All the Things We Never Knew

by Sheila Hamilton

  The car I’d blocked by double-parking blew its horn loudly, HONK, HONK, HONK! I looked for a sign from David, any sign that he would say, Don’t go, don’t go. Stay and take care of Sophie, of yourself. Nothing. I forced myself to turn away, ignoring every instinct, including a loud ringing in my ears. I stumbled to the street, reached through David’s open window, and put Bear behind the wheel of his seat.

  The driver I’d blocked in the road held his hands in the air, as if to say, What the hell?

  I shook my head. I’m sorry, so sorry. You’ll never believe how sorry I am.

  My cameraman and I loaded our gear into the back of the van. Normally, we’d be talking about the story we were headed to, what we knew, and what we needed to learn before reporting the story. I looked out the window instead, tears streaming down my face. Mike was a bearded teddy bear, a guy who left the priesthood to follow his dream of being a television photographer. He was the best in the business. We’d worked together since I’d come back from maternity leave, and we were deeply respectful of one another.

  After about an hour, he said softly, “Everything okay at home?”

  “You know, Mike,” I said, “I didn’t expect it to be this hard.”

  “You mean reporting?” he asked.

  “Everything,” I answered. “Nothing comes easy anymore.”

  We pulled up outside Thurston High School, a red brick school that reminded me of the type of school where I grew up, where nothing much important ever happened. The Thurston High Colt kicked its heels on the sign outside. The lawn was beginning to show signs of greening. There was just a month left until summer break.

  Yellow police tape was strung around the school. There were blood spatters on the sidewalk. Our assignment editor said the crime took place just after eight o’clock. They’d found the shooter’s car a block away. The boy, Kip, had worn a tan trench coat to conceal his weapons. That was about all we knew, along with the sobering statistics: two dead, area hospitals filled to capacity with teenagers suffering from gunshot wounds.

  It was now just before noon, and a few groups of kids were still loitering around outside, talking about the event. Two television stations were already there with their huge satellite trucks. I knew by the end of the day there would be dozens more.

  I avoided the teenagers who flocked to the cameramen, who wanted to be on TV just for the bragging rights. A couple of girls in big sweatshirts stood by a tree, ashen-faced, mascara stains around their eyes. I approached them respectfully. “Could you tell me what happened?” I asked.

  They looked at me suspiciously, glancing also at the photographer who stayed several steps behind me, honoring their privacy.

  “I’d rather not talk to the camera hogs,” I said, motioning to the boys crowded around the other television stations.

  “Yeah,” said one of the girls, “they weren’t even there.”

  I convinced them it was important to tell the story accurately. Mike rolled tape while the girls carefully recounted the moment Kip Kinkel walked into the school cafeteria where kids gathered before class. They said they first thought it was a joke, or they would have ducked for cover sooner. While the surviving students scrambled for safety, Kinkel, who’d also murdered his parents the night before, loaded and unloaded the three weapons he’d brought with him, a .22 caliber rifle, a .22 caliber handgun, and a 9mm Glock automatic pistol. “He just kept shooting,” one of the girls said. “The sound is still ringing in my ears.”

  By the time Kinkel was finished, two were dead, and twenty-five students were seriously wounded. “Jake finally stopped him,” one of the girls told me. “After Kip shot Jake, Jake must have thought, what the hell, we’re all going to die anyway.” She pushed her shoe into the mud.

  I thanked the girls and told them how sorry I was for their loss. “Do you know when our moms will be here?” they asked me. My throat seized up and my chest heaved.

  “You mean you’re still waiting for a ride home?” I asked.

  The girl with the longest brown hair answered. “Our moms are at work.”

  I rushed the tape to the live truck, where Mike and I fed it back to our station and then to the networks. I gathered myself for the live shot and looked into the camera, “Kip Kinkel didn’t have many friends at Springfield’s Thurston High. His parents were both teachers, and Kip was known as a loner. He entered the school lunchroom and without saying a word, he started firing.”

