All the Things We Never Knew (26 page)

Diedra, the woman who had checked David in to the ER, called me twice during his hospitalization, once to urge me to learn the location of the gun, and the second time to cry over her fractured relationship.

“I know this is ridiculous to ask of you,” she sniffed between sobs, “but David refuses to see me. I've been to the hospital a half-dozen times and stood outside those terrible doors. He won't allow me in.” Her voice broke in a thousand pieces. “God, I feel so stupid.”

“I'll talk to him,” I said. “He needs all the friends he can get.”

“And Sheila,” she reminded me again, “we need to find that gun.”

Later that night, during visiting hours, I asked David about Diedra. “She misses you, David. She cares about you. You should at least see her.”

He shook his head, no.

“And she says she still hasn't found that gun. Do you have any idea where it might be?” I asked.

He kept his head down. “Look, I was drunk. Out of it. I dropped it in the darkness. If she can't find it, it's probably gone for good.”

Sophie called David daily. Inevitably another patient would answer the ward phone and then wander around from room to room until he or she found the lucky phone-call recipient. Sophie took great delight in guessing how long it would be before someone found him. “Three minutes and counting, Mom.”

She'd settle into his big chair for what she hoped was a long conversation with her dad, her feet curled underneath her, hope in her eyes and the tone of her voice. “Can I come see you?” she'd ask. Her face dissolved into disappointment night after night.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he'd say. Then, “No, I'm tired, tomorrow.” After several weeks had passed, the doctors thought he was finally ready.

“Bring her with you when you come tonight,” David had told me. “I can't wait to see her.”

Sophie showered, put on her favorite white skirt and yellow top,
and brushed her blonde hair until it shone. She was standing in front of the mirror when I found her, looking like a young girl headed on a trip to another part of the world. She stood straight and strong, but her gaze at herself was critical, questioning. “You are beautiful,” I said.

She glanced down at her plastic watch. “Do you think he'll remember me?”

I wrapped my arms around her slender shoulders and looked at her in the mirror. “Of course, he'll remember you, sweetheart. He loves you so, so much.”

She looked hesitant, then sure. “Okay, let's go then.” I explained everything to her just as Robert Stellar had explained it to me. The doors, the glass walls, the drab colors. I thought she was ready.

Her confidence faded when we came to the locked metal doors in the hospital. She glanced from the security camera, to me, to the elevator doors. I grabbed her hand, fearing she might run back to the car. The sound of the nurses unlocking the doors startled her, and she shivered. I'd arranged with David's social workers for her to go through a side door, so the nurses wouldn't open her purse, and so she wouldn't see the security guards in their glassed-in office.

I held her hand as we walked around the corner to the visiting area we'd adopted as David's. When she saw him, she lit up, running toward him as he walked toward us in blue scrubs. She flew into his arms, smothering him in kisses. “Sweetie,” he said, sounding just like himself again.

“Daddy!” she said. “I missed you soooooo much.” She exaggerated the kisses on his cheeks, his arms, and his head. David held her steadily; he didn't appear nearly as weak as when I last saw him.

“Hey,” I said. “You look really good.”

“I feel better,” he said. “Thanks.”

For the first time since his hospitalization, I thought maybe the doctors had finally found a drug cocktail that worked.

Sophie pulled him to the couch and sat on his lap. “So what do you do here, Dad? Are you going crazy without your cell phone?”

I winced at the word “crazy.” It didn't faze either of them.

“Well, I read,” he said. “And I color.”

“What?” Sophie protested. “You color?” She laughed. “You're too old to be coloring, Dad.”

They chatted for a bit about school, Sophie's guitar, and the dogs. Slowly, I started to see David's enthusiasm dwindle as it had the first day I'd seen him. His eyes glazed over, even as Sophie sat on his lap. His arms went limp, and, after a time, he wasn't holding her at all.

Sophie looked at me, uncomfortable. “So, uh, Mom, maybe we should be going?”

I searched David's eyes for the answer. They were dead. Again.

“Yes, sweetheart, let's let Daddy get some rest.”

She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him around the neck. “I love you soooooo much, Daddy. Please come home soon.”

He was looking at something on the wall, something more important than this moment. He limply patted her hand on his neck. “Sugar Dugger,” he said absentmindedly.

Once we were safely down the hall, down the elevator, out the door, and in the safety of the car, Sophie let herself react. She looked forward, out the windshield of the car into the darkness of another night. “He's so sad,” she said quietly. “He's just so sad.”

The next morning, I groggily called Ted Oster, a social worker at the psychiatric ward, the only person there who had ever returned my phone calls. “Ted,” I said, “I'm not satisfied with the communication with David's psychiatrist. I've asked to talk to her several times, but whenever I'm there, she's not. She doesn't return my calls.”

Ted paused and drew in a long breath. “The care team is dealing with David's family now, Sheila,” he said. “Dr. Seder believes you agitate and upset David with your visits. We must advocate for the patient first. And David's family agrees.”

I shook my head, disbelieving. “Wait a minute. I have stayed with this man for a decade, and now, despite it all, I am the villain?”

Ted's tone was apologetic, understanding. “I'm sorry, Sheila,” he said. “Call me whenever you need. I'll update you as much as I can.”

I tried to reconcile the deep hurt and anger I felt from those words. I thought his family understood my intentions, to return David safely to Sophie. Years later, David's eldest sister confided that her family was convinced I was attempting to win sole custody of Sophie. David's family had chosen to exclude me from his care team. The lack of direct communication was hurtful to me and disastrous to David's outcome. They'd obviously gone behind my back to make the decision. I hung up the phone, numb, and stumbled back into bed, desperate for sleep and relief from the pain.

