Elephant in the Sky

by Heather A. Clark

  I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to shut it all out, and started to pray.

  36

  Someone gently tugged at my shoulder. I was groggy and completely unaware of where I was until I finally managed to blink my bleary eyes into clarity and saw Pete standing in front of me in Nate’s hospital room.

  “Hi sweetie,” Pete said softly. I stretched, then grabbed Pete’s wrist to look at his watch. It was just after eleven a.m. Pete and I had slept for most of the morning. After he’d brought us both breakfast, Pete had located another chair and we’d fallen asleep, side by side, next to Nate’s bed, our heads propped against each other’s. My neck felt stiff and cricked as a result.

  “Sorry to wake you, but your iPhone has been going off like crazy for the past hour and I’m wondering if there’s anyone you need to reach out to?”

  “What? Oh … right. Work is probably wondering what the hell happened to me.”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “What about Tay? Have you talked to her?” I needed to know how Grace was doing. It was far more concerning to me than work.

  “Yes. Several times, actually. We agreed that she’d tell Grace and anyone else who asks that Nate was found and is in the hospital for monitoring. That we’re with him, and we aren’t sure of next steps yet.”

  “That sounds good, I guess.” I had no idea what to tell people, but everyone needed to know that Nate had been found and was safe.

  “Grace desperately wants to come here,” Pete continued. “Tay is holding her at bay for now. But we need to figure out what to tell her and when to see her.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you want to call and talk to her? I talked to her early this morning after I spoke to Tay, and it made me feel better. I know she wants to talk to you. She mentioned it several times while I was speaking with her.”

  “I’ll call her after school.”

  “Okay.”

  We sat in silence and watched our son. Beside me, my phone went off. I started to reach for it but quickly retracted. I didn’t know what to say to whoever was trying to reach me.

  “Pete?” I asked hesitantly. “I don’t want to fight. I’m too exhausted. But I need to know … I need to ask you about my dad.”

  Pete looked directly at me with sadness in his eyes.

  When he didn’t respond, I continued, “How can he be bipolar? And how do you know about it? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s a long story, Ash. I’m not sure now is the right time for it.”

  “I think it’s the perfect time. All we have right now is time. And I have no doubt the doctors will be asking about it soon anyway.”

  Pete nodded his head. “Can I get a coffee first? Do you want one?”

  “No. I need to know. Now, Pete. You owe me that.”

  “I know. You’re right.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he stopped talking. I could practically hear the hamster wheel spinning in his brain as he tried to figure out where to begin.

  I urged him on. “The last time I saw him, or heard from him, was that horrible Christmas. I thought that was the last time you had heard from him, too. Why don’t you start there? You know, at the beginning?” Immediately, I wished I hadn’t tacked on that last sentence; it was more sarcastic than I’d intended.

  “Okay. That makes sense.” Pete took a big breath. “After you kicked your father out on Christmas Eve, I didn’t hear from him for a very long time. I thought he was pissed off at being kicked out on Christmas, and had decided to get out of our lives for good. I know that’s what you thought, too.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “You’re right about that.”

  “About two years later, just before Christmas, I got a call from a hospital in Florida. It was a psychiatrist, calling to speak to me about your father.”

  “Go on.”

  Pete took a deep breath and continued, “Months before that, in the summertime, your father had been at some party and had hit the booze pretty hard. Then he did cocaine.”

  “Cocaine? What? My father did cocaine?” My voice rose with every word.

  “Yes. Cocaine. I have no idea if he had been doing it a lot or if it was his first time. But, on that particular night, he did it. A lot of it. And eventually he started acting crazy. At first, everyone at the party thought it was the coke making him act all weird. But he got worse and started screaming and throwing things. Apparently, he threw a bunch of wine glasses against the wall, and even punched one guy in the head, claiming the guy was an undercover cop and was going to bust them all for drugs.”

  “Was he? The guy he punched, I mean. Was he an undercover cop?”

  “No. He was just some guy at the party. But your dad was convinced he was a cop. He was just paranoid, I think. And then it got worse, and your dad started thinking everyone was a cop. No one knew what to do, and no one wanted to call the real cops because they were scared of being busted for the coke.”

  “Pete? How do you know all of this?” I interrupted him. I was struggling to keep up. “Did the psychiatrist tell you all of this on the phone?”

  “He told me some of it. But not a lot. He was very careful not to step over the line of confidentiality. Your dad told me most of it, once I talked to him.”

  I took a breath and bit my lip, trying to avoid lashing out at my husband for keeping a secret so big. Too big. It crossed well over the line of what a husband should keep from his wife. But I needed him to continue. I had to know what happened to my father. So I continued biting my lip and forced myself to remain silent.

  “Well, no one called for help. They were too scared, I guess. So your dad left the party. He went to a bar and drank far more than he should have. He told me that he hadn’t slept in days. Apparently, he felt he didn’t need to. His brain was on some crazy fast speed, and it wouldn’t let him sleep. And I think his lack of sleep, combined with the drugs and booze, made him really lose control. It all snowballed really, really fast.”

