by Josie Wright
He seems like a natural, and when he and Archer are together they both thrive. Ben rarely stops smiling, even when he has to change a smelly diaper or change his shirt for the umpteenth time because Archer spit up on it. Even when Archer keeps him awake at night he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s lost to the wonder that is our little boy, and it’s like he doesn’t want to miss a single moment after having missed so much.
The past nights, whenever Archer stirred or cried, I didn’t have to wait long for Ben to sneak into my room, trying not to wake me, picking Archer up and soothing him, helping him fall back asleep. I pretended to sleep in order to allow him to have those moments undisturbed by the mama bear. I could hear him whispering into our son’s little ear, telling him stories or even reading to him, unsurprisingly the Bob Dylan children’s books I have, being the music lover he is. Sometimes he would even sing to him, his voice barely more than a whisper so he wouldn’t wake me up. But it was eerily beautiful nonetheless.
It’s not any different tonight. Archer has been fussy for two minutes, and like the previous nights I hear the door open and a moment later the small wall light above Archer’s crib is turned on. I smile into the pillow when I hear Ben whisper.
“Hey little man, what’s up? Why are you in such a bad mood, huh?” Archer’s sleeping bag rustles slightly when Ben takes him out of the crib, before sitting down in the armchair. I don’t need to see it to know what’s happening, the ritual is the same as the past nights. “You know Daddy loves you so much. You and your mommy are all that matters to me, little guy.” While I try to keep my breathing even, although his words burn through me like a raging fire, making my heart nearly explode in my chest, Archer starts giggling. I guess Ben is nuzzling his neck. That’s all it needs to send Archer into a giggling fit most times.
“We have to be quiet, Archer, so we don’t wake Mommy. Want me to sing to you? Yeah?”
I’m curious what he will sing this time. I can’t wait to hear his hoarse voice singing to our son. Archer loves his voice. I love his voice. It’s not a perfect singing voice by any stretch, but damn, if I don’t find it perfect.
In any other situation, I would roll my eyes at the cliché choice of a song, but when he starts to sing Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open” I barely dare to breathe to not disturb him and cause him to stop singing. His voice is loaded with emotion, and he means every word he sings. There is so much love in the way he sings. I may doubt his feelings towards me, but there is no doubt he’d do anything for Archer.
My back is turned to them, which allows me to let the fat tears roll down my face onto the pillow, the beauty of the moment nearly making my heart burst in my chest.
***
Waking up in the morning, I think back to Ben’s song last night and the thought alone makes my heart squeeze in my chest. I don’t want Ben to feel like an intruder when he comes in to look after Archer at night and so I come up with a plan. Before I head out, I let Ben and the rest know I’ll be home a bit later than usual since I have some things to take care of after work. And then I head out for a busy day.
Classes are interesting. We are discussing the symptoms of psychosis today and it’s highly captivating, yet at the same time scary how little we can control our mind when a mental illness is involved. I can’t even begin to imagine how awful it must be for the patient, or their loved ones. It’s on days like these that I question if I have what it takes to work in this field, or if I’m too emotional.
On my lunch break I text Ben.
Me: How’s everything going?
B: Good. Archer and I are currently fixing Mrs. Murray’s bannister.
Me: I don’t know who Mrs. Murray is, but okay. :)
B: Don’t worry. She’s no competition. She can’t shake her ass like you do. At least not without needing a hip replacement.
I snort laugh at that, causing people in the cafe to turn their heads and give me a puzzled look.
Me: I’m afraid to ask. How do you know? You tried it?
B: Wouldn’t you like to know. ;)
Me: Actually, no. Lol. How is Archer doing? Is he fussy?
B: Right now, no. He’s chewing happily on the pendant, while I’m texting instead of working.
Me: Fine, get back to Mrs. Murray and her hips then. ;)
I chuckle while stuffing my phone back into my purse. Wow, when not in the same room, we can actually talk without stepping onto a minefield. We even manage some innuendos without it being awkward. That’s quite relaxing and enjoyable.
***
Feeling lighthearted, I make my way to the counseling center. When I get in, I can already tell it’ll be a busy day. The closer we get to Christmas, the more cases we have. People fear the holidays and all that comes with it. You have the ones who fear the family drama or seeing some dreaded family members. There are the ones who are alone and don’t know how to cope. Or they just lost someone, lost their job, are overwhelmed, or don’t know how to pay for everything. They all have one thing in common though—Christmas is the worst time of the year for them.
We’re here to listen and offer support where we can. The problems of my first three patients are easily solved. Sometimes when you are in the claws of the monster that is depression or despair, you don’t see the easiest solution—passing them the addresses of thrift stores to be able to buy gifts or figure out housing over the holidays isn’t that taxing. Luckily, we have the connections to make things like that happen.
My third case, however, is not easy to stomach. A young woman, maybe two or three years older than I am, comes into my office. She’s wearing jeans, a loose, beige sweater, her light-brown hair pulled back. Her makeup is flawless, but her puffy bloodshot eyes give away that she isn’t so well put together on the inside.
