The yellow legal pad was covered with what looked like a seven-year-old’s handwriting. Uncomfortable fantasies of Alex persisted in jabbing at me but I put on my glasses and determined to ignore them. I began to read, “Marisol. Mi amor. Mar y sol. Sea and sun. Mar y sol. You open yourself to me and I am filled with you. A rose with moist petals unfolding only for me …”
Why had I gone into psychiatry when I could have gone into dermatology or pediatrics or any other specialty where I wouldn’t be sitting at my desk reading the ravings of a psychotic patient? My choice of psychiatry as a specialty wasn’t about the money or the prestige I might have found elsewhere. It was about delving into the lives of people and uncovering their darkest dreams and innermost secrets and setting them free. Known to be a good listener, the choice had not been a difficult one to make.
There was a knock at the door. The first session of the day. Officer Anderson and Emanuel ambled into the room. “Thanks, officer,” I said curtly. “Would you mind waiting outside? I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
After he left the room, it was time to sit back and switch into the professional Dr. Rendeau persona. The thought of Alex’s arms around me had caused me to toss in bed much of the night, and I was certain I looked as drained as I felt. Struggling to remain focused on Emanuel, I tried to keep the images of Alex’s lips on mine at bay. In the last session, Emanuel had made some progress and seemed to remember what had brought him here. I asked how he was feeling and he looked at me blankly. The room felt airless and I wondered if our tenuous connection had been lost. “The last time we met, you were telling me about the house you and Marisol bought. And you were going to the beach with your family. What else do you remember about that day?”
Emanuel had showered before coming to my office. His dark, still-wet hair fell in ringlets around his face. He was twenty-five years old—still a young man. It was difficult to understand what a man in his position might feel. Memory can be such an unmerciful thing. Was this escape his response to the hurt, the anger, the trauma of what had happened? Possibly the effects of drug use as well. So many things went through my mind that morning. Unwrapping Emanuel’s secrets was just one of them.
“She was pregnant,” he finally said. His mouth was dry, a side effect of the medications and he puckered over his words. “Her skin was stretched over her belly, with a deep purple line from her navel to her pubis. During the pregnancy, her thighs spread. She wrapped them around my waist and held my shoulders, scraping her nails along the length of my spine. She was as fleshy and sweet as an over ripe mango.”
Patient exhibits possible sexual preoccupation, I scribbled in my notes.
“Eventually we got the house. I gathered Marisol in my arms and carried her over the threshold. There was a back yard for the baby, an extra bedroom and a park nearby. You didn’t even have to water the grass.” He stopped abruptly, his eyes clouding.
I had learned to be patient and wait during the stop-and-go sessions I had with most patients unaccustomed to dealing with psychic pain. “Would you like to continue tomorrow?”
He nodded and I opened the door. “Officer Anderson, would you please escort Emanuel to the dayroom?”
“Sure, Doc. Anything for you.” He smirked at me, his lips stretched over his smallish teeth. “You limping, Doc? Let me know if you need any help. If there’s anything I can do for you—”
I turned on my heel, revulsion creeping along my spine, and pulled the door shut behind me. I made a note to see if it was possible to have another officer escort patients to my office but really, what would I say? I don’t like the way he smiles at me?
After a few phone calls, Finn Koski came to my office, shuffling in, unescorted by security. There was a stack of records on my desk going back to 1999. It was difficult to believe this mild-mannered, polite little man had caused the death of his wife of fifty years. It brought Matt back to mind again.
The memories I had so desperately clung to were beginning to fade. It was more difficult to conjure up the slope of his cheek or the feel of the stubble on his jaw when he went a day without shaving. It was difficult to imagine how people could take the life of someone they loved.
“Mr. Koski. I’m sorry it has taken me a while to see you again. I’m still fairly new and it’s been a bit of a challenge to see all of my patients in as timely a manner as I would’ve liked. How are you doing?”
Finn looked at me expectantly. “Fine, just fine.” The slight Scandinavian inflection was apparent in the long drawn out vowels.
“Would you like to take up where we left off last time? You were found guilty of the charge of manslaughter …”
“I killed her. She was in pain, Doc, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I did it and I’m glad she’s not suffering any longer.”
I closed my eyes and visualized the scene. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” It was the first time I had dealt with someone who willfully caused the death of his spouse. I almost didn’t want to know the details of what had happened. “Your wife had breast cancer?”
His expression provoked a flare of sympathy in me and I nodded encouragement, hoping this would help Finn continue what was obviously as painful as a mule kick to the gut to discuss. I waited for him to speak. The muted sounds of an argument between inmates somewhere on the unit reverberated through the room. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Koski?”
Moments later, I returned to my desk. The commotion was an argument between two elderly men with dementia who were harmless but often antagonized each other on the ward. “What happened after that?” I asked, back in my chair.
“It was impossible for me to sit there, useless. All that talk about urinary catheters and IVs. I tried to think about all there was to do on the farm that spring, but I finally got up and walked out,” Finn said, looking as though he had been beaten with a stick.
