And yet, even as I rejected the material presented to me, I admit there was an infinitesimal part of me—perhaps the agnostic in me who just doesn’t know—that was persuaded to allow for the possibility that some things are beyond our understanding.
Rachel Davenport claims she has seen Jonah. She grows more coherent and less medicated with each session, yet she has never rescinded her statements. In fact, she says he’s come to her again. I have no doubt that she believes she sees him. And the mind is capable of creating powerful illusions.
Cleopatra hasn’t moved. She remains where she is and watches me closely. I pick up the photograph of Jonah, and she mewls softly. A shiver runs down my spine, and my arms are suddenly covered with gooseflesh.
I look at the photo and think about the vivid realness of Jonah’s presence in my dreams—Jonah, a boy I have never met. Cleopatra swishes her tail rapidly.
I set the photograph back down, and she mewls again. I stare at her unblinking green eyes. Is it possible?
Cleopatra yawns, then jumps up on the bed. I laugh out loud and shake my head with self-mocking. It must be the pot. I don’t believe in ghosts. My dreams are just dreams. And I can’t let all this worthless mental exercise cloud my prime objective—to help the Davenports move on.
FIFTY-SEVEN
THE FAMILY
On the first of our biweekly sessions, I meet with the family as a group before splitting off and speaking to them individually. Not much has been accomplished during this time—each family member seems reluctant to share anything of significance—but I feel it is necessary, since my ultimate goal is to restore them to a whole unit.
This morning, they are all in their usual places. Ruth and Rachel sit side by side on one couch, Sam by himself on the other. Eden occupies the easy chair next to mine and Shadow sits at attention in front of her. She has brought the dog to each of our sessions, and he has a calming, comforting effect on her. I can tell he is a good dog, gentle and loving, with warm brown eyes that take in everything. Sam and Rachel are indifferent to his presence, but Ruth’s disdain for the canine is evident.
Ruth holds a mug in her hand, as per usual. She makes green tea as soon as she walks in and leaves the tea bag in the water for the duration of the session. By the time her individual slot is finished, the remaining tea is the color of moss. Sam brings his own travel mug filled with coffee and sips it until it’s empty, then rinses the mug in the sink. Rachel sits with her hands in her lap, often worrying them or picking at her cuticles. Ruth always offers to make her tea or a pot of coffee or to bring her juice or water, and Rachel always declines. When Eden arrives, she scurries to the fridge and pulls out a juice box, drinks it down immediately, then tosses the empty in the trash and cements herself to Shadow.
Dark crescents bruise the skin below Sam’s eyes. The line between his brows is as deep as a trench. He appears to have lost weight since our initial meeting, and his stoop is more pronounced than it was. Ruth’s hair is pulled into a loose, disheveled knot with at least six inches of gray winding down from her scalp. She wears an oversize knit sweater, old and peppered with holes. Her lips are pinched with tension. Rachel stares at her hands. Her color is better; gone is the sickly pallor she had when we met, although her cheeks are far from rosy. The vacant look is gone from her eyes. But now, she looks completely present and unmistakably haunted. Eden seems tired, world-weary beyond her years. She pets Shadow slowly, rhythmically, staring past him with an ambivalent expression on her face.
“As I’m sure you all know, we are beginning our third week together,” I say. “I’m glad you’re here and that you have decided as a family to move ahead with our sessions.”
“Did we have a choice?” Rachel asks, and when I look at her, I’m surprised to see a sardonic grin touching the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t generally speak much, and never with humor. Perhaps a bit of the old Rachel has begun to sneak through. I take it as a good sign despite the fact that her grin instantly vanishes and is replaced by a frown.
“You always have a choice, even when you think you don’t.”
Rachel makes a noise of dissent, then looks away.
“I like to meet with all of you together, because you are a family unit and I believe it’s important to respect that unit, to preserve and protect it. I know that your unit has suffered a catastrophic blow, one that you have each felt individually, and that your family will never look or feel the same again. But my hope is that at some point, your family unit, although different now, will feel good and whole to you again.
Rachel turns toward Sam just as he looks at her. A meaningful look passes between them. Rachel’s eyes shimmer, and she is the first to look away. Sam gazes at his shoes.
“As a family, it’s also important that each member knows what’s going on with the others. Sam, you mentioned that before the accident, you had family dinners, that often Ruth was present, and that you all talked about your days and asked questions and shared information. I know you haven’t resumed this tradition, which is another reason I like to meet with all of you. So you can share with one another.”
I pause and look around the room. The adults studiously avoid eye contact with me. Eden looks right at me.
“How’s school, Eden?” I ask her, and her shoulders tense.
“Okay.”
“Is it?”
She glances furtively at her parents, then shrugs. Eden told me last week that she hates school, that it wasn’t getting easier, that the other kids were still treating her like an outcast. I won’t betray her confidence and share that information with her parents or aunt, but I want them to know what she’s going through.
“There’s nothing you’d like to talk about?”
Her lower lip trembles. “Not now. Maybe later. With you.”
“What is it, Eden?” Sam asks. “You can tell us.”
