She smiled at him and said, “Sure thing, Stanley, coming right up.”
A few minutes later she returned with tubes and a bottle of the sludge Glenn had mentioned.
“I'll set these here until you are ready.”
Clair looked at the cart with his “dinner.”
He glanced at her, then checked out the tray and said, “Yummy. Wa… wa… want some?”
They spent several more minutes together during his feeding.
“Isn't this neato? I can ta… ta… talk and e… e… eat at the same time.”
His comment left her speechless, but it was his sense of humor and his way of making her feel at ease.
The aide came back to the room and removed the feeding tube.
“Tell the cu… cu… cook, thanks.”
“Will do. Sleep tight.”
“D… d… don't le… le… let the bed bu… bugs bite.”
The aide smiled.
“Good night.”
It was close to his bedtime. Clair pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered him. He reached for her hand.
“Cwair, I want you to bewieve in God.”
He had been somber but perked up.
“I'm going to Heaven and play with baby Jesus.”
“That's sweet.”
“A nice wady said when I go to Heaven, I'll be normal again.”
“Stanley, she might be a nice lady, but you, my friend, are the most normal person I know, and I know a few crazies.”
He laughed.
“Yuah funny, Cwair.”
He settled on the pillow and wiggled around a little to get comfortable. Once relaxed, he tilted his head and looked at her.
He took a labored breath and said, “I la… la… luuuv you, Cu-laaair.”
“Very good, Stanley. You're ready to give a speech.”
“I ha… ha… have, be… been pwacticing.”
“Well it sure paid off. I love you too.”
Stanley couldn't see the tears forming or get the sense of the love replacing the anger in Clair's heart. She kissed him on the cheek and gave a light tap on the chest.
“I'll see you in a day or two.”
And she did.
Stanley was a simple educator and taught Clair a few life lessons. One of them was not to be afraid and be happy. He never said those things, but the way he lived spoke volumes with his actions and attitude.
With continued counseling and after meeting Stanley, Clair knew there were options. She could go down the same path that was killing her, or get fixed, and wanted to prove everyone wrong betting against her, including Glenn. Now the cards were in her hands.
“Live one day at a time” is a cute saying, but for Stanley, each new one was precious because his life was a day-to-day struggle. Clair had choices to make. His ran out years ago, and he knew it. Stanley treated every day as a gift and lived each one to its fullest. He never complained, always smiled, and was happy in the purest sense. He helped his friends in worse shape than he was… and there weren't many. His life was simple and honest. He only wanted love and to be loved and not much more.
A few weeks later, she went to see Stanley, and Glenn was there. His eyes were red and swollen and included an expressionless look on his face. Clair could tell that he had been crying.
“What is it, Glenn?”
Now in a panic, asked, “Where is Stanley?”
Glenn shook his head, and with both arms, he flung them around her and held tight then whispered, “Stanley died this morning. He asked for you.”
She held him even tighter and tried her best to keep her emotions. This was new to Clair, and had feelings that were exploding deep in her soul, but also knew it was time to comfort Glenn — hers would have to wait.
Chapter XIV
Clair drove to a nearby secluded park and sat there for several hours. Her hands gripped the steering wheel with so much force it left an indentation. She never moved a muscle and stared out straight in front; the view didn't even register. This went on until almost dark.
The few times Clair shifted position, was only because of a brief distraction when people came and went during her stay, then only glanced for a second or two. She saw a family picnicking, playing around, and having fun. There were also two young lovers kissing and leaning against a tall oak tree and several neighborhood kids assembled for a make-shift soccer game. As a witness to all the activity, she never made a sound and kept staring.
It was dark by now, and the park was void of any people, except for her. What little light there was, came as a courtesy of a full moon and millions of stars twinkling on a cloudless night sky. She interrupted her silence and got out. She stumbled around like a zombie for a few yards, stopped in place, and fell like a rag doll to her knees. Still silent, but using both fists, leaned forward to pound the ground so hard, her hands and knuckles bled. She was huffing and puffing, and the only sound was her primal moans and groans. Drained of strength, she stopped pounding, raised both clenched fists in the air, and screamed with so much force it hurt her. The pain felt like she'd been hit in the gut with a baseball bat.
Completely spent, her face soaked in tears and sweat, looked up toward the heavens and yelled, “Why? Why? Why?”
The questions bounced off the trees and raced toward the heavenly sky.
“He did nothing to you! He didn't do anything to anybody!”
Clair was getting it, and rightly so; Stanley didn't do anything, and for the first time she understood. His death and her abuse were neither one's fault. Even with some clarity, it did not diminish her anger. She dropped again to the ground on bent knees. Covering her face with her hands, a flood of tears mixed with blood flowed through her fingers while she sobbed.
Toward the end, Clair raised herself from the ground, paused, looked up, and screamed, “Fuck you!”
