Fire & Water

by Betsy Graziani Fasbinder

  My family would flock to my support and I knew that. Mary K would defend me with ferocious protectiveness. But none of them really understood Jake or how we loved each other. I felt utterly alone.

  Back in my office at UC, I found myself longing for someone who understood Jake, someone who could help me think clearly. In the privacy that my cubby of an office offered, I dialed the number of Jake’s administrative assistant in New York to find out how to reach Burt.

  When I finally reached him at a hotel in British Columbia, Canada, Burt’s voice nearly burst through the telephone with exuberance. “Hey Kiddo! Your voice is a lovely song for these weary ears.” We’d talked on a number of occasions when Jake had dodged his calls, and we’d developed a playful repartee over the months. “How’s the little nipper?”

  “Hi Burt,” I said. I swallowed, trying to summon the next phrases I’d vowed I would not squelch. I couldn’t talk about the baby. My silence sent a signal for me.

  “Kate, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is the baby all right?”

  They were simple questions, yet the fact that Burt was the first person to ask them of me sent me into a fit of unexpected sobs. I covered my mouth with my palm, trying to stifle the sound of my weeping.

  “Oh, darlin’, what is it?”

  Finally, everything I’d been holding in came bursting from me, a tsunami of words fueled by a storm of panic. I told him about Jake’s descent, his obsessive drawing, his sleeplessness. Then I described that horrible night in our garden and his current condition in the psychiatric ward at General.

  After listening to the whole, sordid tale, Burt finally sighed. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I really thought this might be behind us.”

  I spilled every unspoken thought I’d had for weeks. Everything about Jake. Everything about Mary K. Burt listened to it all with the patience of a priest in confessional. “Oh me,” he sighed.

  “What am I going to do, Burty? The baby will be here so soon. They want to put Jake on lithium. They want to put him in long-term care. He’s furious. I don’t know—” I swallowed and summoned up some of the words that scared me most. “I’m so afraid.”

  “Shh,” he whispered, “It’ll look better soon, I promise.” His soothing words calmed me. “I’ll have his medical records forwarded and give a release to his psychiatrist in New York so he can talk to your guy there. That will help them with the treatment plan and keep them from misdiagnosing. I still have a durable power of attorney, so a phone call will do it. I’ll be on the next flight to San Fran. Not to worry.”

  I pummeled Burt with questions about Jake’s history. Hospitalizations. Breakdowns. He’d had a few, some attributable to impetuous youth, others sounding more ominous, but nothing sounded quite as bad as what I’d witnessed. And Jake, long ago severed from his own family, had trusted Burt with power of attorney to take care of him. “I don’t want people to hate Jake,” I admitted.

  I heard what sounded like a soft growl through the phone, a sound I’d learn indicated that Burt was thinking and selecting his words carefully. “Jake Bloom is my dearest friend. This is a rough patch. He’s had them before, but no matter what, he’s still Jake. He just needs our help to come back. That’s all. A psych ward must be making him batty. He needs to be home with us, the ones who love him and understand him.”

  My throat ached and I could barely swallow. “Thank you,” I croaked. “Thank you, Burt.” The telephone’s mechanical sound whirred in my ear. “Burt. Do you think I’m crazy to be with him?”

  Seconds thrummed by. “Love is equal parts miracle and insanity. Jake is a windstorm you’ll have to weather, but he’s also the best, most loyal friend I’ve ever known. I think you’d be mad not to love him, too.” Burt cleared his throat and I wondered if his eyes were damp as he spoke. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, kiddo. Just have a good meal so that nipper can grow good and strong.”

  I listened to the dial tone for a while, unable to hang up and sever the connection to Burt. I rested my head on my desk. Exhaustion was heavy blanket and sleep soon fell upon me.

