Fire & Water

by Betsy Graziani Fasbinder

  Burt looked down at me, his eyes pleading. Holding Ryan tightly in my arms, I rested my head against Burt’s shoulder.

  “Take us back, Burty,” I whispered. “They’re taking care of Jake. I have to take care of Ryan now.”

  Mary K wrapped her arm around my waist. Where I felt molten before, I could now feel that my flesh and bones were firm and intact. I was a pillar, standing by my own force. I had my daughter in my arms and my dear friends at my side. With this, I knew that I could make it.

  I felt the whump, whump, whump of a helicopter approaching before I heard it. Leaves and flower petals churned around us, and the silk partition huffed and heaved. Only someone with Aaron Bloom’s clout could arrange for a helicopter to land in Central Park in the middle of the night, and I was grateful he had.

  Looking up, I spotted bold block letters, gold against the black of the approaching helicopter. BLOOM INDUSTRIES. I had a vague sense of Jake calling out to me, his voice being swallowed by the sound of the machine that would take him away.

  I moved first one foot, and then the other, with Burt and Mary K in lockstep beside me. Jake’s screams disappeared. As I walked, the only sensations I was aware of were Ryan’s heart beating against my chest and the sounds of the footfalls of the loyal friends beside me.

  Bless Me Father

  After we returned to San Francisco, Ryan didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. Her muteness terrified me more than if she’d been screaming. I’d take her to Mary K’s, and she’d mindlessly sit, petting Welby. At the pub, she mutely watched while Alice baked an endless array of her favorite treats while Rian held Sausage, the latest of my dad’s fat cats, in her lap. She held my dad’s hand while they walked around Stow Lake or the Arboretum and he chattered on about the flowers and plants along their path, mute beside him. Tully did magic tricks. Dr. Schwartz read poetry. All with Ryan as a mute observer.

  I held her, rocked her, told her how much I loved her, and begged her to talk to me. But she looked out the window or stared at unturned pages of her favorite books. Each night I wrapped myself around her as we shared my childhood bed.

  With Ryan sleeping upstairs, Mary K and I sat with my family at our familiar table and told them all that happened in New York.

  I had only one secret remaining: the contents of the safe-deposit box and the pull I felt to help Jake. Yes, that’s what I’d begun to call it, helping Jake. He’d begged his father to let the guards shoot him in Central Park. He’d gouged his wrists to end his life. How many times had Jake wanted his agony to end? How many times had someone intervened, prolonging his pain, keeping him from the serenity he craved?

  But could I actually help him die? Would I? Jake’s suffering haunted me. My private plan was an indescribable ache with no outward sign of injury, but it was hobbling me nonetheless.

  “Poor baby,” Alice said over and over as she listened to the story. It didn’t even matter whether she was referring to Jake, Ryan, or me. We were all poor babies, I supposed.

  * * *

  Ryan and I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge three times a week to see Dr. Rachel Gross, a child psychologist who specialized in trauma. Her office was filled with art supplies and shelves of miniature figurines. Aaron Bloom offered to pay for the therapy, and because the house had not yet closed, I gulped the hot coals of my pride and accepted.

  At first, Ryan went into the sessions alone while I leafed through copies of Parenting Magazine with its irrelevant articles about summer camps and how to get children to eat green vegetables. After the third session, Dr. Gross had Ryan sit in the waiting room while she talked to me inside.

  Rachel Gross was a petite woman of about fifty with soulful brown eyes and a rich, soothing voice. Dressed simply in soft gray linen, she seemed intentionally nondescript. “Ryan would like you to join our sessions from now on,” she said.

  “She spoke to you?”

  The therapist nodded. “Not with words. Just with the scenes she creates in the sand tray.”

  In tidy rows, on dozens of shelves, stood thousands of figurines—fairies, soldiers, characters of all kinds. Vehicles, trees, animals both domesticated and ferocious. Fences, buildings, stones, and shells. Mountains and tunnels. Houses, caves, and bridges. The elaborate menagerie stood at the ready.

