by A. F. Brady
Rachel keeps talking and tells us that we have therapists available to us should we need to explore our feelings about this. We all behave as if we hadn’t even heard her. Rachel says she will leave us to discuss this without her. Julie immediately begins to panic. Her breathing becomes hysterical, and she’s shaking, so Shirley ushers her to the ladies’ room to calm down. Everything around us is fast and loud and anxious, but the bubble that David and I hide in is slow and calm and quiet.
DECEMBER 29TH, 12:47 P.M.
It’s been almost twenty-four hours and the news of Eddie’s death hasn’t stopped ringing in my ears. I feel anesthetized and disoriented, and I’m having trouble concentrating on anything productive. The incident report has been filed, and I’m wondering if it’ll help to go read it. If I put facts to this tragedy, will it be easier to take? Will I be absolved?
I drag myself out of my chair and slip down the hallway to the records room. There’s a nurse leaning over the Xerox machine making copies of a flyer advertising a going-away party complete with cheese and cheesecake in the staff lounge on Friday. I’ll be sure to miss that one. She gives me a sweet smile as the intermittent copy light illuminates her white teeth.
I walk to the patient files and punch my code into the keypad. Eddie’s case file is fat and disorganized, and the incident report is conspicuous from the outside, as it’s the only piece of paper sticking out without frayed or bent edges. I photocopy the report without looking at it, then tuck the original back into the folder.
The two-page report feels heavy in my hand, and I sit with a thud on the carpet in my office to read it. His name is written Edward “Eddie” William Bailey. The formality that comes with death is making this harder to read. His birthday and the date he died are written next to each other, and I didn’t realize he was only forty-one. My own fortieth birthday is only a few years away, and I can’t believe a life could get so ruined and so lost while still so young.
I feel the trembling begin at my shoulders, travel down my arms and over my jaw to my chin. The tears are already welling up in my eyes, and I hear distant echoes of Eddie’s telltale deflating voice. I will never hear it again. I will never push his laceless sneakers out my door again. I will never tell him I don’t have time for him again. Never is too long, and I can’t handle it. My chest heaves; I blink away the tears and keep reading.
The incident report isn’t an autopsy; a medical examiner doesn’t sign off on it. It’s just an additional document that gets filed when something big happens. Something big, like a fight, or a medical emergency, or a threat. Or suicide. My fingers fumble with the pages, and my tears are crimping the margins. The cause of death states suicide. And in the description, I read on to see what Rachel didn’t announce to us in the meeting. Eddie hanged himself. He pried open the metal piece of a janitorial mop, pulled out those long gray dreadlocks and tied them together to make a rope. He tied one end to a hook inside the janitor’s closet and the other around his neck.
The closet is the width of a mop bucket, and he was found with his feet in the bucket and his hands in his pockets. His knees were bent against the edge of the bucket, and there were purple ligature marks around his throat. He died of asphyxiation. There was no snapping of his neck; it wasn’t an instant end. He slowly watched the inside of the closet go dark, and he didn’t even struggle against the creeping shroud of death. All the items in the closet other than the dismantled mop were reported undisturbed. He hadn’t touched a thing. He probably didn’t want anyone to have to clean up after him. The lock on the door wasn’t tampered with, it wasn’t broken; someone must have just left it unlocked. Someone is going to pay for that.
My hands fall to my sides, and the incident report crumples under my sweaty palm. Eddie had come to me for help, and I turned him down. I said no. I said no to a man who just wanted me to listen to his stories. Whether they were true or not shouldn’t have mattered. He just needed me to listen, and I turned him away. I said no… I said no.
I’m a fraud. I’m not the golden girl. I’m not the hero of the institution, saving the days of all the lost souls. I’m a fucking con artist who plays the part only too well, and I let one slip through the cracks, and he died alone in a murky mop bucket with his defeated hands in his pockets inside of a fucking janitor’s closet because some asshole left the door open.
A prickle forms at the base of my scalp and I feel a wave of nausea building. Oh, my God, is it possible that I forgot to lock the door when I borrowed the plunger? Fucking Christ, what have I done? I slump down to the carpet, hearing myself moaning, begging for forgiveness. I’m at once embarrassed at my sniveling self and unable to get it together.