“That must have been very difficult.” The voices outside the door escalated and I wondered if I should call security. I turned my attention back to Finn and finally the voices drifted away.
Finn braced himself. “Eva was wheeled into the operating room on a what-cha-ma-call-it … a gurney. Three hours later, the surgeon came in and told me Eva was stable. He had to do the radical mastectomy. I was with her in the recovery room when she brought her hand to her right breast and realized it was gone. Not only the lump, but her whole right breast. The smell of the flowers I brought made her sick. She tried to smile but instead, cried and apologized. As if any of what had happened was her fault.”
He blew his nose and threw the balled up tissue in the wastebasket. “Three days after surgery, I packed Eva’s belongings and brought her home. Later, we met with the oncologist and he said he took out the breast and ten lymph nodes. It was a stage-three cancer, you know.”
I nodded reflexively, remembering Matt’s chemo sessions. He had lost forty pounds. I knew that chill, saw the bright lighting and false optimism in the room and smelled the vomit and disinfectant. It was a smell I would never forget. “I’m so sorry, Finn. I’ve been through this,” I told him. “I know how this feels.”
Finn coughed a loose phlegmy cough. A scintilla of understanding seemed to pass between us. “I tied the laces on her shoes and helped her put on an old sweater that still fit. I sprayed a little perfume on her so she wouldn’t smell like moth balls and brought the car around to the front door. I got her in, covered her with a blanket and buckled her seat belt across her knitting. That was the last time we went to chemo.”
It was surprising that this elderly man had been so sensitive to the nuances of his wife’s appearance and how it affected her. I could almost smell the sickly-sweet odor of mothballs tumbling into the room. “Why was that?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.
Finn remained mute. The hour drew to a close and I said, “Well, thank you, Mr. Koski. I’d like to continue on Monday, if it’s okay with you.” I knew exactly what Finn had gone through. After Matt’s diagnosis of esophageal cancer, our future had been cut short too.
It would soon be Christmas season again. I was sure Finn dreaded it as much as I did.
* * *
I’ll be home early,” I said to Dane and Caleigh, who had already settled in to watch Diary of a Wimpy Kid with Madeleine. It was negative eight degrees outside and I sorely regretted agreeing to accompany Josie to the staff Christmas party.
It was the kind of Minnesota cold that made it hurt to breathe. Too cold to snow even. Everything seemed to crystallize—my breath, the air, the snow banks lining the driveway. The world outside looked like a black and white photo—all inky sky with a white-gold moon hanging in the distance. I started the car with my remote charger and, five minutes later, braved the elements.
It was a short drive through mostly deserted streets to Dr. Regina Stafford’s neighborhood. I parked a few blocks away and as I walked to Regina’s house, Josie drove up and parallel parked behind my car. “Hey, girl! Wait up.”
My heels sank into the snow-covered street. “Hey there, yourself. Ah! Shit!” I had slipped and lost my balance again. Josie grabbed my arm before I fell. “Those are some quick reflexes you have. It was stupid of me to wear these shoes. My ankle must still be weak from the last time I fell.”
Josie wore military style boots, not very fashionable, but practical in the snow. “No problem. We’re almost there.” She made no move to release my arm as we arrived in front of Regina’s house, and I was grateful for the support. Regina’s house was a white colonial, as cheerfully decorated as a Hallmark card. The party was already underway—silvery laughter and strains of music filled the night air like stars. It had been a while since I had felt any joy at Christmas. Since Matthew’s death, I had observed the holidays quietly at home with the children.
“Thanks for coming,” Josie said. “Melanie had an activity at our daughter’s school tonight but I wanted to make an appearance here. It’s only once a year and I like Regina.”
“It’s okay. I really need to make an effort to get out more.” The door opened and Regina hugged us and took our coats. She pointed the way to the buffet where a mouth-watering spiral cut ham, several glazed platters of hor d’oeuvres and an enticing array of salads and desserts on the table resembled a beautifully painted still life. Josie stared at the tree in awe. It was so enormous it reached the high vaulted ceilings of Regina’s house. “Are you seeing your kids this Christmas?” I asked softly.
“Nah. They’re with their dad and the woman they call, ‘Mom.’ It’s been like this since Kira turned eleven.” Her eyes blazed. “I’m not ‘Mommy’ anymore. I’m ‘Josie.’”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes tearing.
“After all those years of working the night shift so my babies could have someone at home at all times. My husband worked days, and I was home baking brownies, going on fieldtrips, you know, all the mommy stuff. Now it’s Marcus’s new wife doing all that. Guess two mothers are one too many. Whatever. He’s a come mierda.”
“Josie, I’m really sorry. That must be so painful for you.” We loaded our plates and looked around the crowded room for seats. “I don’t think I know that expression, but my Spanish wouldn’t get me from here to the city.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard it at the prison. ‘Come mierda’ is someone who eats shit. Anyway, it is harder around holidays. I’m lucky to have Melanie and her kids. It still feels like Christmas with them around.”
“When am I going to get to meet the mysterious Melanie?”
“She’s pretty busy, but one day we’ll get together.”
