I leave his door open so that he can see the hall light if he wakes up, then I wander back downstairs. Shadow lies on his bed in the living room. His head is down, but he’s wide-awake and gazing at the front door.
“It’s okay, boy,” I tell him, and his ears flop toward me. “Daddy will be home soon.” I hope.
I take a minute to straighten the pillows on the couch, then shuffle into the kitchen. I check my phone to see whether or not Ruth has texted—she usually does to let me know she got home safely. There’s a text from her: Safe and sound. Thanks for tonight. See you in the morning.
There’s also a text from Sam: On my way. Home soon. Need anything? xxoo.
A sigh escapes me. I reread the message and feel my shoulders loosen for the first time since this morning. Sam’s text is the usual, nothing extraordinary about it. And its ordinariness gives me relief. Everything’s fine. Sam is fine. Sam is Sam, green eggs and ham. Maybe he’s a little stressed about work or his upcoming birthday or . . . whatever. But he’s okay. We’re okay.
I send him a quick response. Don’t need anything but you. xxoo
I’ve probably been paranoid these past few weeks, reading into every little thing he does, every one of his gestures, every word out of his mouth. With that kind of scrutiny, how could I not suspect something was going on? Our lives shift daily. Our moods, our outlooks. Mine do, for sure. If Sam looked a little too closely at me for a little too long, he might think I was schizophrenic. I don’t share with him all of the thoughts and feelings I have over the course of the day, how some mornings I wake up worried about my sagging boobs and widening ass, or obsessing about the trash island in the South Pacific, or wondering whether or not one of my children will turn out to be transgender. Sam doesn’t need to know these things, nor do I need to know every little thought or concern or dilemma he’s having every moment of every day.
As I move through the downstairs and turn off most of the lights, I make a decision to stop looking too closely at Sam and just be here for him when and if he needs me. He always comes to me when it’s important. Always.
“Good night, boy.” I pat Shadow on the head, then check to make sure the porch light is on, even though I know it is. I cross to the stairs and head up.
I get ready for bed, then put on my favorite cotton nightie, mint green with little blue daisies. It’s a bit old-lady-ish, but Sam swears he thinks it’s sexy on me. I pull back the covers and climb into bed, then reach for the novel on my nightstand.
For a few minutes, I just stare at the book cover and think about Ruth and her date tomorrow night. I send up a quick prayer that she has a good time with her neighbor. What I told her was true. She deserves to be happy. She deserves the attention of a nice man. It would also be nice not to have to worry about her as much as I do.
I open the novel to my bookmark and start to read. As much as I want to be awake when Sam gets home, I can barely keep my eyes open. How pathetic! I think with a laugh. In bed and exhausted by nine fifteen on a Friday night.
I suppress a yawn only to give in to another. I try to focus on the page, even though I doubt I’ll get to the end of the chapter. Still, I make a valiant effort.
I don’t want to waste the nightie.
FIFTY-FOUR
RUTH
I go about my nightly ablutions with the same enthusiasm as always, only tonight, I’m actually hoping the wrinkle erase and the firming cream and the whitening toothpaste will do their jobs. Laughable, really. I know in the morning I will look exactly the same as I do now.
I bend down and peer into the small four-times magnifying mirror on the vanity and inspect my eyebrows. I haven’t tweezed them in far too long, and I am starting to resemble Frida Kahlo. I decide to wait until just before my date tomorrow night so I won’t be surprised by any last-minute hair eruptions that might occur between now and then.
My date tomorrow night. My stomach tightens, although I’m not sure if I’m feeling dread or anticipation. Probably both.
I stand and look at my reflection, and for a brief moment, I wonder how Judd sees me, how he will look at me tomorrow night. I hope his lighting is soft. I’m not being negative, just practical. I am a middle-aged woman. Not unattractive. But not twenty-five.
The hair dye will help. I always feel better, younger, when the gray is banished.
Rachel thinks I close myself off, and she’s right. She also thinks that I don’t care what I look like, that I don’t put more than the most minimal effort into my appearance. But she’s wrong on that score. If she took a minute to investigate the creams and toners and lotions I’ve accumulated, if she saw the amount of money I’ve spent on these products, she’d realize her mistake.
I let my roots grow out and I forget to pluck my brows, and I wear comfortable clothing as opposed to stylish and flirty. Because I haven’t been interested in drawing attention to myself, especially from members of the opposite sex. But I’ve always known, at some point, that would change. Hoped, anyway. Hoped there would come a time when my grief over Charlie would reduce itself to a more manageable emotion, and I would get past my persecution of the entire male population if only to have the companionship and comfort that all human beings crave. To stave off the ever-present loneliness. It hasn’t happened yet, but I still cling to the idea, in the deepest corner of my heart where no one else can see it.
Thus the skin products and nightly regimen.
I don my flannel pajamas and sit down on my bed and turn on the little thirteen-inch TV on my dresser. My bedroom is small enough that I can touch the dresser from the end of my bed, but I don’t mind much. If the room were larger, the TV would be farther away, and I wouldn’t be able to see it.
