Mad Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

work in progress. I searched the filing cabinet, the desk drawers, every inch of the apartment. During the last few years my mother hadn’t been writing because she’d been taking a “much-needed” break. After all, Belinda Amorous had written thirty novels. She deserved a vacation. That’s what she told me. But I didn’t know she was supposed to be writing.
    No manuscript. No story outline. Nothing.
    Here’s the problem. We didn’t have one hundred thousand dollars to return to the publisher. Nor could we afford to have my mother’s royalty checks withheld. That’s what we lived on. Harmony Hospital cost a small fortune and my mother had no mental health insurance. Unless a magical beanstalk grew outside our window, I wouldn’t be able to pay the hospital bills, and Mom would get shipped to a state mental hospital. The kind of place, I imagined, that you see in those old movies, where patients wear thin cotton nightgowns and bang their heads against the walls.
    I flicked open my phone and pressed the first number in the contact list. “Hello, this is Alice Amorous. May I please speak to Dr. Diesel?” Generic music drifted through the speaker, wordless but rhythmic, something you’d hear on a movie sound track during a suspenseful moment. The music fit perfectly as I clutched the phone, my heart pounding with expectation. One minute. Two. “Dr. Diesel?”
    “Hello, Alice. What can I do for you?” His voice always sounded hesitant, as if holding back bad news.
    “Is she any better?”
    Long pause. “No.”
    “What about the new medication?”
    “We started it this morning. Any improvements should appear in a week or two.”
    “A week or two?” I slumped over the desk.
    “This drug has shown remarkable potential in Swedish studies. I’m very hopeful about this one. Try to be hopeful, Alice.”
    “I’m trying.” Tears filled my lower lids, turning the room into a watercolored haze. “I’m trying.”
    “Good. We’ll see you tomorrow?”
    “Yes.” I closed the phone. Then I crumpled the letter, and threw myself onto the couch.
    Honestly, a sumo wrestler could have sat on my chest at that very moment and it wouldn’t have felt any worse than the suffocating panic that pressed me to that couch. Things weren’t supposed to work this way. I was supposed to be swimming in Lake Washington with my old friends and making plans for my junior year at Welmer Academy. I’d be school newspaper editor by now. I’d have a solo in choir and maybe even a boyfriend. Why me ? repeated over and over in my head. I even whispered it. “Why me?” But hearing those words drift from my mouth made me feel even worse. Because the things I missed, the aches I felt, were nothing compared to my mother’s nightmare.
    If Mom had been diagnosed with cancer, or if she’d suffered a stroke, or even had a plastic surgery disaster, there’d be no shame. There’d be no hiding. People would race to help. The publisher would understand. But no one writes get well cards for mental illness.
    Sorry to hear about the schizophrenia. Hope those voices go away soon.
    Sorry to hear you’ve got multiple personality disorder. Hope all of you start feeling better.
    Sorry to hear about your catatonic depression. Try to keep your sunny side up .
    I rolled onto my side and stared at the bookcase that lined our living room wall—filled with my mom’s books. I’d read them all. As much as I’d been brought up on chocolate milk and peanut butter sandwiches, I’d been brought up on those love stories. There were times, too many times, when the only way I could feel close to my mother was to read one of her books, knowing she could always be found within the pages.
    The air conditioner hummed its steady rhythm. Cars passed by the living room window. Out on the curb someone hollered for a taxi. I closed my eyes.
    Try to be hopeful, Alice.
    My thoughts drifted to the antiquities shop, to the scent of cinnamon and the sound of the flute. I