Sonja & Carl

by Hillier, Suzanne;

  I feel myself sag with depression and the heaviness of futility. Then I become angry. It is irrational, as I had already anticipated Dr. Weiner’s dementia finding, but I cannot control the choking wave of powerlessness and fury that sweeps over me.

  “Perhaps we could concentrate on his present quality of life,” I suggest, “his bouts of depression and his great dependency on me.”

  As usual I am shooting the messenger, but I find the emphasis on Carl’s brain post-mortem disturbing. I must stop looking for practical solutions from these medical people. They need to be pinned down like anyone else so they don’t consider their patients an assortment of lab rats.

  “His present medications?”

  “Painkillers, OxyContin and Vicodin, Xanax, for occasional panic disorders, Ativan for anxiety, and Valium as a muscle relaxant. He’s happiest when lying in a darkened bedroom, but will on occasion watch mixed martial arts on television provided he has a friend present, and will take a short walk with me. He lacks the initiative to wash and waits until I return home on weekends.”

  Dr. Weiner stares at me, her face expressionless.

  “I don’t prescribe drugs, but my colleague Dr. Leviticus would be glad to assist. My area of expertise is really diagnosis and lifestyle changes.”

  Dr. Weiner does not like me. She can’t wait to shuffle me off to Dr. Leviticus, who will doubtless prescribe drugs with some firm instructions as to their use rather than advise me as to Carl’s brain journey in its post-mortem state.

  “All right,” I tell her, “I realize you’re a busy professional so I will keep this brief, but I must know how to manage my future—and Carl’s. From a practical point of view, is there a chance of any cognitive improvement? Although there are obviously serious problems, can surgery, or any other drastic solutions, improve them? Please be frank with me.”

  Dr. Weiner frowns at Carl’s file, as if my asking her to be frank imposes an onerous burden that she is reluctant to assume. “You are asking me for a definite prognosis. I can’t give you one. A brain injury is not akin to a broken leg or arm. We cannot go in and clear away the damage. Sometimes, certain parts of the brain take over the functioning of the other parts, but naturally this is dependent on many other factors, including the extent of the damage. I am not unduly optimistic in this particular case. His test results show severe limitations and a marked inability to focus.”

  “He’s severely dyslexic,” I tell her, “and he’s had attention-deficit as long as I’ve known him. These problems could affect the test results. He’s been playing hockey since the age of seven. From what he’s told me I suspect there’s been a long series of sub-concussions, even concussions. He was the local hockey hero.”

  “You’re his main caregiver?”

  “I’m his real caregiver, but I attend classes here during the week. A local woman comes to fix breakfast, and he has dinner at his mother’s each night. I’m not willing to stop my classes, a decision he used to support. And he only wants me around.”

  “Have you considered an institution?”

  Is cruelty the criteria for Dr. Weiner’s success? It’s a rational question considering my situation, but I’m unfairly angry and affronted and have difficulty breathing.

  “He’s not reached that stage,” I answer, “unless you feel he could receive some therapy.”

  “I was thinking of you, Mrs. Helbig. You’ve been married for less than a year and you’re a student. I doubt if you thought you were marrying someone who would need you for his weekend bath, and whose idea of diversion is watching martial arts on television.”

  In other words, “You didn’t sign up for this.” Another Candace Stewart, but with much more education and subtlety of speech.

  “Carl was never an intellectual, Dr. Weiner, but he was kind, generous, and he loved me a lot. We were capable of enjoying life together. We had wonderful sex. Now all of that is gone. But he still loves me, as much as he is capable. I’m not willing to abandon my own life entirely, but I’m not willing to abandon him either.”

  Dr. Weiner stands up. “Anything else?”

  “I’m five months pregnant. This may further complicate matters. I conceived before the last concussion.”

  Dr. Weiner shakes her head and tightens her mouth, her assessment of me as an intellectual student no longer existing. I am guided to Dr. Leviticus, who gives me a short lecture on the value of serotonin enhancers to combat depression, a prescription for Paxil, and another for the most viable current pill for insomnia. He will see Carl briefly to validate my information and the prescriptions.