As I surf through channels, my thoughts settle on Judd. I won’t get my hopes up. But I will allow myself to look forward to our date. For eighteen months, I’ve been living a kind of half life, unable or unwilling to look to the future with optimism. Whether or not the evening goes well, I must change my perspective. I must stop going to the park. I must stop obsessing over Charlie and his wife and children. I need to let go of him, wish him well, accept the fact that he has a new life and let him live it. And I need to live mine.
Perhaps tomorrow will be the beginning of a new chapter for me. A new and exciting adventure.
Perhaps after tomorrow, my nephew will no longer see me as his lonely old aunt who needs a stuffed monkey to keep her company.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
FIFTY-FIVE
SHADOW
I hear my master’s car outside, and my tail thumps against my bed. His footsteps get louder until I can smell him by the front door. I stand up and step off my bed, and my nails make a clack on the floor. I stretch my legs forward, then I shake myself and my collar jingles. The front door opens and I see my master, and my tail wags faster and faster and thumps against the wall. I am happy to see him and also happy that all my humans are home where I can protect them and keep them safe.
The smell on my master is strange and strong and feels funny in my nose. It smells like something I know, something food-smelling and sweet, but I know if I tasted it, it would burn my mouth. The smell makes me sneeze.
My master seems tired, but he makes a small happy face at me and scratches my neck, but not for very long. He says my name and calls me a Good Boy, then walks past me to the stairs.
He looks up to the second floor, where I’m not allowed, stands there for I don’t know how long, but for longer than he scratched my neck. He turns his head like he’s listening, so I listen, too, but all I hear are my sleeping humans.
My master turns back around and makes a frown face, then sniffs his jacket. He can smell that strange smell—not like I can, because dogs’ noses are better than human noses, but I can tell my master doesn’t like that smell. He takes his jacket off and carries it down the hall, then comes back without the jacket. He walks to the food-smelling room, and I follow him so he’ll give me a treat, but he doesn’t. He goes to the sink and
washes his hands, then splashes water on his face.
I can still smell the strange smell from the jacket down the hall, but it’s much less, and my master barely smells like it at all now. I want a treat, so I let out a whine and a small bark.
“Quiet, Shadow,” my master says, and I know I’m not supposed to bark when my humans are sleeping, but I really want a treat. I feel a whine in the back of my throat and try to stop it. My master looks at me and smiles, then gets a treat for me and tosses it in the air. I jump up and snap my jaws around it before my paws hit the floor. I hold the treat in my mouth and take it to the bed and start to eat it.
My master goes to the big cold box and opens the door and brings out a bottle. He pulls the top off and drinks from it. I watch him walk slowly to the table and sit down, and I know better than to go to his feet and beg because he doesn’t have anything that I would like.
He drinks from the bottle again, then sets it down. He rests his arms on the table, with his hands up by his face. He rubs his face with his hands, harder than when he pets me, then stares at the kitchen door. I hear him breathe very big and long, and the air whooshes out of him. He makes a happy face, then finishes the liquid from the bottle. He stands up and sets the bottle next to the sink, then walks out of the food-smelling room.
I get up as fast as I can and follow him to the stairs. He looks down at me, then sits on the stairs and gives me a few good scratches and belly rubs, even tickles me until my leg starts moving all by itself, just like it did when my mistress petted me. He tells me Good Boy again, and I see and smell happy on my master.
He tells me, “Good night, Shadow,” and I know this means that I won’t see my humans until the sky is light again. But that’s okay, because I can still hear them and smell them, even from down here. My master goes up the stairs. I watch him until I can’t see him anymore. Then I go to my couch-room bed. I don’t lie down, because a smell just came to my nose. The smell that makes me whine and bark, but I don’t because I don’t want to wake up my humans.
I walk over to the window and sneak my nose through the fabric, then sniff. I look through the glass, but there’s only darkness. I can’t see anything.
But I know the cat is there. I can smell it.
PART FOUR: ANOTHER DAY WITH DR. MEYERS
FIFTY-SIX
MADDIE
I’ve seen the Davenport family twice a week for the past two weeks, and we’ve come to an impasse. Grief counseling can be a long process, and as a therapist, I must be patient. But something about the Davenport family’s plight has captured my imagination and caused me to become nearly obsessed with them. Since getting my PhD and setting up my practice, I’ve always been aware of the dangers of getting too close to a patient or to a specific situation. It colors the therapist’s judgment and devaluates their treatment. But the truth is, I can’t help myself.
Every night over the past two weeks, I have removed the photograph of Jonah Davenport from the file and allowed myself to gaze at it for long moments. I’m not sure exactly why I do this. Perhaps I see in him the child I decided not to have, although his coloring is a little too light to be sprung from my loins, even with Peter’s donation.
Jonah Davenport has become real to me, this child. Alive. He has begun to haunt my dreams. When I close my eyes, I see him running across my lawn, chasing a bug, his dark curls bouncing about his neck, his laughter floating through the air.
I like this family. It is not my job to like or dislike my patients. My job is to help them. These are good people. Not perfect, but good. I feel their goodness instinctually, and I want them to get past their grief so they can go on to live fulfilling lives and spread their warmth and generosity and kindness to others. Like most of my patients, each member of this family has the ability to have a positive impact on the world around them, whether they know it or not.
