Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy
Bananapants: Chapter 31

“What we know is a drop, what we don’t know is an ocean.”

— Isaac Newton, Attributed via quotes used for “An Apology for Christianity” by Bishop Richard Watson

Ididn’t respond with words, but she must’ve read the answer in my eyes because hers closed, her face crumpled, and she took another deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked out, feeling like trash.

She shook her head, her lips pressing together as she swallowed.

“I wish I could give you the answer you want.” I shifted away from her.

Ava’s eyes flew open and she grabbed my shirtfront, not letting me move. “First of all”—she cleared her throat and her chin stopped trembling—“I’ll need a minute. I’m angry with you, that you would do that. That you would even consider it.”

I nodded and focused my hazy attention on her forehead. I’m trash, trash, trash.

“But once I’m finished being angry . . .” She placed her palm on my cheek and forced my chin down, encouraging my eyes to meet hers. They were glassy with unshed tears. “Once I can see clearly, once I can think clearly, I know I’ll tell you it’s not your fault. And what you’re feeling now, your depression, is not your fault. No one sticks to their good habits all the time, and it’s so unfair that you can’t even take a short break from making perfect choices without suffering like this. And I want you to know I’m here for you, if you ever need somebody. I don’t want you to—to ever feel desperate like that or like you’re alone. I want you to know that you have me. You have⁠—”

“Ava.” I covered her hand with mine to silence her and removed it from my face. “I have to stay here, in this world, for no one but myself. If I left it, it wouldn’t be because I’m not loved enough by others. Okay?”

She didn’t nod. She frowned, tears spilling from her eyes. Then she shook her head.

Before she could speak, I said, “I left Chicago when we were fifteen, and I ended our friendship because I recognized—rightly—that I couldn’t base my will to be here on someone else. If I wanted to one day be stable, I needed to replace the will to stay given the resources I had available to me. I’m not saying I did this by myself. My support system is essential. My doctors. My mom, my sister, my grandparents. Even Sue, Uncle Dan and his family, Alex. But I needed to figure out the reason, and it couldn’t be one person. It couldn’t be, and it can never be, another person loving me or not loving me enough.”

Ava sniffled, her chin wobbling. “But I don’t want you to leave me.”

“And I don’t want you to leave me.” Giving in to the sudden urge, I pulled her forward and wrapped her in my arms again.

She came to me willingly, her hands tight fists in my shirt, her face pressed against my chest. Ava’s tears and sadness didn’t upset or agitate me. I understood why she was crying. It made sense. Eventually, when (if) the haze of my apathy receded, I would probably cry later when I remembered this conversation.

“What can I do?” she asked, her question muffled by my shirt. “Tell me what to do.”

“Maybe be part of my team?” I kissed the top of her head.

“I want to be the starting player,” she demanded. “The—the quarterback. First string!”

If I’d been capable of it, I would’ve laughed. “Ava, I’m the quarterback of the team. You don’t get to be my quarterback. But you can be a⁠—”

“No.” She turned her face and her words were clearer. “I want to be the MVP!”

I shook my head. “Again, you alone can’t be the reason I stay, or even 50 percent of the reason. I can’t—shouldn’t—define my willingness to live based on how much or little you love me, don’t you see? That’s holding you hostage. It’s emotional blackmail. It’s not fair to you or me.”

Crying quietly against my chest, Ava released my shirt to twist her arms around my neck, holding me tightly like I might suddenly disappear.

“I wanted—I want—to be here. Even when I . . .”

Even when I wanted to die. I shook my head, thinking it would be better to not say the words out loud.

I went on without them. “So many of my actions during that time in my life make no sense to me now. My mind wasn’t my own, though my brain told me it was my only choice at the time. It felt like choosing to live was the harder path. I have so much—” I had to clear my throat before continuing. “I have a lot of regret and shame about it. But I have to be honest, I do not regret leaving Chicago or cutting you out of my life back then. My dependence on you wasn’t fair to either of us. Me leaving, at least, was a good decision. A sane decision. And I do not think I would be here now if I hadn’t left then.”

