What Remains True Read online

  “Why is that?”

  “Because!” She kicks her feet out angrily. I’m glad for it. Up until this moment, Eden has been too calm and composed. She needs to unlock her emotions if she is to work through her grief. “Nothing will ever be the same without Jonah! Duh!”

  “You’re right. It won’t be the same. But do you think it’s possible that it could be good again? Different, but good?”

  She considers my question. “Not unless my mom gets better. But it’s like, she doesn’t even want to. She just wants to lie in bed and be sad and think about Jonah. And that makes me feel sad and mad at her, too, and mad at myself because of what happened.”

  “Eden, why are you mad at yourself for what happened? It’s no one’s fault. You know that, right?”

  She doesn’t answer, just gives me a stony look as she tucks her knees back against her chest.

  I repeat her aunt’s words to her. “Bad things happen. They just do.”

  When her silence continues, I make a note and change directions.

  “What’s the biggest thing you would change about your mom right now, the one thing that would let you know she’s getting better?”

  She chews at her bottom lip. I consider how to rephrase the question, but before I do, she answers.

  “I would want her to know I’m there,” she says. She puts her hand to her throat and coughs a little, then sucks in a breath. “It’s like, she doesn’t see me anymore. She doesn’t see anyone.”

  Except Jonah, I think. The one person who isn’t there.

  THIRTY

  RACHEL DAVENPORT

  “I don’t want to be here,” she says. She sits on the couch, her posture as it was in the family room, shoulders hunched, head on her chest. “I just want to go home and go to bed. I’m so tired. So, so tired.” I know she is still being medicated, although strictly monitored with a lower dosage. The effects of going off an antidepressant cold turkey can be devastating. Rachel is lucid, although markedly sluggish.

  “I understand,” I tell her. She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.

  “No, you don’t. You say you do, but you don’t.”

  “As I mentioned earlier, I have experienced loss, Rachel.”

  She raises her head and stares at me. “Was it your child? Your baby boy?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s not the same.” She drops her head.

  “May I ask you a question, Rachel?”

  “Stop saying my name as if you know me.” Her words are slow and measured and devoid of aggression or force. “You don’t know me.”

  “You’re right. But I’d like to get to know you if you’ll let me.”

  She turns to look out the window, her eyes faraway. “You don’t want to get to know me. If you knew what kind of person I am, you wouldn’t.”

  “What kind of person are you?”

  She faces me, then closes her eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Why doesn’t it matter what kind of person you are?”

  “Because it’s too late to change anything.”

  “What would you change if you could?”

  “Everything. I don’t like talking. It takes too much energy. I’m so tired.” She stretches out across the couch, resting her head on the arm. She stares at the ceiling. “This is more comfortable than I thought it would be.”

  “From what I hear from the people who know you, you’re a terrific person,” I tell her. For a moment, I think she didn’t hear me. Then she shifts on the couch and turns her head to face me.

  “Maybe they don’t really know who I am.”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you are.”

  She returns her attention to the ceiling. “Can I go home now? I really don’t want to be here. I don’t like being outside the house right now. Maybe someday I will again. Maybe I’ll like going out and doing the things I used to do.”

  “What kinds of things did you used to do?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “Did you like going to the movies?”

  “I guess.”

  “How about shopping?”

  “Not really. Sometimes, maybe. If there was a good sale.”

  “What about hobbies?”

  “Writing. I have a blog. Had a blog.”

  “That sounds interesting. What else?”

  Rachel continues to stare at the ceiling. She is quiet, but I can’t tell whether she’s pondering my question or if she has checked out of the conversation. A moment passes.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Her question takes me by surprise. “Do you believe in ghosts, Rachel?”

  She laughs quietly. “I asked you first.”

  I smile, even though she isn’t looking at me. “In all honesty, I don’t know if I believe in ghosts. I believe there are a lot of things in the world that we can’t explain.” I pause. “On the day you took the pills, you thought you saw Jonah.”

  “Ruth told you?”

