Patients were allowed to take projects back to their rooms to let them dry, or show to family members, since the OT room was locked once the sessions ended. But Rudy didn’t want Sasha to see the decoupage box he was making for her, the carefully thin streams of colored tissue paper he’d been shown how to layer and glue with the watery library paste. At first Rudy had been frustrated by the leaky paste, but as it ran over the colors it bled them together in a pleasing effect—like stained glass.
Rudy made Sasha’s gift starting with a simple tan-colored wood box that the leader had provided. He used sapphire-blue; bright, cheerful lime-green; orange; and pale pink tissue paper. The orange reminded him of Matisse’s goldfish. He noticed that some people were cutting out magazine photos and incorporating them into their decoupage as focal points. He flipped through a magazine, but couldn’t find anything special enough for Sasha. Certainly not a wristwatch from a fancy ad! He would ask the leader for an idea. He knew Sasha liked Matisse. Chopin. He would explain to the leader that his gift was for a special friend. He’d already used this phrase in group therapy, and no one laughed at him, even though he thought it sounded silly. But that’s what Sasha was. He was a widower, and she was a special friend. Someone who was dear to him. Was that okay? Yes. Almost everything at the hospital was okay, except for sharp objects and lack of civility.
18
Rudy’s psychiatrist, Dr. Ring, reminded Rudy that the antidepressant they were trying could have minor side effects at first, such as nausea, a bit of daytime spaciness, and perhaps even bad dreams. Rudy was titrating onto the medication gradually, to allow his brain and body to acclimate until the proper blood level was attained. “We used to hit patients with these drugs at a maximum dose—POW—then wonder why they felt so poorly. Or more like not listen carefully enough to why they felt so poorly. We’d thumb through the PDR, and if the side effects weren’t listed, then we attributed the complaints to anything other than the medication.” Dr. Ring shook his head, sipped his tea. “Our profession has come a long way but still has a long way to go.”
“Just like the rest of medicine,” Rudy said. “Cancer, heart disease . . .” He felt a pang of guilt at the latter, because it seemed heart disease was perhaps the most detectable, preventable. He should have called and scheduled a stress test for Bee.
“Men compartmentalize,” CeCe had remarked, more sadly to herself than critically of her father. During her last visit they’d had a discussion about CeCe feeling somewhat abandoned by an absentee husband. They lived in Silicon Valley, after all, and she had girlfriends whose husbands worked every night until midnight at some start-up or other. This didn’t make it easier for any of them. There were women engineers, too, and same-sex partners, but once children entered the equation, one parent—always the non-engineer—took to working at home. Some ate dinner alone until there were children. They were each of them alone, making supper in their partner-less kitchens. Once with children, managing homework, dinner, baths, story- and bedtime alone. Managing their wonder at why every goddamned technology product needed a new version as soon as the last had been released to the world. Bugs. There were bugs! The engineers were as melodramatic as the neonatologists, frankly, standing around the barbecues on weekends over some dumb artisanal sausages and beer that would give you a stomachache later, seriously discussing their importance as though they were preparing to seize Helen from Paris and capture Troy.
“Keira barely knows her father. It’s like I’m a single parent,” CeCe had confided in her father. “I’m sorry I know that’s an awful com-, complaint, considering what you’re going through.” That slight stutter broke Rudy’s heart. She’d wept as though it were she who never came home for dinner with her daughter.
“Now, heart disease among women,” Dr. Ring’s voice grew stern now. He assumed a more doctorly tone, perhaps trying to reel Rudy in from his obvious daydream. “This is very often a silent killer.” Rudy wanted to cover his ears. He remembered the literature the social worker at the ER had given him. The heart disease brochure had fallen out from among the social worker’s folder of paperwork, “Silent Killer” staring up at him from the floor.
The problem had been that Rudy had hated himself every day for not nursing Bee. Silent killer. Few to no symptoms. Still, you could take care of a person. Protect them. He would protect Sasha, even though she’d told him more than once that she wasn’t a fairy princess or scruffy pound animal who needed saving.
