by Rich Foster
“It was my uncle. He was a good man. He would have enjoyed the Scotch. But let’s make it another night, okay?”
They parted and it was Lucas’s turn.
“I put a hold on my mail, I’d like to pick it up.”
The postal worker grunted and shuffled away. He was gone so long that Lucas thought the man might have reached retirement on his way. At last he returned with a postal crate filled with mail. “Just leave it by your mail box, the carrier will pick it up.”
Lucas stopped at the grocery store to replenish the galley: fresh milk, bread, vegetables and a steak for the grill. The sun was out, so he took a short detour to the car wash, sorting out the junk mail from the important letters as the brushes lathered his windows and the machine pushed his car through. At the bottom of the stack he found an aerogramme from overseas. He eagerly tore the thin blue envelope open and read as the rinse water swirled on the glass,
My Dear Lucas, July 14th
You are the kindest and gentlest of men. And I find my tears falling, as I search to find the right words to say, but I only find platitudes. How does one say I’m sorry, but I have found another? There I’ve said it. I never meant it to happen but it did.
He is a good man. I think if you simply met on the street you would become friends. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, in my case it was for someone else.
I won’t be coming back to the States in October. I have put in for another rotation at the base hospital here. If you should find yourself in Europe do not look me up, I would die of shame.
With my deepest regrets,
Samantha
The blowers drove the water off the car windows, but his view remained obscured by moisture. He wiped tears from his eyes. No wonder she had not answered his e-mails. She was waiting for him to get the letter.
He crushed the letter into a ball and put the Porsche into gear. The wheels spun on the wet pavement, then squealed as they hit the dry asphalt. He ran through the gears, as he roared down the highway. Instead of taking the turn for the marina, he headed for the freeway where he opened up the engine. The car ran up to ninety before he eased it back.
He drove, to have something to do. The engine ran smoothly, hardly working at eighty. It was difficult to believe Samantha wasn’t coming back. They were together for three years. Although, she had been gone for the last ten months, he thought things were fine between them. In his dresser was a ring that he intended to give her when she came home.
Lucas wondered what to do. He was retired at forty-four with a pension, and had just inherited twelve million dollars. The world was his, but it would be a world without Sam. He wondered if the money might have made a difference? He put the thought aside. He liked to think Samantha was better than that.
It was evening when he rolled off of the freeway not far from the marina. He had driven for six hours just cruising back roads through the mountains and then back out to the coast. He passed a Denny’s where a group of high school kids were fooling around in the parking lot. He could hear the revving of engines. The sound of laughter floated to him before the light changed. It was summer and there was a lot of testosterone and estrogen mixing in the evening air.
The sun was just kissing the horizon when he opened up the houseboat; fleeting golden rays filled the room. Lucas set the crate of mail down on the table. In the galley he poured himself three fingers of Scotch. He carried the bottle and cut crystal glass up to the fly bridge, where he turned a deck chair to the west. From his pocket he pulled out the balled up letter and began to smooth it out on his leg. Thinking better of it, he crushed it again and threw it into the water to be swept away with the outgoing tide. In the warm glow of sunset he raised the glass, “All the best, Sam. Thanks for the ride.” The sun sparkled through the amber liquid. As he sipped the scotch the sun settled into the sea.
That evening Lucas lingered on deck watching the stars come out, sparkling like bright jewels, unobtainable beyond his reach. The air turned cool. As he nursed his way through another glass of Scotch he heard the call of a barn owl. He wondered if the owl was calling to a mate that wasn’t coming home.
*
Calley thumbed through the mail stacked up in the basket. One at a time she pulled the bills and wrote the check. For the last six months she cut expenses by turning out lights, not running the window air conditioner, and hanging her laundry out to dry on a line. A sense of relief filled her when there was money in her account after paying all of the bills.
She scooped up the pile of junk mail, for the recycle bin. The Haskell’s recycled very little, mainly because they bought very little. Products in disposable containers usually cost more. She tossed the letters one at a time, when she came across the letter she missed.
St Catherine’s Hospital
Red Lake
Statement of Account: Ruth Ellen Haskell
Emergency Room Services
$18,013.63
Professional Services
$ 3,500.00
Total Due
$21,513.63
Account Status is 120 days past due!
Your insurance company, if any, has been billed. Any uncovered portion is your responsibility. Please remit.
Calley did not even cry, she went to the bathroom, took two pills, and waited for her troubles to drift away.
Chapter Eighteen
The thermometer hovered at triple digit marks for the first three weeks of August. The mountainsides dried out. The water level in streams fell. The field grass was the color of grain ready to harvest.
The sunlight seemingly increased in intensity. The harsh light sapped the color from the landscape leaving the land whitish in the afternoon glare. The heat drained the vitality from all creatures. People found excuses to step into buildings that had air conditioners, mopping their brows with sodden handkerchiefs, their clothes clinging to them in the humidity.
