by Ka Hancock
Thomas Worthington smiled and looked me straight in the eyes. “So, Lucy Chandler, what does being mostly fine mean?”
I smiled wanly and imagined how this conversation would sound to the likes of Mr. Thomas Worthington with his perfect marriage and perfect kids: Well, Mr. Worthington, my husband attempted suicide the other night so I took off because I’m pregnant and dying, and he promised to take me to Hawaii. And I’m sure I must sound like a jerk to have abandoned him, but, well, you see, you have to understand . . . I looked at him, ready to answer his question with a meaningless pleasantry, but for some reason I started to cry. Not anything gushing. Just a silent accumulation of tears.
Thomas Worthington did not look away. Instead, he handed me the napkin from his drink and said, “What can I do for you?”
I found his concern so irresistible that my words began limping out of me indiscriminately. I told him about Mickey. I told him more than I had ever told anyone else, and he seemed sincerely fascinated by our relationship, probably because he was a therapist. Looking at me in a deliberate kind of way, he said, “Can you even imagine your husband’s life if he’d never found you? He’s a lucky man, indeed.”
It took me a moment to respond. “I’ve never thought of it like that,” I finally said. “I’ve just thought of how drab and predictable my life would be without him.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Mr. Worthington chuckled.
“When I met him, I knew I’d found something I hadn’t even known I was looking for. He tried a few times to save me from marrying him. But I think we both just knew we belonged to each other.”
Thomas Worthington nodded. “It really is a miracle when we find our other half—that one person that makes our life complete, warts and all.”
“It’s true. And now I can’t imagine my life without him.” I turned away to compose myself. Why was I here? What was I doing? I didn’t want to be anywhere without Mickey. Not Hawaii, not in my own house, not wherever my soul was headed. I didn’t want to be without him, and the thought pierced my heart.
We’d been quiet a long time when I again turned to Thomas Worthington. “Do you believe in life after death?” I said, shocked at my brazen inquiry, but somehow certain I could ask it of this man.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, absolutely.”
“Really? How do you picture it?”
He seemed to chew on this for a moment. “Perfect. Lovely beyond description. Surrounded by everyone important to us. And in perfect health,” he added emphatically.
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?”
He studied me for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe in life after death, Lucy?”
I thought for a minute. “When I was little, my father told me about death. I couldn’t sleep one night thinking about it, and he told me these three secrets so I wouldn’t be afraid. He said death wasn’t the end, and it didn’t hurt, and if I wasn’t afraid, I’d have some warning of when it was going to happen. I’ve carried those words with me like a talisman my whole life.”
“He sounds like a wonderful father.”
I smiled and didn’t speak again until I knew I wouldn’t cry. “Just a few days after we’d had that conversation, he was killed. It was like he knew, and he wanted me to know—and I did know—that everything he’d said was true.”
“What an amazing story.”
I nodded. “I guess it is. My mother died when I was seventeen, and the same thing happened. It was like I knew the secret to death. I had the answer, the key, to get through what you have to go through when someone you love dies. And now I think I believe it because I just can’t see the point of our lives otherwise. Or maybe I’m just afraid not to believe it because it gives me such comfort. I don’t know which.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I think it’s the separation that frightens us.”
“I do, too.”
I meant to tell Thomas Worthington about the cancer crawling unchecked through my body. I meant to explain my annoying cough, but somehow the mood seemed too soft, too tender, for those hard realities, so I didn’t. It was as though there was no need.
When we landed in Honolulu, I wanted to hug him because I didn’t think there was any other way for me to convey my appreciation for his kindness. But I didn’t hug him; I just teased him, saying he was probably sorry he’d introduced himself after incurring our lengthy conversation.
Thomas Worthington then looked at me with such earnest sincerity that I was a little taken aback. “I wouldn’t have missed sitting by you, Lucy.” He smiled. “I’ve lived long enough to realize there are no accidents. I travel all over. Don’t be surprised if I show up at Midlothian someday just to see how you’re doing.” He handed me his business card. “If you ever want to continue our discussion, you call me, Lucy.”
