by Tom Bierdz
I smiled. “We’re just good friends. Carrie likes to flirt.”
He put the comb away, closed the door. “Does she like young guys?”
“Forget it, Bobby. She’s not for you.”
Later that day Megan called. “Want to play tennis tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you afraid to be beaten by a woman?”
I could picture that predatory sneer on her face. She was going to lord it over me. “No, Megan, my leg hurts. I pulled a groin muscle.”
“It didn’t affect your fucking.”
“Then let’s fuck, forget about tennis.”
“Hmm, you have a way with words, Doctor.”
“I have something I want to talk to you about first.”
“I’m listening.”
“Meet me at the Cupid Bar. Let’s say, six o’clock. We’ll have drinks on the patio, or inside if it’s too cold or still raining.”
“I can pick you up.”
“Thanks, but I got a couple of things to take care of and don’t know where I’ll be.”
“Okay.” She made a kissing sound then signed off.
I tried to gear up for my confrontation with Megan. I needed to tell her of my encounter with Sasha and that I didn’t see her as the suicidal risk that Megan did. I wished I had spent more time with Sasha so I wouldn’t be making an assessment by the seat of my pants. I didn’t know what to make of Sasha’s coolness and detachment, or her seemingly irritation with Megan. My diagnosis: severe depression with suicide ideation had been made through Megan’s eyes. I observed nothing specific to contraindicate that diagnosis. Each of my concerns could possibly be explained away. It was my trained intuition, my feelings, that didn’t mesh. But until I could identify what they meant and put them into words, they were just another part of the puzzle.
My last patient cancelled and Bobby left early for a class. With time on my hands I downloaded a song on my I-phone, In the Still of the Night, the beautiful Cole Porter standard with the haunting melody. But instead of hearing the song sung as it was originally recorded, the artist made it her own, destroying the melody. What is it with singers, nowadays, that think they have to change the melody? It’s like anticipating a full body hug from an old friend and receiving a limp handshake. At home I could have loaded one of my CDs. I snapped the phone shut and picked up one of my professional journals.
Megan was in a booth caressing a glass of wine when I entered the restaurant. She still wore her peat-colored, double-breasted, trench coat. I imagined her as a spy out of a John LeCarre novel. The rain had stopped but it was still too cold and wet outside. I squeezed her hand, slid into the seat across from her and ordered a scotch, aware of the sounds of dishes clinking in the open kitchen, wait staff and patrons shuffling on the floor, and the din of table conversation.
After a bit of small talk, she asked, “So what did you want to tell me?”
“I saw your sister.”
“What?” Her complexion faded to an ashen pallor.
I shook my head, held up my hand in protest to her anticipated attack. “Accidentally! I ran into her accidentally. I took Greg–the boy at the group home I told you about–to Brawny Lake. He’s a photography buff, takes pictures of birds.”
She moved closer, her eyes taking me apart. ”I never told you she was at Brawny Lake. You didn’t trust me. You had to look her up!”
“Simmer down, it wasn’t like that at all!” An older couple at the next table glared at us. I lowered my voice. “It was a strange coincidence. We went in this little store to buy film. She was at the counter buying stuff. The clerk called her Mrs. Kovich. That name and then the resemblance. I asked her if she was Sasha.”
She sighed, leaned back in the booth. “And?”
I took a long draw on my drink. Why did I feel that I did something wrong? “I helped her carry her bags to the house.”
“Did you see that wonderful view from the deck?” Her tone was pleasant.
“I did. We had a glass of wine on the deck.”
“Get to it, Grant. What about this did you want to tell me?” This time her voice was flat and steely, not at all feminine.
Now that the moment had arrived, I didn’t know how to express what I felt. I stammered, “She wasn’t what I expected. She didn’t seem suicidal. She seemed more angry than depressed. She even ordered me off the property.”
Her smile widened. “That had to be worth seeing.” She cast her eyes on her glass, ran her finger around the rim. “Was she in her manic phase?”
