“All right. Let’s get you up.”
He may still be underweight, but it’s no easy task getting a one-hundred-and-ninety-pound man up off the floor. At least his equilibrium seems to have returned to normal because, once we’re finally upright, his footing seems solid and he doesn’t sway. But he keeps his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder.
“I don’t know what happened,” he says. “That came out of nowhere.”
“It’s okay. The doctor said it might happen.” At that exact moment, I know we’re both thinking about the motorcycle parked in the garage and how it will be parked there indefinitely. “Do you want to sit on the couch?”
“I want to go to bed. I’m tired.”
“Okay.”
He lets me lead him down the hall, the two of us doing an awkward side-by-side shuffle since he still has his arm around my shoulder and I’ve wrapped my arm tightly around his waist. In the bedroom, I pull back the covers and he slips under them.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.” His voice sounds so dejected and I feel the prickle of tears.
Before I leave the room he says, so softly I almost don’t hear it, “There are so many things I can’t remember.”
“The memories will return eventually. We just have to be patient.”
“Things about Gabriel.” His words slice through my heart because memories are the only thing Daniel has left of his son. Those memories are burned into my brain. All of them: the good, the bad, the horrifying, the heartbreaking. Every single one. After Gabriel died, I temporarily pushed them away, telling myself I would go back to them when I was stronger.
“I’ll tell you all about him. I’ll fill in the blanks so you can remember.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’ll just be out here if you need me,” I say, and then I close the door and let him be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JESSIE
Now that we’re home, Daniel’s progress isn’t so easy to measure. There’s no way to accurately gauge where you are on the “get your life back” scale. Due in part to Daniel’s constant urging, Mimi and Jerry have finally left to resume their motor-home tour. Dylan’s whereabouts are temporarily unknown.
My parents stopped by the other day, bringing with them my mom’s homemade peach pie, which has always been a favorite of Daniel’s. But for the most part, Daniel’s visitors have slowed to a trickle, and there is no longer a constant influx of policemen and friends, which is to be expected. Now it’s just the two of us, and I’m more aware of how narrowly focused our day-to-day activities have become.
I still adhere to a schedule because the consistency is good for Daniel. He has outpatient therapy every morning, and then I work with him at home, doing the memory exercises the therapists asked us to complete. Daniel seems reluctant to go anywhere that isn’t a doctor’s office or a therapy appointment. The house is his sanctuary, and the only time he appears fully relaxed is when we’re home.
I continue to suggest that we go out for lunch or dinner, but he’s not interested. Daniel used to beg me to leave the house with him after Gabriel died. To go out for a meal or to see a movie. I always said no. How dare my husband and I enjoy a night out when our son was dead? Now that I’m on the opposite side of it, I know how frustrating it feels to be turned down when all you’re trying to do is help someone. The more I try to coax him out of his shell, the more he seems to be withdrawing. He smiles less. He doesn’t laugh at all.
“Do you want to come with me to Target?” I ask, trying my best not to speak to him like he’s a child and Target is an exciting outing.
“I’ll stay here.”
I start to ask him if he’s sure, but then I close my mouth and say, “Okay.” He’s a grown man. If he wanted to come with me to Target, he’d come with me to Target.
When I return, I haul the bags in from the car and set them on the kitchen counter. I find Daniel lying on the couch with his eyes closed.
“Look what I found on the clearance rack,” I say, holding up the DVD of Foul Play. “Can you believe it?”
He opens his eyes and gives me a blank look.
“Come on, not even a smile for one of your favorite movies? I bought some Coke and I’ll make popcorn. We can dump in some M&M’s if you want.”
He rises from couch. “I think I’ll just lie down in my bed. I have a headache.”
“You have a headache?”
“Yes, a bullet will do that.” He doesn’t sound mad, just weary.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, Jess. I think I can walk down the hallway by myself.”
Daniel’s doctors and therapists told us that depression is a common problem after a traumatic brain injury and that over half the people who suffer such an injury will experience periods of depression during the first year of their recovery. It’s partly due to the physical changes in the brain, but some of it can be attributed to the frustration patients feel in the shift of their daily activities and the change in their employment status. The doctors all say Daniel should be able to return to his job as a police officer once he’s been cleared medically and passed the driving test, but that seems light-years away right now. Adjusting to his disability has been Daniel’s biggest challenge, and I often have to remind him that it’s temporary.
“Well, right now it feels very permanent,” he’d said.
I thought Daniel might be one of the lucky ones because his mood has remained relatively upbeat.
Until now. As he passes me, I reach out and lay my hand on his arm. “I think you might be experiencing a depressive episode.”
And if anyone knows what that’s like, it’s me. “The doctor told us you might have one,” I add.
“I lost my son, I lost my wife, I got shot in the head. I think I’m entitled to a depressive episode.”