I pull off my left shoe and throw it at the door. It slams into the knob with a satisfying thunk, so I take off the other one and throw that, too. I pull my handbag off my chair and as it falls to the ground next to me, I pick through the contents for more things to throw. I hurl my Altoids and the tin explodes against the hinge of the door and tiny white orbs fly all over the office. A fraud! I’m a fucking fraud! Throwing the pack of Kleenex doesn’t make me feel better at all, and the headphones are impossible to chuck. My book! I get up and grab the stupid fucking novel I still haven’t finished and I tear the cover in my hurry to heave it at the wall. I stop myself from throwing it and tear at the pages. Just one at a time at first and then fistfuls, angry fistfuls of bullshit! Eddie! I’m sorry! I should have been there for you. I should have been there for you.
With thin, cheap paperback pages still clinging to my palms, I collapse back down onto the ground and I hold my head in my hands, paper sticking in my hair. My chest heaves out my last panicked breaths; I spit a clot of phlegm with a throaty cough into the garbage can and stabilize myself. I lay my head down to rest. The impossible apologies and the vastness of never seep into the cavernous places in my brain where I store things I can’t handle. I concentrate on breathing, and a fuzzy calm begins to cloud my mind.
I see a coil of unfurled carpet fiber a few inches from my face, and all my thought and concentration is immediately transferred to it. The way it’s catching the light is emphasizing the burgundy-and-eggplant polyester threads that make up this nothing- and everything-colored carpet. I push the coil down with my thumb and it springs back like a Slinky. I keep pushing it down and down and down again, and it keeps coming back up. It will not be defeated. This tiny corkscrew will not let me kill it. I flip over to my knees and lean as close to the helix as I can. I flick it with my fingernail, and it comes back like a weighted inflatable clown. I twirl it between my fingers, and my breathing steadies. I wipe the tears from my face and blow my nose. I can’t take my eyes off the carpet fiber. I’m petting it, and protecting it, and before I can understand what’s happening, I’m laughing. I’m laughing at the red-and-purple coil, and I’ve named it Eddie.
A soft knocking comes from my door, and I look up to see if I hallucinated. The knocking continues—a slow, constant, Eddie knock.
“Eddie?” My butt pops up off my ankles, and I reach for the door to let Eddie’s ghost in and show him the perfect carpet ringlet I named for him. In a concentrated whoosh, David moves stealthily into my office and looks down at me, wide-eyed and concerned.
“Sam? Are you okay? I can hear you from my office. What’s going on?” When I see it’s only David, I crouch back down to the floor and refocus on carpet Eddie. I stroke the swirl.
David gets down on the floor with me and looks at what I’m doing. He observes the spectacle in my office. Torn novel pages and smashed contents of my handbag strewn all over the place. Shoes off, scarf in a tangle around the wheels of my desk chair. He must think I’ve gone crazy. I watch him scrutinizing the scene. I don’t care. I don’t care what he thinks.
Each time I touch carpet Eddie, David looks at me with apprehension and uneasiness. He glances at the incident report on the floor behind me and sees the used tissues in a pile by my feet. He takes my hands and pulls me upright.
“Sam, what’s happening?”
/>
“Be careful, don’t step on Eddie.”
“Sam, Eddie is dead.”
“Not this one.” I reach into my garbage can and find a small plastic cup from the water cooler, and I overturn it and place it over the coil so no one steps on him by accident.
David sits me down in my desk chair and puts his hand against my clammy forehead. “Sam, you’re burning up. Did you take anything?”
“I haven’t taken anything, David. I’m fine.” I brush his hand away. I don’t need him taking care of me.
“No booze today? I heard you crying earlier. Did you drink anything?”
“No. And I can’t seem to find any of the alcohol I hid in here.” I pull open my bottom file drawer and check under a shoe box full of crayons.
“Do you have any more groups today?”
“Yes, I have groups to run today. And I have individual sessions.” I’m a professional, David. Stop talking to me like a child.