  I don’t confirm or deny. No use throwing Ruth under the bus. “It was in your chart from the ER. Dr. Lahey made a note.”

  Rachel purses her lips. “I did see Jonah. I didn’t think I saw him. I did.”

  “Okay.”

  “You say ‘okay’ like you don’t believe me. But he was there.”

  “I say ‘okay’ because I believe that you believe it.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “Rachel, I wasn’t there. I only know what you’re telling me. Did Jonah talk to you? Did he say anything?”

  “No. I think he wanted to, but he didn’t, or couldn’t. I don’t know.”

  “Had you taken any of your medication when you saw him?”

  “It wasn’t the pills. And I’m not crazy.” She pushes herself up to a seated position and looks directly at me. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I just wanted to help Jonah. I was worried that maybe he’s stuck, like he can’t move on, and I wanted to help him get to heaven. Jonah belongs in heaven. He was a perfect, sweet, wonderful boy who shouldn’t be stuck in this awful place where perfect, sweet, wonderful boys can be taken away in an instant because their mothers were too caught up in bullshit and neglected them!”

  “Rachel, I need you to take a couple of deep breaths, okay?”

  She presses her fist against her mouth and stifles a moan. Then she follows my directions and takes two deep breaths, letting them out on a sigh. I circle back to what she just said.

  “Rachel, you didn’t neglect Jonah.”

  Tears stream down her cheeks. I stand and carry the box of tissues to her. She looks at the box as though she has no idea what it is. I set it on the couch next to her.

  “You don’t know what I did or didn’t do,” she tells me, her voice soft and terse at the same time. “You weren’t there.” Using my own words against me.

  “Would you like to tell me what you did that you feel was neglectful to Jonah?”

  She shakes her head and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater.

  “Would you like to talk about something else?”

  “I just want to go home. I’m so tired.”

  “I know you are, Rachel. But you’re here already. Might as well use our time. I really want to help you and your family. And in order to do that, I’m going to need you to talk to me . . . just a little bit, so I know how best to help you.”

  She doesn’t respond, just stares at me expectantly. The tears have stopped, but her eyes are swollen and her nose is red and wet.

  “Can you talk a little bit about you and Sam?”

  Her shoulders tense at the mention of her husband’s name.

  “Sam,” she says, as if testing out the word. “Sam is Sam, green eggs and ham.”

  “How long have the two of you been married?”

  “Thirteen years.”

  “How did you meet?”

  A moment passes. “Blind date.”

  “I met my husband on a blind date, too. Where did you go? What did you do?”


  She gives me an ambivalent look. “We met at a club.” I nod and wait for her to continue. “It was near the campus, walking distance.” Her expression shifts slightly as she connects to the memory. “It was one of those places with the drums and the neon paints.”

  “I’ve never been to one, but I’ve heard they’re fun.”

  “I suggested it, you know, when we talked on the phone. I wanted to see . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “What, Rachel? What did you want to see?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see if he was . . .” She shrugs. “Adventurous. I used to be. Adventurous. Now I don’t even want to leave my house. My bed.”

  I urge her back on track. “So you suggested the club and he agreed?”

  She nods. “He told me he’d be wearing an Eddie Munster T-shirt. You know, from that old TV show? And there was this guy at the bar when I got there, and he was wearing an Eddie Munster T-shirt.” She looks at her lap. “He wasn’t really . . . I mean, he was so . . . He wasn’t at all what I expected. He didn’t look anything like my friend Leah described. And I thought maybe I could just sneak out without him seeing me. I didn’t want to be mean, but he . . .” She shakes her head. “I figured I could call him later and tell him I got food poisoning or something.” A quiet chuckle escapes her. “So I kind of backtrack to the entrance, and just as I’m walking out the door, in comes this other guy wearing an Eddie Munster T-shirt. What are the odds? And it was Sam. Looking just like my friend said he would. And he got this big smile on his face and took my hand, and that was it.”

  “That’s a great story. Thank you for sharing that with me. How long did the two of you date before you got married?”