“You didn’t lose me,” I whisper, but by then he’s halfway down the hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JESSIE
As summer gives way to fall, Daniel’s cognitive abilities improve, but his mood worsens. He’s listless and irritable and spends a lot of time in bed. Getting enough sleep is important, but the time he spends between the sheets doesn’t seem restorative. It seems to me that Daniel takes to his bed because everything else feels too daunting.
His cognitive therapist—a soft-spoken man named Don who’s in his early fifties—pulls me aside one day before Daniel’s appointment. “How are things going at home?” he asks lightly. His tone is conversational, but I can tell he’s concerned.
“I’m worried about Daniel. The depression no longer seems episodic. It’s pretty much constant now. I was actually going to call you for some advice. See if there are some things I can do to help him.” I know what helped me: counseling, exercise, and six months on a low-dosage antidepressant. But everyone is different, and I have no idea what the best course of action is for Daniel, especially since the origin of his depression is somewhat different than mine.
“I’ll discuss it with him today. There are lots of options. I’ll see if he’s amenable to trying one or a combination of them.”
“I hope he opens up to you. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it with me.”
Don smiles. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
Later, on our way home I say, “How did the appointment go?”
Daniel shrugs. “About the same.”
“Did you and Don discuss anything specific?”
“You mean did we talk about my depression?” His tone is flat, weary almost.
“Yes, actually.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
I didn’t want to talk about it either when Daniel broached the subject of my depression with me. That’s the thing about being depressed. The last thing the depressed person wants to talk about is their depression. It’s so much easier to deny it and hope it goes away on its ow
n.
“Then don’t ask about it again,” he snaps.
I flip on my turn signal. “We both know I’m going to keep asking.” If looks could kill, I’d be a smoldering pile of ash in the driver’s seat.
He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. “Just let it go, Jess.”
“Sorry. I can’t do that either.”
He clenches his jaw and refuses to even look in my direction for the rest of the drive home. He’s not actually mad at me; he’s mad about the shooting and the chaos his life has become, and I get it. It’s the same way I felt after Gabriel died. I needed someone to blame, someone to absorb that anger. Even though I knew with every ounce of my rational being that what happened to Gabriel wasn’t Daniel’s fault, my anger built until I felt I had no choice but to lob an emotional grenade at the one I loved most, like some tragic game of hot potato. I just couldn’t bear it another minute.
I’m going to be more firm with Daniel than he ever was with me. Letting him get away with not seeking treatment, not fighting this head-on, will only make things worse. It’s what everyone did with me, when what I really needed was a firm hand. I let my depression go untreated as long as I did because I could. I have my sister Trish to thank for finally setting me straight. One day she came over to my apartment, yanked back my covers, and asked me how much longer I was going to wallow in my grief. She made me get up and walk outside with her. “This is what it’s like to feel the sun on your face,” she said. “You’ll be okay, but you’re going to have to put forth the effort to find your way back, and it starts now.”
You can’t bully someone out of their depression, but you can help them get moving in the right direction.
This time around, I’m the one who will have to point Daniel toward the light. I won’t give up, because it’s a hell of a lot easier to fight for him than it ever was to fight for myself.
I pull into Daniel’s driveway and park my car next to his in the garage. After I switch off the ignition, I grab my purse and start to get out of the car. Daniel doesn’t make a move, so I let go of the door handle.
Minutes pass by in silence. Finally Daniel takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Don told me there were some things I could try. To help me feel better.” He sounds utterly defeated.
“I’ve been in your shoes, Daniel. And I walked in them a lot longer than I should have. Admitting you need help is the hardest part. Once you say it out loud, it starts to get easier.”
“Is that what happened to you? Did you finally admit you needed help?”
I don’t like to think of those dark days, but I want Daniel to know I understand and can empathize with what he’s going through. “Yes. It seemed like happiness was on the other side of a very tall, very unforgiving mountain, and just thinking about reaching the top felt daunting. But what I discovered was that when I finally started to climb, it wasn’t quite as hard as I thought it would be. It was still hard, and it will be for you too. But suddenly there were more good days than bad. I spent more hours outside than I did in bed. I registered with the temp agency, and when I completed a job, I asked for another. But it didn’t happen overnight, and I had to actively participate, not just sit on the sidelines and wonder how it had all gone so terribly wrong.”
“I don’t have the strength to climb that mountain, Jess. I don’t.”
“You’ll have to climb it anyway.”
Sitting in my car, in the semidarkness of Daniel’s garage, I pull him toward me. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t resist. He rests his head on my chest, the console of my Honda digging uncomfortably into both of us, and lets me hold him. I cradle his head as if he’s a child and stroke it gently.