“I know,” Rudy had laughed, deeming himself silly, commending Sasha’s obvious strength and bravado. Meanwhile he planned on rescuing her every day. Carrying her over the threshold of a romantic cabin, shooing away creepy watch shoppers, bringing her brioche French toast in bed. He didn’t care if he was old-fashioned. If his fantasies were more Reader’s Digest than Penthouse Forum. Didn’t everyone need a little rescuing?
He had picked up the pamphlet in the ER and said, “THANKS,” as it trembled in his fist. “Warning signs!” he added. “Now that SHE IS DEAD.” The word dead had coated his tongue with a gluey gunk, and he’d realized he hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet.
Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou. Rudy rarely cursed. But now the words spattered in his brain like hot oil in a skillet. He gulped them down, breathe, breathe, breathe “I know,” he replied, hoping he didn’t sound too angry to Dr. Ring.
Dr. Ring reached over and patted the top of Rudy’s hand. He had obviously seen Rudy cringe at the information about heart disease.
“You do know why people keep telling you this—about women being the most underdiagnosed heart disease patients?”
Rudy shook his head.
“There was nothing, nothing, you could have done to prevent Bethany’s death. Not a single thing. I’m guessing she was even in good health otherwise.”
Rudy nodded. “Thank you for saying her name.”
“Of course,” Dr. Ring answered, sipping his tea. Rudy was flattered that Dr. Ring brought in his herbal tea and sat in the chair that Rudy had set in the corner, angled to look partly out on the ER and parking lot morning bustle. Rudy had tried to make the area appealing for CeCe, then even more so for Sasha. He’d put the big pot of ferns and primrose and miniature daffodils on the radiator, along with paper napkins for coasters, and the few New Yorker magazines. In the crook of the back chair, CeCe had brought a little pillow from home, and an afghan, which Rudy ritualistically folded neatly over the back of the chair, always straightening that area before bed. It seemed Dr. Ring was taking a moment’s refuge by visiting Rudy first in his rounds, before heading out to the inevitable daily calamities and complaints on the unit.
“Now, as for your antidepressant,” Dr. Ring continued. “The brain is just so subjective, and this subjectivity means not only that each drug might affect a patient differently—in terms of both side effects and efficacy—but that the normal criteria for dosing, such as weight and age, have little to do with the dosing of SSRIs, because our brains have little to do with body mass and such. Well, so . . . I just hope you’ll be patient. It is slow-going because we only want to change one variable at a time.”
“Science,” Rudy said, wiping the tears from his cheekbones with the heels of his palms. “It’s comforting. Just like music.”
After Dr. Ring asked how Rudy was doing and took a few notes, they inevitably spoke about jazz for a few minutes—Dr. Ring taking a genuine interest in Rudy’s taste. His daughter was a student at the Berklee College of Music in Boston. She had called home to her dad complaining that they were jazz Nazis.
“I’ve encouraged her to stick it out through sophomore year, then she can transfer if she wishes, broaden her horizons.” Dr. Ring shook his head. “Kid doesn’t like one of the best music schools in the country.”
Daughters, they agreed. Dr. Ring said he did not know what he would do without his wife’s help in raising their children. That if he lost his wife he would be so lost he wasn’t sure how he’d manage. As they talked, Rudy realized just how much help CeCe had been s
ince Bee died. For a moment, he felt remorseful, taking up so much of her time, worrying her like this, even as she was having marriage problems.
“Why do you feel you have to be strong for your daughter?” Dr. Ring asked. Rudy shook his head, embarrassed that he couldn’t explain.
“Your daughter is okay and very concerned about you. This is in no way critical; I just want you to know you don’t have to be strong for anyone right now. Not anymore.”
Well, then, maybe that was why the seashell air had given way to a hurricane of tree-bending wind, and a storm-surge of surf with an undertow that pulled Rudy under the covers—under the surface of the world—and pinned him there.
He nodded at the doctor appreciatively. He would try to let go of being strong—clearly this was the place to do it. Even if he wanted to be strong for CeCe, and for Sasha.
“Okay.” The doctor patted Rudy’s leg. “We’ll try and get you some outside help so that you truly believe that.”
