The Last Time I Died (8 page)

I gave Lisa everything. Not at first. In the beginning, I fought like a cornered honey badger. I thought that’s what love was. A slash and burn strategy. Look how bad I’m bleeding for you. Self-flagellation by attorney bills. Hers. Mine. Ours. Gone. Gone. Gone. The stocks were sold. The investments liquidated. A lot of cash burned through. I don’t remember how much we had managed to save. Somewhere in the mid six figures, but that’s all been reduced to ash. There came a point where I understood that my plan would result in nothing beyond an upgrade of a perfect stranger’s car and a transfer of my wealth to someone who honestly didn’t deserve it. What wouldn’t happen was a reconciliation.

One day I asked them to send papers with whatever they wanted on them and I signed the documents and sent them back without question. She kept everything but the highly mortgaged loft. I wonder if I can sell my overpriced flooring or trade it for food.

Finally, I begin to see something. The eyes that had begged my forgiveness so long ago stare back at me from the page. Soulful without apology, tragic without regret. My father’s eyes.

Two hours later, using those eyes as a foundation, I have crafted an exact replica of one frame of the memory salvaged from my near-death lifeflash. Four hours after that, I am surrounded by complimentary sketches detailing the different components of the memory.

The stoop.

The neighbors pointing their nosy fucking fingers.

The cop wrapping a blanket around me while not shielding my eyes or distracting me or getting me out of the situation.

The blood splatter on my father’s shirt.

The gurney clunking down the stairs without so much as a ‘Pardon me.’

My father’s shoulders awkwardly accommodating the handcuffs.

All of these things I had no memory of until yesterday. Together, they are a horrific collage, but I am satisfied.

It’s after midnight.

I lay my worn pencil down on the table and stretch my back. I haven’t eaten in at least twenty-four hours but take the matter no further than acknowledgment. The exercise is almost complete. I find the original drawing of my father’s face and caption it with the words ‘Thank You.’

Three minutes later, I’m face down on my thousand-count sheets for the first time in a very long time. They no longer smell like Lisa. I wish they did. I sleep for eighteen hours.

April 8, 1989

Dear Christian,

I hope this finds you well. I don’t know if you’re getting my letters or if you’re reading them or if you hate me. I hope you’re reading them. I understand if visiting is too difficult, but a note in return would mean the world to me. Please consider writing. Tell me about your life. Tell me every detail. Tell me what happens every minute of your day. Or tell me one thing. Send me a blank piece of paper.

As usual, I have nothing good to say about my experience here, and the details of my daily life are nothing a thirteen-year-old should ever hear so I will forgo any descriptions and continue my practice of sharing whatever memories I have in the hopes that you will know me as a father and as a man and as a human. I won’t be alive forever and when I’m gone I hope that I can live on with you if only as the memories I have passed on through these letters.

I like to think there is a shoe box full of envelopes I have addressed to you under your bed or in your closet. It must be getting full by now. I imagine they are worn and dog eared and are a secret cache known only to you. I write to your sister as well, but she was so young when I went away I might as well be a stranger. I know she doesn’t remember me and writes only as an obligation she feels for reasons I don’t understand but am grateful exist. She’s a wonderful child from what I can tell through letters and pictures. I hope that you are still taking care of her like you always did. I’ll continue to believe you are until I hear different.

There were almost three of you. I’m sure you didn’t know that. I planned to tell you later in life. But who knows what will happen and I don’t like the idea of going to the grave with stories that no one else on earth knows. Stories that someone else should know.

When you were five and Ella was one, your mother became pregnant again. We didn’t mean to have another baby just then. While your mother and I had always hoped to have a large family, money was tight at the time and another child in the home would have been very hard on us. The decision was a tough one, but I stood by your mother, and to be honest with you, I agreed with it. There are no records and no one knew but your mother, myself, and the gynecologist who performed the D&C so the reporters never found out about it, thankfully.

A year later, I had been promoted and we had made ourselves financially stable. But your mother was devastated by the abortion. I don’t think she ever recovered. We tried for another child after a while but could never become pregnant again. I always wondered how much of that was physical and how much was psychological.

