18. The Fog
Michael felt like he had no strength in his body. His brain wasn’t allowing his arms or legs to work. He was gripped, smothered, covered in sadness and exhaustion. It felt so unfair, he had just days earlier been on the very precipice of happiness. He had found himself in the company of a nice girl, and had somehow allowed the residual guilt of having kissed her wash away. He was no more taking advantage of her than if had he remembered the lottery numbers from this year and used them to his advantage.
The talk he had given to his school mates gave him a sense of accomplishment, and in his own misguided manner, made him feel like he had achieved something for the feminist cause. Many of those boys were thinking entirely incorrectly about women. If feminism was equality among the sexes, his advice would hopefully put everyone on an even keel. If that wasn’t equality, what was?
The small victories, the stress-free existence that was the life of an adult mind in a child’s body, the assurance of knowing that things got better, that life was going to improve, that things would get easier and that the money would flow freely with the right courses of action… there was little in Michael’s world to worry about. His mother would eventually die, but he was, or had been, at peace with that fact.
Then he woke up, and was crippled by a deep, unending void of depression.
It was a pain and sadness like he had never felt. Not when his wife left him, not when Sylvia died. It was new to him, and was brutal. The weight and sheer intellectual heft of his role in this new world crashed upon him, and he felt admonished, ashamed, guilt-ridden and beaten. Was he being punished? Was he being observed and controlled? And if so, then by whom?
Everything he was experiencing, everything he was, felt beyond his control. He was lost, helpless, and indescribably, unrelentingly sad.
Once Clive and Sylvia realised that he wasn’t faking a cold to stay home from school, that in the absence of physical symptoms, there was solely the look of anguish and deep emptiness in his eyes that they knew they had a problem on their hands that no dose of chicken soup would be able to remedy.
Clive drove Sophie to school. Sylvia stayed home and sat by his bedside. She tried to talk to him, but Michael had not even the first clue how to articulate that which was gripping him. He tried to explain that it felt like there was a weight, a viscous liquid weight behind his eyes that was pulling his head closer to his pillow, that thinking hurt, that he felt hopeless, helpless, and lost.
Furrow-browed, Sylvia rang and made an appointment with their GP. It took every part of his energy to shower and dress. He looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time since he landed in 1987, he saw the eyes of a broken, depressed middle aged man looking back at him. For a fleeting, ironic moment, he felt a semblance of self again.
A brief appointment with their local GP led that family practitioner to refer them to a child psychologist. The first appointment was made for a few weeks hence, and with a stop-gap measure of a Percodan prescription, Michael was able to function at the most basic level. He was able to dress in the mornings, catch his train, attend his classes, and go home. He was given a temporary reprieve from his duties in the debate squad, but since the finals were not for some time, they did not suffer as a result. For those weeks leading up to, and then immediately after his psych appointment, he merely existed. He wandered from one encounter to the next, and participated without passion, conviction or emotion. He was existing, functioning more out of habit than anything else, and with his senses dulled by his medication, he hadn’t the energy or inclination to even contemplate ending his life. He was, for the most part, just there.
Referral begat referral, and each time each of these eminently qualified men and women tried to get to the bottom of his mental state, and since he hadn’t any capacity to explain the truth about where he was, or what his insights have availed of him, they were as stumped as each other. He was prescribed uppers and downers; his therapy was cognitive, behavioural, Gestalt. Upon being shown Rorschach blots, the thought occurred to him to describe them as being entirely gynaecentric, just for the sake of amusing himself, but between his thought of mischief and the words escaping his mouth, all he could summon up was ‘butterfly, butterfly, spaghetti…’
He returned from an appointment, and so that his spirits might be lifted by junk food, Sylvia nicked off to get them fish ‘n’ chips for dinner. Michael shrugged a resigned acceptance of the idea as Sylvia left the house, quietly crying.
Forgetting where he was, a primal, adult instinct, and the product of an addictive personality in him led his hands to grasp a crystal decanter of Scotch. He poured himself three fingers and downed it in one shot. The sensation was as new as it had ever been; for a split second it registered a familiarity and comfort he had longed for. It was short lived, however, as the heady rush hit him like a thunderbolt, and the 80-proof liquor was an unwanted invader on his innocent, juvenile stomach and liver.
A sharp, bitter, foul-smelling sour mash of Scotch, apple, potato chip and ham sandwich vomit covered his shoes and the carpet besides them. That stain would never quite come out.
*
Michael Curtin’s school days became a blur of the inconsequential. He was a fly on the wall of his own existence, powering through his work with no conviction or substance. His mentor Mr Sutton made the suggestion that given his dramatic slip in temper, he was perhaps being unchallenged in the lower years; that perhaps they had better remedy what had not been remedied anywhere near enough and promote him up a year level or two.
‘He’s clearly gifted beyond his years. His academic abilities would suggest he’s ready for university now, not just next year. Put him in Sixth Year.’
