Leaving the World

by Douglas Kennedy

  ‘Remind me never to take one of your classes, Professor.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that. I’m never teaching another class again.’

  ‘That’s a rather definitive statement.’

  ‘Because I’m rather definitive about it. My academic career is over.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do – and that probably disappoints you. No doubt, you want me to find a way back to my old life . . . as that would mean accepting loss and all that.’

  ‘Is it an “old life”? I mean, you were teaching classes up until two weeks ago.’

  ‘Everything to do with that part of my existence is now “old”. I won’t be visiting it again.’

  ‘Even though the chairman of your department informed me just a few days ago that he would like you back?’

  ‘I don’t want to say: “How dare you.” But . . . how dare you?’

  ‘How dare I what?’

  ‘How dare you contact my employer and—’

  ‘He actually contacted me.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘The police had to call the university when they discovered your New England State ID in your wallet. They spoke with Professor Sanders. He, in turn, actually went to the trouble to contact us here to see how you were faring.’

  ‘The man always considered me a liability.’

  ‘That’s not what he said. Even the President of the university called the hospital administrator to find out your condition.’

  ‘He’s the type who wouldn’t even dream of speaking to anyone below the CEO level.’

  ‘And you are understandably bitter because . . .’

  ‘I now hate the world.’

  There was a long pause as Dr Ireland took that in.

  ‘As I said to you the other day, you will not put this behind you. You will, in time, reach some sort of accommodation with it. But I will not attempt to sweeten that which is totally appalling. Your daughter is—’

  ‘Shut up,’ I hissed.

  ‘The thing is, you tried to silence that thought forever. You failed. You are back here among the living. You again have to deal with that terrible reality. Or you can repeat history and kill yourself the moment your insurance runs out and the hospital administrators decide that, as you are able enough to walk out of here, off you go . . . even though I will do everything possible to keep you here. Because I would prefer to save your life. But I can’t do that if you are so determined to end it. And you can reassure me all you want, or act receptive to what I say, or even pretend that you’re getting better. But I won’t believe a word of it.’

  I hung my head. I tried to think of a response, but the words wouldn’t come. I felt that drowning sensation overtaking me again.

  ‘I remember when I was a resident in Chicago, the leading psychiatrist emeritus at the hospital was this elderly Germanic woman. I’m pretty sure she was Viennese, but that goes with the territory, right? Anyway, she was also a survivor of Dachau – and I learned that her husband and two sons had died in the camp. Not only that, but she had been subjected to medical experiments while incarcerated. But the woman I met was this formidable, steely clinician who’d emigrated to the States after the war and had made a new life for herself, marrying a very big noise in the U. Chicago philosophy department. Once I heard her give a lecture on guilt – specifically, survivor guilt. Someone asked her: Given all that she had endured – the absolute sheer horror of it all – how had she been able to not go under? Her reply was extraordinary. She quoted Samuel Beckett: ‘‘I can’t go on, I’ll go on.’’’

  ‘It’s from The Unnamable,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. The Unnamable.’

  We fell silent. Then I said: ‘I can’t go on, Doctor.’

  ‘I know. But that’s now. Perhaps in time . . .’

  ‘I can’t go on. I won’t go on.’

  Three

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE made that comment. I shouldn’t have spoken without thinking. But I was thinking. I knew what I was saying. I knew I was articulating the truth. By doing so I had confirmed Dr Ireland’s worst suspicions. I was a hopeless case.

  To her credit Dr Ireland didn’t bring up this comment again. She simply increased my dose of Mirtazapine by 15 milligrams. They did knock me out, but they did nothing to alleviate the unalloyed grief that seemed to permeate every waking hour. Courtesy of the pharmaceuticals, I was managing to sleep nine hours a night. When I woke there was always a minute or so of pleasant befuddlement, during which I would wonder where I was. Then my tongue would touch my stitched lips and everything would instantly rush back. How I wish I could have preserved that moment between sleep and consciousness when my brain seemed to be devoid of a memory; when I was just living in a woolly moment. Because once the mental trigger was pulled – and all retained thought was returned to me – I simply wanted to die.

  Nurse Rainier was always on duty first thing in the morning and she seemed well aware of the processes by which the post-wake-up gloom would descend upon me. Within five minutes of me opening my eyes she’d be handing me a glass of orange juice and ordering me to get it into my system as soon as possible.

  ‘It’ll push your blood sugar up,’ she’d say.

  Nurse Rainier never spoke again about the child she lost, nor did she ever mention my failed suicide or the sorrow that haunted every waking hour. Sorrow. It was too controlled a word for what I was feeling right now. There were moments when I felt seriously unhinged; when I was convinced that I would never, ever, recover from what had happened, when it was absolutely clear to me that life from this point on would be constant agony . . .

