Fatal Analysis (GG02)

by Tom Bierdz

  That’s when I noticed a scrawny, old guy a few tables down, his bony hands clasped around a half-empty pilsner glass, his head hung low, only a foot away from the glass. A picture of dejection and failure, I wondered what went wrong in his life. Did he have someone at home, or was he destined to live out his remaining years alone, drinking to numb the pain?

  And, what about me? Where was my destiny? Was I destined to be burdened with the pain from my son’s suicide for the rest of my life? Pain from the loss of the son I treasured who was so like me? Torment from the guilt of not seeing the signs and not acting to prevent his death? And, I a psychiatrist. Of all people, I should have the savvy, the sensitivity, the know-how, the means, the realization, etcetera, etcetera, to help him and prevent this catastrophe. That’s what Hanna said. That’s what I believed.

  Maybe if she hadn’t believed so deeply in me, thought I was the best damn therapist this side of Freud, her expectations might have been more realistic. Perhaps, then she’d see me as the guy who didn’t have all the answers; as someone educated and capable, but human and flawed like every other so-called expert who wasn’t always in control of his emotions. But I lavished in her admiration and devotion, stroked it with my dogmatic pompousness, freely sprinkling my authority like a priest ritualistically waving an incense thurible.

  I’ve learned ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous thing’ and have been humbled by Kevin’s suicide. Where was my learning and observational skills when I needed them most? When I might have saved my son’s life?

  I nursed my beer until the sun sunk beneath the horizon then sauntered to the bridge, feeling the tightness in my chest. There was more traffic than I liked, but I couldn’t wait until the wee hours of the morning when the bridge might be abandoned. The pull was too strong; my presence was needed now. A half-moon illuminated the night. I walked the narrow path alongside the fence, ignoring the roaring cars, to somewhere near the center of the bridge where I imagined Kevin leaped. With a heavy heart I scanned the river, perused the homes and businesses glowing in the darkness, wondering how insulated and unaware they were of the many lives that had been extinguished by these calm waters who give so much life, and yet, paradoxically, take them also. At night I see no reflection, nothing but a dark void, like a fickle lover who can suck you in, choke you out. What did it call out to Kevin? Let me wrap you in my bosom, take your pain away? What could he have been thinking? What could have been so painful that made him want to leave this bountiful world with so much abundance? How could he have been so blinded to not see that today’s darkness becomes light, that time heals, that we have unlimited resources to deal with whatever ails us if only to look within?

  I was nauseous. Woozy. Lightheaded. I latched on to the fence, denting my hands from squeezing so hard. I gagged, choking down the bile that rose in my throat. What the hell did I expect to accomplish by being there? I could faint, roll into the street and be killed. I missed Kevin but I wasn’t ready to meet him in the afterlife. More likely, someone would find me lying on the walkway, think I was a vagrant, find alcohol on my breath and add dirt to my already blemished reputation. Where did that weird thought come from?

  Drawn and repulsed by the water below. Was that what Kevin felt? My Kevin, the chip off the old block? The Kevin I can never take to a ballgame again, have those father-son talks I anticipated and believed there was plenty of time for, attend his college graduation, meet his fiancée, welcome his wife into our home. And, unless I remarry and have another child, I’ll never have grandchildren.

  Goddamn it, Kevin! Did you have to be so selfish? You took so much away from me and your mom. You stole our future. I can’t blame you for our marriage break-up. We destroyed each other, but we’d still be together if you hadn’t jumped. My tears poured out. No longer quiet tears, but loud, pathetic sobs. I cried for my losses; all of them.

  Suddenly, as quickly and spontaneous as it began, the crying stopped. I felt divorced from my body. Without feeling, I was all intellect. A highly critical intellect that questioned why I was parading around as a therapist, charging fees for problem-solving, when I failed to save my son, even sense the extent of his pain and confusion. I failed as a father and a therapist. Earlier, after the first few months of Kevin’s death, I seriously considered surrendering my practice and taking up a different profession. Reason prevailed. Despite my loss and the additional pain I experienced whenever my patient’s problems related to mine, striking like a hot poker to my gut, I knew I would be a better therapist because I could completely identify. I had walked the walk. But I would also need to come to a resolution about my son’s death.

