The Edge

"So . . . ," Grandma says, "you can't sleep?"

I jump up and tell her to play with my hair, and that makes her laugh, because, truthfully, she hates playing with my hair. Fine, I tell her, then let's play cards. We leave the caretaker in the family room with the dog and go into the kitchen. After dealing a hand, neither one of us feels like playing. I try to sleep again, but can't, and before I know it my mom is home.

Everyone is gathered around the dinner table. It must be 6 or 7 at night. I am lying on the couch. Mom hollers that it's time for dinner, and I holler back that I'm not hungry, but Jax goes into the kitchen with everybody else.

"Mishy, come eat," she says. I stomp my way to the table, and the sight and smell of the chicken, broccoli, bread and salad almost make me sick. I sit down, stare at my food, move it around.

"Please eat," my mom says, while Ed and Grandma stare at me.

The night continues like this. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. Finally, it's late again -- or early, I'm not really sure anymore. I go back out on the front porch, sitting in the white wicker chair smoking, in the same boxer shorts and ripped T-shirt, and my mom comes out wearing the same silk robe, and all of the similarities to the day before confuse me. We sit in silence for a while.

Finally she says: "Michele, you know what happened the last time you didn't sleep. I don't know what to do. You have to sleep."

Alarm bells go off in my head. She thinks I'm losing my mind again. Two years ago, during my first manic episode, my friends Dawn and Nancy took me to Alexandria Hospital, where I was admitted. I was diagnosed as bipolar, although I'm convinced the diagnosis is wrong. I think my old doctor didn't get my Prozac dosage right. It shot me into a manic episode. I imagine being hospitalized here -- my home town. What if I run into someone, someone I grew up with, the mother of someone I grew up with? I have to get out of here. I say something back to my mother -- I don't remember what -- but I know it's mean. She goes back into the house. I sit there a few minutes longer. I didn't mean to upset her. I'm just so tired. She's worried she's going to have to admit me to a hospital, and I refuse to let that happen.

A few minutes later, I unlock my Jeep Wrangler, start it and back out of the driveway. As I reach for a cigarette, I see that I have only one left, and that I don't have my wallet. Climbing out of the car, I realize that I'm also barefoot. I tip-toe into the house. I hear my mother upstairs. I grab my wallet off the kitchen counter, slip on my black flip-flops and turn around to walk out the door. Jax is sitting there, wagging his tail, so I take him with me.

It is still dark outside, but I don't know the time. As I drive away, there is a car in front of me and one behind me. The one in front of me stops too long at a stop sign. But as I drive past Mountain View Elementary School on my way out of the neighborhood, I don't know where I am going. The road dead-ends. At the stop sign, I'm now the one holding up the cars. Left or right? Can't go straight. I need cigarettes. Left. But it's so early, or is it later? Nothing will be open. Right. Spee-Dee Mart. They're open 24 hours. Left.

With a destination, I feel confident and unzip my windows, turn up the music. "Ciga-rette," a song I love from my favorite band, the Clarks, blares from 102.5, WDVE. I light my last one, and sing along at the top of my lungs: "Do you know where you're going when you've taken your last step?/Do you know what you get?/Cigarette." For 17 years I drove up and down this road. Up here, on the right, should be a cul-de-sac where my best friend from high school, Jenn, and I used to park our cars and drink Old Milwaukee. I think that's it, except there's a big house there now, and the woods right next to it are gone.

When I open my wallet at Spee-Dee Mart, I see I don't have much money. In fact, I'm counting change to reach $4. Four dollars for a pack of Marlboro Lights. In high school, I could get Winstons for $2. I pull out my last nickel and realize I'm still 10 cents short. The woman keeps looking at me, and it's beginning to irritate me. I tell her that I have more change in my purse, but when I reach for it, I realize I didn't bring one. The woman is still staring, and only then am I able to see myself through her eyes: strange woman, middle of the night, boxer shorts, ripped T-shirt, scrounging for change. I look homeless, and that makes me laugh, hard and loud. I manage to find 25 cents hidden in my wallet. I tell her to keep the change. Back in the jeep, Jax and I turn onto White School Road. But now where do we go?