  My assignment editor called back. “That was fantastic! Brilliant,” he said. “We’ll need you to turn around pieces for the five, the six, the eleven, and of course, the network feeds.”

  “Nels,” I said, “can you get someone to relieve me tomorrow morning? I really need to get back to Sophie.”

  “Sheila,” he told me. “This may be the biggest story this year. You should be planning your next move right now.”

  “Right, Nels. Thanks. I am.” My throat was dry, and I realized I hadn’t had anything to drink for hours. My shoulders slumped as my body seemed to squeeze out the final ounce of energy. It was the inevitable crash that follows the surge of adrenalin that comes from reporting on big stories. But this time, the fatigue combined with deep sadness and the stark realization that a life of reporting on tragedy was not for me. Since Sophie’s birth, I’d lost the ability to be objective, to keep the subject and the people at arm’s distance. It was all so personal now. Everything about this day had reinforced the sense of isolation I felt in David’s presence and the larger sense of alienation that existed in the world, in schools as small as Thurston. If it could happen here . . .

  My cell phone rang—it was David, with news of Sophie. The fever had finally broken.

  HYPERSEXUALITY

  Hypersexuality is one of the most troubling and challenging symptoms of bipolar disorder. Doctors Frederick K. Goodwin and Kay Redfield Jamison reviewed the literature on hypersexuality and concluded that 57 percent of people with bipolar disorder report difficulty controlling the urge to have sex with someone other than their partners.

  Research by Barbara Geller, M.D., and colleagues in an NIMH-financed study at Washington University in St. Louis found that 43 percent of children diagnosed with mania exhibited hypersexual behavior. The subjects of the study were ninety-three children with mania whose average age was about eleven years.

  Hypersexuality can be a component of hypomania, an elevated condition in which the bipolar patient feels energetic and charismatic, and inhibitions drop. Hypomania can be an enjoyable mood state that is like a recreational drug.

  But hypomanic individuals can destroy their finances, their careers, and their relationships. David’s diagnosis of bipolar II suggests he was in an elevated mood state that manifests itself as irritability rather than euphoria. David was more concerned by his alternating bouts of depression because he felt paralyzed, unable to complete even mundane tasks such as getting dressed or brushing his teeth.

  The symptoms of hypomania include rapid, “pressured,” or loud speech; increased energy with a decreased need for sleep; lack of impulse control; and hypersexuality. Jamison reported that women with bipolar disorder tend to be much more sexually provocative and seductive than men with the disorder. She found that twice as many women reported increased sexual intensity during hypomania. These women in her study also rated sexual power as the part of mania they liked best.

  Chapter Six

  David started working weekends when Sophie turned three. His business was booming, and he felt he needed more time with his clients. I didn’t complain. Sophie and I were two peas in a pod, delighted to move through our weekends with a mix of reading, walking and snacking, eating whenever we pleased, or lolling around at farmers’ markets or Oaks Park, an antiquated and charming amusement park on the outskirts of Portland. We took in funny movies; we spent hours in the children’s sections at Powell’s, the iconic bookstore of Portland. We swam at the neighborhood pool and afterward treated ourselves to shaved ice. On weekdays, we spent the morning and
part of the afternoon together, before I headed to the station.

  I was surprised I didn’t miss David more. Truthfully, the less we saw of one another, the better we all got along. Our relationship worked best when it was on David’s terms, when I didn’t push him or make him attend my numerous benefits or parties. We’d moved past the Jane episode without ever really processing how or why we’d survived it. There was so much left unsaid about why I’d decided to stay. If David had asked, I would have told him, “I won’t quit this family.” The truth was, I would learn to live without his love. Our sex life was so irregular that when we did move into one another’s bodies at night, it was fueled more by hunger than a need for intimacy.

  Instead of talking about our difficult relationship, David had channeled his energy into a new direction—work. He said he wanted to be successful, a contrast to the laid-back business style he’d had when we first met.

