It Happened to Us

by François Houle

  Annoyance began to simmer inside his gut. “I’m not in therapy.”

  “You will be before the end of the week. Remember what I said yesterday. We’re getting you some help and there’s none better then God’s help.”

  Mathieu glowered at his grandfather but knew better than to argue. He grunted and dragged himself to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, cleaned, shaved, and feeling somewhat alive, he came out of the bathroom. “I have nothing to wear.”

  Grandpa stepped into the doorway, dressed in khakis and a red collared shirt.

  “You’re not wearing a suit?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “Most people dress fairly casually these days. Some even go in jeans and a t-shirt. God doesn’t really care how you dress.”

  Having left his long pants at home, Mathieu stepped into a pair of shorts and slipped a plain t-shirt over his head, and then he and his grandfather headed off to mass.

  * * *

  Mathieu hadn’t been in Saint-Remi’s church in probably twenty years or more. The small parking lot was almost full but he managed to find a spot and pulled his grandfather’s Buick into it. He stepped out of the car and took a long look at the old church. Built in the 1960s it had been modern then but looked its age now. He remembered being dragged here every Sunday until he’d decided when he turned eighteen that he wasn’t going to attend anymore. The disappointment in his grandparents had almost made him relent, but he was an adult now and could decide what he did or didn’t do.

  At eighteen, Mathieu had still been angry with God about killing his parents and that feeling had been revived when God had taken his daughter and grandmother. Standing in the parking lot and looking at the church, Mathieu felt his stomach close like a tight fist. His grandfather had saved him yesterday, and Mathieu understood why Grandpa had insisted he come to mass, but it didn’t make him a believer.

  It didn’t make him forgive God.

  Mathieu followed his grandfather who said hello and shook hands with people who had known Flore. He overheard words about his grandmother and what a fine woman she’d been. Mathieu thought he recognized some from her funeral but that day had been a bit of a blur, a bitter reminder that God kept taking the people he loved.

  At the entrance, the priest, le curé Albert as he was introduced by his grandfather, welcomed Mathieu to the parish and invited him to come back again next Sunday. Mathieu smiled and thanked le curé Albert but didn’t commit to returning. His grandfather had ambushed him into coming and he just wanted to get through the service. He followed Grandpa and they found a couple seats in the second-to-last row on the right side of the church.

  Mathieu’s gaze drifted to Jesus crucified on the cross.

  The fist in his gut clenched a little tighter.

  He looked away and didn’t see anyone he’d known as a child, or if he did, they’d changed so much he didn’t recognize them. His only memory of mass back then was that it was long, boring, and cut into his playing time. How many times had he sat here between his grandparents while some old priest droned on?

  Mathieu shifted in his seat. The pews were still as uncomfortable as he remembered. The stagnant air was hot and sticky, barely moving under the three large ceiling fans. He was glad he’d worn shorts.

  Le curé Albert came in from the back and the congregation stood. Mathieu, feeling out of his element, copied what his grandfather did. Soon his thoughts wandered to how much work waited for them when they got back to the house. It was just like when he was a kid. Mass was still boring.

  But something happened that surprised him: le curé Albert didn’t speak in a monotone but with cadence and spirit. Mathieu found himself actually listening to the sermon, words that touched the parts of him that he’d been trying to protect, words that explored love and family loss, faith and being tested, words that resonated as if they’d been written to help him heal. He knew the sermon wasn’t aimed at him, but whenever le curé Albert looked his way, it was like he was speaking just to Mathieu, a tête-à-tête with God. Despite his resistance, Mathieu started to question his anger. He felt ashamed for the pain he’d caused Lori-Anne and embarrassed for the suicide thoughts he’d entertained as his only way out.

  After mass, Mathieu waited awhile as his grandfather met more people who knew him and Grandma. The majority of parishioners were older, but there were several young families as well. Maybe this was something that should have played a bigger part in his life, and something that Nadia should have been exposed to. Not that he had any plans of actually coming every Sunday, but—

  He’d think about it.

  Why not?

  As part of his therapy, like Grandpa had said. He could come for a while, until he was better. Maybe.

  Finally, Grandpa made his way to the car and they both climbed in.

  “Le curé Albert wasn’t bad,” Mathieu said.

  “He does have a way with words.”

  Mathieu turned to his grandfather. “He did seem to. Maybe the new generation of priests are more grounded in the real world.”

  Grandpa smiled. “That could be. Young people don’t want to hear the same old thing they can’t relate to. Even old folks. I like him. He’s refreshing and your grandmother enjoyed his sermons. Some of the more traditional folks don’t like him, but sometimes we need a change.”

  “How come Grandma’s service wasn’t here?”

  “Most people we know don’t speak French.”

  Mathieu nodded and started the car. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

  “We better just get it to go. We’ve got a lot of sorting and packing to do.”

  Mathieu pulled in the first Tim Hortons he saw and went through the drive-thru where he ordered two coffees and three hot breakfast sandwiches. He handed one to his grandfather and wolfed down his two.

  “Hungry?” Grandpa said.

  Mathieu, mouth full, nodded, then took a sip of coffee. He eased the car into traffic and headed back to his grandfather’s home.