  There is something to be said for pill pushers: at least they don’t waste time on autopsy reports and lifestyle changes that cannot work.

  AFTER HIS WEEK with Dr. Weiner, Carl is visibly upset. He fears, correctly, that the results of Dr. Weiner’s tests and interviews were not helpful. He has started on his antidepressants but sees no difference. It seems he expected some transformation that would lift him out of his depression and render him whole again.

  “It takes weeks to kick in,” I tell him, “and you can’t expect miracles. Besides, you can’t expect to sit with Jerry and guzzle rye if you’re on these.”

  He ignores me. I have become a nag and I hate the sound of my own voice.

  “I’m glad we’re leaving,” he says.

  Carl is only comfortable in Davenport. Our house is quiet, familiar, slightly isolated, and he feels safe there. He finds the bustle and noise of Toronto irritating and pain-provoking.

  “You’re getting seriously addicted,” I warn him as I refuse to give him his second OxyContin on Thursday night, the night before we leave. “Are you sure you’re in pain?”

  “No. I’m great. I just want to get high. Okay?”

  There are times like this when I get really angry, but they don’t last and I have my little boy back, who smiles his delight at my concern and loves his bath.

  On Thursday night, Carl gets his hair trimmed in Yorkville. Now he looks handsome, with his leather jacket and styled hair. I tell him so. Why does it hurt me when he looks handsome? Is it the present waste or memories of the past? It’s both: the waste fills me with despair, even anger at times, and the memories choke me with gnawing sadness.

  “Can we eat out?” It would be a break for me, and we are surrounded by restaurants.

  “Nope.”

  So we order in pizza. It’s just as well we’re leaving tomorrow, I think. Toronto is wasted on Carl.

  THE WEEKEND IS uneventful. Jerry comes over on Saturday night and he and Carl watch martial arts together and drink rye, which seems to have a much greater effect than usual on Carl.

  “You’re not supposed to mix rye with Paxil,” I nag.

  The next morning his head is throbbing so much he can’t get up. I am instructed to produce OxyContin, but I refuse to give him the two tablets he wants.

  “Then I’ll take them myself,” he says and produces two tablets he’s hidden under the mattress, and chews them, all the time smiling at me. Then he complains that the OxyContin is no longer working and he wants one of his sleeping pills, as he is in agony and can only escape through sleep.

  “You’re not getting any more,” I tell him. “It’s too dangerous what you’re doing.”

  I go downstairs to get him juice, but when I come back he is sleeping. Had he also hidden some sleeping pills?

  As he sleeps, I take a shower. I lather my stomach and examine the swelling. I’m starting to show and I’m only keeping it hidden by wearing loose black skirts and long sweaters. Soon everyone will know and Carl will find out, and he will be upset as it will remind him of his shortcomings. My skin looks so white, my hair so dark and my breasts so swollen, with their large brown noses bruised by my touch. Will little Carl suck the pain from my heart and give me joy?

  I telephone Mutti and walk to her house. It is clean and fresh but very cold. There are ridges of low-lying mottled clouds and everything is hushed. A Sunday-morning quiet, I think.
/>   Mutti answers the door in her dressing gown, although her face looks freshly powdered, and her hair is in short, tinted-blond feathers swept back from her face. In spite of her efforts, she looks old. There are fine lines around her eyes and her rosy skin sags around her jowls. Her eyes look filmed, and there is a prominent frown line between her brows. I think of her driving me back to the apartment, her head held high, her profile clean and definite. Now she looks old and it hurts me. I have underestimated her pain, which, regardless of fault, is as real and harsh as mine.

  She embraces me, but it is perfunctory.

  “Coffee and coffee cake, Sonja? I wait all day to hear what doctor say.”

  Always the little needle of guilt. I should have contacted her earlier, but it is news I’m not happy to share. I sit at the table, sip the strong coffee, and nibble at the coffee cake.

  “Well, what they say?”

  “He has considerable brain damage, mostly in his frontal lobe. It limits him. They don’t seem to see a cure or an end to his headaches and dizziness.”

