by Lisa Genova
He stares at the damaged wall, avoiding the TV and the sudden, palpable absence of Yaz, and he feels that familiar, primal rage stretching its long, hairy arms, awakening inside him. The rage clenches its fists, threatening that idiot white male for aiming to kill innocent people, good people who’ve devoted their lives to the healing of others, people like his daughter-in-law, mother of his grandson. They could’ve been there.
The rage stands and curses at that idiot white male for shooting Sean. The rage seethes, disgusted with the news reporters who Joe can hear are now talking about Lindsay Lohan instead of giving him an update on the condition of his friend. Sean has to survive. He has a wife, a family.
The rage beats its chest and howls at Joe for quitting his job. It should’ve been him at Spaulding instead of Sean. He didn’t stay in the fight. He gave up. He quit so he could stay home in sweatpants, drink beers, and watch TV. He’s not Boston Strong. He’s a friggin’ coward.
The rage roars deep within him, and an ungodly sound vibrates into every corner of his being, heard by every cell. Joe retrieves the sledgehammer from the broom closet and goes to work on the wall. He winds up. Slam. He winds up again. Slam. He winds up and falls backward onto the floor. He gets up, swings, and slam. The sound of the hammer making contact and the physical experience of each impact are immensely satisfying, better than hitting a baseball with the sweet spot of a bat.
He’s breathing in drywall dust, heaving and hacking, swinging and falling, swinging and pounding and falling. Slam. Bits of wall crumble onto his dirty white socks. Slam. He hears his voice yelling nonsense, his voice grunting, the wall breaking apart. Bam. Bam. Bam.
Finally he’s exhausted, and Joe drops the sledgehammer to the floor. He rubs his eyes and sits on the bed. The bed? He’s not in the kitchen. The room is dark. He’s in his bedroom. The walls. There are bashed-in holes all over the bedroom, pieces of bedroom wall all over the bedroom floor.
He counts. Nine holes. Shit. How did that happen?
He staggers out to the hallway. The entire length from living room to kitchen is littered with hammered holes. He approaches the living room as if investigating a crime scene. The room is intact but for the beheaded angel. He returns to the kitchen. The wall is gutted, destroyed.
Joe rakes his fingers over his sweaty face. What the fuck just happened to him? He was literally out of his mind. What if Rosie or Patrick had been here? Would they have been able to talk sense into him and stop him, or would he have taken a swing at them? Would he have hurt them? Is he capable of that?
Joe walks back into his darkened bedroom and absorbs the senseless destruction before him. He was completely out of control. The thought scares the bejesus out of him. He looks down at his hands. They’re shaking.
What if Colleen or JJ had walked in with the baby while Joe was in the middle of his rampage? He can’t stand the thought of it. He sits on the edge of the bed, surveys the mess, and cries. Rosie’s going to kill him.
Somebody should.
His phone dings.
Sean’s out of surgery. Condition stable. He’ll be OK.
Joe types:
Tiding bed she it there.
Damn autocorrect. Midget keyboard. Friggin’ spastic fingers. He’s text slurring. He tries again.
Thx. B safe out there.
Joe exhales and thanks God, grateful that Sean is going to survive. Then he sees the vandalized walls, the godawful mess he made, and gratitude is swiftly supplanted by unbearable shame for what he’s done, for what he has, for who he is.
He’s an officer who’s no longer an officer. He’s not protecting the city of Boston. He’s not protecting anyone. JJ and Meghan will get HD, and it’s his fault. Patrick and Katie and baby Joseph, God bless him, are all at risk, and it’s his fault. He’s never even held his own grandson, too afraid of some unintended, unpredictable movement hurting him. He can’t provide for his wife but for a pitiful 30 percent pension, not enough to live on. He’s about to divorce her.
He can’t protect Boston or his fellow officers or his family. He looks at the holes in the walls. He just smashed the shit out of his own home. He’s a home wrecker.
So what’s left for him? Wither in a disgusting stew of shame for years in the living room and then the state hospital, some poor nurse wiping shit off his skinny ass every day until he starves or develops pneumonia and finally dies? What’s the point? Why put them all through the miserable shame of it all?
