I watch him weave his way up the concrete steps, noticing that the gray at his temples has spread. The last two years seem to have aged him faster than the ten before.
“He arm-wrestled Tesky in my office for your tickets,” one of my dad’s firm partners, Rolans, calls out from beside me.
“Was he in his suit?” A mental image of my dad, fists locked with the law firm’s token partner—a seventy-five-year-old man who no longer takes cases and simply “counsels” and collects earnings—makes me smirk.
“Sleeves rolled up,” Rolans confirms, adding more somberly, “he almost lost.”
“No.”
“Yeah, I’m serious.” By the look on Rolans’s face, I instantly know he’s telling the truth. “Your dad’s worn out. We’ve tried to force him to take a vacation, but he refuses. The billable hours he’s putting in are fantastic, but they’re going to kill him. This lawsuit is going to—”
“What lawsuit?” I interrupt.
“The one from your accident.” He emphasizes that last word in a way that makes me think he has a distinct opinion about it. One that’s not favorable toward me.
“The Turner family? I thought that was settled out of court.”
“No, the Monroes. You know, the teenage girl who died?”
I feel my face screw up. I didn’t even know they were suing.
“They’re going after your dad for more money and he feels guilty enough to pay out. If you had any idea how much he’s already lost in this . . .” Rolans shakes his head, his eyes trailing the Zamboni as it cleans the ice.
“How long has that been going on?” How long has he hidden it from me?
“A while.”
“But the accident was two years ago.”
He glances over at his daughter, April, whose focus is glued to her phone screen, as any typical fourteen-year-old’s would be. “When you lose a kid, two years is nothing. Those parents will be missing their daughter for the next fifty years.” Rolans’s eyes flicker behind me, warning me that my dad is back before he takes his seat, ending all conversation.
The third period begins.
But in my head, it’s already over.
“Good game, right?” my dad hollers from the kitchen.
I don’t answer, simply taking in the wall of pictures. A shrine to our family. Some I recognize from the living room wall of the house my parents shared. Some must have been dug up from the shoe boxes my mom kept under her bed. The three of us together, my dad and me at hockey and football practice, my mom and me on the beach. Sasha and me in the backyard. My parents’ wedding photos.
The full bottle of Johnnie Walker that sat on the bookshelf three nights ago when I arrived at his house in Astoria now sits half-empty. I guess leaving my mom didn’t break him of his newfound vice. In fact, I think it has only amplified it. For a guy who preaches letting go and moving on, he sure as hell doesn’t seem to be following his own advice.
“I had to fight Tesky to get those tickets,” he jokes, stepping into the room, a glass of scotch against his lips. “It’s not often a client hands us box seats to a play-off game, no matter how much they say they like the firm.”
“I haven’t seen a Rangers game in years,” I acknowledge.
“Yeah, I think you were fifteen or so, the last time?” Scratching his stubbly chin in thought, he murmurs, “I can’t believe how fast the time has flown.”
Fast, and yet painstakingly slow. Two years ago, today, I was sitting on a couch in Rich’s house, pounding beers. In a month, I can say my parents have been separated for a year. They just filed for divorce. Rolans is right. My dad has lost so much, and not just the money.
“You still love her, don’t you?”
My dad sidles up beside me, settling his eyes—eyes I inherited—on a grainy old picture of my mom at sixteen, sitting on a set of wooden steps that lead to the public beach on the Cape, where they first met. I’ve heard the story a thousand times. My dad was tossing a Frisbee to his brother and my mom—oblivious—walked straight in between the two of them and took it in the head. And then she just started to laugh.
“I’ll always love your mother.”
“Can’t you work it out? Things are . . . better now, aren’t they?” There’s nothing about what goes on in my head and heart on a daily basis that could be considered better.
“I guess our marriage finally faced a test that it couldn’t pass,” is all he finally says.
A car honk sounds outside. “That’s my taxi. I’m going to head into the office for an hour or two to finish up some work. If you’re fine with that.”
The last time I glanced at the clock above the TV, it was almost eleven. On a Sunday night. When I haven’t seen him since Christmas. I’m tempted to ask him about the lawsuit, but I don’t. I simply nod as the door swings shut behind me.
