The Measures Between Us (15 page)

There was no train, at least not on the first few trips. He had tried to entice Cynthia to come with him, on the promise they would see it. He thought it would be like years ago, when they'd wandered onto the Kingman land and watched the helicopters land and take off. She usually found a reason not to come to the creek, though. She was too tired, she would say, or her dad needed help with something. You should go yourself, she always added. You can tell me about it later.

Brandon had said that in the summertime he and his father waded through the water with their hands buried along the banks, groping for fish that nested in the rich, loamy dirt of the riverside. “It's where they go to lay their eggs. There's nothing gross about it to them, since it's where they live. They might just
as well think where we live is gross, Dad says. Smells weird, at least.” Jack asked if he ever caught one and he shook his head: “But my dad can catch a couple a day. He learned from my grandpa, my other grandpa not the one who lives here, and they did it in a much bigger river and they wore bigger waders. In North Carolina. I've seen black-and-white pictures where they got suspenders. Then he runs his knife through them and takes out the spine and bones and chucks the heads back into the water—but one time he put one in his mouth to make my mom scream. She's not here anymore.”

At last Jack saw the train. He was sitting in the car with the ignition off, smoking a cigarette, when he heard a faint horn blast, its source hard to pinpoint. Half a minute later there was another, this one closer. He got out of the car and gazed across the water. The creek surface was inky black, flat as glass. Thin clouds veiled the moon, just a sliver. The next sound was a series of bells. The train must have tripped a roadside gate, the big, stern zebra-striped arm dropping to block cars. Then, out of nowhere, a huge, oracular headlight.

The train wasn't traveling very fast. The ground shook from the steel tonnage, and the vibrations rippled the surface of the water. It lit up the skeletal trees, silvered the rocks jutting through the banks of the creek, and transformed the utility poles into glowing crosses. In the fall, when the leaves are close to dropping, the train must hasten their severing from the tree branches. Days and weeks later it would rustle up what it had shaken off and rearrange the ground cover.

Nothing was illuminated for very long. Jack caught just a glimpse, before the train chugged along, its light magical. That was one moment when he missed Cynthia the most, wanted her
quietly by his side, because he knew his description would fail, he wouldn't be able to deliver this to her. He would tell her about the rustling chorus of the bushes, about the fish he imagined torpedoing surfaceward, they too wanting a piece of this ephemeral light. He would tell her it was one of those moments when it seemed like the earth had ceased moving for a second, because how could you not drop everything and stare?

She would have been grateful if she'd been there, because she understood these quietly thunderous moments. It was why she loved the lab, too, all those sorcerer's tools. The train was bigger, the creek more real than that river in the basement. That was what he would try to tell her when he saw her next. He would try to re-create the enveloping sound, buy the biggest flashlight he could afford, switch it on, and say: Imagine this times a thousand.

“It's an excellent place, one of the finest in the country. But it's expensive.”

Henry Wheeling repeated this at least three times when he told Vincent about Rangely, the hospital he suggested for Cynthia. It was an agonizing phone call, one Vincent had begun by saying that he and his wife had spent the last few weeks trying to figure out what to do. At first they were leaning toward sending Cynthia to another therapist. But they changed their minds because she seemed particularly remote lately. His wife, Vincent said, was the one who finally decided. I feel like there's no other choice, she said.

“Is it where you'd put your child?” Vincent asked.

Henry, sobered by the question, paused. Lucy wasn't due for another few months. “Yes.”

“Then that's where we'll take her,” Vincent said. “I don't care how much it costs.”

He had known that a hospital would be expensive, one that was any good at least, and he had been examining the bank accounts and family finances ever since first speaking with Henry. It had been in the back of his mind when he sought a second opinion, with a psychiatrist whom the guidance counselor at
school had recommended. That doctor, too, had said that the absolute safest course of action would be to hospitalize Cynthia. Nightly Vincent jabbed at a calculator, scrawled numbers on scrap paper. He learned that he could borrow against his retirement accounts without any sort of penalty or tax implications, and decided this was the easiest way to pay for Cynthia's stay.