Your mother spiraled downward and away from us all slowly for years and by the time you were eight, I could no longer reach her. From there things escalated quickly and here we are.

I tell you this because I want you to know that she wasn’t a bad person. She was a person who had bad things happen to her. As much as I tried to protect her, there are things that each of us must go through alone. I made my peace with our decision, but she could never get to the same place.

I sometimes wonder how life would have turned out different had we chosen to have that baby. People have done harder things. My partner came from a family of ten. Irish, of course. They made it work. What would that have meant for you to have a brother or another sister? What would it have meant for Ella? What if having the baby made your mother happy and none of this ever happened? What if the opposite happened and things got worse sooner? What if, what if, what if? Looking back I think we could have done it. I just don’t know if that would have been a good or a bad thing. When you’re young and everyone depends on you, you worry about everything. Later you look back and realize how ridiculous it all is. So much stress for nothing. Perspective is so often wasted on those of us who can do nothing with it. My point is that we made a decision based on what we thought was best for us as a family at the time.

This story might come as a shock or seem inappropriate, but as I have said, I don’t know what lies ahead and I want you to know these things that I know. More importantly, I hope these letters paint your mother in a more positive light in your mind. She deserves it.

I love you every day.

Dad

(Oh, the audacity.)

On a certain level, one can’t help but be impressed with the unabashed gall and gumption and ambition of our man as he enters the reception area of the good doctor he so recently abused. Consider the pluck of appearing without an appointment (or a shower, I might add) and expecting (demanding!) a receptive audience despite knowing very well that the schedule of a doctor of Arnold Rosen’s caliber is invariably full to capacity.

Our man understands that a typical appointment is only fifty minutes, and therefore the remaining ten minutes of the hour, where we currently are, is patient free, theoretically leaving the doctor unencumbered. Our man has planned accordingly.

Not surprisingly, the doctor has his own agenda for this private time and uninvited interruptions are frowned upon, but this is of no concern to our man as he strides purposefully toward the inner office door.

The doctor’s first line of defense does her part, attempting to slow the old boy’s progress with the bold, efficient courtesy of a career receptionist who has dealt with the mentally volatile for years.

—Sir, can I help you?

Naturally, she is ignored and our man proceeds without hesitation leaving her in the modern predicament of wondering when physical force is acceptable.

I can’t do this alone.

But the only qualified professional I know is that panooch psychiatrist I saw last week or whenever. He seemed like a smart guy for a pompous ass, so I figure he can help. He mentioned repressed memories right before I left. He must know something about it. More than I do.

I’m still recovering so I move like a caveman. Social conventions are meaningless. What do I care how people think of how I look? I have no manners. I am bereft of tact. I am an amorphous id in jeans and a tee shirt moving quickly through structures of glass and marble with a single focus. That’s fine if you’d like to watch and point or perhaps take a video of me with your phone. Tell your kids about the weirdo you saw later when you sit at the dinner table. Laugh it up with the boys in accounting. I don’t belong to that world anymore.

His secretary is on my heels, even though I’m already opening the door to his office.

—Excuse me,
sir
!

I walk in to find him sitting behind his know-it-all desk looking at his next patient’s file. He’s wearing a neck brace. What a pussy.

—Sir, you’re going to have to make an appointment if you want—

The caveman ignores the worried little mosquito flitting behind him.

—We have to talk.

—I’m sorry, Doctor. I tried to stop him.

Arnold Fucking Rosen indicates it’s okay. He appears to think he has the situation in hand, despite his neck brace. Like he was waiting for me even though I know he wasn’t.

The secretary stands behind me for a second, I assume making wide-eyed faces at Arnold, encouraging him to get out of this situation. He’s so busy taking me in and translating that to opportunity he won’t look at her.

—We’re fine, Elise. Thank you.

Finally, she backs out but I know she’s already dialing nine, one, and preparing to hit that last one upon the slightest provocation.

He looks at me like I’m fascinating. I haven’t even thought about checking a mirror lately. I must look like a maniac. Maybe that will work for me. Look at me, Doc! Can’t you see the potential? Think big. Think book deal. Arnold versus the Caveman. It’s got a nice ring to it.

—Hello, Christian.