“Can I please see your schedule?”
“You know where it is. Stop bothering me; I’m fine.” He’s holding my face and not letting me look down at carpet Eddie.
“What happened in your office? Looks like a hurricane came through here.”
“I want to stay here with Eddie, make sure he’s okay.”
“Who is Eddie, Sam?” I point to the overturned plastic cup, protecting carpet Eddie. David draws in a deep breath. “I’m going to get the rest of your schedule covered today, okay? I think you need a break.”
“Fine. I don’t care anymore. Do whatever you want.”
David pulls a sheet of paper from my printer and a marker from the mug on my desk. He writes “Please Do Not Disturb” in big block letters and tapes it to the outside of my door. He gathers up the torn pages from my book and throws them away. He picks up the incident report, smooths it out and lays it flat on my desk, weighing it down with a psychopathology textbook. He arranges my shoes neatly to the left of the door and untangles my scarf from under my chair.
David steps outside the door, leaving it slightly ajar, and pops back in seconds later, holding a banana, a half-eaten bagel and a bottle of water.
“See if you can eat these, okay? You’re very shaky right now. And drink this water. Take your time. I will get everything else covered for you today, and I’ll tell Rachel something. I need you to just lie low and get yourself together, okay? You seem to be taking this news about Eddie really hard.” The alarm in David’s eyes is unfamiliar to me. I resign myself to the idea that I get to stay safe and protected in my office for the rest of my shift.
“Okay, I’ll stay here. You can run my groups.” It’s starting to feel like I really don’t care anymore.
“I have groups, too, so I’ll get someone else to cover everything for you. But you don’t need to worry or think about anything. I’ll handle it. Just please, take care of yourself.” David ensures the sign is securely stuck to the door, and he turns off my overhead light, leaving on my desk lamp. “Text me if you need anything, okay? I’ll check on you later.”
David leaves my office, and my eyes are heavy from crying. The last two strings holding my life together, my work life and my sanity, are finally unraveling. I have nothing left to hold me together. I take down my coat and lay it over my back. I flop the hood up over my face and check on carpet Eddie as I drift into an uneasy sleep.
DECEMBER 29TH, 5:11 P.M.
I wake up with a start and jolt myself into consciousness. What happened? Was it a dream? Is Eddie alive? I look around my office and see the remnants of the disarray earlier. It must be true.
What time is it? I wipe a sticky line of drool off my chin and check the clock on my phone: 5:11 p.m. I see several text messages from David. He sent them periodically throughout the day, but I didn’t have my phone set to ring. He’s been updating me. Checking in on me. Making sure I’m okay and letting me know that he spoke to Rachel, and she knows I need some time. Why didn’t they just let me go home? He asks me if I ate the bagel. I look at the tinfoil package on my desk. Among the messages from David, I find another text from Lucas. I’ve avoided him since I caught him doing coke a week ago. He went home to spend Christmas with his family and didn’t bother to invite me, citing our fight as his reason. Convenient. Now he’s trying to make up for it by asking me to join him at a New Year’s Eve party. As I finish reading these messages, I hear the click of high heels passing my office and a knock on David’s door. Julie calls out her name, and I hear David invite her in. I immediately jump to my feet, nearly tripping over my shoes, and smash my ear against the wall, straining to hear the details of their conversation.
David starts. “I told Rachel that she was distraught over Eddie’s suicide. She was very understanding.”
“Is that really what’s wrong?” I can almost hear Julie reaching her hands over to David’s knees, eyes pleading with him, feigning concern for my situation. Don’t buy her bullshit, David. Don’t fucking tell her anything.
“Yeah, she’s just having a hard time. Even though technically Eddie was Gary’s patient, he was really attached to Sam. He went to her office all the time to talk to her. She had a soft spot for him.”
I can’t hear what Julie is saying now. I’m not sure if anyone is talking. What are they doing in there?
“I had to get some of her case files today, because I covered her individual sessions, too.” What?! I’m outraged! Julie met with my patients today? She read my reports, she read my notes, my files? Fucking Julie?!