I wonder if this is about those billable hours, making up all that he’s lost for the firm and for himself. Or maybe he’s simply drowning his sorrows over my mom in work. Or maybe he wants to get away from me for a while. There’s no doubt that my dad loves me. But he’s also got pictures on his wall of three little boys’ smiling faces, their arms roped around each other’s waists. I don’t know a lot of dads who would include his son’s friends on his bachelor pad wall.
Unless his son’s friends were like second sons to him.
I reach for the bottle of scotch.
A soft ballad over the radio mixes with the low purr of the engine to create a soothing ambiance in my dad’s crammed single-car garage. I let the darkness envelop me, my dashboard a blurry haze of green lines.
Her smile shining brightly up at me from the screen on my phone as I hit “call.”
She answers on the third ring, shouting a “Hello?” into the receiver above the loud laughter and music on the other end. She must be at another party.
I close my eyes and cherish these few seconds connected to her, as I did the other three times I called. I had my number blocked so she can’t read my name—not that Trent Emerson would mean anything to her.
“Who the hell is this?”
I really should stop doing this, or else she’ll change her number.
Not that it matters anymore.
“Listen, you creeper . . .”
Is she drunk? I think I detect a slur. But maybe it’s just me who’s drunk. And, damn, I am f**king loaded. I can’t even focus on the steering wheel in front of me. But I have to say it. Just once, when she’ll hear it, even if she doesn’t remember tomorrow. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a long pause. “For what?”
I open my mouth but I can’t bring myself to say the words, and so I say nothing.
“Drop dead, you douchebag.” The phone clicks.
It has taken almost two years and the half bottle of scotch that I just downed, but everything is suddenly so obvious.
I wasn’t meant to survive that night.
The emptiness that I’ve been living with—so utterly consuming—is what’s left of a person when he dies and yet still breathes, facing each day with nothing at the end of it. When he exists, but cannot feel beyond his own misery. There’s an endless weight on my chest that I will never be strong enough to lift off.
It’s crushing my will.
And I finally accept that I’m done with this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.
So, I close my eyes and settle my head against the headrest. Just like I remember doing in the SUV that night.
And breathe in and out, slowly, heavily, over and over again. Inhaling the fumes pumping in through the garden hose that hangs over the cracked window, the other end stuffed into the car’s muffler.
The first genuine smile that I’ve felt in almost two years touches my lips.
A smile of relief, because peace is finally coming.
Chapter 14
May 2010
If I started to go bald, I’d just shave my head. I guess he’s not exactly bald, but that hairline bought a one-way ticket and it’s well on its way. I give him ten years before he’s polishing his scalp.
“Hello? Trent?”
I blink several times, trying to focus on the doctor’s words. “Sorry, what?”
He gives me a patient smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“Tired,” I croak. A stomach pump for alcohol poisoning, serious oxygen therapy for carbon monoxide poisoning, and a slew of tests and psychological assessments has left me exhausted. Now I’ve got a mess of medication pumping through my veins. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in this room, but I’ve been asleep most of that time.
Apparently, my dad came home from work minutes after I lost consciousness and, when he searched the house and couldn’t find me, some gut-churning sixth sense told him to check the garage.
He couldn’t get a pulse.
In my drunken stupor, I tried to kill myself. And I almost succeeded.
When I woke up in a hospital—again—with my mom holding my hand, tears in her eyes—again—and realized what I had done—again—I agreed to everything my dad started insisting upon, including an intense inpatient program. That’s how I’ve ended up in this sunny-colored private Chicago cell.
It’s not a cell, really. Though I haven’t seen the rest of the facility yet, I’m guessing it’s pretty nice.
“Your body has been through the ringer. You’ll adjust. Ironically enough, I’m not a big fan of medicating, but I think, given the depth of your depression, you’ll benefit from a small chemical reset.”
Depression. That’s what I keep hearing.
“So . . .” Dr. Stayner begins pacing, his arms over his chest, “you dropped out of college, quit the football team, broke up with your high school sweetheart, your parents are divorcing. And you spend excessive amounts of time in your mother’s basement, isolating yourself with work.”
“That about covers it,” I mutter.
“It’s been a long downward spiral for you.” He pierces me with his stare. “Do you want to get better? Because that is a requirement for my inpatient program.”
