All the Things We Never Knew (35 page)

I'd always loved acupuncture before. I'd used it on several occasions when big stories prevented me from sleeping or eating well. It restored my sense of balance, made my skin glow again.

This time, though, my hands were clenched tight, and my head banged with a headache that intensified every time I breathed in the incense. My tongue clacked against dry tissue in my mouth. I couldn't move to reach the water she'd set by the treatment bed for fear of breaking a needle.

That image of David standing at our kitchen sink, agitated and miserable, his tongue smacking dry, flooded over me. The smell of dental fillings overwhelmed me—it was the smell I associated with David whenever he took the antidepressants. Why hadn't his doctors listened to me? He'd had hepatitis after traveling in Africa. His liver was damaged. The drugs poisoned him, amped him up beyond control.

My heart palpitations increased, and my chest heaved up and down. The needles were suddenly beyond uncomfortable, stinging and probing in places they shouldn't have been. It felt like blood vessels were popping all over my body. I was in the middle of a full-blown panic attack.

Several of the needles came out as I flailed around, arms going this way and that. The stings felt like bee bites. I found the heavy bell the acupuncturist had told me to ring if I became uncomfortable. I swung it side to side so frantically I knocked over my glass of water.

The acupuncturist opened the door calmly, her voice still serenely balanced. “Yes?” she asked.

“You've got to get these out,” I said. “I can't take it. I'm oversensitive, or something. Something's wrong with me.”

She put her hands on the top of my head, like a blessing, warm, soft hands that made the thump in my head softer, more tolerable. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“About what?” My eyes closed to everything except the ticking time bomb in my chest. It was a heart attack, I knew. I was having a heart attack. I was dying on an acupuncturist's table.
Please, please take the needles out
, I thought.
I can't take any more pain
.

“About your fear,” she said, pressing her thumbs into the very spot on my forehead where the headache centered itself.

The slight crack in the window wasn't bringing in enough cold air. I needed to get up, to go, to get dressed and get to a hospital. I could feel every prick on my body where the needles stood, every opening screaming with pain. I started to talk and didn't recognize my own voice.

“I'm afraid I'm going to die,” I said, my voice breaking. “I'm going to die and Sophie will be completely alone.” The revelation cascaded through me, taking with it the sensation of a heart attack, the panic, and my intense need to flee. I started to sob, so loudly I worried the acupuncturist might call for help.

Instead, she smoothed my hair over and over again. “Yes, I know,” she said calmly. “I know.” She took a tissue out of the box and gently wiped my nose. “Breathe,” she said. “Remember to breathe.”

The spasms rippling through my chest reminded me of Sophie, who as a child could cry so hard she'd hiccup for half an hour after her tantrums. I would stroke her hair over and over until she fell fast asleep, but the erratic breathing would continue even into her dreams.

The smell of the room had changed. Now the scent enveloped and comforted me, the temperature had cooled just enough, and the needles no longer poked but instead felt anchored in just the right places. I imagined them reaching down to my central nervous system, to my circulatory system, to the organs themselves and stimulating all that had been broken and damaged.

My fingers unclenched. Blood flowed to my extremities.

Soon, I was in a state of complete relaxation, my body limp against the mattress, my eyes gazing at the ceiling tiles, my thoughts only on the magnificent gift I'd been given—breath, life, this moment.

The acupuncturist rose quietly and opened the door to let herself out. I didn't know how much time had passed, but it was the first moment of peace I'd had since David died. He had been in pain, too, a much more burdensome mental torture. He wanted relief. He wanted to sleep again. I understood.

My thoughts turned to Costa Rica, which we visited when Sophie was six years old. David and I had argued over whether it was safe to take Sophie into a cave we'd heard about from the rafting guides. They'd promised us a spectacular sight, the womb, they called it, with the clearest water and a rock face that sparkled like diamonds. I didn't want David to take Sophie; he'd argued that he could keep her safe by wading in with her on his back.

I followed reluctantly, pissed off that he always seemed to win those kinds of fights. I waded for several anxious minutes before finally rounding a corner to see him holding Sophie on her back, floating in the water, looking up at the rock wall the guides had promised us—the womb, glittering like a million stars at night. She was mesmerized.

I mouthed the word “Wow” to David, and he said apologetically, “I know.”

The memory was so vivid I could see the blue of David's eyes, his big hands under Sophie's back, steady and strong.

 

BABY BOOMERS AND SUICIDE

Suicide rates among middle-aged Americans rose sharply from 2001 to 2010, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. More people now die of suicide than in car accidents, according to the CDC's Morbidity and Mortality Report. In 2010, there were 33,687 deaths from motor vehicle crashes and 38,364 suicides.
The surge in the suicide rate among middle-aged Americans is most troubling. From 1999 to 2010, the suicide rate among Americans ages thirty-five to sixty-four rose by about 30 percent. The most pronounced increases were seen among men in their fifties, a group in which suicide rates jumped by 50 percent. Historically, suicide rates rise during times of financial stress and economic setbacks. The increase coincides with the recession of 2008 and a decrease in financial standing for a lot of families. The CDC also cites widespread availability of opioid drugs like OxyContin (oxycodone), which can be deadly in large doses. From 2001 to 2010, there was a marked increase in intentional overdoses from prescription drugs, and of hangings.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jeff Brands knocked on my door in early February. His hands were stuck way down in his pockets, and every time he breathed, steam formed around his mouth.