This had been a conversation deeper than therapy. Words so devoid of cliché that they made Rudy feel human. Not crazy for being crazy. That was probably the number-one takeaway from the med-psych ward: You’re not crazy for feeling crazy. It’s okay. Let’s see what we can do. Of course, before they entered the ward, the “let’s see what we can do here!” drill had already been enforced upon patients by themselves, their family, and their therapists. They knew what they were supposed to do: exercise, eat right, sleep normal hours, regularly take the medication that wasn’t working, get out and see people. But was it meant to feel like a life sentence of drudgery?
19
At the health club, Sasha wished she’d forgone the meditation class and just headed straight to visit Rudy at the hospital. (One class per week was complimentary to staff, although Sasha felt uncomfortable when she saw the ladies she knew from cleaning the locker room.)
“Imagine a beach,” the hippie girl cooed dreamily, after ringing a small gong and closing her eyes.
No, Sasha would not imagine a beach. Or a pond, river, stream, or swimming pool. At times, she barely tolerated the water from the shower when she washed her hair. Why was every guided meditation on a beach? Okay, so Sasha had only been to two guided meditation classes and listened to one CD, but they were all on a beach that wasn’t very well described. “The sand is cool between your toes.” No, it’s warm, or hot. And dusty.
Sasha, Gabor, and Stefi had once spent a beautiful weekend at the beach. They had filled Stefi’s new bucket with dense, wet sand, tipping it over to create tower after tower. Gabor, who could have a penchant for silliness, made the figures into sand-bucket people, with seaweed for hair and sticks, shells, and rocks for noses, eyes, and mouths. He stuck a cigarette butt in the mouth of one, topped another with a stray rubber bathing cap. Passersby stopped to laugh, admire, and take photos. The three of them were a family, at the beach.
Stefi was in constant motion, running through the shallowest part of the surf all day, screaming with irrepressible joy.
At the end of the day, she’d needed a shower back at the motel, Sasha gently scrubbing the sand from her hair, and a fresh set of clothes. After their picnic supper, they had built a bonfire. Stefi had been so happy about toasting marshmallows that Sasha thought her daughter might actually explode. The man at the convenience store had demonstrated how to make ’smores, stacked up the three sugary ingredients for them, and suggested napkins, all of which Gabor complemented with vodka. Their hair had smelled of smoke, and an additional hot bath was needed to wash off the marshmallow goo, salt, and more sand. So much sand! They fell into bed so exhausted that Gabor’s snoring didn’t even keep Sasha and Stefi awake.
Sasha had cradled her little girl’s warm body under the crisp motel sheets. The room was so simple, but clean, and the beach so perfect—within walking distance—that Sasha thought maybe it had been the best weekend of her life.
When would Sasha tell Rudy what had happened to Stefania? Her daughter had drowned. Not on that beautiful day at the beach. But another day, a terrible afternoon—the screen door slapping behind Stefi as she ran outside, her little feet in red sneakers, a sundress pulled over her bathing suit. So excited to go swimming with her American friend and her mum. The mother appearing to be perfectly competent. Sasha not even worrying. It wasn’t like her not to worry! Now, she didn’t want to pull down the recovering Rudy—finally emerging from his own grief, it seemed—with the story of her daughter. Stefi. Her whole life. Gone in an afternoon.
A few months after Stefi died, Sasha allowed herself to research drowning. Did it hurt? Had her daughter suffered? She wanted to know even if she was afraid to find out at first. She didn’t have the words to ask the policeman who came to their house. She didn’t have the words to ask the social worker who visited later. What was it like to drown?
When she finally worked up the courage to look, she discovered that drowning wasn’t anything like in the movies. People didn’t flail or scream for help. They looked like they were treading water. Not waving but drowning. So often bathers on the beach or pool deck—other than lifeguards—were slow to respond. There wasn’t even a whole lot of splashing, because the victims were suffocating. Once submerged, they climbed an invisible ladder. The invisible ladder stuck in Sasha’s mind—she couldn’t un-imagine it now. Her daughter had been eight. She’d taken swimming lessons. She’d climbed up the ladder of a pool. She must have seen the invisible ladder. Sasha should have been at the top, with open arms!