“I don’t want to talk to you about it, Daddy. You’re super upset all the time anyway, and I don’t want to make it worse.”
Sam’s cheeks flame, then he disguises his shame with anger. “I want you to tell me what’s going on in school, Eden. Now.”
“Sam,” Ruth says, her voice stern. “Leave her alone.”
“Stay out of it, Ruth,” Sam warns.
“Don’t talk to my sister that way,” Rachel says.
Eden sits up straight in her chair, the cords in her neck straining. “Don’t fight!” The grown-ups go silent. “School sucks, okay? It totally sucks and I hate it. The kids all think I’m a freak. None of my friends talk to me anymore—no one talks to me ’cept Corwin Kwe and Aimee Joyce—and the teachers hardly even look at me, and when they do, they have this really sad look on their faces, like, ‘Oh, poor little Eden, what a tragedy.’ It’s totally awful, and you guys don’t care because you don’t care about anything anymore.”
Shadow, sensing Eden’s distress, emits a guttural whine, then begins to lick the tears from her cheeks. Rachel’s mouth forms an O of surprise, and she blinks rapidly. Sam leans forward in his seat as though he is going to go to his daughter, but something holds him back.
“Of course we care,” he says, although his tone lacks conviction. Eden shakes her head but says nothing.
“I know she’s been having some trouble,” Ruth says. “But what can we do? It’s not like she can just drop out of fifth grade.”
“I’m not suggesting we come up with a solution right now, Ruth. I just want you all to know what’s going on with each other. How about you? How are you doing?”
Ruth takes a breath, blows it out. “I’m all right. I mean, terrible, but all right. Busy, what with helping out.” Sam chuffs derisively, and Ruth glares at him. “I’m happy to do it, as you well know, but sometimes I don’t feel appreciated by my brother-in-law. My joints ache all the time, but I’m still there, cleaning and doing laundry and cooking. But Sam treats me like I’m overstepping.”
“I don’t,” he counters.
“You do and you know it.”
“Ok
ay, Ruth,” I interject before tempers escalate. “Thank you for sharing.” Ruth crosses her arms over her chest and harrumphs. I ignore her and look at Sam. “Sam, how’s work?”
“Fine. We’ve made some changes internally, brought in some new people, a few junior architects. I have a new assistant.” He glances at Rachel, and I follow his gaze. Rachel’s posture stiffens, but she doesn’t look at him. “We have a couple of projects about to kick into high gear.”
“Sounds like things are moving along for you in that area.”
“I have to pay the bills, don’t I?”
“It’s a good thing, Sam, to have your work.”
He nods but says nothing. I turn to Rachel. She is ready for me, doesn’t even let me ask the question.
“My turn?” Her voice is quiet but intent. “How am I?” She laughs without humor. “I’m here, Dr. Meyers. That’s all I can tell you.”
I nod, knowing she will say no more.
“Yes, you’re here. You all are here. And that’s a good thing. I would like to suggest an exercise for you to do as a family over the course of the next week. I would like you to have a meal together. It doesn’t have to be dinner. Lunch or breakfast would be good, too. I’d like you to sit down around the table and share with each other. Ask each other questions, interact. I understand that doing this at home might present difficulty, as Jonah’s seat will be empty. At some point, you will have to deal with that, but for now, a good solution would be to go to a restaurant.”
Samuel releases a staccato cough. I turn to him.
“Yes, Sam?”
“A restaurant? Rachel barely leaves her room and you want her to go out to a restaurant?”
Rachel’s eyes are closed, her face a mask of pain.
“Would you consider it, Rachel?”
She shakes her head from side to side. Ruth takes her hand, but Rachel yanks it away. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“What about a family dinner in your home?” I ask gently.
Her eyes fly open. “Without him? You want me to sit at the table and stare at his empty chair. You just said we weren’t ready for that, and now you’re asking me to do it?”
“What about the counter?” Sam asks, and all eyes turn to him, including Rachel’s. He looks at me. “We have a counter in the kitchen, on the island. Rachel and I have talked about putting stools around it and eating there sometimes. I could get some stools at Target.”
Rachel’s gaze returns to her lap. “Would you consider that, Rachel?” I ask her.
Her voice is flat. “I’ll consider it.”
“That’s a start. Okay. We’re going to split off into our individual sessions, but before we do that, I want to let you know that I’m going to ask each of you to discuss the day of the accident.” The tension is immediate and thick. I feel it rather than see it, and so does Shadow. He lets loose a loud bark.
“I don’t want to talk about that day,” Eden says, her eyes wide and glassy.
“I understand.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Rachel’s go-to phrase.
I train my gaze on her and keep it steady. “We have had seven sessions in total, Rachel. Three group sessions, including this one, and four private sessions with each of you. We have yet to discuss the day of the accident in any detail whatsoever.”
“You know what happened,” Ruth says, her voice hoarse and wavering. “Why do we have to talk about it?”
“That day is why you’re here, Ruth. Not the events before or the events since. But that day. I’m certain that until we talk about it, until you each tell me what happened the morning Jonah died, I will be unable to help you move through and past your grief, and you will be unable to help yourselves. You’re here because you want to move forward. This will be painful. But I believe it’s an imperative step toward your goal.”
