“So what was going on at that time?” Faust asked. “Do you remember anything out of the ordinary?”
Mac inhaled deeply. “No, not that I can remember.” He gave it some thought. “Let’s see, my creative team and I were working on the Woodpine Project at the time, which carried a pretty rigid deadline. But that’s nothing unusual.” He shook his head. “It can’t be that.”
“What else?”
“Hmmm, my sister-in-law was around a lot at that time and she’s a real pain in the ass.” He shook his head again. “Nah, she’s always been a small price I’ve had to pay to be married to the woman I…” He stopped again.
Faust allowed it. “Okay, let’s try to pinpoint it a little better.” The man leaned in. “I want you to picture that first panic attack you had—blowing up that balloon.”
“Okay,” Mac said, nodding.
“And then I want you to back in or rewind everything that transpired just before that attack.” He nodded. “Go back minutes, hours, days—until something clicks.”
“Well, as much as I’d rather not, I can definitely remember that first panic attack. Before that…” He stared off into space, allowing his mind to travel back. “It was a busy weekend. My wife and I were celebrating our fifteenth wedding anniversary and enjoyed a wonderful dinner at D’Avios in the city. We were driving home and…” Suddenly, Mac felt like he’d been kissed on the temple with a sledge hammer; all the air in his lungs left him. “Shit…shit…shit…”
Faust leaned forward in his chair. “What is it, Mac?” he asked. “Tell me.”
It was that accident we passed, Mac realized. That’s what kicked off this friggin’ nightmare I’ve been living through…
“Mac?” Faust repeated.
In a state of shock, Mac looked at the man. “On our way home from the restaurant,” he said, still unsure why he hadn’t put the puzzle together until now, “Jen and I passed a pretty bad car accident. We slowed to help, but…” He stopped.
Faust waited, studying Mac’s face.
“But I…” Mac stopped again.
“Go on,” Faust said.
Mac shook his head.
“Was someone hurt in the accident? Did you know them?”
“I didn’t know the people in the crash,” Mac said, “but…but there was a lot of blood and…”
Faust continued to study him before jotting down some notes. “I think we may have found your trigger,” he said quietly. “Have you ever been in a motor vehicle accident?” Faust asked.
Like a violent stalker who’d just been exposed, the first glimmer of truth rushed back to Mac, nearly knocking him off the bed.
⧝
Mac had been half-asleep in the passenger seat. His friend, Sam, was driving much too fast for the slippery conditions. And that’s when Mac looked up and saw them. Two teenage kids—a few years younger than him—in a beat-up Chevy Camaro pulled out from a poorly lit parking lot. “Shit!” Sam yelled out, hitting the brakes hard. Just as Sam and Mac’s car struck the Camaro, the boy in the passenger seat stared straight into Mac’s eyes. Mac couldn’t imagine a more dreadful sight. The boy’s expression was the definition of pure fear.
The sounds of broken glass and twisted steel preceded the horrid screams of human pain. In an instant, the world lay still again. Mac felt a dull throb travel the length of his body. He was hurt. Looking left, he saw that Sam had already fled the wreck. Mac struggled and struggled, trying desperately to free himself. At one point, he heard one of the teenagers moaning. Wondering why the other remained silent, he fought harder to get out of his own crushed vehicle. I have to save them, he’d thought. I have to…
⧝
Panting the same way he had on that awful night all those years ago, Mac returned to the present. He looked up to find Faust staring at him.
“Talk to me, Mac,” the doctor said, his voice nearly a whisper.
“I…I can’t talk about it, Faust,” Mac stuttered, an overwhelming amount of terror filling him. He sprung off the bed, gasping for air. As he paced, he embarked on another full blown panic attack and struggled to breathe.
“Repressed memories,” Faust muttered, writing the two simple words into his notes. “Here, take this,” Faust said, handing Mac a pill. “Your anxiety will subside in a few minutes.”
Mac swallowed the pill and collapsed onto his bed, still struggling against the onslaught of the most horrendous feelings.