Mary agreed. Vincent had dutifully relayed Henry's warning about how expensive Rangely was, and she said, “I don't care about the money, either—it's our daughter.”

Touched, Vincent still wanted to be sure she understood the consequences. “It might mean a change of lifestyle for us in the future,” he said. “Or my having to retire several years later than we had planned.”

“I know,” Mary said. “I'm willing to sacrifice that.”

Vincent nodded.

“When you call them,” Mary said, “will you ask how we're supposed to tell Cynthia she's going into a mental hospital?”

“I will,” said Vincent. He hadn't even thought about this problem. He had been too consumed with figuring out the financial part.

The people at Rangely suggested that Vincent and Mary come see the facility in person. “We don't give a tour, per se,” they said, “but it's often helpful for family members to come by before the formal admission. It helps to demystify the place, and assure you that we'll take good care of your child.” It would also be an opportunity, they added, to discuss how to broach the subject with their daughter.

On a bright afternoon, Vincent and Mary drove to the hospital. It was located in an upscale suburb of Boston, perched at the
end of a long, winding road, hidden from view. An unadorned white post marked the driveway, and the sign read, simply, RANGELY. Vincent had expected a gate and imposing, institutional buildings. Yet it looked more like a New England boarding school, with a redbrick main hall and stately twin white columns flanking the entrance.

A receptionist led them to an office, where they were greeted warmly by a woman in her mid-forties dressed in a suit. “Sheila Clark,” she said, extending a hand to shake. “I'm the admissions specialist here.” Her desktop was ruthlessly well organized, as was the bookshelf behind her. After everyone had sat down, she said, “I'm sorry we can't allow you to see all the facilities, but we have to safeguard our patients' privacy and confidentiality. That's one of our top priorities.”

“From what we've seen, it seems like a nice place,” Vincent said. “We're impressed by how pretty the grounds are.”

Mary, silent on the thirty-minute drive from their home, said, “What do we tell our daughter? Do we mention it's because of all the pills we found?”

Vincent looked at the floor, rubbed his palms. He hadn't thought they'd launch right into the impossible stuff. He'd imagined maybe they could exchange small talk, amble rather than rush. Sheila Clark, however, wasn't startled at all, or if she was, she had learned how to mask it. She had probably faced far more daunting questions, far more aggressive and angry people who took their frustration out on her.

She nodded and began speaking. “Usually what works best is to focus the conversation on the level of ‘We're very concerned, and we want you to feel better, get some really good help,' “ she said. “You'll need to assure your daughter that this is something
you're doing out of love. That it's for her, and it's not any sort of punishment, that she's coming to a place which is very, very supportive, with the finest caregivers around.”

“And the pills?” Mary pressed. “Do we need to point to it as the reason? Or should we just be more vague? She might not even know I found them.”

“I don't think you need to bring that up specifically. The therapists here can address it once she's been admitted and evaluated. You don't want to make her feel ashamed or defensive.”

“That's a relief,” said Vincent. “I don't think either of us know how to talk about that with her.”

“I don't blame you,” said Sheila Clark. “Some things are better left to the experts.”

Then they went over the fees, which were indeed high. Insurance would cover only a small percentage, Sheila warned. Fifteen years ago, she said, they wouldn't even be having this conversation—insurance used to pay for everything. Now the hospital had battles regularly over when to discharge patients. The insurance companies wanted everyone out as soon as possible. And the fights didn't end once the patient left: Often the insurance carriers would resist paying for any ensuing outpatient care, arguing that a hospital stay should have cured all the problems. “It's basically a crime what they're doing, I honestly believe that,” Sheila said. “God forbid one of their own family members needed treatment. Then they'd change their tune in a second.”

