For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  Starla’s uncurled herself from her protective snail shell, and I hate that I’m sullying her with this. Not that she’s naive and doesn’t know these things happen because the world is an eminently fucked-up place, but there’s a difference between knowing these things happen in an amorphous kind of way and having the vile show up in your own backyard. She doesn’t look horrified, though, more like angry. More like she might fly over to Scotland, hunt down Sean, and throttle him herself. I’ve thought to do it myself to be honest, and though I dissemble when my family asks, I know he’s one of the reasons I so rarely go home.

  “So your uncle was a sick fuck who got what he deserved. I’m not sure what that has to do with you.”

  Oh, my sweet Starla. She should know better than I do that men who seem good aren’t always.

  * * *

  Starla

  “I think maybe I knew about it?”

  The icy sensation that’s been lapping at my feet hits me full-on in the face.

  “You knew?”

  He shrugs and his cheeks have gone ruddy. A deep, searing burn of embarrassment and probably worse. Humiliation? Guilt? Remorse?

  “It was during a time when it was in all the American papers. People whispered about it, made it sound like it was a problem over here, but not in our own backyard. But that didn’t make any sense to me. I should’ve put it together. Should’ve figured it out. Should’ve said something to someone even if I wasn’t sure.”

  “Lowry…” Though a few minutes ago I was so angry at him and so hurt I could have thrown a full-on tantrum, I have the urge to touch him, comfort him. I’m not sure what this has to do with why he left, but he’s a human being, one I care for very much, and I don’t like seeing him in pain. So, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he stiffens but doesn’t shrug me off. “You were a child. That’s what you would tell any of your clients, and I’m sure what your therapist has told you.”

  I’ve come to understand that most mental health professionals see a counselor themselves, in part to process all the caretaking of other people they do and the difficult topics they’ve had to help patients through. Lowry mentioned his therapist to me a few times when I was his patient, perhaps in an effort to build rapport or whatever. It helped, a little. Knowing this person I held in such high esteem also saw a therapist. Helped to reinforce what he was always telling me that, yeah, I needed help, but that didn’t make me broken or a failure.

  His knuckles knock together between his spread knees as he looks at the floor and mumbles something.

  “What?”

  He blinks up at me, that perma-crease deepening between his brows.

  “I didn’t tell her. Couldn’t have without explaining why it was such a problem. Why I was racked with guilt.”

  “Whyever not? You were suffering. She could’ve helped you. You always told me that was your job. That I could tell you anything. Is it not some kind of…breach of professional courtesy or respect or something not to tell her? At the very least it was a waste of your time and money.”

  Lowry’s brows go up as though he’s suffering through my lecture. “I don’t think you understand. It wasn’t simply guilt over not having done anything for those boys, though that was bad enough. It was—I thought—I was scared—I…”

  I’ve never seen him so at a loss for words. And he has heard some deep, dark shit from me, and I can only assume many of his other clients. He was always compassionate and composed, made me feel like even though the terrible thoughts in my head weren’t okay, that I, personally, wasn’t wrong. That I wasn’t irreparably broken. That I hadn’t done anything to deserve them and I shouldn’t be embarrassed that I was unlucky enough to have these ghosts whereas most other people escaped that fate.

  He meets my gaze, blue eyes imploring me, but for what, I don’t know. My anger at him is lurking in the background, but I have a sense that it’s about to be sorted out. So, whatever he needs, I’ll give it to him. He literally saved my life. I owe him everything I have.

  “Before I left…”

  The thought of that time is still a gut punch for me. But I don’t let it show because for once, this isn’t about me.

  “You’d barely turned eighteen, and I’d never been as fascinated by a woman as I was by you.”

  He shakes his head, looking like he wants to melt into a puddle and seep into my rug. What he’s said works its way through my brain. He…what? It’s so at odds with why I thought he’d left that I have a hard time reconciling those thoughts. Although it’s like those movies where there’s a plot twist and there’s a montage with all the pivotal moments and you can see how every assumption you’d made was wrong and how those moments actually add up to what’s being revealed in this moment. I have to make sure, though, because really?

  “You…you liked me? Like that? Then? Is that why you…”

  “That’s why I left. That’s why I couldn’t tell you why. It wouldn’t have been good for you. It was incredibly inappropriate. I hated myself. I had started to resent you. I would’ve lost my license, my calling, and then what would I have done?”

  I…don’t even know how to begin to answer that. I can’t imagine Lowry not being a doctor, not being able to use everything he’s learned, everything he’s taught himself, to help people, heal people.

  “I wrote you letters I never sent because I couldn’t tell you why I’d left and I couldn’t bring myself to lie to you. The whole thing made me sick. Not you, but the idea that I could have anything in common with my uncle. That I had the potential to take advantage of someone who trusted me. Someone who was recently a minor and I was responsible for. That’s why I didn’t tell my therapist. She was a mandated reporter—”

  “You never touched me.”

  I’m angry on his behalf, but also bewildered and sort of furious at him. Emotions are rioting all over the place and I’m not great with them on a good day. This is beyond anything I ever thought I’d have to process.