  Mutti sits back and nods her head. She looks defeated.

  “They suggested an institution.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “I said no.”

  Mutti nods her head with approval and reaches for my hand. “He much more happy when you are home. You know that?”

  “Mutti, there are only another two months at my school; you can’t expect me to give up everything.” I try to keep the exasperated tone from my voice, but it is there.

  “I know, I know. I wish he be more happy with me, but he want his Sony, like a little boy.”

  “Mutti, there is something you must know. And only you. I once mentioned it to Carl and he became so upset that I denied it right away.”

  Mutti leans forward, and for the first time her face shows some animation, a little life.

  “I’m five months pregnant.”

  Mutti’s face is flushed, the film over her eyes gone.

  “I made arrangements but decided not to go ahead with it. I hoped that perhaps in the long term it would give us all joy.”

  Mutti covers her face with her hands and rocks back and forth. Through the small, jewelled fingers with Carl’s square pink nails, tears flow.

  “You are wunderbar, Sonja. No one like you—no one. Better to me than my own daughters.”

  “But you can’t tell Carl,” I insist again. “This is very important. He fears his inadequacies will interfere with his parenting and the thought of it will destroy him. Let me pick my time.”

  Mutti squeezes me as I leave and warns me not to slip although there is no ice. I have given her hope and that makes me feel better.

  “I GET OFF early for the spring break,” I tell Carl. “I’ll be back Wednesday night and we’ll eat at home. I’ll bring us Chinese takeout from Toronto and heat it up here. The time will go fast.”

  I hide his pills in various coat pockets and boots and shoes in my downstairs closet, and then allocate the rest, with instructions, on the kitchen counter. He nods his head solemnly. He hates me to go and I feel guilty. I run my hand through his hair. “Great haircut,” I say. “Come May, I’ll be home all the time. You’ll be sick of the sight of me. And I’ve got a whole ten days, starting Wednesday.”

  He sees me out to the car but for a change does not ask for the keys to the Challenger. I put my arms around him and we sway back and forth, then I kiss him on the neck. It is warm velvet. Perhaps, I think, they are wrong. Perhaps someday the neural pathways and synapses will re-attach, and they will find a way to do away with the porridge. Doctors are not always right.

  THERE IS SO much to do in the three days before study week. I collect the notes from Janet Murdock for the lectures I’ve missed and see all my professors, explaining my absences.

  They nod their understanding.

  I leave on Wednesday afternoon at three-thirty after picking up cartons of Chinese food at Formosa. It is still cold, but there is a slight softness in the air, a faint promise of spring.

  This morning I saw a robin on the campus searching for worms in the brown grass, and a toss of birds in the sky, which had pale patches of blue. I emailed Carl first thing this morning and reminded him of the Chinese food and that I have told Mutti not to pick him up. I don’t check for a reply.

  The traffic is better than usual as the weekend travellers have yet to open their cottages. I sniff the Chinese food on the seat beside me. Maybe it will still be warm when I arrive. I feel some twitching. “Are you waving at me again?” I ask. “I know you’re there. I haven’t forgotten you.”

  I’ll tell Carl about the baby at the end of the term. Then I will have time to make him adjust, to see something good in it, to give it a positive spin, as they say.

  At five-thirty I make the Davenport turnoff, and by six I am approaching the house. I feel the cardboard cartons. All warmth is gone.

  There are no lights on in the house, and all is still when I unlock the door. Carl may be sleeping. “I’m home,” I call. The silence sits, waiting for me. My throat is tightening and I hear my heart beat in my ears. I go upstairs to our bedroom. I walk slowly. I wish to postpone what I fear awaits me. There is no rush to discover what I fear.