“Hi, I’m Frankie. How can I help you?”
She’s silent for a moment, just staring into space. She doesn’t respond, so I try again.
“Do you want to tell me your name?”
“Anna.”
“What’s wrong, Anna? What can I do for you?”
She grabs her purse and I’m worried she is about to leave, but instead she dumps two full bottles of Xanax on my desk and then continues staring out the window behind me.
I reach for one of the bottles, and it’s been prescribed about a month ago. The other one is dated two weeks later.
“You haven’t taken any?”
Anna only shakes her head, and a feeling of dread comes over me.
“Were you saving them?”
Instead of an answer she only nods.
“And that’s why you’re here?”
Finally, she looks at me, and what I see in her eyes takes my breath away. The look in her eyes is pure resignation, despair, and emptiness. She’s a hollow shell.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a month—planning it really. I don’t deserve to live. But I couldn’t do it. I failed, I failed them—again.” A sob escapes her, and I know I’m way over my head with this, but I can’t leave her alone. She might take off, and I don’t know what will happen if she does. I suspect it wouldn’t be anything good.
“Why would you think that?”
“I couldn’t help them. I couldn’t save them. And now I can’t even manage to go and be with them.”
Never did I wish more to have my boss at my side, just being the one accompanying him to critical cases and not dealing with one all by myself.
“Do you want to tell me what happened? I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“No one can help me. You can’t bring them back.”
“Who were they?” At my use of the past tense, another ragged sob escapes her, and she starts to furiously wipe her eyes. I pass her a box of tissues and ignore the rules of keeping a professional distance. I get up and sit in the chair next to her, putting my hand on her shoulder.
Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath.
“My boyfriend and my baby. They are dead. I couldn’t save them.” She rummages
through her purse and pulls out a sheet of paper, handing it to me. Taking the sheet from her, I realize it’s a news article about an accident that happened a month ago. I remember Alex mentioning something about it, but don’t recall the details since I rarely watch the news or read newspapers.
I read the article in my hand. A young father was driving with his baby daughter down a busy street in Cambridge to pick up his girlfriend from her shopping trip. A truck driver ran a red light, falling asleep at the wheel and crashed into the car. It went up in flames, with both occupants dying on impact.
I take a calming breath, in order to not let my emotions take over. Images of Ben and Archer flash in my mind, and I need a moment to focus.
“Anna, did you witness the accident?”
She nods, her body slumped, her hands clutching her sweater. I rack my brain about what to say to her. What do you tell someone who has lost everything that mattered?
I take a deep breath. “You know you couldn’t have helped them. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I could not have gone shopping. I could’ve called five minutes later or earlier. None of this would have happened. But I wanted new shoes to celebrate the anniversary of our first date.” Her voice gets louder with every word. “I should’ve been in the car with them. I should’ve died with them.”
My heart breaks for her. It breaks for her boyfriend and for her baby.
I don’t want to give her the platitudes that I’ve been taught. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. She seems like an intelligent woman that would see right through this shit. Instead, I break every rule in the book that I’ve been taught so far, listening to my gut and my heart.
“Anna, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I know how you feel. I don’t have the slightest idea. No one does. What happened is the worst thing imaginable. I have a little boy and just thinking about something happening to him makes me want to raise hell. I can’t imagine the hell you are going through, and I don’t know how you do it. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to get up every morning. I also don’t know what to tell you to make it easier for you. I don’t think there is anything that would. But I also don’t think killing yourself is the right way. What would your boyfriend…,” I look down at the newspaper clipping, “Roger say? What would he want?”
I can tell she is fighting the truth. It’s obvious she knows the answer, but doesn’t want to accept it—isn’t able to accept it. I leave her with the question for now, not pushing her to answer me.
“Have you been sleeping?”
“Not really. Every time I close my eyes I see it again. I don’t leave the house much, the traffic noises make me nervous. I don’t know how to go on anymore. I don’t want to go on.”
“Anna. I know you don’t believe it now. And I know you might not even want to at the moment. But there are treatments and ways that you can feel better again. Will this always be painful? Yes, hell yes. But you can learn how to cope and live again. Have you heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”
She looks up at me with a confused look on her face.
“I thought only soldiers had that?”
“No. Anyone experiencing a traumatic event, from domestic abuse, combat, to the loss of a loved one, can develop PTSD. One of the symptoms is called survivor’s guilt. With the loss you experienced it’s not surprising. But there are therapies that can help you, behavioral therapy, medication, or even meditation. There are a number of things that can be done to help.”
She starts shaking her head. “I don’t know...I don’t think I want help.”
“Anna. It’s okay to feel like this right now. But it’s also okay to feel better—to want to feel better. Your boyfriend and daughter, they loved you. They wouldn’t want you to be unhappy, to suffer. Please, let us help you. Let us find you a treatment center for PTSD. Please?” I’m not above begging, since I know if this woman doesn’t allow us to help her she might not make it through the holidays. I feel panic rise in my chest when I witness the internal struggle that is written all over her face.
When she finally nods her head, I release the breath I’ve been holding.