“No. I suppose she could be bi-polar. I was there for only a short period of time. But she definitely wasn’t manic.”
“You’re the brilliant doctor, Grant. Surely, you don’t expect her to wear her heart on her sleeve...”
She couldn’t have been more on target, piercing my heart with an arrow. I never detected the extent of my son’s depression. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“...Did she know you were a psychiatrist?”
I nodded. My throat was dry. I took another sip.
“No wonder she was hostile. A shrink had assaulted her.”
I closed my eyes, ran my hand through my hair. Megan had the right answers, but still it just didn’t feel right. “The rowboat...the rowboat wasn’t there.”
“Of course not. I told you it was washed out to sea.”
Suddenly I felt lethargic, defeated, as if the wind had been knocked out of me, a little how I felt losing to her at tennis. What was that about? Sasha wasn’t a game, yet I felt an element of competitive tension. Why? I finally shook off the feeling as we lingered over a sandwich, then drove to Megan’s.
Lovey-dovey again, we had several drinks at her place and slow danced on the balcony to the throaty saxophone of David Sanborn. Clouds obscured the moonlight but there was a freshness in the air from the rain, and the dewy scent of dampness that intermingled with Megan’s fragrance. Tipsy, Megan leaned back against the railing, laughing at something I said and dropped her wine glass which tumbled down, crashing on the rocks below. When she bent over to see what happened I feared she might be falling and charged over to grab her, tripping on my own feet and hitting the wall forcefully so that the upper part of my body was parallel to the ground. Hit with vertigo, I choked back the bile that rose in my throat. The balcony becomes the George Washington Bridge and the water below Lake Union. I see Kevin’s lonely silhouette at the edge of the bridge, staring down. I imagine thoughts that rush through his head, the pros and cons of diving into the water, escaping a life he finds too painful to see it through. But I can’t imagine what it is that could have caused that much pain, that severed his will to live. Was it Hanna or me? Rejection by a girlfriend? Punishment for a wrong committed? What could he have done that was so devastating? The deliberation of whether to live or die is over. The decision made earlier, before he chose to jump off the bridge. He climbs the chain-link fence that had been erected to stop others like Kevin from killing themselves. As he climbs I wonder if he considers how much damage he does to Hanna and me. He never even asked me for help. Me, a therapist, who saved many others from destroying themselves. I was there for him. I thought I was. If I was remote in any way, had he told me how depressed he was, I would have made him my number one priority.
Tears flooded my eyes. I could no longer see the water below the balcony. My vision was focused on the bridge. Kevin was near the top of the fence. Where were the cars? Why doesn’t someone come by? A good Samaritan? A policeman? Anyone? Kevin reached the top, straddled the fence. I wanted him to hesitate, re-think the consequences. But he didn’t. He jumped, his body caught in the moonlight to spotlight the drama of his final seconds on earth.
This time everything gushed out of me, shooting into the sea. I choked, gagged, and cried all at once. Dizzy and unsteady, I fell into Megan’s arms.
When I awoke I found myself in Megan’s bed, clad only in my jockey shorts, feeling her warm body on my back. I had no recollection of getti
ng to bed or undressing. Because I was in my underwear I assumed I didn’t have sex. I tried to talk but groans came out instead of words. Megan shushed me, told me it’s all right and to go back to sleep which I did.
The next morning after a shower and over coffee, Megan told me I had talked in my sleep, calling out ‘Kevin’. I told her about Kevin’s suicide and how it had hit me last night. She was tender and understanding, but I had the impression that most of what I said was not new news to her. She dropped me off at work. Since we both needed a day to recover, we agreed not to see each other that day.
13
Both Carrie and Bobby separately tried to prank me by telling me the principals at the Noble house down the block were arrested for growing and selling marijuana. They had a very sophisticated operation growing inside the basement with grow lights, space heaters, and a complicated sprinkler system automated with temperature and barometer gauges. I’m afraid I disappointed them as I not only refused to buy it, but I also didn’t join in the fun and laughter afterwards. I felt somewhat out of it. My guilt for Kevin’s suicide mingled with my shameful behavior with Megan. Exposing myself–my weakness, my vulnerability–left me with a queasy feeling even though Megan couldn’t have been more receptive and understanding. I was the therapist, the problem solver, the expert on human behavior, the one who should have it altogether.