I’m betting this is the same opening spiel that he gives everyone. I don’t mind, though, because the answer is simple. “Yes.” I’m thinking clearly enough now—without scotch coursing through my veins, polluting my thoughts, amplifying my emotions—and I know that I don’t have a choice. I’ve hit rock bottom and something has to change. It has to get better. I just don’t think it’s possible.
He slaps his hands together, like something’s settled. His eyes twinkle with genuine excitement. “Good! We’ll start therapy in the morning. Give you a swift kick in the ass, down the road to recovery. Until then, get some rest.” He strolls briskly out of the room without another word, leaving me frowning at the door. My dad said that he’s the best. I guess we’ll see if the best is good enough.
My eyes follow the baseball as it sails up to nearly touch the spackled ceiling and then back down, landing in Dr. Stayner’s hand with a soft thud.
Up and down.
Up and down.
“So, is ending your life something you gave a lot of thought to?”
I sigh, taking in his modest navy-blue carpeted office. Pretty much what you’d expect from a shrink: a desk, a few chairs, some framed certificates, and lots of books. “Honestly? No. I mean . . . I don’t know how many nights I wished I’d gone to bed and simply not woken up, but I wasn’t really planning on anything.”
He nods like he understands. Does he, really? Or does that answer just fit the textbook definition of depression? “But that night . . .” he prods.
“That night . . .” I pick through my foggy recollection. Most of my thoughts veer toward the same thing nowadays anyway, so it’s not hard to pinpoint. “I started thinking about how f**ked up everything is, how many people I’ve hurt, and how I’ll never escape this feeling. How maybe I wasn’t meant to live. Then I thought it’d be a good idea to down half a bottle of scotch.”
“A depressant cocktail to amplify your deep depression. That worked out well, didn’t it . . .” The ball goes up and down. Oddly enough, it makes the entire conversation feel that much more casual. Like we’re not talking about how I tried to kill myself. I wonder if that’s a shrink technique. “How’d you end up in the car?”
An image of Kacey’s face hits me. I’m not willing to bring her name into this conversation yet. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I carry her around in my phone. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I sat outside her house. I definitely don’t want to admit what happened at that frat party. “I started wondering if being in a car will always be uncomfortable.” That’s one thing Kacey and I seem to have in common, though her phobia is on an entirely different level.
“He arm-wrestled Tesky in my office for your tickets,” one of my dad’s firm partners, Rolans, calls out from beside me.
“Was he in his suit?” A mental image of my dad, fists locked with the law firm’s token partner—a seventy-five-year-old man who no longer takes cases and simply “counsels” and collects earnings—makes me smirk.
“Sleeves rolled up,” Rolans confirms, adding more somberly, “he almost lost.”
“No.”
“Yeah, I’m serious.” By the look on Rolans’s face, I instantly know he’s telling the truth. “Your dad’s worn out. We’ve tried to force him to take a vacation, but he refuses. The billable hours he’s putting in are fantastic, but they’re going to kill him. This lawsuit is going to—”
“What lawsuit?” I interrupt.
“The one from your accident.” He emphasizes that last word in a way that makes me think he has a distinct opinion about it. One that’s not favorable toward me.
“The Turner family? I thought that was settled out of court.”
“No, the Monroes. You know, the teenage girl who died?”
I feel my face screw up. I didn’t even know they were suing.
“They’re going after your dad for more money and he feels guilty enough to pay out. If you had any idea how much he’s already lost in this . . .” Rolans shakes his head, his eyes trailing the Zamboni as it cleans the ice.
“How long has that been going on?” How long has he hidden it from me?
“A while.”
“But the accident was two years ago.”
He glances over at his daughter, April, whose focus is glued to her phone screen, as any typical fourteen-year-old’s would be. “When you lose a kid, two years is nothing. Those parents will be missing their daughter for the next fifty years.” Rolans’s eyes flicker behind me, warning me that my dad is back before he takes his seat, ending all conversation.
The third period begins.
But in my head, it’s already over.
“Good game, right?” my dad hollers from the kitchen.
I don’t answer, simply taking in the wall of pictures. A shrine to our family. Some I recognize from the living room wall of the house my parents shared. Some must have been dug up from the shoe boxes my mom kept under her bed. The three of us together, my dad and me at hockey and football practice, my mom and me on the beach. Sasha and me in the backyard. My parents’ wedding photos.