“Okay, let me go get my boss. He has some good contacts and might be able to get you into a program tonight. Please, stay here.”
I rush out of the office and get my boss, Professor Winston, who magically manages to find a place for Anna in a good program that isn’t far away. We arrange transportation for her that’ll take her to her place to pack and then straight to the retreat. When I see her to the car, I give her a hug before she gets in. “Stay strong, Anna.” She hesitantly returns the hug and then she is gone.
I go back to my office and slump in my chair. After taking a few deep breaths, I get my phone out of the drawer, dialing Ben’s number.
He picks up after the fourth ring, sounding out of breath.
“What’s up, babe?”
“You and Archer okay?” My voice sounds choked and hoarse even to my own ears.
“Yeah, we’re having a crawling race over your yoga pillows. He’s quite fast, aren’t you, you little pooper?” I hear Ben growling at Archer, which in turn makes him giggle.
My lip trembles and I have to fight back tears. Talking to Anna, reading about her boyfriend and her daughter, it all just hit too close to home. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know how she keeps going.
“Ben, I’m glad you’re back. Be careful, okay? I couldn’t stand anything happening to you or Archer.”
“What happened, babe? Something wrong?”
I shake my head in the hopes of ridding myself of the gloomy thoughts that are invading my mind.
“Nothing. Just a difficult case. Don’t worry.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah.”
I hang up my phone, thankful for Prof. Winston’s decision to take me off cases for the rest of my shift. Instead, I get to sort files and flyers. I can do that. The task is perfectly mundane and allows me to let my mind process the past hour. It doesn’t stop him from checking up on me regularly, nearly driving me insane with it until I kick him out of the file room. I don’t want to talk to him right now. There are too many thoughts running through my head and more emotions than I know how to handle. No matter how much I try to fight letting Ben in so I don’t get hurt, Anna has made me realize that I also couldn’t let him go. I guess I have never actually let him go, regardless of how much I tried to convince myself of that during the last eighteen months.
Chapter 20
Taking The Next Step
When my shift is over, I walk outside and remember my plan from this morning. I get into my car, needing some music to pick me up, to chase the ghosts of Anna’s boyfriend and her daughter away.
I skip a few songs, until I get to what I’m looking for and release a breath when the first tunes of Dismantle’s “More Rock’n’Roll” start playing. Turning up the volume, I make my way to the closest thrift store, singing along until my throat hurts, remembering the times Ben, Dave, and I went to one of their shows in and around Detroit.
I end up having to go to three thrift stores before I find what I’m looking for and for a price that is affordable. Feeling satisfied, I make my way home. When I enter the house, Ben and Archer are nowhere to be seen, while Dean and Viv are sitting on the couch, discussing feminism in modern media. I roll my eyes at the recurrent topic.
“Hey guys, where is Ben?”
“Over at Mrs. Walsh’s. She needed his talented hands for something. He took Archer along with him,” Viv pipes up, snorting at her own comment about Ben’s hands. Apparently, this joke won’t be getting old anytime soon.
“Perfect, can one of you help me get something upstairs to his room?”
“Explosives?” Dean asks me with a grin.
“No, you butthead. Come on and help me, before he gets back. Please. Pretty please?” I bat my eyes at him.
Dean trots over to me, the lack of enthusiasm evident in each step he
takes. He grabs his jacket and stepping outside, he zips it up.
“God, it’s cold. I feel like my balls are going to freeze off any minute.”
“Then stop talking and start walking,” I quip, earning a glare from him.
We wrestle the surprise out of my car, nearly maiming ourselves in the process. After getting all the pieces upstairs to Ben’s room, Dean looks at me and at the pieces leaning against Ben’s bed.
“Is this a crib?”
“Uh huh,” I say, while getting to work putting it together. They had to dismantle it in the store in order to fit it into the trunk of my car.
“You know Ben might be a bit old and too big for it, right?”
“Smartass. Want to help me or just stand around cracking witty jokes?”
“I won’t get an explanation right now anyways, will I?” Shaking my head, I ruffle his hair before getting back to work. Ten minutes later, a beautiful crib made out of dark wood is standing in the middle of Ben’s room.
“Shit, I forgot the mattress in the car.” I run past Dean and down the stairs, nearly colliding with Ben and Archer at the door.
“Whoa. Where’s the fire?” Ben says, holding me upright with one arm, as my momentum and the sudden stop nearly caused me to topple over.
“Forgot something in the car. You have to stay downstairs for a few more minutes. No going up to your room. Okay?” I walk past him and Archer, then walk back, giving Archer a kiss and Ben a smile and a hello. Then I jog out to the car, ignoring Ben yelling after me.
“Are you installing a sex swing in my room? That’s too kind of you.”
Two minutes later, I carry the mattress upstairs, ignoring Ben who’s taking Archer’s winter jacket and hat off, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.
Dean is still standing where I left him, no doubt waiting for an explanation.
Instead of giving him one, I place the brand-new mattress in the crib and yell downstairs. “You can come now.” Upon hearing Dean’s chuckle, I quickly correct myself. “Up. You can come up now.”