“I tripped—flat on my face.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I bruised my chin,” she said, reaching up to point at the spot, “but I destroyed my self-esteem. And my credibility with my family was … damaged.”
“And that’s all?”
“I tripped and fell, isn’t that enough?”
The therapist rolled the pencil between her left thumb and forefinger for a few seconds. “Sandy, people usually don’t come to see me because they’re clumsy.”
Sandy re-crossed her legs and looked away. Steve has probably told this woman everything that has happened in our marriage recently….
“We were at an event at Huskie Stadium with friends. I became upset and ran out.”
“What upset you enough to make you do that?”
“I thought I saw my father.”
“Did you?”
“He’s dead.”
“So you didn’t see him?”
“What do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” Sandy remained silent and studied her hands. Now it was the therapist’s turn to twist in her seat to become more comfortable. “You were kind enough to allow me to speak with Steve before our session.”
Sandy lifted her gaze to meet the therapist’s eyes and nodded.
“Tell me about Sam.”
Sandy’s eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed, and a smirk formed on the corners of her mouth, which refused to speak.
“Your husband shared with me that you often have a daily visitor at your father’s barn. And his name is Sam.” Fifteen seconds of silence ticked past. “Is your husband misinformed?” More silence.
“Do you hear voices?”
“Just yours.”
“Do you hear voices when you’re in your father’s barn?”
Silence. But the tears rolling down her cheeks spoke volumes.
“Sandy,” began the therapist, “I want to talk with you about depression.”
Chapter 19
“Slept in today, huh?” Sam asked from his familiar position on his chair when Sandy walked in the next morning.
“Why is it I never see you come in?” Sandy responded more curtly than she had intended. “And how did you get in? You don’t have a key.”
“Well good morning,” he said with his usual warm smile. “You left the door unlocked yesterday.”
Sandy thought a moment. “Actually, I’m sure I did not. But what about my first question? You’re not here, then you are here. I never see you come in or actually … leave. I never see you around town—or anywhere—but here.” She put down her small blue cooler with her drinks and a sandwich next to the front wall of the barn and turned back to face him, arms folded across her chest.
“The same could be said of you, Sandy,” replied Sam, stretching out his full length on the chair before hooking his hands above his head. “You’re either here or you’re not, right? It’s a matter of perception and, what, physics?”
“You’re mocking me and I have no tolerance for it today,” she snapped.
“No, I’m not. You weren’t here this morning. I was just wondering where you were.”
How much do I share with him? “If you must know,” she replied slowly, “I was seeing a shrink.”
“A what?”
“I think you heard me. I’m seeing a head doctor!”
“Why?”
“I had a little too much to drink a few nights ago and I embarrassed myself.”
“Do people see a head doctor because they had a few too many?”
“She asked if I hear voices.” When Sam didn’t respond, she continued. “Maybe I’m mentally ill … or at least someone seems to think I might be.”
“Seeing a ‘head doctor,’ as you call it, doesn’t mean you’re mentally ill,” cautioned Sam.
“You only see an M.D. if you’re physically ill, or think you might be sick. Or maybe you’re getting a check-up to make sure you’re not sick,” she explained. “So if I’m seeing a psychologist, I assume it’s because I’m emotionally or mentally sick—or someone thinks I am.”
“And who might this someone be?”
“I guess that someone is Steve,” admitted Sandy. “Tracey thinks I need to ‘speak with someone,’ too. And you know what else?” she continued. “Steve thinks I’m depressed and seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Things?” Sam lowered his hands to his thighs.
“People,” she said. “Believe it or not, he thinks I’m seeing people. Actually, that isn’t quite right. He thinks I’m imagining or inventing a person, you know, in my head.”
Sam scrunched his brow as if in thought. “And who might that be, Sandy?”
“I think we both know the answer to that question.”
Sam didn’t move a muscle or change his demeanor in any way. “What do you think?” he asked softly.
Sandy chewed on the inside of her mouth a moment before answering. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“Do you see me now?”
“Stop it. You know what I mean.” She lowered her voice. “Do you think I am depressed?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Well do you?” she insisted. “That’s the question of the day, isn’t it? I mean, look at a quick rundown of my life. I’m not happy I’m spending my vacation cleaning this barn. No, I don’t think I’m paralyzed by sadness or doom. Yes, I wish certain aspects of my life were different, but that’s life and who doesn’t?” she asked, her hands turned up as if pleading her case. “And I don’t have trouble getting out of bed in the morning—”
“What about your dad?” interjected Sam. “And the matches?”
Sandy stared at him for a few seconds. “Yes, I’m angry at my dead father. No, I’m not planning to take my life, although there are moments where that option seems, or seemed,” she corrected herself, “appealing.”
“I’m assuming these are all questions your shrink asked?”
“Don’t call her my shrink!” she shot back. “I don’t like giving up my summers for this,” she continued, gesturing into the depths of the barn, “I’m not crazy, and I’m not depressed. I’m fine. Life is what it is.”
