“Hello, Dianne,” I said, also in my most pleasant voice. “My name is Robert McKenzie. I’m wondering if the doctor is taking new patients?”
“He is,” the polite voice replied. “I can help you in that regard.”
“Thank you, Dianne.”
“The best way to begin the process is to come in one day at your convenience and fill out some basic paperwork, and then we’ll make an appointment with Dr. Banderas. We are here Monday through Friday from 8:00 to 5:00, but we usually close the office from noon to 1:00.”
She was saying almost the same thing Amanda said to my new clients.
“Thank you again, Dianne. That sounds simple enough. I’ll stop in sometime in the next few days.”
“Thank you, Mr. McKenzie. I look forward to meeting you.”
I had accomplished another baby step on the road to my recovery. Take that, Lucifer. And you, taunting Two-Knock Ghost. I looked at my watch. It was only 8:45. Oddly, for the first time in two years I felt the desire to go for a run. I didn’t have to be at work till about 10:30. I could pull it off, even if I only did fifteen minutes. I quickly shed my work clothes and changed into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, my tennis shoes, and a pair of ankle socks. It had taken me four minutes to change. I grabbed my keys and was out the door. I stretched my calves while leaning against the window sill outside my condo, then I pulled back my thighs lightly, walked down the stairs and began a very slow out of shape jog in the direction of Five Towns, a huge retirement community that dwarfed the Beaches of Paradise, directly across Fifty-fourth Avenue.
Breathing was difficult though it was not yet 9:00 a.m. The temperature was 83 degrees and the humidity was high. The hot sun shone through a myriad of cumulus clouds. I wasn’t sure if it was going to downpour because I rarely turned on the TV or the radio, preferring silence. Breathing challenges or not, the run was fun. I was stiff, like a rusted tin man, but I reminded myself how much I missed this activity and suddenly yearned for my wife to be at my side. How could I have ever gotten to this point, where I let myself get paunchy and subtracted the joy of running together from Christine?
I had crossed Fifty-fourth Avenue, glanced at my conveniently located Bank of America to my left and began to make my first search of the Five Towns property. Initially, I noticed how many of the buildings looked remarkably similar. But as I jogged down the main street of the property, I observed that there were several sizes of the buildings. Some of the residences were over 10 floors high. About the middle of the well-kept property was a large circular lake with a sidewalk all around it. On the near side of the lake, an alligator relaxed on the grass, enjoying the intermittent sunshine. The back of the property featured buildings that were only two floors in height (There was no devil here. No Two-Knock Ghost. There was just luxurious nature and I was happy to be in it.) They faced the lake. For some reason, I liked those buildings best. Back at the Beaches of Paradise, none of the residences were over two stories high, and I reflected how lucky I was to be on the second floor in an end unit near what I call the promenade—the main, well groomed entrance to the complex had beautiful bushes, plants, and flowers.
In another minute and a half I reached the back gate and jogged for home. By the time I stretched my calves at the bottom of the stairs I had been jogging for twenty-seven minutes. I’d better hustle if I wanted to make it to the office by 10:30. I thought what my primary goals were for the day while I showered. I would call my daughter, Lena, and I would ask Amanda what my schedule looked like for the next few days. The first time I had a break of an hour and a half or more, I would drive to Dr. Banderas’s office and fill out that paperwork.
My day flew past. I had no breaks scheduled until Friday afternoon, two days away. It would be from 1:00 to 3:00 p.m. With my regular lunch break factored in, that would give me time to eat, drive to the psychologist’s office, arrive there at about one o’clock, fill out the paperwork, and get back to my office in plenty of time for my three o’clock appointment.
But the most important thing I did this day was to call Lena, my darling little girl who was now a successful high school biology teacher. She had turned out to be a healthy human being, although she grew to only 5 feet 2 inches tall, the exact height of her mother. She had always been a delight to me while she was growing up. There were countless wonderful things we had shared while she was a child, but I think my favorite was when she was nine years old and she asked Christine and me if she could accompany us on our run that day. We were shocked and thrilled that she had asked us. Over the next decade, Lena must have run with us a thousand times.
