The Tragedy of Dane Riley

by Kat Spears

  “I don’t know. What’s an acceptable amount of sadness after your dad dies?” I am hoping there is a real answer to this question. I am not just asking to be a smartass.

  “I wish I had an answer for that question,” Dr. Lineberger says, which maybe is the right thing to say. “I guess what we want to figure out is whether there is an underlying depression that is compounding your grief, making it unbearable. Grieving is one thing, harming yourself is quite another. Your mother told me that you have had a suicidal episode in the past.”

  “My mom told you about that?” I ask. It surprises me that she has told Dr. Lineberger about the time I tried to overdose. It was a misguided effort. Prescription pills almost never work if you really want to kill yourself. Street heroin, or a combination of pills and alcohol, that’s a lot more reliable. Just ask Amy Winehouse, or a hundred other celebrities.

  “I didn’t try to kill myself after my dad died,” I say, feeling like this is an important point. “It was before I even knew he was sick. I just really didn’t want to go back to school. I hated it there.”

  “You must have really hated it a lot, if being dead was preferable to being away at school.”

  It’s kind of a funny thing to say, but I don’t think she is trying to be funny.

  “Honestly…,” I say, then pause to decide how honest my next words will be. “I’m not sure what I was hoping for when I did it. And I did end up going back to school. I told my parents I wanted to go back. I took all of those pills just so they wouldn’t send me back, would be too worried to let me go. But then when the time came, I didn’t want to stay home. As much as I hated it there, staying home seemed worse. And now”—I shrug, a gesture that is woefully insufficient to express my uncertainty—“I don’t know what I want. I don’t feel much about it now. I’m just kind of … numb. Awake. Asleep. It’s all the same to me.”

  Dr. Lineberger is, for once, not writing in her notebook as I talk. She seems riveted by my story.

  “So, this sadness,” she asks, “it was there before your father died? Before you even knew he was sick?”

  “Yeah. I guess. I’m not sure ‘sadness’ is the right word. Hopelessness, maybe. What’s the point in trying, if tomorrow you wake up and there are just new problems to solve, new mountains to climb?”

  “What kinds of problems, Dane? Can you give me a specific example?”

  “I don’t know. Problems like a school assignment I don’t want to do, or problems like climate change. One is manageable but pointless; the other is too big to fix. It just seemed easier to shut down.”

  “So, just to use your climate change example, what if you did focus in school, went to college and got a job in developing clean energy alternatives, and contributed some small part to a global solution? Why do you think you can’t be part of the solution?”

  “You don’t know me very well, but if you think I’m going to be part of the solution to any of the world’s problems, then the situation is even more bleak than I already thought it was.”

  Dr. Lineberger cracks a small smile at that but says, “I’m just suggesting that, maybe, having a goal, and working toward it, is more productive than just giving up and hiding under the covers.”

  “I guess.”

  “Everyone feels the way that you do, Dane. When we stop and take the time to worry, it can seem overwhelming. Our goal here, together, is to look at ways you can feel like that there are things you want to accomplish, achievements that can make you feel good. A good goal right now would be learning to manage your grief about your father. We’ve got a reality to deal with. And it’s preventing you from moving forward with a life for yourself.”

  “I guess it’s hard to get over my dad being gone, because he’s not really gone. He’s still … hanging around.”

  “You mean his memory? Things that remind you of your father?”

  “That too, I guess. But no, I mean, like, he’s still there.” I hadn’t planned on telling Dr. Lineberger any of this but now that we’re talking about it, I figure … what the hell?

  “Elaborate, please,” Dr. Lineberger says, and tugs at the hem of her skirt as she settles in to get comfortable. “That is, tell me what you mean.”

  I know what “elaborate” means, but this time I resist the urge to tell her so.

  “I mean he’s still here. His spirit, or whatever.”

  “Are we talking about ghosts?” Dr. Lineberger asks.

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” I say, hoping to seem agreeable.