Joe thinks of Yaz. He lived a good, full life. And then, when his quality of life drained away, they didn’t make him suffer. Yaz’s end was peaceful and dignified, fast and painless. Five seconds after the vet’s injection, he was gone.
It was the humane thing to do. Joe takes note of the word human in humane, and yet that kind of “human” compassion is reserved only for animals, not for people. There is no five-second injection option for Joe. Doctors aren’t allowed to be humane with humans. Joe and everyone like him will be expected to suffer and suck it up, to endure zero quality of life while being a burden to everyone held dear until the bitter, gruesome end.
Fuck that.
Joe walks over to his dresser. Police sirens wail outside, stretching, floating, drifting into the distance. Joe pauses to listen. Silence.
He opens the top drawer and removes his handgun, his Smith & Wesson Bodyguard. He removes the trigger lock and holds the gun in his hand. He curls his fingers around the handle, appreciating the power packed into its light weight, the natural fit of it in his palm. He ejects the magazine and eyeballs it. Six rounds, plus the one that’s already in the chamber. It’s fully loaded. He snaps the magazine back into place.
“Joe?”
He looks up, startled.
“What are you doing?” asks Rosie, standing on the threshold of their bedroom, illuminated by the hallway light.
“Nothing. Go back to JJ’s.”
“Joe, you’re scaring me.”
Joe looks at the black holes and dark shadows all over the walls, at the gun in his hand. He doesn’t look at Rosie.
“Don’t be scared, hun. I’m just makin’ sure it works.”
“It works. Put the gun away, okay?”
“This doesn’t concern you, Rosie. Go back to JJ’s.”
Joe waits. Rosie doesn’t budge. The primal rage stirs inside him. He swallows and grinds his teeth.
“Joe—”
“Go, I said! Get outta here!”
“No. I’m not going anywhere. Whatever you’re doing, you’re going to have to do it in front of me.”
CHAPTER 29
The gun is still his plan. Joe didn’t promise Rosie anything. She talked him off the ledge the other night, but he’s still enamored with his decision, the control it offers him. The idea of cheating HD out of its fiendish end fills Joe with a sense of justice, even sweet victory. He’s going to go out on his own terms. He’s not going to give HD the diabolical satisfaction of finishing him off. The good guy will win in the end, and HD will lose. Of course, the good guy wins by dying, but at least this way, he deprives HD of taking the credit. It’s a classic tale of good versus evil. Disney could make a friggin’ movie out of this shit.
He opens his top dresser drawer and goes through the familiar steps. He cradles the gun in his hand, removes the trigger lock, ejects the magazine, counts the rounds, pops the magazine back into place, snaps the trigger lock, returns the gun to the dresser, and shuts the drawer. Before letting go of the knobs, he slides the drawer open once more, allowing himself one more visual of the gun, confirming its presence, and then he shuts the drawer.
He exhales, absorbing the delicious satisfaction in knowing that his gun and the bullets are still there. The relief rushes through him, so fast and thorough, better than the endorphin high he feels after running the Forty Flights. He wishes the feeling would last. It never does.
He checks th
e gun many times a day. Often many times an hour. He can’t stop. In a few minutes, the relief will have completely evaporated, and he’ll be nagged by that addictive uncertainty. What if the gun is gone? What if the bullets are gone? It’s irrational. He knows they’re in the dresser. He just checked it. But the doubt gets more insistent, a doorbell ringing faster and louder in the center of his head over and over, and it won’t stop until he answers the friggin’ door.
Check the gun. Check the gun. Check the gun!
So the only way to rid himself of the compulsive thought is to check the friggin’ gun. So he does. There. It’s done. The gun is there. The bullets are there. But the maddening uncertainty finds its way back to him within minutes, like an eager dog that has just fetched a stick, never tiring of the game no matter how many times Joes throws it.