“Life is what we make of it,” offered Sam.
“Sounds like a lot of positive mumbo jumbo to me,” she scoffed.
Sam stood and walked a few steps to a rafter, grabbed it with both hands, and hung for several seconds before letting go. “Most people travel through life focusing on the negative,” he said. “What they don’t have, or don’t own or possess, depresses them. All the failures they think they have endured seem to pile up and life becomes more of a burden. Unhappy or envious people are rarely grateful for their successes or their blessings. Those who expect the worst, usually get it.”
“Right,” she shot back. “Look at what is all around us on the earth: Disease, famine, abject poverty, sadness, death. It’s all unavoidable.”
“There will always be sickness and disease,” continued Sam. “The poor will always be with us. But, we don’t have to give in to it and accept it as our own reality. There is also good health, food in abundance, wealth, and happiness. What you look for, you usually find.” He scratched his chin. “Who’s your happiest student?”
“What’s that have to do with this?” she asked. “Tyler Williams.”
“So his family is successful and wealthy.”
She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He comes from a broken home and is being raised by a single mom. He rarely has lunch money.”
“How does he eat?”
“I try to make sure he always has enough money for lunch.”
“And for shoes?”
“How do you know that?” asked a surprised Sandy.
Sam smiled. “Small town. So Tyler has to rely on the generosity of others and he’s the happiest student in school?”
Sandy thought for a moment. “Yes.”
“Maybe Tyler chooses to be happy,” offered Sam.
&n
bsp; “Or maybe he just doesn’t know any better,” countered Sandy. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m just sharing my thoughts on the importance of believing in the best.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are some things in life beyond our control. We can’t control the weather, for instance, and we can’t control the actions of others.”
“Well then we agree,” announced Sandy. “We have little or no control over life.”
“No, we don’t agree. You’re missing the point entirely.”
Sandy sighed. “Then what is your point?” she demanded, placing her hands on her hips while she tossed her hair over her left shoulder. “Sam, I’ve had it rough lately, and my patience is wearing thin.”
“You can’t control the actions of others,” he said gravely. “But you can control how you react to what others do to you. I am talking about your attitude and your effort, Sandy. Be optimistic and work hard. Look for the best and you’ll often find it. Work for the best, and you’ll often get it.”
Sandy offered a small smile. “My father used to say something like that. Of course,” she added, sweeping one of her hands in the air to indicate the extent of the garbage littering the barn, “no one left him with all this crap, a tax lien, and a wasted summer.”
“True enough,” replied Sam. “But your father had a saying like that because he was an encourager.”
“He was anything but,” shot back Sandy. “You didn’t know him.”
Sam shrugged. “I think he was an encourager.”
“What could possibly make you think that? You never met him. You know nothing about him.”
“He never encouraged you or others?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, maybe. When I was young and growing up.”
“Did he change?”
“Can’t you see?” she asked. “Look around.”
“I think maybe you should look around, Sandy. I think you’re confusing this barn with your father. They’re not one and the same.
“Of course a barn is not a man!” she scoffed. “What are you talking about?”
“Clean up his building as you are,” he suggested, “but while you are at it, look for the man. Look beyond the building.”
Sandy shook her head and sighed. “You talk like a therapist, you know?” she asked. “Two shrinks in one day are more than I can handle. I think what I really should do is get back to work.” Look beyond the building. Look for the man. “Wait. What are you trying to tell me?
Sam spoke more slowly. “Look … beyond … the … building. Do you see the man? Look for the man …”
Sandy stared at him, trying to understand, and then turned toward the waiting stacks of boxes.
“Lots of leaves, Sandy. Boxes and boxes of leaves.”
Sandy pulled down an oblong box about three feet long and nearly as wide. Something about it felt different. Dropping it onto the dirty concrete floor, she pulled her box cutter from the back pocket of her jeans, bent over, and quickly opened the top flaps. The odor of decomposing leaves and general rot rose up to greet her. As she did with all the boxes, she used her gloved hands to dig into the content to make sure there was nothing else inside. This time, however, her right hand hit something solid.
Sandy froze.
She kept her right hand in place and dragged her left hand through the contents to discover the same thing. There was something else in the box. Something solid. “Well, I might be imagining lots of things,” she joked with herself, “but my hands aren’t.” Sandy brushed aside several inches of leaves and withdrew what at first glance appeared to be a faded white and brown photo album. In fact, it was a scrapbook. Something tugged at her memory, a faint shimmer of recollection.
Dropping to her knees, Sandy pulled off her gloves and ran her fingertips across the old musty cover. She slowly opened the front cover with one hand while the other supported the weak hinge that looked as though it was ready to fall part. A wave of familiarity washed over.
My Leaf Collection, by Sandy Loucks,
Fourth Grade, Walton Center Grade School
“Oh my,” she sighed as she flipped slowly through the pages of pressed leaves and scrollings of a child long since gone.
It was autumn.
