‘I can’t sit still now. I need to shower. Change clothes. Is that OK?’
‘Of course. Do you need my help?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You know, you have all your clothes in the closet still.’
‘That’s good. Polyester has never been my thing. I’ll be out soon. And I’ll help with dinner, right?’
‘OK, sure.’
She heard something in his voice. Uncertainty?
‘I won’t poison you again, Adam. I promise,’ she said, an almost-smile on her face.
He couldn’t find a response. He nodded, a crooked grin on his face.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Call if you need anything.’
Clair eased herself off the couch, sharp stabs of pain shooting through her chest. She stood, holding her arms around her middle, moving slowly, as though underwater. Each step hesitant. The wide, open living room held ghosts. Devon on the floor, watching Paw Patrol on television. Curled in the armchair, staring out the window, daydreaming. Lying on the couch, his head in her lap, reading Peter Rabbit and Winnie-the-Pooh together. He had been a precocious reader, recognizing words and finding rhythm to sentences as early as two years old. They had at first thought he was gifted, and he was. Just not in a way society accepts as normal. Neurodivergent is what they call it now. Before his autism had been diagnosed, he had been set aside in his public pre-kindergarten class, left to play on his own, a distraction from the daily routines. The memory saddened her.
‘How long has this been going on?’ she had asked his teacher that day she had arrived early to pick him up, finding him in a corner, by himself, a line of toy metal cars surrounding him.
The early testing had been inconclusive, and she had willingly deluded herself that he was OK, or would be with the right school, the best environment. Now, they had to do more, extensive and definitive.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Adam had said. ‘I’m taking him to a different specialist. They’re wrong, he can’t have autism. He’s my son.’
She would find him watching Devon with tears in his eyes, but if she said anything, he would look away, walk away. And their distance had begun to grow. The closer she clung, the further he drifted until they had become shadows passing in these rooms, afraid to touch lest their carefully constructed realities shatter.
* * *
As she turned to walk down the hall, towards the bathroom at the end, her skin prickled. His room, Devon’s, was there on the left. She stood for a moment, holding her hand on the door, feeling the grainy wood, the raised lettering spelling out his name. She thought about opening the door, looking in, but didn’t, couldn’t. Unsure of what she would find. Adam had not said. She was afraid to ask. They’d had a big fight about Devon’s room, his things. Little boy treasures. Two weeks after they had returned home from the beach, without Devon, he had opened the door to his room. Calling her to come. Waving his arm inside, at the evidence of a boy gone. Dust had settled on the shelves, a cold stillness hung over every object.
‘It’s time, Clair. He’s gone, never coming back. You have to accept this so we can move on with our lives.’ he had said.
‘Not today,’ she had said, and walked away.
Clair had moved about the house like a robot, making coffee in the morning, putting away dishes from the dishwasher. There weren’t many. Mostly they ate takeout from the local food collaborative. Eating right from the boxes. Clair would sit in her window seat, looking out towards the river, watching the sun move across the grounds, first lighting the tops of the trees, then shining on the last of the rhododendrons and azaleas banked up along the garden borders. It sparkled when it caught the ripples in the white water, shooting up like crystals, catching on the flat rocks scattered across the areas where the river narrowed, creating small, wading pools. She would imagine Devon there, hopping across the rocks, using his water telescope to look deep into the pools.
That was what he had been doing the last time she had seen him, at the beach. Gazing into the tidal pools. Sometimes she was sure she saw him here, on the river. His red Superman T-shirt catching the glow, like a sun. When she looked in his room, when she would go in and dust, vacuum, straighten the already orderly toys, she felt like she could sense the elephant on the shelf, the bear, larger than Devon, huddled in the corner, look up expectantly as though their boy was coming home. Looking back, she thought maybe that was the beginning of her descent into madness. But then, she felt only rage.