He grabs another Bud from the fridge, acknowledges the three empties from earlier this morning on the counter, and returns to his chair in the living room. He realizes that drinking beers and checking his gun isn’t a responsible combination, but he shrugs it off. He can do what he wants. He can handle it.
He hears the front door open and footsteps approaching from down the hall. Rosie’s at work. It’s probably Donny or Tommy, coming to lecture him about the gun and drinking and scaring Rosie. He’s been expecting this. He sits up straighter in his chair, defiantly holding his can of Bud, sloshing some onto his sweatpants, ready to defend his plan and actions to Donny or Tommy. They’ll understand. He looks up, and it’s Katie. He’s not ready to defend anything to Katie.
Katie eyeballs him up and down with her hands on her hips and says nothing. She turns, walks over to the windows, and slingshots the three shades up to the ceiling. Natural light floods into the room. Joe squints and turns his head, offended by the sunny day. He hadn’t realized how dark it had been in the living room. Dust particles float and sparkle in the air over the coffee table, which is littered with a stack of unread Patriot Ledgers, two empty bags of chips, this morning’s forgotten sippy cup of coffee.
Katie turns and walks straight to Joe. She takes the clicker from the arm of Joe’s chair, shuts off the TV, walks the clicker over to the TV cabinet, and leaves it there.
“Hey,” says Joe.
Katie says nothing. She pulls the rocking chair over and sets it directly in front of Joe. She sits, and then, remembering, backs up a careful foot. She knows now from experience not to plant herself too close to her dad. She might get HD-slapped in the face, punched in the ribs, kicked in the shins, knocked over. He elbowed Rosie square in the nose last week, gave her a shiner. He can still see the bruised discoloration beneath her eye, even under the makeup she applies to hide it. The poor woman looks abused. In so many ways, she is.
“Mom told me what happened,” she says, staring into her father’s eyes, unwavering.
Joe says nothing. He’d like to stop her right there, to tell her that her mother shouldn’t have shared that with her, that she shouldn’t worry or that it’s none of her business, but the words are locked up inside the prison cell of HD. Instead, he looks into his daughter’s blue eyes, determination and fear fighting for dominance in her gaze, both keeping her glued to her seat. Katie waits, probably anticipating resistance, but then his silence waves her on.
“I’m not going to tell you any clichés or quote some famous dead guy and go all yoga on you. What I’m going to say comes from me.”
She pauses, taking note of the can of Bud in his hand. At first he’s indignant. He can do what he wants. But then her fierce blue eyes turn so disappointed in him, he can’t stand it. He places the can on the side table.
“Here’s the thing, Dad. You’ve taught us kids so many things that’ve made us who we are. You taught us right from wrong, respect for others, our work ethic. You taught us about honesty and integrity, and how to love each other. Yeah, we all did okay in school, but our real education came from you guys. You and Mom have always been our first and best example of what to do.”
Joe nods, touched.
“JJ and Meghan are going to get this. Pat and I might get it, too,” she says, a surge of fear crashing through her voice, aerating each word, and Joe wants to do anything to protect his daughter from that distraught sound. But he’s the powerless cause of that sound, and it kills him. Katie presses the inside corners of her eyes with her index fingers. Joe’s arm flings out, knocking his hand against the side table, accidentally bumping the can of Bud over onto the floor.
Katie jumps up and dashes off to the kitchen. She returns with a roll of paper towels and mops up the puddle of beer on the floor.
“Thanks, hun,” says Joe.
Katie returns to her seat in the rocking chair, locks eyes with her dad, and takes a deep breath before continuing.
“We don’t know anyone else with HD. You’re the only example we have. We’re going to learn how to live and die with HD from you, Dad.”
Joe averts his eyes and thinks about his plan. His perfect plan. It’s the humane decision. He’ll be teaching them the humane thing to do, the victorious way out. The gun. He should check the gun.
“I’m not telling you what to do, Dad. I don’t have the answers here. None of us do. We don’t know what’s right and wrong when it comes to HD. But whatever you do, that’s the advice you’re giving us.”