  * * *

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Dr. Murphy.” The whites of Dr. Bhanu Gupta’s eyes stood out against his charcoal skin, giving him a look of constant surprise. The slight man stood in front of his dented metal desk and held out a plastic chair for me. “I must say that it is against my recommendation that your husband leave the hospital right now. I have told him this.” The music of his native India gave everything Dr. Gupta said an anti-rhythmic lilt that was at once melodic and a little frantic. “While his progress has been remarkable, I am not yet confident that his mood is fully stable. He could be benefiting from an extended stay in a therapeutic setting.”

  I pushed down the sense of panic that rose in me when I thought of taking Jake home. Sitting with Dr. Gupta, humiliation brought heat to my face. Under normal circumstances, he would be my colleague, not someone treating a member of my family. I donned my most professional demeanor, smiling and modulating my voice. “With all due respect, you can’t seriously believe that my husband belongs in this population. He was depleted, sleep-deprived, and severely dehydrated. What he needed was rest and fluids, and this week in the hospital has given him that. He’s agreed to use medication as necessary to regulate his sleep. He’s no longer dangerous or delusional.” What I said was factually accurate, but the falseness of my bravado rang in my ears. I heard myself fighting for something I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

  Dr. Gupta’s voice was gentle and patient, somewhere between the Dalai Lama and Yoda. “Dr. Cohen was very thorough in her assessment and recommendations over the phone. I concur with you and with her. Mr. Bloom’s current mental status does not qualify him to be kept against his will. His condition is improved. But he has declined the full medication regimen that is indicated.”

  “You mentioned lithium. You can’t be serious. He’s not a psychotic. He’s obsessive, and that gets compounded when he’s depleted. After this week of rest, he’s back to his normal self.” The voice that emerged from me was one I recognized; one that argued treatment plans in utilization review meetings. But in those meetings my voice was buoyed by confidence in the truth. In Gupta’s office, it was all façade.

  From a silver pot etched with filigree, Dr. Gupta poured tawny tea into a porcelain cup. In the shabby surroundings, the tea service seemed strangely civilized. He nodded to me, offering a cup, and I shook my head. “I know this is a matter of great tenderness, Dr. Murphy. Your husband’s diagnostic picture is addressed only partly with rest. With manic-depressive illness, the cycle is bound to return. Whereas in a state of hypomania he can be productive and even creative, this episode of psychosis exceeded the definition of simple hypomania. Without medication, a return to this psychotic state is, well—” Dr. Gupta’s inky black eyes found mine. “Please forgive me, but the return of his mania is inevitable, and his history, as described to me by Dr. Cohen, would indicate that, untreated, it can become even more severe.”

  Those words, manic-depressive illness, psychotic episode, made Jake seem like some kind of a monster. Ryan would be here in just weeks, and the thought of Jake in his current state, with our newborn, made my hands shake. Though everything that the kind doctor was saying made logical sense, accepting the idea that what Jake was suffering from was a mental illness felt like swallowing broken glass. “You don’t know Jake. I’ve never met anyone more energetic in my life. To be manic-depressive, you have to have depression. Depression doesn’t begin to describe him. He’s talented, intelligent, decent, gentle, loving. The medication they gave him when he got in here made him a zombie. He can’t stand that.” I heard the defensiveness in my voice. “He’s an artist. If he hadn’t ever had a grandiose thought, he wouldn’t have been able to create the art that he has. If grandiosity is illness, three-quarters of the surgeons I work with should be on lithium.”

  “I am a great admirer of your husband’s work. Certainly no one would want to medicate that away. Often the spa
rk of such magnificent artistic creativity is accompanied by a, how shall I say—” the doctor stroked his chin with slim fingers, “—a flame of madness. This disorder is baffling, especially when patients are so intelligent and talented. He could go years without an episode.”

  “With all due respect, I’m worried about his state of mind if he stays here for long. Jake simply does not belong here.” I stood and snatched up my purse and drew in a slow breath to calm myself. “Our baby will be born soon, and we want to go home and focus on that. A healthy focus and proper diet and sleep are what Jake needs. I can monitor his medications and insist that he see you for follow-ups.”