Adam had kept at her, wanting to pack everything up, donate to charity, or throw away. It was that insistence that had led her to madness, to her attempt to kill him and herself. Now, standing here, she was afraid to open the door, of what she might find, or not find. Maybe he had done that while she was away, rid this house of their son, of every last vestige of his precious life, lived here, in this room? Later, she told herself. I’ll look later. One last caress to the door, then on down the hall. She looked into their bedroom, bed unmade, curtains closed, a musty, old shoe odor coming from its darkened space. Walking through to the bathroom, she noticed only one side of the bed had been slept in. It surprised her that she noticed and even more so that she cared.
The bathroom looked out onto the wide, sloping yard that ran down to the river. Apple trees, plum, and cherry dotted the landscape, leafless and barren. A large fir, with many branches, old and nicked by time and storm, stood, shaking and swaying in the wind. A rope swing danced from one of its lower limbs. They would swing out over the river, dropping into its waters, clear and freezing cold, even in summer. Devon’s laughter and screams of make-believe fear rang out. She took a deep breath, exhaled longer, as the yoga therapist had taught her. Again, and again until she felt calmed. The medical bag was clutched in her hand. Setting it down on the counter, next to the double sinks, she began setting the dressings and other apparatus on a clean towel. The nurse had instructed her to stand in the shower and let the warm water loosen the bandages around her chest, then gently ease them off. Clair had asked what would she do if the drains pulled out. The nurse had said that wouldn’t happen. They were sewn in and were secure. Taped up, with plugs for draining, the nurse had assured her nothing bad could happen. OK then, she thought. Here I go.
The water flowed down her face, her back. She was unsure if she should turn and let the water run down her front, right over the dressings, but soon realized she would have to do that. Slowly, she turned cautiously to the right, each new area of skin being cleansed and massaged by the water jets, bringing her back to herself, to the woman she was before any of this happened. Like a baptism, she thought. I was lost, then found, lost again, and now, maybe found again. Everything that I was is gone. These very breasts I nursed my son from, gone. Soon, my hair will be gone. Broken down, shattered, turned to rust. And then, cells replaced; all new and resurrected. If I live. While I live, she reframed.
Standing with her face up to the water flow, feeling its warmth begin to loosen the tape, the weight of the bandages pulling on her skin, she raised both arms up, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. Tightness burned, under her arms and down towards both wrists. She had been told it was important to reach her arms up, several times a day, to prevent lymphatic fluid buildup. Keep your fluids flowing, the nurse had said, moving her arms in circles around her head. Clair had said she looked like a crazy banshee, and they had both laughed. Still, she understood the concept. Like a garden hose, any blockage in the system would clog up the flow, and we don’t want that, do we, Clair? She smiled at the memory.
The dressings were getting looser now. She gently tugged at the corner of one. To her surprise, it came off in one piece, dangling by a few strands of sticky tape to the bottom of her ribcage. Her breath caught. She held it while she pulled the last of the tape, releasing the dressing altogether. The site of her slashed chest made her slip down the shower stall to her haunches, the water pounding on her head.
As though by design, the dressing on the other side slipped away, hanging by a few threads of tape, lying on her belly where she slumped, faint and tremulous.
‘Adam,’ she called, her voice weak. ‘Adam,’ stronger.
He rushed in, seeing through the glass shower door. ‘Oh Clair, darling, what have you done?’
He stepped through, gathering her in his arms.
‘These drains,’ she cried. ‘I have to drain all this fluid.’
‘It’s OK, Clair, I’ll help. Here, let me see.’
He began to open the plug on one of the drains, and Clair cried out, ‘Oh God, not here. We’ll have this bloody mess all over us.’
‘Well shit,’ he said. ‘I have it open, now what?’
They began laughing, he holding onto the plug, stopping the drain with his thumb. Clair looking at him, soaking wet in his clothes, hair streaming into his face and eyes, looking so much out of his depth she laughed harder. He figured out how to close the plug and yet, they remained. He holding her, stroking her back, as their laughter turned to tears.
