The Last Time I Died (4 page)

I invited Dana to a few more events anticipating that she would bring Lisa. She did and we sharpened our claws on each other again and again. Easy to recognize as foreplay in hindsight, every evening ending with drunken mashing, and by the third or fourth time we wound up in her bed. Or I should say we woke up in her bed. I honestly couldn’t remember if we had sex that night or not. We didn’t talk about it until months later when she told me we did, but only until I passed out.

Two months of that before we throw in the towel and tell the supporting characters in our dating lives that they’re out and we dive in to whatever the relationship was back then.

Sparring. That’s the word for what we’re doing now. Sparring like kung fu practice partners. Drawn to each other by that magic that attracts people like us to the lovers who are the absolute worst for them. A thirst for adventure. Self-loathing. Masochism.

It would appear that love can be forged out of virtually anything, no matter how toxic.

We dine and drink and fuck and fight and ignore every single red flag and this similarly charged magnet inserts herself into my core and I know I won’t be able to live without her no matter what she does to me. She takes a little piece of me and tells me it matters to her and she is going to keep it and there is nothing I can do about it. I let her.

My Shiraz comes or maybe it doesn’t. We’re leaving the restaurant, staggering only a little and I’m making her giggle which feels good. She laughs at my jokes most of the time now and when she does she makes it a point to look me in the eye like I’ve done something special that only we know about. A secret language I can barely translate.

She’s leaning on me and holding my arm at the elbow with both hands. She’s finishing her story about her first job out of college promoting eyeglass frames and making way too much money for a twenty-three-year-old and I realize that I’m probably going to ask her to marry me in the very near future and I’m wondering if I’m not making a huge mistake and I decide that it doesn’t matter or it does and I forget and we walk out to go to a martini bar I read about.

Sparring. Like two old barflies who can take a punch and like it.

I’m at the office on time as usual, but creaky with bruises from my night out on top of the cumulative effects of my mini-bender. The animatronic receptionist on the nineteenth floor makes sure to both catch my eye and ignore the bruising around it. Her skin is amazing.

—Mr. Hunter would like to see you first thing.

Couldn’t even let me get settled in my fucking office, huh? Barely even through my second venti latte and Harry wants to have a heart-to-heart. Not entirely surprising since I gave his name as my emergency contact last night. Why was that again? To show Lisa I didn’t give a shit about her anymore? The logic made sense at the time. So did the decision to walk out of the hospital and grab a cab before Harry got there. The evening seems to have been a series of bad choices. But, fuck it. I jingle what’s left of the Valium I stole from the ER nurse around in my pocket and mull over popping one more before I get to Harry’s.

—Sorry about last night. I wasn’t, uh, thinking straight.

Harry stands at the floor to ceiling window soaking in his formidable view of lower Manhattan. That would be me in twenty years if I chose to get my shit together. Looking out my fat ass windows thinking about what I could have done with my life if I weren’t a lawyer. I hate Harry, but only for a second.

I sit in one of the plush chairs and brace myself for another beating. An unexpected bonus.

He says nothing, which is typical. I know he’s weighing several tacks of approach and I wish he would settle on one so we could move forward and he can yell at me and I can nod and apologize. I have the phrases ‘rough patch’ and ‘bear with me’ locked and loaded and may refer to him as my ‘rock’ if I see an opening. When this is over I’ll go sleep at my desk. How much can he take, I wonder? How much leeway is twelve years of eighty- to one-hundred-hour weeks worth? Probably not much.

—Is this still about Lisa? You know you’re not the first guy to go through this.

He’s going to go easy on me. Jesus, Harry. You pussy.

I don’t answer. He’ll think that means something significant. It doesn’t. Harry turns to face me.

—Enough. I thought you were getting help.

—I had a few drinks. That’s it. Again, I’m sorry.

—When was the last time you saw Dr. Hirsch?

I’ve never seen Dr. Hirsch. Hirsch doesn’t exist. I made him up to get Harry to stop bothering me about getting professional help. It doesn’t matter how I answer this question so, again, I don’t.