  “What happened when he left the bar?”

  “He never did. I think that, at first, everyone thought he was the life of the party. He knew no one there, yet was talking to everyone. He sat down at people’s tables, introduced himself and never stopped talking. He says he remembers feeling safe there at first. But then the paranoia came back and that’s when it all went to hell.”

  “What did he do? What happened?”

  “He doesn’t remember much. But he found out later that he jumped behind the bar and started throwing bottles everywhere. Liquor, beer, wine. You name it. They smashed everywhere. He must have slipped on the floor because he fell on the glass and cut his hands open. Messed them up pretty badly. He had damage to his tendons and nerves. Took a long time to fix up and, even now, his hands aren’t completely normal.”

  My head was spinning.

  “Your dad didn’t feel it at the time. Or didn’t care, anyway. Because he jumped back up and threatened the bartenders, accusing them of being spies for the Russian government. Someone must have called the cops because they showed up soon after and took him to the hospital.”

  I swallowed hard, unsure of whether or not I wanted to know what came next. But like a traveller who sees a bad accident on the highway, I couldn’t shake myself from needing to know what happened. “So then what?”

  “He was in there for months. He had a hell of a time finding the right cocktail of meds that worked. And he went through all kinds of therapy alongside the meds. I also think he had no desire to leave. That part’s my own theory, but I know your dad felt like he had no one to turn to. He felt like he had alienated and offended all of his friends and family in the years leading up to it. And sadly, there was no one there when he fell hard. Or, at least, that’s how he told me he felt anyway.”

  “What about me? He could have called me!” I cried. The guilt bubbling up in my throat wa
s beginning to suffocate me. “I’m his daughter, for fuck’s sake. Why wouldn’t he call me? I would have helped him.” I was crying openly by that point. Pete left the chair he was sitting in and crouched down beside me. He pulled me into his arms.

  “It’s okay, Ash. Really. It’s okay. Your dad’s okay now.” Pete stroked my hair as he tried to calm me down. “He wasn’t ready to call you. I’m not sure that he is even now. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you before now. Your father loves you deeply. But he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to talk to you about it. And he made me promise I wouldn’t say anything until he was ready.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “No. I’ve talked to him a lot on the phone. But I haven’t seen him.”

  “And you’ve known for about a year?”

  Pete nodded. “Yes. About that.”

  “And you’ve lied to me. For a year?” I clenched my fists and pounded them into Pete’s chest. He grabbed my hands and held them tightly.

  “No, Ashley. I haven’t lied to you. I just couldn’t tell you. Please, baby. See my side of it. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wanted to protect you. And your father. He wasn’t ready for you to know, and he begged me to not say anything. He kept saying he wanted to tell you himself. Please, baby, see my side of it …”

  “And what side is that, Pete?” Darts of hatred coursed through my body as I spat the words at my husband. Pete not telling me about my father went far beyond keeping a secret; keeping silent about the information had created massive barriers in recognizing what was likely going on with Nate. And for that I was more livid than I’d ever been in my life.

  “Ash, you’ve got to know that I was in a really tough spot with all of this. When I first found out, it was Christmastime. I didn’t want to ruin that for you. Our family was so happy. You were happy.” Pete’s eyes begged for forgiveness. “I remembered how much the Christmas fiasco from two years before had impacted you. How much it had devastated you. And I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I just couldn’t. I told myself that I would wait until after the holidays, and then figure out what was best.”

  “You determined what was best for me?”

  “Well, yes. I really thought it was best. I didn’t want to ruin your Christmas. I thought that a few extra days weren’t going to hurt anyone. Nothing was going to change in the week or so that I waited.”

  “But you didn’t tell me a week or so later.”

  “I know. Because I ended up talking to your dad shortly after, and he begged me to wait. He said that he wasn’t ready. That he didn’t want you to know yet.”

  “But what about me, Pete? Didn’t you think that I had a right to know?”

  “I don’t know,” Pete replied honestly. “I was put in the middle of it the minute your dad’s psychiatrist called me, but ultimately it was up to your dad to decide when you found out. And I was worried about your dad’s health, and didn’t want to push him too hard if he wasn’t ready. I had no idea what he would do. Or if it would make him go crazy again.”

  “And what about your son? Now your son is the one who’s gone crazy. So where is your loyalty now, Pete? How do you feel about not telling me about my father? Because, clearly, you couldn’t draw an obvious conclusion. Even when it was right in front of you, smacking you in the face.” My eyes flashed and fire ignited in my cheeks as I struggled to keep my composure. “For some reason, even though you knew my father was bipolar, you couldn’t even begin to see the signs in Nate. Even though it should have been obvious to you. I had no idea about my father … and yet it was me, and not you, who knew there was something wrong with our son. And all you’ve done this whole time is try to convince me I’m overreacting. That there’s nothing wrong with Nate. And that I’m being extreme.”

  Pete remained silent, not meeting my eyes. I had never seen so much sadness or guilt in his eyes. And I had never been so angry with him.