The full bottle of Johnnie Walker that sat on the bookshelf three nights ago when I arrived at his house in Astoria now sits half-empty. I guess leaving my mom didn’t break him of his newfound vice. In fact, I think it has only amplified it. For a guy who preaches letting go and moving on, he sure as hell doesn’t seem to be following his own advice.
“I had to fight Tesky to get those tickets,” he jokes, stepping into the room, a glass of scotch against his lips. “It’s not often a client hands us box seats to a play-off game, no matter how much they say they like the firm.”
“I haven’t seen a Rangers game in years,” I acknowledge.
“Yeah, I think you were fifteen or so, the last time?” Scratching his stubbly chin in thought, he murmurs, “I can’t believe how fast the time has flown.”
Fast, and yet painstakingly slow. Two years ago, today, I was sitting on a couch in Rich’s house, pounding beers. In a month, I can say my parents have been separated for a year. They just filed for divorce. Rolans is right. My dad has lost so much, and not just the money.
“You still love her, don’t you?”
My dad sidles up beside me, settling his eyes—eyes I inherited—on a grainy old picture of my mom at sixteen, sitting on a set of wooden steps that lead to the public beach on the Cape, where they first met. I’ve heard the story a thousand times. My dad was tossing a Frisbee to his brother and my mom—oblivious—walked straight in between the two of them and took it in the head. And then she just started to laugh.
“I’ll always love your mother.”
“Can’t you work it out? Things are . . . better now, aren’t they?” There’s nothing about what goes on in my head and heart on a daily basis that could be considered better.
“I guess our marriage finally faced a test that it couldn’t pass,” is all he finally says.
A car honk sounds outside. “That’s my taxi. I’m going to head into the office for an hour or two to finish up some work. If you’re fine with that.”
The last time I glanced at the clock above the TV, it was almost eleven. On a Sunday night. When I haven’t seen him since Christmas. I’m tempted to ask him about the lawsuit, but I don’t. I simply nod as the door swings shut behind me.
I wonder if this is about those billable hours, making up all that he’s lost for the firm and for himself. Or maybe he’s simply drowning his sorrows over my mom in work. Or maybe he wants to get away from me for a while. There’s no doubt that my dad loves me. But he’s also got pictures on his wall of three little boys’ smiling faces, their arms roped around each other’s waists. I don’t know a lot of dads who would include his son’s friends on his bachelor pad wall.
Unless his son’s friends were like second sons to him.
I reach for the bottle of scotch.
A soft ballad over the radio mixes with the low purr of the engine to create a soothing ambiance in my dad’s crammed single-car garage. I let the darkness envelop me, my dashboard a blurry haze of green lines.
Her smile shining brightly up at me from the screen on my phone as I hit “call.”
She answers on the third ring, shouting a “Hello?” into the receiver above the loud laughter and music on the other end. She must be at another party.
I close my eyes and cherish these few seconds connected to her, as I did the other three times I called. I had my number blocked so she can’t read my name—not that Trent Emerson would mean anything to her.
“Who the hell is this?”
I really should stop doing this, or else she’ll change her number.
Not that it matters anymore.
“Listen, you creeper . . .”
Is she drunk? I think I detect a slur. But maybe it’s just me who’s drunk. And, damn, I am f**king loaded. I can’t even focus on the steering wheel in front of me. But I have to say it. Just once, when she’ll hear it, even if she doesn’t remember tomorrow. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a long pause. “For what?”
I open my mouth but I can’t bring myself to say the words, and so I say nothing.
“Drop dead, you douchebag.” The phone clicks.
It has taken almost two years and the half bottle of scotch that I just downed, but everything is suddenly so obvious.
I wasn’t meant to survive that night.
The emptiness that I’ve been living with—so utterly consuming—is what’s left of a person when he dies and yet still breathes, facing each day with nothing at the end of it. When he exists, but cannot feel beyond his own misery. There’s an endless weight on my chest that I will never be strong enough to lift off.
It’s crushing my will.
And I finally accept that I’m done with this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.
So, I close my eyes and settle my head against the headrest. Just like I remember doing in the SUV that night.
And breathe in and out, slowly, heavily, over and over again. Inhaling the fumes pumping in through the garden hose that hangs over the cracked window, the other end stuffed into the car’s muffler.