Silence fills the room, save for Shadow’s panting. Everyone is lost in his or her thoughts, his or her recollections. After a moment, Sam pushes himself to his feet. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
SAMUEL DAVENPORT
He paces. His usual.
“How are you doing, Sam?”
“I already told you.” He jerks his thumb toward the family room. “Out there.”
I smile and nod. “You told me about work. Not about you personally. How are things between you and Rachel? Have you moved back into the master bedroom yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. And I don’t think I will be any time soon.”
“Is that your decision?”
“Hell, no.”
“Do you and Rachel talk? Communicate at all? Is there any interaction between you two?”
“Barely. I mean, she’s coherent now that she’s off her meds. She’s coherent, but still withdrawn. She watches TV in the bedroom, all day, all night. Cries still, but tries to hide it. She rarely talks to me except out of necessity. She’s a little better with Eden, but not much.”
“Do you think all of this is a result of Jonah’s death?”
Sam is quiet for a moment. I know the answer before he gives it. “No.”
“Was it something that happened before he died?”
Sam looks at me, sighs. “The night before. Well, it was something I did the night before, but it didn’t come to light until the morning Jonah . . .”
Pity is useless in terms of therapeutic value. But the expression on Samuel Davenport’s face is so utterly devastated, so full of remorse, that I can’t pretend it doesn’t touch my heart.
“I was with another woman. My former assistant. We didn’t have sex. She kissed me. I didn’t kiss back, not really. By then, I knew it was a mistake. I’d taken her out to a job site, knowing it was going to be empty, that we’d be alone. I could tell you that I had no intention of fucking her. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, Sam. You know the rules.” He nods. “And did you? Have every intention of having sex with your assistant?”
“I certainly allowed for the possibility. And honestly? Yes, probably deep down, I did. I’m sure you think I’m an awful person, but that’s okay. I am. I’m an idiot.”
“But you stopped. You didn’t have sex with her.”
“Yes, but just being there with her in the first place . . .”
“Why did you stop?” I ask him.
“Because I love Rachel. I love my kids, my family. Their faces kept flashing in my head, and I knew if I went forward with Greta, I’d risk losing them, forever.”
“Sam,” I say, gently but forcefully. “The fact is, you did stop, and for the right reasons. Does that sound like something an awful person would do?”
“I think a good person wouldn’t have put himself in that position in the first place.”
“Sam, in my experience, truly bad people don’t question their intentions and worry about their choices and feel guilty even when they make the right choice. You made a brief error in judgment.”
“And I’ve paid for it, haven’t I?” He rubs his forehead, then swipes at his eyes, continues pacing.
“Do you think Jonah’s death was some kind of karmic retribution meted out to punish you personally?”
“I don’t know.” He thinks for a moment. “No. But it was my fault.”
“Because of what you did the night before?”
“Because of what I did the day it happened.” He collapses onto the chair and stares at me. His eyes are bloodshot with unspent tears and fatigue.
I sit in the chair across from him. I don’t pick up my notepad, just lean forward and give him my full attention. “Tell me about that day.”
And he does.
FIFTY-NINE
RUTH GLASS
“She’s getting better,” Ruth says, as if the family’s inability to move forward is all about Rachel and not remotely to do with her. This is partially true. Rachel is the “Power” button. But all the parts of the machine have to work in order for it to function.
“I’m glad,” I reply.
“
I mean, not much. She’s still in her room most of the time, but she’s not out of it like she was.”
“And how are you, Ruth?”
“Oh, well.” She clears her throat. “You heard me in there. That’s basically still my life. Taking care of them. Hasn’t changed over the past two weeks.”
“Are you still staying with them?” I ask.
“Most nights. I think I should start weaning them, and myself.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Yes. I know, ultimately, things will have to go back to normal. Well, back to a new normal, at least.”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“I admit, I don’t like it much, being alone in my apartment. It’s not a bad place, but I get lonely.” She says this last as though admitting to a ridiculous sentiment.
“Loneliness is something we all experience. It’s natural when you live by yourself, and it can be especially intensified when tragedy occurs. Have you dated at all since your divorce, Ruth?”
I catch the thoughtful expression on her face before she can wipe it away.
“No.”
“Not one date?”
She chuckles sadly.
“What is it, Ruth? What’s funny?”
“Honestly, it’s not even remotely humorous. Ironic is what it is. I had a date. Was supposed to have a date. The night Jonah died. Obviously I had to cancel.” She raises her eyebrows, then immediately frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound irreverent.”
“You didn’t. So, you had a date scheduled for that night . . .”
“Yes. My first date since my divorce. With my neighbor. Nice man. Widower.” She thinks about him for a moment, and a small smile plays at her lips, then fades away. “That’s why I was at Rachel’s that morning. She was going to color my hair.” She yanks at a few errant strands that have escaped the knot. “We never got to it.”
I nod. “Tell me what happened.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” But, after a moment or two of silence, she recounts the events of that day.
SIXTY
What Remains True Page 23