Releasing a shaky breath, Ava’s arms loosened even while she pressed closer, her ear coming to rest over my heart. We remained in this position and I tried to empty my mind. I couldn’t. The sadness persisted, heavier than the weight of her head against my chest.

Some experiences exist that no amount of showing or telling or researching or reading about will ever fully convey. If a person has never felt heartache, how can it be described in a way that makes sense? If a person has never been homeless, but has always been surrounded by four walls and safety, how could they possibly understand not only the danger, but how commonplace and prosaic living in danger eventually becomes, and yet no less dangerous?

The roller coaster was my typical. I’d ridden it countless times. But instead of the jarring ups and downs confusing and scaring me as they had at first, they’d become expected and therefore grueling. Exhausting. Like today, life was exhausting. I now expected the sudden shifts, the pain of the crash, and there was nothing I could do about it other than hope I would have the wisdom and strength in the moment to use my coping strategies, the bravery to reach out for help without fear of shame, and hope someone cared enough to answer when I called, even though my brain might tell me no one would care.

No one cares.

Rolling my eyes at the dramatic side of my depression, I sighed, seeking and taking comfort in the feel of this beautiful woman wrapped in my arms. Right now. In this moment. And I counted my inhales and exhales to ten, repeating too many times to track.

“I have today off,” she said suddenly, pulling my focus back to the external world.

At some point she’d pushed herself away from my chest. Once more, she lay on her side, facing me, close enough to touch but far enough for me to see clearly. I didn’t know how much time had passed.

I nodded listlessly, telling myself to ask her a benign question and settling on, “Do you have plans?”

Still staring at me, she licked her lips, her breathing seeming to change. In the next second, she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on my lips. My brain sluggish, I blinked, requiring a few seconds to understand that Ava Archer’s mouth was pressed to my mouth.

Then she retreated. And she stared at me. I stared back, nonplussed, my brain empty.

“Uh . . .”

Her palm came to my cheek and cradled it again, this time her thumb brushing against my lips lightly. “I read somewhere about a dopamenu. Do you know what that is?”

“A what?” I hadn’t moved on from twenty seconds ago when she’d kissed me.

“A dopamenu. It’s this list, or a few lists, where a person writes down tasks or things that help pull them out of sadness, or distract them from it.”

I felt my forehead wrinkle. “What does that have to do with you kissing me?”

“Unexpected kissing was on one of the example lists I saw. As was cuddling. Skin-to-skin contact is also supposed to be good.”

I continued staring at her, shocked for a few reasons. First, she’d successfully distracted me from my crushing depression for the span of a few seconds. To be clear, she hadn’t pulled me out of it. That wasn’t possible. More like, she’d opened a window in my dark room and let in some fresh air. The key word here is distraction.

The only other person who’d ever been able to do that for me was my mom. Until one day she couldn’t and I’d experienced my first panic attack. That wasn’t at all my mom’s fault, and it wasn’t my fault, no more than a diabetes patient is at fault when their body can’t make insulin.

“While you were asleep, I compiled a few items I thought we could add to your dopamenu. We don’t have to go through it now.” Her eyes moved between mine, bracing.

“No.” She’d piqued my interest. “Can you read the list?”

She gave me another unexpected kiss. And she said, “Yes. Yes, I can do that. Your dad had some ideas too.”

I stiffened. “My—my dad?”

Ava nodded. “Yeah. He’s in the next room. It’s almost time for his shift, actually. But—wait. I think he’s only supposed to take a shift if you’re asleep.”

My heart abruptly raced, blood surging to my head, and the center of my body started to shake. My lips went dry and my mouth felt cottony and tasted metallic.

Oh no.

“Ava.” I sat up. The room spun. My limbs went hot then cold. “Fuck.” I couldn’t think.

“Des? Des, what’s wrong?”

“I need—” I tried to swallow. I couldn’t. My brain told me I was having a heart attack. I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating. I was going to suffocate.

“Des? DES!”

I heard her scream but it was too late for me. My whole body went rigid and I closed my eyes, wanting to beg for help, for someone to help me, make it stop, but I was unable to speak. It hurt. I hurt. I couldn’t move.

