by Tom Bierdz
I took it, marched into the kitchen, and poured her another, a weaker one, then topped mine off. We were needing to numb the pain. I entered the room, gave Hanna her drink, and then kissed her cheek. I didn’t know how she would react. She didn’t, not outwardly. I set my drink down, picked up the TV remote. “Let’s take a break,” I said, turning it on. The news was covering Kevin’s drowning. I switched it off.
A tear slid down Hanna’s cheek. She set down her drink and curled up in the corner of the couch. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the arm of the sofa.
I sipped my scotch and watched her like that for several minutes wondering what effect the loss would have on this family.
I was on my third drink, suspecting the alcohol was going to prove ineffective in deadening the pain, when Hanna moved over to my side of the couch. “Hold me, Grant. I need to feel something. Know I exist.”
I cuddled her, my face damp from the tears on her face. Pressing our bodies together, we drew comfort from each other and fell asleep on the couch. Hours later I awoke and dragged Hanna back to our bed.
3
The following morning I rose before Hanna and ambled to the kitchen to make the coffee. She needed to sleep. Both of us had a fitful night and had to sleep when we could. I felt compelled to go to Kevin’s room but fought against it. He wasn’t there. I’d only be aggravating myself. I tried to convince myself that he normally wouldn’t be up at this early hour. But this was anything but a normal hour. I sat down with the coffee when it was ready and tried to remember specific events in Kevin’s life but, no matter how I tried, my mind refused to stop and focus. Instead, it blurred images before me.
Hanna stirred, then entered the kitchen in a tee-shirt and pajama bottoms. I poured her a cup of coffee when she sat at the table, and then bent down and kissed her face. Non-responsive, she forced a smile. Any other day we began with a hug and a kiss, but this day was not like any other.
“Can I make you breakfast? Some toast maybe?”
“I’m not hungry.”
I dropped a slice of bread into the toaster for myself and topped off my coffee. Glancing out the window to the backyard I recalled playing catch with Kevin when he was nine or ten. We were living in an apartment since I was still in school. He tossed his glove on the ground, complained I threw too hard, and walked away. When we moved here he blew me off when I suggested we play catch. Why was I haunted by an incident that happened five or six years ago? I should feel guilty because I threw the baseball too hard? I buttered my toast and sat down at the table next to my wife.
She looked as if she had turned to crystal, all the color gone from her face. I feared that any moment she could shatter into little pieces.
“Do you know what it’s like to face that officer who came to the door? You were in the office eyeing that attractive woman…Mary…I had to hear it, hear him say Kevin is dead. Ask me to come ID the body.”
“Huh?” I said, startled. “I…can’t imagine.”
“No, you can’t, can you? You couldn’t imagine Kevin killing himself either, could you?” She was smoldering with anger. I tried to tell myself that anger was one of the five stages of grief, but it didn’t make her assault less painful.
“No, I thought he was going through an adolescent phase he’d get over. Honey, we talked about it. You didn’t think it was that bad?” I reached for her arm.
She slapped my hand away. “Don’t honey me.” She was in full-vitriolic mode now. “Of course, I didn’t know or I would have done something about it. But you are the shrink. You’re the expert. You’re supposed to know something about human nature. What makes people tick? Had you paid more attention…”
I threw my hands in the air. “I made several overtures. Kevin brushed me off.”
“Overtures! The language of our youth. Listen to yourself.”
A tear slithered down my right cheek. Despite Hanna’s cruel attack, she was right. I was a psychiatrist and I had overlooked the depth of my son’s depression.
“I blame you, Grant. You should have stopped him. Whether it was medication, something you did, or a referral, you should have stopped him.” She let out a strangled cry and then wailed bitterly.
Helplessly, I sat and watched her bolt into the bedroom and slam the door.
4
Knowing we’d have to move Kevin’s body soon, we spent what seemed like countless hours deciding on the funeral. Would it be big and grand or small and simple? Eventually, we chose cremation after Hanna recalled a dinner conversation in which Kevin expressed a desire to be cremated when he died. Family dinners were rare in our household due to my long, and sometimes erratic, working hours, especially when I was beginning my practice. And when Kevin reached adolescence he was seldom around or interested. Hanna had tried to schedule dinner but something usually came up. She finally gave up rather than deal with the tension. The infrequent family dinners and the unusual subject matter may be the reason we remembered that particular conversation. Moreover, Kevin’s identity was his consciousness, or soul, not his body. I had no objection to cremation.
We had a small service in a hospital chapel and invited family and a few friends. Word got out. Kevin’s school friends and a couple of teachers attended, as did neighbors and other sympathizers, nearly filling the chapel. Hanna chose a beautiful urn for Kevin’s ashes that sat upon a tall pedestal on the altar. With the help of her niece, Hanna put together a slide show featuring a collage of photos from when Kevin was a baby to a current Facebook photo. From crawling as a toddler, to sitting on a toilet training, potty chair to every school yearbook picture, to playing ball and fishing with Dad, to Mother reading to him. There were photos of him walking along the beach and hiking in the hills, to dorky pictures with friends, before a lectern on the Debate Team, getting dressed up for a dance with his girlfriend, plus many more. Classical music was piped in. Sniffles and crying outburst were heard. There were but a few dry eyes in the crowd. No eulogies were scheduled. Still, his debate teacher stood and described Kevin as a serious student whose talents would be missed. A male friend we knew emphasized Kevin’s kindness, and a girlfriend we didn’t know described him as playful and funny. It had been long ago when I had seen the playful and funny side of Kevin.
