Seeing Julia (8 page)

“I’m here to help you.” He shifts again and eventually stands, towering above me; flustered. A red flush steals over his handsome features. “Session’s over,” he says with a strangled cough.

I just nod. And, then, I say, “That’s what I thought.”

≈ ≈

Day five at Lenox Hill, session four with the good Doctor Stevenson. Back in my hospital room, we are back to neutral territory. My overt affections at the end of yesterday’s session were apparently out of line. They were. He seems intent on getting back to the patient and doctor boundaries between us. I’m intent on getting out of here.

The good doctor is not completely buying my schtick about being fine and just needing time and solitude. Instead, he inundates me with questions. “How do you feel, Julia? Have you had bad thoughts?”

“Bad thoughts?” I take a deep breath, preparing for the dramatic role of my life.

“A thought of suicide,” offers the handsome Dr. Stevenson. He’s not amused; his determined look confirms his frustration with me. I have not been a very good patient. Cooperative, yes, but not at the informant level, I believe he was hoping for. I am not willing to share my bad thoughts about suicide with the good doctor, with anybody, so it seems. So, it is.

“No, of course not,” I say with the slightest edge of indignation. “Of course not. I made a mistake. I was too sad. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just wanted the pain to go away. I didn’t want to kill myself.”

I’m guilty now, too. I do not say this to the good doctor. With almost a week’s worth of unspoken reflection upon the almost sexual encounter with Evan’s best friend, along with an attempted overdose of pills that led up to said incident, and the fact that my death would have left my seven-month-old son without a mother, I’ve added guilt to my continuous burden.

Guilt and grief consume me. Jake’s own remorse has shown its way through an endless succession of flowers and cards that apologize in a thousand different ways for what transpired. He has just made it worse. I stare at the flower bouquets littering my hospital room that inundate me with constant shame. He does not stop sending them.

“Why would I have thoughts of suicide?” I’ve tried to master this manufactured attitude of nonchalance and hide my true pain from everyone the last few days. I even try to smile after saying this.

Dr. Stevenson doesn’t hold back; he counters with, “Why wouldn’t you? You were married to a wonderful man who’s been tragically killed. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

His questions make me cringe inward. I still can’t imagine living without Evan, but I don’t tell him this. I struggle to hide my true feelings, but take a detached stance. I think he is taken aback by my unnatural indifference even more than our coy banter about thoughts of suicide that disguise the true suspension of my destiny—my true mental state—a knife’s edge for both of us. One wrong answer and I will find myself in a locked ward without a key, despite my generous donations to Lenox Hill in my dead husband’s name.

I give him a measured look. “I am very capable of handling grief,” I say to him in an even patient tone. “As I’ve told you, I have a life’s history with death: my parents, my fiancé, and now. Practice makes perfect, isn’t that what they say?”

“All the more reason for me to be concerned.” He attempts this clinical attitude and continues to assess me with his penetrating stare.

Fuck. Just leave already. Just fucking leave.
I want to shout this at him, but I don’t. The good doctor is just waiting for that kind of reaction from me. I remain steadfast and silent and just stare at him in this practiced, I-don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world kind of way and say, “I’m fine. I’ve made it through all the others.”

“Yes, but this was your husband. You had a child with Evan. Ties. Connections.”

“He wasn’t that great.” My attempt at humor backfires. My flippant words come out as this strangled cry. Ties. Connections. The double meaning is not lost on me. I have trouble keeping the mask of serenity on my face in place. The warning signs of the grief and guilt I’ve kept at bay during all these conversations take hold of me.

“Julia, I shouldn’t let you go home,” he says without looking up from his notebook.

“I’ll be good,” I counter.
I’ll be good
. He shakes his head at me. I don’t believe me, either. Good is a relative term any way. Good at what? I take turns with grief, guilt, shame, and heartbreak and serve as some kind of punching bag for all of these emotions. “I’ll be good. I promise. And, you can’t keep me here,” I say kindly.

He can’t keep me here without cause. And, I refuse to give him any. I have been here for five days and have done more than the standard three days of evaluation. The state of New York cannot keep me any longer without a court order. I know this; and he knows this, too.

“No,” he concedes with a heavy sigh.

We are at this impasse and we both recognize it. I smile at him. He does not smile back. His concerned look is touching. His resemblance to Evan with his dark blonde hair and his grey eyes is disquieting. The gold-rimmed glasses are not Evan’s and my husband was taller, but it’s there. I think all of this as I smile at him in a practiced, captivating way that has always helped me get what I want, even with Evan. It’s been working on Dr. Stevenson, too. I can see his hesitation. I can see his attraction to me. I still have that sex appeal men find attractive going for me. I certainly know this. A brief flash of Jake Winston’s face comes to my mind. I struggle with the feelings his image brings with it, but I recover enough to give the good doctor a beguiling look. “I’m going to be fine,” I say.

Dr. Stevenson breaks away from my evocative gaze and picks up the small paper pill cup. He deftly opens my hand with his and drops two white pills into it and then hands me a glass of water. My look of compliance disguises my disdain for these white pills. Dr. Stevenson steps back away from me, helpless, too involved, too captivated, in too deep. I believe he is indebted to the white pills as a last point of defense with me. I acknowledge the apprehension I see in his eyes with an inclination of my head. “Don’t worry so much. I’m
fine
,” I say.

