“Can you elaborate on that?”
“I used to joke around with colleagues, play squash, go to an occasional Patriots game. Maddy took care of everything at home, so work was my only real responsibility. The rest of our life was hers.”
He tilts his head to indicate he’s about to state something insightful. “Financial stability is a substantial thing to take on.”
“I thought so at the time,” I reply. He writes that down too.
“Do you work out?”
“Yes, daily.”
“Do you view yourself as a worthwhile person?”
“Yes, but I guess I probably shouldn’t.”
“Explain that.”
“My wife killed herself.”
“And that changes your value how?”
I consider what I’m willing to put out there. It might feel like a legal deposition, but it’s not. I can edit as I see fit. “Well … it’d be arrogant not to question what I did to contribute. Mostly I’m mad at her. I think, She did this to me. She left us. She had no right to do something that radical without informing me something was wrong in the first place.” The truth of it fills me with rage. No matter how much I neglected our home life, the salient point is that Maddy never said anything was wrong.
“What would you have done if she’d alerted you she was unhappy?”
“I would’ve fixed it.” Of that I’m certain.
Dr. White shrugs. “Okay, but she didn’t point it out, so you couldn’t.”
I can’t accept his easy out. Jesus Christ, I’m in a fight with myself. “I missed something. A hint. A clue. I didn’t pay enough attention.”
“Okay, we’ll circle back to that. What do you do for fun?”
“I don’t do fun.”
The click of his tongue suggests Dr. White doesn’t find my answer entertaining. “Be serious now, have you made any attempt to get out there since your wife died?”
“One time. Last Sunday. I went to dinner and a movie alone for the first time in my life. I won’t be doing it again anytime soon.”
“What happened?”
I don’t want to get into it. There was a time when I looked at people unaccompanied at restaurants like it was their fault. They were the type to sue their parents or sleep with their best friend’s spouse. Why else would someone my age still be alone? Now I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of those stares. I sat there waiting for my food, looking at people until they caught me, and I realized something: going out to dinner has nothing to do with eating. It’s about the conversation, or the celebration, or the hope that something will happen after dinner. That’s why the person alone is so disturbing—if all you want to do is eat, you can go to a drive-thru or get takeout. But I’m not going to say all that.
“What’s the point in putting your solitude on display? I can eat and watch movies in the comfort of my own home.”
Dr. White doesn’t disagree. “Give me a little more color, if you don’t mind. Share one specific detail about the night.”
“I don’t know. I thought the movies would be better than dinner. Who cares if you’re alone or paired up in a dark room where everyone expects silence. I took an aisle seat, only to get a glare from a couple that apparently left one chair free to be closer to the center of the screen, assuming no one would sit there. The woman got up to use the restroom as soon as I sat down, then switched seats with her husband when she returned, like I was a high risk for a cheap feel.”
This he does find funny. “Hmmm,” he says, when he’s done chuckling. “I don’t think you are clinically depressed.” I frown. I definitely want to be clinically depressed. “You look disappointed.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat at how perceptive he is. “Well, like I said on the phone, I feel depressed.”
“You’re appropriately sad, and justifiably angry. You’re in mourning. But you’re doing it with a clear head.” I have an overwhelming urge to cry. “That’s good news, Brady. It means we can talk through the changes you’re experiencing, the hurdles you’re facing, and get somewhere without medication.”
I voluntarily confess my recent temper in the hopes he’ll up the ante. I want a big fat fix-it-all pill that I can chase down with ten milligrams of Ambien every night. “Your volatility makes sense,” he replies, unimpressed. “You said it yourself, you only have the capacity to worry about you and your daughter. That means your patience is on a short string. Your brain now deems everything else unimportant.”
“But it’s not just work. I lose my temper with Eve too.”
“Of course you do. You’re in survival mode. Seventeen-year-olds are terrible at dealing with adults in survival mode. It goes against every desire your daughter has right now. She’s grappling for independence and you’re looking to keep her safe; you have opposing goals. When anything questions the stability you seek, it sets you off.”
“Okay, so how do I fix it?”
He combs a hand through his wild hair and sighs. “You don’t.”
“Then why the hell am I here?”
“Easy, Brady. It fixes itself. You’ll see. You’ll become aware, you’ll ease up on yourself, forgive yourself a bit, and in so doing, you’ll be more forgiving of others.”
Forgive myself.
Tears fall. However implicitly, I let this happen to my family.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Madeline
Rory is lonely, I repeat to Eve as they tackle “Chapter Three: Evaluating Limits.” Eve’s expression softens, but I can’t decipher what she’ll do with the information.
“Do you see how we got here?” Rory asks, showing a long workflow.
Eve purses her eyebrows. “Why can’t you test the limit by plugging in a value?”
“It’s a good thought. This is a hard concept, and that question proves you understand what we’re trying to calculate here.”
Rory knows the material. I shouldn’t have doubted her. Linda raised a daughter with flawless ethical boundaries; if Rory didn’t feel comfortable teaching calculus she wouldn’t have accepted the offer. My mom? Not so much. If I was taught anything it was that a good lie could ride you to the next argument.
The doorbell rings. “I’ll be quick,” Eve says, getting up from the table. It’s Paige.
“Whose car is that?” she asks, peering inside to investigate.
“My drug dealer’s—oh, errr—I mean, my math tutor’s.”
Paige smiles. “Feisty, are we? This is just a drop-off.” She hands Eve a bag of organic vegetables and a roasted chicken from the farmer’s market. “Just chop up all the veggies and sauté it for a nice succotash. The chicken will be fine in the warming drawer until dinner.” Eve gave up cooking after the fire, and I’m desperate to get her back into it.
“Thanks,” Eve says. “Hopefully I don’t burn the house down.”
“That grill was ancient. Don’t beat yourself up.” My message exactly.