“Melancholic Tulip,” he says.
“You like Kertész?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not particularly. I mean, he’s good. But I prefer Ansel Adams. I guess that makes me a cliché.”
“Ansel Adams is a wonderful photographer,” I say. I walk to the desk and fetch a clipboard from the top drawer. My notes are sparse, usually a single word, but they help me to recall my sessions. I go to the straight-backed chair and sit. “I have an Ansel Adams in my house.”
“Original?”
“Clearing Winter Storm,” I say, and he whistles.
“Nice.”
I wait a moment. Then, “Would you like to sit, or do you prefer to stand?”
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said in there.” He gestures toward the door. “About not believing in therapy.”
“This is a safe place, Sam. You’re free to say whatever you want to say. As long as you’re not verbally abusive.” I give him a grin. “I’m not easily offended. The fact that you’re here tells me you have, at least, some modicum of belief in therapy.”
“My parents went into therapy,” he says. “A month later, they filed for divorce, so, as you can imagine, I’m not a big fan.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask.
“I’m here because of Rachel.” He stares at me, a challenge.
I meet his stare. Samuel Davenport is a very handsome man, with dark-brown hair and brown eyes and a strong jaw. In the past twenty minutes, I have determined that this is a man who is used to being in control, who despises chaos, who has, for his entire life, had the world on a string because of his looks and charm. But the huge crevasse between his eyes betrays him. He never expected the horrible hand life dealt him, and he no longer knows how the world, how his world, is supposed to work.
“Your wife is in crisis.”
“I didn’t need to come here and spend whatever it is you’re charging me to know that!” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“I told you, Sam. I have a thick skin. I don’t want you to edit yourself. But in order for me to help you, and Rachel, I need you to . . . I need you to open yourself up to the possibility that this is a good thing. If you come into this guarded or doubtful or suspicious or without any faith at all, I won’t be able to help you. You’ve made a commitment to come here. For your wife, for your family, and whether you think so or not, that means you’re also here for yourself.”
His head drops to his chest. I watch as he takes a few deep breaths, in and out. His shoulders relax for the first time since he’s been here. He raises his head and looks around, as if seeing the space for the first time. Then he wanders to the easy chair closest to me and sits.
“Ruth thinks it’s my fault. I know she does. She’s probably right. I shouldn’t have given Rachel the bottle of pills. I just, I never thought she’d . . . I mean, she seemed coherent, and she seemed like she wanted to be in control. I thought that was a good sign.”
Samuel Davenport is omitting an important piece of information. I don’t know what it is, but I can tell by the expression on his face. He changes the subject, and I allow it.
“I love my family,” he says. “I loved Jonah.” He shakes his head. “I love Jonah.” I nod, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at his lap. “He’s my son, you know? He’ll always be my son. He was supposed to . . . he was . . . he was going to carry on my name. That sounds so stupid, doesn’t it?”
“No, Sam. That doesn’t sound stupid at all. A son to a father is a remarkable and unique relationship.”
“I love Eden just as much.”
“Of course you do. But a father’s relationship with his son is different than with his daughter. Just as a mother’s relationship with her daughter is different than with her son.”
He continues to stare at his lap. I look at the blank page in front of me; my pen is poised but remains motionless.
“Sam?” He raises his head, but his eyes don’t meet mine. He stares at a spot just past my head. “Tell me about Jonah.”
He smiles, a genuine smile. “Jonah was a great kid. Funny, you know? I mean, he was only five, but he had a great sense of humor for a five-year-old. He would come up with the canniest observations about things. Way beyond his years.” The crease in Sam’s forehead deepens. “I’m trying to think of an example—there were so many. But I can’t think of one. How can I not think of a single one?” He shakes his head. “He’d say this, whatever it was, and Rachel and I would look at each other, like, what the fuck? Excuse me, I’m sorry.”
“The f-word is permissible, Sam. No worries.”
“I can’t believe that I can’t give you a single example.”
“Tell me something else about him,” I say.
He thinks for a moment, then holds up his right hand. “He had really big hands, long fingers. Much bigger than other kids his age.” He drops his hand to his lap. “Rachel wanted him to take piano lessons. I thought sports, like football. I mean, I supported him taking piano lessons, but I really thought he’d be a great football player. Rachel hated the idea. She’d always remind me about football injuries and head trauma and that kind of thing.” He lowers his head again. “Now he’s never going to do either.”
“What else, Sam?”
Sam takes a deep breath, clears his throat, manages another smile. “He was curious about the world around him. He loved bugs. He didn’t have any fear of bugs, no matter what kind they were. He used to find them outside, or sometimes inside, and he’d go to his insect encyclopedia and look them up, and then he’d tell us all about them. He wouldn’t let Rachel kill a spider. He’d get a cup and trap it, then take it outside and release it. It used to drive her nuts.”
He is quiet for a moment, remembering. I let the silence stretch out until he gives me a questioning look.
“You said something earlier about wanting to move forward. What does that look like to you?”