I cried silently, tears rolling down my face and blurring my vision, and tried to comfort Hanna who bawled practically the entire time. After the service we stood and accepted the condolences of the participants. It was gut-wrenching and we were totally drained.
We didn’t say much to each other driving home. We didn’t even talk about the service. We were exhausted and lost in thought, but something about Kevin’s death wedged a distance between us. Any other day I probably wouldn’t give this any attention, consider it normal under the circumstances. And, maybe it was, but since I had missed the extent of Kevin’s depression, I needed to question my perception of things. How could I, a psychiatrist, have not seen the inevitable torment my son was experiencing? Although days went by when we didn’t see each other, or say more than a few words due to our activities, we lived in the same household.
I glanced at Hanna, usually fresh and beautiful, who seemed to be shrinking before my eyes. Her face, sallow and pinched, was devoid of joy. She looked ten years older as she sat with her head down, oblivious to the world around her. If she looked out the window once during the drive, I hadn’t noticed. Like any married couple we’ve had our disagreements, times when we argued, and didn’t want to speak to each other, but this was different. I lost Kevin and I didn’t want to lose Hanna too.
As soon as we were home, Hanna went directly into the bedroom to take a nap without saying a word to me. There were several missed calls on my phone, all I assumed to offer condolence and help that I ignored. I laid on the couch. Sleep wouldn’t come so I got up, donned a light jacket, and sat on the deck outside and tried to seek solace from my beautiful surroundings. Springtime, the trees were bursting with the bright, early green that would darken with summer’s a
rrival. A sea of yellow daffodils filled a section of the yard. Warbling birds welcomed the warmer weather and fluttered from tree to tree.
Hours later, Hanna arose and approached me inside. “We need to talk,” she said.
“Okay.” I sunk down on the sofa and steeled myself.
In pajamas and robe, her hair untamed, she sat down in an adjacent chair. “I don’t know how to say this and I know this is unfair of me, but I need you to move out. I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”
“Forgive me for Kevin?”
“Yes. I didn’t realize Kevin was suicidal but I’m not a shrink. You are. You should have known and stopped him.”
“He didn’t give us any clues, provide any evidence that he wanted to kill himself.”
“He was depressed.”
“So are countless others.”
“Could it be that he wasn’t a priority of yours?”
I fought to contain the surge of anger within. “I’m not a mind reader.”
“You’re not and I said I was unfair, but I can recall a couple of conversations we had in which I expressed my concern about Kevin. One of those was last week when I told you I thought he was taking this rejection from Lara hard. You said that all kids get rejected, that he’ll get over it.”
“Everybody gets rejected. That’s part of life. I’ve been rejected dozens of times…”
“This isn’t about you.”
“It sure as hell is when you’re accusing me of failing Kevin. I went to Kevin that very next day. He didn’t want to talk. He practically closed his door in my face.”
“You made an attempt. Hooray! Maybe, if he was willing to pay you—”
“Stop! You’re way out of line now. In retrospect, I could have tried harder. Suicide is often an impulsive act, decided on the spot. Frequently, it happens without warning.”
Hanna stood. “Well, heed my warning. I want you to get out as soon as possible.” She turned, went back into the bedroom and closed the door.
5
Hours later we had another discussion that was similar to the first. Hanna did not budge and was insistent. That night I slept in the guest room. The following morning I packed lightly as if I were going on a trip and checked into a local hotel. I ordered Grace to pencil me in for the next day. I needed to see my patients, perhaps, more for me than for them. I needed to keep busy, have something to occupy my mind.
That evening I went to the hotel lounge, a low-lit ebony bar with a brass rail and a scattering of small tables. A moderately-sized crowd, mostly of couples with a few single men at the bar, filled the place. Feeling out of step and thinking I would not be staying long, I picked a seat at the edge of the bar near the entrance and ordered a scotch. I wanted to hear some merriment to take me out of the doldrums, but at the same time I grew irritated with the people at one table in particular, who were laughing loudly. I would have felt more in synch with Mozart’s Requiem. I felt strange, weird, sitting at a bar under the circumstances. I bent and stretched my head to my left shoulder and then to my right to ease the tension in my neck. I should be sitting close to Hanna where we could be supporting each other in our tragic loss. Additionally, I was embarrassed to have anyone I know to see me there. I wouldn’t know what to say or how to relate. At the same time I was reluctant to go back to my room. It was overheated and the windows were impossible to open. The room, itself, was comfortable, a typical hotel space with a king-sized bed, two-piece bathroom, row of dressers and a TV, but depressing. It wasn’t my home and I found it demoralizing.