  Though I tried my best to hide this incessant despair, Nurse Rainier let it be known she was on to me. If she found me curled up in a ball in my bed, she’d tap me hard on the shoulder and say: ‘I’m sending you to the physio now.’ If she sensed that I was lost in gloom, she insisted on turning on the radio by my bed and getting me listening to NPR. If I was uncommunicative she would force me to talk with her.

  Every morning she managed to drop a New York Times on my bed, telling me she’d found the one shop in Mountain Falls that sold it and commanding me to ‘read about the world’. Even though the leg was still encased in a cast, she made me walk around the hospital for at least a half-hour twice a day, initially with a walker, but after a week or so with a cane. And when the bandage came off my eye, she brought a television to my bedside and forced me to watch an hour of news every day.

  I knew why she was getting me to read a proper newspaper and listen to NPR and see what was happening in the world at large. It wasn’t merely to distract me and fill up time, but also to somehow make me engage with something beyond my anguish.

  Dr Ireland was also trying to push me towards some sort of acknowledgement that there was life beyond this hospital and all that it represented. She didn’t return to my statement that I couldn’t live with the grief. But she did insist that I talk about my daughter, recalling as much as I could bear to talk about – which wasn’t much because every time her name crossed my lips, it was as if I had been seized by an impossible sadness. But she kept pressing me – just as she also wanted to know everything about my relationship with Theo and how my heightened anxiety in the final weeks had made me distracted for that crucial moment when the dog broke free in front of us and . . .

  ‘Do you blame Theo for what happened?’

  ‘He wasn’t there. I blame myself.’

  ‘But his business failure – the debt he ran up with that woman, the angry creditors, the very real fear you had that your home might be taken away from you . . . surely you must somehow feel that if these pressures hadn’t been piled up upon you . . .’

  ‘I take responsibility for what happened.’

  ‘But don’t you hate him for it?’

  ‘“Hate” is a terrible word.’

  ‘You’ve been through a terrible experience – and his irresponsibility, his complete disregard for your feelings
, your welfare . . .’

  ‘Stop attempting to make me feel better about what happened. I know the game: when bad things happen to good people and all that self-denial crap. I won’t buy into that.’

  ‘Or maybe you’d simply see that the accident was just that – an accident. And that you yourself were, at the time, coping with terrible pressures, terrible—’

  ‘I despise Theo Morgan, OK?’

  ‘And I’m here to tell you that everything you feel is valid and—’

  ‘Oh, please. Everything I feel is awful. Maybe when I’m watching the nightly news that Nurse Rainier insists I watch I have a half-hour when I am distracted from it all. And thanks to your high-powered pharmaceuticals I do manage to sleep. But that’s it. Otherwise it’s there, day in, day out. Omnipresent. Hanging over every thought, every action.’

  ‘Your lawyer called yesterday,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘The switchboard, acting on your instructions, didn’t put the call through. But he did speak to me.’

  ‘You mean, you asked to speak to him.’

  ‘No, I mean he called me at my private practice in Mountain Falls. We had spoken twice before. I don’t sense it’s anything that dire. But he does need to talk through some things with you.’

  ‘You evidently feel that, clinically speaking, this would be a good thing for me to do,’ I said.

  ‘I feel . . . he’s your lawyer and you simply should speak with him.’

  So I accepted a call from Alkan the next day.

  ‘I’m glad to hear you survived your accident. After everything you’ve been through . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident, Mr Alkan. It was an attempt to kill myself. Botched like everything else I do.’

  ‘I’m certain that’s an overly harsh statement.’

  ‘To what do I owe this call, Mr Alkan?’

  ‘You may have heard from Dr Ireland that Adrienne Clegg decided to drop all charges against you . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that. And what caused this Pauline conversion?’

  ‘I had a talk with her lawyer – and made it very clear that I would eviscerate her if she dared take action against you.’

  ‘So she completely backed off?’

  ‘Better than that . . . she signed a document drafted by me, saying that she would never take any legal action against you and that all debts accrued by Fantastic Filmworks were not your responsibility.’

  ‘Well . . . thank you.’

  ‘You are most welcome. But there are a couple of other things to discuss. The cab company . . . their insurers phoned me with an offer.’

  ‘An offer?’

  ‘A compensation offer.’

  ‘I don’t want their money.’

  ‘Be that as it may, they still offered—’

  ‘I don’t care what they offered.’

  ‘In situations like this one – and given the age of your daughter – the amount is never—’

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Mr Alkan? I don’t want their money.’

  ‘It’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

  ‘Give it back to them.’

  ‘Surely you’re being a little rash here . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I am – or am not – being. I don’t want their damn money. Period.’

  ‘I’ll give you a few days to consider that.’

  ‘Tell you what – accept their offer, but give the money away.’

  ‘Miss Howard . . .’

  ‘You heard what I said: give it all away.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Is there a charity for parents who lost a child?’

  ‘I’m sure there is. I’d have to do a little digging around . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s who it goes to.’

  ‘I really wish you’d consider this for a few days.’

  ‘Why? I might change my mind.’

  ‘All right then.’

