The mental health court investigator described Clair’s state on admission, her psychotic delusions, disorganized and tangential speech patterns, and determined that at that time she was experiencing psychosis and was mentally ill.
Staff attested to her cooperative behaviors on the unit. Jet was called.
‘Dr Juliette Elena Taylor, forensic psychologist, Harbor Hospital,’ she cited.
‘Dr Taylor,’ Clair’s defense attorney asked. ‘Do you agree that Clair Mercer does have a mental illness and that at the time of her attempt to murder her husband, Adam Gage, she was mentally ill?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Jet replied.
‘And do you think that she continues to present a danger to herself or any other person at this time?’ he asked.
‘I do. Dr Mercer continues to have suicidal ideation and I do think that if not under safe and structured conditions, she will attempt to kill herself again. I do not think she presents a danger to any other person at this time.’
Adam Gage was called. He looked less than his former self, as though life had taken an erasure to his charisma. All the features were there: the craggy face, lines like ski runs marking his way through life, from his soulful blue eyes to his full, wide mouth. His hair, silver blonde, shined like a new coin. He dressed for the part, Clair thought, studying him from her chair. Dark, charcoal pants, silk shirt, light navy cashmere sweater draped loosely over his shoulders. But she could see it was an act. That his assurance was lacking. She almost felt sorry for him. She pondered this thought for a moment, as he was sworn in.
Clair had never been one to speculate on the unknowable. She preferred the smooth electric slide of numbers to the intractable tangle of meaningful questions that held no answer. Devon had opened a new world to her. A world where the unknowable became known through feeling, not thinking. When he had smiled at her, his whole being would light up like a shooting star, and she knew then what was true. Adam couldn’t see it like that, never found a way in, to be a part of that wonderful mystery. They had split on this and never found a way back. He had discounted their son and, because of that, carelessly lost him that hellish day on the beach at Seal Cove.
This sudden understanding shocked her. She gasped. She had not been able to place the pieces together in this way, like her equations, that made sense. But now, she could see the algorithm. Her attention turned back to Adam’s questioning. He was telling the story, as he saw it.
‘And was there a time when you began to fear for your safety?’ the DA asked.
‘After the accident, Clair didn’t sleep. She would roam the house all night, sit in Devon’s room, on the floor or lie in his bed. She had become obsessed with watching the Weather Channel, following storms all over the world. She had stopped eating meals. I would find her standing at the kitchen counter, a bowl of cold cereal or microwave noodles in front of her, forgotten. She had tried to return to work. She would leave the house in the morning, dressed for work, but she would return earlier than normal. Then her pacing would begin again. If I tried to help, she would either shun me or scream at me that I had already done enough harm. Not to try to do any more. Once I did wake up and find her standing over me, just staring down at me. I wasn’t afraid for my safety so much as for her own. It was unnerving, though. I knew she needed to see a therapist, but she refused.’
‘And that day, September the twentieth, was there anything different about her?’ the DA continued his questioning.
‘She did seem happier. When she came in from work or wherever she went during the day. I had heard from colleagues that she would leave campus right after her class, missing her student advising sessions, department faculty meetings. But I never knew where she went. And yeah, that day, she had been more, well, just there. She had offered to make me a drink, fixed me my favorite snack, cheese toast. I had thought maybe things were turning around for her, for us.’
Adam had been speaking directly to the judge, not looking around the small, crowded room. Clair stared hard at him, willing his eyes to reach hers. This wasn’t how she remembered it, not at all. Clair heard her name being called.
‘Dr Mercer, do you want to speak to the court?’ her attorney was asking.
Clair started to stand, then settled, feeling all energy leaving her body like air from a released balloon. She folded her hands between her legs, as though they were startled birds that might fly away. Her heart was racing. She felt her breath catch in her throat, and was afraid she might be sick.