“Just breathe, Mac,” Faust said in his soothing voice. “You’re okay. The only thing you have to do right now is breathe.”
Mac struggled to catch his breath, finally composing himself. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he said in a wounded voice.
Faust shook his head. “Sorry? Sorry for what? There’s nothing to be sorry for, Mac. You’re in a lot of pain and I’m here to help you. You know that, right?”
Mac nodded.
“I would never hurt you, Mac,” Faust said, “I’m here to help you heal. You need to trust that.”
“I do,” Mac muttered, nodding, “I do, Faust. It’s just that I…I can’t…”
Faust nodded. “Be patient, Mac. We’ll get there. I promise.” He stood to leave. At the door, he asked, “How are you feeling now?”
“Better, thank you.”
“Patience, okay?” Faust said before closing the door behind him. “We’ll get there.”
Mac grabbed the framed photo of the kids again. “Patience?” he whispered, shaking his head, “I don’t have time for patience.” He sat on the edge of his bed and placed his head into his hands. “A car accident,” he said aloud, “all of this pain and torment because of a car accident that happened a lifetime ago?”
He pulled out the letter he’d written to his kids and added a post script: PS—Guys, I just made a major breakthrough and think I finally understand where my suffering originates from. Although I have a way to go, I’m confident this will speed up the days before we see each other again.
Nurse Mal stuck her head in. “You doing okay for now?”
Mac shrugged, unsure of how to answer the stern-faced woman.
She lingered for a moment before offering a nod. “You’re doing okay for now,” she answered and left.
Where the hell did they find Nurse Ratchet? Mac wondered, still happy for any distraction he could get.
Chapter 13
Jen sat slouched over, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. Joel approached her messy desk and grabbed her by the hand. “Okay, okay, the doctor’s here,” he said, “Want to go for a cup of coffee?”
As they walked, Jen filled him in. “I honestly don’t know what to do, Joel.”
“About what?”
“Mac finally got himself into therapy. He’s at Presbyterian.”
“Good for him,” Joel said. “It’s about time.”
“The problem is, I got a letter from him yesterday and it’s addressed to the kids.”
Joel cringed. “Uh, oh.”
“Exactly. If the court finds out about it, Mac will get sent to jail for violating the no contact order.”
“What did the letter say?” Joel asked.
“I couldn’t even bring myself to open it,” she said sadly.
“So what’s the big deal?”
As if he were insane, Jen stopped and glared at him. “The big deal is that I honestly don’t know what to do with it.” She shrugged. “Joel, I have no idea how long Mac is going to be there. If I let the kids read it and…”
“You can’t let the kids read it,” Joel blurted.
“Yeah, that’s what my mother says.”
“And she’s right. Hey, I know it sounds cruel, Jen, but if I were you I wouldn’t get the kids’ hopes up.”
Jen’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s what I was thinking,” she reluctantly admitted. “They’ve just gotten to the poin
t where they can function somewhat normally again. I’m not sure it would be all that smart to jeopardize that.”
Joel nodded in agreement. “I know it stinks, but you have to keep the letter from them. I’d hold on to it and give it to them when all of this craziness blows over.”
“See, I’m not sure I should do that either. They’d hate me for keeping their father from them. They already feel…” She stopped, feeling so torn and overwhelmed.
Joel grabbed her hand. “Hey, you’re not keeping their father from them, Jen. You’re protecting them from more pain, that’s all. I’m sure they’ll understand when they get older.”
Jen nodded her gratitude, feeling a tinge of relief. “I just hope Mac doesn’t send any more letters. It’s tearing my heart out.”
⧝
Dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, worn jeans and a new pair of running shoes, Mac sat in a circle of recovering alcoholics and addicts, each one sharing details of the nightmares that had landed them there.
“Every day I waste away in this shit hole,” an angry patient named Andrew said, “is another day I’m not with my kids, teaching them everything they need to learn.”
