by Paul Cody
Sam always blushed.
The thing that bothered me, and I guess maybe it shouldn’t have bothered me, is that Vera always insisted that I go to these awful dinners at the Van Resses’, accompanied by Sam in girly clothes, while I never expected—nor wanted—Vera to come to Roslindale. I think Vera actually liked my dad, but she hated baseball, and where could you shop in Roslindale?
But somehow, I was supposed to pay homage to Jack and Vivian. They were too polite not to ask about my father, but they were not polite enough to invite him to their summer place in Maine, or for a small family gathering in the Back Bay.
And the funny thing was that he probably knew more about music and books, about Kafka and Isaac Babel, about Joyce and Proust, Scarlatti, Bach, and Telemann than they did. He was, in his way, more cultured. He didn’t know a sailboat from a hole in the ground, a Cartier watch from a Rolex, but he understood beauty and art and nuance.
The incident that did it for me, though—I guess it was two things—was when my father died, late in August, three years ago, of a massive heart attack. He was home watching the Red Sox, and I took some comfort from that fact.
Sam was very upset, and we had a service at a funeral home in Roslindale. Cremation, followed by a funeral Mass a few days later. My mother- and father-in-law were in the last few days of their summer vacation, and they would not cut it short to attend the funeral. Vera spoke sharply on the phone to them. She said Sam was very upset, but they said blithely that she’d get over it.
But my former professor Ira Rosen, bless him, came to the Mass, and whispered to me afterward, So, your in-laws can’t show the respect due to a Catholic/Jew, whose half-Irish son could now buy and sell them.
I’m in a selling mood, I whispered, and he winked.
Then the whole Groton thing. That was the second thing.
Sam had been good at the small, virtually unknown place called the Crafts School. She’d had, I seem to remember, nearly a full year there that was good and happy. And then Jack and Vivian started in on Groton. Groton this and Groton that. FDR and TR, and that, of course, was the Roosevelts. And the heads of the CIA, and the State Department, and every distinguished family since Columbus had landed. And Jack himself had had simply a marvelous time there, and so too had his brother, and his uncle or father or perhaps both.
A real home-like feeling. And a sense of duty, and honor.
What the fuck did I care if Sam felt a sense of duty and honor? I wasn’t sending her to fight the Crusades or the heathen Turks at Gallipoli, or the Krauts at the Somme, or even the Commies at Khe Sanh.
How could I have caved on this one? What was I thinking? But by then of course I was at Harvard, and they all thought the world of Groton too.
And Sam. Was she consulted? Even once?
Sam liked the Crafts School.
The Crafts School, Vivian said. The Crafts School.
She herself had gone to Miss Porter’s.
So Sam went to Groton. And I thought afterward, Your family. Who is your family? Who loves you? Who looks out for you? And who do you look out for?
And when do you realize you love the people you really love, and that to do that you have to tell those others, the seemers, the pretenders, to back off? To go away?
Thirty-three
Sam
I don’t know when it started, and I don’t know why, but I should have been aware, and I should have been paying attention. This had been happening pretty much all my life, and I’d been told over and over to watch for the signs.
Just pay attention, stupid.
But so much was going on. Levon and all the stuff with his mother and father, and the idea of college, and not having that many more months at the Clock School, where I thought I had finally found a home. Plus writing like crazy, and reading a ton, and not getting enough sleep. And while I was supposed to be taking a maximum of one and a half milligrams of lorazepam a day, I was taking double that dose, to deal with the stress, and to try to get more sleep.
But I’d get in bed exhausted, and my mind would race and obsess, and I’d go over every little thing that happened or was said that day—such as Sierra telling me she loved my coat (was she being ironic?) to something Meg asked, Are you getting all that’s here? Are you really digging at this, exhausting it?
Then I just felt exhausted, and gloomy, and then I didn’t want to get out of bed. Anna asked if I was okay, and Meg and Levon both said, Is something going on? You doing all right?
I kind of blew them off, and said I thought I was getting a cold, was just really tired, but on Friday I left school early, and when I got home, nobody was home, and I said to myself, That figures.
I went upstairs, got undressed, got into my sweats, and pulled the covers nearly over my head. And that’s when I really started to feel it. Like, It’s back. Like the whole fucking show. Here we go again.
Just when you thought you were free and well, just when you’d been trying so hard, and working your ass off, the fucking black dog of depression comes sneaking in. Or maybe it was more like a heavy, dense blanket. Just covering you and everything, and the whole fucking world. People everywhere were talking and laughing and smelling flowers and watching movies and reading books, and they were all a billion miles away.
I pulled a pillow over my head, and went into a deep sleep, and Mom woke me around five, and said, Sweetie, you okay?
I said I was tired, and just wanted to sleep.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and felt my forehead, and said, You don’t feel feverish.
Can I bring you anything? she asked.
I wanted to say, A gun, but God forbid where that would lead.
No thanks, I just want to sleep some more.
Okay. I’ll check in in a while. Dad’ll be home soon. Maybe we can order takeout or something.
Sure, I said.