The weather had no impact on Kevin Daniels’s life. His days were spent in the cool atmosphere of St. Catherine’s psychiatric unit.
The hospital provided services to the county by contract. Dr. Jamal Urvadi was the staff psychiatrist, a native of India, who came to the United States to study. He graduated in the top three percent of his class at the University of Chicago Medical School and did his professional internship in Denver. By the time he finished he had acquired both a wife, who was now pregnant, and a desire to stay in America.
Across the country staffing at rural hospitals had become critical. Doctor Urvadi was the only applicant for the position of Canaan County psychiatrist. St. Catherine’s submitted a letter of support for his application, which cited both need and their failure to find a legal resident for the position. He obtained a green card, while intending to move to a major city as soon as his commitment at St. Catherine’s was over. But the desire to move on, faded as he fell in love with the “unpeopledness” of the place. Personal space was a rare luxury back in Mumbai.
Dr. Urvadi saw Kevin upon his admission to the hospital. Taking note of the recent sutures on the boy’s head, he ran the patient’s name through the hospital’s computer, thereby learning that Kevin was recently discharged from their facility having been admitted for a gunshot wound to the head. Under next of kin the space was empty. By marital status, married was checked but then an addendum was added that the spouse was deceased. Recalling the shootings at the church, the young man’s condition became understandable. He had been on vacation the week of the shooting’s. Consequently, he was not involved in any crises counseling at the scene.
Dr. Urvadi’s preliminary diagnose was some form of personality disorder with a manifestation of waxy flexibility catatonia. He was with his patient when Father Angelo came in. The priest, from speaking with Mrs. Vincentia, gathered what she knew of Kevin, the trouble at the church, and when she last saw him. He came in to pass along this information. Father Angelo also told the doctor about finding a gun in Mr. Daniels’s hand, saying, “Only one chamber was loaded. That seems kin
d of significant.”
Urvadi vaguely nodded in agreement. The two men spoke for ten minutes. Then the doctor thanked him and Father Angelo went on his way.
To begin treatment he gave Kevin an intramuscular injection; two milligrams of lorzepram. This usually produced significant results, often in less than an hour. As a precaution, he ordered the patient be poesy strapped and put on a suicide watch.
A half hour later Kevin was more alert. Though far from being loquacious, he would respond to questions. His eyes tracked on people in the room. Dr. Urvadi, having finished his afternoon rounds, stopped by his room.
“How do you feel?”
Kevin shrugged and tried to raise his hands, but was stopped by the straps. “Why am I tied down?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know?”
“Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital I guess? What happened?”
“You seem to have suffered a great shock. You were found in your apartment unresponsive. Do you remember anything?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to harm yourself?”
“I don’t know. Why, do you ask?”
Dr. Urvadi spoke softly. With his accent it would have been hard to hear except he spoke slowly. The words were soporific in their effect.
“You were found with a gun in your hand. It seems your landlady thought you had killed yourself. Were you thinking of doing that?”
“I gave fate a chance at me.”
“How did you do that?”
“I tried Russian roulette, I lost.”
“But you are still here,” replied Jamal.
“I know. Like I said, I lost.”
“So you do want to die?”
“It doesn’t matter, sooner of later we all do. Why not sooner?”
“Are you in pain?”
“I don’t know what I am.”
“Well Mr. Daniels I believe we can help you. We will work together to hopefully find an answer to your troubles. Kevin’s attention began drifting away while the doctor continued to speak.
Dr. Urvadi made an entry on the chart. He was almost to the door when Kevin said, “Hey I have to go the bathroom.”
“I will send someone to aid you.” The doctor smiled slightly. The call of nature cut across the boy’s withdrawn state. At least he didn’t want to die with soiled clothes. That was a positive sign.
Jamal finished filling in the patient charts at the nursing station and returned to his office. The room was sparse. It gave away little about the doctor’s private or inner life. Besides his desk, there were two chairs, one soft the other firm, and a sofa. Once a patient chose a place they seldom sat anywhere else. At times their choice of seats seemed significant.
The only decoration was a white artist’s canvass on one wall. It was covered by shrink-wrap. When a patient asked about it, he told them he called it “reflections.” He would urge them to look closely and tell him what they saw. Many only saw white canvass, but others noticed their own subtle reflection in the plastic. They would move their head side to side, watching the picture become dynamic as they altered their point of view. Some clients found it troubling; others discovered parts of themselves in it.
One patient was so bothered by it that Dr. Urvadi replaced it with a landscape before their appointments. One day, after much improvement the client shared with him that the canvas worried him because his image was barely there, little more than a ghost, who he feared might disappear when he tried to look deeper.