  She stands suddenly. “I don’t want to talk about Sam anymore.” She moves toward the door, wringing her hands together, her anxiety rising with each passing second. I can tell that she is done.

  “I want my sister,” she says. “I want Ruth. I want to go home. I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m really sorry. I’ll do better next time. I promise. I just need to go. I just need to go now.”

  I follow her to the door and put my hand on her arm. “It’s okay, Rachel. I understand. And you’ve done very well today. You should feel really good about taking this first step.”

  “Feel really good,” she repeats, her voice hollow. “I’m afraid that I won’t ever feel really good about anything ever again.”

  “I know. That’s why you’re here.” I squeeze her arm and watch as her eyes fill with tears. “Come on. I’ll take you to Ruth.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  MADDIE

  I let myself into the house and head straight to the kitchen, where I pour myself a tall glass of water. I drink it slowly, staring out the window to the darkened yard, and thinking about the Davenports.

  I catch movement in my peripheral vision and turn to see Cleopatra slink toward me. She rubs herself against my ankles and starts to mewl. Her coat is silver gray, shiny and sleek, and her eyes are peridot green. I kneel down and stroke her, and her purr is instantaneous. She allows me to pet her for thirty straight seconds, then turns and trots across the tile floor to her bowls. I dutifully follow her and grab the bag of cat food from the cupboard and measure out a quarter cup. I freshen up the water and leave her to it.

  A half an hour later, I’m on the couch, wearing my yoga pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, rolling a joint. On particularly difficult days, this is how I decompress. With marijuana. I tried drinking wine, which I enjoy, but the nightly calories wreaked havoc on my waistline. A psychiatrist friend of mine offered me a prescription for medical marijuana, which he said helped him unwind. The particular kind of weed I smoke is mild. It relaxes me without making me crazy, helps me to distance myself from my patients’ grief, and occasionally it opens my mind to possible treatment solutions for particularly difficult situations. I only take one or two hits, never more.

  Peter texted me earlier to let me know he had a dinner with the partners of his firm and didn’t know how late he would be. I sent a reply, telling him not to worry, to enjoy the inevitable cigars and cognac that accompany such a meal, and if we couldn’t FaceTime tonight, we’d make up for it tomorrow.

  Cleopatra has graced me with her presence. She lies on the other side of the couch, summarily ignoring me, but the fact that she is within reaching distance speaks volumes. I know that if I scooted closer and started to pet her she would jump down and move to another room, so I pretend to ignore her and am content with her aloof company.

  I light the joint and take one long draw, hold it in for a beat, then exhale slowly. I set the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table and recline against the back of the couch.

  The Davenport file sits next to the ashtray. This morning’s sessions are still fresh in my mind. I thought of the family throughout my day, between patients, at lunch, on the drive home. Something is going on with each of them.

  When faced with a devastating loss of a family member, most healthy, well-adjusted individuals will experience survivor’s guilt. It’s natural. But with this case, each person exhibits feelings of guilt that run far deeper than I would expect. During their sessions, each one apologized, even when an apology wasn’t necessary. Each confessed or, at least, almost confessed to having done something wrong, something that caused Jonah Davenport’s death.

  Jonah was hit by a car. He was not neglected or abused or battered by his parents. He was not pushed down the stairs by his older sister. He didn’t find his aunt’s fibromyalgia meds and take half a dozen of them. What happened was an accident. A terrible, horrible, tragic accident.

  I reach over and pick up the file, open it, and gaze down at the smiling face of a five-year-old with enormous dimples, curly brown hair, and intelligent, amused brown eyes. I stare at Jonah’s image for a while and try to imagine him as he was in life.

  I think of how Sam described him, the precocious child with the enormous hands and affection for bugs.

  “I don’t kill spiders, either, Jonah,” I tell him. “I get my husband to do it.”

