Fatal Analysis (Psychiatrist Grant Garrick series Book 2)

by Tom Bierdz

  I squeezed her shoulder.

  “You want to know the funny part?”

  “There’s a funny part?”

  “Yeah, we screwed in his truck cab right in the parking lot.”

  “You mean that thing that covers the bed of the truck?”

  “Yeah, on a dirty, old sleeping bag with barely room to move around.”

  I broke out in raucous laughter. “I’m picturing it in my mind, one of your asses banging against the roof.”

  She laughed. “Stupid, like a goddamned adolescent.”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly what they mean when they say to unleash your inner child.”

  She forced a wry smile. “I’ve been so down on myself. How could I be so stupid? So irresponsible?”

  “You’re human. We make mistakes.”

  She fell into my arms and cried. Eventually she asked, “I don’t want to have the abortion alone. Will you come with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  Her unloading and my acceptance had an uplifting effect. Self-effacing, and making fun of herself, she told me again of her encounter with ‘Stud’ in detail, relating how he came on to her, her encouragement, how they smoked a couple of joints in his truck, began to make out, stumbled into the truck bed, shoved clutter out of the way, found it near impossible to undress, and laughed at themselves entirely through the rutting. Carrie could be a stand-up comedian. She knew how to tell a story, when to embellish and what to skirt over.

  We talked about old times, particularly funny things that happened in our pasts. I inquired about Mike. She said he was healing. His doctor offered a good prognosis. The biggest problem was with Mike’s attitude, finding it hard to accept his limitations and modify his behavior. She wanted to know how I was dealing with Kevin’s loss. The best I could say was that I didn’t think of him every single moment of every day.

  After the third or fourth beer, she asked, “You still seeing that blonde I saw you with on the porch?”

  “Megan. Yeah.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Good. At least she’s not pregnant!” I blurted out, immediately wishing I could take it back. “Sorry,” I uttered, embarrassed.

  “That’s okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “But now that you brought it up, are you sure? Do you use a condom every time?”

  I bit my lip. How naive of me. I used a condom the first few times, but Megan stopped me, said she was on the pill. “Megan’s on the pill.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said, doubt entering my mind for the first time. “Getting pregnant is not her style. I don’t think she wants children, or even has any maternal needs.”

  My answer seemed to satisfy Carrie, but I was appalled at how little I knew about Megan. Being trustful of others was healthy, but to throw all caution to the wind was being gullible. It wouldn’t hurt, and it would serve me well, to check the medicine cabinet when I used the bathroom and to pay attention to objects lying on the counters or tables. I could ask her what pills she was taking. As a doctor I could pass judgment on the effectiveness and side effects of the drug she was taking, and evaluate the truthfulness of her reaction.

  “Are you getting serious?” she probed.

  “I don’t honestly know. You and I have talked about how my analyzing everything can be a downer, a pleasure stopper. Megan came along and swept me off my feet. I’ve tried to let go, ride the waves, enjoy the now. I’ve been good for her, too. Only hours ago she wanted me to spend the entire weekend with her. I like being with her, but I’m beginning to feel some pressure, that she wants to take this to the next level.”

  “Which is?” Carrie got up to modify the drape to cut off the sun rays splashing into my face.

  Her action gave me more time to consider my answer. “I’m not really sure, but I don’t think it’s too far away from living together.”

  “Before you make that commitment, Grant, be sure you know what you’re getting into.” She joined me on the couch.

  Carrie was right. With all my training and experience I was going into the relationship with Megan blinded. I was a trusting soul. Did I really know that she was on the pill, that she didn’t want children, that she wouldn’t use pregnancy to get me to marry her? That was just one example, a bad one at that because all of my instincts told me I really didn’t need to be concerned about that. But there were so many other things, other suspicions, such as those aroused by Detective Rollins that I cast aside. Because I didn’t want to believe them, and because I was overcompensating for my tendency to obsessively over-analyze everything. I’d have to find a middle ground; to be in the moment and to stay alert for anything that seemed suspicious and trust my intuition.