“Come in, come in,” I said. “Thank you for coming.” He walked through my door and looked around the living room. His hair was mussed, and he ran his fingers through it before settling his gaze on the windows. I could spot lovers of modern architecture the minute they walked in. Their eyes always wandered up to the high ceilings that were finished in old growth wood to feel like the forest was above, below, and around you. The home's spare design was muted by the architect's soft spot for nature. The granite countertops were the same color as the forest outside. The lighting came from soft angles, above, to the side. The room was divided by furniture, not walls.

My sister, who had returned to help with the settling of David's affairs, sat at the kitchen table. She stood when she saw John. She came over and looked him directly in the eye. “Hello, I'm Diane. We spoke on the telephone.”

The three of us sat at the table together, surrounded by some of the envelopes that Diane considered “pressing legal issues.” John was a forensic accountant and had been referred to us by David's attorney.

“I'm the guy who can make sense of all the numbers,” he said
confidently. “I can tell you whether there's any money left in David's business and exactly how much he, or you, owes.”

“I'm not confident the people who owe David money will pay.” I showed him the yellow sheet David had scribbled for me in the hospital. “I called Dr. Tendale, the dentist. David claims Tendale owes him a hundred grand,” I said. “Tendale claims David didn't finish the work on time, or up to spec, and he refuses to pay the bill.” Another client, the owners of a local nightclub, made the same claim. They said that toward the end of David's illness, he made mistakes or got confused on the job, and his behavior and choices voided the contract.

John pursed his lips. Diane looked at him. “The bottom line is their creditor is dead,” she said. “Who could testify against them in court?”

John's cheeks were still flushed from the cold. “Well, they may say that now, but if, when we take a look at David's books, we can determine he was owed money, they won't have a choice. The probate court will make them pay.”

“I can't pay you for your time,” I said, embarrassed. “I can barely make the mortgage on this house and keep Sophie in school.”

John interrupted. “You won't have to pay. I'll do this on contingency. Your job is to take care of Sophie.”

I bit my lip, overwhelmed with gratitude and humility. There had been so few times in my life when I needed other people's help. I'd always been so independent. These days, I needed humility more than pride. I touched John on the arm. “Thank you.”

Diane nodded her head. “Sheila, he's right. It's probably best if you let us handle this until your stress level is down. I can stay another week and get John started. Then let him take it over. Get these piles out of your house. It's really bad for your energy level.”

I reached over and hugged her, so grateful for her brains and her heart. John pulled a pen and a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and moved one seat over, closer to Diane. They hunkered down together, the Buddhist priest and the forensic accountant. What great friends to have when you are managing a crisis.

The next morning, with Sophie at school and Diane on a walk, I climbed the stairs to David's office. I tried to focus on the task, my task, the only task I'd been given. Clean the house. Get rid of David's chaos. I got four plastic bins from the basement and labeled them “Probate,” “Recycle,” “Keep for Family,” and a huge question mark for the items that would need to be looked at before I could sort them away.

David's books had been removed from the bookshelves by his sisters, but there were still some remodeling magazines that could be recycled. I pulled them from the bookshelf and dust flew into my face. My eyes stung, my nose burned, and I threw open the drawers to David's desk to try to find some Kleenex.

I don't know why I hadn't seen it before, when David was sick in the hospital. Maybe I had seen it and it didn't mean anything to me at the time. A blue manila folder that said “Life Insurance Policy, prepared for David Krol.”

I pulled the folder from the desk and opened the document. David had never carried life insurance before he met me. He'd told me it never occurred to him to get it. After Sophie was born, we'd agreed that he would take out a policy of some sort, something to make sure that, in the event of his death, she'd be taken care of.

I opened the policy and scanned it. There was a $500,000 death benefit.

If this policy were still in effect, we'd be able to stay in the house. I stifled something close to a gasp. I didn't want to get my hopes up. Somewhere, I remembered reading that insurance policies generally don't cover suicide. But I pulled out my cell phone and dialed our insurance agent. “Hello, Mark?” I said. “This is Sheila Hamilton.”

“Hello, Sheila. How are you?” I imagined him working at his tiny northeast office—he'd always struck me as a man who should have been in the entertainment industry. I'd only been in his office a few times, but he always seemed to remember me.

“I don't know if you've heard, Mark.” I paused. “David died.”

“Oh, no. I'm so sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

I could hear him making notes, the routine information-taking that occurs after death, the number cruncher figuring out his next move.

I hesitated. “He committed suicide, Mark. They found his body in December.”

Mark was typing into the computer, pulling up his data on David. He
mmmed
, then sighed. “Oh, that's awful. This is not good,” he said.

“What is it?”

“David let his insurance policy lapse after just two months, Sheila. He took it out the day the three of you came into the office together, but he never paid the premiums. He hasn't had a policy in eight years.”