by Gina Holmes
“It’s Kyra, son. She’s been in an accident.”
I’d barely gotten my foot in the second leg hole when I had to sit again. “What kind of accident? Is she okay? Where is she?”
“Whoa, slow down. They told your mother that physically, she’s fine. Anyway, I had the car towed to that body shop with the big eagle on the side. You know, the one down the street from Waffle House.”
“Why didn’t they call me or Marnie? Why did they call you?”
“They said her phone just goes to voice mail and Kyra gave them the number you used to have back in Braddy’s Wharf.”
I didn’t bother asking why she would do that because the answer was obvious enough—she didn’t want me to know. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Is she home?”
“Not exactly. They admitted her to Batten Falls Psychiatric Hospital for observation.”
I sat there stunned to silence as I listened to the bizarre news of my wife’s whereabouts, all the while feeling the weight of Danielle’s gaze. When I hung up, I found her sitting with the blanket wrapped around her like a beach towel.
“What is it?” She looked confused. “Who’s hurt?”
I licked my lips, not knowing what to say.
“It’s her, isn’t it? It’s Kyra.” She frowned as her eyes searched mine.
“It’s okay,” I said, standing. “She was in a minor accident.”
When Danielle stroked my arm, her touch possessed all the comfort of burlap. “I’m sorry.”
I pulled away. “No biggie. She’ll be fine.” But even as I said the words, I doubted them. She was in a psychiatric hospital. How okay could a person be to find themselves there?
She focused on my knees. “Thank goodness. Are you going to see her?”
“What else can I do? She’s still my wife.”
“No. I know. I’m just asking.”
I said nothing for a moment, then set about picking up the rest of my clothes from the rug. Scratching at my freshly grown neck stubble, I asked, “Would you mind if I borrow a razor and some toothpaste?”
Without so much as looking at me, she shrugged. I ducked into her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. A pack of disposable pink razors sat next to a battered box of Band-Aids, a bottle of watermelon body spray, and some peroxide, which, according to its expiration date, should have been thrown away two years ago. I grabbed a razor and the apple-scented shave gel resting on the edge of the tub. I’d smell like an orchard, but at least I would look presentable.
After squeezing a dab of toothpaste onto my finger and doing the best job I could for my teeth, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Veins of red fractured the whites of my eyes. When I frowned at my weary reflection, fine lines etched themselves around the corners of my mouth. Strands of silver had infiltrated my thick black hair so much that it was now almost a fifty-fifty blend.
Where was the dashing young man of my youth? The one my wife couldn’t keep her hands off of? I sighed, turned the light off, and stepped back into the bedroom.
Danielle was looking at me once again with wide, admiring eyes. She now wore a white T-shirt and men’s boxer shorts—trophies of a previous relationship? The thought both nauseated and relieved me. I didn’t like thinking of myself in a long line of lovers, but then again, if I was, maybe she was less likely to have mistaken our night together for more than it was.
The way she looked at me, though, told me our tryst had meant something to her. Great, I thought, patting my pockets for my cell phone. Just what I needed, to add another boulder of guilt to my quarry.
I glanced around until I spotted my car keys resting atop her digital alarm clock. “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
Though she smiled stoically, her eyes betrayed her.
“I wish you could stay,” she whispered.
I kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, feeling sorry indeed.
Three
I felt like an actor in a bad B movie as I made my way to the front desk of Batten Falls Psychiatric Hospital and signed in. I just wished somebody would yell, “Cut!” so I could take Kyra home. The receptionist eyed my wrinkled suit with disapproval and pointed to the waiting area.
The pleather couch looked like a relic from the fifties, but it was comfortable enough. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and tapped my foot. A line of gilded-framed portraits stared at me from the wall to my left. Male and female, young and old, each board member shared the same baleful expression as if they knew what I had done.
Farther down the dimly lit corridor, sad plants drooped over macramé-hung pots. The dreariness of the place had permeated my soul the moment I’d walked through the door. Maybe it was the eerie silence, so stark I could hear my own breathing, or the vague nursing home smell lingering in the air. My gaze moved across the tiled floor, polished to a mirror shine. At least it was clean. That was something.
Running my tongue over inadequately brushed teeth, I pulled a stick of gum from my suit jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and shoved it in my mouth. As I chewed, cinnamon burned my tongue, but the taste soon died. Nothing lasted long these days. Not Kyra’s love for me, not Benji’s childhood, not my faithfulness as a husband, not anything . . . but then again, neither would this nightmare.
Kyra would be home soon. Then what? As if I didn’t already have enough to feel guilty about, she’d find a way to blame me for this as well. If it rained when the weatherman called for sunshine, she’d find a way to pin it on me.
Still, being contentious was a long way from being insane. What on earth could have made them think she belonged here? I pressed the chewed gum from my lips back into its wrapper, balled it up, and tucked it in my pocket. I knew our separation and Benji’s enlistment affected her more than she’d let on . . . but a breakdown?