Mac’s stomach flopped sideways. He couldn’t have chosen better words himself. As one of the counselors spoke of the glory found along the Twelve Steps, Mac’s mind drifted off.
⧝
I have three wonderfully different children, Mac thought, and each one of them needs me to be home. A different version of panic filled his heart. There’s no way I can teach them that dreams come true unless I’m there to show them. There’s so much I need them to believe…to know. He felt dizzy from the bombardment of examples that saturated his brain. His eyes filled, as he longed to offer his kids the lessons they needed to get from him. Luck is the place where opportunity meets preparation, he told them in his head, and opportunity often disguises itself as a mix of hard work and perseverance. In the midst of his daydream, he pictured his kids’ wide eyes as they absorbed his carefully chosen words. We can make even the wildest dream come true, guys, but we have to work very hard for it.
⧝
Butch Belanger, a fellow alcoholic, tapped Mac on the shoulder, jerking him back into a cruel reality. “Are you all right, man?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah, thanks,” Mac answered, returning the whisper. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nothing you won’t hear a thousand more times in the next few months.” He grinned.
Dorothy Cabeceiras, the group therapist, spotted Butch talking. “Would you like to share with us, Mr. Belanger?” she asked.
Butch smirked. “I was just telling my new friend here that I used to be a real go-getter back in the day,” he said, pausing for effect. “I’d drop my wife off at work and then I’d go get her.” He laughed.
Shaking her silver head, Mrs. Cabeceiras scanned the room. “Perhaps someone who can be a little more serious would like to share?”
There were no takers.
“It’s no joke,” Butch said, trying to contain his smile, “I’m talking about the same woman who maxed out my credit card at the Dollar Store.”
Retaining her professional demeanor, Mrs. Cabeceiras turned to George Saber—the patient on Mac’s left—and asked, “Would you like to share with us today, George?”
George snickered. “Well, I know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my bitch ex-wife,” he started.
“Without cursing, please,” Dorothy said.
George paused, clearly considering whether he wanted to share. One deep breath later, he kicked off the most intelligent and terrifying rant Mac had ever heard. “My marriage was done long before we ended it,” George explained. “My wife and I decided to act like real adults and do what was in the best interest of our children.” He shook his head. “This, I learned, was impossible because the best interest of our children was as different in our minds as our ideas for saving the marriage. Right away, my newly estranged wife considered our kids her closest allies and decided that she and the kids were a package deal. She couldn’t see the separation. My kids were hers and if I wasn’t with her, then I was an outsider.” He took another breath. “Basically, if she and I were going to be separated, then so were the kids and I.”
Mac’s blood turned to ice water, sending an awful shiver down his spine. His right knee began to bounce from nervous energy.
“With our youngest just a few years out of diapers,” George said, “irreconcilable differences dragged me into a world of hell.” He swallowed hard. “While my kids watched cartoons, the wife and I went to court, an intimidating place that should bring justice to criminals, not tear fathers away from their children.”
Mac recalled his own nightmare in court and felt a bolt of lightning rip through his chest. I figured I was punching way above my weight class, he thought, looking sideways at George, but now I can see that I wasn’t even allowed in the ring. There was never any question about the value of a mother’s love. But at what point did a father’s love become less valued? he wondered.
“At nearly two hundred dollars an hour, both lawyers told half-truths, while some stranger dressed in a black robe spent ten whole minutes deciding my family’s future.” George stopped to collect himself. “Before it started, it was over. Society’s views of our parental roles had dictated the outcome long before we’d stepped into that courtroom. With nothing for me to do but watch, my entire world was slowly dismembered, piece-by-piece.” George’s words were now choked with emotion. “Of course I started drinking,” he said, his voice becoming louder and angrier. “That fuckin’ judge issued a punishment harsher than any prison term I could have ever received.”
Dorothy squirmed in her chair. “Language, please,” she reminded him.