Tired and exhausted, she collapsed. Her face lay in the dirt, and grass clippings stuck in her hair. The thought of eternal damnation for cursing God put fear in her heart. At that moment, allowing herself to feel was more important than salvation. Salvation could be restored, Stanley's life could not. Perhaps God already understood.
With less anger but increased sobbing, got up to her knees, again looked toward the sky and whispered, “I hate you.”
Chapter XV
The death of her young friend seemed enough of an excuse for at least a drink or two… or several. A week later she went to Sid's, but by-passed McDonald's. Clair took her usual stroll as before. Along the way, glanced up at the billboard and noticed it was a new one.
“It took you long enough.”
Clair got to the front entrance, stared at the flashing open sign, turned, and walked away.
Finally recognizing what the demon was, gave her some amount of tranquility, but remained reserved. Stanley's death and more answers of 'why' hit her hard. Glenn tried to explain her sorrow, any regrets and what it meant. He also had regret in his own life and wasn't sure why… yet. Glenn hurt too, but wanted to help Clair understand her sadness, and it helped him too. They met at his office for a scheduled private, one-on-one session.
She tapped on his half-opened office door.
Looking at his watch, he said, “Hi, Clair, right on time. Come in and take a seat.”
He was sitting at his desk and jotted down a few last-minute notes from an earlier session. He turned and swung a side chair around close to his. They faced each other, almost an arm's length away.
“Let's get started. You and I have spent plenty of time together, and I must say, you have come a long way. I will not use a lot of psychobabble, and I'm way out of my pay-grade. I know a little about this stuff, did some research, and the rest, well, to be honest, I'm just going to wing it. So, let's cut to the chase.”
She settled back in the chair.
“I'm listening.”
Glenn cleared his throat and began.
“Stanley's death took something away from you, and it makes sense you might feel the way you
do. You found something you'd never known growing up: trust, a good relationship, and bonding, all those things you never experienced as a child. They were theories and did not exist for someone who has gone through what you did. Then Stanley came along. He changed that and provided all three.”
“That makes sense.”
During the conversation, she didn't move a muscle. Glenn noticed her eyes shed a tear or two and reached into a lower drawer for a tissue. He handed it to her, and she placed it in her lap.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome. We buy them by the truckload.”
That put a smile on her face.
“Go on, you're on a roll.”
Glenn turned away and took a few notes. Almost moving to the edge of the seat, Clair tried to maneuver her way around him to see what he was jotting down. He swung around, and she snapped back into her previous position, hoping he didn't notice her spying.
“Now where was I?”
Clair was about to help him out, and he put up his hand to stop her.
“Excuse me a sec.”
He turned back to his notes and stayed focused on them.
He never looked up, kept writing, then said matter-of-factly, “I think you feel responsible for his death.”
“I don't understand.”
He finished his note with a dotted I and a crossed T. Afterward, he spun his chair around and gave her his attention.
“We in the 'biz' sometimes throw the term 'magical thinking' around. Some feel they can hope or pray for impossible things to go away or not let happen. If the scenario had turned to the worst, they wished it was you instead of them. But I think what you are experiencing is survivor's guilt.”
“I don't get it.”
“The term originated from war. When a fellow soldier died, and the other didn't they felt guilty. You and Stanley also had your own battles. His was physical, and yours emotional. You two were comrades in arms, so-to-speak, and the feelings you had toward him reinforced guilt. To add to it, after Stanley passed, it strengthened your feeling you were undeserving of anything worthwhile in your life. You allowed yourself to love and trust someone, perhaps for the first time. You let your guard down long enough and invited someone else in.”
There was evidence of a slight sniffle, and with the tissue still in her grasp, took a second to blow her nose.
Glenn knew he was getting close to something and didn't want her to quit.
“Are you all right? Is this too much for now?”
“I'm soaking it in.”
A single tear flowed, and she wiped it hoping Glenn didn't notice. Clair had been leaning forward, but now sat straight up in the chair. With her back against it, had a sense she wasn't going to like what was coming. Her legs were crossed, and her arms lay loosely over her chest, but they were tightening with every word he spoke.
“This is a stretch, but I believe you feel responsible for his death or perhaps envious that it was him and not you.”
“You're right, that was a stretch, but I'm dying to know what you're talking about.”
“I'll try to explain it.”
“Please do.”
“Here it goes. The love you had for him was sabotaged by his death because you were unworthy of it. It was new territory for you. Now, here comes the 'wing it' part, but I believe I'm right. To use the expression, 'if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.' You may have felt like the rough times in your life contributed to his death, and his death affirmed those feelings. Now, you and I both know it isn't true, at least not in our head, but sometimes our heart needs to catch up.”
“What about envy?”
“He's dead, and you're not. His suffering ended.”
Clair looked away and ignored him, reached for the tissue drawer, pulled out a handful and cried.
“He trusted me, and I let him die.”
This went on for a minute or two, and Glenn let her take as much time as she needed.
Clair reached for another tissue from the stockpile and tossed the spent ones into a wastebasket several feet away. Glenn followed its path in the air.
