Suicide By Death

by Mark Anthony Waters

  “Sometimes we just need to breathe and relax and enjoy what's around us.”

  “How's that working out for you?”

  “Like I said, Clair, I'm trying.”

  He walked over to her bedside and held her hand.

  “You were doing so good. I called your mom. She should be here any minute.”

  She released his hand and pushed it away.

  “Fantastic, I can't wait to see her.”

  “She's worried about you.”

  “I'm soooo sure.”

  “I also called your therapist.”

  Still weak, she struggled to sit up.

  “Why in the hell would you call Glenn?”

  “Because he needed to know, that's why.”

  “This is bullshit!”

  Then fell back on the bed.

  He left her room without saying goodbye. A few steps down the hallway, he crossed paths with her mother and asked how she was.

  Still walking and not stopping, he said, “She's alive,” and continued to walk toward the exit.

  The visit with Clair was brief. Her mother was concerned and appeared to care, but caring and concern, at least in Clair's opinion, it was a moot point and out of character; just a charitable event and nothing else.

  Chapter XIII

  The next day, Clair was in the discharge area of the hospital waiting for her ride. She sat on a padded vinyl bench in a slumped position, rubbing her throat up and down trying to massage away the soreness from the tubes they shoved down her throat when they pumped her stomach.

  The large windows allowed in so much sunlight, she reached into her handbag for sunglasses. With decorative plants everywhere, and people walking all around, it seemed surreal; almost like a dream.

  Clair continued to wait and was expecting Hunter; instead, it was Glenn. He sat beside her, and she moved as far away as possible without falling off the edge. Neither had a word to say. This went on for several minutes.

  Glenn was the first to break the silence.

  “I never told you this, but my mother killed herself when I was twelve.”

  Clair turned toward him in a bit of shock.

  “I'm sorry. I wasn't aware.”

  “Now you are. No one knew why, not even my father, and we still don't, but she left clues.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mom always had a fear that no one would show up at her funeral and doubted they would fill a back-row pew in a small church.”

  “How does something like that get worked into a conversation?”

  “I suppose she might have said it in jest. But what I know, and in my heart, I believe she was asking for help, and nobody was listening.”

  Clair could tell he was tearing up and upset.

  “I remember like it was yesterday. The chapel was filled to capacity. Who'd have thought? Obviously not her.”

  Clair had never seen this side of him before and reached over and touched his hand.

  “I'm so sorry, Glenn.”

  He said nothing and shook his head.

  “I don't get it. Like my mother and I suppose many others, including you, too often suicide seems to be a rational solution to complex issues. Mom didn't drink or use drugs we know of. But this I know. When you combine depression with drugs, alcohol, physical and emotional abuse, it's like a bad math equation, and you are the sum of it.”

  Clair didn't look at him, and with shame in her voice, said, “I guess you're a little disappointed.”

  “Disappointed is an understatement, I'm afraid for you.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  He didn't pull any punches.

  “I fear the next time you might be successful, and I can assure you, there will be a next time.”

  She glared at him, and said, “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because it's true. It's in your DNA. Do you know who the real demons are?”

  Without an answer, he continued.

  “I'll tell you who they are; they're more of a what than a who. It's that shit scattered all over your bedroom and everything else you used to try to kill yourself with.”

  Then shouted, “There are your fucking demons!”

  Clair was speechless, but he was right.

  Glenn was still angry and any professionalism he had left in him, was now a forgone conclusion.

  “Clair, you have been a client of mine for some time now, and I've gotten to know you. I care about you and your well-being, but you make me question things. I have asked myself a thousand times why does someone want to die more than they want to live? For the ones who were successful, the question remains unanswered. There are teams of researchers doing studies and tests all the time, and still no answers.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Because it's a little hard to do a study with dead people. They aren't as cooperative as the living ones.”

  Glenn continued his rant and said those who failed a suicide, at least a few clues of the “why's” are answered.

  “Let's go for a ride; I want to show you something.”

  After a silent, tedious walk down the corridors of the building, they got to his car and climbed in.

  With nervous curiosity, Clair asked, “Where are we going?”

  Glenn slammed the car door and said, “You'll know when we get there.”

  It took forty minutes to get to this mysterious location with no further conversation. While he drove, Glenn stared straight out toward the road and took the time to deliver an unwanted speech.

  “There are four ways to die I know of.”

  He used his fingers as a counter.

  “Number one —natural death.”

  Then added his middle finger.

  “Two —murder,” then added to the chorus… his ring finger. “Three —accident.”

  And finally, the smallest of his digits complimented the others.

  “Last, but not least —suicide. You seem to have mastered half of them. If you can think of anything else, I'm all ears.”

  The last few miles were driven with more silence.

  They arrived at a large, single-story building outside of town. Several cars filled the parking lot. She had to squint her eyes to read the sign at its entrance. It was The Garrard Learning Center named after its founder, Dr. Vandergriff Garrard. It was a school and housed the most severe mentally and physically challenged children, teens, and young adults.

  “Why are you taking me to this place?”