Touched, I took his card and thanked him. When he pulled out his cell phone, I told him good-bye and made my way to the ticketing counter to book my flight home.
The soonest I could get a guaranteed seat was two days away, so I took a shuttle to the Hyatt Regency, where I had reservations, and called to check on Mickey. I wanted only to know that he was safe, and the night nurse told me he was a little better, but still on suicide watch, which, all things considered, made him just about as safe as he could be. I took a long shower, ordered a turkey sandwich on rye, and nearly fell asleep waiting for it. When housekeeping called and woke me up the next morning, I’d been dreaming of a man and a woman in the thirties. The man was lean and wiry and wore a uniform, his face somehow familiar to me. The woman was small, and I had the impression she was crying. There were two little girls, a toddler and a baby. The baby wore my mother’s face. As I woke up, the images evaporated until all I could remember was the man who wore the uniform. I felt certain he was my grandfather and certain that dreaming of him now was no accident.
I called the concierge and arranged for a sightseeing tour later that morning, one that I desperately wished Mickey were here to share. Then I called Edgemont. Peony said that Mickey had started to settle down—his irritability was waning, which meant depression lay in its wake. Peony let me know that he was in a session with Gleason at the moment, so I told her just to tell him I had called and would call again. I hung up sick with missing him.
I’m not sure what I expected on my sightseeing trip to Pearl Harbor. I’d grown up knowing my grandfather died on the USS West Virginia. But he was just a face in a photo album that had never sparked any particular sentiment in me—until now. I settled into my plastic chair atop a ferry called the Adventurer V and found my emotions close to the surface. I was soon numbed by the vivid description of that December morning in 1941, when the Japanese descended on our unsuspecting Pacific Fleet. I was captivated as the carnage and chaos played itself out in my mind, particularly pricked by the mention of the West Virginia.
I thought of him. William Dean Butler. Twenty-six years old. What had he been doing? At the moment he realized what was happening, what was his first thought? Was it of his beloved wife home in Massachusetts with their two little girls—my mom and Aunt Gwen? Did thoughts of him pierce Grandma’s heart as he breathed out his last breath? Dead at twenty-six. If everything happened for a reason, where was the reason in that?
The memorial built over the USS Arizona was eerie and sobering. I bought a book that listed the names of all eleven hundred men that were entombed in that massive ship. Each one had a life, a story, dreams. It didn’t make sense that it could be so over for them. Suddenly dead, midsentence, midbreath, midthought.
I could not imagine being over. I could not fathom never holding Mickey again, never feeling his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine. I couldn’t imagine never laughing with my sisters again, or walking through Brinley Loop, which I could do with my eyes closed. And I could not imagine not knowing the little girl inside me. Not being able to kiss away her tears, bandage her knees, take her picture on her first day of school, the day she got married. Thinking of all this life that would go on wi
thout me was torment.
It’s not the end, I heard my father’s echo.
“It’s not the end,” I breathed out. It had to be true. I needed it to be true. Surely our lives held more purpose than building a posterity we would never know. Our lives had to continue on to something else—if not, what was the point of a twenty-six-year-old husband and father dying at the whim of a Japanese dive-bomber? What was the point of a thirty-four-year-old pregnant woman dying of cancer? Even as I asked, I felt a calm hand on my heart and my father’s reassurance.
That quiet comfort was the perfect birthday present.
twenty-four
SEPTEMBER 9, 2011
I did it for her. I should write it all down in detail so she’ll know, but sitting up, holding a pen, moving it across paper, is taking too much strength, maybe all my strength. So I lie here and stare at the ceiling and wonder if there was an alternative. I don’t think there was. A man only has his own tools, even if they’re broken. I used mine. I had to. For her.
