Full Blown: Me and My Bipolar Family. David Lovelace

concentrate on your parents and I’ll do the rest.’

      Mary overheard us and came into the kitchen. ‘What about my play?’ She was ten years old and had the lead. ‘Dress rehearsal’s tomorrow.’

      ‘I’ve got to teach tomorrow afternoon,’ Roberta said. ‘I can’t get out of that. You’ll have to take her.’ Mary had her costume on, just a big sweater. She was Charlie Brown and had a date with a pumpkin.

      ‘I’ll take you, Mary. We’ll just have to go a little early and pick up Papa. All right?’

      ‘I guess so. Is he coming to rehearsal?’

      ‘No, he has an appointment.’

      ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I need to practise first. Papa might get bored.’

      ‘Don’t worry about that, darling.’ I glanced at Roberta. ‘That’s the least of our worries. He’s not coming. We just need to drop him off at the hospital. It won’t take long.’ It seemed like a reasonable plan, not ideal, of course, but reasonable. It wouldn’t take long – the paperwork was done. My father wasn’t dangerous and if I worked it right he wouldn’t be scary. It was okay for Mary to see this, to begin understanding this part of the family. How bad could it be?

      Bad. It was another day, and so another round of forms was required, another psychiatric evaluation by a non-psychiatrist, another long wait. I had promised that today would be quick and told Mary that we could have ice cream afterwards, but we’d already spent forty minutes in the waiting area. Now, waiting again in the small, bright examination room, my father and I tried out some small talk as Mary sat in the corner and whispered her lines. We pretended nothing was out of the ordinary, just another errand: pick up milk, drop off kids, commit Dad to asylum.

      Finally, the door opened and a slight man in a white coat and holding a clipboard slipped inside. ‘Hi, I’m Mark,’ he said. That’s it, just Mark. Not Dr Mark, not even Mr Mark. He was balding but had managed to coax a wispy grey ponytail back from his temples. He was Safety Net and he was letting his freak flag fly. He was on our side, defending us from doctors and other medical professionals. After another forty-five-minute interview, wherein my father lost his much-abused patience, brandished his Presbyterian book bag over his head, insisted Bryant was a heathen Irishman, and repeatedly referred to me by my full, somewhat unfortunate given name – David Brainerd Lovelace – the interview concluded. I realized Mary had wandered off.

      My father now refused to enter voluntarily, to commit himself. It was hard to blame him; I wanted out, too. Both the breadth of my father’s knowledge and the force of his controlled mania seemed to diminish our friend Mark. He warbled like Joan Baez while my father belted Rossini. Mark seemed unsure as we stepped into the hallway. Where the hell did Mary go? I’d been too busy bottling my rage to notice. Mark put his hand on my shoulder, an attempt at compassion. ‘Well, I have good news. Your father seems okay. He’s presently not a danger to himself or others. I cannot recommend that your father be involuntarily committed at this time.’

      I pushed back from him, stunned. ‘Okay? You think he’s okay? My mother’s upstairs in a coma. He left her on the floor for days. Tried to force-feed her some green, soya product. He’s off his meds. He’s noncompliant. He’s driving around. Last night he saw some infomercial and bought a three-thousand-dollar mattress.’

      ‘The incident with your mother was a few days ago now. He seems better.’

      ‘What the fuck?’ I was close to losing it. ‘How the fuck do you know?’ Nurses watched from their stations, agog. When she heard my voice from down the hall Mary returned, her hands and pockets full of candy corn raided from somewhere out back. I stepped into Mark’s face and he backed away, held his clipboard out, and ducked slightly.

      ‘How do you know he’s off his meds?’ he asked defensively. ‘Has he had a blood level?’

      ‘A blood level? No, I’ve been too busy visiting my mother in the ICU and talking with not-even-doctors to arrange a fucking blood level.’ I’d lost it and Mark moved closer to the nurses. Mary stood riveted, popping her candy. ‘What? Are you trying to protect my father? Do you think I want to do this? Do you think this is fun? Do you think he’s a victim, that I’m victimizing him?’ I was loud now. I wanted to hit him.

      ‘Mr Lovelace, I understand you’re upset, that this is upsetting.’ Mark looked sympathetic and nervous. His eyes grew large and moist. He was breathing rapidly. ‘We all want what’s best for your father.’ I snorted. ‘We all want what’s best for him.’ Mark gestured to the caring ER staff – three open-mouthed nurses and two newly arrived and very large orderlies. ‘You have to understand. Your father needs an advocate. I’m his advocate. You know, they used to warehouse patients –’

      ‘This isn’t a fucking warehouse, it’s a hospital and I want a doctor. His psychiatrist called and said to admit him.’

      ‘Yesterday, he called yesterday,’ Mark clarified.

      I leaned in to the well-meaning Mark and grabbed his nametag. ‘You’re a chickenshit, Mark. Do your fucking job. I’m not leaving until my father’s locked up.’ I stepped back, disgusted. ‘I don’t want to talk to Safety fucking Net anymore. I want a doctor.’ An orderly closed in behind me and I saw security approach fast down the hall. I stopped and smiled grimly.

      Mary stood beside me. It was time for her play. ‘C’mon, Charlie Brown,’ I said softly, and pulled her close. I held her tight and turned towards the orderlies. They stared me down and I said under my breath, ‘You’re not locking me up. You can’t lock anyone up.’ I looked around at them all and back towards my father. He sat quietly in the bright examination room and smiled at my scene. ‘Goddammit,’ I said, and grabbed my daughter’s hand, pulled her away from all this and marched towards the door. ‘C’mon, Dad!’ I yelled over my shoulder, and I kicked their swinging door as hard as I could. It hit the wall loud, like a rifle crack.

      I unlocked the truck and Mary climbed up quietly. She wouldn’t look at me. Great, I thought, now my daughter needs therapy – already. Good grief. I saw my father moving slowly across the car park. ‘Sorry, darling,’ I said. ‘Sorry about all this.’ She just nodded and picked at her sweater. I held the door for my father and he stayed quiet as well. ‘I’m driving you home, Dad. I need to get Mary to rehearsal.’

      ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, and fell silent for most of the drive. I thought he was gloating until we got to his door. ‘What about Betty Lee? We didn’t see Mom.’

      ‘I know, Dad, I –’

      ‘She’s all right, isn’t she? She’ll be all right?’

      ‘Sure. Sure, Dad. Try to get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

      Back in the truck I apologized again. ‘Sorry, Mary. I had no idea it would be like that, take so long. Lousy way to spend the afternoon, huh?’

      ‘Yeah, I guess.’ She pulled on Charlie Brown’s sweater and smiled. ‘It was kind of funny, Dad.’

      ‘Funny.’ Nothing was funny. My father was out; he had won the first battle. I had no way to slow him or keep him safe.

      ‘ The way you yelled at that guy in there and when you slammed the door. I’ve never seen you get mad like that. I thought it was funny.’

      ‘What about Papa? How did he seem?’

      ‘Crazy, I guess. But okay. I mean he wasn’t scary or anything.’ Then Mary opened her script and began practising her role. She seemed fine; she was learning. My mother stayed with us once and fell sick. Mary was just a toddler, and she watched Grammy move through the house all heartsick and broken and unable to speak. She’s seen my medicines. Five years ago I was manic and sat on our porch with her and her brother. Mary was seven and Hunter just three; I was forty-two and full-blown. She had some clay and we sat and made figures while my mind rushed away and I tried not to follow; I tried to stay home. My wife, Roberta, came home and rescued me just like the first time, twenty-two years ago. Roberta is quiet,