Warm Milk

A memoir of a fracturing family

My mom and I walked in silence under the yellow glow of the polluted night sky. When we reached the door, she handed me the overnight bag that she carried for me while I carried my backpack for school the next day. Before ringing the doorbell, she hugged me and murmured, “I love you. Thanks for being strong. Bea will be okay.”

I knew that my older sister, Bea, would not be okay. “I know.” I lied. I climbed through the monochromatic stairwell to meet our family friend, Vivien, at her fourth-floor apartment. I was met with a hug and consoling words, while the sound of her teenage son angelically playing piano spilled out of the other room.

The orderliness of Vivien’s house was something I’d always admired, but I noticed it even more at that particular time. While my face stung from tears and my arms and nose ached from bruises, I thought about how nicely her marble coasters were stacked. She heated a mug of warm milk, placed it in front of me, and made herself a cup of tea. She sat across from me, her eyes limpid with empathy.

I hadn’t forgotten about the discord I’d just witnessed in my own home, and I was thankful for the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded me while I sipped the comforting beverage. Vivien broke the silence and said, “I used to study psychology. I had an uncle who was a lot like Bea, and I was inspired to help people like him. But the first time that I went into the psych ward? I switched majors the next day. It’s not a good reality.”

I knew that it wasn’t a good reality. I knew it the first time it happened, and the second time, and the third time. But this time, the fourth time, was the first time I’d been hit. The first time I saw my mom get kicked in the shins. The first time I took a punch to the face when my sister’s mania had spun out of control. And where was my dad, the only person in the household who was physically strong enough to hold her back?

He was out parking the car.

The car (which was filled to the brim with Bea’s cigarette butts) that he had used to rush up to her college, bring her back to the city, and drop her off at our house so the school faculty would never suspect that she has bipolar disorder.

I love my parents, but my sister was sick. They should’ve called the ambulance that night.

Once my dad returned, my parents did everything they could to “restore” Bea so they could send her back to school and avoid another hospital bill, even if it meant neglecting me. I finished the cup of warm milk and excused myself to get ready to take a shower.

The shower had a luxurious setup which included a steamer and two high-pressure showerheads. I stood under the scalding water with enough steam drifting through the room to envelop my entire body. It even concealed my black and blue arms and legs, which I would’ve forgotten about if they weren’t causing me so much pain.

I thought about going to school tomorrow. I thought about telling the guidance counselor.  Mostly, I thought about how I would act like nothing happened.  Early the next morning, I woke up to rays of light gleaming through the window. It wasn’t time for school yet, but the apartment was coming to life. I made the bed, taking the time to flatten out all the wrinkles. It was the least I could do to show how grateful I was that I got to sleep at all that night. I wandered out to the kitchen island where Yuri was putting cream cheese on a bagel and Vivien was sipping coffee. A place was set next to her, and when I approached it, I noticed the bowl of Cheerios topped with strawberries.

“Good morning,” she chirped. “Would you like cold or warm milk in your cereal?”

Warm milk in cereal? I’d never heard of anyone doing that before, but I knew it was exactly what I needed.

“Warm milk would be great!” I replied.

Yuri wrapped the cream cheese bagel in tinfoil and placed it in a deluxe Ziploc bag that already contained a granola bar and an apple.

“Good morning, I made you a lunch for school,” he said.

“Thanks so much!” I set the bag aside to put in my back- pack.

Vivien poured the microwaved milk into the bowl and sat down beside me while I ate. My anxiety about the day was soothed a little bit more with each spoonful of Cheerios. My parents couldn’t be there for me, but they loved me enough to put me in such good hands. I worried about their safety and my sister’s mental health, but it was out of my power to fix my deteriorating family. I knew that I would get through it, and at Vivien’s house, I was safe. I ate my Cheerios in peace.