I rip myself away from the wall and tear at my scalp. I bury my face in the hood of my coat and scream a barely audible scream into the furry lining. I’m taking concentrated, gruff breaths, and I need to calm down so I can hear more.
“She’s brilliant, you know. Her reports are absolutely flawless, and the clinical intuition is just…awe-inspiring.” Oh, why don’t you just blow him, you whore!
“She’s extremely talented, I know; excellent clinician.” Et tu, Daveed?
“There are a couple of questions I had, though—some of the medication stuff with a couple of patients. Seems a little off,” Julie continues.
Wait a minute, what day is it? Oh, my God, what day is it? Did I have a session with Richard today? Please, Jesus Christ, tell me Julie didn’t cover a session with Richard. I’m thrashing through my date book, trying to keep it quiet while riffling for the date, because I can’t let Julie and David know I’m in here and I can hear them. Thursday. Thank God. She must have met with my patients, run a couple of groups.
My head is beginning to throb again. I’m going to have to make up for whatever idiotic bullshit she tried to feed the patients in my groups today. These groups were too advanced for her. She doesn’t have the experience or the intuition to run these. I have no idea why David didn’t get someone who isn’t a moron.
Now what the fuck are they talking about? I cram my ear against the wall again. David is saying something, and I can hear movement and papers shuffling.
“Yeah, I’ll just straighten out my office, and I’ll meet you by the elevator. You want to go for a drink, or—” I feel my entire body go rigid.
“Yeah, a drink is great. I just want to talk about the paperwork. Reading Sam’s notes—I mean, I just feel like maybe I’m not doing such a good job. She’s got different methods, you know? And I don’t understand her patient medication management.”
“I’m sure you’re doing a great job,” David assures her.
“Thanks, I’d love your advice, I guess. Maybe, if you’re hungry, maybe we could grab a bite, too?”
It starts in my ears—a consuming rage—and it travels slowly around the base of my skull, then forward toward my eyes. It feels hot and prickly, and I imagine that my whole head is turning crimson like a cartoon thermometer that eventually explodes. All my muscles tense up, and my left eye twitches. I’ve tried to stop these emotional attacks from coming before, and I just end up twisting an ankle or overextending a ligament. This time, I know to just let it come over me, let t
he fury and humiliation tackle me to the ground, where I can lie and stare at carpet Eddie for solace and comfort.
I never thought that David would betray me, but it goes to show that you can’t trust anyone. Not even your best friend. Not even your best friend who acts like you’re crazy and then locks you in your office all day long and gives all your precious patients and advanced groups to his unintelligent, pathetic slut girlfriend. What a fucking shame.
As my muscles and joints turn stiff, and the corners of my mouth curl into a furious scowl, I feel the vibration of my phone, which I didn’t realize I’d been clutching. I hold the message up to my eyes and see it’s from David.
Feel better, Sam. I’m heading home now. Call me if you need me. If I need you? I needed you today, and you left me. You abandoned me for her, you duplicitous asshole.
DECEMBER 31ST, 11:47 P.M.
It’s New Year’s Eve, the most overrated and disappointing night of the year. Especially in New York. People flock here from all over the globe to stand in the freezing cold, in the worst neighborhood on the planet, to listen to shitty pop stars and D-list celebrities through bad sound systems, and ring in the New Year by watching a Waterford crystal bomb fall. Hooray.
I’m in someone’s penthouse on Seventh Avenue in the Fashion District, sufficiently south of Times Square that I can’t smell the vomit and urine from their balcony, but close enough that I can hear the sounds and see the lights. I’m wearing a velvet dress, and I hate it, but Lucas bought it for me and told me how much it cost, so I feel like I have to wear it. I’ve gotten myself on the opposite smoking schedule from Lucas so that I can go outside without him and pretend we didn’t come together. I’ve seen most of these faces before, I think, but I can’t remember any of their names. These are the people Lucas tries to impress. He couldn’t be happier that I’m avoiding him, because it makes it easier for him to fabricate whatever he needs to fabricate to ingratiate himself with these filthy socialites.