  One night, I invited David to join us after work at a Cuban place Sophie and I loved in northeast Portland. The colors of the restaurant, bold reds, oranges, and gold, suited us. I was thrilled when David said he could join us, and even happier when I spotted a small table for the three of us in our favorite corner.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

  “Thanks, D,” I said, relaxing into a rare moment of appreciation from him. I wore an aqua-blue tank top that set off my tan. I’d become strong and muscled again, swimming daily with Sophie and taking long walks with her to the park.

  Families and hip young couples crowded into the restaurant. Sophie munched on tamales, much to the delight of the waitress, who was doting on her. We were both relaxed from a day at the pool.

  David took a huge bite of rice and beans, then said, “Do you ever wish you could stop your head, you know, the voices that tell you you’re nothing, there is nothing, you live alone, you die alone?”

  I put down my mojito. “What do you mean, voices? You mean like the constant chatter, the negativity we feed ourselves?”

  He took another huge bite of rice and beans, not bothering to chew before he swallowed. He was simultaneously distracted and wrapped in his own thoughts.

  “David,” I said, my voice heavy with worry. “Talk to me.”

  He nodded his head, taking another huge bite and washing it down with a gulp of beer. He seemed ravenous, hurried, talking too quickly. “You mean you can escape your head? You can stop your chatter?”

  He seemed to be filling in my half of the conversation, but I wanted to engage him, so I said, “Yes, whenever I can. I walk and try to concentrate only on the feeling inside my body. Sometimes at work, when things get hectic, I lock myself in a sound room and just breathe to interrupt the spinning. It helps, really.” I reached my hand across the table for his. He pulled away.

  “Sometimes I just feel like such an imposter,” he said.

  I put my napkin next to my plate, swallowing carefully. “Maybe you should talk to a psychiatrist.”

  “Daddy, can I have an airplane ride?” Sophie interrupted.

  David clipped her nose with his thumb. “In a minute, sugar,” he said. “Mommy and I are talking.”

  “You aren’t yourself, David. I think you need help.”

  He shot me a look of disdain. The clanking sound from the kitchen that had cheered me a half an hour ago now annoyed me. I wished I could wink the crowd away, silence the noise, like a director who edits her film. Instead, here I was, awkwardly, loudly tugging around the edges of my husband’s erratic emotions. “David, I am so worried about you. Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?”

  “I don’t—no, I don’t want to talk about it.” Then he made his voice stronger, more decisive. “No. Because I’m going to give Sophs a plane ride!” He lifted our daughter from her chair, holding her high in the sky, his biceps flexing each time he lifted her up and down above the table.

  “More, more!” Sophie said, smiling broadly, her arms out to the sides.

  The waitress came by and cleared our table. “What a beautiful family,” she said, smiling at the three of us.

  These days, when I drive by that restaurant and see its colorful tables, I remember the intense frustration I felt in never, ever being able to reach David, or to persuade him to get help.

  As my sister says, “Well, he was a stubborn son of a bitch, Sheil.” The psychiatrists who would eventually treat David framed his behavior in the context of his mental illness, using terms like “recurrent hypomanic episodes,” “mild depressions,” and “anxiety disorder” to describe his reclusiveness, his isolation, and his fits of anger. They told me his explosive cursing, his infidelity, and his lies were “the illness talking.” David, the person, was exempt from his behavior.

  But how much of David’s behavior was the illness and how much was the stubborn son of a bitch doing exactly what he pleased? Where did the illness begin and the self disappear?

  David’s parents drove from Victoria to visit us in the fall of 2000. They had seen Sophie only twice, once at her christening, and then again as an infant at David’s sister’s home in Quadra. I was glad they’d be able to spend more time with their three-year-old granddaughter but worried about the stress David seemed to carry about everything.