  “I know that. God, do I ever. But she would’ve been right. I could hear her answers in my head, d’ye understand? I knew what she’d say—to remove myself from the situation as soon as possible. So I did, but in a way that didn’t involve you in some traumatic scandal or me losing my job or my license. I didn’t like it, but it was the only thing to do. I’m not proud of it and maybe I should’ve taken my lumps but—I’m not like him, Star. At least, I hope to God I’m not.”

  “You’re not.” There aren’t a whole lot of things I’m dead certain of, but that is one of them.

  He dips a nod in thanks, but I’m not sure he feels that even as he acknowledges it.

  “But if they’d said I was—my peers, my colleagues, my bosses, people I respected, then I would’ve been as good as, and my career would’ve been over.

  “So, do you see now, why I left and in the way I did? It wasn’t okay, and I’ve felt terrible about it since I decided that was the thing to do, but I didn’t see another way out. I knew it would be hard on you, though not exactly how hard. And it’s no consolation, I know, but it was god-awful for me too. But mostly I’m sorry for leaving you in a way that made you think any less of yourself instead of just being furious with me. So I apologize, again, and I should have told you sooner. Before you were so brave and shared with me, I should have laid everything on the table for you. I should’ve given you all the information because you were sold a bill of goods, but you didn’t actually know what you were getting. I’ll understand if you want me to leave and never come back.”

  “You think I’m going to be angry at you for what your uncle did? It’s sickening, I absolutely agree with you, but I don’t see what that has to do with me. Even if you both had the same feelings, he acted on them and you didn’t. You removed yourself from the situation, and even though it hurt me more deeply than I can fully explain, I understand why you did it. So, unless you’re going to tell me that you had these feelings for some of your other patients and didn’t show that same self-restraint…”

&nb
sp; “No, of course not. I’ve never felt that way about anyone before, never mind one of my patients.”

  “Then you’re not the same. At all. And maybe it makes me a terrible person, but I’m mostly flattered. Probably because you did leave. Things would’ve gone a lot differently if you hadn’t—namely, my father would’ve had you killed—but I don’t think you’re a monster, not of any sort. I mean, who can blame you for being fascinated with me? I am a spellbinding individual.”

  It’s perhaps not kind to make light, but I’ll do whatever I can to make him believe he shouldn’t be crushed by his guilt over this. It’s not even a matter of that math people sometimes try to get away with when horrible people are geniuses or great artists or whatever so we should forgive them their heinous sins. Lowry’s presence in this world has been a nearly unmitigated good as far as I can tell. Yes, I still have trauma scars from how he left, but I do get it now. I don’t like it, and it doesn’t erase those old feelings that are carved into my psyche with a jackhammer, but at least I can empathize with the choice he made.

  I don’t think he’d welcome advances from me right now, not when he’s mired in guilt and shame and remorse and whatever else he’s got floating in there, but I can sit with him. Hold space. Hold his hand. So that’s what I do.

  Chapter 22

  Lowry

  It’s generally a cause for celebration when one of my patients seems to be doing better. Perhaps they’ve had some sort of breakthrough in therapy, maybe the medication or drug cocktail they’ve been taking is working well, or they tried a new treatment like TMS or ECT and it’s precisely the right tool.

  I love that feeling. It’s why I do this job. Helping people live better, fuller lives is why I spend hours poring over medical journals, going to continuing ed classes and conferences, why I mine my colleagues’ knowledge and experience. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do: help people. There is nothing so satisfying as watching the expertise you’ve accumulated over most of your lifetime be used in the service of giving someone their life back. Or giving a family their loved one back.

  There was one case I had when I first got to Chicago where an elderly woman who’d dealt with chronic low-level depression for as long as she could remember was thrown into a near-catatonic state after her husband passed away. I was one of her team at the hospital and we tried everything. Elderly patients can be challenging in very different ways from kids and I felt out of my depth. Felt terrible every time I saw her children and grandchildren come to visit her because I knew they were looking at me and wondering why I couldn’t do more. And why couldn’t I?

  I spent hours upon hours in the library making lists of medications and therapies and drug cocktails and everything I could think of to try because there was something about her—she still had so much life in her, so much love to give, and I felt as though if I could only find the right combination, I could crack her out of the locked safe of her grief.

  Eventually we got her sign-off—and her daughter’s approval—to try ECT, and it was… It’s not always a miracle. But for this woman it was. After her first course of treatments, I went to check on her and she was with her daughter and some of her grandkids. Looking at photo albums, smiling, laughing after she’d barely looked at her loved ones for months. Warmed my heart. I’d been about to leave when there was a tug at my lab coat and I looked down to see a little girl. Five, maybe six. I’d squatted down because she clearly had something to say.

  “Are you my grandma’s doctor?”

  “Aye, one of them.”

  “You made her better?”

  “I like to think I helped. There’s a lot of people here who’ve been trying to take the best care of her we can and help her feel better.”

  “I felt like she went away even though she was still here.”

  “That’s a good way of putting it. She probably felt that way inside too.”

  “She’s back now, though. You found her.”