‘I am so sorry, Clair,’ he said. ‘So very sorry.’
‘I am too, Adam. That day, I was angry. Seeing you, hearing you. Why, why so many women?’
‘Clair, I was never with another woman, not like that, not since we married. I flirted sure, hoping to get a reaction from you. But sex, love? Never. From the first moment I saw you, I loved you. All I ever wanted was for you to love me too. Then Devon came, and all you seemed to care about or notice was him. I knew it was because he had special needs, I loved him, Clair, so much. But you never would let me in. You wouldn’t let me share the love or the pain.’
They huddled there, not talking, until the water cooled. Clair shivered.
‘Here, let me help,’ he said, lifting her up. They stepped out into the bathroom, warm from a small space heater. Adam gently wrapped her in a towel. He led her to the side of the bed, setting pillows against the headboard so she could lie back. He covered her with a soft fleece blanket.
‘I did see him, Adam. That day I drowned. He was there, with the selkies.’
‘I believe you, Clair. Now rest, let me cook for you.’
‘You cook?’ she chided.
‘Just you wait and see,’ he said, pulling off his wet clothes.
She watched as his pale; angular body came into view. He had lost weight, she noticed. His broad chest looked sunken. His waist, slender, sloped down to narrow hips, tight buttocks. His back was turned to her. As his arms reached up to pull off his fleece sweater, muscles rippled along his spine. It was as though she was seeing him for the first time. He looked at her through the mirror in the dresser. Noticed her looking at him. Their eyes met. Held. He felt himself warm, grow, shuddered. Turning slowly, so she could see, he moved towards her, easing himself down onto the side of the bed. She pulled him to her. Laid his head on her belly, tucking the drains up under her arms. He raised his head, kissed her. She kissed him back, rocking him gently side to side.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask,’ she said. ‘Just do.’
Chapter 15
Clair
The support group was mandated by her nurse navigator, Naomi. At least, it felt like an edict to Clair, along with daily arm exercises, breathing exercises, eating green and yellow fruits and vegetables. Positive thinking. Visioning. Even a glass or two of wine seemed to be on order during treatment. The room was large, surrounded by floor to ceiling windows, looking out over the forested hills, today shrouded in fog and mist. How could this be comforting? It felt if anything too big, too open, too wet and cold. She wanted to turn and run. But Naomi spotted her, calling her over to a cluster of women and, surprisingly, one man, sitting in a close circle. Clair squared her shoulders, still feeling the pull of the scar tissue along her chest. She had been told she might feel pings of nerves reconnecting for several years. Lovely, Clair had thought, I’ll never be able to forget. Even if I live to remember.
There was an empty chair to Naomi’s left. Clair sat, folding her hands in her lap, like a supplicant. What was she hoping to receive, she wondered? Penance?
‘Clair, so glad you made it. We’re just getting started. Let’s go around and introduce ourselves, say a bit about what brought you here, your basic facts, you know – diagnosis, treatment stage, prognosis, and also, what is the most important thing in your life, the one thing that gives you the courage and strength to get through all of this?’
Naomi turned to the woman sitting to her right to begin the talking circle. As people shared their stories, Clair’s mind wandered back to a week ago, her homecoming. She and Adam’s finding each other, maybe for the first time. It was sweet, she remembered. His tenderness, kindness. During dinner, he had talked easily about his classes, students. He had to return to work the next day, Monday, and wondered if she would be OK at home, on her own. She had assured him she would, even though she wasn’t sure herself. On a medical leave of absence from her own teaching, she was finding pleasure in not having to think about anything other than the simple moment to moment happenings in her small, and now even smaller world. The psychiatric unit had been a constant hum of voices and actions. Here, home was quiet. Spacious. And pulsating with energy. Devon’s energy, she was certain. The scientist in her knew this was a fixed delusion. The mother in her didn’t care.