The day was uneventful. All of my patients showed and their sessions proceeded naturally.
Bobby left early for a class.
Despite the continuous drizzle I decided a walk in the rain would do me good. I kept my umbrella closed, turned up the collar on my raincoat, and hoofed it home. Sadly, I was bothered by the empty house. Not having Hanna welcome me home hit me hard early in our separation, but over time I adapted and actually preferred the aloneness at times. But for some reason, today was like one of those first separation days. I missed having someone to come home to. I missed Hanna terribly. I missed the smells of the roast in the oven, or the chicken in the crockpot. I missed her greeting kiss and hug, her excitement as she told me about the profit she made on the vase she sold on EBay. I missed the sounds of the TV, the telephone chatter, her laughter. Even the coughs and sneezes. I was left with the howl of the wind, the creak of the stairs, the groan of the furnace.
I poured myself two-fingers of Aberlour, shoveled in some ice, took a sip. My drink of choice had morphed into something alien. I shivered, made a face, set the drink down. I still had a land line in addition to my cell. I checked my answering machine. Two hang-ups. No doubt sales calls. I still got some despite being on the no-call list. Hungry, I checked the refrigerator. I hadn’t felt like going out for lunch, ate the stale doughnut left behind instead. My stomach growled. I pulled out a Trader Joe’s premade dinner and threw it in the microwave. Ate it in front of the TV, watching the news. I zoned out through most of it, paid attention to the weather. I needn’t have. I knew it by heart–temperature in the sixties with rain or possible rain for the next week.
Suddenly it dawned on me that since Megan came into my life I hadn’t had many evenings alone. I wasn’t sure what to make of that and quickly cast it out of my head. My analytical mind had been working overtime with last night’s episode. It needed a break. I decided to watch Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris and ruminate about what it must have been like to be a psychiatrist in the days of Hemmingway. I unwound, enjoyed the movie and my scotch, and went to bed early.
Megan awoke me in the middle of the night. “She did it, Grant. Sasha did it. She killed herself.”
She choked the words out amidst the breaking sobs. “She overdosed.”
Jarred wide awake, my heart hammered in my chest and reached out to Megan. “Where are you?”
“At Sasha’s.”
I threw my legs over the side of the bed, unto the floor. “I’ll come, get there as soon as I can.”
“No.” She hesitated. “Maybe if it wasn’t so far. It’ll take you an hour to get here. I want to go home. I need to be myself.”
“Is Nick there?” I reached over and turned on the lamp.
“No, he’s out of town on business. I left a message for him.”
“Are you sure she’s dead? Did you call an ambulance?”
“Yes, the paramedics tried to revive her, pronounced her dead. The medical examiner is on his way.”
I heard her sniffles. I felt so useless, unable to do anything. I needed to keep her on the phone, give me time to figure something out. “What made you go out there?”
“It started this afternoon. She was morose, kept saying she didn’t want to go on. She needed to end it. She asked me things like how many pills would she need to take. She needed it to be final. She couldn’t tolerate doing half a job and living as a vegetable. The more I tried to talk her out of it, the less talkative she became. Eventually, she stopped taking my phone calls.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. Bobby didn’t tell you?”
Damn Bobby! This was basic. He had to know the urgency. “No.”
“I called the first time. You were with a patient. A few minutes later I called back and told Bobby not to bother you. I didn’t think there was anything you could do. And, it wasn’t much different from my other conversations with Sasha.”
Not much different, but still different. “What time did you go over there?”
“I can’t talk about this anymore, Grant. I need to go home to bed.”
I heard the exhaustion in her voice. I had to let her go. Still, I wanted to be there for her. She was there for me the previous night. I should be there to comfort her. “Should I come to your house?”