Outside his office the glare burned off the rooftops. In the distance the lake shimmered, distorted by the heat. Dr. Urvadi twisted the bar on the blinds until they filtered the light. He put his fingertips together and leaned back in his chair. He thought about Mr. Daniels. There was usually little to start with when a new patient came in. He had read a portion of the news stories and knew Kevin had suffered a great shock. But that told him little of the inner story. He had found a great disparity between the reactions of any two people to a situation. Some people survived the Holocaust and came out not merely survivors but went on to live meaning filled lives. Others, who seemingly suffered some minor trauma, never fully recovered. So much depended on the patient’s life experience and the messages that ran like a current through the circuits of their brain.
The human psyche was a labyrinth. That was the challenge of Dr. Urvadi’s work. His task was to help the patient find the door. It could be a daunting task. He knew of two doctors who rather than saving their patient, lost themselves. Some aspect of their patient’s psychoses helped release demons of their own. One became obsessive compulsive to a dysfunctional level.
The other responded to treatment and found he no longer wanted to practice psychiatry, turning instead to writing fiction where he could control the world and make reality as he wished.
Dr. Urvadi typed note cards listing all the facts he had about his new patient. Later he would add to these. He would sort through them, give them a hierarchy, and look for relationships. Sometimes he laid them out on his desk like a map to the client’s life. There was much more he needed to learn about Mr. Daniels. But, the foremost question in his mind was whether to use benzodiazepines or Electro shock therapy for treatment. The drug regimen often required large dosages and withdrawal presented potential complications. The two most common drugs in this pharmacology were Librium or Valium. On the other hand, bilateral electroshock therapy had its own risks, such as long-term memory impairment. Dr. Urvadi decided to put Kevin on Valium.
*
The week after receiving Samantha’s letter Lucas puttered around the houseboat making repairs. He tried to stay occupied, but only felt restless. He found excuses to go to town. But once there he milled around aimlessly. He made boredom calls to people at the base, but they were busy with their office duties.
What he lacked was something to throw himself into. And without Samantha’s planned for return he found his immediate future to be bleak.
Lucas believed that there was a purpose to life. He thought that all things worked as a part of a plan. Perhaps he made a mistake when he left Mason Forks. He called Will Farron.
“Will? Lucas James. I was wondering if your offer was still open.”
“Absolutely, Lucas. The last two Sundays have been a disaster. I’m no preacher, and half the church is empty. To be honest I think we are in trouble. I can’t even find people who want to come for a single Sunday. Meanwhile, there is no one to do ministry. Who’s going to visit the sick or the elderly in the church?”
Lucas believed less in intentional charitable acts, than in living one’s life well with whomever he came in contact. He agreed with Uncle Elijah’s habit of anonymously doing “good”, though, he never thought of it as something one “sought out” to do, to someone else.
“If your board is willing, I’ll take the job on an interim basis. If you find someone else I will step aside.”
Will felt a huge sense of relief. He was weary of trying to run the church. Lester had run it as an autocracy. “I am certain they will support you. They will be glad to have someone to take over.”
The words made Lucas hesitant. He was not trying to take charge of their lives. Nor was he a surrogate parent to tell them all would be well. Each person would have to work through the inner damage that night at the church caused. No one else could do it for them. He could only be a helper. And perhaps they would help him by making him feel needed.
“I’ll be out later this week.”
Lucas spent two days making preparations. He arranged for Hal at the marina to tend the houseboat. For now he would leave it empty. If he stayed in Mason Forks he would either rent or sell the boat. There was no need for precipitous actions. He packed his treasured possessions into boxes, though most bore little monetary value. He dropped the packages at UPS for shipment to his uncle’s house.
He cleaned out the refrigerator and food lockers. On Thursday afternoon he closed the through-hole fittings to e
nsure the boat would not flood, locked the door, and put his suitcase in the Porsche.
It was a gray afternoon near the coast. Soon he was crossing the coastal range where the sun came out. The sunshine and the expectation of change left him looking forward to the challenges ahead.
*
It was Calley’s day off. Her children were home, too. They seemed to be everywhere. She moved through the house trying to clean while they generated a trail of chaos more quickly behind her. It was a hard morning. She had not slept much the night before. She took an upper to get on with the tasks of the day, but by mid-morning she was so anxious that she turned to her Valium. The pill bottle was empty. With growing apprehension she called the pharmacy and punched her prescription number into the phone, drumming her fingers nervously on the counter as she waited. The electronic voice spoke, “There are no more refills on this prescription.”
Looking in the phone book, she found the prescribing doctor’s number. When another machine answered she felt unduly irritated. After the appropriate tone she left a message leaving her name, number, and requesting a renewal for the Valium.
Caleb was in the kitchen banging on cooking pots. She found herself snapping at him. The boy looked back wide-eyed wondering what he had done. Feeling her anger rising she retreated upstairs and closed the door of her bedroom, trying to shut out the noise of the children in the house. But the thump of music vibrated the floor from the video game console below.
She opened the door and crossed to the banister, where she yelled, “Turn that game down.” The volume precipitously dropped. Her children were aware of their mother’s moods; already they were learning to be responsive to them.
The phone rang. “Hello?” she gasped, a little breathlessly.