“Nice shot.”
She smiled and blew her nose again.
Glenn redirected the conversation.
“Listen to what I am saying.”
He moved closer, placed both hands on her shoulders, and looked her right in the eyes.
“You are not responsible for his death. The disease killed him, and there was nothing anyone could do.”
With not much else to say, she whispered, “I do wish it was me instead of him.”
“I don't. Stanley's was inevitable; you still have a chance, and one other thing…”
“What?” she asked while still sobbing.
“… God didn't do it either.”
“I guess so. We've already had a chat.”
“Me too. I thanked Him for giving us Stanley and was grateful for the time we had together. How was yours?”
“Not as good. We're not on speaking terms at the moment.”
“That's between you and Him.”
She blew her nose one last time and again tossed the tissue toward the wastebasket. This time, it didn't hit its target. She watched as it bounced off the rim and fell to the floor.
“Figures.”
Glenn got up, walked a few steps away and placed the tissue in the trash with the others. Returning to his chair, Clair covered her face with her hands and wept.
“I miss him so much.”
“Me too, Clair, every day. The bottom line is, he loved and trusted you, but what's more important, is that you loved and trusted him. You may not know it now, but that's a biggie. I want to ask you a question.”
“Fire away.”
Glenn sat back in his chair and asked, “What do you think depression is? Describe it.”
Clair paused for a moment.
“That's easy. Sometimes I felt that my back was against the wall, and it was tall and wide and no way to escape its grasp. It was like an emotional glue that kept me stuck to it.”
Glenn was obviously impressed.
“Pretty good. What about now?”
“The wall is smaller.”
They had a few moments together though not much was said. It was apparent neither one had much going on, and both of them took a few minutes to relax. It was casual and quiet except for a squeaky ceiling fan. During the silence, she reached into her purse for some lip gloss and did her nails; he picked up a magazine and flipped its pages. Glenn stopped on one of the pages.
“Huh.”
Then said aloud, “You can't hide the smell; all you do is mask the odor.”
“What on God's green earth does that mean?”
“It's right here. See?”
He showed the page, and she glanced at it.
“It's a room freshener ad, but it got me to thinking about you.”
“Gee whiz, thanks a lot.”
“You misunderstood me. I think a lot of the time, people put on a mask to survive and hide, but under the surface of it lies a deeper cause of why they need one. For once, you lifted yours enough to let some of us take a peek —” then pointing at her heart — “who Clair really is.”
“I thought you were off the clock.”
Glenn tossed the magazine back on his desk.
“I was. I have another client in the waiting room, so let's wrap it up. Do you have any questions?”
“No, I don't think so. I'm good.”
“How are the meds?”
“Peachy keen.”
He gave her a light pat on the knee.
“Alrighty then. Godspeed and keep up the good work. Call anytime.”
Glenn worked on his notes as she went toward the door.
“Clair?”
She stopped and turned.
“Yes, Glenn, what is it?”
He never looked up from his note-taking and spoke as he wrote.
“I want you to know how proud I am of you.”
She said
nothing, smiled, and continued to walk out.
“One more thing.”
Again, she turned.
“What?”
“You've inspired me to write a book why people kill themselves.”
“Splendid. What's it called.”
“Why People Kill Themselves.”
She laughed.
“Very original.”
Now it was her turn.
“Glenn?”
Still looking at her, he responded.
“Yes?”
“You make me smile.”
He smiled in return.
That was her last visit with Glenn. He signed off on the chart using the typical counseling shorthand and symbols, but translated it read: “Treatment plan complete, goals at level. Send final bill.”
At the end of his notes, one statement was highlighted with a yellow marker. It read:
“Affect, normal,” meaning she was doing just fine. For once, it was the truth and not an acronym.
* * *
Clair remembered to stop by her mother's house for some old art supplies stored in the attic. Clair arrived at the house and noticed her mother's car wasn't there. She knocked on the back door and let herself in.
She hadn't paid too much attention but heard a noise coming from the kitchen. Clair stuck her head around the corner to get a look. It was Edward.
He was eating cereal, and between bites, said, “Hello, Clair. You look lovely.”
She ignored him, and he went back to maul the rest of his meal.
As Edward wiped milk dripping running down the side of his mouth, and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I'm here to pick up a few things.”
“Do you want any help?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
“No thanks, I can do it myself.”
She made her way to the hallway a few feet from where her bedroom used to be and pulled the rope to let down the ceiling ladder. Placing one foot on the first rung and the other flat on the floor, glanced down the hallway which led to her old bedroom. Clair could still see the scratches and indentions left behind on the door frame from the times Edward tried to break into her room. Flashes of the past raced through her, and felt the need to get the hell out of there, but made the climb instead. At the top, within reach, she found the light switch and flipped it on. With both feet safely on the attic floor, she went to the other side where her stuff was stored. The boxes were stacked and labeled, then went through them one at a time.
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