Brain Sad
Chapter Three
“What do you want to drink, baby girl?” Harper’s mum, Lois, peered over the menu at her daughter.
“Black coffee,” Harper replied.
“Black coffee? But you always get chai…”
“Well then why did you ask? Besides, black coffee mirrors my mood.” She pulled the best brooding teenager face she could, but is dispersed quickly as she noticed her mother wasn’t in the least amused by her angst impression.
“Chai it is then,” Lois said, and placed the menu upon the table.
The silence ate away at Harper, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what she should fill it with. She and Lois had always been close, but after being diagnosed with Depression, it was as if their list of conversational topics had dwindled down to two choices: discussing Harper’s treatment schedule or discussing Harper’s physical and emotional health.
As if on cue, Lois asked her daughter how she was feeling. Harper replied with a dramatic, drawn out sigh.
“What?” Lois asked defensively.
“Mum, seriously, I love you and I know you care about me and you’re worried and you’re counting every precious second that I’m alive in your head, but isn’t there something else we can talk about?” Harper felt guilty as the words left her mouth, but she knew they needed to be said
.
Lois’s face adopted an expression which can only be described to be as cliché as a wounded puppy.
“Christ, Mum. Don’t look at me like that.” Harper looked down at her chipped nail polished fingers.
“I’m sorry,” her mother replied, her voice going soft and mousey.
Harper flinched a little at the fact her mum felt guilty for everything and anything revolving around her and attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So why did we come here to celebrate me finally being able to leave the hospital after three months? Shouldn’t we be cracking open a bottle of red or something?” Harper nudged her mum’s feet under the table playfully.
Lois tried to maintain her expression, but failed as a small smile crept to her rosy lips. Harper smiled back and they sat in silence again, but this one was comfortable.
The café was particularly busy this Sunday afternoon, which wasn’t surprising as the foreboding clouds of winter settled overhead outside and a violent wind rattled the panes of the French windows. Harper watched as people chatted over their coffees and waitresses deftly dodged customers to reach their assigned table. She liked this hectic atmosphere as it made her feel like she wasn’t the centre attention for a moment. Nobody glanced at her with pity. Nobody tiptoed around her. Nobody made a fuss.
Eventually, their waitress approached their table, a chamomile tea in one hand, a chai latte in the other. Harper wrapped her fingers around her mug and decided to ask her mother the question that had being playing across her mind since she was diagnosed.
“When will we plan the funeral?”
Her mother’s eyes darted up from her mug and stared at her daughter in hurt disbelief before her mouth opened to speak. “What have I told you about using the F-Bomb?!” she whispered harshly.
Harper rolled her eyes and raised her mug to her lips. The ‘F-Bomb’ was just another euphemism her mother used to avoid the reality. She sipped her chai, the sweet cinnamon turning bitter on her tongue. Then she felt It.
Harper looked at her mum with panic stricken eyes. The chai was swept off the table as her arm flung outwards, gripped by a forceful muscle spasm. She felt herself become trapped within the tight grip of the illness as her chair toppled backwards and she landed with a thud, her head cracking against the hard wooden floorboards. It began to consume her. The tremors ran through her body, but she could do nothing as her brain’s control of her nervous system began to slip. She heard her mother scream for someone to call triple zero as she gripped her daughter’s head between her knees to prevent her from hitting it again.
And in what could have been no more than eight seconds, the wall of normality Harper had tenderly built around herself was shattered, the normal becoming no more than fading debris around her convulsing body.
Everybody glanced at her with pity. Everybody tiptoed around her. Everybody made a fucking fuss.
“Black coffee,” Harper replied.
“Black coffee? But you always get chai…”
“Well then why did you ask? Besides, black coffee mirrors my mood.” She pulled the best brooding teenager face she could, but is dispersed quickly as she noticed her mother wasn’t in the least amused by her angst impression.
“Chai it is then,” Lois said, and placed the menu upon the table.
The silence ate away at Harper, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what she should fill it with. She and Lois had always been close, but after being diagnosed with Depression, it was as if their list of conversational topics had dwindled down to two choices: discussing Harper’s treatment schedule or discussing Harper’s physical and emotional health.
As if on cue, Lois asked her daughter how she was feeling. Harper replied with a dramatic, drawn out sigh.
“What?” Lois asked defensively.
“Mum, seriously, I love you and I know you care about me and you’re worried and you’re counting every precious second that I’m alive in your head, but isn’t there something else we can talk about?” Harper felt guilty as the words left her mouth, but she knew they needed to be said
.
Lois’s face adopted an expression which can only be described to be as cliché as a wounded puppy.
“Christ, Mum. Don’t look at me like that.” Harper looked down at her chipped nail polished fingers.
“I’m sorry,” her mother replied, her voice going soft and mousey.
Harper flinched a little at the fact her mum felt guilty for everything and anything revolving around her and attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So why did we come here to celebrate me finally being able to leave the hospital after three months? Shouldn’t we be cracking open a bottle of red or something?” Harper nudged her mum’s feet under the table playfully.
Lois tried to maintain her expression, but failed as a small smile crept to her rosy lips. Harper smiled back and they sat in silence again, but this one was comfortable.
The café was particularly busy this Sunday afternoon, which wasn’t surprising as the foreboding clouds of winter settled overhead outside and a violent wind rattled the panes of the French windows. Harper watched as people chatted over their coffees and waitresses deftly dodged customers to reach their assigned table. She liked this hectic atmosphere as it made her feel like she wasn’t the centre attention for a moment. Nobody glanced at her with pity. Nobody tiptoed around her. Nobody made a fuss.
Eventually, their waitress approached their table, a chamomile tea in one hand, a chai latte in the other. Harper wrapped her fingers around her mug and decided to ask her mother the question that had being playing across her mind since she was diagnosed.
“When will we plan the funeral?”
Her mother’s eyes darted up from her mug and stared at her daughter in hurt disbelief before her mouth opened to speak. “What have I told you about using the F-Bomb?!” she whispered harshly.
Harper rolled her eyes and raised her mug to her lips. The ‘F-Bomb’ was just another euphemism her mother used to avoid the reality. She sipped her chai, the sweet cinnamon turning bitter on her tongue. Then she felt It.
Harper looked at her mum with panic stricken eyes. The chai was swept off the table as her arm flung outwards, gripped by a forceful muscle spasm. She felt herself become trapped within the tight grip of the illness as her chair toppled backwards and she landed with a thud, her head cracking against the hard wooden floorboards. It began to consume her. The tremors ran through her body, but she could do nothing as her brain’s control of her nervous system began to slip. She heard her mother scream for someone to call triple zero as she gripped her daughter’s head between her knees to prevent her from hitting it again.
And in what could have been no more than eight seconds, the wall of normality Harper had tenderly built around herself was shattered, the normal becoming no more than fading debris around her convulsing body.
Everybody glanced at her with pity. Everybody tiptoed around her. Everybody made a fucking fuss.