She gives me an ambivalent look. “We met at a club.” I nod and wait for her to continue. “It was near the campus, walking distance.” Her expression shifts slightly as she connects to the memory. “It was one of those places with the drums and the neon paints.”
“I’ve never been to one, but I’ve heard they’re fun.”
“I suggested it, you know, when we talked on the phone. I wanted to see . . .” Her voice trails off.
“What, Rachel? What did you want to see?”
“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see if he was . . .” She shrugs. “Adventurous. I used to be. Adventurous. Now I don’t even want to leave my house. My bed.”
I urge her back on track. “So you suggested the club and he agreed?”
She nods. “He told me he’d be wearing an Eddie Munster T-shirt. You know, from that old TV show? And there was this guy at the bar when I got there, and he was wearing an Eddie Munster T-shirt.” She looks at her lap. “He wasn’t really . . . I mean, he was so . . . He wasn’t at all what I expected. He didn’t look anything like my friend Leah described. And I thought maybe I could just sneak out without him seeing me. I didn’t want to be mean, but he . . .” She shakes her head. “I figured I could call him later and tell him I got food poisoning or something.” A quiet chuckle escapes her. “So I kind of backtrack to the entrance, and just as I’m walking out the door, in comes this other guy wearing an Eddie Munster T-shirt. What are the odds? And it was Sam. Looking just like my friend said he would. And he got this big smile on his face and took my hand, and that was it.”
“That’s a great story. Thank you for sharing that with me. How long did the two of you date before you got married?”
She stands suddenly. “I don’t want to talk about Sam anymore.” She moves toward the door, wringing her hands together, her anxiety rising with each passing second. I can tell that she is done.
“I want my sister,” she says. “I want Ruth. I want to go home. I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m really sorry. I’ll do better next time. I promise. I just need to go. I just need to go now.”
I follow her to the door and put my hand on her arm. “It’s okay, Rachel. I understand. And you’ve done very well today. You should feel really good about taking this first step.”
“Feel really good,” she repeats, her voice hollow. “I’m afraid that I won’t ever feel really good about anything ever again.”
“I know. That’s why you’re here.” I squeeze her arm and watch as her eyes fill with tears. “Come on. I’ll take you to Ruth.”
THIRTY-ONE
MADDIE
I let myself into the house and head straight to the kitchen, where I pour myself a tall glass of water. I drink it slowly, staring out the window to the darkened yard, and thinking about the Davenports.
I catch movement in my peripheral vision and turn to see Cleopatra slink toward me. She rubs herself against my ankles and starts to mewl. Her coat is silver gray, shiny and sleek, and her eyes are peridot green. I kneel down and stroke her, and her purr is instantaneous. She allows me to pet her for thirty straight seconds, then turns and trots across the tile floor to her bowls. I dutifully follow her and grab the bag of cat food from the cupboard and measure out a quarter cup. I freshen up the water and leave her to it.
A half an hour later, I’m on the couch, wearing my yoga pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, rolling a joint. On particularly difficult days, this is how I decompress. With marijuana. I tried drinking wine, which I enjoy, but the nightly calories wreaked havoc on my waistline. A psychiatrist friend of mine offered me a prescription for medical marijuana, which he said helped him unwind. The particular kind of weed I smoke is mild. It relaxes me without making me crazy, helps me to distance myself from my patients’ grief, and occasionally it opens my mind to possible treatment solutions for particularly difficult situations. I only take one or two hits, never more.
Peter texted me earlier to let me know he had a dinner with the partners of his firm and didn’t know how late he would be. I sent a reply, telling him not to worry, to enjoy the inevitable cigars and cognac that accompany such a meal, and if we couldn’t FaceTime tonight, we’d make up for it tomorrow.
Cleopatra has graced me with her presence. She lies on the other side of the couch, summarily ignoring me, but the fact that she is within reaching distance speaks volumes. I know that if I scooted closer and started to pet her she would jump down and move to another room, so I pretend to ignore her and am content with her aloof company.
I light the joint and take one long draw, hold it in for a beat, then exhale slowly. I set the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table and recline against the back of the couch.
The Davenport file sits next to the ashtray. This morning’s sessions are still fresh in my mind. I thought of the family throughout my day, between patients, at lunch, on the drive home. Something is going on with each of them.
When faced with a devastating loss of a family member, most healthy, well-adjusted individuals will experience survivor’s guilt. It’s natural. But with this case, each person exhibits feelings of guilt that run far deeper than I would expect. During their sessions, each one apologized, even when an apology wasn’t necessary. Each confessed or, at least, almost confessed to having done something wrong, something that caused Jonah Davenport’s death.
Jonah was hit by a car. He was not neglected or abused or battered by his parents. He was not pushed down the stairs by his older sister. He didn’t find his aunt’s fibromyalgia meds and take half a dozen of them. What happened was an accident. A terrible, horrible, tragic accident.
I reach over and pick up the file, open it, and gaze down at the smiling face of a five-year-old with enormous dimples, curly brown hair, and intelligent, amused brown eyes. I stare at Jonah’s image for a while and try to imagine him as he was in life.
I think of how Sam described him, the precocious child with the enormous hands and affection for bugs.
“I don’t kill spiders, either, Jonah,” I tell him. “I get my husband to do it.”