‘No, I have nothing to say. I don’t care what you do with me. Send me away, leave me here. It’s all the same.’ Looking at Adam she said, ‘I don’t want to kill you anymore, Adam. If that is worrying you. I see now that was wrong. I’m to blame more than you. You never even wanted Devon so why should I have expected you to safeguard him. You’re free now.’
The judge reviewed all testimony and announced that given the evidence presented in the court, she ruled that Dr Clair Mercer was not guilty by reason of insanity and would remain in the behavioral health unit as an involuntary committed person for a period of time not more than 180 days. At that time, if the district attorney should decide to file charges for attempted murder, a follow-up hearing would be held. She struck her gavel, dismissing court.
Clair sat still, watching as the community room emptied out and patients, who had been exiled to their rooms, began filing back in. They cast curious glances her way, wondering what had happened, and what her reaction would be. She smiled at Gabe, who looked worried.
‘I’m OK. I’ll be here with you for a while longer, Gabe. We can play lots of Yahtzee. Maybe I’ll even be able to beat you once or twice.’
‘Yeah? That’s great. Do you want to play now?’ he asked in his soft, melodious voice. In another life, Gabe could have been a singer, opera or Broadway. Schizophrenia had put a stop to his and his doting parents’ dreams for him.
‘No, not now, I’m beat. I’m going to rest a bit, but maybe after dinner? she said.
‘OK, sure. I’ll be right here.’
‘I know, and so will I it seems,’ she called over her shoulder, walking out the door.
Chapter 8
Clair
Hours drifted into days, swelled into weeks. Each morning Annie would write the date on the large whiteboard hanging in the community room. Holiday decorations marked the changing seasons. Halloween was approaching, with pumpkin decorating contests using colored pens and paint, and baskets of apples and sugarless candy corn.
Clair navigated through time based on how long Devon had been gone, or attaching a memory to a particular date. It hurt, but she welcomed the pain, as her penance.
As she settled into the routine of the unit, Clair felt an echo of old patterns that brought her a sense of calm. Her life was at a stand-still. Surrender was her only option. Staff had allowed Adam to bring her cello to the unit. Clair was able to play in the community room, under the watchful eye of the psych techs. Patients could sleep in on Sundays, not roused by the cheerful nurse assistant Linda at six for morning hygiene. Clair couldn’t rest; she was fretful and anxious. She had the dream again. The one in which she was hurtling through the cold darkness of water towards the light, Devon’s energy pulsating and carrying her to him, space and time morphing into the vast space. As much as she wanted to stay there, her mind forced her back to here and now.
‘Linda, is it too early for me to play?’ she asked. ‘I’ll stay here in my room. I promise I won’t bow myself blind or strangle myself with a string.’ She smiled as she said this but Linda didn’t smile back.
‘I’d have to close the door, Clair, and you know that isn’t OK. How about if I let you play in the conference room? That way we can see you on the monitor.’
‘OK, that’s fine. Thanks, Linda.’
Clair began playing softly, remembering how Pachelbel would soothe Devon when he became agit
ated. As she played, images flooded across her mindscape, like a video reel playing backwards.
‘He is such a good baby,’ she had told their pediatrician, Dr Chong, at his three-month visit, as she listened to his heart and lungs, tested his reflexes, and talked to him in her musical voice.
‘Does he make eye contact with you or your husband?’ Dr Chong had asked, holding Devon several inches away and looking into his eyes.
‘I guess so. I’ve never really paid that much attention to that specifically. He eats, sleeps, lets me hold him. I think we make eye contact enough. Why, Dr Chong, is there something wrong?’ Clair had asked, her stomach beginning to flutter.
‘I don’t know, Clair. Infants at this age should be making frequent eye contact, I am not seeing Devon do this. Let’s see what he does when you hold him.’
