And Give You Peace

by Jessica Treadway

  I nodded, wondering how he could be so sure. I imagined my father saying, “Justine is the pretty one,” and the vision caused a new clench at the back of my throat.

  “And I’m sorry he killed himself,” Dr. Zeldin continued. “I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t see it coming. I’m good at what I do; I’d like you to believe that.” He waited until I let out a slight nod, though I resented being asked to give him this affirmation. Whether he was a good psychiatrist was, for me, beside the point by now.

  “Why did he come to see you?”

  “Well, I can’t tell you everything, of course. But I believe he called initially because of your parents’ pending divorce. I believed he thought it might make a difference in whether it went through or not.”

  “And you couldn’t tell how much trouble he was in?”

  The doctor shifted slightly in his big chair. “I would say that your father presented as fairly stable, if a bit anxious. At least at the beginning.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I recommended medication, but he didn’t want to take any.”

  “You mean for depression?”

  “Some for depression, but mostly—what was a worse problem for him, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you—were the obsessions that plagued him, throughout his life.”

  I nodded again and looked down at the floor as I spoke. “He never talked about it much. We never called it ‘obsession.’ My mother always said it would embarrass him if we brought it up, so mostly we tried to ignore it.”

  Now Dr. Zeldin knitted his fingers and made a humming sound. I wondered if this meant he was rendering some kind of judgment about the way our family had treated my father. Did he think we should have done things differently? Did he think it was our fault that our father and Meggy were dead?

  But all he said was, “It’s very sad. It used to be that people had to suffer. They had no choice—there was no way to alleviate it—but these days there are new treatments for people like your father. Some of them respond beautifully to the new drugs and go on to have normal lives. But your father seemed distrustful of medication. I couldn’t convince him even to try.”

  “What were the obsessions about? I mean, at the end?”

  He cleared his throat, shifted again before answering. “I wish I could help you,” he said, looking off to the side of me as if reading responses from cue cards. “And I will, as much as I can. But there’s confidentiality to consider. I feel comfortable confirming that your father was having obsessive thoughts near the end of his life. But I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss their nature with you.”

  Was it a smile I saw at his lips as he told me this? In the moment I thought so, I wanted to leap across the space between us and claw the beard off his face. But the moment passed and I convinced myself that the smile had, in fact, been a wince.

  “Well, what can you tell me?” I said.

  He hesitated. “Maybe it would be best if you asked me specific questions, and I’ll determine on a case-by-case basis what I can say.”

  So it was a game, after all. Of course, he would win if he wanted to, but I wouldn’t give up yet. “All I know is that he left a note, which my sister and I never saw. My mother won’t tell us what was in it; she says she never read it, but we don’t believe her.” I was amazed to feel a drop of sweat roll down from my temple, and I slapped it away before I thought he could see. “And there were some pages ripped out of Meggy’s diary. Either she ripped them out because she was afraid someone would see them, or—my father did.”

  Dr. Zeldin remained silent.

  “Can you tell me if any of that means anything to you?”

  He said, slowly, “I don’t know what was in the note.”

  “But do you have any idea why he did it?”

  Again the throat-clearing. “I couldn’t be sure.” He hesitated. “Have you talked to the boy yet?”

  “What boy?”

  “The one across the street.”

  “Matt?”

  “That sounds right.” He nodded.

  “What for?”

  The doctor shrugged; that was all he would give me. “He and Meggy were friends, yes? Maybe he can help you.”

  “I don’t know why you’d think that.” And yet I realized as I spoke that the picture of Matt Lonergan at the pool, the day my father and Meggy died, had insinuated itself forcefully among my impressions of that day. Although I hated the doctor for having come up with this idea when I hadn’t, I tried to keep the feeling out of my voice.

  “What do you think he knows?” I asked.

  He shrugged again. “I don’t even know that he does.”

  “Goddammit.” I didn’t mean for this to slip out, but he didn’t seem surprised. “What am I even here for? You won’t tell me a goddam thing.”