  “Sure you’re doing this?” Mathieu said.

  Grandpa got out of the car and stretched. “It’s what I need to do.”

  * * *

  Monday morning, under Grandpa’s scrutinizing eye, Mathieu made an appointment with his doctor for the next day. Grandpa went with him but waited in the waiting room. Mathieu tiptoed around why he was here until Dr. Steinbach figured it out and after a long talk he prescribed Cymbalta and urged Mathieu to go see Dr. Gilmour.

  “So?” Grandpa said once they were outside.

  Mathieu held the prescription paper between his fingers, waving it like a white flag in surrender. “I have to get this filled and come back in a month to see how I’m doing.”

  “Good. And?”

  “He gave me the number of a psychologist, a Dr. Melinda Gilmour. He said she’s really good at helping people who . . .”

  Grandpa gave a reassuring nod. “It’s okay son.”

  “I hope you’re right, because nothing feels okay. What if these damn pills don’t help or Dr. Gilmour can’t help?”

  “You love your daughter?”

  Mathieu felt scrap metal slicing and cutting as it fell to the bottom of his gut. “What sort of question is that?”

  “Put your faith in her and everything will be okay.”

  Faith wasn’t something he had, but if somehow his beautiful daughter could help him come to terms with her death, maybe then he’d start believing in miracles. “I’ll give this a try, for Nadia.”

  Grandpa gave him a gentle slap on the back. “Your grandmother would be pleased.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Aug 2, 2012

  1:23 p.m.

  Mathieu arrived a few minutes early for his first counselling session. Dr. Gilmour’s office was located on the upper floor of a small plaza at the corner of Broadview and Carling, just beside the medical building where he’d seen the knee specialist all those years ago. He climbed out of his truck and took the stairs to the secon
d floor, room 205, to the right of the stairwell. He grabbed the doorknob, took a deep breath, and entered. There was some ambient music playing from ceiling speakers, barely loud enough to be heard. No one else was in the waiting area and Mathieu was relieved. No point parading his problems in front of a bunch of strangers.

  “Mathieu Delacroix for Dr. Gilmour,” he said to the young woman behind the counter.

  She gave Mathieu a smile that was meant to put him at ease, a smile he was sure she’d perfected over time greeting everyone who came into the office, a smile that was sunny and beautiful but did nothing to chase the anxiety he’d felt all day. “Please fill these out and Dr. Gilmour will be with you in a few minutes.”

  He took a seat, filled out the forms, and just as he finished, Dr. Gilmour appeared from behind a closed door. She took the forms and led him back to her office. He sank into a plush leather sofa chair while Dr. Gilmour sat at her desk and reviewed his information. When she was done, she pulled her chair around the desk and positioned it closer to where he was sitting. Mathieu retreated further into the couch.

  “I thought I’d be lying down,” he said, his voice sounding nervous and childish to his ears. “That’s how it is in movies.”

  “I prefer a more relaxed atmosphere where we can discuss comfortably. Can I get you some water, coffee?”

  “Water would be nice.” His salivary gland had been locked away.

  “So, things have been a bit overwhelming lately?”

  Mathieu felt the muscles in his face tighten. “That’s being kind.”

  “How would you describe it?”

  He took a sip of water. “I’d say my life has gone to hell. Sorry, didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t mince words. Part of dealing with our feelings is to be honest about how we feel. You shouldn’t hold anything back, okay?”

  Mathieu nodded. “My daughter died in a car crash. My wife was driving.”

  Dr. Gilmour made notes but didn’t say anything.

  “And now we’ve split up.”

  “So some major trauma lately.”

  “And my grandmother, the woman who raised me because my parents died when I was six, just passed away too.”

  Dr. Gilmour jotted that down too. “How does all that make you feel?”

  There is was. He’d been waiting for this part. Isn’t that what they always asked in the movies? My daughter is dead. My grandmother is dead. My parents are dead. And my wife left me because I treated her like crap. Woohoo! Let’s party!

  “How would you feel?”

  “Let’s concentrate on you for now,” she said.

  Mathieu stood and paced. Dr. Gilmour looked quite young but he figured the accreditations on her wall affirmed she knew what she was doing. He didn’t see any pictures of kids or significant other on her desk. “I loved my daughter . . .”

  He covered his eyes but it only made Nadia’s image clearer.

  “Why don’t you sit?”

  “I feel like you’re looking down at me from your chair.”

  Dr. Gilmour repositioned the other sofa chair so she would face him, and sat. Now, they’d be eye-level.

  After a moment, Mathieu returned to his sofa chair.

  “Did you want to tell me about your daughter? What was her name?”

  “Nadia. She was fourteen. An only child.”

  Dr. Gilmour noted that too. “That’s a big loss.”

  “You have no idea.” How could he make this stranger understand how hollow he felt inside, like someone, God really, had carved out not just his heart, but his soul? Despair glued his reality. But it was coming apart. “It’s not right.”

  “Tragedies never feel right,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of people in your life, but losing Nadia is especially difficult for you.”