  Drained. Totally wiped out, I whispered goodbye to Kevin and headed back off the bridge. I wasn’t sure what I had accomplished, if anything, by returning to the scene where it happened, but I felt cleansed. I had washed away a residue that clogged my pores. Though exhausted, I felt freer. It was time now to deal with matters of the present.

  I returned home feeling tired but calm. My answering machine was blinking like a nervous puppy who needed to pee. I fetched my cell phone to get my calls from voicemail, convinced the majority of calls from both machines were from Megan. Impatient Megan. I wanted to avoid all the calls, but I couldn’t because they could be from my answering service telling me to call patients in need, patients that were possibly suicidal. With rare exceptions I answer my calls immediately, any time day or night, since time can be critical with a suicidal patient. I shunned my obligations tonight. I was too needy, unable to get outside of myself. Instead of gambling everything would be alright, I should have asked another psychiatrist to take my calls. As I began to check my voicemail, I could only hope I wouldn’t pay a price for my neglect, add another layer of guilt due to patient trauma on top of the already heavy burden of guilt I carried. Fortunately, none of the calls were patient originated. Of the twelve total from both phones, ten were from Megan; the other two related to professional meetings.

  I knew I should have called her. She expected me around six. Letting her know I was not going to be there was common courtesy. Rightfully, she’s upset, but does she have to call me ten times? Who calls ten times? Someone who’s very anxious or very angry. My money was on the anger. I had a mind to ignore her until tomorrow but that would just accentuate the situation. Still relatively calm, I decided to call her after pouring a tumbler of scotch. I pictured her as a molten volcano as I punched in her number, steeling myself for her harangue.

  Instead she was sweetness personified. “Oh, God, Grant. I was so worried about you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry about not calling you earlier but I had something I had to take care of.” I heard her breathing, patiently waiting for me to continue. “I needed to visit the bridge where Kevin jumped.”

  Still nothing on the other end. I sipped my drink. “I’m okay.”

  “Good! I was so worried about you. I had this weird feeling in my stomach that something bad was going to happen. I can relax now. I apologize for all the calls, but I was so worried.”

  “I understand,” I said only because that’s what she wanted to hear. I didn’t understand, and still believed her incessant calls were spurred by anger from feelings of rejection.

  “It’s too late for the movies. Should I come over?”

  I was tempted by her sweetness and a part of me wanted to cuddle in her warmth. “I need to be by myself, reflect on my visit to the bridge.”

  “What about Carrie?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

  “What do you mean?” It dawned on me that she could think I was spending the night with Carrie. Maybe even made up the part about Kevin.

  “I mean...what was her problem? Why did she need to see you?”

  “She’s pregnant...Not mine! I’ll tell you more tomorrow when I see you.”

  “Let’s talk in the morning. Make our plans.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Grant.”

  “Me, too. Bye.”

  I snapped the
phone shut, remained in my stool by the breakfast bar, sipped my scotch and tried put order to the day that had so much stuffed into it. There was Carrie’s pregnancy, my visit to the bridge, and Megan telling me she loved me. My calmness had evaporated. My head was swimming with the events of the day and what possible ramifications they would spark in the future.

  25

  I hadn’t slept well, and tired the next morning I moved very slowly, and laid on the couch after a breakfast of coffee and cereal. I couldn’t help noticing the bare walls. I’d been in the place for over a year and still they remained bare. Plain white walls. What was that about? Obviously, it represented my incompleteness; it was as if this time was such an interim period, it didn’t make much sense to put all the effort into decorating to make it my own. A few months maybe; a whole year, no way.