  Carrie made a bowl of popcorn. She cuddled up to me, finding comfort in my big brother arms as we watched Casablanca on the television. I felt flattered she knew she could come to me for help with a problem. I was there for her and would support her, whatever that required, through her abortion. But as I sat by her I couldn’t help but reflect on the concept that when you reach out to help others you receive back much more. Carrie had enabled me to reset my eyes on Megan, to filter through the erotic gauze, and view her more realistically. It was now up to me to follow through.

  24

  I called for a taxi and left Carrie’s around seven. I was in no hurry to see Megan. Something was pulling me to the George Washington Bridge where Kevin had jumped. I had gone to the site immediately after the incident but steered clear of it ever since, sometimes even detouring out of the way, to avoid it. But the pull today was too strong to resist, almost like I was on automatic pilot unable to maneuver the controls. I couldn’t tell the cabbie where I wanted to go without drawing some questioning stares or fabricating some kind of explanation, so I gave him a couple of cross streets to get me in the general area. Being unable to drive had its own series of complications and I cursed myself for getting the DUI. Life was complicated enough. I didn’t need to pile on. Fortunately, the cabbie didn’t need to chatter, leaving me to my thoughts.

  It was still daylight and would be at least another hour before nightfall, before I could go to the bridge. Kevin jumped at night. Even with passing cars, night would give me anonymity. I’d have to kill some time. I observed pedestrians as we drove by them: the adults walking their dogs, working in their yards, washing their cars, smoking on the porch. Most had fielded the trials and tribulations that life threw at you. How did they handle them? Were they better off or worse because of them? The others, whose lives hadn’t yet been disrupted by some unforeseen event, would eventually be tested in one way or another. When I was younger, my parents and others told me that God never gave you more than you could handle. But was that really true? Kevin couldn’t handle life and chose to escape from it. And God? Well, I take Him out of the equation, regard Him as hands off, leaving us to our own devices. I observed the children playing in the park on the playscape, running, playing tag, baseball and soccer. I bled for the children whose childhoods have been tainted by traumas they never envisioned, nor were prepared for. Bad enough to beset by tragedies as an adult. Thankfully, most have not yet dealt with life’s harsh realities. I wished them well when they do.

  My phone rang. It was Megan. I let her leave a message. She had to be wondering where I was.

  I told her I’d be back around six. I didn’t want to talk to her now. What I had to do was personal.

  “Drop me off in front of that tavern,” I shouted.

  The tavern, a small residence that had been converted into a pub, was only a couple of blocks from the bridge. I paid the driver, added a generous tip, and walked inside the building.

  The place was small with a stale, saturated beer odor, a scent I wouldn’t have identified a few weeks back when I was frequenting every sort of alcoholic establishment. The bartender,
a jolly fellow with glasses perched on his head, washed glasses by dipping them into one side of the sink, then rinsing them into another. Two young guys sat at one end of the bar discussing war. They seemed to be debating whether they should enlist since they hadn’t been able to find satisfactory jobs. I sat on a stool, ordered a beer. After giving me the beer, the bartender turned up the volume on the television. Some sitcom was playing and the noise from the laugh track sent me reeling. I retired to a table in the corner away from the noise.

  That’s when I noticed a scrawny, old guy a few tables down, his bony hands clasped around a half-empty pilsner glass, his head hung low, only a foot away from the glass. A picture of dejection and failure, I wondered what went wrong in his life. Did he have someone at home, or was he destined to live out his remaining years alone, drinking to numb the pain?

  And, what about me? Where was my destiny? Was I destined to be burdened with the pain from my son’s suicide for the rest of my life? Pain from the loss of the son I treasured who was so like me? Torment from the guilt of not seeing the signs and not acting to prevent his death? And, I a psychiatrist. Of all people, I should have the savvy, the sensitivity, the know-how, the means, the realization, etcetera, etcetera, to help him and prevent this catastrophe. That’s what Hanna said. That’s what I believed.