  “I can tell you,” Dr. Zeldin said, choosing his words from the air again, “that if your father could have helped it, he wouldn’t have hurt any of you. He loved you all very much.”

  “Jesus.” My leg jerked a couple of inches off the floor. “I know that.”

  He raised his chin, and I sensed that he was affronted. “Your father suffered from this disorder for a long time,” he said. “I gather there was some car-burning incident that goes back quite a number of years?”

  “He was that way when he was a kid,” I told him, remembering Rosemary’s jump-rope story.

  “All the more reason, then. Somehow, he was able to control it enough to get married, have children, work at jobs.” The doctor leaned forward as if confiding in me. “He must have constructed a very careful grid in his mind that allowed him to do all these things, without letting the obsessions interfere.”

  “Oh, they interfered,” I said.

  “Perhaps, but he still managed to hold it together. Somehow he was able to keep them separate, at least most of the time, from his family life. Then something happened to make the grid fall apart. My guess is that it was your mother leaving.” The doctor leaned back and sighed. “When obsessions have people in their grip,” he said, “it can feel intolerable, and it’s not uncommon for patients to consider suicide as a way out.”

  “But then why kill Meggy too?”

  His mouth made a little moue of regret. “That I’m not sure about. I can tell you that he believed she was in some kind of danger. I only realized after the fact that it was from him, but he probably never saw it that way.”

  Suddenly I remembered that it wasn’t Clarissa Dalloway who captured my father’s attention in Virginia Woolf’s book; it was the character of the war veteran, Septimus, who ended up impaling himself on a fence spike rather than be captured by the doctor who was coming to get him. Once you stumble, Septimus wrote, human nature is upon you.

  But my father wasn’t afraid of other people. It was his own nature that tormented him.

  Dr. Zeldin said, “What else would you like to ask?” Although I’m sure he didn’t intend for me to notice, I saw him sneak a glance at his watch.

  “Did you know he had a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Where do you think it came from?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

  “Why—” I had to stop and swallow before I could get the next words out, “why do you think he shot her in the head?”

  “Well.” The doctor rubbed his thumb and index finger together, as if trying to start a spark. “My guess would be that he wanted it over quickly. That he didn’t want her to suffer.” He seemed to hesitate before adding, “And that he wanted to—make sure of the outcome.”

  “Look.” I knew that the urgency of my tone only made me more vulnerable, but I couldn’t seem to control it. “Did he ever talk about me?”

  He frowned as if he’d expected something far more challenging. “Well, of course.”

  “What did he say?”

  The doctor shifted his eyes. “I know he loved you all, very much. I can’t really elaborate for you. Everything your father told me was in confidence, and
the fact that he’s dead doesn’t negate the contract I had with him.”

  Don’t cry, I told myself. Wait till you get out to the car. Don’t let him see it.

  “Fuck your contract.” I rose from my chair so quickly that he had to struggle to keep up. “What difference will it make to him? I’m the one who’s still alive, I’m the one who needs you.” I tried to tell from his face whether I was gaining any ground, but if I was, it didn’t show there. I went for broke. “Can’t you tell me why he did it? Can’t you see that I have to know?”

  He reached his hand out and I was afraid he was going to touch me, but he only held it there. My scalp buzzed and the room started shimmering at the corners of my eyes.

  “I don’t really know the answer,” he said. “Please, try to understand this. I want to help you. But—that’s all I can say.” This time he made an exaggerated point of looking at the clock on the wall behind me. “I’m afraid we have to stop now.”

  “No shit.” I picked up my purse and slung it hard over my shoulder. “I’m not paying you,” I told him. “Just so you know. I have the money, but I’m not going to pay.”

  “That’s fine. I wouldn’t take it, anyway.” He was at the door, waiting to open it for me. “Anastasia—”

  “Ana.” I would not let him use the name my father had given me.