The days that follow aren’t easy for Daniel, but as I watch him begin to climb his own mountain, my heart can barely hold all the love I feel for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DANIEL
After I get out of the shower, I find Jessie in the kitchen stirring chili on the stove. The smell of garlic and onions reached me in the back bedroom while I was walking on the treadmill, and the smell is even stronger now. She is singing and dancing along to a song on the radio like she couldn’t care less who’s watching her. This Jessie reminds me of the larger-than-life girl I fell in love with. That’s how Dylan referred to her once: larger than life. Of course, he said it with disdain, but that’s only because Jessie had dared to steal some of his thunder. Whether or not she’d meant to was of no concern to Dylan. One of the things I remember now is the type of relationship Jessie had with Dylan. She could spar with him like nobody’s business. If you ask me, he enjoyed it.
“How was your workout?” Jessie asks when I reach into the fridge for a bottle of water.
“It was okay. I walked three miles. My balance felt really good. I wish the doctor would clear me to run.”
She smiles. “Patience, grasshopper.”
Regular exercise is one of the ways I’m dealing with my depression because my doctors are all about the endorphins. Jess also sees to it that I eat well, sleep only the amount I should and not a minute more, and that we get out of the house every day. If Jess has errands to run, I go with her, and lately I’ve spent more time at the grocery store, mall, and Target than I have in the past two years combined.
It helps, though. Every single bit of it helps.
“Smells good,” I say, lifting the lid on the pot.
“It will be. Just needs to hang out on the heat a bit longer.”
The song ends and a new song comes on the radio. There’s something about the opening notes that captures my attention immediately, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like this sometimes: certain things float just beyond my grasp.
Slowly, she turns around and looks at me, and I can tell by her expression that she desperately wants me to make the connection.
The wheels are trying to turn, but it’s as if someone has poured glue into my brain and everything is stuck. Jessie waits patiently, but I can’t. I just…can’t.
“Tell me,” I say.
“‘Tupelo Honey’ by Van Morrison. When we first started dating, I was in this big Van Morrison phase. Everyone was all into grunge, but I was in my dorm playing Van Morrison on vinyl. I played this song so much you used to call me tupelo honey. When I’d walk into the room you’d say, ‘Hey, there’s my tupelo honey. She sure is sweet.’ Eventually you just shortened it to honey. I’d go for weeks without hearing you call me by my real name. Some of your friends even started to call me honey, but you didn’t like that at all and put a stop to it pretty fast. When you woke up in intensive care, you looked right at me and said honey. You said it with such clarity and conviction that it stunned me. Your mom and I went nuts because we knew you were with us again.” Her eyes fill with tears.
“Are you upset because I don’t remember?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. But now she’s really crying and the tears are running down her face. “I’m crying because this was our wedding song. And if anyone had asked me on that day if I could ever imagine not spending the rest of my life with you, I would have looked at them like they were crazy.”
I may not remember everything about my relationship with Jess, but it doesn’t take much to know when someone needs comfort, and I pull her into my arms. Her body shakes as she cries, and I stroke her back and say, “It’s okay, Jess. It’s okay.”
She lifts her head off my chest. “No, it is not okay. I’m the reason we’re no longer married. Not you. Me. If I could take back everything I said, every time I shut you out, I would. I was in a dark place, and no matter how much you tried to help me, I didn’t know how to get out.”
I cradle her face and brush her tears away with my thumbs. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be the one in that dark place.”
“I owe you that.”
“I’m not keeping score, honey.”
This brings a round of fresh tears, but they seem more like h
appy tears. After she pulls herself together, she steps out of my embrace and turns back to the stove. “The chili should be ready soon.”
“Hey, Jess?”
She wipes her eye with the back of her hand. “Yeah?”
“You took my breath away that day, and I remember thinking I was the luckiest man on earth to be marrying a wonderful girl like you.”
“I’m the one who was lucky,” she says softly.
I squeeze her shoulder on my way out of the room, wondering if Jess and I might get lucky again and hoping with everything in my power that we can.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask after we’ve eaten the chili. “We never did watch Foul Play. Who knows? For me it might be like watching it again for the first time.”
She smiles. “I love that you can joke about it now. You’ve come such a long way. I know it may not feel that way, but it’s true.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Let’s watch it,” she says. “But first let me make some popcorn. You like yours with M&M’s in it.”
I snap my fingers and point at Jess. “We used to buy a package of M&M’s at the theater and pour them into our tub of popcorn.”
“You refuse to eat movie popcorn any other way.”
“God, it feels good to remember things,” I say. “Even the inconsequential crap.”
Jess pops the popcorn, and I dim the lights. I’m sitting upright on the couch with my feet on the ottoman, and she’s lying next to me with her legs bent. Halfway through the movie, almost unconsciously, I reach over and grab her feet, settling them in my lap. I don’t know if it’s because I suddenly remembered that’s how we like to watch movies on the couch together, or because it just feels right.
Jess’s focus remains on the screen, but she doesn’t move her feet away. When the movie is over, she yawns and sits up, placing her feet on the floor. “Well? Was it as good as you remember?”
“Better.”
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