The timing, it seemed, was auspicious. Here I was going through this painful realization — a kind of metamorphosis — that I had to grow out of my father’s influence. And in the midst of that, he had departed.
It sent me into a deeper spiral. I raided my roommate’s drug stash and took everything I could find. If it was a pill, I swallowed it. But it wasn’t enough.
I spent the next few days struggling on the fringes of a private hell, sneaking out to take drugs and carouse the city in an addled haze. I wanted to die. Somehow, though, I stayed alive. I skirted the edge but never went beyond it. And then a friend gave me the name of a trusted therapist.
Sarah was in her fifties, as I am now. She kept her hair natural and it had a lovely silver sheen. She wore simple earrings, two sterling silver hoops, and dressed in elegant, comfortable, earthy clothes. Her office always smelled like jasmine, and she had a therapeutic bag of tricks that worked wonders. Progression, regression, EMDR — you name it, she did it. Through her, I was able to get myself under control and start living my life again.
I visited Sarah once a week for eight months, and then twice a month for about a year after that, gradually reducing it to an as-needed basis. By the time Paul and I were married, I was already considering my own practice. I wanted to help people the way Sarah had helped me. My practice would span from young to old. I would become adept at guiding my patients as they hunted down their traumas and their shames. To get at the roots of their guilty feelings, their anxiety, and often, depression.
Not everyone could trace back their mental discomfiture to some inciting incident, however. I know this. Maggie Lewis had been abused at a young age. That trauma had gone undigested for over a decade. When I first began to see her, she was just twenty-one and had already been on anti-depressants for five years. She wanted out. She said that they ruined her creativity — she was a dancer, and her meds wreaked havoc on her motivation, body, and form.
In order to help her, I knew we needed to get to the trauma of her abuse. We had to do it slowly and carefully. I could only gently guide her — she had to confront it when she was ready.
But we never quite got there.
I tell as much to Sergeant Rhames once I arrive in Westchester and am sitting across from him and another plainclothes officer at the White Plains Police Department.
“And you can’t discuss the . . . nature of the abuse with us?” the plainclothes cop asks.
“Not in any detail. Not other than what I’ve already stated.”
The plainclothes cop, an investigator, taps a pen against his lip. “But you’re pretty sure that’s what drove her to do it. To commit suicide.”
“We say ‘complete a suicide.’”
He lowers the pen. “Come again?”
“In the mental health field, suicide is part of the diseases of despair. Alcoholism, drug addiction, suicidal ideation. It’s a physical health condition. We don’t ‘commit’ a heart attack. Saying it associates blame, like committing a crime or a sin. The stigma can deter people from coming forward who are contemplating suicide. And also, a person may attempt a suicide, but they may not complete it.”
The investigator gives Sergeant Rhames a long look, like, Are you hearing this?
Rhames is thoughtful, though. “And you said you’re pretty sure she wasn’t contemplating . . . ah, attempting or completing a suicide.”
“In our discussions, no.”
“But you could see how she might. The stresses she was under.”
“If you’re wondering what to tell the family, it’s this: Maggie Lewis was an incredibly brave woman. She was fighting to overcome something almost insurmountable. At the same time, she was trying to live her life to her fullest potential. To be an artist, to dance.”
Rhames is taking notes.
“She was fighting a disease of despair not of her own making. She didn’t ask for her circumstances. But she was doing everything in her power to overcome them. Sometimes we don’t make it. But that’s not the important part. What’s important is how hard we try.”
The investigator has his mouth hanging half-open. He suddenly becomes aware of this, closes it and sits up straighter. Rhames finishes his notes, stands, and reaches his hand across the table. “Dr. Lindman, thank you so much.”
I shake with him as the investigator stands and offers his own hand. “Yeah, er, ah, if there’s anything else, I’ll be in touch.”
I’m sure.
I leave and head straight for my next destination. Maggie’s funeral won’t be for a couple of days. If I attend, it will be just by slipping into the back of the church during the service. But I won’t go to the wake or burial or mingle at any reception afterwards. To me, that’s unprofessional.
Not that what I’m about to do is incredibly high up there on the list of ethical standards. But making a few discreet phone calls to get a little background on my daughter’s fiancé, that’s understandable, isn’t it? Especially if I suspect he’s a former patient who witnessed one parent kill another?
Any mother would do the same.
Right?
CHAPTER TWELVE
White Plains is a medium-sized city in the center of Westchester County, just north of New York City. My office shares the third floor of a five-story building with two other offices: a dentist and a realtor. The building is dark, everyone gone home to start the weekend.
The door from the corridor opens onto the room where Mena typically receives my clients, helps with billing, and attends to other administrative duties.
I move through to my office, which fronts Mamaroneck Avenue below. For some reason, I keep the lights off. It’s as if I don’t want anyone to know I’m here. As if somehow they’ll see through to the duplicity.
I’m supposed to be here for Maggie Lewis, but right now, I don’t have time to go through two years of notes. And the real reason I’m here, anyway, is the Bishop case.
I sit down hard in my desk chair, the guilt weighting me.
I’m sorry, Maggie . . .
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I wasn’t expecting this, but being in the office has opened me up. I let the emotion wash through me and run its course.
The space is simply arranged: my desk and chair to one side, a pair of facing chairs to the other, and one couch against the back wall. Most patients prefer the chair. Maggie liked the couch — she sat just feet away from where I am now, and not long ago.
I’m so sorry, honey . . .