  And then she hugged me, her small arms around my neck, nearly making me fall on my arse with the strength of her embrace. My throat had gotten thick and my sinuses burned as I patted her back.

  That’s one of the memories I dredge up when I’m having a shite day, when nothing seems to be going right or I’m dealing with new computer systems or red tape and paperwork, which aren’t the reason I got into psychiatry at all. Or when I’m dealing with a difficult patient and I can’t seem to find the combination to their safe, can’t figure out how to help them.

  Some of my colleagues have become hardened to it, are convinced there are some people who simply can’t be saved. Perhaps that’s smarter or at least easier, but I’ve never been able to feel that in my bones. And I don’t feel it now while sitting across the coffee table from Tony.

  He’s…calm today. Not angry, not frustrated, not desolate. Which could be good, but I’m almost certain it’s not. There’s a thing that happens sometimes with severely depressed patients who are suicidal. You’d expect them to keep tumbling down the hill of their disease until they reach the pit of despair and appear to be at rock bottom before they end it all. That’s how it was with Starla.

  Things got worse and worse and worse, and the last appointment we had before she slit her wrists in the bathtub, it had seemed like it was painful for her to be alive. Everything hurt. Sitting hurt, standing hurt, walking hurt, breathing hurt, talking hurt; anything and everything was a misery.

  But sometimes they seem at peace. They’ve made a decision, they’ve made—or are making—a plan. All the misery they’re feeling, all the hurt they believe they’re causing other people, all the wasted space they’re taking up, it’s going to be over soon. They give things away, they make arrangements, they write letters, they donate money. One of the benefits, I suppose, of orchestrating your own death.

  Tony’s not wearing one of his Bruins shirts today, and I have to wonder if it’s because he’s already passed it on for someone to enjoy when he’s gone. He may be at peace, but I am very much not. And I’m irrationally angry at the Bruins for losing the Stanley Cup and at the NHL for being in the off-season right now so I can’t talk to him about hockey, perhaps remind him in a sneaky way that there’s something he’d like to live for, even if it’s seeing the next face-off. I don’t care what gets the job done, so long as it’s done.

  “Tony, I’m very concerned about you.”

  “What for? I’m feeling pretty good.”

  “If that’s true, I’m glad for it, but I’m having trouble understanding what’s changed over the past few weeks. We haven’t tinkered with your meds, you haven’t tried anything new in terms of therapy. Maybe you took up yoga and you forgot to mention it? Or…”

  I don’t want to say it out loud. Perhaps if I keep my suspicions to myself, they won’t manifest. That is the worst kind of superstition and I won’t allow it to overtake my professional acumen. Also if I don’t do everything in my power to stop him from taking his own life, I’ll regret it. No matter what, I’m sure I’ll come up with something I could’ve done differently, better, because why couldn’t I have done more?

  “Or maybe your suicidal ideation has become rather active and you’ve been making plans. Suicide is never the answer. We still have things we can try, and you have a family. Emily and Portia and Clara. You’re a good man, and I know you wouldn’t abandon them.”

  His brows gather for a split second before he smiles at me. It’s creepy as hell. “Don’t worry, doc. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “You’re not giving me reason to believe that’s true.”

  Tony looks up at the clock and pushes out of the chair. “Time’s up, I gotta go.”

  I want to block the door, prevent him from leaving, call up inpatient care and get the process started on committing him, but I can’t. He’s given me no concrete reason to believe he’s going to take his own life, and my hands are tied without it.

  In desperation, I stand in front of the door. Not so close he can’t leave, but close enou
gh that it’s going to be uncomfortable for him to get by. I don’t like it, but my panic has reached stomach-twisting levels.

  “You don’t have to do anything yourself. Just say you’re thinking about harming yourself or others and then it’s out of your hands. Then I can do something. Please, let me help you.”

  “You have.”

  And then he shoulders by me. Not roughly, only the same jostle you’d experience on a crowded subway. No way could I call it an assault. Unfortunately. It’s only when I sit down at my desk that I realize he didn’t say it. Same thing he always says on his way out. There was no “See ya, doc,” and I hope to God I’m wrong, all wrong about this, and I will in fact see him again.

  * * *

  Starla

  When I do my accounting, I like to listen to music. Loud music. I always deal with numbers during the day because my brain is sharper for them then, and it didn’t occur to me that many people would be around my building during the day since, you know, working. I was promptly disabused of this notion when my neighbor dropped by one evening and asked if I was planning to audition for Wicked.

  I’ve never gotten over my embarrassment sufficiently to sing at all anymore, and while I still like to blast something in my earholes while I take on my finances, I do it with headphones. Today I’m listening to all the things Rick Astley is never going to do to me on repeat because I don’t know, I am. Does Lowry know what rickrolling is? Maybe I should teach him…

  I pick up my cell to text him when a hand lands on my shoulder.

  I’m very on top of who is supposed to be in my apartment at any given moment. Holden, my housekeeper Sofia, any maintenance people. Lowry doesn’t have a key yet, though I don’t know why not, he should, but he wouldn’t just…show up. No, only women who’ve had the precisely wrong amount of prosecco do that. All of this probably explains why I throw an elbow and, after standing up, a punch.