  The room is dark so I turn on the lamp. He lies there, looking into the distance. What does he see that he has been searching for so long? The empty phials are on the table, and a glass of rye with just a little left. There will be no bath tonight. I lie beside him and press my face against his. It is like ice. I remember cleaning off the snow, it was not that long ago. His chest is smooth and cold. I run my hands over it and kiss it. I wash it with my tears, warm tears on cold flesh. He lies, carved in stone, and his chill transmits itself to me: my arms become numb, my breasts cut from ice, my body transformed into a statue, the only warmth my burning eyes and my heart banging against my frozen ribs. I stay too long with this cold stranger, but I cannot leave, for then it will be real.

  IT IS AFTER ten when I phone for an ambulance. The cold from Carl’s chilled body stays with me, and my hand shakes so badly I can hardly punch in the numbers. I sit trembling, waiting.

  “He’s long gone,” croaks the ambulance attendant, looking at me with hard, inquiring eyes. “You’ll need a death certificate for Beringers, so I’ll take him in and have a doctor sign. He’s Carl Helbig of the Bruins, right?”

  “Right,” I reply. But I want to say that he was so much more, so very much more, at the beginning anyway.

  His eyes are open when they lift him onto the gurney, so I go over and pass my hand over his frozen face.

  “They’ll glue them to,” says the first attendant helpfully.

  “Sorry for your loss,” mutters the other.

  After they take him away, the house screams at me in silence. I know I must see Mutti and Carl’s father, because this is Davenport, and it will only be a matter of time before they’re told. In the kitchen I check my computer. There was a message posted at ten that morning.

  “Sory sony. Is to hard. Not yor falt. Love yu.”

  I press DELETE.

  He waves to the world, my sweet baby curled inside me. He sees a happy place. He must not know his future presence made it “to hard” for his creator. I wonder when Mutti told him, perhaps Tuesday night. What were her words—stupid, stupid woman.

  The night is a clot of darkness, so cold, with only crusts of snow marking the way to Mutti’s. I am carrying Carl’s cold, but I’m wrapped in the chill of this starless March night as well. I know that deep down in some hidden crevice of my soul there will always be this nugget of ice and it will never go away.

  Mutti answers the door in her dressing gown, her face shining with night cream. She looks at me and knows and calls out, “Carl.” Carl Sr. appears, also in his dressing gown. He looks at me, his face immobile, such a decent and gentle man.

  “Our Carl is gone?” asks Mutti. “How it happen, Sonja?”

  Carl Sr. turns to leave, his face now marble in the d
ull light, and I hear his sobs, terrible deep sobs, and I know this is a man who does not cry and these sobs are being wrenched from the depths of his grief.

  “He took all his pills with rye.”

  Mutti does not cry. Her face is pale as suet, her lips thin with grief—and anger.

  “It your place to stay with him. You selfish, put school before your husband when he need you so bat.”

  I can’t listen, unwilling to bear an assault of guilt. I am already burdened. The guilt is hers, most of it, and I refuse to wear it like some wrap of thorns. Without saying or hearing more, I leave.

  I cannot stay the night, the silence will oppress me, will wear me down. I take the keys of the Challenger and my wallet and get into the car sitting waiting in the garage. It springs to life under my fingers and I back it out into the empty street. I drive through the black waves of night, through the streets of Davenport, empty streets shining wet in the lights, past Davenport High and the Sinclair Hotel. Strange, now he is gone I see him as he was before that final game, the smile, the golden hair, the square jaw. I will miss him as he used to be.

  I head for the water, the beach of rocks with the nearby forest of pine and spruce. It is almost midnight, but I do not want to stop driving. Once at the bay I see that the trees contain remnants of snow, ghostly trees, with their tattered shrouds. I get out of the car and the wind from the lake lashes against me, and I smell the spice of spruce and pine. I think of the ring and how it was a little tight as we sat together that day, before I told him I loved him, and on the day after, when we clung together on the rock with the wind blowing against us, and he spoke of our future children. I said I wanted to freeze the moment in time, to think of it when we were old together.

  THERE IS NO one at the counter of the Sinclair Hotel so I ring the small bell and a rumpled young man appears. I obviously woke him up.

  “I want a room,” I say, “a room with a bathtub and a shower.”

  He looks at me with curiosity.

  “Your bags?” he asks.

  “No bags,” I tell him.