  This wasn’t the first time I had this talk with myself. There were multiple versions. The thing was that, despite my awareness of what this meant, I still made no effort to do anything about it. I had a couple of paintings I picked up at local art fairs stored somewhere in the apartment. I didn’t recall the image on one; the other was of a peaceful pink-orange sunset glowing behind a mountain. Hanging that would be too apropos, signifying an ending. Closure. There was my analytical mind again. I couldn’t merely accept the painting as capturing a beautiful moment in time. I had to assign meaning to it. Nothing in my life had been resolved. Everything was still very much in the state of flux. So the walls remained bare. I turned my body over so I wouldn’t have to face the walls. Maybe if I could meditate.

  The doorbell rang. It couldn’t be Megan, because I had already called her and told her I’d catch a cab and see her shortly after noon. Figuring it was probably a sales call, or a visit from a missionary which seemed to be the order of the day on Sunday, I chose not to answer and rolled over instead. When the ringing persisted and knocking was added, I pulled myself up and stumbled to the door. It was Hanna, looking healthy with rosy cheeks, in a pink, breast-cancer awareness, jogging outfit, pink shoes and cap-- pink from head to toe. Stunned, I stood, my mouth agape.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” she asked.

  “No. No. I’m just surprised.” Hanna had never called on me unannounced before.

  “Well, I was just in the neighborhood...” Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “You can’t possibly believe that. I stopped by to see if you want to walk with me. It’s a beautiful morning and I wanted to share it with you.”

  There was a time, a few years back, when Hanna and I walked together, sometimes in our neighborhood, other times in the many parks and trails in the Seattle area. We found the walks to be freeing, frequently using the time to unload, sharing thoughts and feelings. It was our time and helped us stay connected when family, work, or other demands pulled us apart. Some years back, before Kevin left us, we got away from our walks. We blamed it on the weather and life’s incessant demands, but we simply didn’t put forth the effort to protect that time for ourselves. I realized I missed those walks.

  “Come in,” I said, opening the door wide. “I’ll grab a jacket.” I put on my shoes and jacket and when I returned to the living room Hanna stood, her face scrunched up, observing my living space.

  “Grant, you need a woman’s touch. Still nothing on the walls.”

  “I’m ready,” I said, cutting off the conversation, anticipating perhaps, that she might offer herself and further complicate my situation. It was complicated enough.

  “You’ve been walking a lot?” I asked, as we headed down the sidewalk.

  “Not as much as I should. Isn’t this a great time of the day? Still a bite in the air. It tickles my lungs. And the varied shades of green as the trees bud out.” She increased her pace, causing me to step it up.

  I couldn’t simply enjoy the moment. I got right down to business. “Why are you here?”

  “Oh, Grant, hasn’t anybody told you your timing is atrocious?”

  “Yeah, you have. Several times. I’m sorry, Hanna, I’d love to simply just be in the moment with you, but too much has happened. Is happening. Is it about Hank? Last time we talked you were going away with him to a ballgame out of town.”

  “Maybe. I’m not really sure why I’m here. I’m not privy to that self-awareness that you seem to have.”

  She was totally off the mark with that one. At the moment I was so out of touch with my feelings that I might have been in someone else’s body. Hanna’s appearance added to my confusion. But to share that now was counter-productive. “Wish I had the capacity you give me credit for. You talk, I’ll listen.”

  “Can we just walk for a while?”

  “Sure.” I grudgingly got in step.

  We both watched the missionaries, two clean-cut, young men dressed in shirt and tie and dark trousers, on bicycles headed in our direction.

  “I never see them in my neighborhood,” Hanna said.

  “They know where the sinners are,” I said.

  She smiled again.

  I felt I had redeemed my earlier faux pas of pushing too fast and too hard. We walked in silence for a good twenty minutes. It was the route I walked to work until we veered off toward the park, but it felt completely different. Almost brand new. I noticed things I hadn’t seen before–neighborhood watch signs in the windows, daffodils poking out of the ground, a fence in need of repair.