  When in a therapeutic setting, and with little emotion, Glenn used a barrage of open-ended questions he learned in counselor training, such as, “Why do you feel that way?” and “Why do you think that is?” Today would be much different.

  While still in the car, he turned to her stating frankly, “I'm throwing the therapy handbook out the window.”

  She thought to herself, “Uh-oh.”

  His usual calm tone pivoted.

  “You think your life is so fucked up? I'll show you fucked up.”

  He was right about one thing; he tossed the handbook out the window. Clair never heard Glenn talk like that before. They got out, and again he slammed the car door.

  “You're awfully tough on car doors.”

  “Not now, Clair. I'm not in the mood.”

  At a faster pace, he made his way to the front door first. She arrived a couple of seconds later. He rang the buzzer and a voice through the speaker answered.

  “May I help you?”

  “Hi, I'm Glenn Bayer, we're here to see Stanley.”

  The security lock clicked, he opened the door, and motioned toward its entrance, said, “After you.”

  Clair walked in ahead of him. Now they were side-by-side. Glenn was only a step away from her when the administrator, Dr. Debbie Ellison came down the stretch of the hallway and greeted them. She extended her hand and clasped his.

  “Good to see you.”

  “You too, Debbie. This is my friend, Clair, who I mentioned earlier.”

  Clair was
nervous and reluctant but extended her hand.

  Dr. Ellison shook Clair's hand and said all the while, “Very pleased to meet you.”

  “Me too,” and thought, “She has the grip of a corrupt politician.”

  Not visible to the other two, when Debbie released her hand, Clair shook it a little to ease the pain.

  “I guess you're here to see Stanley. He's excited to see you. It's been a while.”

  He remained as professional as he could, but, somewhat ashamed, replied, “I know.”

  The trio made their way to the gym where many of the clients and patients were busy with exercise or other physical activity within their limits. On the way, Dr. Ellison wanted to show them a piece of equipment that had been donated. She was so excited about it; you would have thought she had won a new car.

  At the gym, a lot of noises filled the air. It was brightly lit, chilly, and to Clair, it smelled the same as her high school gymnasium; like stale jockey straps from the boy's locker room. Here, it was the smell of dirty diapers and underwear.

  The bleachers rattled as some of the kids were stomping on them cheering for the players in a wheelchair basketball game. Age and gender made no difference in this place; they were one and the same. Stanley noticed Glenn from across the court and motored his way toward him in his wheelchair. He used his right hand to maneuver his chair; with the other one, weak and uncontrollable, he waved to Glenn.

  All you could hear coming from him was a distorted, “Hi Gen! Hi Gen! Hi Gen!”

  Gen was as close as he could get to saying Glenn's name. They met near the water cooler, and he struggled to reach for him with his arms. The two embraced, and Stanley's arms flopped on Glenn's back trying to hug and pat him, and Glenn returned the patting with gentler little ones.

  “I wuv you, Gen.”

  They stopped embracing, and he said, “Me too, Stanley. I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Clair.”

  Stanley was shy, and with his head lowered, peeked up enough to get a look at her.

  “Hi, Cwair, gu… gu… good to me… me… meet you.”

  'Cwair' was also the best he could do to pronounce her name.

  “Clair, I'd like you to meet my brother, Stanley.”

  She looked at Glenn with a confused expression, then said, “Your brother?”

  Stanley tapped on his arm.

  “Come heah, I wa… wa… want to ta… talk to you.”

  He leaned in close and whispered, “She's pwetty.”

  Glenn moved away from him, looked at her then back at him.

  “You think so?”

  Clair overheard the conversation and his sarcastic reply and punched him on the arm.

  Taken aback by her gentle assault, he added, “You're right. She's a regular Miss America.”

  Clair grinned.

  “That's better.”

  Stanley laughed as he spoke.

  Not in his usual style and with a hint of sarcasm, he asked, “Is she your gurrrrlfend?”

  He flapped both arms, laughing the whole time.

  “No, she is not my girlfriend.”

  He stopped with the flailing arms and said, “You sa… sa… said she was yur fend, and she is a gurl, so that makes her yur gurlfend!”

  He laughed again and pounded his thighs like a snare drum. They all shared a laugh, and Clair began to relax.

  The three got control over themselves, and Glenn pulled out a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He motioned for Stanley to sit still and tried not to shake. He wobbled a little, but Glenn's light touch held his chin steady as he wiped away some drool that trickled down from his mouth.

  “Can Clair and I walk around with you for a little while.?”

  “Hell ya!”

  “Boy, you got that out loud and clear.”

  As they were moving along, Stanley asked, “Guess what, Cwair?”

  “What is it?”

  “I didn't fawt in gwoop today.”

  “That's good, Stanley.”

  Confused at what to say, she raised both arms and looked at Glenn with an expression that asked, 'now what?' He smiled and with a nodded twitch toward Stanley, prompted her to say something. She got the hint and returned the nod.

  Then in gentle, little circling motions, rubbed him on the back, and said, “I'm proud of you. I'm sure everyone appreciated your courtesy.”