After her research, Sasha wished she’d never read this description—never looked up what her daughter had likely experienced. Ladders and the choking sense of suffocation catalyzed Sasha’s nightmares every night that following year. Sasha felt herself suffocating in her sleep because it should have been her. She wished that she had been the ladder! Isn’t that what a good mother was? A ladder, a gate, a cushion, a net. Sasha should have been there, holding Stefi by her arms, allowing her to only venture up to her waist in the pool. Waist-high, the rule they had applied for the cold foamy surf at Capitola Beach. In the ocean, Stefi’s feet had kicked playfully at Sasha’s thighs. Her surprisingly strong grip pinched Sasha’s arms, little fingernails digging into her mother’s flesh.
The afternoon that Stefi drowned in her little friend’s swimming pool, Sasha’s other neighbor came running up the walk in her bare feet—two pink lumps of flesh and toes pattering through the muddy grass between the flagstones. Sasha watched the woman approach from the window over the sink, where she had started fixing supper. The neighbor did not knock but rather swung through the screen, tearing off the hook lock in the process.
Daughter drowned pool ambulance swimming day man resuscitate breathe breathe stop breathe. The provenance of the news—this neighbor, her apron, her awful orange hair. Her steep nose, her lumpy bosom. Away! Shoo, away!
A pot boiled over, milky white potato water flecked with starch splashing onto the burner, making the blue flame sputter. Sasha turned to the potatoes. The cabbage rolled with ground beef and onions. She should have been with the girls at the pool. The other child was probably a more advanced swimmer. What was wrong with these Americans, having to do everything from such a young age? Dancing lessons and swimming and birthday party ponies!
“It’s impossible!” Sasha had sputtered at the neighbor. “My daughter may not swim in the deep end! Only to her waist!”
Spongy, strawberry-freckled arms folded Sasha into the blue-and-white bosom of the woman’s checkered apron. The yeasty sour smell of something cooked yesterday and lilac powder. The soft down of a cheek. The warmth of pudgy arms.
“I’ll drive you,” the woman said, turning off the burners. The sound of wails rang out over the ring of the telephone and the chime of the oven timer. Why was the neighbor screaming and crying? It was Sasha’s child. Oh. It was she who screamed. And then she could not. Her throat was clogged with something custardy. Water. Over her head! The potato water filled her lungs, thick white starch clogging her throat. The kitchen
darkened to burnt orange. The ceiling fan overhead spun faster, like a helicopter taking off and lifting the house from the earth. And then darkness.
When Sasha awoke, she was on the sofa. Gabor was there, with a glass of whiskey. The neighbor lady held out a glass of water and a tiny yellow pill. Sasha took the water, gulped it.
“Stop drinking.” She smacked Gabor with the backside of her hand. The whiskey flew out of his grasp, the glass flying in an arc, Gabor’s eyes saucering at her.
The neighbor woman reintroduced herself: Kim. Sasha followed her outside and into her car, parked in the street, all the while marveling at how Kim wore Gabor’s ill-fitting shoes. Sasha would never forget this, and later was touched by it. The main thing was that they just got to the hospital—found Stefi. They didn’t know yet that Stefi was dead. Maybe Kim knew. Sasha never asked her. The confusion of that day.
After she got home, after the funeral, the kitchen faucet broke and dripped relentlessly. Just a tiny drip. Pip, pip, pip. All night long as Sasha buried her head under a pillow, the dripping faucet gave way to the relentless sound of the ocean.
Gabor had gotten so drunk at the funeral that Sasha would not let him come home. She asked his former coworker to please look after her husband for the night, then pocketed Gabor’s keys. As the dripping faucet frayed what was left of her nerves, Sasha wanted to call Gabor to come home and fix it. She was hardly more logical than a drunk. She had to remind herself that Gabor wasn’t very good at fixing things. That he always broke things a little bit more before making any progress, often abandoning projects midway through—a drape of plastic sheeting a hole in the wall.
Me for You Page 16