He took me every payday to G.L. Perry's at the Urbandale Plaza and bought me two books- starting with Nancy Drew, moving to Trixie Belden, and then onto that pre-teen sensation Sweet Valley High. He would only buy me new ones only if I had finished the last ones he'd bought. This was no problem. I was a fast reader, and already knew that if a story was good enough I would be compelled to go back and read it again, the same way you long to revisit beautiful places when you travel. It brought me joy and pride to see those slim volumes taking up more and more space on my bookshelf, proof to the world that I was smart like my dad; I was a reader.
When Cory was very small, there was no money. My income, at the local ice cream shop, was the only income that fed and clothed her. My parents, of course, helped a great deal, and made sure our needs were met. There just wasn't a lot of room for extras. What is it about being poor that makes a parent who knows they are giving their child all their attention, love, and affection, feel like they aren't doing enough because they can't afford to shower their child with things?
It bothered me to not be able to pick her out all the flouncy little clothes I desired, but instead buy next year's size on the off season clearance rack. Her payday treats came from the Dollar Store. Christmases were lean. Something I refused to skimp on were books. If I could not give her the world per se, I would give her the world between two covers that she could hold in her hands anytime she wished. Giving her books was to give her a hobby, education, comfort, and friends who were always there. We couldn't afford to take vacations, but as she soon discovered when graduating to chapter books- you can go anywhere in a book.
Cory never lost her love of reading. When the meds she took for her mental illness began to affect her eyesight, she was heartbroken. She endured many things with those medications. Sometimes if she took her supper and bedtime doses too close together, she would vomit. The Lithium made her hands tremble, which made a self-conscious girl even more self-conscious. She had muscle and joint stiffness, in particular her neck. One of the meds made her saliva glands overactive, so instead of drooling on her pillow each night as she normally did, she was reduced to carrying a burp cloth covered in cheery giraffes until her body adjusted to the dose. Can you imagine a seventeen year old girl having to do that, and doing it with a smile, cracking jokes the majority of the time? Amazing.
I have often quipped that if I were told tomorrow that I were deathly allergic to chocolate, I would lose my will to live. Same with cheese. I regretted those flip comments as I watched my girl struggling with depression, delusions, and relentless voices, unable to read because of her blurry vision. Due to the meds used to control those symptoms, she had lost her only out. Cory's favorite escape had always been a book. Imagine, not being able to use your most tried and true coping skill at the very moment you needed it most. What kind of screwed up shit is that?
So, we bought the audio books at Barnes and Noble. We stormed the library and cleared out their supply. It just wasn't the same. I'd watch her run her hands lovingly over the fat embossed, hardbound classics on the sale table at the bookstore, and sigh, my heart so heavy I felt it would soon just fall out onto the floor. Plunk!
Cory would listen to her audio books at bedtime, but being a visual person, listening to a book was just never quite the same experience. With one exception.
On a Saturday that Cory was afraid to leave the house, she asked me to read to her. The delusion of the agents was particularly bad during that time. Cory was convinced that agents were planted throughout the community watching her, meaning to do her harm- the checkout girl at Felpausch, the guy who rang up our pizza at Pizza Hut, the mail man, the teenage girl who complimented her hair in the middle of Walmart. Cory thought they were all after her. It got to the point that she was afraid to eat food she hadn't watched me prepare, and on one memorable occasion was convinced that the daily mail was poisoned with an invisible gas that would infiltrate the house when opened. She didn't like to answer the phone, and wouldn't go near the computer.
Med changes, none withstanding, her symptoms grew worse and worse. That stretch ended with her thinking that the mersa scar on her shoulder was actually the place the agents had embedded a tracking device in her while she slept. When Dr. Tokei and I discussed hospitalization, I was hesitant to admit her. She was so scared, I told him, of everything and everyone. How could I leave her in a city away from home without me? Dr. Tokei answered kindly, "Mrs. Mansfield, the very fact she is that frightened is the very reason that the hospital is where she needs to be."
But not that Saturday. That Saturday, we woke up, alone in the house since Jake was at his dad's in Marshall for the weekend. I tried to talk Cory into getting out, and she was having none of it. She was anxious, agitated, and just plain miserable. Desperate, I asked, "What would make you feel better, Cory?"
"Read to me." she requested.
Together, we picked out a Stephen King book that wasn't gory or frightening, and settled in. I had read to Cory nearly every day of her childhood, but never a full-length novel. I stumbled over words the first couple chapters, but eventually found a rhythm that she said was worthy of an audio book. We laughed together. We posed questions about the plot. I smiled at her predictions, having read this particular book no less than twelve times. I kept asking her if she wanted me to stop, but she didn't. "I'm having the best time, Mom".
So we read. And grabbed lunch. We read. And grabbed dinner. We read. And had a midnight snack. We read the whole entire day and night, into the early morning hours. By that point, we'd reached that slap-happy tired point when everything is funny. A man's voice with a heavy Scottish accent was required in the last chapters, which had us collapsed over my bed in helpless laughter.
"Oh, Mommy, you are crazy!" she said between giggles.
I looked over at her as she smiled, seeing her feeling safe and the agents all but forgotten. And you, my Cory-Girl are not.
Over my lifetime, I've spent countless hours doing a million stupid, meaningless things- time that I will never get back, but that day and night reading to my daughter was not one of them. Those hours I spent reading to my girl are something I will always treasure, just as she did. No one can take them from me.
Perhaps that is why going to Barnes and Noble is such a disturbing experience these days. I am comforted, but frantic as I subconsciously search each and every aisle for my baby girl. If only I look behind every shelf, I will surely find her. If there's anywhere Cory could be, other than at home with me, it would be picking out a new book that she can read all by herself. Her eyesight is just fine.
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