Yet each of them is paralyzed by his or her guilt, unable to break free and move forward. I have not been able to get to the root of their guilt. I have not been able to coax any clear admission from any of them. They hold tight to their own roles, or supposed roles, in Jonah’s death.
My next appointment with them is tomorrow morning.
After a light meal of leftover poached salmon and asparagus, I run myself a bath, take one hit from the joint I rolled a few nights ago, then soak for thirty minutes. I try to think of anything but the Davenports. I try to think of nothing. It doesn’t work.
I wrap myself in my terry-cloth robe, then carry my iPad to the bed and make myself comfy. I check the clock on the nightstand, then open the FaceTime app and call Peter. He answers immediately, as if he’s been waiting for my call. He looks tired.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says.
“Back at you,” I tell him. “Long day?”
“Definitely earned my paycheck today.” He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s up? You have that look.”
My husband knows me well. Even through the screen, he is able to sense my mood. I love that about him—most of the time, anyway.
I tell him about the Davenports. I am discreet, only giving him the broad strokes, no names, and although he is exhausted, he listens quietly and patiently before offering me his objective advice.
“Have you spoken with them about the day it happened?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“I’ve tried. I’ve brought it up to each of them and introduced the subject to them as a group, but they resist. I haven’t wanted to push. It’s all about building trust right now.”
“And do you feel you’ve done that? Built trust?”
“With the daughter, yes. The wife doesn’t seem to trust anyone. The husband is trying, and the sister . . . well, she trusts me, I think.”
I stare at my husband’s image on the iPad. Peter’s face is smaller than in real life, but just as handsome. His blue-eyed gaze is direct. “If this initial part of therapy is about building trust, why are you pushing for revelations?”
I don’t tell him about my latest dream, in which Jonah Davenport came to me. I don’t tell him that a dead little boy implored me to help—and fast. Those were his words. You gotta help ’em, and fast. My husband is a numbers man, left-brained, practical to a fault. An atheist, as opposed to my fence-sitting agnosticism. He wouldn’t understand. He would tell me my dreams are a projection of my desire to help the family. He’d be right. And yet, they feel more like visions, as though if I were to awaken, Jonah would be sitting beside me on my bed. His ghost.
“I just . . . If they don’t get past the guilt, they won’t be able to fully grieve and let their loved one rest. The longer they carry it, the more likely it is to destroy them. The family unit is in a precarious position at best. Every day is like a ticking clock counting down to an atomic bomb that will blow them apart.”
“Hmm.” He considers my words for a moment. Then, “Well, my love, your only option is to press the issue. Make them talk about that day.”
I release a pent-up breath. His words mirror my own conclusion. “It could be too soon.”
“Better than too late,” he says.
I nod. “I miss you, tonight especially.”
“I miss you, too. I trust Cleopatra is keeping you company.” He grins at me, knowing how fickle our cat is. Then he grows serious again. “Look, Mads. Your instincts and your compassion are two of the qualities that make you extraordinary at what you do. Use them. They won’t let you down.”
Our conversation shifts focus, and he tells me about his day. I force myself to listen actively, as he did for me. It’s difficult, as my thoughts are elsewhere, but I manage. When he’s finished with his story, I ask him if he would like to partake in a little FaceTime naughtiness, but my offer is more obligatory than sincere. If he wants to, I will, and I will enjoy it—it actually might help take my mind off the Davenports for fifteen minutes. But I’m relieved when he begs off.
“Sorry, darling. I don’t have the energy tonight. Mind if we save our strength for the weekend?”
Cleopatra wanders in from the hall, languidly walks across the floor, and comes to a stop a few feet from my side of the bed. She sits back on her haunches and regards me with wary green eyes. She cocks her head and seems to stare at the nightstand, then returns her gaze to me.
On the nights Peter is away, Cleopatra sleeps with me. She jumps onto the end of the bed and makes a show of ignoring me, paws the comforter, then collapses into a fluffy white ball and falls asleep. Over the course of the night, she worms her way ever closer to me and ends up curling into the crook of my neck and staying there until I awaken in the morning.
From the first night I dreamed about Jonah Davenport, and for all subsequent nights, she has stayed away, preferring a perch on the couch or the easy chair in the living room. My rational brain knows this is only coincidence. Of course it is. Any other supposition would be ridiculous.
My junior year in college I took a parapsychology course as an elective. Ghosts and apparitions, demonic possessions and other unexplained phenomena. I’d listened politely to the professor, whose mismatched, obnoxiously colorful fashion choices were another unexplained phenomenon. He was very passionate about the subject. He was a believer.
I did well in class, but I was not swayed. Quite the opposite. With each sighting or fantastical occurrence, I psychologically analyzed those persons involved with the experience. Asked questions. Why does this granny need to see the ghost of a young Victorian girl in her garden? Why did that teenager need to see inexplicable lights in the sky? What suppressed torments did this prepubescent girl endure that she felt she must conjure a demon to overtake her?
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