Still, I felt guilty at the possibility that I had let her down somehow. And long before I learned the intricacies of the concept of making amends at AA, I was going to do so with Lena today, if it was required. The moment my patient left at almost Noon, I got on the phone to my daughter.
“Hi, Lena, it’s me,” I said in my happiest voice.
“Daddy! It’s wonderful to hear your voice.” She sounded extremely happy, just like she sounded when she was a little girl and we told her we were taking her to Disney World.
“You sound great, precious,” I said, excited that she sounded genuinely happy to hear my voice.
“How are you, Daddy?” She had been calling me Daddy since she was a little girl and never grew out of it.
“I’m fine, honey, how are you?” I didn’t tell her about my not drinking. After all, I was only three days in. It wasn’t a big achievement yet.
“I’m doing great, Daddy. It’s the end of the school year, and I’m looking forward to vacation. I won’t be teaching this summer.”
“Any chance you’ll be coming to see us?” I asked, referring to her mom and me.
“I’m not sure, Daddy, but maybe. I’ve been planning to drive out west and explore places like New Mexico, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah.”
“Be safe, honey, that’s all I ask.”
“I will, Daddy. How come I’m so lucky to get a call from you today?”
“The most important reason is that I miss you. The second reason is a little more complex.”
“What’s that, Daddy?” she jumped in. She used the endearing term “Daddy” often and always with a sensitivity of tone that melted my heart. I thought for a moment how lucky I was to have this marvelous spirit in my life, and I felt some shame at having not reached out to her more; especially when I knew she loved me so much and would have been happier if her daddy took a more active role in her life.
“Honey,” I said much more tentatively than anything I’d said thus far, “I’m making some changes in my life, for the better I might add, and I have a question that is kind of difficult to ask.”
Why was I feeling such trepidation? Here I was, the same guy who just a few days ago had thought he’d been a great dad.
“Did I do anything to hurt you or disappoint you or bewilder you while you were growing up?”
“Where’d that question come from, Daddy?” She paused, waiting for an answer that was not immediately forthcoming. It was my turn to pause and there suddenly was a moment of awkward silence on the line.
“As I’m going through these changes, I have some personal issues I want to address and this is a big one for me.”
“Daddy, I hope you’re not hurting about this, because you were a great father to me and the boys. I remember so many wonderful times we shared, places we went … Brookfield Zoo Wrigley Field, Old Comiskey Park, Saugatulk, Mount Baldy. I remember the bedtime stories you used to make up for me and the ones you read to me from Golden Books. There were too many wonderful things to list right now because you caught me at school and I have a lot of planning to do before my next class.” I knew well about planning.
“Honey, there’s one question I’d like to come back to really quickly. I promise I’ll only take one minute of your time. Was there anything I did that hurt you when you were growing up
at home?”
“Daddy, there was never anything you did directly to me that hurt me while I was growing up at home.” Her voice was soothing, almost as if she were comforting a small child. “But there was always one thing I wished we could have shared a little bit more.”
“What was that honey?”
“Time watching TV together.” Her comment almost made me chuckle. What a strange thing to say to me all these years later. But then I asked her to clarify as the minute was already almost gone.
“It was almost always Mom who watched TV with us kids in the evenings. Or if Mom was working, it was just us three kids sitting on the couch watching Outer Limits, Bewitched, or Mr. Ed. You seemed to be always working in your bedroom, night after night, year after year. No radio or TV in your room. It was always so quiet in that room. I always wondered what you were thinking in there all those hours. I almost became a psychologist just to try to understand you better.”
“But did that hurt you, Lena?”