This was a woman who was as grounded as they came. Her no-nonsense approach to life was one of the things I’d loved best about her. What must she be going through at this very moment? Probably wondering if she died and woke up in hell. I gritted my teeth, knowing that last night I’d given up any rights as her protector.
Sheets of sunlight streamed in through the generous windows at my back, but they did nothing to warm me. Across from the waiting area, the receptionist with unnaturally black hair sat behind glass, answering phones and glancing every few seconds at a security monitor. When my eyes met hers, she cleared her throat and glared at my tapping foot. Feeling no desire to appease her, I closed my eyes and continued the rhythm.
After a few minutes, someone said my name and I looked up. A fiftysomething-year-old man gave a quick bow of head and held out his hand. I had grown used to the stereotypical greeting, though it still annoyed me. Ignoring the bow, I stood to shake his hand and was disappointed to find he beat me in stature by a good two to three inches. The calloused hand I shook was that of a laborer, not the professional it was attached to. His grip was firm. I made sure mine was firmer.
“I’m Dr. Hershing.”
“Eric Yoshida.” As I let go, I noticed his left hand did not sport a wedding band.
“Let’s talk privately, Eric.”
The unearned familiarity of addressing me by my first name made me feel an instant dislike for him. It also didn’t help that he was fit, besides being a doctor. Women were suckers for success, and Kyra was no exception. Although he’d have a hard time impressing her even if he’d been the surgeon general. The thing with Kyra was that she was never satisfied.
I followed him down a long, white corridor. We walked by a line of small offices. A face in each one glanced up as we passed. At the end of the hallway, a door stood open and the doctor motioned for me to enter.
A polished wood conference table took up most of the rectangular room. In the center of it lay a scattered pile of miniature tissue boxes, a few legal pads, and some plastic pens. The room smelled strongly of alcohol. A glance at a small desk pushed against the farthest wall explained why. An open bottle of rubbing alcohol sat bes
ide a mannequin cut off at the waist. The space must have recently doubled as a training room for CPR.
Tucked under the conference table were tall, fabric-covered chairs. I took the one at the head of the table. The doctor raised his eyebrows but said nothing. After taking the seat across from me, he slid a pad and pen over to himself. He flipped the top page and tilted it toward himself, away from my line of vision.
I leaned my clasped hands on the table. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
He scribbled something.
I felt my face flush. “What are you writing already?”
Hershing smiled. “I just remembered my mother asked me to bring home coffee filters.”
I squinted at him. One thing I couldn’t stand was being patronized.
He studied me a moment. “You don’t believe me.” He turned the pad around to reveal the two words he claimed to have written. “Sorry. If I don’t write things down, I forget them. She’ll have my hide if she doesn’t get her java in the morning.”
I felt like I’d been deliberately played for a fool, but of course I would just look paranoid if I voiced my suspicion. Learning that Hershing still lived with his mommy at least gave me a feeling of satisfaction. So much for being a lady-killer. “How do I go about collecting my wife?”
He set his hands on top of the overturned pad. “Collecting?”
“She doesn’t belong here.”
“I’m sure you also want what’s best for Kyra.”
The sound of her name on this man’s lips sent pricks of jealousy through me. Was it my imagination or had his voice lowered an octave when he’d said it? “Of course I want what’s best for her and that doesn’t include her staying here. She’s not crazy.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m sure your stepfather has told you by now Kyra isn’t herself at the moment. She’s here because the paramedics thought she might be suicidal.”
Suicidal? Kyra? I shook my head. “He didn’t mention that, but I have a hard time believing that’s true. She’s the most levelheaded person I know.”
The doctor scribbled something else on his pad, then turned it over on the table. “One thing I’ve learned in my many years here is that everyone has a breaking point, Eric.”
I could agree with that. After all, I’d certainly found mine. “What made them think she was suicidal?”
“She said more than once that she wanted to die.”
I felt my Adam’s apple rise and fall as I swallowed. She couldn’t have known about last night, could she? No, I reassured myself. No one but Danielle and I had known. I hadn’t even known it was going to happen myself until yesterday. Maybe it was her own guilt that finally caught up to her. “Everyone says stuff like that from time to time.”
Wrinkles formed in Hershing’s brow. “Maybe so, but not right after they’ve driven their car into a signpost.”
Drawing in a breath, I tried to really digest for the first time that my wife could have been seriously injured or even died. What would our last words to each other have been? Something horrible, I was sure. “My stepfather said she wasn’t hurt. Is that true?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. She’s hurting, just not physically.”
A familiar pain passed through me but I refused to entertain it. She wants a divorce, I reminded myself. She doesn’t care about you. Why should you care for her? But of course, I did. “What do I need to do to get her out of here?”
“This is one of those things that aren’t within your control. It’s really up to Kyra.”
I glanced out the window at the trail of fog making its way across the distant mountain range, right into my head. “Are you trying to say she doesn’t want to come home?”
The doctor crossed his arms. “Where is home, Eric?”
And so the psychobabble begins, I thought. “Rolling Springs.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Nice area. Pricey. Do you mind me asking what you do for a living?”