“I don’t know. Forward. I want to move forward. I want to wake up in the morning and not have this be the first thing I think about. I want to get to the point where this whole terrible, horrible thing that happened isn’t the thing that defines me, to myself and to everyone around me.”
“That’s very well said, Sam.”
“But then I feel fucking guilty for even thinking that. Because it was my son, and I should think about it every waking minute of every day and it should define me because it’s my fau—” He stops himself, stands up suddenly, and crosses to the window.
I consider his words, and what he stopped himself from saying. That Jonah’s death was his fault. It’s common for parents to shoulder the burden of their child’s death, but I suspect there’s more to it. I want to dig deeper, but his posture tells me to tread carefully. I make a note to circle back another time.
“Were you home on the day of the accident, Sam?” He nods without turning around. “So you were there and saw Jonah, you watched as they took him in the ambulance. You were there at the hospital when they pronounced him.”
“Yes,” he says, almost angrily. “We were all there that day. Even Ruth. Why are you asking me this?”
“I know the memories of that day stand out for you right now. It’s important for you to allow yourself to think about Jonah as he was before, when he was alive and full of life. You need to keep those memories close; you need to celebrate the child who saved spiders and made keen observations and had a great sense of humor.”
“It hurts to remember him that way, knowing he’s gone.”
“But those things you cherish about him are the things that will pull you through your grief. Eventually. Have you and Rachel been able to talk about him, about the way he was before?”
He turns to face me. “Rachel and I haven’t been able to talk about anything.” Spots of color appear on his cheeks. “She’s been . . . she’s been in bad shape.”
“Do you feel that Rachel’s situation is keeping your family from moving forward?”
He lets out a sigh. “Yes.�
��
“Are you angry with her?” He doesn’t answer. “Remember, Sam. Safe place. You can say anything. There’s no judgment.”
“Bullshit. I’m sorry, Doctor, but there’s always judgment. You can pretend to be unbiased, but if I say that I’m angry with my wife for having a nervous breakdown after her son got killed, then you’re going to think I’m a bastard.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Sam—it only matters what you think. And by the way, I don’t think you’re a bastard. I think you have every right to be angry.”
He looks at me with an almost hopeful expression, then shakes his head ruefully. “I guess I just never expected this from her. I never expected her to fall apart. Rachel was the coolest girl I’d ever met. So enthusiastic about life. That’s where Jonah got it from. She was amazing. And now she won’t even get out of bed. And Eden, my God, poor Eden. It’s like Rachel’s forgotten she has another child. And then she goes and does what she did. I just . . . It’s just . . . I know things like this break up marriages. And she and I have things we need to work out. But we can’t do that unless she decides she wants to start living again.” He rubs his forehead with his hand. “Please help her. Please help all of us.”
He looks down at his feet and chuckles with little humor. “Listen to me. You’d think I really believed in this shit.”
“Maybe someday soon, you will,” I tell him.
“Maybe,” he says without enthusiasm. “Maybe I will.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
RUTH GLASS
“I’ve already been in therapy,” she says right off the bat. She sits on the couch, perched on the edge, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. “I know how this works.”
I smile. “That’s good.”
She offers the answer before I ask the question. “I had a difficult time after my husband left me.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“He left me for another woman,” she says. “Actually, he left me because I couldn’t give him children. He has three now. Children.”
“That must have been very difficult for you.”
She shrugs. “Not much I could do about it. Therapy helped. Helped me to realize it wasn’t my fault. That I’m not defective.”
“Of course you’re not,” I assure her, although I think she still bears the blame. She tells herself it’s not her fault, repeats what her therapist tells her—that she’s not defective—but she doesn’t really believe it.
“I haven’t seen Dr. Moore since Jonah, well, you know . . . I’ll probably go back to him at some point. But I felt it was important to be a part of this.” She gestures to me, to the room around her. “I’m the one who got them to come.” I smile noncommittally. She continues. “Anyway, I’m not here to talk about myself. I’m extremely worried about my sister.” She glances at the door. “Do you think they’re okay in there?”
“I asked my assistant to do some paperwork in the family room. She’ll keep an eye out.”
Ruth nods. “Thank you. I’m sure she’s fine. Eden was watching Cupcake Wars. She loves that show. We watch it together sometimes. Or Dancing with the Stars. That’s my favorite. During the commercials, Eden will get up and start dancing around the room.” She sniffs. “Well, she used to, anyway.”
“You love your niece very much,” I say, and Ruth smiles.
“I love them both. Eden and Jonah. I’m like their second mother. I mean, not that I’m even comparable to how Rachel is as a mom. Or how she was, before.”
“She was good with the children?”
“Oh, yes, she was wonderful. Very involved. She loved to play with them. Really play, not just make the motions. I’m not good at that kind of thing.” She sighs. “Which is probably why God didn’t want me to be a mother. I mean, I play with them, but it doesn’t come as naturally to me. I’m talking about myself again. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Ruth.”
