Normal

By Charise Jewell

Have you ever had a big problem? These kids have big problems. Sam's mom has bipolar disorder. Sam feels helpless and overwhelmed. Oliver's grandmother just died. She was his best friend and the only person who understood his anxiety. Margaret is a dancer with an eating disorder. Joel sees strange things he can't explain. His new psychiatrist says he has a mental illness. Sam, Oliver, Margaret, and Joel just want to feel loved and accepted. They just want to feel normal. But the more time passes, the worse things get. Will life always be this hard?

Genre: Fiction, Middle Grade, Contemporary, Realistic Fiction

 

Paperback edition first published 2023 with the same title.

This eBook edition published 2024.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charise Jewell
• Release date: May 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738370948

Charise Jewell

A voracious reader and aspiring writer since childhood, Charise Jewell was born in Germiston, South Africa and immigrated to Canada when she was seven years old. She holds an Honours B.Eng. in mechanical engineering from McGill University and worked as a robotics engineer for fifteen years before becoming a writer. She proudly lives with bipolar disorder and educates for the fair and dignified treatment of the mentally ill. Charise lives in Toronto with her husband and three children. Visit her at charisejewell.com.

Book preview

PART ONE: Sam

May – August

1. Home From the Hospital

My mom’s coming home and I can’t wait to see her. Two weeks ago she went crazy and my dad took her to the hospital. I’m not supposed to call it that—crazy—but I don’t know why. That’s what she was. She couldn’t sleep so she stayed awake all the time, cleaning and painting through the night while the rest of us slept. At first it was fun—she wanted to play with us and kept braiding my hair—but then it turned bad. By the time Dad checked her into the hospital she was talking all the time. Like, ALL the time. And superfast, so nobody could understand her. It was kind of funny, but not really. She kept getting angry and wouldn’t listen to anyone, and sometimes she cried for no reason. That was the not fun part. It made me scared when she was like that. Not scared of her, but scared be­cause she was a different person. She wasn’t my mom. Before the hospital I sometimes heard her in the night listening to mu­sic, even though she played it really soft. I wanted to get out of bed and sit with her but I didn’t want to get in trouble, because I was supposed to be asleep. I just wanted her to hug me and tell me everything was okay, even though I knew it wasn’t.

Sam, have you finished the sign?

I jump in my seat, startled by the interruption, and turn to see my grandmother standing behind me. She’s been staying with us since Mama went away, to help out. I guess four kids are a lot for just Dad. I’m glad she’s here. She’s, like, a nicer version of Mama. I’d still rather have Mama though, even if she does make us finish our vegetables.

Bibi, you scared me, I say. I didn’t hear you. Her slippers must make her extra stealthy. I hope she won’t slip on our hard­wood floors, especially going down the stairs. I never used to worry about those kinds of things but now they’re all I think about. Accidents. Disasters.

Bibi places a hand on my shoulder as she leans to inspect my poster.

Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to sneak up. That looks won­derful!

We both admire my poster: markers and glitter bubble let­ters that read, Welcome home Mama! I drew hearts and hap­py faces, and even our little stick figure family holding flowers and balloons. Looking at it now with Bibi, I’m not sure how to feel. It looks kind of childish. I hope she likes it. I miss her.

You can take it, I say, pushing my chair out to push Bibi away. Before I stand up, the twins run into the dining room, chasing each other around the table. They are so loud some­times.

Ooh, what’s that? Juliana asks. Both girls stop running to admire the glitter.

It’s so shiny! Susie says. They lean over the table together in one smooth motion, as though only one brain controls both of their movements. They’re not identical twins but sometimes it seems like they can read each other’s minds.

Sam made it for Mama, Bibi says. She smiles at me and starts to rub one hand up and down my back. I love my grand­mother but right now her touch gives me shivers. Not good.

Nice!

I love it!

Is that me? Susie points to her stick figure image, which is obviously her because I glued on cut-out faces from real pho­tos. Even if hadn’t, I drew her wearing her favourite dress—red with purple polka dots—and holding her favourite stuffie—a white unicorn with a light purple horn.