  We strolled into the park, sat upon a park bench.

  Hanna loosened the zipper on her top. Starring into the distance she said, “Hank is nice, treats me well. The ballgame trip was pleasant.” She turned to me, shuttered. “I don’t enjoy this dating scene. I mean Hank is as good as they come, probably most women would consider him a good catch. He is handsome, respectful, intelligent, a good provider, but I don’t feel anything. There’s no chemistry.” She frowned, shook her head.

  I sensed she felt she disappointed me by telling me this, as if I expected her to hurry up and get on with her life and relieve me of any burden. Alimony would cease when she remarried, but it was more than that. She knew I felt an emotional responsibility as well as a financial one. “Why are you sharing this with me?”

  She clasped my hand. “I need to tell someone and you know me better than anyone else.” She released her hand, patted my knee. “Ironic, isn’t it? I push you out of my life, then turn to you for advice.”

  “Because I’m a therapist?”

  “Because you were a good listener when you were my husband.”

  Maybe if we negated Kevin’s suicide and its ramifications. “That seems so long ago now.”

  “Yes, and now that we’ve put a little distance between us, I can see things a little clearer. I can remember how good those early years were, and that’s the standard I use to compare against any new relationships. Nothing measures up. My relationship with Hank doesn’t measure up.”

  Listening to Hanna talk about her relationship with Hank made me uncomfortable. “Maybe you have to give it more time.”

  “I will. We’re still dating. I’m trying to modify my expectations, but I don’t have a lot of hope.”

  Wrapping my arm around her, I said, “You know I want the best for you.”

  “I know.” She pressed her cheek to mine. “Again, I’m sorry for blaming you for Kevin.”

  “Thanks. You doing better?”

  “I have my good days.” Planting a kiss on my cheek, she stood, “Let’s head back.”

  I thought about telling her how I had been drawn to the bridge where Kevin jumped but I didn’t, intuitively feeling this wasn’t the time to talk about Kevin. I didn’t think Hanna would want to go there.

  “Oh!” we both shouted when a boy on a skateboard tumbled after his board hit a raised section of sidewalk. He seemed to be alright when he picked himself up and skated away. I thought about how Kevin loved to do tricks with his skateboard. I thought Hanna was going to say something about that when she looked up at me. She didn’t. Instead, she asked, “How are things with your fiancée?”

  �
��You mean Megan? She’s not my fiancée.”

  “Potential fiancée!”

  “We’re dating, but you’re jumping too far ahead.”

  “Our neighbor Jane ran into the two of you at a restaurant. Says you two made enough electricity to light up the place.”

  I scoffed.

  She reached up and tore off a maple leaf from a branch that bent down and edged the walkway. “Jane says she hears that Miss Wilshire gets what she goes after. Bobby says you’re seeing her exclusively.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bobby’s got a big mouth.”

  “In defense of Bobby, I had to pry it out of him. He’s very loyal to you. He gave me no details, only confirmed that you were only dating Megan.”

  “Why did you bring this up?”

  “Because I care about you.” Seeing the confusion on my face, she continued, “Not in that way. We’ve shared a lot together. I care what happens to you. Miss Wilshire gives me bad vibes. I think she’s dangerous. I have no facts to back that up. Just a feeling.”

  I averted her eyes, focused on the walk ahead of me and mulled her concern. Was she simply jealous or should I heed her warning? Hers wasn’t the first.

  We returned to my house. I thanked her for the walk, said my goodbyes, and retreated into the house.

  26

  Megan had prompted me to accompany her to check out a starving artist’s exhibit in a downtown loft apartment. She was part of a wealthy civic group who subsidized new artists, helping them get started until they could develop a following and support themselves. A member of the civic group offered her swanky loft for the exhibit. Megan parked her car in a tall, parking structure, paying the valet extra to keep it on the ground floor so it wouldn’t be driven down the narrow spiral exit.