Then I was asleep again, and I don’t think I dreamed anything. I was deep, deep down and going deeper, and I could feel myself as though I was a piece of shit, maybe in some half sleep, and completely worthless and useless, and there was nothing to be done about it. No hope. No help. Nothing and nothing and more black nothing.
Somewhere around seven both Mom and Dad came in, and they put the bedside lamp on. Dad sat closer to me and he said, Honey, what’s going on here?
Nothing’s going on here.
You’re feeling bad? he said.
I nodded.
How bad?
Pretty bad.
Like, not physically.
No.
Like what?
I looked at him, then looked at the watch on my wrist.
Like I want to die.
Like you want to die?
Like I feel so awful I wish I could die.
He lifted me in his arms and held me. Mom was stroking my hand.
Sweetheart, Dad said, we have to take you to the ER.
No fucking way.
It’s just to check you out.
And spend another year …
It’s just to check you out. Maybe adjust your meds. We’re getting this before we reach the Groton level, Mom said.
I got out of bed, and Mom found shoes for me. We got coats, and while Dad drove, Mom and I sat in the backseat, her arm around me.
Dad said, I’ll call Dr. Felter’s office when we get there.
Felter was my meds shrink, a woman in her forties with enormous brown eyes, who was shy and seemed very kind. I saw her like every three months for a meds check.
At the hospital they put the plastic wristband around my wrist, and while Dad dealt with the insurance cards and paperwork out front, they led me and Mom to one of those cubicles. It was apparently not very busy for an early Friday night.
A nurse came in and said, Hi, my name is Staci, and I’ll be looking after you.
She took my vitals, and then said, What seems to be the problem?
I feel awful.
Awful how?
Just really, really depressed.
&nbs
p; Mom was standing next to me while I lay on the gurney, holding my hand.
Do you feel like killing yourself?
No, absolutely not, I said.
I knew that was the crucial question.
Have you ever attempted suicide?
I didn’t say anything.
Have you?
I nodded.
How long ago?
About a year and a half ago.
But you have no plans, no ideas of doing it again?
None whatsoever.
Mom said, She said she wished she were dead.
I just can’t stand feeling this way, I said.
A doctor, midforties, fit, compact, came in.
Dr. Kamp, this is Sam Vash, who is extremely depressed, and has a history of suicide attempts.
Attempt. One attempt.
Dad came in and said, Nathan Vash, and shook both the doctor’s and nurse’s hands. Then he came to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He leaned down and kissed my hair.
It was a pretty serious attempt, and she spent most of last year in McLean and Austen Riggs. She’s been doing very well since then, Dad said.
What meds is she on? the doctor asked.
Lithium and lorazepam, I said.
Do you want to kill yourself? Dr. Kamp asked.
No. No. No. Not at all.
Why did you say you wanted to die?
Because I feel beyond awful, and I thought I was done with this depression shit.
Unfortunately, it’s a lifelong thing. Luckily, we can manage it, Kamp said.
Have you called Dr. Felter? Kamp asked my dad.
Yes. I got her service, but she’s supposed to call back.
And, Staci, you called upstairs?
Yeah. Wendy will be right down.
Kamp took my hand and he looked me in the eye. Listen, kiddo, he said, I have a fourteen-year-old with depression. Dr. Felter’s his doctor, in fact. It’s tough, but it can be managed very effectively. We’ll have you up, dancing, sooner than you think.
Trust me, he said. Wendy, the MSW from Behavioral Sciences, is coming down to talk to you. We may want to keep you a day or two.
No. No fucking way. I spent a fucking year.
One day, two at most, Kamp said. I promise.
After I talked to Wendy, who was short and chunky, they said I should say goodbye to Mom and Dad. Dr. Felter would be in to see me at ten the next morning. We hugged, and Dad said, I promise, it won’t be more than a few days.
They wheeled me down shiny corridors, went left down more shiny corridors, then onto an elevator, and up a level or two. Then through a heavy steel door, into a kind of big corridor with other steel doors, and we went left through one into the adolescent unit.
It was the usual psych ward, only much newer. There seemed to be only five or six patients. But by then it was almost eleven. A couple of kids were in this lounge watching a movie on TV with the sound turned low, and a few more were in their rooms, one reading, two looking at their computers.
A nurse said she had some meds for me, and that I must be very tired. She told me again Dr. Felter would be in early, so that would be good.
I went to the med station at the nurses’ pod, and the nurse said, I have two new ones, and lower doses on two others. Venlafaxine is an antidepressant, zaleplon is a sleeping pill, and Dr. Felter wants you to take only half your dose of lithium and one half a lorazepam.
She put the pills in a tiny cup, and poured me water from a pitcher. I swallowed them, then she gave me a toothbrush, soap, and towel, and showed me to my bedroom.
I fell into bed, exhausted and weirdly relieved, and was asleep in under three minutes.
The nurse had to shake me awake at nine, and she even brought me orange juice and a bagel to my room while I was showering. I didn’t have a change of clothes, but it wasn’t like I’d been out there jogging or anything.
Then they brought me to an office, and there was Dr. Felter, shy, with her amazing brown eyes, wearing jeans, and cool hiking boots, and this beautiful silk scarf.
