Mangoes

Chapter 5

I dream about the mango flies, but this time, something’s different. I’m not horrified. This time, I feel love for them. I love them like they are my own flesh and blood. In a way, they are. I am their mother, their host, a vessel for their creation. Isn't that what motherhood is? To give your body so completely to someone who will consume you until there’s nothing left? I would give my body, my very being for the mango flies. I dream of more bumps clustered across my body, a  honeycomb of flies-to-be embedded in my epidermis, seeping with pus and scabbed over, bright red and hot to the touch. I see this matrix of larvae spreading across my body, again enveloping my chest, my abdomen, my arms, back, and legs, until I am more insect than person. I exist only to sustain them: only as a place for their refuge until they decide they've taken enough of me. Then, they'll crawl themselves out, tearing skin from skin once they're done with me. They'll fly away, developed enough to be apart from the one who gave them life; inhuman enough to leave, then start the process over again. And what will I be? Riddled. Buckshot-skinned and traumatized. I sleep through the night and miss dinner. 

The next two days pass at a glacial pace. Ruby and I watch more HeadScratcher. I find myself enraptured by the show. With each passing episode I grow more and more invested. I try to journal some more, but all I can write about is HeadScratcher. I make diagrams of the four podiums, the eight buttons, and the pot. Arrows loop across the page, one for each button press, nodes for each transfer of money. If I can find a consistent way to represent the game, then the rules should make themselves evident. There’s always structure to these sorts of systems, even chaotic or seemingly random ones. Nothing escapes mathematical analysis.

After I tell her that my episode was brought on by a psychedelic and that I am not really suicidal, the psychiatrist clears me to leave. She scolds me, telling me never to take psychedelics again. With my history of psychosis, who knows what could happen? Doctors told me the same thing about weed years ago, before I quit. This time, the doctor’s words roll off me like water from a tile roof. I won’t do psychedelics again. I don’t need her to tell me that. 

Mom picks me up this time. We ride home, listening to the radio play a pop song I swear I’ve heard before. I tell her about my breakup with Luke. She says he was a nice boy, but he wasn’t right for me. We go to her place instead of mine this time. It’s an hour or so from the hospital. She’s going to take a week off work to look after me.  I don’t object. At home, I find that my old room has been cleared of its usual clutter. Mom has used it as storage ever since I moved out. Now, the bed is made up with my childhood sheets. I haven’t seen them in more than a decade. She must have pulled them from storage. On my bed is a manila folder. My deadname has been crossed out vigorously, leaving a black blob of sharpie in the top corner. Still, I can see the impressions of the censored letters. Beneath are the words “Bee’s art, 2010.” I place the paper bag with my belongings on the floor and pick up the folder. I sit on the bed and flip through the papers inside. One is a watercolor painting of a landscape where I labeled each geographical feature: isthmus, plateau, peninsula, delta. Another sheet has a crude pencil drawing of a cartoon character I no longer recognize. My vision goes blurry as my eyes fill with tears.

“I found that in the basement,” Mom says. I look up to see her standing in my doorway. “I thought you might like to see it.” She sits down on the bed next to me and browses the pages, then picks one out, handing it to me. I recognize this one. It was the first charcoal piece I ever did, completed as an assignment for a middle school art class. I remember that even when my teacher said I was finished, I didn’t want to brush on the rubber cement sealant. Each time I was about to seal it, I saw another flaw. I would pick up the charcoal again and scribble madly on the paper until I was satisfied. I never turned it in. I never brushed on the rubber cement. Now, it’s a messy greyscale blob. I can’t even picture what the original looked like. What’s left is too corrupted by time and friction. Mom’s fingers smudge the edges where she’s holding it.

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, wiping tears on my shirt.

“It’s my favorite one. It’s very abstract. I thought you might like to see.” She flips it over to show a sticky note. A message is scrawled on it.

Great work [deadname]. Excellent composition and use of value. Keep it up! 90/100, late. - Ms. Song

“When did she grade this?” I ask.

“I gave it to her during the last week of school, right before final grades were due. You would have failed the class if I hadn’t.” She pauses to take my hand. “She liked you a lot, you know.”

It’s true, she really did like me. I would spend my lunch periods in her room, drawing or chatting with her. I washed brushes and cleaned up paint spills. It was a good time. We’re friends on Facebook now. She sent me a message after I made my coming out post, congratulating me. I like her posts on occasion. I miss her.

Mom places the paper back into the folder and hugs me so tight that I forget why I was crying in the first place.

***

I scroll through work emails as Mom watches an episode of HeadScratcher that I’ve already seen. She’s folding laundry–my old boy clothes that still fit. I’ve compiled my game diagrams into a notebook. I have it open next to me as I write a message to my advisor. I tell him that I’ve been in the hospital. I offer to provide documentation even though I know he wouldn’t ask for it. I’ve already scrubbed the sensitive information from the PDFs. Deadname, reason for stay, “behavioral health center,” diagnosis: schizophrenia. 

Between the end of the HeadScratcher episode and the start of the commercial break, the host of the show appears on an empty set. He’s still wearing his tacky three-piece. He smiles wide and begins, “I am thrilled to announce that, thanks to the support from all our loyal fans, HeadScratcher has been renewed for a second season! But we need your help: contestants don’t grow on trees! If you’re a scientist and a fan of our show, send in an application to be considered!” The screen abruptly cuts to black and a website URL appears. I type it into my browser and hit enter. I’m taken to a page resembling an early 2000s Geocities site. It’s barren except for a form with different fields to fill in: name, location, field of study, latest publication. I don’t know whether they need my legal name, but I opt to put “Bee.” I list my field as “mathematics: combinatorics,” and my latest paper as an article on graph theory. I press submit, surprised that they asked for so little information. I crack my knuckles, then vigorously flap my hands, releasing the excitement that’s been building in my body.  I pick up my phone and send a text to Mason. 

lets hang out at the park tomorrow

I get a response before I can lock my phone.

yeah. 2 work for you?

I react with a thumbs up and stuff my phone in my pocket.

In bed, I flip through a handful of books from my childhood bookshelf. I decide to settle in and read an old favorite, one about a girl who discovers a secret society in her town that is trying to bring about the apocalypse. The pages are ripped and dog-eared in the spots I reread the most. It’s a paperback, and the spine is transected by white cracks. I flip to a spot in the middle of the book and begin to read. The protagonist, Emmy, is gathering evidence onto a corkboard in her room. She pins photos she’s taken with a polaroid, connecting them with string and scribbling notes in a journal. I admire her obsession–her single-mindedness in the search for the truth. My eyelids drift toward each other and I lay the book on my chest. Before long, I’m asleep.