But George was fired up now and never broke stride. “With one crack of the gavel, the deal was sealed. I could now take my own children on loan two nights a week and every other weekend. I was in shock,” he said, his eyes glassing over. “I’d heard the brutal rumors, read the one-sided stories, but I still couldn’t believe it. Yet, there I stood, a man who was being criminalized for committing no crime…” He became choked up. “…a father who was no more than one-half of a relationship that no longer worked.”
By this point, Mac had stopped breathing. He was either feeling the man’s pain, his own or both.
“I never imagined that the person who hated me most,” George said, his eyes glassed over with restrained tears, “would be given complete control over the people I love the most.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s so damn unfair—the inequity between mothers’ rights and fathers’ rights. And most men are only one decision, one single choice away from being where I am and this decision probably won’t be theirs to make.”
No more, Mac yelled in his head, feeling wracked with pain over this poor man’s familiar story. Surprised that he even had the strength, Mac stood and hurried for the door.
“Mac,” Dorothy called after him. “Mac…”
But he never stopped. As if the room were engulfed in flames, Mac picked up the pace and shuffled out of there.
⧝
Mac returned to his tiny room. Pulling the ear buds from his neck, he threw them onto the small wooden desk that sat in the corner of the room. As he prepared to collapse onto the bed, he spotted a letter. Right away, he recognized Brandt’s handwriting. He sat on his bed, tore open the envelope and read:
Dear Mac,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve considered coming to visit you a few times, but decided that you’d probably value your privacy rather than having company at this point. I’m sure I would, if I were in your shoes.
Anyway, I wanted to write to let you know how much I admire you.
Mac cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. Admire? he thought, not expecting this.
It takes great courage to tackle anxiety and depression hea
d on. You should be very proud of that. I know your kids will be.
Mac stopped reading; the tears in his eyes would not allow it. When he finally continued on, he could hear Brandt’s compassionate voice in his head.
It’s true, Mac. Your children are very lucky to have you as their dad.
Mac wept so hard he began to shake.
What you’re doing to get back to them is nothing shy of inspirational. And I think you have to take whatever time you need to get well, so you can take control of your life again, no matter how long that takes. You getting healthy has to be priority one.
Wiping his tear-soaked cheeks, Mac nodded in agreement.
In the meantime, please go easy on yourself. We’re all human, my friend. We all make mistakes. The real tragedy would be not returning to who you’ve always been.
Mac put the letter down, wiped his running nose and took a couple deep breaths in order to finish it.
Keep up the good work, Mac. I’m here for you—no matter what you need. And remember, you’re not alone. Your friend, Brandt.
Mac dropped the letter onto his bed and wept. Brandt had always been a friend, but Mac didn’t realize just how good of a friend until this very moment. He read the last line several more times until it became his mantra. You’re not alone, he repeated in his head, feeling the words re-energize him and steel his resolve. You’re not alone. Mac thought, Brandt has no idea what this means to me; there’s no way he ever could. He wiped his eyes. “You’re not alone,” he whispered aloud. “Thank you, Brandt.”
Mac picked up the letter to read it again, confirming just how profound and impactful the written word could be.
⧝
Upon returning home from work, Jen closed the door to her bedroom and began a letter to Mac.
Mac, I should have written this letter a long time ago. If I’m being honest, I’ve written it a thousand times in my head. So where do I start? I suppose at the beginning. I love you, Mac. I’ve always loved you. And I realize now that I always will. And I miss you more than I’ve ever imagined being able to miss anyone or anything. I’m not the same person without you in my life, not even close. I finally realize what the term “better half” means. I am lost and alone and I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from whatever actually happened to us. I grieve, I mourn for what we were and all that we’ve lost. And I’m terrified that we’ll never have the opportunity to get it back. I didn’t want this, Mac. I knew you were hurting and I tried desperately to participate, but you kept me in the dark. The last thing I ever wanted was to keep the kids from you. You may never believe this, but it’s hurt me as much as it’s hurt you. We’re not a whole family without you. I fear we may never be again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of it. I pray for you night and day. I pray for our family. She signed it, my love—your wife, Jen.
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