  “It’s impossible, it’s . . .” Sitting in this office where secrets were laid bare, where the truth was finally spoken, where it was okay to show your emotions, Mathieu finally gave in to his grief. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . it’s just so . . .”

  “No, it’s quite all right. Letting go is a sign that you’re ready to begin the healing process.”

  He wiped his nose with a tissue. “I don’t know if I’m really ready. Just because I cried like a baby doesn’t mean anything.”

  “You may not feel it right at the moment, but I’ve seen this many times. It’s like a purging.”

  “I’m not much of a believer. My grandfather guilted me into coming here. I don’t see how any of this can help. I’m supposed to tell you how I feel and everything will be fine? I don’t think so.”

  “It’s normal to doubt the process the first time,” she said, “but don’t give up on it just yet. Let’s give it a month to see if we can make some progress.”

  He threw the tissue in the trash basket beside him and finished the water bottle.

  “You’ve started taking Cymbalta,” she said. “It can take two or three months for the benefits to become noticeable. How are you sleeping?”

  “Not great.”

  “Energy?”

  “I’ve had to force myself to get things done. Helping Grandpa clean out the house drained me, but I still couldn’t get a full night’s sleep.”

  “How’s your appetite?”

  “Lost ten pounds.”

  She made several notes. “Do try to eat, even small meals, to keep your strength and blood sugar stable. It’ll help with your moods.”

  “I can try.”

  “You didn’t say here on the form, but have you had suicide thoughts?”

  He wanted to lie, tell Dr. Gilmour that he’d never think of doing something so stupid, but being dishonest wasn’t going to help. He also didn’t want to disappoint his family, especially Nadia. “Not since I called my grandfather last Saturday.”

  “Did you want to tell me about it?”

  He fixed his gaze on the empty water bottle in his hands, unscrewed the cap and screwed it back on. “I’d made a bed for this young couple’s three-year-old daughter and when they came to pick it up, their little girl looked so much like Nadia at that age, and . . . it just made me miss my daughter that much more, and I just lost it.”

  “Killing yourself will not bring her back.”

  “It will stop the pain.”

  Dr. Gilmour put the end of her pen in her mouth. “What if we can make that pain go away using a different approach?”

  “And what if it doesn’t work?”

  “Nothing is hopeless.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Tell me one thing about Nadia.”

  He straightened and his eyes glowed, softening the lines on his face. “She had a dimple on her right cheek. Just the one. And when she smiled, that dimple made me feel so happy and secure, as if it was a warm blanket wrapped around me. It’s hard to explain but that’s how I felt. And I loved having her sit on my lap while we watched TV, her arms around my neck, the smell of baby shampoo in her hair from her bath. I don’t know how many times we watched the Lion King, but she could recite every character’s lines before they said them.”

  “Those are the moments you need to hang on to when you feel you can’t go on anymore.”

  “But they make it worse, I miss her even more. I’m never going to share such moments with her ever again. My baby girl is gone.” Those last words, the weight of their reality, felt like being left behind at the fair, abandoned.

  “What you just described wasn’t recent, that Nadia wasn’t the one you just lost. You might be holding on to a time that you remember as the best time in your life. Nadia wasn’t a baby anymore. She was a teenager,” she looked at her notes, “fourteen.”

  Mathieu didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe she’d become a handful?”

  He simply nodded.

  “Do you feel you had some unfinished issues to resolve with Nadia?”

  Mathieu leaned back against the sofa chair. “We weren’t as close
.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  He slowly squeezed his right hand around the plastic water bottle, crushing the brittle container. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “Ready?”

  “For Nadia to grow up.”

  “Could that reality be preventing you from moving forward?”

  He rubbed his face.

  Dr. Gilmour waited.

  “You think that’s my problem?” he said.

  “No. Not entirely. Kids grow up and become independent. That’s reality. Some do it in a rebellious way, annihilate the parents, while others continue to develop their relationship with their parents while learning to handle their independence. Sounds like Nadia was a bit rebellious.”

  “I still loved her.”

  “A parents’ love is the strongest love. No denying. And losing a child is the hardest thing for a parent to go through. Regrets are inevitable. Thankfully, we have our memories but they too can skew what we remember and become a barrier.”

  “I spent months looking at Nadia’s pictures and watching home-movies. My wife, Lori-Anne, didn’t understand why I did it. She refused to come into her room, like denying Nadia was gone would make her less dead. I didn’t see her way as being any better than mine.”

  “Denial is one of the five stages of loss and grief. So is depression. Everyone deals with tragedy differently. But at some point, everyone has to reach the last stage, the acceptance stage, so they can move on.”

  “Accept that Nadia is dead?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Right now, it may seem impossible, but that’s where we need to get you to.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  Dr. Gilmour folded her hands over her notepad. “You wouldn’t have come here, no matter how guilty your grandfather made you feel, unless you were, maybe not ready, but at least wanting to get to that next stage. Problem is you don’t know how to get there.”

  “And you’ll get me there?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll give you the tools you need. You’re a carpenter so you understand the importance of having the right tool for the job. That’s what we’re going to do. Fill your toolbox with the tools you need to get your life back.”