Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
But the surprise was going to be worth it.
“Here it is,” I said, adding some pep to my voice as we pulled up beside the immaculate white colonial with its large front porch. “You’re on the left side, obviously,” I told her.
The other side of the duplex featured colorful pots full of flowers that stood proudly or poured down the sides, rocking chairs, and several wind chimes.
“It’s lovely,” Lorna said, eyes a little dreamy as we climbed out and made our way to the front door.
“This is yours,” I told her, producing the key. “There is also one under the railing. And we, of course, have one too. Just in case. Go on.”
I waved to the door and Lorna moved to unlock it.
We’d spent a week cleaning up the place and putting a few basic pieces of furniture in, but left the details for Lorna to work on, so she could make the place her own.
So she walked into a living room with a TV mounted on the wall, a coffee table made by Coach, and a little sectional sofa.
And on that sofa, Rook.
“Oh!” Lorna gasped.
Then they flew at each other, hugging tight as the emotions overwhelmed them.
They held onto each other for what seemed like forever, occasionally saying things, but mostly just enjoying the closeness that prison and institutionalization had deprived them of.
Eventually, though, Rook held out an arm, inviting me in.
His and Lorna’s arms went around me too, pulling me in, offering me the family I’d been deprived of and longing for my entire life.
For the two of them, and for me, wounds that had been aching for years healed.
Rook - 2 years
I was free.
My mom was free.
Tessa was free.
Everything was coming together.
Tessa and I were a few weeks away from moving into our first home together. My mom would follow within the next six months. None of the houses we’d found had any in-law quarters, so we’d lined up a company to add one onto the sweet little ranch-style home we’d found over in the suburbs, just a five-minute walk to the schools.
Perfect for kids we’d been told over and over again.
Tessa and I still hadn’t made decisions on kids yet. I had more than a few concerns about passing on potentially severe, rapid-cycling bipolar to the next generation. On top of that, Tessa worried about the addiction in her own bloodline. Her mother wasn’t the first to struggle with addiction. As far as she knew, it went back four generations.
We’d actually been to a few geneticists and shrinks, sharing our concerns and asking for their opinions.
The stats were there.
If both parents have bipolar, the child’s chances are sixty to eighty-five percent of inheriting it. If it is one parent, the chances drop to around thirty percent. When a parent doesn’t but a grandparent does, the chances are lower, but there are some statistics about it “skipping a generation.”
As for addiction, the chances are four to ten times more likely if you have a parent with addiction.
But all the experts were quick to remind us that both alcoholism and even bipolar are often influenced by environment. Traumatic events can not only trigger an addiction but also bipolar disorder.
So if our child was raised in a loving and stable environment, there would be a good chance we could have a perfectly healthy and happy kid.
We took all that in and were still sitting with it. We were young. There was time. We had plenty to keep ourselves busy until we made a decision.
“Ma, what are you doing?” I asked as I climbed off my bike to find her walking around with no fewer than eight hummingbird feeders in her hands.
I felt it then—that little tightening in my stomach, long-buried but familiar. The fear that this was it, the moment I’d been bracing myself for. A manic episode.
“Washing the feeders?” she said, brows furrowed.
“Why?”
“Because mold and mildew grow on them in the hot weather, and it can hurt or even kill the hummingbirds…”
“Oh, okay,” I said, feeling the tension leave my shoulders.
“Worried about me?” she asked, giving me a soft smile. “I’m doing just fine.”
She was, too.
There was a time when I was very young when I remembered her being balanced for this long. But this was the first time since then that I wasn’t constantly anxious about another bad cycle.
Yes, there had been a few times when she’d been a little down, or maybe a bit up, here and there. But the medications had been keeping her almost perfectly even since she’d left the state health facility.
She was gardening, working, going to art classes and book club, exercising, keeping house, and going to therapy.
This was the woman she’d always been capable of being. If only they’d found the right meds earlier on.
Tessa asked me once, cuddled close at my side, if I was upset or resentful that I hadn’t gotten to have this version of my mother growing up.