  Maybe if she hadn’t believed so deeply in me, thought I was the best damn therapist this side of Freud, her expectations might have been more realistic. Perhaps, then she’d see me as the guy who didn’t have all the answers; as someone educated and capable, but human and flawed like every other so-called expert who wasn’t always in control of his emotions. But I lavished in her admiration and devotion, stroked it with my dogmatic pompousness, freely sprinkling my authority like a priest ritualistically waving an incense thurible.

  I’ve learned ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous thing’ and have been humbled by Kevin’s suicide. Where was my learning and observational skills when I needed them most? When I might have saved my son’s life?

  I nursed my beer until the sun sunk beneath the horizon then sauntered to the bridge, feeling the tightness in my chest. There was more traffic than I liked, but I couldn’t wait until the wee hours of the morning when the bridge might be abandoned. The pull was too strong; my presence was needed now. A half-moon illuminated the night. I walked the narrow path alongside the fence, ignoring the roaring cars, to somewhere near the center of the bridge where I imagined Kevin leaped. With a heavy heart I scanned the river, perused the homes and businesses glowing in the darkness, wondering how insulated and unaware they were of the many lives that had been extinguished by these calm waters who give so much life, and yet, paradoxically, take them also. At night I see no reflection, nothing but a dark void, like a fickle lover who can suck you in, choke you out. What did it call out to Kevin? Let me wrap you in my bosom, take your pain away? What could he have been thinking? What could have been so painful that made him want to leave this bountiful world with so much abundance? How could he have been so blinded to not see that today’s darkness becomes light, that time heals, that we have unlimited resources to deal with whatever ails us if only to look within?

  I was nauseous. Woozy. Lightheaded. I latched on to the fence, denting my hands from squeezing so hard. I gagged, choking down the bile that rose in my throat. What the hell did I expect to accomplish by being there? I could faint, roll into the street and be killed. I missed Kevin but I wasn’t ready to meet him in the afterlife. More likely, someone would find me lying on the walkway, think I was a vagrant, find alcohol on my breath and add dirt to my already blemished reputation. Where did that weird thought come from?

  Drawn and repulsed by the water below. Was that what Kevin felt? My Kevin, the chip off the old block? The Kevin I can never take to a ballgame again, have those father-son talks I anticipated and believed there was plenty of time for, attend his college graduation, meet his fiancée, welcome his wife into our home. And, unless I remarry and have another child, I’ll never have grandchildren.

  Goddamn it, Kevin! Did you have to be so selfish? You took so much away from me and your mom. You stole our future. I can’t blame you for our marriage break-up. We destroyed each other, but we’d still be together if you hadn’t jumped. My tears poured out. No longer quiet tears, but loud, pathetic sobs. I cried for my losses; all of them.

  Suddenly, as quickly and spontaneous as it began, the crying stopped. I felt divorced from my body. Without feeling, I was all intellect. A highly critical intellect that questioned why I was parading around as a therapist, charging fees for problem-solving, when I failed to save my son, even sense the extent of his pain and confusion. I failed as a father and a therapist. Earlier, after the first few months of Kevin’s death, I seriously considered surrendering my practice and taking up a different profession. Reason prevailed. Despite my loss and the additional pain I experienced whenever my patient’s problems related to mine, striking like a hot poker to my gut, I knew I would be a better therapist because I could completely identify. I had walked the walk. But I would also need to come to a resolution about my son’s death.

  Drained. Totally wiped out, I whispered goodbye to Kevin and headed back off the bridge. I wasn’t sure what I had accomplished, if anything, by returning to the scene where it happened, but I felt cleansed. I had washed away a residue that clogged my pores. Though exhausted, I felt freer. It was time now to deal with matters of the present.