This is it. This is it. This is it.

I couldn’t see but I heard noises from far away, reaching me past the rushing of blood between my ears, like a shout under water. The pain and helplessness went on and on. It would never end. My brain told me I’d would be stuck like this forever. I was being crushed. I would die like this.

. . . no.

Someone had their arms around me, holding me from behind. Someone was speaking in my ear, asking me questions.

“Can you name three colors?” they said, the words faraway. “Can you name three sounds?”

My head jerked. I hurt. I hurt.

“Breathe in for the count of five. One, two, three, four, five,” the voice said, calm and close and familiar. “Now, breathe out for the count of ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

I couldn’t breathe but I latched on to the voice, and by an unknown repeat of the instructions I tried to breathe like they instructed. I tried to breathe in for the count of five. I failed and I tried again and again. I let them count and I focused on the sound. My heart raced, my face on fire, throbbing, my limbs foreign and useless, but I tried to breathe.

“Good. Good. Let’s do it again,” he said. “One, two, three, four, five.” The body behind me made an inhaling sound, and I heard it. Then, when he breathed out, he exhaled loudly and sounded clearer. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Can you open your eyes? Open your eyes, Desmond. Name three things you see.”

Blinking with effort, I tried to bring the room into focus, willing my eyes to work. “Desk,” I rasped out.

“Great job. Breathe in. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Name something else you see,” he said, and I became aware that the arms wrapped around me from behind belonged to the voice in my ear.

“Drape. Window,” I forced out.

“What do you smell? Breathe in first and then name three things.”

I inhaled through my nose, trying to sense the air. “The sheets. Y—your cologne. Soap.” My body began to relax, and that’s when I realized it was my father.

The voice, the arms, the cologne, the counting, the breathing. It was him. I stiffened, confused.

It can’t be.

I felt my dad nod his head. “Great. Now what do you hear? Concentrate. Tell me three things you can hear.”

Shaking my head, I blinked away tears, and choked out, “Your voice. I hear your voice. Your breath. And . . . the TV in the other room. It’s on.” My nose stung.

His arms squeezed me tighter. As the rigidity in my muscles eased, my brain started spinning. How did he know? How could he possibly know how to pull someone out of a panic attack? He’d never done it before. He’d never even stayed to watch.

“Desmond, I’m going to let go now and ask Ava to take over,” he said, voice calm, gentle, and familiar. So familiar. The voice of my childhood. I missed it. I missed it so much. My heart squeezed, tight and painful.

Unthinkingly, I turned my head as he let me go. I needed to see him to believe it. Otherwise I would always question whether I’d hallucinated him helping me. But even as our eyes locked, I still doubted it was him.

I’m seeing things. He’s not here. It’s not real.

“Quick.” My father, still staring into my eyes, lifted his hand and waved someone over. “Do exactly what I did. You need to take over. I’m the trigger and he can easily slip back into a panic attack. I’ll get his rescue medication, but then I have to leave the room.”

“O—okay,” came a breathless reply. A second later I felt the bed depress behind me and smaller arms wrap around my body. “Let’s breathe, Des. Five counts in, ten counts out. Are you ready?”

I nodded weakly and followed her instruction, staring forward when he left the field of my vision, responding to her cues. Name three things: tissues, lamp, chair. Name three sounds: door closing, Ava’s voice, drawer opening. Name three smells: Ava’s perfume, Ava’s skin, Ava’s shampoo. Breathe. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Ava and my dad pulled me to a sitting position. He spoke to her in a whisper just out of my sight but I heard him.

“Put the pill in his mouth. Help him drink the water. Tell him it’s olanzapine. Tell him I’m leaving. I won’t—I’ll go home. I won’t be here. He won’t see me.”

“He’s leaving. He’s not here. He left,” she said after I’d dutifully swallowed the pill. Helping me lay down again, she continued guiding me through 3-3-3 until my eyes drifted shut. They were so heavy, I felt so heavy, and I couldn’t think.

So, I slept.