—The other night. I almost died. And as I’m fading out, I saw something. Something important.

I hold up the sketch. The one with the eyes and the Thank you. It shakes in my hand when I hold it up, but only a little. In the time honored style of Arnold Rosen, I get no response.

—It’s my father. I told you I couldn’t remember anything before I was nine years old. But I did. This is it. My father’s face. From when I was eight. And I know there’s more in there.

I’m pointing at my head. In there. That’s where there’s more. In the caveman’s melon.

Rosen glances at the drawing. He takes his sweet time before he answers.

—I’m sorry. I was told your employment at Hunter & Partners had been terminated.

—So?

—So they pay my fee. I had an arrangement with Harry.

—I’ll pay.

—I’m five hundred dollars an hour. Up front. And this type of therapy could take years.

I’d pay five thousand an hour for this. I wonder how fast I can sell my apartment. Maybe I can sign it over to him. It’s still worth something and I think I made my last mortgage payment. I’ll sleep in the park.

—I could…

—Christian, my schedule is already full. And honestly, I was doing Harry a favor.

Dr. Rosen rubs his neck through the brace. His other hand is under his desk and I wonder if he has a gun. I wonder if he bought a gun because of the quality time we spent together. Is that what you did, Arnold Rosen?

He smiles a weak smile as he lies to me.

—Really, I’m sorry.

As a caveman, I know I have the option of crushing his skull with the oversized ceramic brain paperweight on his desk. That’s what cavemen do when they’re provoked. I have a priority, though, and crushing skulls isn’t it. Neither is getting arrested. So, Arnold Rosen, please wallow in all the snarky, interpersonal one-upmanship you’d like. I fold. My focus is singular and if you’re not going to help me, I’ll move on. Like a caveman.

I pass a couple of cops on my way out. They give me a quick onceover but then hustle along to the office of a respected psychiatrist whose assistant called a few minutes ago.

*It’s two years and nine months ago.

I’m blowing out Lisa’s hair.

She could get it done by her guy, but she says I’m better. I’m not, but I like doing it.

She’s fresh out of the shower, wrapped in her robe. No carefully applied makeup. No signature perfume. No tailored clothes. Just Lisa. She smells wonderful. Sitting in front of her mirror. Patiently waiting for me to do what I do. We’ve got plenty of time before we have to be anywhere.

Things have calmed to a dull predictable roar between the two of us, as I believe they do with most legally committed couples. We wake up together and leave for our jobs and come home around the same time (she works as hard as I do) and might even be enjoying the early grooves of what will hopefully soon be a deep rut.

I’ve got the top three-quarters of the left side of her mane twisted around and clipped up and I’m working on the bottom quarter. You have to get the bottom straight before you move to the top sections. It’s the foundation. This part usually takes the longest but it’s a good warm up for the finesse involved in the top layers. This is my system. You have to get the foundation straight or you’re wasting your time. A wet foundation will get the hair you’ve dried on top of it damp enough that it will start to wave. So do the foundation first. The foundation is everything.

I’m transforming her.

Blowing her hair out takes about a half an hour, but while we’re in the thick of it, time is nonexistent. It could be a minute. It could be a day. The sound of the dryer creates a protective cocoon of sound around us, tells the rest of the world to fuck right off. The heat bouncing back reminds me this is where I should be. Right here.

Occasionally, she’ll look up from the gossip rag she’s reading and smile. I smile back although I’m so focused I’m sure it looks like a smirk.

I tend to underestimate the range of my facial expressions. What feels like a broad smile to me looks like a wan grimace to its recipient. Pure shock comes off as mild amusement. Anger as grating irritation. I noticed the tendency when I looked at pictures in which I thought I was perhaps smiling too much. I wasn’t. The interpolation to other expressions wasn’t too tough. I checked in my bathroom mirror to confirm the hypothesis—yes, when I made a super happy face I looked sardonic, when I acted depressed I looked bored. That explained a lot. I was twenty-seven when I figured this out and there was already a mass grave of emotional disasters I could easily attribute to my underperforming face. I decided to do nothing about the issue. What could I do, after all? Overact? Fake emotion? To what end? You get what you get and that’s it.