Heartsick

Chapter 4

After the hospital trip, Mandy lies on her bed eating Krizzles, this saccharin-y fruit candy, not caring that the little cardboard boxes litter her comforter. Purple emanating from the cardboard boxes, purple glistening from her eyes.

"You okay?" I ask her, and sit on the foot of her bed.

She fishes a few more Krizzles out of a box and deposits them in her mouth. Krizzles are Zachary's thing. ("Krizzles are fruit flavored." Why yes, Zachary, they are.) He eats them as he cooks, or watches science documentaries, or lies around our couch reviewing his research notes.

"Yeah, I guess I'll be okay," she says. "I've eaten enough Krizzles I'll have a sugar rush soon and want to clean the whole house."

I scoot back on her bed, leaning against the wall and hugging my knees. "That's not a horrible idea. I can get you Pixy Stix and then we can really have some fun."

She throws the conquered candy box against the wall so it can bounce into her wastebasket. She puts her hands on her head like she's pulling back her hair, but the hands don't pull, they just stay near her temples as she looks at the ceiling.

"I hate this."

Tears swell against the bright-red lining of her lavender eyes. She shifts up. "Quinn, you know how I don't like it when things happen to me."

I've heard this often.

One time freshmen year we were grocery shopping-okay, we were buying beer with her fake ID and I was responsible for the chips and salsa and other snacks. Anyway, Mandy started acting forceful, weird. She wouldn't let me make any decisions. I was feeling pretty mellow and didn't want to get into a spitfire fight next to a bunch of fresh mangos, so I let it go. But when we got back to the dorm kitchen, as I sliced the mango for her (a peace offering), I oh-so-gently inquired, "What the fuck was that shit about?"

She had sighed and rolled her shoulders but finally explained that she had seen a woman who looked like her mom. Not in coloring or features, but in mannerisms and aura. The woman had this long list, typed, and she kept picking up a pack of hotdogs, looking at it, then moving back, picking it up again, hesitating as she looked at the list, then the label. The list. The label. The list. The label.

"So, she's got a touch of OCD," I said, shrugging.

"No," Mandy said. "It's not OCD."

Mandy never wants to end up like that woman, or like her mom. And one way to not end up that way is by doing things instead of having things done to you. Things don't happen to Mandy; Mandy makes things happen.

But this mysterious purple eye condition doesn't seem to have a whole lot of respect for Mandy's life philosophy.

"Well," I say, knowing what might work to rustle Mandy out of this funk. "Let's see what Wisey has to say about all this." I stand on her bed and get the stuffed owl, her childhood toy, from its revered spot on the top corner of her shelf. My stuffed cat, Churchill, still resides on my bed. I like that Mandy wasn't too grown up to bring her lovey to college. But she is too grown up to let it serve its original function. Comfort.

I flap Wisey's wings and begin my best owl impression. I've pulled this out before. It's very lame, but it usually works. "Whoooo knows better than yoooou what is happening? Whooo has gorgeous lavender eyes? Whooo has an awesome best friend? Whooo should stop pouting and go out tonight?"

"It's me, it's me." Mandy says her requisite response, but it's dry. Her bleary eyes focus on the ceiling.

I flop back on the bed and plop Wisey into my lap.