We look at each other; certain of only one thing: we silently concede the white pills won’t solve anything, least of all, what is haunting me. Everyone I have ever loved is dead and the handsome, beguiled Dr. Bradley Stevenson can’t fix any of it.

≈
≈*

Listless, I stare out at the grey canvas of the Atlantic. The harsh chill of the wind and the faint prickling sensation of salt spray barely register as these things race past me and obliterate all other sound with the exception of the agonized screaming inside.

A memory of Evan jogging along the shoreline, just weeks before, flashes at me. I look to the north and there he is in his favorite grey sweats. I scrutinize the lone figure running toward me. This inexplicable exhilaration coupled with rising anxiety courses through me.
How can this be?
Before I can stop myself, I’ve opened up my arms as the runner sprints my way. “Evan!”

Seconds later, I recognize the runner as Jim Hargrove from two doors down. In agonized disbelief, I watch him turn up from the path and take the stairs two at a time leading from the beach to his own palatial home. Despair follows me down into this momentary descent from reality, but only the wind can hear my cries. For once, I’m grateful for the Atlantic and its ability to mask all sound. I need it on this day, before anyone discovers how despondent I really am.

Tears run down my face, only part wind-driven. Grief fills up all of me. I look to the north again. My arms ache.
I will never hold him again.
This staggering thought brings me to my knees and I collapse into the wet wintry sand. The fierceness of the approaching waves lull me into this sense of acceptance. Evan’s life is over. So is mine. Pain killers chased with a slew of chocolate martinis, and now, little white pills, or even thoughts of Jake Winston cannot stop grief’s latest assault.

≈ ≈

“Julia!” Kimberley’s voice breaks through my numb state.

It’s all been a bad nightmare. None of it’s true.

I’m dragged to my feet, soaking wet and yanked back to reality.
It’s all true.

“God, what are you doing out here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’re ice cold. Julia, look at me!”

Glazed, I look at her; unseeing. “Kimmy?” I can’t keep my teeth from chattering.

Kimberley grips my stiff hand and half-drags me back up the wooden stairs to the house. With reality revived, I stare at the home that used to be a haven and now serves as a constant reminder of Evan and all I’ve lost. “I can’t … stay here.”

“I know. It’s just for a few days, until we figure things out.”

Her sympathy propels me forward. A few days.
I can handle a few days. Can’t I?

Kimberley leads me inside, up the stairs, and down the long hallway. She pushes me under a hot shower, clothes and all, while I chase away the memories of Jake Winston doing this for me just days before. Tears mingle with the shower spray and I let them fall. Five minutes later, Kimberley strips off my clothes, wraps the towel around me, and pulls me back along the hallway.

I stop midway. “I can’t. I can’t sleep there, Kimmy.” I point towards the double doors leading to the master bedroom where Evan and I slept only weeks before.

“I know. We’re just getting you something to wear. We’ll sleep in the guest room.”

With trepidation and a shared sense of urgency, we enter the master bedroom and head straight to the walk-in closet. Kimberley searches the drawers for clothes, while I try to control my trembling. The farthest hallway light serves as the only source of illumination into this dim tomb and I peer over at Kimberley, who tries to smile. But the furrow at the bridge of her nose reveals her own distress and she wipes at a tear. She tosses me an old t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms. I catch them one-handed. “Thanks.”

Through the darkened hallway, we make our way to the guest suite. Then, I hear Reid’s distinct cry from downstairs and look over at Kimmy. “Lianne’s got him,” she says.

How does she know? How does she know my pain?
She switches on the night stand lamp, turns down the bed, and pushes me into it. “I’m going to change. Then, I’ll be right back. Okay?” I crawl into the bed without answering. She brings the covers up to my neck and studies me. “I’ll be right back,” she says again.

I close my eyes at her words. I’ll be right back; Evan’s last words reverberate through me. A tear escapes and makes a slow trail down my face. I open my eyes again and look at her.

“Don’t turn the light out,” I say.

“I won’t.”

Minutes later, she crawls into bed next to me because that’s what my best friend does for me. She was the same way when Bobby died. In the semi-darkness, we face each other and hold hands. “Kimmy. Thank you.” She nods. Her tears mingle with mine on the pillow we share.

≈ ≈

Stirring awake, I glance at the red illumination of the numbers two one five and savor in a few precious seconds before I remember what’s happened. Grief returns with fresh reinforcements. The battle seems to be waged for my sanity. While Kimmy sleeps beside me, I face the haunting imagery, grief has so eloquently prepared. First to arrive are those happy memories of Evan: his amazing laugh that captivated me the first time we spoke, the way he’d whisper in my ear when we were in public, the way he made me feel when we’d gaze at each other from across a room. Then, our last moments together, when he brushed his lips across our baby’s forehead and then mine before he sailed out the door and called out:
I’ll be right back
.

Then, other images of Evan re-emerge, painful ones that haunt: his crushed Porsche; his lifeless broken body when the firemen finally extricated it from the wreckage; his eyes closed forever; and, the first dawning moment when I began to comprehend he was really gone. The images play over and over, an endless film reel I can’t begin to turn off.