Saving Francesca

“What are you doing?” I hear Justine ask.

I quickly switch off the monitor, but she reaches over and switches it back on.

I don’t know why I ever thought Justine was shy. Sometimes I try hard to remember her at Stella’s, but the Justine of St. Stella’s is a blur, some kind of wallpaper print that no one actually took any notice of. Here, since it’s a musical school, they love the whole accordion thing. Her nerdiness kind of makes her cool. “She kills me,” Eva Rodriguez says. I don’t know when Justine’s giggles stopped getting on my nerves, but we’ve fallen into this habit of talking online every night, mostly about Tuba Guy and Will and music. Weirdly enough, her taste is similar to Thomas Mackee’s: new-age punk, alternative stuff, and show tunes. They are passionate about the local music scene and burn CDs for each other, having deep-and-meaningfuls about the actual music and lyrics, and somehow I’ve got used to their tastes. Mine was a combination of everything Mia and my Stella friends listened to, but I kind of like the lack of structure in Justine and Thomas’s, even though no one else has ever heard of them.

Today, Justine stands over me, pressing the scroll bar on the computer down.

“You have to narrow it down,” she explains. “There’s just different types, that’s all.”

“You’re an expert, are you?”

“Hello. I’m Polish. My family invented depression.”

I feel bad for being so flippant, and she squeezes in next to me as we scroll down.

“Is she delusional? Suffers hallucinations?” she asks, reading off the screen.

“Not that I know of.”

“Low mood, lack of enjoyment, and loss of interest in usual pastimes and becoming generally withdrawn?” she continues.

“Yep.”

“Downturned mouth, frown lines on her forehead?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That could be anyone,” Thomas butts in. “I mean, look at Brolin.”

“Are we talking to you?” I ask, turning my back on him.

Justine reads down the page. “Okay, if it’s acute depression it can last between three and nine months, although it can drag on for years. It says you ‘need to address the root cause of the symptoms for it to stop.’ ”

“I have no idea what the ‘root cause of the symptoms’ is. What does it suggest that could be?”

“Anything. Marital problems?”

I think for a moment.

“He takes off his socks and leaves them anywhere, and he’s happy to go along with anything except sometimes going out with some of her friends, but I don’t think that’s the issue. I think she’s worried that his idea of retiring one day is sitting on the couch with her, which up till this year was totally foreign to her because I’d never seen her sit on a couch for more than five minutes in her whole life. And he can never understand why she has to worry about who they’ll be in thirty years’ time and not just enjoy who they are now. Plus she does all the ru

“I’ve heard my mother say it,” Justine interrupts.

“Someone has to,” we say, mimicking our mothers. Even Thomas joins in.

“This is a personal conversation,” I tell him.

“About where your parents will be in the future? I understand these questions in life. Do you know what I’m listening to right now?” he asks. “It’s called ‘Ten Years.’ Listen to this:

“Will you have played your part?

Will you have carved your mark?”

He looks at me, nodding his head slowly and dramatically.

“Where are you this very moment?”

“Sitting next to a dickhead, Thomas. And you?”

“Ignore him,” Justine says, continuing to scroll. “How about ‘bereavement, losing one’s job, financial stress’?”

“Not the last two. But maybe bereavement. She was crazy about my no

“Which is a bit of a lie,” Thomas says. “Your no-no was dead and your dad was pretending that he wasn’t, which was the last thing your mother needed.”

“My no

“That’s called denial,” Thomas says knowingly.

“You listen to a few song lyrics and now you’re a psychologist?”

“You’re like your father. Denial.”

“Did I ask for your advice?” I ask him.

“How about alcoholism?” Justine asks. “Excessive consumption of caffeine?”

“I can’t put my mother’s depression down to too many macchiatos at Bar Italia.”

“They’ve got suggestions to deal with it. Eat wholesome food, spend some time in a stress-free environment with a companion who is willing to listen to you, get plenty of fresh air and sunlight, exercise six days per week, and take plenty of vitamins B and C.”

Thomas looks at me and rolls his eyes.

“Obviously these are just simple solutions,” Justine adds, realizing how weak it all sounds.

“She can’t even get off the couch, Justine, and they advise her to go to a gym?”

“Antidepressants,” Thomas suggests. “My father was on them for six months once. Fun times.”

My relationship with my father begins to get worse. It’s almost as if we’re embarking on a custody battle over my mum. Every time I try to press him about what the doctors have to say, he’s vague or I feel he’s lying.

“Your no

“She’s not stressed. She’s suffering acute depression,” I say, liking the way the jargon slips out as if I know what I’m talking about.

My brother is in front of the fridge squeezing Ice Magic on his tongue. I point to Luca, who escapes outside with it.

“I’ve told you before,” he says. “Stop seeing this as something you have to solve. She has a lot on her plate.”

“Papa, she won’t eat anything off her plate. She needs antidepressants.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nor do you!”

“I don’t want her on antidepressants,” he says flatly. “No

“That was years ago, Papa. Things have changed.”

“We can work this out ourselves,” he continues, despite the fact that I’m shaking my head.

“No we can’t. Papa, it’s been three months. It’s not going to go away.”

“I’ve spoken about it with her and she doesn’t want antidepressants.”

“What she wants isn’t the issue anymore!” I’m shouting, but I can’t help it. “Getting her better is, and she doesn’t just belong to you. She belongs to us as well.”

“I’m the adult here, Francesca. I make the decisions, not you. You’re the kid.”

“Oh, now I’m the kid. When I have to ring up the university to go into what’s wrong with her, I’m an adult, but now I’m a kid because you’re the expert.”

“Do you think I haven’t looked into this?” he asks. “She doesn’t have a chemical imbalance. She doesn’t need to get addicted to something. She doesn’t need tablets giving her nightmares.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve done my research too. She needs to get on her feet. She hasn’t been outside, on her own, for three months.”

“Go do your homework.”

“Oh, fantastic argument, Papa. ‘Keep the house tidy. Do your homework. Be a good girl.’ That’s going to fix everything, isn’t it? That’d make me want to get out of bed if I were Mummy.”

It’s total silence after that. The food is cardboard in my mouth, but I race to finish it because I want to get into Mia’s room before he does.