  “But she’s not talking,” I said. “Shouldn’t we try to get her to talk about everything that’s happened? I just have to know she’s going to be all right.”

  The therapist’s face exuded kindness and patience. “It’s our job just to witness what Ryan has created in the sand tray,” she explained. “Over time we’ll begin to see transformation in the scenes. That’s how the process becomes reparative.”

  “And you’ve begun to see transformation in Ryan’s trays?”

  Dr. Gross nodded. “The first two sessions, Ryan put her back to me and buried figures. Now she’s allowing me to watch. That’s progress. She wants to be witnessed.”

  When I heard Dr. Gross say that Ryan buried items in the sand, the image of the hole that Jake had created in her likeness rose to the forefront of my mind and sickened me. “Dr. Gross. I’ve researched manic-depressive disorder. There’s a strong genetic component and—”

  “You want reassurances. All that can be known from Ryan’s behavior right now is that she is a child reacting to a trauma. We can help her through that. Let’s take things one step at a time.”

  How many times had I given similar information to terrified parents? Only in this moment did I appreciate the inadequacy of such explanation.

  Dr. Gross opened the door and invited Ryan back into the room and toward her completed sand tray. In the middle of the tray stood a collection of figures, all centered around a tall pewter wizard who held a scepter in one hand and a clear, crystal orb in the other. In front of the wizard was a hole, and in it a small, ceramic rabbit completely buried but for its nose and ears. Miniature stone walls had been placed around the wizard, and just outside the wall was a warrior woman on horseback bearing a bow and arrow.

  Ryan looked up at me for the first time since we’d come back from New York. Silently, her eyes pleaded with me to examine what she’d created.

  I kneeled so that the tray was at eye level. The rabbit was so small. The pewter wizard, who seemed benevolent and magical from the outside, appeared menacing from the perspective of the rabbit.

  “I see, baby,” I whispered. “I see.”

  * * *

  I consulted with an attorney who gave me the news that I could do nothing to keep Jake hospitalized against his will once he was no longer an imminent risk. I could get a restraining order to keep him from Ryan, but whatever naivety I’d once been guilty of had died. No piece of paper would protect us. The attorney even warned that, after a period of stability, Jake could even be awarded visitation or partial custody by a sympathetic judge.

  Medicine had failed Jake.

  The law offered me nothing.

  I submitted for a leave of absence from work. I had a more important job to do. While Ryan stayed with Dad and Alice, I went to UC for one morning to transfer my patients to able colleagues. I was unable to focus on the stack of medical charts on my desk. The words blurred together, the details leaving me as soon as I finished reading a sentence.

  On my desk sat a framed photograph Burt had given me for my birthday the year Ryan was born. Jake and I lay in the grass, our limbs entwined, and between us—all baby fat and smiles—was Ryan, cozy in the nest our bodies made for her. I turned the photo over, unable to look at the perfect moment now gone forever.

  I pulled my wallet from my bag. Tucked in the thin, zippered section of the wallet was the business card I’d placed there. My fingers traced the gold-embossed letters. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I dialed the number.

  “Aaron Bloom,” the voice answered after only two rings.

  “Uh—” I’d expected a receptionist or a recording.

  “Aaron Bloom here.” The words were clipped and impatient.

  “Mr.
Bloom. This is Kate. Katherine Murphy.”

  A softer voice continued. “Katherine. How are you? How is the child?”

  “She’s still struggling. I think the psychologist is helping. I don’t have long,” I lied. “I need to ask you something.” I licked my lips, trying to summon the courage for my question. “Why did you try to stop Jake from marrying me?”

  I could hear the tight swallow from the other end of the line. “It wasn’t you. I’ve always known that anyone he married would have to endure the effects of his… illness. If there were children, the suffering would be tenfold.”

  Silence hummed.

  “Jacob’s mother climbed to the edge of a thirtieth-floor balcony when he was two. She had my son in her arms. Were it not for a quick-witted nanny, you and I would not be having this conversation.”

  “Does Jake know?”