The doctor had handed Devon back to Clair. Her boy felt so sturdy to her. They had worried about Down’s Syndrome, because of her advanced maternal age, but the chromosomal testing had been negative. She had told Adam that it wouldn’t have made any difference to her. She would have had Devon, loved him with or without any sort of developmental disorder. But he had been perfect. Clair had thrilled at her first sight of him. He can’t be sick, she had thought, considering Dr Chong’s words. She had held Devon close to her, then away from her. She had talked to him in her mommy voice. His eyes would drift off to the side, and she would smile, believing he was soothed.
Then, at his eighteen-month visit. The words that changed everything for ever.
‘Clair, toddlers at this age should be following commands, and starting to say words. It’s still early to make any sort of definitive diagnosis, but I would like to have Devon tested. These may be early signs of autism,’ Dr Chong had said.
Clair’s world had fallen out from under her, like an elevator hurtling towards the end.
‘What should I do?’ she had asked, the scientist in her wanting action, a plan, holding off the unknown.
‘Let’s set him up for some testing. We have therapy, applied behavioral analysis, that can help with symptoms. Clair, this isn’t a diagnosis. It is just a precaution at this time. We can’t really diagnose autism until around age two, but we don’t want to wait to begin treatment.’
And so, it had begun, the daily visits to specialists, hopes soaring and then dispelling under fresh hits. Normal infant, toddler, then child developmental milestones left behind. In their place, her sweet boy who had lived his life alone.
‘Clair, are you OK?’ Jet asked from the open doorway.
‘Oh, hi Jet. What are you doing here on Sunday?’ she replied, startled back to the present. A memory so tender, feeling her cheeks wet. Had she been crying?
‘I had to come in, finish up some paperwork. You were crying, Clair. Is there something new? Has something happened?’
‘No, I’m OK. I was just thinking back to Devon’s baby time. How dear he was.’
Jet sat down on one of the chairs opposite Clair. Maggie lay down at her feet. ‘Tell me.’
Clair stared into the inner distance, reconnecting with a thread of history. ‘You know, we really can’t ever go back,’ she said. ‘We have to bring our past with us forward, but we can’t circle around and reclaim it or repair it. That makes living so hard.’ Clair began drawing the bow across the strings, not playing a tune so much as creating a drone as backdrop for her story.
‘I could feel my life tunneling in on itself, our future, lost.’ Clair talked over the sounds of deep droning. In fits and starts at first, then gaining momentum. ‘A woman’s life is a series of sacrifices, right. There is a proverb about a parent only being as happy as their saddest child. Devon wasn’t sad. He just wasn’t fully present. Adam at first tried to be a part of the therapy, of the hope that therapy implies. But over time, he withdrew, mentally. Physically too. With all the doctor and therapy visits, our schedules had pretty much been set. Adam went to work. I stayed with Devon.’
She was quiet for a while, continuing to stroke the strings, a deepening line of melody beginning to sort out. ‘That day at the beach,’ Clair said, shifting in her chair, laying the cello aside. ‘It was going to be a change for us. I had found a program for Devon, two days a week for four hours. It was an applied behavioral analysis program and was supposed to be the best type of treatment. And, it was going to allow me to return to teaching on campus, at least on a part-time basis. I was getting pressure from the dean and my colleagues, and I missed it, the interaction, distraction. This day out, I was anticipating good things. Maybe with time away, Adam and I could also fix our relationship. Buddhists are right. Expectations are the cause of all suffering.’
‘What do you mean, Clair? What happened that day? We’ve never really talked about it, you know.’
Clair looked at Jet with torment in her eyes. She looked up at the marine painting, then back at Jet.
Clair stood up and walked over to Maggie. They had become good friends now, and her large, warm body gave such comfort. Clair sat down on the floor, cross-legged beside the dog. Her gaze turned away from the painting. And from Jet.
‘I can’t. The words, they won’t come out,’ she whispered; eyes closed tightly as though warding off unsought images.
Jet stood, gently taking her hand. ‘Go put some clothes on. We’re going on an outing.’