Of course, dummy, Juliana says. I’m holding Dolly! And Mark’s got his phone.

Our older brother doesn’t like stuffies anymore but he rarely goes anywhere without his phone, even inside the house.

What’s Baba holding? Juliana asks.

Susie leans in for a closer look, squinting her eyes like it’s hard to tell what I’ve drawn in Dad’s hands. Idiot.

Flowers, she says. Who’s the dummy now, Jules?

You!

Juliana starts to laugh, like she just made the best joke ever, and after a moment to absorb this, Susie joins in. Then she stops and looks at me.

You should have added poop emojis, she says.

Ooh, yes, Sam. Mama would love that. You still can, Ju­liana says. We have stickers.

Can you two settle down? I say. For once? Don’t they care about the reason I had to make this dumb poster? Mama would not love poop emojis.

Uh-oh, sounds like Sam’s menstruating.

They start howling together. Since I turned eleven, my little sisters think it’s hilarious to taunt me about my period, mostly because they know it hasn’t started yet. I wish Mama hadn’t ex­plained puberty to them when she was talking to me. I wish a lot of things.

Shut up, I say. I feel Bibi’s hand freeze near my shoulder and then she pulls me back towards her for a half-hug.

Okay, girls, that’s enough, Bibi says. Let’s finish decorat­ing before they arrive.

They just pulled into the driveway. Mark saunters into the room so calmly that it adds to my irritation.

What? Bibi’s eyes bulge. They did? Quick, let’s finish up!

I watch everyone hustle to hang the last of the balloons. The twins spend more time playing Keep Up than hanging them, but Bibi already hung a lot, so it doesn’t matter. She props my poster against a chair near the front door and then walks quickly to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a crystal vase overflowing with red and yellow tulips. Bibi cen­tres it on the dining room table and doesn’t notice the water that splashes out onto the wooden surface. Mama won’t like that—water on wood drives her crazy—but for some reason I can’t find my voice to tell Bibi. I stare at the droplets even while I hear the key turn in the lock and the commotion from the foyer.

Welcome home! The chorus of voices cry out. Bibi is louder and more high-pitched than anybody else.

Mommy! I know without looking that Juliana and Susie both yelled this in unison as they ran forward to wrap their arms around Mom.

We’re happy you’re home, Mark says. This startles me enough to turn, because Mark never expresses any emotion ex­cept frustration when one of the girls hides his phone. I’m even more startled to discover that Mark has leaned in for a group hug, on top of the twins. Mark never hugs. The embrace only lasts a moment before he moves aside, and it is so uncharacter­istic and ends so quickly that I have to wonder if I imagined it. Dad said one of the symptoms of Mama’s illness is that she has delusions. I’m not exactly sure what those are but I wonder if I have them too. I don’t want to think about that.

I’m happy to be home, Mama says slowly. She doesn’t look happy. She’s barely smiling. How could she be happy any­way? She’s just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Most people are diagnosed in their twenties but Mama turned forty last year. She’s kind of unique, I guess, but not in a good way. Black people with bipolar don’t always receive proper treat­ment and are more likely to be imprisoned during an episode. I’ve been Googling. It’s scary. We already get sidelong glances from some of our neighbours, and a few still cross the street when we walk down the sidewalk. How are they going to treat Mama now?

Okay, kids, let us come in, Dad says. The girls drop their arms and step back to make space, but Mama walks slowly, like a little bird. She looks frail and weak. We’ve seen her almost every day for the past two weeks, first in the hospital and then she started coming home on day passes, so I’m surprised by how much her appearance has changed. She was just here yes­terday. I want to hug her, but I’m afraid she might break. She takes small steps and her movements are stiff, as though she’s recovering from a broken leg or appendicitis. I feel like I’ll hurt her if I touch her, no matter how careful I am.

Sam made this poster for you, Bibi says. She gestures to­wards it and then turns to me, beaming, as she reaches one hand out, inviting me to join their circle. I shake my head no. I don’t want to step away from the chair I’m leaning against be­cause I need its support.