She actually stood and hugged me, and said, I see the black dog has made a visit, and I explained about the last few weeks, and school, and Levon, and not sleeping, and taking too many lorazepam, and just stressing over everything.
Her eyes were huge and drinking me in, and she said the lorazepam could be having a depressive effect.
And what about this wanting to die? she asked.
I just felt so hopeless and didn’t want to go through that whole Groton/McLean/Austen Riggs thing again. I thought I’d been doing so well.
You have been doing so well. You just weren’t paying enough attention. You don’t want to kill yourself?
Absolutely not.
Here’s what I think, she said. The lithium is not working. You need a straight-out antidepressant, so I’ve started you on venlafaxine. I’m also giving you Sonata to sleep. Take it twenty minutes before you go to bed. It’s quick-acting, so don’t try to drive on it. Stick to one half milligram of lorazepam, three times a day. With the lithium, wean yourself by taking a half tablet a day for a week, then a half tablet every other day for a week, then off. I’ll write all this down.
You following me? she asked.
I nodded.
The other thing is that I want to see you, in my office, once a week, for at least the next month. Can you do that?
Where’s your office?
Same block as Gimme!—North Cayuga Street. Downtown. In a big white house. First floor. Can you do Monday at four o’clock?
Yeah. That’s right near school.
She took out a card, which had the address, wrote the date, and on the back of the card, she wrote a phone number.
This is my cell phone number. Anything comes up between seven a.m. and ten p.m. you call me. If it’s the middle of the night, talk to your mom and dad, and if you have to, come to the ER.
She handed me the card.
Thank you. Thank you for coming in on a Saturday.
You’re worth it, sweet girl, she said.
I almost started crying. She took my hand.
We’re gonna get through this, she said, and those brown eyes, everything about her, made me believe her.
Okay, I’ll write your discharge instructions, some scripts, and have them call Mom and Dad to pick you up.
She hugged me again, then went out.
While I was waiting, sitting in a chair by a window that had this huge view of the lake and hills, I felt almost hopeful. It wasn’t as though the heaviness was gone, but I was really, truly leaving after one night. There were new meds to try. And everyone had noticed and listened to me. Mom and Dad, Staci, Dr. Kamp, Wendy, Dr. Felter. I had said what I felt, and they had listened to what I had actually said, and heard me. Like I had asked for help, and every one of them had helped me. It was strange, but looking at the lake, and the beautiful city at the southern end of the lake, I felt something like warmth flooding through me.
Thirty-four
Levon
Sam sent me a text Sunday afternoon, and it was as short and cryptic and as shocking as any message I’d ever gotten from her.
She wrote: Got real depressed. Was in hospital briefly. Am fine now.
I wrote back, Hunh?
She texted, Should I call you?
I wrote back, I’ll call you.
She answered on the first ring, and as soon as she said hello, I said, Sam, what’s going on? What do you mean you got depressed and were in the hospital?
She said it was kind of a long story, but kind of a short story too.
I said, I need to see you. Now. Can I come over there?
Now?
Yeah. Now.
Okay. But please don’t be mad, she said.
I’ll be there in ten minutes.
And then, before hanging up, I said, Are you okay? Really?
Yes. I’m really okay.
I won’t be mad, I said. How could I be mad?
I borrowed Susan’s car, and it was
weird, because driving up the hill to her house, I was kind of mad. How the hell could this have happened? How could I not have noticed or known? Had she tried to cut herself or kill herself?
I started thinking of the last few weeks, and I couldn’t really think of anything that stood out, that had seemed different or depressed about her. Or maybe I was so wrapped up in my own shit, my own narcissistic self, that I just didn’t notice. I felt guilty and terrible and confused and really worried.
Sam had been depressed, bad enough to have to go to the hospital, and she hadn’t said a word to me. I was whistling past the fucking graveyard, as it were.
I pulled in the driveway, and knocked at the back door, and her dad answered, and he seemed kind of normal. How could he be normal after such a thing?
He said hello and thanked me for coming over, and then Vera came into the kitchen, and she hugged me, and said things were okay.
She said, We’ve had a little scare, but it’s okay. Things will be fine.
Nathan said Sam was in the living room, and they’d leave us to ourselves, and Vera asked if I wanted coffee or water or anything.
I said, No thanks.
Sam was standing in the alcove, near the bay window in the living room, and she looked like Sam. Except, and maybe it was just me, she looked thinner and paler than usual.
I went over and hugged her hard, and hugged her for a long time, and I kept saying, Sam, Sam, and, Oh God, Sam.
She said, Levon, it’s okay.
We sat down next to each other on one of the small couches that looked out onto the front lawn. I took her hand and held it, and she said, You don’t hate me?
Hate you? How could I hate you? For getting depressed?
For being such a fuck-up, and letting things get to that point, where everything came crashing down.
What happened? Why didn’t I notice? Why didn’t you tell me? I hate myself for not knowing, for not noticing.
I’m a good actress, she said.
So what happened?
It was gradual and also so sudden, that I didn’t even notice, and that was really stupid of me. I mean, I should know. I should be the one paying attention. This is a lifelong thing, and I’ve gotta be aware.