—The drinking. The bar fights. The bizarre behavior. Look at your face, for the love of Christ. Who knows what else you’re up to that I don’t even hear about.

—Harry, I’m having some problems. A rough patch. This is tough. You’ve been there. But it’s not affecting my work. I’m still the best player on your team.

All morning I swore to myself that I would take it easy tonight. Maybe watch a movie. Read. One glass of wine, tops. Probably nothing. Stay dry. It’s twelve hours until morning. Ten if I kill some time at the gym. Staying late and catching up on work would help. I thought that was a good plan ten minutes ago. Now I’m thinking tequila. My head feels loose and I need to tighten it up.

—Adam Galen asked you off his business this morning.

Oh he did, did he? The son of a bitch.

Definitely tequila. I can taste the crackle of a generous double shot hitting the back of my throat, irritating and soothing at the same time. That’s how you start off an evening. My mouth starts to water a little.

—Look, I’ll deal with it.

—Yes. You will.

Harry hands me an appointment card for a psychiatrist who claims to be named Dr. Arnold Rosen. I have a sinking feeling he is a real person.

Oh Harry, if you only knew what a bad idea this is. Now is not the time to explain to him what I would politely call my aversion to therapy. He’s not in the mood. But we seem to have come to a bit of an impasse here. The unstoppable force meeting the drunken, self-destructive, hopeless object. I wonder if I ran full speed could I break through the window behind Harry. Doubtful.

Handwritten on the front of the card:
Tuesday, 2:30
p.m.

You’ve got to be kidding me. What an ambush. I need time to think. Time to make excuses. To leave town.

—What, like today Tuesday?

—Like today Tuesday. Go.

If my brain weren’t completely flat in my head, I could maybe possibly talk my way out of this. But right now all I can come up with are caveman grunts and fist clenching motions. Probably not appropriate.

—Christian, it’s completely confidential. Not even going on the company’s insurance. I’m picking this up personally. I know this guy. He’s good. Helped me when I went through my troubles. Besides, I’m not asking. I’m telling.

—I don’t need this.

—You need something. Go. It might help.

It might. But I doubt it.

This is my earliest memory.

I’m nine.

I’m sitting in the office of the hack that Foster Mother makes me go to once a week. It’s court ordered but she doesn’t have to follow it to the letter, right? Who would know if I didn’t show up and she didn’t tell anyone? No one. The hack doesn’t care. He works for the state and the void I would leave in his schedule would get filled instantly with some other sad sack shithead. I wouldn’t be a blip in his rearview mirror.

But she makes me go. I think she has a good heart. Or she’s scared. Maybe she needs to get out of the house. Either way, she’s not my real mother and I hate being here.

I’m nine and even I know this guy is a low-rent hack. His suit is ugly and his shoes are cheap and his office smells like the shitty cigars he smokes between court-mandated sessions. His carpet is shag and I wonder when was the last time it was cleaned. My best guess is never. It lies there listening to all the shit his patients dump and it soaks it all up and no one ever cleans it. Shit soaked shag.

I have other memories of lying awake in bed and playing basketball with my friends after school and the first time I saw Foster Mother naked. But this is the earliest one.

I’m sitting on the far end of the couch. Jammed up against the armrest. As if that will help. The wood under the barely there padding digs into my ribs but I don’t do anything about it. Dr. HackShag sits across the room waiting patiently for me to tell him about my week and how I’ve been coping with the loss of my mother. He wants to know if the nightmares have continued. I mean it’s only been three weeks. What does he expect? I’m nine and I know the nightmares will never stop.

The good news is that I never remember what these horrible dreams are about. I understand on a visceral level what their subject matter is, but I don’t recall the actual narrative once I wake up screaming. It all dissolves into aftertaste like a thin breath mint.

It must be very frustrating for Foster Mother. She’s the one who has to deal with it every god damned night. Foster Father sleeps through all the yelling. Couldn’t give a shit anyway. I think Foster Mother secretly enjoys it. Taking care of me and Ella gives her life purpose. What else is she doing? Opening beers for her pot-bellied husband and cashing our checks? I give her a reason to live. Also my nightmares become fodder for gossip with her faux-horrified friends. You’re welcome.