  “Would it change anything?”

  I closed my eyes. “No. I guess it wouldn’t.”

  * * *

  My consultation with the attorney and my phone call with Aaron Bloom blanched me with hopelessness. My path back toward Murphy’s surprised me when I found myself in a back pew at St. Anne’s Cathedral. I’d not been in the sanctuary since I’d left for college. With knees resting on the worn kneeling rail, I took in the flickering light of the candles and the aroma of Wood Oil Soap and incense. Footfalls of the faithful coming in and out for confession echoed against the stucco walls. I rested my forehead against the back of the wooden pew before me.

  St. Anne’s had been a spiritual refuge for my mother, but it had proved impotent to help her find relief in her earthly life. Still, it was in the tranquil courtyard of this church that she had chosen to spend her last living moments.

  I wondered if I should I pray for guidance. Or if I should seek forgiveness for the murderous intentions that still haunted my dreams each night and bullied their way into my waking thoughts. Experts had offered me little help. Was God the expert of last resort?

  I knelt until my feet grew numb. I looked down at the surgical greens I wore under my coat. How many times had they been cleansed of the blood of patients? Could I be so cleansed after I got blood on my own hands?

  Seeing the light glowing above the confessional, I moved toward it, parted the heavy crimson curtain, and entered the chamber. The air was thick and still, tinged with the lingering, sweet aroma of a woman’s cologne. Had her fragrance been applied to buy God’s favor? What sin would be pardoned on account of Chanel No. 5?

  The priest slid the miniature window open. I recognized his profile. Father Sean was no longer the jovial young priest playing basketball on the churchyard courts who I remembered from St. Anne’s Elementary. He was somber in this formal role. He made the sign of the cross and kissed the rosary he held.

  Father Sean sat silently, unmoving.

  A whisper escaped my lips. “I’ve made so many mistakes.”

  In a soft voice, the priest replied, “Our Heavenly Father knows our hearts. He loves us without condition. Nothing we could do could alienate him from us or deny us of his forgiveness.”

  “I probably shouldn’t be here. I don’t even know if I believe in God, Father.”

  “But still, you’re here. Some part of you must be seeking guidance? Forgiveness?”

  Tears dripped from my face, joining the decades of repentant tears that must have fallen on that very spot. “I don’t know what to do. I have allowed my love for a man to keep me from protecting my child. He’s… mentally ill.” The words were acid on my tongue. “He’s dangerous. My love for him blinded me. I allowed him to do harm.”

  “You’re not responsible for the actions of others, child. Is your daughter safe now?”

  Had I mentioned that my child’s gender? “I’m doing everything I can to take care of her now.”

  “Good. And what of your husband?”

  “He’s in agony. Tortured by his condition.” I paused to search for the words. “He almost died once by his own hand, but I rescued him. An act I now regret. It’s my fault that he’s still dangerous to our child and that he continues to suffer. I don’t really pray, Father, but I’ve wished a thousand times that he would die.”

  “Wishing is the doubter’s name for prayer. God hears them both. Your prayer comes not from malice for your husband, but from a desire to end his pain and the danger he poses. It is also your own pain that you wish end.” Silence buzzed in my ears.

  A picture of Burt popped into my mind. “My husband and I have been apart for some time, Father. And I recently… well, I recently tried to… I didn’t, but I almost—”

  “You were unfaithful?”

  That word, unfaithful, swirled around my mind like a cyclone. “No, not technically. I would have been, but the other man stopped it.”

  “You know this man well?”

  I nodded.

  “Then perhaps you chose him because you knew he would have the strength to resist temptation.”

  “That’s pretty generous, Father.”

  “God’s love is generous, and more understanding than you might imagine, my child. You love your husband?”

  I nodded.

  “Loving him is an expression of the promise you made in your vows of marriage. Pray not for the death of your husband, but for clarity. Without God, we are left with only our intellect to determine our path. Intellect is a dull knife when cutting through the grisly matters of living this complicated life. God sees you. His guidance will come.”