  “Ana, then.” He looked down at the floor as I faced him to hear what he had to say. “I just want to make sure of something. This visit wasn’t part of a plan to take any legal action, was it?” He let his eyes meet mine, and I saw the fear in them. “Because there really isn’t a case. It’s a shame, but your father was receiving adequate care. No one could have anticipated what he would do.”

  I waited until the door was open and I could see his next customer gathering up her things and getting ready to enter the inner sanctum. “Fuck you,” I said, loudly, so there could be no mistake about who I was addressing. In the parking lot, I threw a stone at his window. But it must have been made of shatterproof glass because it only made a sharp sound, like a blank or a BB, and bounced right off.

  It was five o’clock when I left the doctor’s office. I had planned to stay in Ashmont only long enough to keep my appointment, but I knew now, without actually forming the words in my mind, that there were other places I had to go—and other people I needed to talk to—before returning to Delphi. Although it was the end of October, the day was hot, and I rolled down my window to let in air. It smelled of pumpkin and apple and the smoke of somebody burning raked leaves in a backyard.

  The first phone booth I saw was the one outside the McDonald’s by the middle school, where kids who couldn’t yet drive often went on their first dates. I had been taken here myself, in fifth grade, by Gordon Zukowski; he bought me a double cheeseburger and a shake, and spent the whole meal talking about Phil Cunningham, who would, in junior high, be the one to lead the cries of “Fag” and “Buttfucker” against Gordon.

  I parked and waited for a teenage girl to get off the phone. She was saying, “I don’t give a shit, I’m not walking home. If you don’t come and get me, I’ll hitch a ride.” She hung up with a bang, and when she turned I saw that it was Trish Symmes, who used to play softball back in the minor leagues with Meggy. She ducked whenever the ball came her way and never swung once at a pitch; she always got waved to first base. At Meggy’s eleventh birthday party, she’d burst into tears when she couldn’t get her teeth around the stem of a bobbing apple, but my father arranged for her to win Pin-the-Fangs-on-the-Vampire (without Trish realizing, of course). Now I could tell that Trish knew me, too, but she was at a loss about how we might connect. She brushed by me, sweeping bangs off her forehead, snapping sweet purple gum.

  The phone’s receiver smelled of grape breath and Love’s Baby Soft. I picked it up and started dialing, but my fingers froze when I saw a line someone had written among all the other old graffiti in the booth: Justine Dolan is a slut. Then someone had crossed out Justine and substituted Meg, and replaced slut with box of bones. I slammed the receiver into the wall, closed my eyes, took a breath, and turned my back to the message.

  Behind me, Trish Symmes was watching. I could feel her eyes on my back. Careful, I thought. It was an automatic self-warning, the same one I’d heard in my head when I thought I might break down in front of the psychiatrist. Don’t let anybody see.

  I dialed again. After three rings, Kay Lonergan answered, sounding slightly winded. I imagined she had been outside, putting her favorite Anne Frank white tulip bulbs into the ground.

  “It’s Ana,” I told her, then added, “Dolan.”

  “Ana. Of course I know it’s you.” She sounded genuinely glad to hear my voice. “I felt so bad the other day, you two leaving so quickly. I spoke to Barbara afterward—Mrs. Crowell.” She paused to let the name sink in. “I’m sorry that happened. I wanted to call you guys, but I wasn’t sure—well, you know.” She sighed.

  “I know.” A truck whizzed past, and I waited until it had gone by before I spoke again. Sitting on the bench by the bus stop, Trish Symmes lit a cigarette. “Listen, I’m in town again,” I told Kay. “Outside McDonald’s. I wondered if I could stop by.”

  “Right now? Of course, honey.” I couldn’t tell which was more prominent in her voice—surprise, dread, or curiosity—but I heard them all. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Not really. I just kind of wanted to see you. To apologize for how I acted the other day. I didn’t mean to be rude.” I paused, tried to sound casual. “Also, I wondered if Matt was around.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything. But if you want to come over, you’re welcome anytime. You know that. And Matt?” I could tell that the question made her nervous. “I’m not sure. Are you coming over now?”