  Peter and I discussed having children and opted not to. I was thirty when we met, and he was thirty-seven. Neither of us was too old to have them, especially in this day and age. But Peter had never felt the need and I was ambivalent, for good reason. I’d already endured the loss of my parents and my fiancé, all of whom had the supreme misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I thought about my parents’ car accident and the shooting, and I wondered, how on earth can you keep a child safe? And the answer that came to me was, you can’t.

  So I buried my biological clock and agreed with Peter that we didn’t need to have children, that I would be fine without them. And I have been. My life is fulfilling. I work with many children, and helping them gives me a kind of maternal satisfaction. My relationship has never suffered sleepless nights or the waning sexual desire of the sudden shift of focus that couples experience and men tend to resent. In my life, I try not to waste time with regret or wondering what if. But there have been rare moments over the last ten years when I’ve pondered the other path I could have taken.

  Now, as I look upon Jonah Davenport, I know, with all my heart, that I made the right decision.

  “They love you, Jonah,” I tell the photograph. “They love you and they miss you and they don’t want to let you go. They’re holding on to you. But they’re holding on to something else, too. Each of them. What is it? What are these things they cling to?”

  The photograph can’t tell me what I need to know. But my intuition tells me that if I can get the Davenports and Ruth Glass to open up, they will find the map that will safely guide them through their grief.

  My cell phone chirps from the coffee table, and I set the file down and pick up the phone. A text from Peter. Going to be an early one. No cognac or cigars. Thank goodness. I’m exhausted from you keeping me up all night last night. I’m about to fall asleep in my mashed potatoes. FaceTime in 30? You can sing me a lullaby.

&n
bsp; I smile and text him back. I’ll see you then.

  I set the phone down, get up, and head into the kitchen, suddenly hungry. I pull a premade kale salad from the fridge and eat it standing up at my kitchen counter, watching the clock on the microwave, waiting for my husband’s call.

  PART THREE: THE DAY BEFORE

  THIRTY-TWO

  JONAH

  I’m up, I’m up, I’m up! Mommy hasn’t even come in to get me awake, but I’m already up ’cause I can’t sleep ’cause I’m too excited to sleep. Today is the big Easter egg hunt. They call it a spring egg hunt at school, which I don’t think sounds as good, and everybody knows it’s an Easter egg hunt, but Daddy says they call it a spring hunt because they don’t want to make anybody upset. I don’t know why anyone would be upset about saying Easter, ’cause Easter’s a really fun holiday and on Easter morning I get a big basket with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans and Peeps. But Auntie Ruth says the Jews get mad about Easter. I don’t know what Jews are, but I don’t argue with Auntie Ruth, and anyway, I don’t want anybody to get mad, so if they want to call it spring egg hunt, that’s okay by me.

  I’m not as excited as I am on Christmas morning, but almost. Christmas morning is better ’cause Santa brings lots of presents. Eden says Santa is a figent of my imagination. I don’t know what that means. I don’t think I have a figent, at least not last time I checked, but I do know that Santa always gives me what I want, like the LEGO Star Wars Millennium Falcon that I put together in only one day and Mommy said I was a genius for doing it so fast. Anyways, it’s not like Christmas morning, but it’s pretty darn good, too. In some ways, hunting for eggs is better than hunting for bugs, ’cause you can’t eat the bugs—’cept Daddy says that some people do eat bugs, but not me, no way. I’d have to kill ’em first, and I’d never kill my insect friends.

  Anyways, today I get to hunt for yummy eggs, and tomorrow I get to hunt for bugs, which is the best of both worlds.

  I climb out of bed and go to my dresser. Mommy usually pulls my clothes out for me, but I’m going to do it myself this morning. I pull out my pants and a shirt and a clean pair of unders. Mommy and Daddy have a rule about clean unders every day, so I take off my jammies and put them on top of my dresser for later, then take off my unders and put them in the hamper, then put on the fresh ones. Then I pull on my pants and put on my shirt and I run for the door. Then I remember that I forgot to get socks, so I run back to the dresser and grab some socks from the top drawer and stuff them into my pocket for putting on downstairs.