  “Well, how’s this for extreme, Pete? I don’t know that this is something I can forgive. I don’t know if we can fix this. And I don’t know if I want to.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I knew Nate had several hours before he woke up, and I was in desperate need of fresh air. I walked ten steps down the hall before I angrily snatched my vibrating phone out of my bag and whipped it in the garbage. I laughed outwardly after I did it, the sound coming out of my mouth more like a snort than laughter. But I found it funny that I’d done something so out of character in such an anomalous moment — and that I’d likely be mistaken for a patient in the ward instead of a visitor.

  Yet throwing my phone away with all of its irritating work calls and messages had instantly made me feel better. A lot better. So I just walked away.

  37

  After I’d gone for a walk outside of the hospital, the weight of the anger that had attached itself to my shoulders slowly started to lift. I inhaled deeply, squeezing my eyes shut, and let the crisp, cold air fill my lungs and nip at the insides of my chest.

  I stood there, focusing on my breathing, just like they’d taught me to do in my prenatal class. After a few moments, I opened my eyes. Everything was blurry after squeezing them shut for so long, and my eyes needed to acclimatize to the sights around me.

  All around, people were rushing about. Everyone was in a hurry. It was clear people were late for appointments. In need of test results. Trying to exist within the chaos that hospitals present.

  A little girl about four years old, wearing a green jacket and plaid mittens, skipped down the sidewalk alongside a man who I assumed was her father. She was holding his hand, and radiated so much joy that I thought she would burst. The balloons the man carried said “It’s a boy!” I imagined the little girl’s mother holding a tiny, newborn baby on the fourth-floor maternity wing, singing softly and welcoming her newest family member to the world.

  “Are you excited?” the man asked the little girl as they passed by me. “Don’t forget to call him by his name. Do you remember what we named him?”

  “Yes, Daddy. It’s Steven. We named him Steven. But I’m going to call him Stevie.”

  “Okay, honey,” the father laughed, bringing his daughter in for a little hug. “You can call him Stevie.”

  When the father and his little girl had passed, a horn honked angrily and I turned my attention to the street. Taxicabs formed a row directly out front, waiting for their next fare. The drivers of the cars looked bored. Tired. Grouchy. The looks on their scrunched faces mirrored what I was feeling. I thought about getting in one of the cabs and taking a drive around the city for a bit. Away from the hospital. Away from life.

  But I knew I couldn’t do that. No matter how much I needed to escape, I couldn’t abandon my son. I needed to put him first.

  Instead, I kept walking. Eventually I made my way back to one of the benches outside of the main hospital doors. I sat down and leaned forward, placing my elbows in my lap and propping my head up with closed fists. The bench was cold, and the iciness of exposed metal snaked its way through my pants and attached itself to my legs.

  About fifteen feet away, I watched a man in his early forties push a delicate woman in a wheelchair towards the hospital doors. She was so short that she barely made it above the top of the wheelchair. On her head, she wore a pretty pink hat with a matching winter coat that looked like it was two sizes too big.

  I noticed her slowly raise a frail hand in an attempt to get the man’s attention. I could tell it took her more energy than she had just to raise her finger.

  The man stopped and bent down to put his ear next to her mouth so he could hear her; I doubted her voice was barely more than a whisper. The man listened attentively, nodding his head to let the frail woman know that he understood.

  I knew I was being rude, staring at them as I was, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. The woman was so pretty, even in her feeble state, and it was obvious how much the man cared a
bout her.

  After a few moments of hushed conversation, and a tiny smile from the woman that looked like it took as much energy as raising her hand had, the man continued pushing the woman towards the hospital.

  Something about the way the man pushed her wheelchair — and how he had looked at her when she was speaking to him — told me with absolute certainty that the man was her son. A son who had been raised so well he didn’t think twice about taking a hiatus from his likely successful and thriving life to take care of his ailing mother … because it was the same mother who had spent her glory years rocking her son to sleep when he was a baby, even though her entire body ached from lack of sleep.

  For the grown man, the woman he was pushing in her wheelchair had been the healer who had sat up all night with him when he was ill. The educator who spent endless hours helping her son with his math homework at the kitchen table. The taxi driver who took him to his early morning hockey practices every weekend. And the worrier who stayed up well into the wee hours of the morning, waiting for her teenage boy to come home, just so she knew he was safe.

  The man wasn’t taking care of his ill mother just because he wanted to. Nor was he doing it solely out of obligation. The man was caring for his mother because somewhere deep inside of him lived an unconditional love that was so powerful he didn’t have an option. Simply put, he was all in, and completely committed to his family.

  Standing there, watching the woman and her son, induced a shift in my attitude towards everything that was going on with my own family. While not even realizing they were doing it, the man and his mother had reminded me that, after all the complicated layers have been peeled away from the complex onion we call life, what’s really left is the unconditional love for those we care about most. It’s the connection that keeps us tied to them. Helping them. Forgiving them. No matter what else has happened.