I called Gleason from the airport as I waited for my flight home. He told me Mickey was stabilizing, but he’d fought it and had required some extra medication to manage his depression. “Gleason, be honest with me. Is he still suicidal?”
“He’s not saying. But he’s fighting some kind of battle that worries me. I’ve kept him pretty medicated until his lithium level evens out.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve also thrown in an old medication he’s responded to in the past.”
Impulsively I asked, “Do you think he’ll even out anytime soon?”
“I sincerely hope so, Lucy. You certainly deserve that.”
I sighed again. “My plane gets into Hartford at about noon. Can I see Mickey when I get home?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Thanks, Gleason. Thanks for everything.”
“You’re quite welcome. Be safe, Lucy. I’ll see you soon.”
When my next plane finally landed at Hartford/Springfield, I was stiff and sick to my stomach. It was partly the bumpy ride and the stale air, but it was also thoughts of Mickey that had bombarded me during the flight. I was stuck between dread and excitement at the prospect of seeing him. Dread because I didn’t know what to expect, and excitement because I’d missed him so much. But then, I’d been missing him for weeks. I claimed my car from long-term parking, tossed the flowered shirts I’d bought at the airport in the backseat, and headed toward the interstate.
Autumn had apparently arrived in my short absence. A nip was in the air, and the sky was overcast—Mickey would call it a moody day. It rained the whole way to Brinley, and by the time I got to Edgemont, it was pouring.
When I reached the third-floor nurses’ station, I could see You poor girl written all over Peony Litman’s smile. “Now, honey,” she said, “he’s not doin’ too good, our Mickey. I just want to prepare you. You know Dr. Webb has him on some heavy stuff.”
I nodded. “Gleason told me.”
Peony sent me down the hall with an encouraging nod, and I went off to find my husband. The combination psychiatric/substance-abuse ward at Edgemont is configured in two long hallways, one for each specialty. Both halls are clearly visible from the central nurses’ station, and as I walked, I could feel Peony’s eyes on my back. Mickey’s room was at the bottom of the psych hall, and I found myself peering through the open doors as I passed. In one room a small, thin man walked around in circles, muttering softly. In another, a woman was balled up in a chair. She looked at me with child’s eyes.
I slowed as I reached Mickey’s room and took a deep breath. He didn’t know I was coming. I hadn’t seen him for five days, and I found I was reluctant to walk into the unknown. When I stopped just short of his door, I heard crying, soft and plaintive and heartbreaking. A man crying has got to be the most pitiful sound in the whole world. The sound was coming from a bed against the wall, but the room was so dim I couldn’t make out the face.
Another bed was behind the door, and presently I saw my husband shuffle from that direction across the room to the man crying. He moved slowly, tentatively, his posture bent with the effects of his medication. His back was to me and he was wearing the old maroon bathrobe I had dropped off the day after he was admitted.
“John, it’s okay. John, don’t cry,” Mickey crooned in a soothing, if raspy, voice. He made it to the bed and sat down. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, pal. Don’t be afraid. Do you need some water?” I watched him pick up a styrofoam cup from the bedside table with a shaking hand. He gently lifted the man’s head off his pillow. Though some of the water sloshed over the edge with Mickey’s tremors, he got the straw into the man’s mouth. I could see now that Mickey’s roommate was loosely restrained by a body Posey, a cloth device used to keep him from getting out of bed, or falling out. Mickey had been restrained like that in the past to keep him from wandering when he was psychotic.
I watched him, my beautiful husband, resembling nothing so self-assured and funny as the man he got paid for being. He was tender and kind and quiet, and at the moment he was this man’s savior.
True, his mind was frayed and contorted by defective DNA, not to mention the drugs meant to counteract that DNA. His thoughts couldn’t always be trusted, and his conduct was frequently driven by conjecture and wrongly processed information. Yet, despite that, here he was, a man of great heart and compassion soothing the fear of a delirious man.