“Rachel was a wonderful mother. I pray she will be again, for Eden’s sake. Eden needs her, now more than ever. I’m just not capable of filling Rachel’s shoes. I mean, I’m doing everything I can for all of them. I’m basically running the household, doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to do it.”
“The Davenports are very lucky to have you.”
“Oh, no, I’m not looking for praise. Anyone would do what I’m doing. Especially after what happened. Especially after what I . . .” She stops talking, and I watch her closely as she pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs at her eyes and nose. I wait for her to speak again. When she does, her voice is soft.
“Rachel wasn’t trying to kill herself. It’s important that you understand that.”
“Okay.”
“My sister would never do that.”
Except that she knowingly took a handful of prescription drugs. In my experience, that means she was definitely trying to end her life.
“And it’s my fault. I should never have left the pills with Sam. I shouldn’t have left at all, except that I had to go home. I needed my medication. You see, I suffer from fibromyalgia. But I left very strict instructions that Sam was not to give the bottle to her.”
“Because you were worried that she would take too many?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. But not on purpose. I just knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. Earlier that day, Rachel thought she . . .”
“Go on, Ruth.”
“My sister isn’t crazy, Dr. Meyers.”
“No one is saying Rachel is crazy.”
Ruth stares at me for a long moment. “She told me she saw Jonah, earlier that day. She said he was sitting on her bed. Obviously, she was hallucinating, but she swears it was real.”
I recall Dr. Lahey mentioning as much. I make a note on my clipboard, and Ruth gives me a nervous look.
“What are you writing? Am I allowed to ask?”
“Something I want to discuss with your sister. About seeing Jonah.”
Ruth is suddenly distressed. “She’ll be angry with me. That I told you.”
“She might be, yes,” I say. “But her well-being is more important than her anger toward you, wouldn’t you agree?”
She looks at her hands. “Of course. I just . . . I’m the only one she trusts right now.”
“She doesn’t trust Sam?”
She gives a bark of laughter, not a pleasant sound. “She can’t stand to be near him. Barely speaks to him, doesn’t look at him, won’t let him touch her. He sleeps on the couch downstairs, for goodness’ sake.”
Sam didn’t mention this to me. I make another note, but this time Ruth doesn’t question me about it, only nods with apparent satisfaction.
“I think she blames him for Jonah’s death,” she says then quickly adds, “not that it was his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” When she says this last, her eyes shimmer, and she dabs at them, soaking up the tears before they fall.
“Bad things happen. They just do.” She says it like a mantra, as though she is trying to convince herself.
“Yes, Ruth, they do.”
She doesn’t look at me, just gazes at the tissue she clutches. “They just do.”
TWENTY-NINE
EDEN DAVENPORT
“I wish Shadow was here.”
“Who’s Shadow?” I ask.
“My dog. He makes me feel safe.”
“You don’t feel safe here, Eden?”
She avoids the question. “Do you have a dog?”
I shake my head and smile. “I have a cat.”
She frowns. “You don’t like dogs?”
“No, I love dogs,” I tell her. “But I’m gone so much it wouldn’t be fair to have a dog. Cats are easier. They don’t require much attention. They pretty much do what they want.”
“What’s your cat’s name?”
“Cleopatra.”
“Queen of the Nile.”
“That’s right. She’s definitely the queen of the house.”
“If you would like to bring Shadow with you next time, that’s okay with me.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Is he potty trained?”
“Oh, yeah, for sure. He only pees and poops outside on the grass.”
“That’s good. Then he’s welcome.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “So, what color is your room at home?”
She scrunches up her nose in thought. “Well, two of the walls are yellow, and one of the walls has pink wallpaper with yellow and light-purple flowers on it, and the fourth wall isn’t really a wall, it’s my closet, and the doors are white.”
“That sounds like a lovely room.”
“It used to be, like, all white, but then when I turned nine, my mom said I could decorate it however I wanted. I got to pick the paint colors and the wallpaper. And my mom painted it and put up the wallpaper all by herself.”
“All by herself?”
“Well, I helped a little, but mostly she did it herself. She did Jonah’s room, too. He was only three, so he couldn’t pick out his own colors or anything, but Mom got blue paint and used some of the yellow paint from my room and put up this really cool border that has LEGO Star Wars pictures on it.”
“Wow. She sounds like a really cool mom, huh?”
The corners of her mouth turn down. “She was.”
“She was?” I repeat. Eden purses her lips but says nothing. “She’s not cool anymore?”
The girl remains silent. Such a pretty thing, with freckles on her cheeks and nose and bright-blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair just like her mother’s.
“Eden?”
She lets out a breath. “If you can’t say something nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”
“You know, that’s true. But in here, it’s a little different. In here, we get to say whatever we want to say, even if it doesn’t sound nice. And the things you say won’t hurt anyone, because you’re only saying them to me, and maybe what you tell me can help me help your family to get better. Does that make sense?”
She nods. “I want my family to get better. I want my mom to get better. I want her to be like she was before. But I know she never will be.”
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