I don’t remember my first day of school or being toilet trained or my eighth birthday party which I may or may not have had. But I remember this. I’m nine and I’m sitting in the hack’s office staring at the disgusting shag under my feet. The carpet looks like it’s slowly inhaling my shoes. Shag quicksand. I know struggling will only make it worse and then I’ll never get out. I remember knowing what happened to my mother.

I remember understanding that my father killed my mother in the most brutal fashion knowing full well I was watching. He was that kind of guy. I don’t remember the event itself or being remanded into the foster care system. But I remember being aware that it all happened as I sat in that musty office. It’s my earliest memory.

This is six months before Dr. HackShag rapes me during one of our sessions. We wade through half a year of mediocre therapy before he gets to the point. The brilliance of the whole thing is the groundwork he lays before he tells me he wants to try something different and to shut my fucking mouth when I start crying and struggling. Months of telling Foster Mother that I’m a compulsive liar who needs lots of help. Months of planning for two minutes of sloppy domination. Brilliant. If this kind of stuff is important to you.

This is six months before I throw away my blood soaked underwear and say nothing for weeks. Six months before I don’t know what I feel more of—shame or loneliness.

After the rape, Dr. HackShag acts as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. The session after he shoved his runty cock up my clenched ass he asks how my week was. I tell him it was fine and we spend the rest of the court-ordered fifty minutes trying some lame hypnosis that’s doomed from the start because fuck if I’m going to close my eyes ever again with that guy in the room.

When I finally tell Foster Mother something terrible happened, she nods and says she understands but I have to find a way to deal with stress besides telling stories about people who are trying to help me. We got to the next session fifteen minutes early.

I’m nine. This is my first memory.

Lisa begged me to go to counseling. At first, anyway. For myself. For us. I flat out refused individual therapy with no explanation. I was taking my boyhood therapy adventure to the grave with me. Sorry, nonnegotiable.

I know she meant well but there were bigger issues at hand. Lately though, I wonder what if I had gone? What if I had sucked it up and seen someone? For Lisa. What if I had opened up even the tiniest bit to a stranger with a psychology degree? Could it really have been that bad? Talking to a therapist was nothing but air coming out of my mouth. It’s not like I couldn’t walk out of the session if so much as the guy’s tie offended me. At worst, I talk for an hour and never go back. And what if they had something insightful to say? What if I took them seriously and did the work I needed to do? What if I was fixable? The world might be a very different place. Too late now.

What-ifs aside, I didn’t want the crutch, personally or as a couple. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t work things out ourselves. We had managed to find each other despite overwhelming odds. We fell in love. We made a life together. So why bring a stranger in to sort things out? It would never work. How could they possibly understand the intricacies of our relationship? We’re unique. I don’t care how many couples Dr. Smartypants had counseled before. We deserved special treatment and I knew we wouldn’t get it. There would be shortcuts.

Oh, I’ve seen this before.

I know where this is going.

This is exactly like the Rosenbergs from last year.

And even if we managed to find the one super-talented counselor who could appreciate our bond for what it was, they would inevitably side with one of us or the other. That’s how people work.

If they side with Lisa, I play the persecuted victim and nothing gets done. If they side with me, I feel like a bully and overcompensate by taking the blame for everything and then resent both of them for putting me in that position. I knew how it would go down. Without a doubt. I knew it would be lose/lose. But I agreed anyway.

Lisa let the individual therapy slide when I said I’d think about the couples version. I can still see the look on her face when I told her. Shock isn’t the word. It’s not powerful enough. I could be unreasonable and she knew my agreement was a big compromise. Lisa was nothing if not practical. I don’t know why I caved so easily. Maybe to get my personal stuff off the table as soon as possible. Yeah, that was it. I was terrified.

As soon as I agreed, her mood lightened noticeably. As if the problem were solved already. As if she were happy after so many months. It was a dramatic enough turnaround that I wondered if the real point all along was to see if she could get me to go to therapy. The therapy itself more of an afterthought. Gravy.