I watched him replace the cup and take the man’s beseeching hand in his tremulous one. “It’s okay, John. You’re not alone, buddy.”
“Don’t leave me,” came the man’s gravelly plea, desperate and heart-wrenching.
“Where am I going, John? Dancing? I’m staying right here.”
Mickey sat with his frightened friend for several long minutes. He stared blankly at the wall, deep in his own thoughts as he absently patted the man’s hand. After a while, Mickey gently disengaged himself and stood to pull the blanket to the chin of his now quiet roommate. When he was finished, he slowly turned around.
When Mickey saw me, he was surprised, like he was seeing me out of context. I stayed where I was, not sure he wanted me there, but then his eyes tried to smile and he said, “Hey, baby.”
“Hey.”
He held out his arms, and I walked slowly into them and was wrapped in the only real place that felt like home. Still, I sighed, as I remembered the girl in the hotel.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back, Lu,” he whispered.
I pushed myself up on my toes and looked at his face. His eyes were sad, and he looked older than he did five days ago. “Kiss me, Mickey. Then tell me what happened.”
He took my face in his big, shaking hands and kissed me like he meant it. When he finally pulled away from me, he took my hand and led me to his bed, where we sat down. His hands trembled, and I wrapped them in mine.
“What’s this shaking about?”
“Gleason’s been worried, so he’s giving me an older antipsychotic for a few days.”
“Are you psychotic?”
“I don’t know. I was, I guess. I thought it was a bad dream.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I looked around and avoided his eyes. My gaze fell on a framed needlepoint of an angel, the work exquisite, the colors dull. I picked it up. The caption said CHRISTINA THE ASTONISHING. It was very old.
“Muriel and Oscar brought it to me. Apparently she’s the patron saint of insanity. They found it in an antiques store in Greenwich and knew I had to have it.” Mickey chuckled with effort. “It’s kind of cool. I didn’t even know there was a patron saint of insanity.”
“Me neither. It’s kind of creepy.” I put her back on the nightstand, beside a card and a small plant.
“That’s from Treig and Diana. They came yesterday.”
I looked at him. “You’re a popular guy.”
“They’re just very nice neighbors.”
“I missed you.”
“I didn’t keep my promise,” he sai
d. “I missed your birthday.”
“I know.”
For a long time we didn’t say anything, then Mickey whispered, “I love you, Lucy. You know that, right?”
“I think so. But I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I acted crazy.”
“Acted?”
“Well, maybe not acted. It’s just that this is different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think I’m as bad this time as everyone thinks I am.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
Mickey looked at the floor.
“What are you saying?”
He shook his head and didn’t look at me.
“What?”
“Gleason’s a great doctor, but he can’t always tell the difference between my insanity and my regret that I’m insane.”
“What does that mean? I don’t understand.”
Mickey’s dull, sad eyes found mine. “I’m scared to lose you. . . . I just don’t know how to do any of this without you. And at the moment, that is being interpreted as insane.” He looked hard at me. “I wish I was stronger, or better at this.” He kissed my palms. “But I’m not. Gleason can throw pills at me all day, and it won’t change anything. It won’t change what’s happening to you. To us.”
I had no response for this, and I suppose Mickey was able to read that in my face because he lifted my chin. “Talk to me, Lu.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you understand.”
“I don’t. You were with another woman.”
“No, I wasn’t. Not in any way that counts. And you know it.”
“You took all your medicine. You tried to kill yourself.”
Mickey didn’t say anything.
“Right? That’s what happened, right?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Maybe. I’m sure it’s the reason for all the meds and extra therapy.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lucy, I don’t know.”
“Mickey, I know what’s happening to us is hard and not fair, but we have to deal with it. We have to because something more important is at stake here. Can’t you understand?” The shadows were deep across his face, and I hoped they were deep across mine, because I didn’t want him to see my disappointment. “I’ve been confused about the other night, and I need a straight answer. What happened? Did you really try to kill yourself?”