I love it. Mama smiles at me from across the room, and although her smile is less radiant than usual, and the wrinkles around her eyes look more pronounced, it makes my heart skip a beat. It makes me strong enough to stand up straight and step away from this chair, and keep walking towards her until I’ve bridged the gap between us. I don’t know how it happens but before I know it, Mama’s arms are wrapped around my shoul­ders and my arms are wrapped around her waist, and she smells the same as she used to, before the hospital. She smells like home.

2. Frenemies

O kay, guys, let’s get back on track, Ms. Yeung says, us­ing her best stern teacher voice. She’s not supposed to call us that, according to Mama. Guys. It’s supposed to be ‘kids,’ or ‘class,’ or ‘people,’ or anything equally genderless. Mama used to tell me to speak up and call Ms. Yeung out when she does it, because it’s not right. A lack of representation or equality or in­clusion or something. But I never have. I guess I’d rather blend in, even if it means being overlooked. Mama hasn’t mentioned it since before the hospital, so I don’t know if it still bothers her as much as it used to. I get the feeling most of the stuff that used to bother her doesn’t matter too much anymore. And maybe the same goes for the things she used to care about—the things that used to make her feel good. None of us matter so much anymore. We’re all background noise.

Before COVID, people weren’t using plastic bags in grocery stores as much. But when the pandemic hit, what hap­pened?

Hands leap up to wave in the air. Not mine though, it stays in my lap. I’m tired of contributing to class conversations, as Ms. Yeung puts it. We talk and argue and talk and argue and a week later no one remembers what the discussion was about. What’s the point?

Sam?

Ugh, Ms. Yeung’s in one of those moods. She wants to make the quiet ones share.

People started using plastic bags again, I say. I stare at her and don’t smile. In my mind I’m telling her not to call on me again. I hope she gets the message.

Right. She pauses a moment before looking away. Can anyone give another example of a single use plastic?

They start talking about masks, which Ms. Yeung says qual­ify because they have plastic in them, which I’m skeptical about but grade five will be over in a week and I’m graduating from this school so whatever. Then it’s plastic spoons and utensils, straws, Styrofoam cups, the mini cups hospitals use for pills, and all the needles for the vaccine.

Those paper straws suck, though, someone at the back of the class says. Probably Joel. He’s smart and he likes to partici­pate. The paper gets all mushy between your teeth.

They do suck, Jessica says. I think she has a crush on Joel. They can’t ban plastic straws. Some people need them.

There are a few murmurs around the room, kids agreeing or not.

‘Need’ is a strong word, Ms. Yeung says. Can you give us an example of people who need plastic straws, Jessica?

I swivel my head to look towards Jessica and catch her face just before she opens her mouth. She’s staring at the ceiling with a look of intense concentration and self-importance. I have a funny feeling that something bad is about to happen. A tingle goes through my whole body.

People, like patients. In a hospital. To take their medi­cine.

Patients can drink from a cup, Joel calls out.

Some can’t, she says. What about crazy people?

That’s it. That’s the something bad about to happen. But it’s not over.

What? Joel says. It’s like it’s only the two of them in the room and the rest of us are watching a play. Or a tennis match.

You know—mental patients, Jessica says. I feel everything start to spin around me and yet it stays perfectly still.

Why would they need straws?

"Because they can’t move. They’re stuck, you know, sedat­ed. Like in One Flew Over the Cuckoos’ Nest." The corners of Jessica’s mouth tilt up into a proud smile, like she should win an Oscar just for mentioning that movie. I’ve heard of it, but it’s ancient. I doubt any kids in this class have seen it, including Jes­sica. She likes people to think she’s smarter than she actually is.

Oh, you mean the ones who are vegetables, another voice says. I can’t tell who it is because a lot of voices are calling out and they all blend together.

Guys, let’s not use the word ‘vegetables,’ to describe peo­ple, Ms. Yeung interrupts. Apparently that’s where she draws the line.

Okay, Jessica says. But yes, those crazy people who are so medicated that they can’t do anything for themselves. Not even sip from a cup.