When they were finished discussing the financial matters, she asked if either Vincent or Mary had additional questions.

“What if she doesn't want to come?” Mary asked. “What if she sees it as us shipping her off somewhere? Do people ever do anything drastic if they don't want to come here?”

Sheila nodded again, as though she had heard this concern before. She looked down at her desk and then at Vincent and Mary again. “This is going to be a tough conversation,” she said. “There's no getting around that. It'll be one of the hardest you've had in a long, long time, I suspect. Maybe ever. But your daughter might surprise you. A lot of people who have reached the point where they need to be hospitalized—and your daughter seems to be at that stage—actually find it to be a relief, to be finally getting the sort of care they've been seeking even if they haven't asked for it specifically.”

“A relief?” Vincent said. “I can't imagine she'll jump for joy and say she can't wait to pack up and get here. Pretty buildings and all, it's not like it's some vacation.”

“I don't think that's likely to happen, either, Mr. Pareto. No one really wants to be hospitalized—it's a tremendously scary thing. What I can tell you, though, is that there is a lot of evidence to suggest that people suffering from major depressions understand that an intensive and patient-focused setting like this offers them the best shot at beating their illness, or at least understanding how to manage it and go on to live a fruitful life.”

“And if she comes out and she hasn't beaten it?” Mary asked.

“Well,” sighed Sheila Clark, “there are other options at that point, which we can discuss at the appropriate time. For now, try to believe she'll make significant progress while she's here. A lot of patients do. I could set up a meeting with one of our psychiatrists if that would help allay some of your fears.”

Mary and Vincent looked at each other. Mary was scared, resigned and scared, and her eyes said, How have we come to this? Did you ever think, even for a second, that we'd be in this office, having this conversation? For a moment Vincent wanted to
stand, walk the two steps to her chair, and hug her. Say, No, never once; say, I'm sorry; say nothing, just let his embrace say something.

“No,” Vincent said, “I don't think that will be necessary.” He was still staring at his wife, so intently he didn't notice Sheila Clark and her crisp pantsuit coming out from behind her desk to show them out.

“Can you take Mem Drive home?”

Those were the only words Mary said on the ride back. Vincent knew she liked to drive along the Charles, scan the river for the boats slicing through the water. They're like skaters, she once said, so precise. He thought it was probably too late for any rowers to be out, but maybe they'd get lucky. Weren't they entitled after where they had just been?

Years ago, more than two decades, they had gone to the regatta, the Head of the Charles. Teams from all over the country converged on Cambridge for the race, each one identifiable by the distinctive flags painted on their paddles. He had hoisted Cynthia onto his shoulders so she could see over the crowd gathered on the riverbank. It had been an especially cold fall, and the three of them were bundled tight in parkas, scarves, and hats. Cynthia had the kind of mittens that were attached to strings that threaded through the sleeves of her jacket.

He said, “How you doin' up there, pumpkin?”

“But I'm not a pumpkin,” she said.

“Hey, pumpkin.”

“But I don't look like a pumpkin. Why are you calling me that? Why am I a pumpkin?”

“Why
aren't
you a pumpkin?” he said, watching a team from Canada launch its boat.

“Daddy, if you put me down, I'll show you.”

He took her down from his shoulders and planted her in front of him.

“I'm not orange and I'm not round. I'm tall and I have arms and there's no jack-o'-lantern carved in me. I'm whole, see?” and she lifted her jacket and shirt to show her stomach.

“Well, I'll be,” he said, poking her belly button and making her giggle. “Guess you're not a pumpkin after all. I thought for sure I had a wiggling pumpkin up there on my shoulders. You do a good impression of a pumpkin.”

That morning of the regatta, Vincent had cooked breakfast for his daughter, as he did every Saturday. He let his wife sleep; it was she who cooked the other six days of the week and he thought she deserved a day off. He liked, too, spending time alone with Cynthia. He wanted her to have a few memories of just the two of them.