The first genuine smile that I’ve felt in almost two years touches my lips.
A smile of relief, because peace is finally coming.
Chapter 14
May 2010
If I started to go bald, I’d just shave my head. I guess he’s not exactly bald, but that hairline bought a one-way ticket and it’s well on its way. I give him ten years before he’s polishing his scalp.
“Hello? Trent?”
I blink several times, trying to focus on the doctor’s words. “Sorry, what?”
He gives me a patient smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“Tired,” I croak. A stomach pump for alcohol poisoning, serious oxygen therapy for carbon monoxide poisoning, and a slew of tests and psychological assessments has left me exhausted. Now I’ve got a mess of medication pumping through my veins. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in this room, but I’ve been asleep most of that time.
Apparently, my dad came home from work minutes after I lost consciousness and, when he searched the house and couldn’t find me, some gut-churning sixth sense told him to check the garage.
He couldn’t get a pulse.
In my drunken stupor, I tried to kill myself. And I almost succeeded.
When I woke up in a hospital—again—with my mom holding my hand, tears in her eyes—again—and realized what I had done—again—I agreed to everything my dad started insisting upon, including an intense inpatient program. That’s how I’ve ended up in this sunny-colored private Chicago cell.
It’s not a cell, really. Though I haven’t seen the rest of the facility yet, I’m guessing it’s pretty nice.
“Your body has been through the ringer. You’ll adjust. Ironically enough, I’m not a big fan of medicating, but I think, given the depth of your depression, you’ll benefit from a small chemical reset.”
Depression. That’s what I keep hearing.
“So . . .” Dr. Stayner begins pacing, his arms over his chest, “you dropped out of college, quit the football team, broke up with your high school sweetheart, your parents are divorcing. And you spend excessive amounts of time in your mother’s basement, isolating yourself with work.”
“That about covers it,” I mutter.
“It’s been a long downward spiral for you.” He pierces me with his stare. “Do you want to get better? Because that is a requirement for my inpatient program.”
I’m betting this is the same opening spiel that he gives everyone. I don’t mind, though, because the answer is simple. “Yes.” I’m thinking clearly enough now—without scotch coursing through my veins, polluting my thoughts, amplifying my emotions—and I know that I don’t have a choice. I’ve hit rock bottom and something has to change. It has to get better. I just don’t think it’s possible.
He slaps his hands together, like something’s settled. His eyes twinkle with genuine excitement. “Good! We’ll start therapy in the morning. Give you a swift kick in the ass, down the road to recovery. Until then, get some rest.” He strolls briskly out of the room without another word, leaving me frowning at the door. My dad said that he’s the best. I guess we’ll see if the best is good enough.
My eyes follow the baseball as it sails up to nearly touch the spackled ceiling and then back down, landing in Dr. Stayner’s hand with a soft thud.
Up and down.
Up and down.
“So, is ending your life something you gave a lot of thought to?”
I sigh, taking in his modest navy-blue carpeted office. Pretty much what you’d expect from a shrink: a desk, a few chairs, some framed certificates, and lots of books. “Honestly? No. I mean . . . I don’t know how many nights I wished I’d gone to bed and simply not woken up, but I wasn’t really planning on anything.”
He nods like he understands. Does he, really? Or does that answer just fit the textbook definition of depression? “But that night . . .” he prods.
“That night . . .” I pick through my foggy recollection. Most of my thoughts veer toward the same thing nowadays anyway, so it’s not hard to pinpoint. “I started thinking about how f**ked up everything is, how many people I’ve hurt, and how I’ll never escape this feeling. How maybe I wasn’t meant to live. Then I thought it’d be a good idea to down half a bottle of scotch.”
“A depressant cocktail to amplify your deep depression. That worked out well, didn’t it . . .” The ball goes up and down. Oddly enough, it makes the entire conversation feel that much more casual. Like we’re not talking about how I tried to kill myself. I wonder if that’s a shrink technique. “How’d you end up in the car?”
An image of Kacey’s face hits me. I’m not willing to bring her name into this conversation yet. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I carry her around in my phone. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I sat outside her house. I definitely don’t want to admit what happened at that frat party. “I started wondering if being in a car will always be uncomfortable.” That’s one thing Kacey and I seem to have in common, though her phobia is on an entirely different level.
