Full
Blown
Me and my Bipolar family
DAVID LOVELACE
For Mary and Hunter
Table of Contents
I opened the door, the kids tackled me, and my wife said, ‘You need to call your dad. He’s been leaving messages for days.’ I dropped my pack, kissed them all, and sat down. ‘You need to call him now. I tried to reach you.’ Hunter pushed onto my lap.
‘Why? What is it?’
‘It’s strange. He sounds pretty strange.’
I knew what it was already. I should have seen it before I left town. I wanted to come home and tell stories, hear the kids talk, but instead I moved to the bedroom and locked the door. I lay face down as the kids rattled the doorknob and called from the hall. ‘What did you bring back, Dad? What did you get us?’ They began quarrelling. I pulled a stuffed toy, some marker pens and a pouch of fool’s gold from my bag, opened the door, and passed out the gifts. I sat on the bed and tried to think it out slowly but I couldn’t. It was pointless. I knew what it was and hit play.
‘Hi, David, hello, Roberta. This is Dad Lovelace, Richard Lovelace. Mom is much better now. She’s more herself. We’ve been praying and singing hymns. She enjoys that. Dad Lovelace.’ Not good. The ‘Dad Lovelace’ thing did not sound good.
‘Hello again, David and Roberta. Dad Lovelace again. I just wanted to mention that there’s really no reason for you to come down. Mom is much better, more herself. The family gathering was just a real shock to her system. I think she just needs to rest, so don’t come down. It’s not a good idea. Thanks, Richard Lovelace.’ The ‘Richard’ thing was worse.
Before I left for Colorado, I had driven my folks back to Boston’s North Shore to see family. I now acted as chauffeur. My mother was eighty-one that year and terrified of driving, has been since 1950. My father was only seventy-four, but suffering from night blindness. When I arrived at their apartment, my mother, Betty Lee, was far from well. She sat on the couch with her forehead clenched and her eyes screwed tight. Her jaw was slack and wet with saliva. I helped her out to their car and felt her thin arm with its hollow bones – just a bird’s wing. She curled up in the backseat and fell asleep within minutes.
My father, usually reserved, practically bounced on the seat beside me. He talked nonstop, all the way east. Dad, a theologian, hadn’t published in years, but he now carried two manuscripts and spent most of the ride describing them in great detail. It was a long two hours. My parents’ car shuddered over sixty. The speedometer had worked loose somewhere in the dash and it fluttered and buzzed. Just past Sturbridge, he pulled out his second work, a memoir, and I winced. He read me his life so fast it was done before we got to our exit.
When we arrived my mother’s condition shocked everyone and my father began reassuring the family. He said Betty Lee was just adjusting to new medication. I mentioned the onset of Parkinson’s but my father broke in. ‘Now, we’re not sure it’s Parkinson’s. She has some Parkinsonian symptoms – that’s all.’ But Parkinson’s is a progressive disease. It doesn’t hit like a stroke. My father said he had all her doctors on the case.
‘Including Bryant?’ I asked.
‘Including the shrink,’ he said.
The party proceeded while my mother sat on the couch, silent and pinched. Shadows moved through her face as my father squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear, acting as a sort of interpreter for the bright, laughing room. He spoke for her as well, answering questions and almost shielding her from the family’s concern. He loves her very much but he was making me nervous. At dinner my father raised his hand in blessing, his ring and pinkie fingers folded down like a saint’s. ‘As an ordained minister of the Presbyterian church, I ask our Lord God’s blessing on this gathering. In the grace of Jesus Christ, his only begotten son, amen.’ My brother, Jonathan, shot me a glance and I shrugged. It was a strange blessing, even for a church historian.
A short time later Jonathan pulled me over by the cheesecake. ‘Dad’s acting weird, Dave. I mean really weird.’
‘I know.’
‘He just growled at Jen. He started telling her how to raise our kids and when she started to defend herself he just growled.’
‘What do you mean, growled?’ I asked sceptically. I typically run interference for my dad, and despite the night’s odd behaviour, I fell into form.
‘I mean he growled.’
‘What? Like, you mean, grrrr?’
‘Yeah, like a real dog. And he stared her down. I’m telling you, Dave, it was creepy.’
‘Okay, that’s pretty damn weird,’ I admitted, and grabbed another beer. ‘He’s weird, all right.’
‘It’s none of his business how we raise our children. If we homeschool them or whatever. It pisses me off.’ He glared over at Dad. ‘It’s more than weird, it’s disrespectful. He doesn’t respect Jen. She’s almost in tears. It’s like he hates her or something.’
‘No shit.’ I rarely see my brother angry. He doesn’t share my temperament. I got high and cynical in school; my brother played sports. He believes in fair play and gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. I