Chapter 9
Clair
At first, her steps were hesitant, a novice pianist’s notes, unsteady, shaky. Then slowly, as she adjusted to being outside, walking on ground covered by roots and debris, looking up into a gunmetal sky sprinkled with clouds like spilt milk, her legs felt stronger, steps quickened. She knew this place in her heart. Each rustle of leaves and swish of branches, ripple of stream, roar of ocean just beyond the next turn in the path. These sounds had lived in her head for the past months, eclipsing all other sounds. She looked at Jet, questioning.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘What if I can’t? I feel like an unexploded bomb. I’m too frightened, all bound up.’
‘Then we’ll go back,’ Jet replied, gently holding onto her arm. ‘I think you’ll be OK, though, Clair. And I think this is the only way for you to be able to get past the block that is in your throat, so you can speak of him and your life together in a way that allows you to live. Maybe here you will feel safe enough to talk about what makes you feel unsafe.’
The way was rough and Clair’s leg muscles were weakened by days of immobility. She was breathing in the cool, moist salt air, stumbling and righting herself. As they turned a bend, she caught a first sight of the cove. The last place she had seen Devon alive.
‘Oh,’ she exhaled, collapsing into a squat, hugging her knees to her chest.
Jet waited. After a few moments, Clair stood again, nodding her head. ‘I’m OK, I can do this. I must do this, for Devon.’
Maggie came beside her, nudging her big head under Clair’s hand, leaning her weight against her leg.
‘Thanks, girl,’ Clair said, stroking her silky fur. ‘Let’s go.’
They came to the end of the path through the woods, walking across a makeshift bridge, two driftwood logs laid side by side, wobbly and slick from condensation. Clair looked up and saw a man standing on the cliff edge, looking down.
‘You can send Keith back to the hospital,’ she said to Jet. ‘I’m not going to throw myself off the rocks or run into the ocean. Cross my heart.’
‘Damn!’ Jet said. ‘You caught us. But he has to stay. You’re still under commitment and I’m responsible for getting you back to the hospital in one piece.’ She waved at him and motioned for him to move away, giving them privacy. They walked down to the beach, where a creek flowed into the ocean. Massive boulders stood like sentries. An elephant seal lay beached, its ponderous body inching towards the creek. They both stood and watched for a few moments, marveling at this wonder of nature. As the huge ma
rine mammal heaved itself forward, her two white seal pups remained still, waiting for a high tide to carry them back out to sea. The dog eyed them curiously then trotted down the beach, chasing a flock of white sea-birds harvesting the flotsam left by retreating waves.
‘Which way?’ Jet asked, looking down the curved beach, surrounded by rocky cliffs on each side, a tall wall behind. Clair stood transfixed. Flashbacks of her time underwater, after her suicide attempt, came flooding back. She knew these creatures. They had welcomed her, taken her into their world, breathed life into her as she was crushed against the rocks, pulling her away, to safety. She shook herself like a wet dog. Hallucinating again? Dreams or memories?
‘Here,’ Clair said. ‘Let’s sit here. This is – was – our spot.’ Clair pointed to a smooth table rock.
Someone had built a cairn beside it, several stones placed precariously one on top of the other. A traveler’s prayer. They were careful not to disrupt its balance as they settled themselves on the flat stone. Cold and hard, it comforted Clair, something solid to rely on.
They sat in silence, watching the cresting, cascading, and crashing of the waves into each other, up onto the beach, against the rocks. The rhythmic sounds enveloped her consciousness, like an anesthetic. Clair noticed her breathing synchronizing with the patterns, felt the cold water envelop her again, and again. She wasn’t frightened. She felt at home. She had read that people with near drowning do this, re-encounter their experience, their death. And long for it. Just knowing it was there comforted her in ways she was not prepared for through her studies of math and science. She believed Devon was sending her information. Like he had sent the seal family. Glancing sideways at Jet, suddenly fearful she might be able to read her thoughts, which she knew would be considered psychotic, Clair quickly shut them off.
The Wave Page 6