“No, please, no. I appreciate the offer but I want to be alone. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Wide awake now, I set the phone down, sat up in bed. I failed. If only indirectly, Sasha was a patient of mine. Eventually, every psychiatrist who treats seriously disturbed patients has a patient who commits suicide, because no matter how devoted and effective he or she is, the therapist is not omnipotent and can’t control the behavior of his patients. My first suicide was in my second year of practice. Previously, I had prided myself in my ability to prevent people from ending it. When a threat became a reality, I was crushed, blamed myself even though I did everything I could. With the help of colleagues and time I got over it; understood that patients killing themselves, while deeply painful for me, was inevitable and part of the therapist’s reality. I needed to focus on the ones I saved, not on those I lost.
But Sasha’s suicide, like Kevin’s suicide, had become personal. I was impotent. I guzzled a glass of scotch and cried myself to sleep.
14
Sleep was fitful in brief snatches. Although I still felt bad about myself for not preventing Sasha’s suicide, my thoughts focused on Megan and what she must be going through. I wanted to be there for her. Sasha was her blood. No one understood the tumultuous pain of losing a blood relative to suicide more than me. I turned off the alarm long before it had a chance to ring and sprang out of bed. I wanted to call her but it was only five o’clock. There was a good chance she had trouble sleeping and was up like me, but she also may have just fallen asleep after struggling with her thoughts all night. If so, she needed her sleep and it would be both selfish and unfair to wake her. I strolled to the bathroom and debated what to do as I brushed my teeth. Watching the bathroom wall clock grudgingly tick off the seconds and finally the minutes, I decided to wait for at least another hour. Jittery like a drug mule in an airport customs line, I tried to busy myself with coffee and toast, watching tv, and jotting down a list of things I hadn’t got around to doing like purchasing replacement light bulbs and restocking my pantry.
My anxiety level was off the charts. I scrambled to the bathroom to my medicine cabinet for a tranquilizer to take the edge off, unscrewed the cap on the Xanax to find it empty. I’d forgotten to toss it away when I took the last pill months ago. My intent always was to keep a supply on hand for that rare occasion when one would
benefit me. But being reluctant to take drugs unless absolutely necessary, replacing the Xanax slipped my mind. Unable to ease my anxiety I obsessed on Sasha’s suicide, Kevin’s suicide, Megan’s reaction, and my guilt.
At precisely six o’clock on the dot I called Megan. She didn’t answer and her voicemail was not available. I considered calling a cab and going to her place, but what if she wasn’t home? She could be with Nick making her sister’s final arrangements. A half hour later I called Bobby, told him what happened and instructed him to cancel my morning appointments. I showered, then called Megan again. Same result. Anxiety, unanswered phone calls, and my obsessing behavior continued till around nine am when I decided to go to my office. I could call Megan from there and would have other things to occupy my mind.
I grabbed my raincoat and my umbrella and trudged my way to work in the misty rain, wondering why Megan had her phone off and hadn’t called me. With no patients to see and feeling too anxious to do paperwork or record my notes, I chatted with Bobby, our conversations primarily about Sasha’s suicide.
Alone in my office later that day, leaning back in my swivel chair, my hands locked behind my head in deep thought and my feet on my desk, Bobby buzzed me.
“There’s a Detective Rollins to see you.”
What was that about? My first thought was that someone had stolen my Porsche. It wasn’t in its usual place the last time Bobby drove me by and I had meant to contact the company but hadn’t got around to it since it was insured. “Send him in.”
Big and burly, Rollins had an oversized head, large floppy ears, and a misshapen face with the right side dented as if a facial bone had been bent or removed. His broad nose had been broken and was creased at the bridge. Either he was a former prizefighter or had been badly beaten up. He wore a mud brown, ill-fitting suit jacket that he could no longer button in the front, and a retro orange-patterned tie. He lumbered over to me, said, “May I?” before plopping down in a chair in front of my desk. He flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Reginald Rollins. I need to ask you some questions about Megan Wilshire.”