  Father Sean moved his hand in the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go and sin no more. Bless you, child.”

  * * *

  Ryan began to talk a little, and, as recommended by Dr. Gross, she returned to school. I returned to short days at the hospital and brought her to daily sessions with Dr. Gross.

  Just as Dr. Gross had predicted, the scenes in the sand tray began to morph. Figurines once buried began to interact on the sand’s surface. The tray began to blossom with plant life, and some of the more threatening figures began to be excluded. Soon Ryan abandoned the burial rituals in favor of domestic scenes with furniture and gardens. Still, the figure of the wizard lurked in the corner, though sometimes his back was turned.

  One day during our fifth week in Dr. Gross’s office, Ryan stopped her play with the figurines. She looked up at me with a strength of presence that I had not seen in weeks.

  “Mommy?”

  The sound of her voice, calm and steady, startled me. “Wh-what, honey?”

  “I want to go back to our house.”

  I looked up at Dr. Gross, whose only change of expression was her lifted eyebrows. Her kind eyes encouraged me.

  “To Granddad’s?”

  “No, Mommy. To our house. I know Daddy can’t live with us anymore because he’s too sick. But I think we should go home for just a little while. You and me. In our house. To say good-bye to it.”

  I searched Dr. Gross’s face for how I should respond, but just as she had with Ryan, she offered me no answers, letting me find my own. “You know we can only stay there for another week or so. Then the people that bought it will move in.”

  “Daddy won’t be there, will he?” Fear edged her question.

  “No. He won’t be there anymore.” I looked up at Rachel Gross, whose focus remained on Ryan.

  “Then I want to go. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

  “Okay, honey. We’ll go home, then.”

  * * *

  Even in the brittle days of December the bougainvillea vines blossomed magenta against the creamy stucco of our Sea Cliff house. The exquisite house had become haunted for me, but for Ryan it meant familiarity. It meant Jake, and she needed to say good-bye.

  After Ryan went to bed, each night for the next week, I wrapped glasses in tissue and sorted through books and the general flotsam of the years we’d been a family. I packed up all of Jake’s clothing and the supplies from his studio, though I had no idea if he’d even care about any of
it. Movers would arrive soon to cart things to a storage unit I’d rented for him. I had mailed him a key so that he could retrieve his belongings whenever he wanted them without coming to the house. I cared nothing about the house or its contents—only about Ryan.

  Finally, with one empty box remaining in the foyer, I found myself alone in the kitchen while Ryan slept upstairs. Moonlight afforded a perfect view of the towers of the Golden Gate, strong and powerful against the night sky.

  I opened the drawer of the sideboard beside the kitchen table and removed the mahogany silverware box. I examined its sickening contents—syringes, rubber tubing, a blackened spoon, and several plastic bags with traces of white powder. Just as Father Sean had foretold, clarity came to me. Now, sitting at the breakfast nook with Jake’s belongings stacked in the foyer, I steeled myself for what I knew I must do.

  I picked up a parcel, wrapped neatly in brown paper. I opened the lid of the mahogany box and tucked the parcel inside. Resting my palm on top of the box until my heartbeat slowed, I closed the lid. I then packed it into one of Jake’s cartons of clothing. With a thick black marker I labeled the box JAKE’S CLOTHES. Then I added the words MAHOGANY SILVER BOX to guide Jake specifically to the box and its contents. I sealed the box with layers of tape, assuring myself that I’d have to work hard to change my mind and open it again.

  I turned off the kitchen light and lingered there in front of the window. It had been weeks since I’d had a drink, and in that instant I knew I was completely sober and clear-thinking for the first time in a very long time. I wasn’t drunk on scotch or inebriated by guilt, or worry, or fury, or fear. Passion and love were no longer my intoxicants. Work was no longer my anesthesia. Secrecy could alter my thinking no more.

  Fully conscious, energy coursing through my veins, I pulled away from the window and climbed the stairs. I sat in the dark at the edge of Ryan’s bed, simply watching my baby sleep.

  Jake-in-the-Box