Crazy for You

Nina Simone's soulful blues tune streams softly through the overhead speaker, the lyrics a promising omen of the day to come. 

“It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

For me”

I'm ready. I've been ready for thirty-two years. The soft hum of the air conditioner creates a white noise that lulls me into a relaxed state. The cool air bounces off the walls of the bride's room in the village church where I grew up. I gaze unflinching at my reflection in the polished surface of the mirror. Unbidden, images of my rushed courtship with Noah invade my mind. Addled thoughts lob at my consciousness, reminding me of the relentless thumping of the tennis ball machine at the country club, fast and rapid fire. Doubt riddles me. How well do I know Noah? Does he really know me? Despite my concerns, I’m crazy for him.

Seven months earlier…

“Hey, keep your dog on a leash,” I shout as a monstrous yellow lab thunders toward me, launching eighty pounds of furry enthusiasm at my chest and landing me straight on my backside. So much for my afternoon run.

“Amos, heel,” a deep voice says commandingly.

“Right,” I mutter sarcastically, struggling to sit upright as the frenzied pooch pins me to the ground and lathers my face with dog drool. Gazing upward, the sun leaves a spotty imprint on my field of vision, making it hard for me to see.

Amos’s human extends a strong hand. “I’m sorry! Are you okay? Amos is just a year old, and we’re practicing voice commands.” 

“Well, it’s not working,” I say with an edge. Struggling to my feet, I glance up at a heart-stoppingly beautiful man. His face is filled with concern. 

And so it began. Despite our rocky start, we enjoyed the finest six months of speed dating. Intimate chats over coffee, long walks in the park, impassioned kisses, and nights of astonishing and vulnerable lovemaking culminated in an achingly romantic proposal. 

In forty-five minutes, I become Mrs. Noah Hendricks. Mom, my closest ally and supporter, painstakingly maneuvers the minuscule button loops on the back of my vintage wedding dress, guiding them over their intended targets. Her fingers endlessly fiddle with the task. 

Sheer lace exposes my narrow shoulders like a web; delicate and artful, creating an intricate spiral design, mirroring the result of a spider’s hard work, having woven its magic in preparation of catching its prey. My breasts rise and fall, tightly encapsulated in tulle appliqué. Gently at first, then with increased intensity, anticipating the rapture that will occur when my husband releases them from their tight bondage.

This is my mom’s wedding dress, worn by her thirty-four years ago. 

"So like me," she says. "It's only fitting that you wear the same dress."

She is right. In her younger days, we could have passed for twins. We share identical mannerisms, flaunt the same silky mane of chocolate hair, and have large almond-shaped eyes. Mom has aged gracefully and beautifully, a slightly faded but still elegant replica of her younger self.

One would never suspect she hides a monster within.

Twenty years earlier…

My voice quivers and breaks. Tears make their slow descent down my cheeks. “Mom, where are we going?” 

I’m sitting on the pink-and-white-gingham checkered bedspread in my bedroom. The gigantic stuffed mouse I won at the State Fair stares vacantly from its place among my pillows. Perfume bottles, cast offs from mom’s collection, litter the top of my dresser. Light filters through the open window, exposing the dust particles that float tranquilly in space. I nestle my seven-year-old brother protectively in the crook of my arm. His eyes are glued on my lava lamp. He relaxes against me. The blue and green wax orbs undulate through a thick oily sea and calm him.

Mom frantically shovels our rumpled clothes into the gaping mouths of boxes. She believes we are being followed and spied upon by our neighbor. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to quell the rising hysteria when I realize mom plans to escape and take us away from the only home we have ever known. 

Mom’s loving nature and elegant façade has crumbled, replaced by a different persona. Her bizarre behavior has increased at a steady pace over several years. Unkempt and non-responsive, mom's words and thoughts are as scattered as Scrabble tiles dumped on a table. 

Her lips twist into a cold smile. A blend of words spews from her mouth like a volcanic eruption. “The zebra typing purple cat flying low. Tulip sheds the chair underground,” she screeches.

My mother has paranoid schizophrenia.

Delusions, hallucinations and nonsensical phrases punctuated the daily existence of my teen years. Dad struggled to maintain a semblance of normalcy during long separations from the love of his life. Numerous hospitalizations left me wondering if she would leave and never return. When she was home, periods of sanity were rudely interrupted when she stopped taking the daily stabilizing medication to help her function in what is considered a socially normal environment.

It took years for our family to heal and feel whole. However, the emotional wounds created by the devastating disease we call the “Demon Spirit” are deep, leaving me pocked and scarred. 

I tell myself that I am justified in keeping this information from Noah; the truth is I fear he will leave me if he knows. I vow to share our family secret with him some day. 

Twenty minutes and counting. Mom leaves to give me time to reflect before the ceremony. A tall flute of ice cold Veuve Clicquot Brut, laced with frozen grapes, quenches my thirst and is the perfect remedy to settle my rumbling tummy. The familiar old English rhyme, “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue” plays in my mind like a ticker tape headline.

I think I have all of the items covered. Old: wedding dress; New: engagement ring; Borrowed... and that’s when it hits! Mom promised the loan of her elegant blue satin ribbon and lace garter, the same one she wore on her wedding day. She must still have it in her handbag. The image of Noah’s long, strong fingers slowing peeling the garter off my thigh flits across my awareness. I smile and fly through the door of the bridal room in search of her handbag.

My footsteps on the plush carpet are muffled as I make my way down the long corridor. Admitting to being slightly superstitious, I’m careful to avoid seeing my soon-to-be husband before the ceremony. Rounding a corner, I stop, stunned. 

Noah and my mother are in a passionate embrace. She is pinned against a wall as he fervently peppers her face with butterfly kisses, biting and sucking softly at her bottom lip, tongue exploring and thrusting into every inch of her mouth, long fingers tangled in her thick hair.

Kissing her like he kisses me.

Bile rises in my throat. Falling backward as if struck by a bolt of lightening, a primal scream begins deep in my chest and rises to a crescendo, reverberating through the hallowed halls of the sacred establishment. Yet, nothing is sacred. I can’t move. My feet feel encased in cement. The world around me revolves in slow motion. Dizzy, I fall backwards, and the tulle train of the wedding dress rips as I plunge to the ground. Tears create deep crevasses in my carefully applied makeup. Like rain on dirt, my beautiful facade turns to mud. Blinded by grief and rage, the world closes in, and darkness smudges the edges of my perfect day. I look up from the cavernous bottom of Hell, and my lips twist into a cold smile.

“The zebra typing purple cat flying low. Tulip sheds the chair underground.” The words slide effortlessly from my mouth.

Slowly, my mother turns. 

"So like me,” she says. 

And she is right. For in an instant, her years have melted away and I am looking at a perfect image of myself. The “Demon Spirit” known as schizophrenia has stalked me for years and has finally tracked me down. Delusions and hallucinations are again my reality. 

I have descended into madness. I am my mother. And, my mother is me.