“It didn’t hurt me, Daddy. I merely found it curious, that’s all. But if we had something planned for the evening or if we went away on vacation, things were different. Most of the time you and Mom would hang out and do all kinds of stuff with us kids in the evenings, but every once in a while even on vacations, you would go into whatever bedroom was yours and spend a couple of hours in there. I always thought it was curious, that’s all.”
She had been answering to this point in slow measured sentences. Abruptly, it changed.
“But, Daddy, I’ve got to get ready for my next class. Can we talk more soon?”
“Absolutely, Lena. Thanks for sharing and good luck with school.”
“Good luck to you too, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
And she was gone.
Though I felt generally good about what my beloved daughter had shared with me, my conversation was my second in a row with a child who called into question how much time I spent in my bedroom. I had been thinking about that recently, but after talking with Lena, it jumped to the forefront of my mind. What was it that drew me to that bedroom? Was my work of such vital import that I ignored my kids so much that two out of the three of them had divulged their curiosity about it in the past few days?
Now I started thinking that I have five things that might be buried in my subconscious:
1.My sliding down the precarious precipice of alcoholism.
2.Spending so much time in my bedroom.
3.Always feeling like I carried an unfathomable emotional hole in my heart, even though on the surface it appeared that I had everything to live for.
4.The devil plaguing my dreams.
5.And what was up with a ghost who knocked twice but didn’t have the courage to come into my bedroom and identify itself?
I concluded that these were all questions I would present to Psychologist Banderas hoping he wouldn’t think I was crazy after I explained to him the reason I thought the Two-Knock Ghost was frightening me so much.
My afternoon flew by and as the evening approached, I thirsted for a rum and Coke. I concluded that the only way for me to deal with those cravings was to drive to Clearwater to the Serenity Club. It was a long drive, almost an hour, but I knew it was worth it. Besides, it would keep me out of my bedroom where I not only had my worst cravings but felt the emptiness of the persistent hole in my heart. As I drove, it seemed like why’s were dropping into my brain from everywhere. Why the devil dreams and why such fear of the Two-Knock Ghost when I’d never even seen it. Why did I feel such loneliness? Why had alcohol become a more constant companion than my wife? Why had two of my children told me they felt neglected because I spent so much time in the bedroom? My body not only craved alcohol, I literally shook with the desire to turn the car around and get into my bedroom with my work for tomorrow. I fought a difficult battle with those desires thinking that I was one sorry multi-addicted SOB. I thought, how do I replace my bedroom work times? No matter how sad I felt when I first went into the bedroom, I got a lot of work accomplished there. That work benefited hundreds of my clients over the years. Then bam! The guilt over neglecting my wife and children blasted into my lower stomach like pellets from a shotgun. I wanted a rum and Coke badly, just one. I could control myself. More fighting, all within my jumbled thoughts. I told myself to focus on one thing. How can I replace my bedroom working time? For a moment my mind was nearly silent. It was busy, however, sifting through myriad possibilities, making connections. And up through my thought shoots it came. Work in the car on the way to the meeting each night. I’d have about an hour. Sure I couldn’t use a pen and paper, but I could plan for the day and what to say to my clients, in my head. I had never taken that approach before, preferring ideas through pen to paper, but I had often thought about my clients at random times throughout the day. But now I could simply jump in the car after work, feel no initial sadness upon entering the vehicle like I did when going into my bedroom and immediately begin plotting my strategies for the next day. I would memorize things. Then somehow along whatever route I took to the Serenity Club, I could pull over and have a nice little dinner at some little restaurant or fast food place, take my precious little pen and paper into the restaurant with me and write down the thoughts I had just memorized during the first few minutes of my trip. When I’d finished eating and jotting down some notes, I could memorize more ideas the last lap of my ride to the AA meeting. It would be easy. Simply think, eat and write down some ideas, then think some more in the car the final minutes to the club. That shouldn’t be too hard. Then suddenly the absolutely brilliant revelation came to my brain that I’d have another forty-five minutes to think on the way back to the Beaches of Paradise. What a great plan I’d developed in merely a few minutes. I felt proud of myself for coming up with the process that would help me get work done and keep me out of the bedroom. I still wanted a drink.