I don’t know why this stupid statement makes me so angry, but I want to slap her smugly face. What does she even know about it anyway?

That movie’s so old, I say, my voice louder than I expect it to be. How do you even know that still happens? Have you ever been on a psych ward?

My question silences my classmates. Heads turn in my di­rection and out of the corner of my eye I see nods and glances exchanged silently. My face starts to burn. I don’t know what people have been saying about me.

No, Jessica says, drawing out the word into multiple sylla­bles. Have you?

A few whispered gasps and murmurs travel around the room, like the purple-monkey-dishwasher Simpsons episode. Stupid Jessica. I want to reply, but I don’t want to admit any­thing to anyone. I have to say something though. For Mama.

Yes, I say with a force I didn’t realize I had. And I didn’t see any crazy vegetable patients who couldn’t drink out of cups when I was there.

There’s a moment of complete silence, like when you’re walking down the street right after a blizzard and it feels like you’re the only person in the world.

Okay, girls, you’ve both raised valid points, Ms. Yeung fi­nally says. We’ll talk more about it on another day.

We won’t. There aren’t enough days left before summer va­cation and besides, she always says we’ll circle back to some­thing or put a pin in it to end the conversation, and then we never do. It’s like she doesn’t know any other way to stop a dis­agreement. It must be something she learned at teacher’s col­lege.

She instructs us to take out our math homework and gives everybody a moment to switch gears. While the slowest of the slowpokes are still setting up, Ms. Yeung starts to walk through the aisles, pausing when she reaches my desk. She kneels down so we’re at eye level. I think they must have taught that at teacher’s college too.

Sam, can you stay in at recess, please? Her voice is hushed but our desks are close together and if one person heard, everybody heard. I look at my neighbour, Joshua, whose eyes are open wider than necessary for homework problems. Yeah, he heard.

Okay, I say. I don’t want to stay in and talk about what­ever she thinks I need to talk about. I want to find Emma and tell her about stupid Jessica and try to figure out why I’m so annoyed. But Ms. Yeung isn’t really asking me. I don’t have a choice.

SO, THEN WHAT HAPPENED? Emma says. We’re on the swings at the park near my house. It was such a relief when the school day ended and I could finally talk to Emma.

Not much. I stayed in and she asked how I am, how Mama is, if I wanted to talk, that kind of thing.

What did you say?

Not much. I wanted to get outside and find you. But then she made me do this dumb meditation app and it wasted my whole recess.

Emma takes side steps towards me until her swing touches mine. She reaches one arm up to wrap it around my shoulders. Emma and I have been best friends since kindergarten, when our moms set up playdates after meeting each other in the school yard. We’ve been through a lot together—her parents’ divorce, my grandfather’s cancer, the time I broke a bone in my hand playing soccer, school making us crazy. No, not crazy. That’s not the right word. Making us stressed. Frustrated. Not crazy. We’ve been through everything together yet for some reason her half-hug in this moment makes me start to cry.

It’s just Jessica, you know? I furiously wipe the tears from my cheeks. She’s such an idiot and she doesn’t even know what she’s talking about.

I know, Emma says. Then she wraps her head around the chain holding my swing up, and rests it on my shoulder. It doesn’t look comfortable.

And the way she talked about them. So insulting. Like they’re not even human beings.

Emma starts to run her arm up and down my back.

She doesn’t know, she says.

That’s no excuse.

No, it’s not, Emma says. She stops rubbing my back and gives my shoulder a tight squeeze before releasing me and lift­ing her feet from the ground to swing back into place.

Sam, how is your mom?

I don’t know the answer to this question. I thought Mama would be better after the hospital but it’s been six weeks and most of the time it seems like she’s worse. She doesn’t say much and doesn’t do much. Bibi is at our house most days when I get home from school, and Mama is usually lying on the couch. Sometimes sleeping, other times she says she’s resting her eyes. Her eyes never used to need this much rest.

She’s okay. I don’t know what to say.

No, really. Emma stares at me through the chains. "How