  “If that’s all right.” I pressed my palm against my chest.

  “Of course it is. I’d love to see you.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said, my heart still beating faster than I knew it should. “Thanks,” I said again, and hung up. Immediately I lifted the receiver to call back and say I’d made a mistake, but I didn’t have any more change. “Shit,” I said, and a man riding by on a bicycle heard me and smiled.

  “It can’t be that bad!” he called over his shoulder, and I would have liked to smack him right off his seat.

  Trish Symmes, exhaling Newport smoke, turned to watch the cheerful cyclist with a contemptuous eye. “Asshole,” she said, knowing only I would hear her, and in that way she acknowledged our historical bond.

  When I reached my old street and parked at the Lonergans’, I saw that Russell Stinson was at his usual station on his family’s front porch. Russell had been wounded at the end of action in Vietnam, and he spent most of his days in fall, spring and summer sitting in his wheelchair. As I approached the Lonergans’ house, Russell shouted something that sounded like “Speak of the devil!” but I may have heard it wrong. I gave him a wave and then Kay met me at the door, showed me into the kitchen, and went back to chopping carrots. “Can you stay for dinner, honey?”

  “No, I have to get back. My mom’s expecting me.” This was a lie; my mother had no idea where I was.

  Kay nodded, and I sensed that she was relieved. “Ana, how is your mom, really? I guess the other day was just too hard for her.”

  “It was hard for all of us,” I said.

  “Oh, of course. I know that, sweetie. I didn’t mean it wasn’t.” She blushed over the cutting board. “This whole thing must be a nightmare,” she added, tossing the carrots into a pot.

  I would have answered her—tried to give her some idea of what it was actually like—but I saw that instead of looking at me she was letting her eyes slide toward the recipe open on the counter. So I just said “Yeah” and watched as she took more vegetables out of the fridge, then rinsed them. “So is Matt around?” I asked, reaching to pop a strip of green pepper into my mouth.

  Kay put the knife down. “Matt,” she said. “Of all people. Do you mind if I ask why?”

&n
bsp; I shrugged again, trying to appear as if it didn’t really matter one way or the other. “It seemed like he and Meggy were spending a lot of time together, right before it happened. I just wanted to ask if he might have noticed anything wrong.”

  She nodded, studying me thoughtfully. “I see. Well, he never mentioned anything to me. This has all been pretty tough on him, Ana. Are you sure?” I could tell she was trying to change my mind. But when I nodded, she said, “Okay.” She went to the back door and called into the yard. “Matt! Ana Dolan’s here to see you.” She patted me on the arm and said, “At least stop in again before you leave, okay? I want to say good-bye.”

  I said “Sure,” though I had no intention of doing it, and stepped out to the backyard, where Matt was watching me from the top of the tree-house ladder. My father had built the house when Meggy and Matt were in first grade. The house was supposed to be a joint project between my father and Ed Lonergan; they had the best tree for such a structure, and the kids in both our families were supposed to share its use. As it turned out, my father was the one who put the whole thing together because Ed Lonergan never seemed to be around when they’d made plans to work on it. Or, on a weekend afternoon, he’d be so drunk when he came outside and picked up the power saw in the hand not holding a Genesee Cream Ale that my father would have to find some way to get rid of him, or some excuse to suspend work for the day.

  I remember one Saturday in particular, when two of the house’s four walls were up and my father was getting ready to install the third. Matt had just carried a tray of lunch out to my father, whom he adored—even though I was only ten or eleven, I could see that he admired my father, while his own made him nervous. Watching Matt hand nails up to my father, or hold out a glass of lemonade to him, I wondered, for the first time, whether my father had ever wanted a son; and, beyond that, whether he was disappointed to have only daughters. The idea made me feel tender toward my father, and for about a week I vowed to be a tomboy. I asked him to take me to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown; I asked him to teach me about woodworking. But I didn’t like the fact that you had to measure, so I gave back the role of helper to Matt Lonergan.