“Think about it!” One of the three, a good-looking, olive complexioned guy with black hair and dark eyes, points at her.
Charlie begins to walk backward away from the guys. With a giggle, she shrugs both shoulders. “We shall see.” In one bouncy jump, she turns around. Her extremely cheesy grin spreads wider as she loops her arm through mine.
I wait until we’re a bit farther from the site, closer to the front of the house, before asking, “What was that about?”
“Oh my God, did you see him? His name is Santino Ramirez. He was born in Puerto Rico, but raised in Philly. That’s why he doesn’t have the Spanish accent. Anyway, he’s twenty-seven, no kids, and fucking hot. Boom!” I shake my head as we reach her car. I’m pretty certain she learned his entire life story in the thirty minutes it took me to get ready. She unlocks the doors and we hop into her Volkswagen. As I’m sliding into the passenger seat, she adds, “And, I’ve never been with a Latino before.” Her brows wiggle. “I hear they’re…” She slams the driver side door, settles in her seat, and spreads her hands widely apart, giving me an estimated length.
“Do you think of anything else?” She’s clearly delusional. I swear Charlie should’ve been a guy. No one would ever think this tiny blonde woman would come up with half the crap that comes out her mouth. Ever.
Charlie starts the engine, snaps on her seat belt, then turns to look at me before leaving the driveway. “What do you mean?”
“Well, sex. Do you ever think of anything other than sex?”
Her facial expression says it all. It’s as if I’ve offended her. I bite back a laugh. Charlie shakes her head, presses her foot on the gas, and takes off. “Jenna, we discussed this before. Some women read for entertainment. I prefer sex.”
“You know, there are smut novels,” I say.
“Yes, but I tried reading that stuff. I just get hornier, and then I’m all over the next guy. I need to calm my whoring down to a certain extent. If not, I’ll be known as ‘the One Who Sleeps With All.’”
She doesn’t make sense half the time. I take a peek at her profile. “You do realize you’re already known as ‘the One Who Sleeps With All,’ right?”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “That was so last year. I’ve changed a lot since then.” I can’t help it. This time I burst into a hard laugh. “What?” she asks. I can’t answer through my laughing. “Oh whatever, Jenna. I can’t help it. It’s the RPD.”
RPD—also known as Rapid Pussy Disorder. The term was made up by Charlie herself. She claims that even simple things like the fine scent of a man cause her pussy to twerk in a rapid motion. Rapid Pussy Disorder. Yeah, I know. It’s stupid, but she swears it’s true.
Finally calm, I ask, “So what did he mean by ‘think about it?’”
“Who? Santino?” She makes a left and then a right at the next corner. “Oh, he gave me this.” She reaches into her purse and hands me an orange flyer.
“It’s a party,” I respond, looking over the bold letters.
YOU’RE INVITED TO THE ANNUAL
REEDS’ LAKE HOUSE SUMMER WEEKEND BASH
June 14-16
Beer. Beer. And more Beer.
Let’s Party!
“Yep. And we’re going.”
My head jerks in her direction. “What! No, we’re not going.”
“Oh, come on!” she pleads. “It’ll be fun. We’ll be together.”
“No. And don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“You deserve a double eye roll! You need to get out more.”
This is ridiculous. We don’t know any of these guys, but she wants to go to a lake house and party with them—for an entire weekend? “I get out, Charlie.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
“I’m out now, aren’t I?”
She groans. “This doesn’t count and you know it.”
With my arms crossed, I lean back in the seat and stare out the window. “Sorry, but I’m not budging on this one. No.”
She huffs one last time and pulls into the parking lot of our favorite local restaurant.
And that’s the end of that conversation.
The one person my mother tried to keep Brooke and me away from was my grandmother. She felt it was the only way we wouldn’t find out the truth—the truth of her past. But after I received my schizoaffective diagnosis, she had no choice. Ultimately, coming clean about all of the mental health history in the family was her only option.
Born and raised in Philadelphia as an only child, my mother came from nothing. She loved her father dearly. He used to work endless hours as a mechanic to support his mentally ill wife. When my mother was only ten, her mother was admitted to a psych ward and diagnosed with schizophrenia after stabbing her husband—yes, my grandmother attempted to murder my grandfather because the voices in her head told her to. After Mom was left with no mother of her own, she fought to make sure she’d never have to go through the turmoil of her childhood ever again. She vowed to stay away from anything that remotely reminded her of her mother’s illness.
Until me, that is. Until I inherited the fucking crazy gene. Mom didn’t have to say it; the expression on her face every time she looked at me explained it all. Her every glance was filled with disgust, hurt, and disapproval. She tried to change after Brooke was gone, desperate to build a relationship with me, but by that time it was too late. I didn’t need her. I needed Brooke.
Three months before Brooke’s death, we went in search of our grandmother. Mom refused to give us any information as to which facility she was housed in. Brooke researched endless hours until we found her. She did it more for me than for herself. Brooke knew how difficult it was for me to go through this alone. Yes, I had her by my side every step of the way, but no one truly understood the demons that I fought in my head: Every. Single. Day. I needed answers. The only way we felt we could find them was by finding her.
But even after my first visit with my grandmother over ten months ago, I didn’t find answers. I still haven’t. Every time I come here, I hope to leave with some type of reason as to why I am the way I am, but I leave just as confused as I entered. My grandmother lives at The Brandy Mental Health Facility. It houses people with mental disorders who are incapable of taking care of themselves, or are a threat to themselves or those around them. Instead of stopping my visits after Brooke passed, something compelled me to keep coming on my own. Knowing that I’m no different than her, facing the harsh reality that she is, in fact, all alone in here frightens me.