She considers my question. “Not unless my mom gets better. But it’s like, she doesn’t even want to. She just wants to lie in bed and be sad and think about Jonah. And that makes me feel sad and mad at her, too, and mad at myself because of what happened.”
“Eden, why are you mad at yourself for what happened? It’s no one’s fault. You know that, right?”
She doesn’t answer, just gives me a stony look as she tucks her knees back against her chest.
I repeat her aunt’s words to her. “Bad things happen. They just do.”
When her silence continues, I make a note and change directions.
“What’s the biggest thing you would change about your mom right now, the one thing that would let you know she’s getting better?”
She chews at her bottom lip. I consider how to rephrase the question, but before I do, she answers.
“I would want her to know I’m there,” she says. She puts her hand to her throat and coughs a little, then sucks in a breath. “It’s like, she doesn’t see me anymore. She doesn’t see anyone.”
Except Jonah, I think. The one person who isn’t there.
THIRTY
RACHEL DAVENPORT
“I don’t want to be here,” she says. She sits on the couch, her posture as it was in the family room, shoulders hunched, head on her chest. “I just want to go home and go to bed. I’m so tired. So, so tired.” I know she is still being medicated, although strictly monitored with a lower dosage. The effects of going off an antidepressant cold turkey can be devastating. Rachel is lucid, although markedly sluggish.
“I understand,” I tell her. She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.
“No, you don’t. You say you do, but you don’t.”
“As I mentioned earlier, I have experienced loss, Rachel.”
She raises her head and stares at me. “Was it your child? Your baby boy?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not the same.” She drops her head.
“May I ask you a question, Rachel?”
“Stop saying my name as if you know me.” Her words are slow and measured and devoid of aggression or force. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. But I’d like to get to know you if you’ll let me.”
She turns to look out the window, her eyes faraway. “You don’t want to get to know me. If you knew what kind of person I am, you wouldn’t.”
“What kind of person are you?”
She faces me, then closes her eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Why doesn’t it matter what kind of person you are?”
“Because it’s too late to change anything.”
“What would you change if you could?”
“Everything. I don’t like talking. It takes too much energy. I’m so tired.” She stretches out across the couch, resting her head on the arm. She stares at the ceiling. “This is more comfortable than I thought it would be.”
“From what I hear from the people who know you, you’re a terrific person,” I tell her. For a moment, I think she didn’t hear me. Then she shifts on the couch and turns her head to face me.
“Maybe they don’t really know who I am.”
“Why don’t you tell me who you are.”
She returns her attention to the ceiling. “Can I go home now? I really don’t want to be here. I don’t like being outside the house right now. Maybe someday I will again. Maybe I’ll like going out and doing the things I used to do.”
“What kinds of things did you used to do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Did you like going to the movies?”
“I guess.”
“How about shopping?”
“Not really. Sometimes, maybe. If there was a good sale.”
“What about hobbies?”
“Writing. I have a blog. Had a blog.”
“That sounds interesting. What else?”
Rachel continues to stare at the ceiling. She is quiet, but I can’t tell whether she’s pondering my question or if she has checked out of the conversation. A moment passes.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Her question takes me by surprise. “Do you believe in ghosts, Rachel?”
She laughs quietly. “I asked you first.”
I smile, even though she isn’t looking at me. “In all honesty, I don’t know if I believe in ghosts. I believe there are a lot of things in the world that we can’t explain.” I pause. “On the day you took the pills, you thought you saw Jonah.”
“Ruth told you?”
I don’t confirm or deny. No use throwing Ruth under the bus. “It was in your chart from the ER. Dr. Lahey made a note.”
Rachel purses her lips. “I did see Jonah. I didn’t think I saw him. I did.”
“Okay.”
“You say ‘okay’ like you don’t believe me. But he was there.”
“I say ‘okay’ because I believe that you believe it.”
“But you don’t.”
“Rachel, I wasn’t there. I only know what you’re telling me. Did Jonah talk to you? Did he say anything?”
“No. I think he wanted to, but he didn’t, or couldn’t. I don’t know.”
“Had you taken any of your medication when you saw him?”
“It wasn’t the pills. And I’m not crazy.” She pushes herself up to a seated position and looks directly at me. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I just wanted to help Jonah. I was worried that maybe he’s stuck, like he can’t move on, and I wanted to help him get to heaven. Jonah belongs in heaven. He was a perfect, sweet, wonderful boy who shouldn’t be stuck in this awful place where perfect, sweet, wonderful boys can be taken away in an instant because their mothers were too caught up in bullshit and neglected them!”
“Rachel, I need you to take a couple of deep breaths, okay?”
She presses her fist against her mouth and stifles a moan. Then she follows my directions and takes two deep breaths, letting them out on a sigh. I circle back to what she just said.
“Rachel, you didn’t neglect Jonah.”
Tears stream down her cheeks. I stand and carry the box of tissues to her. She looks at the box as though she has no idea what it is. I set it on the couch next to her.
“You don’t know what I did or didn’t do,” she tells me, her voice soft and terse at the same time. “You weren’t there.” Using my own words against me.
“Would you like to tell me what you did that you feel was neglectful to Jonah?”
She shakes her head and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater.
“Would you like to talk about something else?”
“I just want to go home. I’m so tired.”
“I know you are, Rachel. But you’re here already. Might as well use our time. I really want to help you and your family. And in order to do that, I’m going to need you to talk to me . . . just a little bit, so I know how best to help you.”
She doesn’t respond, just stares at me expectantly. The tears have stopped, but her eyes are swollen and her nose is red and wet.
“Can you talk a little bit about you and Sam?”
Her shoulders tense at the mention of her husband’s name.
“Sam,” she says, as if testing out the word. “Sam is Sam, green eggs and ham.”
“How long have the two of you been married?”
“Thirteen years.”
“How did you meet?”
A moment passes. “Blind date.”
“I met my husband on a blind date, too. Where did you go? What did you do?”