  ‘By the way, what do I owe you for your services for all this?’

  ‘Nothing. As you’re making a charitable donation here I’m waiving my fee.’

  ‘You’re just doing that because you feel sorry for me.’

  ‘That’s right – I do feel sorry for you. As anyone would.’

  ‘Anything else we need to discuss here?’

  ‘Your life in Boston. When are you planning to come back here?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Isn’t that a slightly premature decision? I mean, New England State has been in touch with me. They do want you to return as soon as possible. They consider you a most valued member of the department. Of course, I can’t force you to do one thing or another. But I do know, from my discussions with your department chairman, that the university is willing to put you on fully paid compassionate leave for the rest of the year.’

  ‘I don’t want their money either.’

  ‘It’s being paid to you as we speak. Not only are they being very understanding, they’re also showing real concern for you.’

  ‘My mind is made up. And there’s something else I want you to do for me. I want you to find a realtor and sell my apartment. Get rid of everything. Give away all the furniture, the electronics stuff, the books, the CDs. The lot. And then sell the place.’

  ‘Where do you want the money to go?’

  ‘Your call. Just give it away.’

  ‘Jane . . .’

  ‘Don’t try to reason with me, Mr Alkan. Don’t try to tell me I need more time to figure out my next move and all that blah, blah, blah. Sell the apartment and do whatever you want with the money.’

  ‘I simply can’t do that.’

  ‘Get me the necessary paperwork and you can.’

  A silence. Then: ‘All right, Jane. As you are the client I have no choice but to follow your instructions. I’ll send all the relevant papers to the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One last thing. Your friend, Christy, has been in touch with me regularly, trying to find your whereabouts. She seems genuinely concerned about your welfare. Will you speak to her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She did tell me she was your closest friend.’

  ‘That’s right. She is my closest friend. But I won’t speak with her.’

  ‘Mightn’t it be worth your while to—?’

  ‘My decision is final, sir.’

  ‘Very good then. I’ll FedEx everything in the next few days.’

  ‘Please get them to me as soon as possible. They’ll be kicking me out of here in fourteen days.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The documents arrived forty-eight hours later. An extended form from Standard Life Insurance, in which I agreed to accept $150,000 from the company in exchange for never making another claim against them ‘in this matter’ again. There was also a document agreeing to the transfer of said $150,000 to the Samaritans. (‘After some research I decided that they were the best of the organizations dealing with the bereaved and anyone else thinking about taking their life.’) And there was a power-of-attorney form, granting Mr Alkan the full legal right to do whatever the hell he wanted to do with all the proceeds from my apartment . . . and anything else to do with my financial life.

  I signed both forms and gave Nurse Rainier $30 in cash and asked her to FedEx them all back to him.

  Having signed my life away I felt a strange sort of calm. I knew what all my next steps would be. Just as I knew that, with only twelve days to go before the insurance ran out, Dr Ireland would be doing her best to make certain I was on the straight and narrow in time for my release.

  ‘I must come clean about this and tell you that I telephoned your lawyer in Boston,’ she said. ‘He did inform me about the contribution you made to the Samaritans. That’s most admirable.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’

  ‘He also told me you asked him to sell your apartment and give everything away.’

  ‘Bet you find that less “admirable”.’

  ‘Just troubling, to t
ell the truth. I mean, say you decide to return to the Boston area and recommence your job at the university?’

  ‘I’m not certain what my next step will be. But fear not, I won’t be buying another car just to ram it into another snowbank.’

  ‘Glad to hear that. Your friend, Christy, called me. She’s incredibly concerned about you and actually wanted to come out here to see you.’

  ‘But you talked her out of it?’

  ‘I said that, given your somewhat fragile state – and your refusal to have any contact with the outside world – it mightn’t be advisable.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘She told me she lives in Oregon – which is less than a day’s drive from here.’

  ‘I’m not ready to see her.’

  ‘But she told me she was with you in the weeks after Emily—’

  ‘Correct,’ I said, cutting her off. ‘But that was then. And now . . .’

  ‘Are you afraid of seeing her because of your failed suicide?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. But also because . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Because I don’t want . . . need . . . the kindness of others.’

  ‘You mean, you think you don’t deserve the kindness of others because you still wrongfully blame yourself for—’

  ‘You’re not going to convince me otherwise. I know what happened . . . and I have no alibi against that.’

  She reached under her chair and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. She uncapped the pen and starting drawing on it. Then she showed me her handiwork – a small blackened dot surrounded by a large circle.

  ‘Know what this is?’ she asked.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I said.

  ‘The black dot . . . that’s the world. And the circle . . . that’s the grief you are suffering. In other words, your grief makes the rest of the world appear minute.’

  She flipped a page and started drawing again, then showed me this new diagram: the same-sized circle, but a black dot that had trebled in size.

  ‘Now, in time – and, as I have said during so many of these sessions, it will take a considerable amount of time – your grief will remain the same, but the world will get bigger. And when that happens—’