  “You’ve seen your father’s ghost?” If she thinks I’m crazy, I don’t think she’s supposed to let on about it, but I can hear it in her voice anyway.

  “Not exactly. See, there’s this coyote that lives in the neighborhood. He turned up right after my dad died. I guess I kind of feel like this coyote … it’s my dad. Only reincarnated. He hangs around the neighborhood. Like he’s keeping an eye on the house. On me. Do you think that’s crazy?”

  “‘Crazy’ isn’t a word I would use. It isn’t a clinical diagnosis. If you are having hallucinations, actually seeing your father’s ghost, that might be one thing. But just sensing that his spirit lives on in this … coyote? Perhaps you are just holding on to his memory in a way that feels comforting. You can imagine he’s still there, even if he’s gone.”

  “I suppose,” I say, noncommittal as to whether I agree with her assessment.

  “Have you talked about this with your mother?” she asks.

  I laugh. “No way. She would definitely think I was crazy. I mean, she already does. That’s why I’m here. Talking to you.”

  “I think you’re here because your mother cares about you, Dane. She wants you to get better.”

  “Well,” I say, “we have different opinions on that.”

  ACT III

  THUS BAD BEGINS, AND WORSE REMAINS BEHIND

  Mom wants us to spend more quality time together. She tells me this as I’m lying in bed trying to get ten more minutes of sleep before I have to be up for work. I’ll agree to anything just to get her to stop talking. I think she is aware of this and that is why she makes suggestions like “dinner together as a family,” whatever that means, when I am still half asleep.

  Just like Mom was always trying to get Dad to quit things, she’s always trying to make people do things that she decides are best for them. I don’t think she has started in on Chuck yet, getting him to quit eating prime rib or to stop drinking so much scotch. Maybe once she starts in on him about that stuff he’ll lose interest in her like he did with his ex-wife.

  “Are you working today?” Mom asks.

  “Mph.” I’m only barely awake, so my response is noncommittal.

  “Until what time?”

  “What?” Now I’m mostly awake, but I still have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “What time do you finish work today?”

  “The store closes at six.”

  “So, you’re off at six o’clock?”

  “I just said that. For the love of God, Mom, please. What time is it?”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Dane. For goodness’ sake. Most of the world has been awake for hours.”

  “I’m off at six. Okay? And only old people have been up for hours. Now shut the door so I can go back to sleep.”

  “I’m going to make reservations at the club for seven. Don’t be late.”

  “You could just send me a text to tell me this.”

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about. We live in the same house and we text instead of talking.”

  “Shut the door, Mom.”

  She sighs as she leaves and shuts the door—hard. My last therapist said he thought Mom was passive-aggressive. He wasn’t a very good therapist, but he sure had Mom figured out.

  * * *

  When I arrive at the country club at seven fifteen to meet Chuck and Mom for dinner, I notice Eric’s Audi in the parking lot. The dread that I am already feeling becomes a rock in my stomach and I think about l
eaving.

  They are already seated at a table in the dining room when I arrive. There are three phones on the table, but Mom must have told everybody not to look at theirs. Mom is old enough that she still wears a watch, the real kind that only tells the time, and she looks at hers the second she sees me walking toward them. Classic passive-aggressive.

  “Glad you could make it,” she says, passively. Then she smiles, aggressively.

  “We’ll see if you change your mind about that,” I say as I take the empty seat and unfold my napkin.

  “We’ve already ordered,” Chuck says, but not in a mean way. His smile is apologetic and I almost feel bad for hating him so much.

  “There’s Dave Ingram,” Mom says. Mom places the tips of three fingers on Chuck’s wrist and nods at the middle of the room. Her voice is low and conspiratorial. I’m thankful that Dave Ingram has distracted her from torturing me. Probably because there’s something tragic about Dave Ingram, and she’s always interested in anyone who suffers more than she does.

  Chuck doesn’t have a lot of neck agility, so he has to half turn in his chair in order to see where Mom has indicated. Mom rolls her eyes slightly at this because Chuck is being so obvious.