“You never really talked about the divorce and how you feel about it,” I said. The first sip of wine went right to my head. “It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you want the short version or the long version?” Josie asked warily before taking a sip of her vodka and cranberry.
We shifted to a quiet corner where we sat at a corner table, the party noise mere muzak in the background. “Whatever you want to share.”
“I guess I always knew,” Josie said softly and I fell silent, feeling as though we were insulated in a bubble of pain in the midst of so much good cheer. “I always knew I was gay. Gays had a tough time in Puerto Rico. Between the cultural taboos and the rigid gender roles, it was a wonder anyone survived. Women were meant to have children, be subservient, take care of their children, keep house and keep their man happy, overlooking everything he did. I left as soon as I could but I guess not soon enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had already accepted those gender roles and got married faster than flies flock to shit. I met Marcus as soon as I enrolled in the police academy, got knocked up and did the good-girl Catholic thing. It only lasted a few years. But, hey, that’s water under the bridge.”
“I’m sorry, Josie. Does your family know?”
“Yeah. Marcus and the girls at least. My mother still has no idea. He came home one day and found me in bed with a woman I’d met at work. It had taken an instant for me to be swept off my feet. The shit hit the fan and that was the end. I was head-over-heels in love with Alicia and didn’t contest the divorce. God, I loved that woman. I was literally drowning in love. We lasted a year. The day I realized she didn’t love me anymore I couldn’t breathe. I had given up everything for her, including my kids, and she threw me away like yesterday’s paper.”
“Oh, Josie, I’m sorry.” I hugged her tightly. “I’m glad you found Melanie.”
Josie stood and said, “I’m gonna get another drink. Want something?”
“No, I’m good.” Bud Anderson stood in the corner talking to another officer I recognized from the medical unit. Antonio Alvarez. Another military man who looked as though he was trying to make his way to the bar, escaping Bud. The atmosphere was loud and feverish, carnival-like. I barely recognized Bud without his uniform but felt his gaze on my body, making me feel as though I were standing in my bra and panties. I wished I hadn’t worn such a clingy red dress or the strappy high heels.
I sensed him behind me as I refilled my wine. “Hi, Doc.” Bud smirked and slurred his words. “Merry Christmas.” He leaned in. The room was beginning to blur at the edges. I smelled alcohol on his breath. Peals of laughter hurtled around the kitchen. I nodded and turned away. He put a hand on my shoulder.
“Thanks, officer. You too.” I stepped away, as brittle as the first freeze.
He took a step closer. “Call me Bud.”
My eyes scanned the kitchen looking for Josie, but she was deep in conversation with another social worker. “Bud, if you’ll excuse me, I was just getting a drink.”
“Bitch,” he muttered.
Trembling, I walked across the floor to where Josie sat. Wine sloshed from my glass onto the wooden floor. I sat on the sofa next to Josie and kept an eye on Bud across the room. His gaze was still locked on me. “Josie, do you know Bud Anderson?”
“Sure, he’s hard to miss. He’s a bastard. All six-foot-three of him lurking around every corner.”
“That’s just the feeling I’ve had about him.” I finished the wine and waited until he left the kitchen to go back for another glass, wishing I had invited Alex. I took a sip, put my glass down and walked down the hallway to the guest bathroom thinking I would call him later to see if he had plans for tomorrow.
The mirror reflected the glittery ornaments Regina had hung in the bathroom. I washed my face, reapplied lipstick and opened the door. “Oh, Officer Anderson. Excuse me. Did you need to use the restroom?” I felt uneasy in his presence. How long had he been standing outside that door?
“Yeah. I mean, no.” His tongue flicked snake-like around his lips. The metallic glint in his eyes repulsed me. His nostrils were flared and his breath was ragged. I had had enough experience with dangerous men to listen to my sixth sense. Something was about to happen. Anderson leaned in closer. “I told you to call me Bud,” he said, his alcohol-laced breath heavy in the air. He backed me against the bathroom door and pulled me to him so that my breasts were pressed against his chest and his erection was hard against my pelvis. He gripped my shoulders so hard I winced.
“Let go of me.”
“Hold on there, Doc.” His hard pinkish mouth was fixed on my lips. His breath was hot and sour. I gagged as he thrust his tongue in my mouth and then grabbed him by the hair and squirmed. He held me tight and pushed me against the door. The room spun and the carols grew louder as his mouth pressed harder against mine. I bit down on his lip and tasted the coppery taste of blood. He pressed his pelvis into mine. With all the strength I could muster, I raised my knee, hard, between his legs. He cried out in pain and something dark flashed across his face.
“If you ever touch me again, I will kill you.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Josie asked when I returned. “I was just about to come looking for you.”
“That bastard Anderson grabbed me and tried to kiss me.”
“What the fuck? You want me to do something to him? I know some nasty little tricks that’ll make him think twice about ever touching you again,” Josie said in a way that surprised me.
“No, I think I’d rather just forget about it. I don’t think he’ll be bothering me again.”
“Jesus. That makes me wish I hadn’t given up smoking,” she said angrily.