream come true. That was what Lissa had originally hoped the antidepressant would do. The complete numbing of spirit had been a surprise. It was impossible to think I might still keep the magic yet stay in control of my life. The idea was so tempting, I opened the bottle and put one of the pills in the palm of my hand.
But I couldn’t take it. I was too afraid—afraid of losing control and afraid of gaining it. I tried to think of Sydney but couldn’t get a clear grip on her in my mind. One moment, she was laughing and golden in the sun. Another, she was crying. I wanted what was best for her . . . and yet, I knew what she actually wanted was what was best for me. It was so hard to know what that was, though. On a nearby table, Hopper—in statue form—seemed to watch me judgmentally, and I turned him so he faced away from me.
The music drifted over me, and I realized with a start I’d put on Jefferson Airplane. I laughed, but it soon turned into a sigh.
“‘One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small.’” I squeezed the pill tightly in my hand. “‘And the ones that Mother gives you don’t do anything at all.’”
Take the damn pill, Adrian. The chastising voice in my head was my own, not Aunt Tatiana’s, thankfully. I opened my hand and studied the edges of the pill. Just take it. I had a glass of water and everything.
But I still held off.
The chiming of the Love Phone made me jump. Still holding the pill in one hand, I found the phone with the other and read a text from Sydney:
Told Z I left my phone in the store, so I went back and got a sketchpad and some pigments. Know any starving artist who could use them?
My heart swelled, so full of love I didn’t know how any physical body could possibly contain such power. I felt like my chest would burst.
“Okay, Alice,” I said, eyeing the pill. “Let’s see what you can do.”
I put the pill in my mouth and swallowed.
CHAPTER 12
SYDNEY
I DIDN’T BLINK AN EYE when my AP chemistry teacher told us we had a pop quiz. But when Zoe told me our dad was about to be in Palm Springs, I nearly had a meltdown.
“What? When’s he getting here?” I exclaimed. We’d just sat down for lunch in the cafeteria.
“Tonight. He wants to have dinner.” She picked up a french fry and scrutinized it as though it held more interest than the news she’d just delivered. “They burned these today.”
Food was the last thing on my mind, and it had nothing to do with concerns about weight. “How long have you known he was coming today?”
She shrugged. “I told you last week.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t exactly fine-tune the date and time! Couldn’t you have given me a little more warning?”
At last, I warranted more attention than her lunch. “What’s the problem? It’s Dad! You should be excited. It’s not like you have to prepare or anything.”
Well, I wouldn’t have minded preparing mentally. Even though I’d known he was coming, not having a fixed date had allowed me to relax about it. The rest of our gang was sitting with us—Jill, Eddie, Angeline, and Neil—and I could see them watching the exchange with interest. Only Jill really knew the full scope of my parental drama, and when it was clear neither Zoe nor I was going to say anything more on the subject, Jill helpfully shifted the conversation and began talking about some expo her sewing club was doing.