  “He had to have six inches of his colon removed,” Mom leans forward to say to all of us, “it was so full of polyps.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, fighting back the bile in my throat. “Why do you know that?”

  “His wife, Miriam, is in my Bikram yoga class,” Mom says, still directing a side eye at Dave Ingram and his family.

  “Six inches is a lot,” Chuck says.

  “Not actually,” Eric says with a laugh.

  Chuck and Mom don’t seem to hear Eric, but even if they do, they don’t get his joke. Which is typical. Middle-aged people spend more time thinking about their colons than they do about dicks.

  “Maybe it was six centimeters,” Chuck offers helpfully.

  Mom grimaces with doubt at Chuck’s ignorance about the human digestive tract. “I don’t know. Six centimeters doesn’t sound like much. I’m not even sure how long six centimeters is.…”

  “Dane, you can show her what six centimeters looks like.” Eric is grinning at me over the top of his glass as he lifts it to drink. “Am I right?”

  I ignore him and pretend as if I’m listening earnestly to Mom and Chuck, as if the length of Dave Ingram’s colon is something I’ve wanted to know my whole life.

  “Well, either way,” Mom says, gesturing with her hand so that we all can’t help but admire her acrylic nail tips, glowing white under the crystal chandelier, “they had to cut out a big part of his colon. And Miriam didn’t say it, but I know he eats a lot of red meat and he won’t drink any of those juice blends like the ones I make for you.”

  “That’s victim-shaming,” I say.

  Now they’re all staring at me, either with a question or, in Eric’s case, confusion. I’m not really sure what victim-shaming is, or why it’s bad, but I’ve heard Ophelia express outrage about it during some of our conversations. Mom sometimes talks about Dad’s cancer like it was an inevitable result of his lifestyle. It makes me nuts. Kids get cancer all the time and it’s not like a six-year-old is out smoking cigarettes or drinking martinis.

  “What?” I ask as they all keep staring at me silently. “It is. It’s victim-shaming to say that Dave Ingram lost his colon because he made bad choices about the food he ate.” I shrug as I take the opportunity to look across the room at Dave and his family, who all look pretty happy at their table. They look like a family should. I can just imagine what Thanksgiving or Christmas is like at the Ingram household. Everybody is so fucking grateful that Dave just lost part of his colon, not his whole life to cancer. Losing six centimeters or six inches of his colon was probably an eye-opener, and everyone in the family was woke to the fact that they could lose Dave at any time. And now, here they are, reveling in their togetherness as a family. It’s almost beautiful to watch.

  “Eric was just telling us about the plans for the senior trip to the Shenandoah,” Mom says, disrupting my enjoyment of the Ingram family’s annual Christmas tradition with all of them in their ugly sweaters, posing for photos in front of a big stone fireplace, opening presents around a massive tree, a real one, not the fake kind my mom puts up every year because she doesn’t like pine needles in the carpet.

  “You’re going to need new hiking boots,” she says, pointing one of her perfect nails at me.

  “I’m not going on the senior trip,” I say, deciding this as I say it.

  “Why not?” Eric asks. “It’s going to be…”

  He talks for what seems like a really … really long time.

  God, I’d give anything to see the world through Eric’s eyes. He’s got everything all figured out—just waiting for graduation to launch him into his gap year and being an adult useless turd, instead of a pre-adult useless turd. Why does he spend time on homework or participating in extracurricular activities? He honestly believes that all that shit really matters.

  “I’m not going,” I say, slowly, “because the senior class trip is gay. I mean, not gay like it’s insulting to homosexuals, but … you know.” I’m editing as I speak, thinking about Ophelia’s accusing glare if I use the word “gay” to mean anything negative. “Like, I think it’s going to be lame.”

  “Jesus, Dane,” Mom says, her teeth gnashing at the s’s in “Jesus” as she reaches for her wineglass.