  I returned home feeling tired but calm. My answering machine was blinking like a nervous puppy who needed to pee. I fetched my cell phone to get my calls from voicemail, convinced the majority of calls from both machines were from Megan. Impatient Megan. I wanted to avoid all the calls, but I couldn’t because they could be from my answering service telling me to call patients in need, patients that were possibly suicidal. With rare exceptions I answer my calls immediately, any time day or night, since time can be critical with a suicidal patient. I shunned my obligations tonight. I was too needy, unable to get outside of myself. Instead of gambling everything would be alright, I should have asked another psychiatrist to take my calls. As I began to check my voicemail, I could only hope I wouldn’t pay a price for my neglect, add another layer of guilt due to patient trauma on top of the already heavy burden of guilt I carried. Fortunately, none of the calls were patient originated. Of the twelve total from both phones, ten were from Megan; the other two related to professional meetings.

  I knew I should have called her. She expected me around six. Letting her know I was not going to be there was common courtesy. Rightfully, she’s upset, but does she have to call me ten times? Who calls ten times? Someone who’s very anxious or very angry. My money was on the anger. I had a mind to ignore her until tomorrow but that would just accentuate the situation. Still relatively calm, I decided to call her after pouring a tumbler of scotch. I pictured her as a molten volcano as I punched in her number, steeling myself for her harangue.

  Instead she was sweetness personified. “Oh, God, Grant. I was so worried about you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry about not calling you earlier but I had something I had to take care of.” I heard her breathing, patiently waiting for me to continue. “I needed to visit the bridge where Kevin jumped.”

  Still nothing on the other end. I sipped my drink. “I’m okay.”

  “Good! I was so worried about you. I had this weird feeling in my stomach that something bad was going to happen. I can relax now. I apologize for all the calls, but I was so worried.”

  “I understand,” I said only because that’s what she wanted to hear. I didn’t understand, and still believed her incessant calls were spurred by anger from feelings of rejection.

  “It’s too late for the movies. Should I come over?”

  I was tempted by her sweetness and a part of me wanted to cuddle in her warmth. “I need to be by myself, reflect on my visit to the
bridge.”

  “What about Carrie?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

  “What do you mean?” It dawned on me that she could think I was spending the night with Carrie. Maybe even made up the part about Kevin.

  “I mean...what was her problem? Why did she need to see you?”

  “She’s pregnant...Not mine! I’ll tell you more tomorrow when I see you.”

  “Let’s talk in the morning. Make our plans.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Grant.”

  “Me, too. Bye.”

  I snapped the phone shut, remained in my stool by the breakfast bar, sipped my scotch and tried put order to the day that had so much stuffed into it. There was Carrie’s pregnancy, my visit to the bridge, and Megan telling me she loved me. My calmness had evaporated. My head was swimming with the events of the day and what possible ramifications they would spark in the future.

  25

  I hadn’t slept well, and tired the next morning I moved very slowly, and laid on the couch after a breakfast of coffee and cereal. I couldn’t help noticing the bare walls. I’d been in the place for over a year and still they remained bare. Plain white walls. What was that about? Obviously, it represented my incompleteness; it was as if this time was such an interim period, it didn’t make much sense to put all the effort into decorating to make it my own. A few months maybe; a whole year, no way.

  This wasn’t the first time I had this talk with myself. There were multiple versions. The thing was that, despite my awareness of what this meant, I still made no effort to do anything about it. I had a couple of paintings I picked up at local art fairs stored somewhere in the apartment. I didn’t recall the image on one; the other was of a peaceful pink-orange sunset glowing behind a mountain. Hanging that would be too apropos, signifying an ending. Closure. There was my analytical mind again. I couldn’t merely accept the painting as capturing a beautiful moment in time. I had to assign meaning to it. Nothing in my life had been resolved. Everything was still very much in the state of flux. So the walls remained bare. I turned my body over so I wouldn’t have to face the walls. Maybe if I could meditate.