  Dr. Gupta stood and extended his hand with its bird-thin wrist toward me. “I can see that you and your husband have made your decision. I will sign his discharge papers, with the notation that you have declined the recommended treatment and that discharge is against physician recommendations. I am concerned about your managing him alone, Dr. Murphy. Not that you aren’t perfectly competent, of course, but given your pregnancy, I—” He paused and looked deep into my eyes. “I am here if you need anything.”

  “His friend—our friend—Burt, will be here tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

  How many times had I given this very lecture to patients leaving the hospital? I’d written AMA—Against Medical Advice—into charts to cover hospital liability and to leave a trail of information for whatever doctors would inherit the case when, inevitably, the uncooperative patient returned. My gut tightened. This doctor was wrong. He’d seen Jake in his worst moment. He just didn’t know the Jake I knew.

  * * *

  The next day, Jake lingered for a moment at our front door. His chin sank to his chest and his hair hid his face.

  “Don’t worry. It’s all been fixed,” I said, rubbing his shoulder. “The glass is all back and the carpets are cleaned. It’ll take your touch to get it back to what it was, but the garden is back in order. The crew was able to salvage most of the plants and the furniture was unharmed.”

  “I don’t care about the house.” He wrapped his arms around me and swayed, bringing his lips to the nape of my throat. “I could’ve lost you,” he whispered. “Nothing else matters, but if I lost you and the baby I’d just want to die.”

  “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

  The warm light of the house welcomed us and drew us toward its glow. Now, back in the beautiful piece of art that Jake had made for me, I finally felt at home. The beveled glass in the kitchen windowpanes fractured the light into ribbons of color that danced on the wall and floor, tugging us toward the kitchen with its northwesterly view. The towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, anchors of strength and beauty, reminded me of all that remained unchanged.

  We exchanged polite formalities as we settled, bad movie dialogue between strangers not knowing what to say. Only when we went into the kitchen did something familiar begin to emerge. Jake hunted in the cupboards and refrigerator. I sorted the mail. After a few moments, a soft hissing sound came from a skillet on the stove and the smell of warm butter filled the room.

  “There’s not too much to pick from in the fridge,” Jake said when he brought our plates to the table. “But I can make eggs.” He set my plate in front of me and my stomach growled in response. The caramelized onions and tangy Swiss cheese made my taste buds vibrate with pleasure. Before I knew it my plate was empty, and I looked up to see Jake, chin in hand, watching me, a serene smile on his lips.

  “What?” I said, my voice muffled. “I can’t help it. The baby was hungry.”

  He reached and took my cheek in his hand and pulled me toward him. “It’ll be okay, Kat. I’ll do everything to make it okay.”

  Swimming Among the Stars

  In the first weeks after Jake returned home from the hospital, he honored the distance I silently demanded. During the days we exchanged fleeting, tender affections. At night, we slept in the same bed but with a canyon between us.

  I tried to confide in Mary K or my family, but each time the words turned to dust in my throat. When I thought of how the story might sound out loud, I could imagine only one reply from Mary K: What are you—nuts? Get the hell out, Murphy.

  Jake took responsibility for everything and agreed to a course of medication. He saw Dr. Gupta twice a week. What more could I expect? If he suffered from Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, or cancer, I’d stay beside him. I tried to stay peaceful for Ryan, my little, unhatched bird.

  As I entered my third trimester, Jake reemerged as an artist, the buds of ideas beginning to take form through the thinning fog of medication. Burt arranged a sizable commission in British Columbia. It would be two-and-a-half days of work without any guidelines or limitations, with a public showing at the end of the third day. Photographs of the installation would be featured in Art Nomad. VIPs had been invited to see the installation and attend a reception afterward.

  My OB okayed me to fly through my seventh month. “We need this trip, for us,” Jake pleaded. “I’m back to myself. I’ve been home for nearly a month. For us, Kat?”

  * * *

  From the window of a small private plane, the chain of British Columbia’s clear blue lakes was a string of sapphires among emerald hills.

  Burt met us at an airport owned by a group of wealthy Canadian businessmen, one of whom was on the Arts Council and owned the plane. Burt gave me a warm embrace. “How’s the little nipper?”