“I sell luxury cars. Well, I manage a team that sells them.”
“I didn’t realize there was that much money in car sales. Long hours?”
My muscles tensed. Obviously Kyra had been griping to the good doctor about my schedule. Before I’d gotten the promotion, she complained about scraping by. Like I said, never satisfied. “Ten- to twelve-hour days, six days a week.”
“That sounds like a tough schedule.”
“I’ve tried to give Kyra the best.”
“I see. She likes the finer things, then?”
What was this guy getting at? Probably some sort of mind game to prove we were both nuts. “Don’t we all?”
“I’d say that’s true. Of course, everyone’s definition of what those things are can be quite different. Would you say your wife is high maintenance?”
The question sent blood rushing to my head. What business was it of his? Next he’d be asking about our sex life. Nosy son—
“Mr. Yoshida, I’m not trying to pry. I’m trying to help. I can see by your body language I’ve probably angered you. That’s not my intention.”
I made an effort to relax my clenched hands and calm myself. I didn’t like the idea of anyone, especially this man, having that sort of power over me. “What exactly is your intention?”
“You want Kyra to come home. Kyra wants to come home and I want that too. The problem is that we have an otherwise-sane woman insisting you’re dead.”
All the anger drained from me. “Dead?”
“That’s what she’s saying.”
I felt suddenly disoriented as I attempted to wrap my mind around what he had said. “Who would tell her that?”
He straightened his tie as if we were discussing nothing more concerning than an impending rainstorm. “She thinks you’ve been dead for something like a week.”
Dead? I sat stunned trying to make sense of it. This was crazy. She was screaming at me about cutting off her credit card two nights ago and now she thought I was dead? “Did you tell her I wasn’t?”
“Yes, against better judgment. I thought she was what we call a malingerer—someone who pretends to be mentally ill, but—”
“Kyra would never do that.”
The doctor pressed his lips together as though considering it. “How long have you been married?”
“Twenty years.”
“Good years?”
Under the table, I traced the smooth gold of my wedding band, searching my mind for the right answer. I wanted to tell the truth, to help the doctor help my wife if she really did need it, but the humiliation of spilling my guts to this stranger would be too much. “Yes, good years.”
He nodded. “Tell me about the phone call from Benjamin.”
“Benji called?”
His lips drew up in a smile revealing perfect teeth. “Or I could tell you. Apparently your son called from the naval base. He’s arrived safely.”
My son was safe. A mixture of relief and pride filled me as I leaned my head back. Thank God.
“I think the call was very traumatic for your wife.”
Everything made sense now. I could just picture Kyra cradling the phone to her ear as she cried. Taking a drive, like she often did to clear her head. Her vision blurred from tears. She hits a sign. The paramedics come and she’s upset. They blow it out of proportion and voilà . . . here we all were. I just needed to set the record straight and everything could go back to normal. Whatever normal was these days.
Wishing I had a drink of water, I cleared my throat. “She pretended for Benji’s sake that she was excited about him joining the Navy, but I knew better. She cried herself to sleep worrying about the what-ifs. I figured it would pass once he left home.” Prayed was more like it.
Hershing nodded. “She and Ben are close?”
“Benji’s always been a mama’s boy.” Seeing Hershing’s concerned look, I quickly added, “I don’t mean that in a derogatory way.”
“Of course not.” He clicked his pen against the pad, making the point protrude, then disappea
r, again and again.
“He’s just always been tight with his mom. You’ve never seen a boy love his mama the way that kid loves Kyra.”
“That’s nice.” Dr. Hershing’s face lit up as if this was the first good thing he’d heard yet.
Was it? I hadn’t always thought so. I had never admitted to anyone but I’d always been jealous of their relationship. Benji obeyed me out of fear of punishment, but Kyra he obeyed out of love.
“So my wife thinks I’m dead. Do you see this kind of thing a lot?”
He shook his head. “Never.” Looking to the side, he tapped his chin with the butt end of his pen. “Well, let me take that back. I deal with dementia, where patients confuse reality or are confused about who they are and that sort of thing, but never a woman in her early forties with no psychiatric history.” He paused. “She doesn’t, does she?”
I shifted in my seat. “Of course not.” Kyra’s adopted sister, Marnie, came to mind. She was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, but since there was no biological relation between them, and everyone else in the family was more or less normal, I decided it served no purpose to mention her.
Hershing continued, “The idea that someone suddenly thought their living spouse was deceased but seemed otherwise oriented to reality . . . well, I admit, it had me quite intrigued on a professional level. I thought it an unusual form of disassociation.”
I felt myself tense. “My wife’s not a science fair project, Doctor—”
“Easy, Eric, your knuckles are white again.” He motioned with a tilt of his head toward my clenched hands.
I put them back on my lap, out of sight.
“When the ambulance brought your wife in last night, that’s what I thought. This morning, however, a small bruise has formed in the center of her forehead.” He smiled as though sharing a private joke. One I didn’t get. “Mr. Yoshida, I now believe your wife has a simple concussion.”