  We all ignore Mom’s outburst, each for our own reasons. Chuck wants to pretend as if everything is fine, it’s all cool. I hate her tactics, but I can never formulate an effective response to them—which, by the way, is how passive-aggressiveness works.

  “Jeez, Dane,” Eric says, choosing the politically correct way of taking Jesus’s name in vain. “I feel like your hostility is unfair. The student association has invested a lot of time in these activities.” His mouth is curled into a predatory smile but I’m the only one who notices it. He doesn’t give a crap about the student association. He’s just hoping to get loaded, and probably get some girl drunk so he can take advantage of the situation. And now he’s doing his best to make me look like a whiny baby in front of Chuck and Mom.

  “I get that, Eric,” I say, “and I appreciate you. Group activities just aren’t my thing.”

  “The oysters are here,” Chuck says with obvious relief and too much delight as a platter is set down in the middle of the table before us. It’s a large metal tray, piled high with ice, a dozen oysters lying open on the half shell in front of us. There’s a pause as everyone else at the table picks up their phones to snap a picture of the oysters. Like the proverbial tree falling in the woods, it’s hard to say you actually enjoyed something unless you convince your social media followers that you did.

  The oysters are large, the size of a human ear, and in the same shape. They glisten under the candlelight and, as the light flickers, the oysters seem to be shivering, or breathing. I put my hands on the sides of my chair and the weight of my legs on the backs of my hands. I do this whenever I feel like I might fly into a million pieces.

  I read somewhere that when you order oysters on the half shell, the oysters are actually delivered to the table still alive. The oyster only dies when you bite into it, or when your stomach acid starts to digest it. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it sounds true. And, anyway, who really gets to decide the difference between life and death, numbness and pain? For all we know, oysters have an elaborate belief system that correctly explains the meaning of life and the universe.

  Chuck and Eric dig into the oysters, slurping the quivering little bodies right off the rough shells. They are greedy and sloppy about it—their mouths wet with oyster juice. There are dainty forks for removing the oysters from the shells, and these they use to spoon little heaps of cocktail sauce onto the oyster. They add lemon juice or a dab of horseradish, anything to conceal the actual taste of the oyster. The condiments are added like a solemn ritual, as if the oyster’s e
ntire existence has only been in preparation for this moment, a Viking send-off for a mollusk.

  All I can think about is the pain the oysters must be experiencing, and Chuck’s indifference to it. Maybe the whole situation, Mom dating Chuck, forgetting Dad—maybe that’s all her. Maybe Chuck is an innocent victim. But now that I’m watching him, the Oyster Killer, relishing the taste of each little death in his mouth, it’s killing more than just the oysters.

  The oysters’ shells are still drenched in seawater and the smell emanating from them is metallic. The cocktail sauce makes the oysters look as if they are swimming in pools of their own blood.

  Of course, I can’t really hear the oysters screaming in agony. Oysters don’t have mouths, or even central nervous systems, as far as I know. But watching Chuck and Eric eat the oysters is filling me with anxiety. I can hear their jaws working against grit and slime amid the intermittent screams of the oysters.

  And, oh God, another thought occurs to me, that for people who come back for life after death, being an oyster is probably a lot worse than coming back as a squirrel. Maybe coming back as an oyster is the reincarnation equivalent of hell. Or not. Life for an oyster is probably pretty simple, like being a monk. Maybe there is some joy and peace in that simplicity.

  But I doubt it. Especially if the end result is to be eaten alive by a guy like Eric.

  I don’t know why I can’t ever stop thinking things like this. Why my mind has to go tripping down rabbit holes that are uncomfortably tight, dank, and dirty.

  I’m still sitting on my hands, doing an okay job of pretending like everything is cool with me, when Chuck makes a noise from the strain of trying to dislodge an oyster from its comfortable home. The guttural sound coming from his throat dislodges my cool, right as his knife dislodges the oyster.

  I stand quickly, tipping my chair over as I do, and take a step back from the table. My legs become tangled in the legs of the overturned chair and I fall to one side, wrenching my calf painfully against the steel chair frame.