A wave of warm recollections nearly overwhelmed her.
A Saturday morning. The air was cold and crisp.
Her father was so excited when he learned about her project. He drove her to the woods to help collect the leaves.
Reds. Oranges. Yellows. Browns. So vivid she could see them still. “Dad put me on his shoulders so I could reach the leaves and pick them.”
And then her right hand flew to her mouth in shock when she read the last line she had written, on the last page of the scrapbook: “Someday I will have the largest leaf collection in the whole wide world!”
She read the line over and over as its real meaning slowly dawned upon her.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed as she slowly stood and looked around her father’s barn as if seeing it for the first time. Her eyes came to rest on the giant piles of leaves in the front of the building, dumped from hundreds of boxes and bags.
He was saving them for me.
“My God, it wasn’t him at all. It was me.”
She pulled the scrapbook to her chest, sat back down, and wept.
Chapter 20
“I’m pleased to see you,” smiled the therapist, shaking Sandy’s hand and guiding her inside her office. She closed the door gently behind her and motioned for her take a seat on the sofa. “I thought our first session might be our last,” she explained as she leaned back in her own chair facing Sandy.
“I almost didn’t come back,” she admitted, plucking absentmindedly at a shirt sleeve. “But I have been doing a lot of thinking—about my father. I would like to talk about him.”
The therapist nodded, wrote something on her notepad, and then sighed. “Sandy, before we go any further, are you aware that I knew your father?”
Sandy’s eyebrows shot upward. “You did?”
“Yes. I work part-time for the Veterans Administration. One day a week I see veterans.”
“Oh.”
“Under normal circumstances, the doctor-patient privilege does not allow me to discuss anything with you. This is generally true even though your father has passed away. However, shortly before your father died, he handed me a letter,” she continued, lifting an envelope off the desk for Sandy to see before setting it down again. “I will make a copy for you. It is only one short paragraph that says after his death, I could talk about anything he had to say to me with either Dorothy—his wife, of course—and you.”
Sandy offered a puzzled look. “I don’t understand.”
“Frankly, I don’t fully understand either,” replied the therapist. “But he knew enough to waive the doctor-patient privilege.”
“Sandy shook her head. “How could he know I—or my mom—would be here talking with you?”
“That I can’t tell you either,” she replied, “but it’s a small town. There are only two of us here.”
Outwardly Sandy remained calm and silent, but inside her mind was racing. Tom Loucks had seen a psychologist?
“The VA encouraged your dad to see me after he was arrested for striking a health department official. I’m sure you remember the event. It made national news, I believe.”
“Why are you telling me this,” asked Sandy.
“I think understanding his condition may help you better understand yourself.” She paused to write a few things on her pad. “How much do you know your dad’s military service?”
Sandy shook her head. “Not a thing. He never talked about it.”
“I’m not surprised. The World War II vets are a tough bunch. Their war has been glamorized by Hollywood, but reality was altogether different. What those vets saw, what they did, what they endured … affected their lives in ways most of them—or most of us—never fully understood.”
>
The therapist lifted her reading glasses, placed them on her nose, opened a manila folder, and studied its contents for several seconds. “Your dad shipped overseas in 1942 and didn’t return until the war was over in 1945,” she continued. “He didn’t see home in three years. Generally speaking, back then you served and fought until the war ended. That was tough on everyone.” She flipped another page inside the folder. “Their problems were compounded because most of them refused to talk much about their experiences, even with their families.” She paused. “Especially their families. They were products of the Great Depression, hardship, hunger, and being stoic was simply the culture of their generation. As President Kennedy said they were ‘born into the great depression, tempered by war.’”
Sandy didn’t realize she had leaned forward as if to better hear and understand every word. “I never really thought about any of this.”
“He served with the First Infantry Division—‘The Big Red One.’ Does that name mean anything to you?” she asked. When Sandy shook her head, the therapist added, “It is one of the most famous fighting divisions in the history of America.”
“Your dad landed in Algeria on November 8, 1942, as part of Operation Torch,” she continued. “He was wounded there, in North Africa, and again in the invasion of Sicily the following July. He saw a lot of action, Sandy. Hard, close, face-to-face, hand grenade-throwing combat. You’ve seen the movies. You’ve seen the stories on the news, watched the history specials.”
Sandy offered a vigorous nod. “It’s very hard to think about. I can’t even picture my dad doing any of that.”
“But he did. Your father’s experiences were horrific, Sandy. After being wounded twice in two campaigns,” she continued, “he returned to England with the division to prepare for the invasion of France. He was in the first wave at D-Day on Omaha Beach.” She watched as Sandy’s mouth slowly fell open. “He survived that horrible day, but about one of every three men around him was killed or wounded. Your dad went on to fight across France to the German border by September, saw more terrible fighting that fall, and then nearly six weeks more in the Battle of the Bulge, often in freezing weather. He crossed the Rhine into Germany at Remagen, and ended the war in Czechoslovakia.”
The Final Service Page 11