I awoke to Sophie's finger on my face, softly outlining my nose, my eyebrows, and my lips. “Remember when we used to do this, Mama?” she whispered. “Will you draw my face?”

I felt like I'd opened a hotel. David's mother, his two sisters, and two of their friends were drinking wine in my living room. I had hosted company for more than a month. I was wounded by their secrecy, their misguided belief that I would hamper David's recovery. I was the person who stood by him for a decade.

Adele and I talked about it in the living room. She carefully explained that she agreed with the care team, that David really did need a break from me, not Sophie.

“I think it will be better for both of you.” She said it with a tenderness that placed the decision in a context I hadn't thought of before. I could be free now. David was in good hands. Everything was under control—Adele would arrange for Sophie's visits, and she and Alice would make the decisions about David's future.

“They're drugging him like he's six hundred pounds and ten feet tall,” she said. “I'm going to ask Dr. Seder for a drug holiday. There's no reason for him to walk around stoned all the time.”

I nodded. Adele was right—as a psychologist, she should be in charge now. Still, I had the strange feeling of being a stunt double
in a movie, watching the hard work being done by someone else. “Are you sure I shouldn't check up on him, make sure he's okay?” I asked.

“Sheila,” Adele assured me, “at this point, he'll get better faster without you.”

I felt a wave of something unfamiliar move across my chest and shoulders. It was relief. Yes, I felt guilty, yes, I was unsure of what would happen next, but the lightness I felt in that moment was overwhelming and real. I was free.

I tucked Sophie in bed, lying next to her and remembering the night she was born, how I refused to let the nurses take her away. I'd held her on my chest all night long, matching my breathing to her own, in awe of the life David and I had made together. It really was over for the three of us. Everything I'd tried to protect was shattered.

I lay awake, trying hard not to wake Sophie with my crying. At least being involved in David's care, I'd had some sense of control, however imaginary it might have been. Now, I was an outsider, a stranger at the psychiatric ward, a stranger in the home we'd shared together. I was oddly uneasy in my own home. I'd been keeping Colin up to date by phone on the details of the crisis unfolding. He'd reminded me to call whenever I needed to talk.

I carefully tiptoed out of Sophie's bedroom. Adele and Alice would both be there in case Sophie awoke. I washed my face and made the five-minute drive to his home, an old Episcopal church that he'd lovingly restored. The rain came down in big splats outside. I was drenched from the outside in.

“Come in, come in,” he said, pulling the wet jacket from my shoulders. “Let me get you some hot tea.”

The kettle whistled as I warmed my toes. Colin put it down in front of me and then leaned down and kissed me on the neck. His breath was warm, the blanket he'd given me soft and cozy. He sat down across from me. “So?”

“So where do I begin?” I asked.

“Wherever you need to, Luv.”

We talked for over an hour, through two cups of tea. His long fingers held his cup loosely; nothing I said seemed to scare him off.

We talked of his life growing up in Hawaii, an upbringing that wasn't as idyllic as it sounded. “Not when most of your memories are formed at the end of a barstool.” The persona of the eligible bachelor fell away as he told me how difficult it was to live in a huge house, waiting for his girls to come every other week. Colin was, like me, human and lonely.

The marble granite on his kitchen counters gleamed. His appliances didn't have a single spot on them. There wasn't a dish or a pan in sight. In any other household, this uncanny sense of order might have made me suspicious or nervous. But given what I'd been going through, Colin's sense of order calmed me and made me feel grounded. In spite of the mess I was in, I was falling in love with him.

The crisis had reopened an emotional conduit that I'd shut down for years, except to Sophie. The loneliness I felt was in the marrow, isolation so deep and painful I was desperate to have the touch of someone who really cared for me. I didn't hesitate when he invited me upstairs.

Colin led me to his bedroom, where his huge poster bed looked too pretty to mess up. The pillows were straightened as if a designer had been there moments before. “You sure you're not gay?” I joked.

“Wait until you see the shoe closet,” he laughed, pulling me down beside him. He cradled me tenderly, whispering, kissing me with long loving kisses. David had refused to have sex with me when I was pregnant, a time I loved my body and its overflowing hormones. It had devastated me. Then there was his affair. It had been a long time since I'd been touched, held.

I forgave myself for needing Colin in that moment, needing him much more than he needed me. Of course, it was misguided to start a relationship in the middle of a crisis. Of course, people would talk.
I didn't care. I shut off my brain and breathed in the goodness of this new man. Colin smelled the way he had the first night I met him, like a clean start.

The week of October 20, David began calling me, panicked. “I've got to get out of here, Sheila. I'm going crazy.” There was that word again, “crazy.” The irony of what he'd said was lost on him. He sounded more anxiety-ridden than ever—I could imagine him pacing the drab hallways in his blue scrubs, worried that a mental hospital would be his home forever.

“We'll get you out,” I promised. “We'll get you back to the house, and the dogs, and Sophie. David, everything will be okay.”

“Do you really think so?” His voice was childlike, as if he really didn't know the answer to his question.

“Yes,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “Yes, it's going to be okay.”

David told me about the daily interviews he'd been having with counselors. “The drugs aren't working,” he said. I would later learn the doctors had tried many different meds: lithium, which David didn't tolerate, and later Depakote and Seroquel, mood stabilizers that are known as “maintenance drugs.”

“Just give it more time, David,” I said. “Be patient. It took you a long time to unravel. Give yourself time to build back slowly.”

“I'm running out of time. I can't stand this place any longer.” He sounded like a prisoner, a man forced into a colorless world—the same dull uniform, the same dull walls without windows every day. “I hate the food, the nurses, the way they talk to me here.” He started to cry. I hurt every time I heard David cry. Someone in the background interrupted, asking him to get off the phone. He ignored them.