The gun is the plan. That’s the right thing to do. That’s what he’ll be teaching his kids. He’ll be teaching them to kill themselves before HD does. The gun is the plan. The gun. He should check the gun. He wants to get up and go to the dresser, but Katie’s still locked in on him. Check the gun. It’s an itch he can’t scratch, intensifying every second he sits in his chair. Resisting the pull is agonizing.
“And okay, so I am going to go a little yoga on you,” says Katie, her voice still shaking. She scootches the rocking chair toward Joe so that they’re touching knee to knee. She leans forward and places her hands on Joe’s thighs. “If you end it now, you’re avoiding a future that hasn’t happened yet. You still have reasons to be here. I still want you to be here. We all do. We need you, Dad. Please. We need to learn how to live with this.”
Her penetrating blue eyes land on him, determined and loving, and he sees the unguarded little girl in her, the three-year-old Katie, a part of her own history she doesn’t even remember that Joe has the distinct and rare privilege of knowing. Suddenly, all thoughts of the gun disappear, and there is only Katie, his brave, beautiful daughter, this grown woman who loves him enough to face him like this, his baby girl. And a relief sweeps through Joe’s core that is bigger and deeper than every gun check combined. He bursts into tears and doesn’t try to hold them back. Katie’s crying, too, and they’re face-to-face, two blubbering messes, and there’s no shame in it. There’s no shame anywhere.
Something inside Joe awakens. He remembers teaching JJ how to zip his coat and throw a baseball, showing Patrick how to look both ways before crossing the street and to ice-skate. He taught Meghan to snap and whistle. He taught Katie how to play chess. He remembers the first time she legitimately beat him. He taught them about money, how to drive a car and change a flat tire, the importance of being on time, of always giving 100 percent. The responsibility of being their father has been his honor, and it continues, even when his kids are no longer children. They will always be his kids. He could end HD for himself today, but this part of his legacy will carry on in them.
He’s been nothing but a sorry sight, sitting in a dark living room, wearing dirty sweatpants, drinking beers before noon, checking his gun all day and night, scaring the shit out of everyone. This is not the example he wants to set. And right there, a new plan coalesces, whole and obvious, powerful and unequivocal. This is what he is here to do. He will teach his kids how to live and die with HD. This is the right thing to do, the real humane decision.
Joe wipes his face with his shirtsleeve and sighs. “You wanna get outta here?”
Katie’s wet eyes light up. “Yeah. Where to?”
“How about the yoga studio?”
Katie’s entire face pops with surprised delight, as if he’s just offered her a winning lottery ticket. “Really?”
“Yeah, it’s on my bucket list.”
“You’re going to love it, Dad.”
“Do I need one of those fruit roll-up mats?”
“I have one for you.”
“I got no idea how to do it, so go easy on me.”
“That’s the beautiful thing about yoga. You just need to know how to breathe.”
Joe notices the automatic rise and fall of his chest. Breathing. Today, he can still do that.
“Hey, Katie.”
She waits.
“Thank you, hun.”
“You bet, Dad.”
“How’d you get to be so smart?”
Katie shrugs and smiles. “Mom.”
Joe laughs, leans forward, and hugs his baby girl with all the love and pride he’s got.
CHAPTER 30
Rosie’s in the kitchen hunting for candles while Joe and the rest of the family wait for her. They’re about to break bread at the first O’Brien Sunday supper in the new dining room. Joe’s sitting at the head of an oak picnic-style table from Jordan’s Furniture that seats eight, plenty of room for everyone. The table and the ample elbow room it affords is an improvement, but Rosie’s still not happy. The wall separating the kitchen from the girls’ old bedroom is gutted and gone, destroyed in Joe’s rampage, but he hasn’t gotten around yet to replacing the wall with the promised bar counter. And they’re crowded in a different way from how they were in the kitchen, now by the cardboard boxes of old clothes and holiday crap yet to be stored elsewhere or donated, stacked up against the walls, hovering too close to the backs of everyone’s chairs. And there’s no overhead light in here. The girls had desk lamps when this was their bedroom. At four o’clock on a February afternoon, the room is only partially lit by the bright kitchen and dim hallway.
