An Insane World - Chapter Twenty-One
It's well past the whistle, well past happy hour. Alex sits in the chair in Tim's room and it's like his career is now in syndication, he's watching reruns of it. Tim has his back to the world and isn't responding to anything. It's the end of day two and Alex is starting to think about a promise he made to this Marshal – no more drugs. But this can't go on. He won't let this go that way, not like Sophia. Alex flips open his file and starts making a list of antidepressants: Sertraline, Nefazodone, Fluoxetine, Duloxetine…
But he made a promise, and it made sense at the time.
He scribbles them all out and starts writing a list of things that he remembers Tim saying he enjoys: Donkey Kong, bourbon, southern rock, target shooting, baseball. He closes the file and heads out.
An hour later he's driving through Lexington looking for an address, a shop that carries old gaming systems and used games. The owner pulls out a refurbished Nintendo '64, lets Alex dig through the old games and he finds a copy of Donkey Kong and Super Mario, and he pays for it all and takes it home.
The apartment is empty, more empty than usual, dark and full of shadows and ghosts and he can't stop his mind from wandering places it really shouldn't tonight.
There's half a bottle of tequila in his liquor cabinet. Alex figures what the hell, why not, and doesn't even bother with a glass. It hits fast, flattening him harder than he thought it would or meant it to, like the Pacific surf rising quickly out of the steep coastal drop and slapping you down onto high tide sand, unexpected. It's not long before he's drifting in and out on the floor by the bookshelf, head pillowed on a pile of old psychology journals. He pictures Bridget, wonders what she would say if she saw him now.
Then it's his dad, sitting on the edge of the bed, an odor of stale sweat and his hair greasy and stringy and his hands bleeding. He's holding the razor blade out like a gift. I couldn't do it, kid. I'm sorry. I couldn't do it. Alex turns and leaves, sick, he turns and leaves the room and leaves his dad sitting alone, sunk down in his despair and not even trying anymore.
He's so angry with him.
Then it's Sophia, on her hospital bed wrapped in her hospital sheets, the tube still sticking out from her nose. Make it stop, Alex. I don't want this. Make it stop. She's biting her raw fingers and then she's lying naked and transparent, pale on a slab in the morgue, belly stuffed with sedatives and painkillers and anti-depressants. Her lips are blue and she's so thin, collarbones sticking out like wings.
Then Tim, lifting a gun, aiming it at him.
He wakes up gasping for air, choking under the wave of nausea that rushes in, threatening to force the tequila back up. He stays there on his back on the floor and lets the room spin around him, drifts with the occasional splotches of passing headlights from outside as they sweep across the walls. Sometime just before midnight he sits back up, gets his phone from his pocket and calls the first number on speed dial.
"Kinda late for a call from you, Alex. Haven't you got work tomorrow?"
His voice is slurred, slow. Alex can never tell if it's because he's taking too much medication or too little.
"Hey, Dad. Are you doing okay?"
"You sound like shit, kid. Are you drinking?"
Dodging questions means things aren't great. Alex rests his head back on the wall and chews a nail. He called to say something.
"Alex?"
"Yeah, uh…I quit smoking."
"How old were you when I first caught you with a cigarette? Fourteen?"
"Twelve."
"You looked like a puppy with a stolen steak. What did I do about it? I don't remember…"
"You made me watch Night of the Living Dead."
There's a pause, confusion. "Why the hell would I do that?"
"I, uh…I don't know. Never figured that one out."
"Well…shit, I'm sorry. That was a pretty crappy movie."
"I liked it. Did I wake you up?"
"No, it's still early here. Besides, don't really sleep much anymore. They've got me on these new drugs and they sure keep the head spinning."
Alex's psychiatrist's brain kicks in, a series of questions already lined up and on the tip of this tongue: What are the names of the drugs? How much are you taking? How often? Any side effects? He should be in California. The doubts start surfacing. Why did he call his dad tonight?
"Okay, Dad. I'm, uh…I'm sorry I called so late. I've got work tomorrow so…"
"It's not late here Alex, remember? Hey, just…wait. Are you…? You got a girlfriend yet? I haven't heard you talk about anyone in a while."
This isn't the conversation they need to have but Alex knows he can't be therapist to everyone, especially not his father. He can't do it, not that. He needs distance here, so he answers the questions, mundane details about his life, and it's almost meditative, soothing in its simplicity. He puts his phone on speaker to free his hands, works setting up the Nintendo system while he talks about everything and anything, just like the old days, and his dad reads him like a book and pulls it all out of him, his insecurities about his career, his choices. They laugh about nicotine cravings, share cigarette stories and a hate for the itchy and aching hunger. Eventually, Alex hangs up feeling better than he has in a while and plays Super Mario until after three.
The next morning, ten o'clock, Alex wheels a TV into Tim's room, sits and plays Donkey Kong for the hour that would have been their session together. He talks to the TV while he's playing, cursing the obstacles and his own lack of skill at the game. Between levels he looks over at Tim, hoping for something.
Tim starts paying attention after he hears the name Fort Hood, Texas. It's important to her, serious, what she's saying. He puts a picture together from pieces that get through, opens his eyes and squints at the wall and lets the voice in. She's telling him about someone she knows, someone back from Iraq. He doesn't want to listen but her voice is compelling.
"It's too late to tell him these things but I get to tell you. You're not alone with your troubles, Tim. When you suffer with something I promise you there are people around you suffering right along with you. It may not be the same thing that's making them suffer but it's all linked together, their suffering with yours. If, and I say if because I believe that you're a different kind of person than he is…was, but… If you decide to end your suffering, let me tell you, it doesn't end, it just transfers along and someone else has to take up the burden. You can never get rid of it. I know you know that because you've seen that there's a world's worth of it out there. You can only share it and that helps some. It does. It helps some. I'm sharing mine right now with you, and I'm hoping it'll help some, with both of us."
