Page 30 of The Golden Boy's Guide to Bipolar
“That makes no fucking sense!” I shout. “So everyone knows what’s best for me but me?”
And then, just as quickly as she blew up, she deflates. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Ugh!” I ball my fists, trying my best not to punch the dashboard and get us in an accident. “Why are you always walking oneggshells around me? Just tell me I’m a piece of shit! Tell me you’re disappointed! That you’re pissed!Something!”
“I’m not any of those things, mijo.” She reaches a hand across the center console and takes mine. The touch grounds me just enough to relax my clenched fists and let her hold on.
“Why not?” I ask, my voice catching this time.
“Because I...” She squeezes my hand as her voice cracks, too. “I couldn’t bear it if something I said or did made you—”
“Made me kill myself?” I interrupt. We’ve been dancing around the subject since I almost did it last year, might as well get to the point.
She lets go of my hand to wipe a tear from her eye. “Yes, Cesar. I don’t want to lose you, do you understand?”
I let out a deep breath. “My life is not your responsibility.”
“Of course it is, mijo. I’m your mother.”
And that, that just fucking kills me. It’s not like I’m going to off myself tomorrow, but I don’t know... I’m pretty sure that’s how I’ll go. The thought of my mom blaming herself, of Yami or Jamal blaming themselves, makes me feel so fucking hopeless. Like I can’t even have the distant idea of a release from this world as a comfort because I know it’ll completely wreck them. And despite how I treat them, I do actually care.
When we pull up to our driveway, there are two people standing on the side of the house, peeking in through the side window.
“Who the f—” my mom interrupts herself by honking her horn to get the peepers’ attention and rolls down the car window. They both jolt at the noise and whirl around, and Mami lets out a relieved laugh. “Ay dios mío, I thought we had some stalkers! Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”
Now that I get a better look, I still can’t put names to faces. One is a vaguely familiar-looking girl with short, straight black hair around my age, and the other is a bald guy probably in his late thirties, also vaguely familiar. The girl perks up and waves enthusiastically when she sees me, but it isn’t until the guy starts talking that I realize who they are.
“We happened to be in town, so I thought we’d stop by to surprise my little sister!”
Mami parks the car, not wasting any time before getting out and giving my tío Paco a huge hug. Her face is smothered by his shoulder so I can’t really tell, but I think she might be crying. I undo my seat belt and get out of the car to say hi to my cousin Moni, who I haven’t seen since I was like ten.
I’m about to go in for the socially mandated familial hello hug, but Moni holds up the palm of her hand to stop me.
“Sorry, I don’t usually do hugs. High five?”
I happily trade the hug for slapping the palm of her hand.
“I’m so rude! Come in, come in!” Mami says through sniffles as she unlocks the door and leads us all inside. “Cesar, why don’t you show Monica your room? Your tío and I have a lot to catch up on.”
“Sure,” I say as I start down the hall.
“Leave the door cracked!” my tío calls out, and I throw a thumbs-up over my shoulder in response.
Moni makes herself comfortable on my bed right away, and I take the desk chair.
“So what are you guys doing in town?” I ask, not really knowing what else to talk about. We haven’t talked in years, but Moni and I used to be pretty much inseparable when we were little.
Moni scoffs. “I got in trouble, so my dad’s sending me to Abuela’s to set me straight.”
“Oh, shit, they were serious about that?” I ask. My mom and tío used to threaten us all with being sent to Abuela’s if we got in trouble, but Mami never made good on it. Considering my mom and abuela rarely talk and my mom can’t stand her, I never took the threat seriously.
“Are you forgetting I’m the problem child?” Moni says, though she doesn’t look convinced by her own words, and honestly, I’m not convinced either.
Even when we were little, Moni’s always been somewhat of a musical genius. Sometimes her dad would go hunting for an instrument she’d never played so he could give it to her as a party trick. He’d play a recording of some song from that instrument, then we’d all watch while she tinkered for a few minutes before playing the same song by ear. They moved to L.A. when she got into a fine arts middle school, which I didn’t even know was a thing.
“You too?” I laugh humorlessly. Maybe we have that whole prodigy-turned-disappointment thing in common. I think about how Tío Paco only called the visit a “surprise” and said that they just happened to be in town. “Why do you think your dad didn’t tell my mom what happened?”
She shrugs. “He probably will, but I guess he’s nervous. I bet he just doesn’t want to admit why he’s sending me with Abuela.”