He was speaking at a faculty meeting, hastily called to address the ongoing concern that was Michael Curtin. All and sundry were concerned for his wellbeing, except Leonard Gunn, who was quietly relishing in the little shit’s demise.
‘It’s never been done before,’ said the meeting’s chair, Mr McAllister. We’ve never moved a student up through the years that quickly. I mean, admittedly he’s in a B-string class and we could immediately move him up to one of the A-strings. That should have been done long ago.’
‘This isn’t about how well he can handle First Year work,’ Mr Sutton offered. ‘He’s beyond that. And it’s obviously boring him to his very core. The results are obvious.’
‘What are you saying, Andrew?’ asked Gunn.
‘I’m saying he’s depressed because he’s so bored. He’s smarter than most of us here, and imagine how bored you’d be if you had to go day-in, day-out in First Year with that kind of intelligence under your hat.’
‘Poppycock. He’s no smarter than any of us. Just a precocious brat who’s been overindulged by his parents and now it’s come back to haunt them. I think he’s been too proud and now it’s the fall. He’s been done in by his own hubris.’
‘Horseshit, Leonard,’ interjected McAllister.
Gunn went bright red.
‘The boy’s obviously a genius and even you will have to come to terms with that fact at some point. Nobody his age speaks, thinks and articulates themselves like that. I don’t know if he’s got more in the tank than the rest of us here, but if this is what he’s capable of at … what, 13? 12? I’ll bet you any figure in the world that if he keeps it up we’ll all be working for him one day. Everyone will.’
Gunn thumped the table and stood up.
‘I’m having none of this. You want to coddle that brat, then fine. But I won’t be a part of it. I’ve got too much pride to kowtow to that wretched little bastard.’
He stormed out the room as best as old men with bad knees can storm, and the rest of the afternoon’s business continued.
‘I’ll speak with the Head. He may have to put this to council, as there’s only a few months left before the mock HSCs begin. If he is the genius that we say, then it shouldn’t be a problem. If it’s too much, or it doesn’t help, then we’ll revisit this again soon.’
Sutton smiled. It was a start.
Michael wasn’t privy to any of it, and he wouldn’t have cared either way. He was, the next day, waiting outside Mr Sutton’s office for one of their get-togethers, a kind of check-up to ensure the pastoral care aspect of the Wellings dynamic was holding its own. Sutton was keyed in to how things were progressing, and the lack of success. Michael sat outside his office waiting, staring at the brick wall in front of him, imagining small Formula-One cars driving around the geometrically precise lines of mortar between the bricks. The cars would need to be minute, and probably piloted by spiders. All of whom would be wearing tiny little helmets.
These meds are pretty awesome, I have to admit.
The door opened and a smiling Andrew Sutton invited his protégé in. He shuffled his way in and the door closed.
‘How are you today, Mike?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘Things at home good?’
‘Mum’s a bit worried still. Not sure Dad knows how to cope with this kind of stuff. He’s from a different time, when people didn’t get mental illness. Not in his suburb at least. You ever got yourself a little funny in the head you drank. Good Irish stock, us.’
Sutton was cautiously amused by the comment.
‘You ever tried drinking? You are a bit young for it.’
Michael had no filter by this stage.
‘I tried three fingers of decanted Glenfiddich the other day. Probably should have had it with soda, as I ended up ralphing all over the living room carpet.’
Sutton looked concerned.
‘You drank Scotch?’
‘I did, but it was one of those ‘lessons learned the hard way’-type of things. Never again. And I mean that. Any more carry on of that sort and I’ll end up getting a bad reputation.’
Sutton smiled. ‘Well, it’s good to see you with some of the old Michael Curtin coming through. I’ve been told you’ve been speaking to some people?’
Michael nodded.
‘Revolving door of local amateur shrinks have been throwing darts at my noggin, trying to figure me out. Got me on some pills, I swear I see colours when I head music lately. What do they call that?’
‘Call what?’
‘When you hear music and see colours.’
‘Synaesthesia.’
‘Yeah. Not sure if these are anti-depressants or LSD.’
His mentor shook his head. This kid, I swear.
‘I was contacted, or at least the school was by someone who is interested in talking to you.’
Michael fidgeted with a hangnail on his right hand.
‘Uh huh.’
‘Now, I know that you’re probably sick of talking about it, but he’s apparently been a fan of yours for some time. Has seen you debate, read about you in the papers, and when I spoke to him about you he seemed very interested in speaking with you.’
‘Really. Old perv?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. He’s actually a leading scientist. Has multiple degrees in psychology, physics, astrophysics. He’s highly accomplished.’
Michael was unmoved. Just another bored academic looking for a subject for their next dissertation, which nobody would read.
‘OK.’
‘His name is Dr Henry Weaver, he practices out of his home, but he lives in Windsor, so it’ll be a bit of a drive for you and your parents if you go see him. I can call your parents to let them know the details if you like.’
‘Fine.’
‘OK. We really want you to be better, Michael. All of us here.’
Michael looked up at Sutton.
‘All of you?’