He knows the voice, puts the face to it finally without turning over to look – it's Martha. Damn her, Martha, soft-hard Martha, respected Martha. He can't ignore her. He turns over because he has to for her and sits up and looks at her. She's not in her nurse's clothes; she's wearing jeans and a sweater and it makes her look softer. She smiles.
"Hey," she says. "It's okay."
He shakes his head. "No, it's not." He hasn't used his voice in a few days and it's deep and rusty. He reaches out a hand. "Do you have a picture?"
"What?"
"A photo?"
"Oh." She lifts her purse off the floor and searches inside for her wallet and opens it and pulls out three small photos. She chooses one, rubs a thumb over it and hands it over.
Tim stares at the face – it could be any one of them, any one of his battalion. He turns it away to run the back of his arm over his eyes then hands it back.
"I'm sorry. But he's not thinking about any of it anymore."
"No," she says. "But I am, and his mother is."
Tim feels something like anger. It's a chisel.
"Tim, is it something you saw?"
He won't look at her now. He's angry and it's chipping away at the black that is everywhere.
"Is it something you did?"
He drops his head.
She reaches out and smooths his hair. She doesn't have the blue latex gloves on. Her bare hands reach and touch something, take a gentle but firm hold of something and drag it closer and it rubs raw over the numbness and he feels it. He hates it. He hates her for it and the hate is hammering at the blackness too. He wishes she'd put her gloves on.
The food, as always, is wonderful, but Alex isn't enjoying the evening. He thinks maybe he's had too much to drink. He feels ill. The man across from him is loud and clearly drunk himself and Alex wants to stand up and scream at him that he's an idiot and doesn't know shit but this is Bridget's house and he wouldn't do that to her.
She's at the head of the table as usual, but it's not the usual ease and enjoyment and shit-disturber attitude for her tonight. She licks her lips, uncharacteristically nervous when he turns to her. She's been watching him, holds his tired gaze, smiles apologetically, hooks her foot around his under the table in support.
The man is a judge, federal court, more confidence than he deserves. He's new to Bridget's collection of mismatched dinner guests. Whenever Alex can make it to one of her memorable evening dinners, Bridget sits him on her left; he feels like a protégé. She knows he enjoys the drama of the clashing ideologies and usually he does, but not tonight.
The federal court judge works at the Federal Court House, of course. Bridget has reached a level in Lexington, her name on a rotation as an expert witness and the judge has taken a liking to her straight-talking no-bullshit manner, though Alex wonders how he'd feel if he knew she was a lesbian. For her part, Bridget is amused by him and invites him for dinner, a different perspective for the conversation. He talks loudly about things that maybe he shouldn't. He's talking loudly now about a young Deputy Marshal at the Lexington Bureau, a Marshal with a rifle. He's talking loudly about the need for more young men like him and like another Marshal in the same office, the cowboy, both ready at the drop of a hat to pull the trigger and no second thoughts.
"I'm sure these two boys have more kills between them then the rest of the United States Marshals Service personnel combined. And I'm not even including the numbers that the kid on the rifle likely racked up over in Afghanistan. He's a veteran, you know. Cool as they come. Never flinches."
Alex could tell him a thing or two about a US Marshal who flinches. He wants to tell him how he spent his Saturday, his day off, at the hospital with a certain US Marshal who flinches and who's on special watch now, in a depression that has Alex concerned. He repeats three words endlessly, doctor-patient confidentiality, while the judge continues his preaching.
"We should send all our boys over there for the experience, harden them up before they take jobs in law enforcement back here, then they'll be ready to do what needs to be done."
Bridget stills, a noticeable collecting, when Alex finally speaks.
"Have you ever, uh, been to war, Judge Reardon?"
"Aw, now, son. You've got a doctorate. Why don't you call me Mike?"
Alex has a full glass of red wine that he thinks would look fantastic dripping down the judge's face and onto his white shirt. Bridget kicks him gently. He knows her well enough to know it's not a warning to behave at her table, but rather a reminder of his position and his responsibilities as a psychiatrist.
He smiles, plastic, brittle. "Mike, have you?"
"Son, my courtroom, every day, is a warzone."
"Really? Have you ever had to watch a court reporter bleed out from injuries while holding his hand, Mike? Or help pick up the pieces of the attorney after he steps on a landmine crossing your courtroom? Ever had to step around a bloated body or two to get to your bench and set up for the day?"
Later, Alex drinks a third glass of water and helps Bridget clean up.
"I think that's the first time I've ever had silence at my table. You deserve a prize for that. I'll have to think up something and give you a title. The Closer – that's what I'll call you from now on. I'll give you the nod when I want people to leave and you can do your thing."
Alex slouches onto a stool at the island in her kitchen. "I, uh, would like to say sorry, but…"
"Don't you dare! It was a brilliant retort." She leans over and kisses his forehead. "More water? Or would you like something stronger?"
Alex thinks about Tim asking for whiskey. Something niggles at his conscience. He wonders if it's fair to keep the alcohol from Tim. He doesn't think it's as much of a problem as the shit the man is dealing with. He toys with the idea of getting him some despite his misgivings but the hospital would never allow it. It would mean his job if they found out.
"Can I have some coffee?"
"Would you like a cigarette with that?"
"Yes."
"No smoking in my kitchen, Junior."
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