She heard her name being spoken.
‘Clair, are you OK with sharing?’ Naomi asked.
‘Uh, yes,’ Clair said, bringing her attention back to the group. ‘Hi everyone, my name’s Clair Mercer. I was diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer, stage IV, last week. I don’t know what my treatment plan will be yet, I just got my Hemovac tubes out. I meet with the oncologist tomorrow and go from there. I think my prognosis is pretty grim, even with treatment, so I’m just taking this all one day at a time. Having cancer is like a full-time job I’m learning. So, I’ll just do my best and whatever happens, happens.’
‘And the most important thing to you, Clair?’ Naomi reminded her.
‘My son, Devon.’
As they went around the circle again, sharing personal stories, Clair relaxed. If any of them did know about her suicide and homicide attempts and stay on the psych unit, they didn’t let on. She felt comfortable around these broken people, one very young, and the man wasn’t a husband as she had first thought, but a breast cancer patient himself. He had shared how embarrassing it had been for him. His work crew making fun of him. His insurance company denying coverage for his surgery, saying he was making it all up to get out of work.
‘Oh sure, put myself and family through this hell just to miss a few days driving a truck?’
The young girl, Brianna, was sixteen. She had been diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma in situ. Because of her young age, a double mastectomy had been done and she was going to have reconstruction. She had laughed, talking about how all of the dancers on the dance team, where she was captain, shaved their heads to support her for their prom. She wore a strapless gown, stuffed with foam rubber. The girls had all sprinkled glitter on their bald heads.
‘My date was horrified at first, then it was OK. We’ve been best friends since grade school, so he said he wasn’t that surprised by my costume. It was my mom who had the hardest time. She wanted me to cover myself head to toe. No way, I said. I’m not hiding from this. I’m meeting this thing head on and I’m going to beat it.’
The group cheered and clapped for her. Clair was amazed at how connected she felt. Her eyes teared up. A lifetime loner, she realized these people didn’t care who she was, what she had done in her life, or what she would do or be after this. They only cared that she was here, now, with them, to share and be a part of their story.
When the talk came back around to her, she told the story of having her drains removed. She described how Adam, her husband, had f
ainted dead away when the doctor began pulling one of the long tubes out. They all heard a crash and thud, as Adam fell to the floor, taking the sterile instrument tray down with him. That led to other stories of partners, spouses, and friends. One woman told how after her double mastectomy, Tommy, her former professional baseball-playing husband and devoted lover of her double D breast cups, had taken her to Walmart, personally selecting an assortment of Nerf balls for her to wear inside her bra.
‘Everything from a double D to a G,’ she said, bringing laughter again to the group. Clair realized she had laughed today more than she had in months, maybe years. Her stomach ached from laughing. Maybe she could do this, she thought. If these people can, then so can I.
Clair still wasn’t allowed to drive, so she waited outside for Adam to pick her up. They had set the time for 4.15 p.m. It was now only 3.30. On Friday afternoon. Was it possible it had been less than one week since she had been released from the hospital? Looking across the parking lot, through the large bay window, at the four-story tower, which housed the psychiatric department, she wondered for a moment what Jet was doing. Taking her phone out of her tote, she scrolled through her contacts until she came across Jet. She considered how their relationship had begun morphing from client/therapist to friends. Jet had cautioned her about this, saying it was unwise for these relationships to go beyond professional. Clair had reasoned with her, saying she understood but that theirs was different. Clair wasn’t a normal crazy person and Jet wasn’t a normal therapist. So, in her world view, they could and should be friends. At the time Jet hadn’t argued back on the issue. Clair tapped the number. A green light glowed on the screen.
‘Dr Taylor,’ said a soft, husky voice.
‘Jet, it’s Clair.’
‘Oh, hey, how are you doing? Your name didn’t come up on my screen. I thought you were a normal client,’ she said, mimicking Clair’s own words back to her.
The Wave Page 10