Daddy's Sweet Ride

1 CHLOE It was a rare occasion when I could even remember what it felt like to have “symptoms,” but now was one of them. You are in a grocery store, for god’s sake. Calm the f**k down, I told myself. I couldn’t help it. Finding the unexpected charges on my credit card statement that morning felt like a punch to the stomach. I knew who was responsible from the nature of the purchases, but it didn’t make the panicky sensations any better. She bought an expensive handbag, designer shoes, a Charlotte Tilbury makeup collection—all on my card without asking. I breathed faster, wondering how I would pay it all off and felt the manic moths beat their erratic, panicky wings against the inner walls of my ribs. Hoping the bushel basket displays of local Pink Lady, Ruby Frost, and Gravenstein apples would ground me, I stood still, staring at them and breathing in their sweet smells. And I freaked out as the baskets started seemingly to breathe in front of me, their thin wooden slats waving slightly as they inhaled and exhaled. “Not real. Not real.” I close my eyes tightly against what I thought I saw. My eyes opened and double-checked to see if they were still breathing or not. “Oh, s**t,” I darted away from the heaving bushels and headed past the hot, prepared foods; cheeses; and onward toward the bulk bins. Roxy was a person without a penny to her name, who also had extremely expensive tastes. She used my card to feed her spending appetite when she knew I couldn’t afford it and that was a stab in the back. I hope no one I knew saw me like this. Luckily, I went away to Stanford for my first and only psychotic break. No one here knew about me but my family. Normally, I managed my disorder well with the right medicine and regular visits to the therapist. But finding the unsuspected charges for $2000 on the credit card statement screwed with my resiliency. Not crazy. Overwhelmed. Paying the salon rent. Paying my rent and giving first and last month’s rent to Roxy. Purchasing inventory… Breathe. Was it normal to feel like this? Like I was being hunted by huge, invisible beasts of prey in the grocery store, for god’s sake? Or was it a result of my so-called illness? As soon as I saw the charges on my credit card earlier in the day, during a free moment at my salon, I knew I made a terrible mistake in paying for Roxy’s first and last for a new rental. Not only was I out $1000 for rent on the one-bedroom where I lived, plus the money to get Roxy set up in her own place, now there was an additional $2000 on my credit card. Thinking about my shaky financial situation, and that I was in it because of my sister’s greedy spending habits, had me feeling unnerved and, here was the weird part, under attack. I don’t mean metaphorically. Passing the Greek yogurt and butter, I felt like some wild animal was stalking me. I actually felt hunted, like something big and dangerous with sharp claws and flesh-piercing teeth was about to pounce on me. It would be hard for such a creature to hide inside the grocery store but try to tell my brain. She simply wouldn’t listen. It’s going to be OK, I told myself. You’ve handled worse. You can handle this easy breezy. That was the thing about dropping your basket. Once it happens, it was no use ever trying to convince yourself it wouldn’t happen again. It had been years since I learned I had bipolar disorder. The very word was insulting. Disorder, like out of order, as in cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. If you asked me, so-called sane people were crazier than so many of the people I met inside the institution. At least those on lockdown knew they needed to deal with their s**t. My therapist said I had an advantage. I knew what I was coping with, and I had good strategies for managing it. Can I even afford gummy bears? Oh, she gets her Balenciaga bag, her shmancy makeup, and her full-blown Bebe wardrobe paid for by me, and I’m sitting here asking myself whether or not I can afford gummies? I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to make her return every single thing she bought with my credit card! I marched over to my favorite section of the store: the bulk gummy bins. That’s right! I shoved piles of my favorite gummies in the plastic bag, feeling grounded by the cool, heavy metal scoop in my hand. The fried egg gummies. Oh, and the blue sharks with the white bellies. I needed some of those, too. I grabbed another bag. In between scoops, I popped a gummy in my mouth. Can’t go without the traditional standbys, and took a huge scoop of Haribo Goldbaren from Germany, nearly filling half the bag with their cute little individual serving sizes wrapped in gold plastic. She’s screwed me over in the past, but this time she’s gone too far. Chomp, chomp, chomp. I tossed a few more gummies into my mouth. Behind me a voice spoke in bass tones, “You gonna pay for those things, little girl, or do you plan on helping yourself to an all-you-can-eat gummy buffet for free?” Three things happened all at once: I squeal, barely avoiding a scream. I drop all three of my bags of gummies on the floor, and they scatter. I leap up in fright and spin around, clutching my hands to my chest and looking straight at a wall of muscle covered by a form-fitting, gray T-shirt with the logo “1967 Pontiac GTO.”OK, maybe more than three things. “Oh, cluck! I… I… I was so distracted I didn’t even realize what I was doing.” “That’s a little obvious.” His voice was so deep, it zipped up my tummy and zinged back down to my pleasure palace. So much for high anxiety. If this were the predator I felt earlier, I might actually want to get caught. Snap out of it, Chloe. “God, please don’t tell the store manager. I’ll offer to pay. I, I don’t think I ate more than a handful.” He sounded just like the beast from the Disney movie when he spoke. “I was just teasing you. I’m sure they figure in-store samples are the cost of doing business. Here, let me help you with this.” “Thanks, I’ll go get someone to help clean up this mess.” Behind me, his voice, though deep, was crisp and clear, “I see you, baby girl and I know what you’re up to. You think you can run away and hide, but it’s a small town. I’ll find you again.” I shoved my cart to the front of the store, let them know there was a cleanup in the bulk bin area, and raced out of there as fast as I could.