Mosquitoland: Chapters 33–42

I swear, the older I get, the more I value bad examples over good ones. It’s a good thing, too, because most people are egotistical, neurotic, self-absorbed peons, insistent on wearing near-sighted glasses in a far-sighted world.

And it’s this exact sort of myopic ignorance that has led to my groundbreaking new theory. I call it Mim’s Theorem of Monkey See Monkey Don’t, and what it boils down to is this: it is my belief that there are some people whose sole purpose of existence is to show the rest of us how not to act.

"Mom, please explain to Dad the repercussions of me blow-drying my hair."

"They're unfathomable, Dad. The repercussions cannot be fathomed."

"We've tried things your way," he says, setting the bottle in front of me with a resounding thud.

I sling my JanSport over my shoulder and decide to keep quiet regarding my mom's theory on motels, and their subsequent place of prominence in my heart.

Slipping into my stained jeans, I peer into the foggy mirror and do what I can for my hair. After a few tussles it's not half-bad. The cut really took, it seems. More rakish than mod, maybe, but still...not bad.

He wraps an arm around me, and I swear we were once a single unit, a supercontinent divided millions of years ago—like my fifth-grade science project—now reunited into some kaleidoscopic New Pangaea.

His breath is robust and pleasant, how I imagine a ski lodge might smell, or a late-night jazz club.

But I’m not quite myself this morning, which is to say I’m feeling spry. Peppy. Full of morning-person stuff, and yes, even a little fluff.

I went even further, lamenting the burden of having such an imagination.

Chock-full of cutting cynicism and wit, no? Well. While I hold to this general sentiment, it’s possible I’ve underrepresented a certain demographic: Good People. There are a few out there.

My fetching photog. My heroically flawed Knight in Navy Nylon. My New Pangaea. His name is Beck, and he’s beautiful, intelligent, and kind.

Lying over the phone is hard enough, but a voice-mail lie...I don't think I have that kind of prowess in me right now.

(Stevie Wonder must be developing inflamed throat nodules.)

I pull the cell phone out of my bag and silence the ringer. "Give it up, my man. It's unrequited."

Well, how about we go back in time so you can apply the same set of scrupulous principles to basically every decision you've made in the last six months.

It comes out inadvertently, in a breath.

She's all out bawling now, rubbing her burgeoning stomach.

Kathy’s PT Cruiser rolls between them; through the passenger window, I observe the immaculate lawn, an abundant deep green, each blade trimmed with purpose and care.

Like an arrow, the driveway leads straight and true, its tip piercing the heart of an old stone mansion. Or manor, rather. A stately manor: no shutters, no gutters, simple angles.

SUNRISE MOUNTAIN REHABILITATION CENTER:

HOLISTIC CARE FOR SUBSTANCE
 ABUSE AND DEPRESSION

I cry hard.
Then harder.
Then hardest.
Behind me, Beck's voice is a salve.

“Oh yeah. That.”
“Oh. Yeah. That. Mim, that is pertinent...”

We're forced to let go of each other, as simultaneous stair-climbing is basically impossible, not at all conducive to Siamese triplets.

Sunrise Mountain Rehab slaps me in the face with its unapologetic frontier motif. Standing between a butter churn and a rodeo saddle, I'm thinking it should apologize—to me, yes, but not exclusively.

A large bust of Daniel Boone stands tall in the corner, leading an army of oil paintings like a brigadier general: a wild lynx, an impossibly gorgeous horizon, a diagram of birds in their natural habitats—each painting in impeccable formation, awaits the trumpeting charge of their courageous General Boone (sic).

But this time, there are no Carls or Arlenes or Pale Whales or Karate Kids or Fabulous Walts or Consummate Beck Van Burens to save the day.

Like a connoisseur of fine wines lost in a hack's vineyard, I have been spoiled rotten by the beauty of Beck Van Buren.

Later on, I would piece things together: Aunt Isabel was sick in the head; she came off her meds; at her doctor’s behest, she went to stay with family; she wrote letters (of serious substance and despair, I would imagine) to her doctor; and, ultimately, she decided her life wasn’t worth a damn.

There can be no question that our father blames himself, both for the suicide of his sister, as well as the ensuing shock brought upon his daughter (me, not you).

Do so with gusto, because my God, there’s nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence.

Outside, the sun is setting. Its gentle glow casts my mother in an ominous light, made even more so as it seems to affect nothing else in the room.

It's a dark wood, rife with the ornate vine etchings so popular in its day.

My reflection is a throwaway recipe of expired ingredients: gaunt, unfamiliar, worldly, homesick, aged, exhausted, to name more than a few.

I pull it off the board, ripping traces of indigo, violet, and yellow from the sanguine palette.

A montage rolls through my head, and like a curtain call, the characters of my trip take a bow.

My dearest Walt, Rubik's Cube aficionado and doer of the Dew, is sitting in the passenger seat of the beloved Uncle Phil, laughing a laugh for the ages.

On a whim, I dig around in my bag for the Abilitol, pull it out, study it.

Slowly, surely, I tip the bottle upside down, emptying the pills right there in front of the militant magnolias.