At the meeting, I did not speak. I listened. Story after story unfolded of people, like me, who were struggling with not drinking or not drinking and doing drugs, or not drinking and doing drugs and being codependent. The stories fortified me. It was exactly what I needed.
I scanned the throng for Toby, but he was not in attendance this night. I wondered for a moment where he was. Did his wife have a setback? Did his schedule change? Was he safe? I realized in that moment of reflection that the lines between client and friend had become extremely blurred between us.
By the end of the meeting, though I didn’t want a drink, I was feeling a bit lonely. Thus far at the meetings I had attended, I purposely avoided introducing myself to anyone. I wasn’t there to make friends. Besides, my personal shame and shyness had dominated, and outside of a couple of acknowledging nods to friendly smiles, I got in and out of the Serenity Club as fast as I could. When I got into my car and headed west on Turner so I could drive south on Fort Harrison, I realized that there was something I could do that night to assuage my loneliness. I crossed over Fort Harrison, getting a green light this time, drove a few blocks closer to the end of the road and turned left toward the Episcopal Church of the Ascension. As I approached the front of the church I began to see the tree. I turned left on the first street past the church. I parked the car, got out and started walking toward the tree. There it was in all its mighty splendor. It spread out with its multitude of branches as if they were enormous comforting angel wings waiting to surround and protect me. A few hours ago the reflection or spirit of this tree had made its way into my dreams and saved me from a whipping by the devil. I wanted to thank it. How do you talk to a tree? I guessed that’s what you did because that is what I did in that moment.
“Thank you,” I said. “Whatever you are or whatever is in you that made you care enough about me to come into my dreams and fight for me, I appreciate it.”
Did I feel a little foolish? You bet I did. But I continued speaking to the live oak anyway, silen
tly.
“I can see why you inspire people, why you make them happy. You are an icon among trees. If man didn’t prune you, you would attempt to grow everywhere, take over Clearwater. Your roots would eventually tumble the houses around you and your powerful branches would forge across the road through the steeple of the church and upward to the heavens and God.”
I was having fun fantasizing and making friends with the live oak that had already proved its friendship to me by swatting my nemesis like a gnat.
I only stayed there a few moments. It was a residential neighborhood and I didn’t want to make the news as the perverted peeping tom psychologist from the Beaches of Paradise.
That night, I dreamed of the devil again. This time he was sitting on a high backed golden throne in an enormous red room with flames shooting straight upward from 105 foot black circles on the floor. His throne was raised six feet from the floor. His arms were resting, comfortably folded in his lap. My dream self was sleeping in another cream-colored bed with cream-colored sheets, and again I was wearing pajamas. Suddenly my dream self was startled to wakefulness. I looked forward and upward and there he was, sitting on his throne laughing at me hysterically. He did so for twenty seconds, paused, peered directly at me, then laughed again insanely, manically for twenty seconds. Repeatedly he did this, an unlikely but unaltered pattern. After twenty or so repetitions, I felt secure enough that the dream me could fall back asleep.
Bang bang! They sounded like gunshots. This time Robert McKenzie didn’t wake up in fear, but the man in the cream-colored pajamas did. And what was there to meet him but Lucifer on his throne hysterically laughing, same routine. The cowardly Two-Knock Ghost had once again announced its presence but had not revealed itself. And for this? To be laughingly mocked by the Prince of Darkness? Three more times during this not so funny sleep cycle, the Two-Knock Ghost clanked his wake-up calls for the man in the cream pajamas. Each time the result was the same. You know the drill. By the end of the night I was certain that the Two-Knock Ghost and the devil were working in tandem. Why else would the vengeful ghost wake me? Why not let the devil do it himself?
The Two-Knock Ghost Page 14