  He flew into a frenzy before their visit, resurfacing the hardwood floors, scrubbing kitchen windows, clearing out the silverware from the drawers and polishing it with silver cleaner, and then reorganizing it all in perfect rows. I’d never seen him like this before; in fact, we’d had several dinner parties to which David showed up half an hour before our guests arrived. This was definitely different behavior than I’d come to expect. I wasn’t sure if the frenzy was a good sign or a bad one. Maybe he was excited to see his parents again. Maybe he was dreading it. I knew it would only annoy him if I asked. David was never big on sharing.

  On the evening of their arrival, Alice and Lew were later than expected. The dinner got cold. I’d prepared roasted vegetables, a tenderloin, and a northwest salad with cranberries, blue cheese, and walnuts. I imagined the tenderloin drying, the vegetables hardening, the salad losing its crunch.

  Finally, Alice walked through the door carrying a grocery bag full of gifts, all in colorful wrapping with bows and ribbons flowing over the sides.

  Sophie stood behind my leg, cautious. When she caught a glimpse of the presents, she wandered to Alice’s side. “Can I see?” she asked, clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Alice smiled and tipped the bag down toward her. “Presents—for you, my sweet. But not now—after dinner.”

  Sophie’s smile dissolved. Oh no, I thought. Dinner will be a wreck now. And sure enough, it was. Alice and Lew took their time with the tenderloin, and Sophie couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep her eyes off the presents Alice had tucked away at the top of the fridge.

  Another half an hour passed as David and Lew drank wine and I tried to stay engaged with Alice. By 9:45 p.m., Sophie was fried. Her face was splotchy, she twisted her body in uncomfortable positions, and then she crawled out of her chair and onto the floor, wailing.

  “I want to open my presents!” she screamed. A full-blown tantrum was about to go down. I rushed from my chair to pick her up from the floor.

  Suddenly, Lew bellowed, “DAVID! Control that child. Discipline her—now!” His face was as flushed as Sophie’s, and his eyebrows were pointed in a grim display of consternation.

  Something went off in David, a bomb buried so deep he probably didn’t realize it was in him. He answered in an equally loud voice, unfamiliar to me, filled with more anger and anxiety than I’d ever heard before. “I will not have you tell me how to raise my child in my own home!”

  I scooped Sophie up from the floor and ran to her bedroom, holding her in my arms. She was wailing, frightened by the fight unfolding in the living room. I heard a door slam. I didn’t know who had left. I tried to calm myself by changing Sophie into her pajamas. Her eyes were still wet with tears as I finished snapping her up.

  I wrapped Sophie in a blanket an
d returned to the living room. Lew and Alice were putting their coats on and gathering their suitcases, still packed, at the living room door. Lew turned to me, his face still flushed with anger. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said. “But whatever you do, don’t spoil your children.”

  I started to speak, to explain to him that it was past her bedtime and the presents had made it more difficult. He interrupted. “It’s clear David does not want us here. We’re going back to Victoria.”

  I stammered the next words. “Where did David go?”

  “Off,” Alice said. “David being David.” She put on her red coat and tied her scarf around her head.

  The door closed. I sat in David’s chair as Sophie’s eyelashes batted slowly, heavily. She was fast asleep, the colorful presents still peeking out from the bag. Sophie would get to open them in the morning.

  A week later I received a letter from Lew. It was written in careful handwriting.

  Dear Sheila,

  I am increasingly concerned about David’s fits of aggression and erratic behavior. I believe he should seek professional care. You may be aware that David abused drugs as a teenager, and I believe it drastically changed his mental acuity and stability. I am telling you this so that you can make the right decisions regarding his future care. It is unfortunate our visit was cut so short. All my love to you and Sophie, Lew.

  I folded the letter several times over, considering its contents. I’d known plenty of people in high school and college who took the same drugs David used, garden-variety pot, acid, some cocaine. They were fine today. I couldn’t make sense of Lew’s ominous warning, and when I later asked David about it, he groaned and pointed out that there was nothing to suggest Lew had ever considered his parenting to be part of David’s problems. “He wasn’t exactly father of the year,” he said.