On my third drink Carrie McBride appeared. Petite and pretty with olive skin and dark hair that fell to the middle of her back, she was a defense attorney who worked with her attorney father, Mike McBride. They owned the building and occupied the first floor. I rented the upstairs office from them. “Buy a girl a drink?”
Smiling for the first time today, I said, “How did you know where I was?”
“I called Hanna.” She hopped on the bar stool next to me.
I had left Hanna a note in case she needed to reach me. “How was she?”
“Trying hard to keep her head above water.” Her hands sprung up and grasped her head as she shook it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…She was weepy. Actually, I called you. I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Neither did I.” Carrie was my best friend. We had had a brief affair, some fifteen years ago after a Christmas party, when I worked for her father as a pseudo private eye when I was twenty-one and she a few years younger, before I went to medical school. We decided to become good friends instead of lovers, and although the sparks still occasionally fly, we’ve kept the relationship platonic.
“What’s going on?”
“She blames me.”
“For Kevin?”
I nodded, waved over the bartender, ordered a gin and tonic for Carrie and another scotch for myself. “Supposedly, I’m the expert. I should have seen the danger and stopped Kevin.”
“She can’t really believe that. I’ve never been a parent, but who knows what goes on in the mind of a teenager?”
“Well, she does believe it. She frightens me. I’ve never seen her like this. I know she’s going through hell, but she’s never been like this.”
“She’ll come around.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I eyed a middle-aged man slide off his bar stool and approach a woman at a table who had entered a few minutes ago.
Deep in thought, Carrie ran her finger around the rim of her drink. “I’m so sorry about Kevin.”
Her compassionate reddish-brown, eyes drew a tear from mine. “Thanks.” I barely got the word out. I cleared my throat.
“You don’t have to stay at the hotel. You can crash at my place. Stay as long as you like.”
“You only have one bedroom.”
“You’ve slept on my couch before.”
I nodded, my eyes cast downward as I rotated the scotch between my hands. When I looked up the man returned to his seat at the bar. “Maybe another time. I need to be alone tonight.”
“I understand. My offer stands and has no expiration date. You’ve been there for me through all kinds of shit, including my divorce. I want to be there for you.”
“I know that…and I need that.”
“Should I, maybe, talk to Hanna?”
“No. I wouldn’t want her to feel pressured. That would only delay the inevitable. She needs to make this decision on her own.”
“If you want to talk about Kevin?”
Forcing a wan smile, I said, “That’s the last thing I want to talk about.” We talked for a while longer. Then, I drained my drink, signed the check.
Carrie slid off her stool and squeezed me close to her. “I care the world about you, Grant. If there’s anything… I mean it about you staying over. It’s no burden. It would give me something to look forward to.”
I kissed her on the cheek. “I will think about it.”
She started to exit, then remembered, “Oh, that telephone call in your room is from me.”
She wanted to dampen my excitement when I saw the lit up light on my room phone. I watched her exit the building and then retired to my room.
Tears flowed the moment I entered the room and closed the door behind me. Hollow, like I’d been gutted and sewed back up, I fell on my bed and cried into my pillow. After shedding all my tears I picked up my phone to check if Hanna had called. She hadn’t. I called her. She didn’t answer. I told her voice mail I missed her.
6
After a fitful night I struggled to get to work, questioning if I was returning too soon. I wanted to crash under the covers but the odds of me sleeping restfully were slim, and what would I do with myself awake? I took pills for my headache and stomach cramps, showered and dressed for work. I managed to get through my morning patients. I was adequate, but far from my best, and didn’t make any grievous mistakes. By noon I was all emptied out. I had nothing else to give. Grace had to reschedule my afternoon appointments.
I
needed to see Hanna. Approaching the house I was keenly aware of the picturesque beauty of my surroundings; the rows of architecturally statuesque homes with their bursting vegetation and manicured landscaping, the rolling hills, the winding blacktop roads under mature tree tunnels, the view of the languorously, aquamarine waters of the Sound from on top of the hill. All of it contrary to the darkness inside me.
Under a wide-brimmed sunbonnet with blue gloves, Hanna perched on a padded garden kneeler, working a trowel in the ground. Standing silently, I watched her movements, her efficient wrist action, the bend of her head, as she dug small holes into the ground, piling the dirt beside. She caught me with her peripheral vision. “Grant, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?”
Smiling, I said, “I needed to see you.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Let me finish planting these tulip bulbs.” She placed a bulb into the hole and looked up. “Door’s open. Go inside and make yourself a drink.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Then go in and make me one. I don’t like you watching me.”
“You used to like it.”
She patted down the dirt over a bulb. “Things are different.”
“The drink?”
“Gin Gimlet.” Her voice had an edge of impatience.
As I walked inside the kitchen my heart sunk. I missed my house. I made her drink, fixed myself a scotch. Maybe the hair of the dog that bit me would make me feel better. I sat at the table where I could look at her from out the window.
Minutes later she walked inside, washed her hands in the sink, sat down beside me and grabbed her drink. After drawing deeply, she said, “Fucked up world, isn’t it? How does that song go, you’re riding high in April, shot down in May.”