  “Thank you, Cwair.”

  They wandered around for a while, and as they did, Clair was watching many of the kids, sometimes in amazement and other times in astonishment. In another room down the hallway, some of them lay on padded cushions on the floor and squirmed around like a newborn child while others moaned or cried. Some were strapped to a wheelchair so they wouldn't fall off. There were a few who sat motionless, just gazing into space. Clair witnessed several of them getting their much-needed medication to either prolong their lives or maintain it.

  She was noticeably upset by the experience and everything around her.

  Wiping moistened eyes, Clair said, “I hope this isn't one of your date, hot spots.”

  “I've brought one of them along to meet him.”

  “How'd that go?”

  “There wasn't a next one. This visit is different. It is for you. Like I said earlier, the handbook got tossed out when I showed you this place. This might help with a better understanding of yourself.”

  In a curt tone, she said, “Well, it's working. Thanks.”

  “Before we go, take a hard look around. I want you to see what condition they are in and gaze into their faces.”

  Clair zoomed in on several and surveyed each of them with focused eyes.

  “I feel terrible. Those poor kids.”

  “You know what? This is as good as it gets for most of them, including Stanley.”

  Looking at Glenn, she teared up again.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Quiet and uncontrollable sobbing came from her when she asked and demanded an answer.

  “I'm not doing anything to you. This is their reality. You think there isn't a kid in this place that wouldn't trade you for your self-loathing, pathetic set of circumstances?”

  “That's not fair!”

  “Fair?” he exclaimed.

  Then pointing, said, “Ask them what's fair. To them, 'fair' is a place they go to every once in a while, play a few games, see an elephant and maybe eat cotton candy if they can hold it in their stomach long enough to enjoy it. A meal for many of them is a tube shoved in their gut with a mixture of a vitamin-infused muck to keep them nourished, and Stanley is one of them.”

  Glenn continued the lecture.

  “Some struggle to live, like those around us, while others fight to die. Here's the deal. You have a choice most of these people don't. Did you ever consider a fate worse than death? A lot of it is right in front of you. Too many of these and their families, death would be a welcomed friend.”

  She did not like hearing any of this but paid attention to every word.

  “Clair, this is the most unprofessional thing I could ever say to you, but if you don't pull your head out of your ass, you could end up in the adult version of this if you fail to kill yourself again. Want to see one? It's next door.”

  “No. I've seen enough.”

  Clair looked up and took a quick glance at Glenn, then he began walking away and said, “We have to get out of here.”

  She caught up with him, and said their goodbyes to Stanley and Dr. Ellison then retreated to the car. The drive to her apartment was silent. Neither of them spoke and sat there for several minutes. Clair turned toward Glenn.

  “I like your brother. What's wrong with him?”

  He let out a deep sigh.

  “You already know he has Downs Syndrome, and to further complicate his life, he gets to add amyotrophic lateral sclerosis to the list.”

  She had never heard of that before and tried to repeat him but struggled. “What is ah… me… yo… tro… fick?”

  “In laymen terms, Lou Gehrig's Di
sease. Downs hardly kills, but ALS is fatal. He was diagnosed three years ago when he was eighteen. It is rare for a teenager or a younger person to contract it, and time is not his friend.”

  Clair turned away and stared out the window.

  “How much time?”

  “Let me say it this way; whenever I get a call from the center, my heart skips a beat.”

  They arrived at her apartment, but before he dropped her off, he had one last thing to say to recap the day.

  “You have it in you to change and accept the things you can't.”

  Scratching her head, she said, “That sounds familiar.”

  “It should. I'm paraphrasing. You see, Clair, the past is what haunts us. The present is where we find the truth and healing begins. The future holds the prize for that truth and healing, but it takes hard work and a strong commitment. You met those things that haunted you straight on. There is not a therapist, treatment center, pill or magic potion on the planet that can do that for you. What we can do, is guide you through the journey and help you see the light at the other end of a tunnel. Now take what you have learned, go out in the world and live in it.”

  Clair let out a giggle.

  “Up to now, that light at the end of it was a train.”

  Glenn's response was quick.

  “Find another tunnel.”

  Clair made several trips to see her new friend. They shared many hours together over a four-month span of time. Stanley taught her how to play Texas Hold'em —the poker game. But his favorite was the board game Mouse Trap. One of the staff members approached her one day and told her how much Stanley liked her, even referring to her as his girlfriend. It made her smile.

  On one of her visits, and out of the blue, he asked if she believed in God.

  “I think so.”

  “Do you bewieve in baby Jesus?”

  Not knowing how to answer, placated him instead.

  “Yes, I believe in baby Jesus.”

  Clair walked the hallways with him for a while. After a few hours, he said he was tired.

  “Do you want to go to sleep?”

  “Yeah. Will you tu… tu… tuck me in?”

  They got to his dorm room, and with the help from an aide, they lifted him from his wheelchair and placed him in his bed. Before the aide left, she told him it was his feeding time. He ordered a steak and potatoes.