Twisted

I’ve lost a year. I abandoned my successful practice as a psychologist. I abandoned my wife. I’ve lost Devon. But what makes his death even more unbearable is that I carry the responsibility for it. My guilt is insurmountable, and I know it will follow me for the rest of my life. I can never forgive myself, and I don’t know if Jenna can either. How could she?

 

Insanity offered a temporary reprieve from the truth. But disappearing into my imaginary world meant leaving her in the real one to struggle alone through her grief. I didn’t leave her intentionally, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that my illness only added pain on top of more pain, making it all that more difficult for her. A broken mind did in fact shield me from having to mourn my son’s death, but the escape was only temporary. That heartache is still here waiting for me, and now I wonder whether I’ll have to deal with the loss of a wife as well.

 

The door to my room opens. Jenna stands behind it, still as beautiful as the first day I laid eyes on her. My breath whooshes out, and worry washes through me because, in her expression, I’m unsure whether it’s joy or regret I see.

 

Whether she has come to say hello or good-bye.

 

Jenna steps toward me, and the closer she gets, the more I know she’s speaking to me—not with words but through our unspoken language: I love you. I’ve missed you so much.

 

She hasn’t given up on me.

 

Standing face-to-face, we’re both frozen by the foreignness of this moment. The only indication of Jenna’s feelings are tears that well in her eyes. Tears of joy, of happiness, or fear, or . . . I’m not sure what.

 

Neither of us speaks.

 

“Well,” she finally says, showing me that adorable smile, “we always knew you were complicated.”

 

I throw my arms around her. I indulge in this moment. I relish in it. The feel of my wife against me, the smell of her, the near-silent sob that shakes her body under my hold.

 

Jenna presses her cheek against mine. Skin to skin, as our warm tears mingle, her love holds me up, and at no other time have I needed it more. Because in this true world, I’m again with the one person who will allow me to go on, who is giving me my first taste of healing. We stay close in each other’s arms for a long time, but as much as I need this, I know that Jenna does, too.

 

When she at last pulls back, I look into her eyes. My wife is indeed still as beautiful as ever, but I can tell that the past year has left its mark on her. I see sadness, so much pain and grief. A woman who first lost a son, and then, for a time, her husband. A woman who’s been just as alone in her world as I was in mine, and in some ways, maybe even more. I want so badly to carve away that pain. But at a time like this, assurance seems impossible to find. I’m not even sure if any exists.

 

Still, I try.

 

“I’m so . . .” My voice fails me, and I make another attempt. “Sorry will never be enough. I don’t know how to—”

 

“No, baby, don’t,” Jenna says with that gentle firmness I remember well. She pulls back so our eyes meet and wipes a tear from my face. “There is nothing to be sorry about. You hear me? Nothing.”

 

A faint nod is all I can manage. Maybe because I don’t believe her. Maybe because I can’t. I look up, and in her tender compassion, find a glimmer of hope.

 

“Chris,” she says, “all you ever did from the second Devon entered this world was love him. He left it knowing that.”

 

“I abandoned him. I became my father.”

 

“Sweetheart, you’ve got that one wrong.”

 

“How?”

 

“You’re not your father,” Jenna says, “because you came back to me.”

 

And with her absolution, I am both heartbroken and grounded. Her words open the floodgates to a swell of emotions, so powerful, so deep, so seemingly infinite. I am overwhelmed by her forgiveness, but that only makes me ache more for Devon.

 

I surrender to those feelings. I allow them, because I know the time is right, that in the safety of Jenna’s arms is the best place to do it. I bury my head in her shoulder. And together at last, we suffer the loss of our son. And at last, I allow myself to fall apart.

 

Just as I reach the point where it feels like this pain will never end, Jenna moves her hand over my back and pulls me solidly against her.

 

“Chris,” she whispers.

 

But I don’t answer. I’m gasping for air.

 

“Chris,” she says again.

 

I swallow hard.

 

“Breathe with me,” she says.

 

I lift my head far enough to look into my wife’s eyes, her tearful smile telling me everything I need to know.

 

And together we breathe.

 

We are one.

 

 

 

 

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 

 

This novel became a turning point in my career.

 

For years, I dreamed of writing the story; however, each time I stared at that blank page, apprehension always stood in my way. The reasons were many, but it was the extreme complexity of taking on a rubber world that frightened me most. Having two stories run side by side—one of which has to remain completely invisible—is a monumental task. This kind of high concept has been attempted both in movies and novels, but it seems as if just a few have managed to pull it off effectively. Naturally, this made me think, “Am I out of my freaking mind? If they couldn’t do it, what the hell makes me think I can?”

 

But life has a way of shoving us outside our comfort zones and directly toward the things we most fear. Before I knew it, there I was, standing in the eye of the storm, at last committing those first words to the screen, shaky fingers and all.

 

Andrew E. Kaufman's books