  “Fine,” I sighed.

  Burt had stayed with us at our house the first two weeks Jake was home from the hospital. Somewhere along the line, Burt had become not just the best friend of my husband, but a friend to me. He was the only person who understood what Jake and I had been through.

  “Hey there, Jake-O,” Burt said extending his hand. Though the two men were about the same height, Jake was a willow and Burt a mountain. “Feeling all right, mate? This isn’t too soon?” he asked.

  Jake’s eyes jumped to mine. “We’re good, Burty.”

  “Good to hear it,” Burt said, his enormous hand resting like a rib eye on Jake’s shoulder. “So here’s how it goes. Our hosts are putting you two up at a private villa. Staff will deliver meals, but promise to remain otherwise invisible. It won’t be a bunch of blue bloods wanting to constantly rub your elbows.”

  “Thanks for that,” Jake said.

  “Private beach on a little lake all to yourselves,” Burt continued. “You’ll have to do some hobnobbing at a party the evening of the installation, but that’s it.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said. Jake put his arm around my ever-widening waist.

  “How’s the old percolator?” Burt asked tapping Jake on the temple. “Got your vision yet, mate?”

  Jake’s face broke into a grin. “Burt can’t just trust the process. Always wants to know the plan. But what would be the fun in that?”

  “Fun, ha! I just wish your process happened more than a few hours before I have to fly a crew to the site, that’s all. I’ve reserved forklifts and dozers from a local contractor, have art interns at the ready—whatever your process might require. We’ve got three days of clear weather for you to work your brilliance.”

  “Poor Burty,” Jake cooed. “Carries all the worries for us.” Jake turned to Burt. “Cancel it all. No equipment. No materials. Keep the volunteers for gathering natural elements, but they’ve got to make themselves silent and invisible while I work. Just you, your wading boots, and your silly old camera. Kat and our little passenger are my muses, and nature has provided all I’ll need.”

  Burt’s eyes glistened under his golden brows and he clutched at his chest. “Leave the rest to you? Those words’ll be the death of me, mate.”

  * * *

  I woke the next morning to a pink dawn and an empty bed. A note rested on Jake’s pillow. Gone to work. Ordered room service. It’s waiting in the kitchen for my girls. Eat up. Call this number for a ride. Love, love, love.

  In the quiet, the fears that I’d been squelching seeped into my wakin
g thoughts. Jake was fine now, back to himself. But I could not pretend I hadn’t seen the other part of him. This man—this amazing, adoring man—had disintegrated into the feral creature I’d witnessed amidst the wreckage of our garden. But I also could not deny that I loved him, helplessly, and that we were about to have a child. My mind churned with Burt’s reassurances that Jake had long periods, years, without episodes of any kind, and then years more where only mild episodes occurred. Yes, I reassured myself. We can control this.

  I hurried through a shower and munched on fresh croissants, then got a ride to the first in the chain of pristine lakes. Tucking myself behind a cluster of birch trees near the shore, I was out of Jake’s sight. For two full days—time that passed unmeasured—I watched with fascination. Burt wandered nearby, his camera ready. Burt and Jake walked on parallel paths toward their own version of art; Jake creating the sculpture that would last only an instant, and Burt making it last on film. At times over the two days I’d sleep or take slow walks, but whenever I returned to my perch, I was entranced anew. Art students scampered like silent stagehands, gathering all manner of twig, flower, shell, feather, and stone, keeping a wide distance between themselves and Jake. Birds chirped in the trees and fat bumblebees buzzed, but no human sounds could be heard.

  While he sculpted, Jake was oblivious to anything other than the visual poetry he created. He walked barefoot along the shore of the lake, his pants legs rolled up. He kicked the water. He gathered leaves and petals of spring wildflowers, tucking them into a huge burlap pouch that dangled from his belt. Occasionally he’d squat or sit, examining whatever he’d discovered so closely it seemed he might pull out a jeweler’s eyepiece. He arranged what he found into patterns on the shore. All the while, Burt snapped photographs.