Full Blown: Me and My Bipolar Family. David Lovelace

slowly, deliberately, as if he were training a dog. ‘You will not come in. No, you will not. Your mother is resting.’ I tried the knob again and stepped back. There wasn’t much to see from the window. I knocked again but he had stopped talking. There would be no negotiation. I walked past their building, a long row of modest two-storey apartments, pushed through some bushes and onto the rear patios. The weather was wet and cold and I saw no one as I stepped from one small yard to the next. Then I saw my father through his sliding glass door. He sat in front of a dismembered phone, its wires and jacks stripped and spread out. The kitchen rubbish bin overflowed next to him: smoked salmon wrappers, tins of tuna, mayonnaise jars and newspapers. He saw me and reached for the lock but I beat him and jerked back the door.

      He stood, towering over me. ‘You are not coming in. I forbid it.’ I pushed past him, into the smell of it, my father’s madness: the tang of rotted food and the earthy, nauseating smell of vitamins. He backed off then and shrugged; his anger vanished at once. He smiled and spread out his hands. His shirt-tails were out and his clothes stained with food. ‘All right. All right. Maybe you’re okay. Maybe it’s best. You’ll see it’s okay, David Lovelace. It’s best. Welcome.’ He sat down smiling and his eyes were sharper than knives and too bright to watch.

      I sat down slowly, my back to the wall. ‘Where’s Mom?’

      ‘She’s upstairs, resting. She’s had a bad shock.’

      ‘What do you mean, a shock?’

      ‘The family, Rockport. Seeing the family is always a shock.’

      ‘Not for her,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Dad, I got your calls. I tried to reach you. What’s with the phone?’ I asked, pointing at the wires, the gutted phone on the table.

      He shook his head. ‘We’re having a terrible time with the phones here, just terrible.’ He paused, calculated, and struck a casual pose. ‘So, what brings you down here?’

      ‘I’m concerned about Mom. I’m gonna go up and see her.’

      My father stood. ‘Well, okay, if you must. She’s really doing much better. She’s much more herself. Try not to wake her.’ I moved through the living room, the scattered plastic pillboxes. My father had found a large book on Goya and had it propped up, open to the crucified Christ, with his holy bleeding head and his hand raised in blessing.

      Upstairs, I couldn’t wake my mother. She was lying on the floor in her nightgown. Her bed was stripped and someone had pushed foam rubber under her head and back. I thought she was dead. I dropped to my knees. I could hear my father moving slowly up the stairs. The air was fetid and it smelled of urine. I leaned close and heard her breathing, rapid and shallow. Her lower lip trembled; for a brief moment it seemed she would speak. Her thin eyelids fluttered slightly and I could see her eyeballs roll and drop beneath them. Then my father appeared in the doorway, smiling hopefully. ‘You see, David, much better.’

      I stood and moved back. I was badly frightened by him and felt myself shaking. ‘Dad, what’s this green crap?’ It was all over her, some of it wet and bright green, most dry and grey, like clay. Her hair was matted with the stuff. It ran from her mouth across her face and down her neck. The thin blanket she had was covered in it. I checked her breathing again, worried she had choked on it. ‘What is it?’ I asked slowly. I tried not to scream.

      ‘Oh. That’s a soya protein product we’ve been using. Lots of B-twelve. You know that settles her nerves. It’s a powder. You mix it with water. I feed it to her.’

      ‘I see. Okay. What’s she doing on the floor?’

      ‘She fell.’ My father blocked the door. I couldn’t breathe and I felt like retching. I needed help and the phones were all fucked.

      ‘Dad, I gotta go. I’ll be back later, but right now I gotta go. I think Mom needs help.’

      My father smiled; he almost beamed. ‘Well, David. That makes sense. It’s been good to see you. I’ll let you know how she’s coming along. We pray together every day.’ My father knew it was a series of tests now and he felt he had passed the first one, held it together. He hadn’t raved and I was leaving the apartment. No one would take her away. No one would ask him to leave. They were inseparable.

      I didn’t have a phone so I drove straight to the police. I regretted it immediately. The cop behind the Plexiglas made me sit and wait while he talked to his radio. He was younger than I am. This was a waste of time; I should have just called an ambulance. I paced until a shitty little speaker crackled.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘My mother needs an ambulance. She’s unconscious and my father is manic, is having a manic break.’ Should I say ‘crazy’? Did he even know what ‘manic’ meant?

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Crazy.’ There, I’d done it. Fuck. ‘My dad’s fucking out of it. He’s bipolar. My mother needs an ambulance.’

      ‘Watch your language, sir. The address?’ I gave it to him. ‘All right, sir. Just have a seat. I’ll send for a patrol car.’

      ‘I’ll meet them back there.’

      I paced the car park; I should have called an ambulance straightaway. I knew the police could make it worse, much worse, just by showing up. I remember seeing their lights through the windows when they came for me, and they lit the room red and flashed. I had hit the floor and crawled to the bathroom. I locked the door and looked for razors – just to scare them, I thought. When they came up the steps and rapped on the door, I stripped and ducked into the shower. My friends said, don’t worry, Dave, don’t worry, and then they let them inside. I could hear them all talking and I clapped my hands on my ears and started to sing. I slid down in the shower and sang.

      I waited outside my father’s apartment and remembered Woody Woodward, a local man who died up in Brattleboro. He was scared and so he found a church, interrupted the Sunday service and asked for help. He spoke rapidly and incoherently. Woodward appeared delusional; he claimed the CIA was after him. He had a penknife and when the police came he held it up to his eye and pleaded for help. The police shot him seven times, including once in the back and once as he lay on the carpet. Then they cuffed him. He died in surgery and both policemen were cleared of wrongdoing.

      That’s what can happen and that’s how we think: seven shots and dying right there at the pulpit. We see how scared all the straights are – how primal that fear is – and we feed off that fear. We know how fast things go bad. One minute you’re asking for sanctuary, the next facing guns.

      I waited twenty minutes in the driveway. I knew my father was watching. When the police pulled in I knew he was inside, pacing, making decisions. Fortunately, the police moved calmly. They listened closely and we planned our approach together. I kept saying my father was harmless. ‘He isn’t dangerous,’ I said, with my mother dying upstairs.

      I knocked on the door but my father was spooked and hiding. I led the police through the bushes and wet patios, the brown oak leaves in drifts. My father sat by the broken phone and when the cop rapped on the glass he turned and smiled. He held his palms out and shrugged.

      ‘Sir, open the door.’

      ‘Okay, okay. That would be fine but –’

      ‘Please open the door, sir.’

      ‘All right, all right. This is just fine. Just give me a moment.’ My father stepped into the adjacent bathroom. He came out a few tense minutes later with his hair combed and his shirt tucked in, and he unlocked the door. I could see him throttle down against all the drama, the police and the lights, against his worst fears: that his mind had burned down, that they’d bury his wife and lock him away. Now here they were, standing in his kitchen with guns and clubs, and somehow he smiled and spoke slowly, a professor again, a calm, reasonable man. One cop stayed with him and one came with me. My mother hadn’t moved. The cop cursed slowly, under his breath. He knelt on one knee and felt for her pulse.

      ‘What’s all this green crap?’ he asked, and I told him.