8
Goodnight

“Mrs. Battista, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Dr. Jacobs said. “Please come back to my office.” It was the fall of 1975 and the first time Mom was going to see a therapist.

Dr. Jacobs escorted her to his office which was a quiet space brimming with natural light. The hardwood floors were shined to a high gloss and a couch and two comfortable-looking chairs were positioned near the window where potted plants in macramé holders hung from the ceiling.

My mother settled on the edge of the couch opposite Dr. Jacobs. He was in his mid-thirties, wore glasses, and had an approachable face framed by curly brown hair. She liked him immediately, and the diploma on the wall behind him—a PhD in psychology from the University of Pennsylvania—impressed her. She had been overwhelmed searching through the Yellow Pages for a counselor or psychologist among the many names ending with PhD, MA, or MD and knew she’d been lucky to find a reputable therapist.

She hadn’t told anyone except my father that she was in treatment. She didn’t want people to think she was crazy.

“I see you graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. I used to work in the billing department over at the hospital,” she said.

“It’s a great hospital. I’ve been at the U of P in outpatient services and in my own private practice since I graduated.” Then, after a brief pause, he asked, “So what brings you here today, Mrs. Battista? And may I call you Fran?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, good. You can call me Mark.”

“Okay, Mark.” Then, without warning, my mother began to cry. “I’m sorry, um, I don’t know why . . .” She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. “I guess I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, I hope we can talk about that and get to know each other today.”

As my mother began her story, she watched Dr. Jacobs’s reaction carefully. Was there judgment behind his friendly smile about what her husband did for a living? Or was he as understanding as he seemed?

“Well, that’s certainly not a typical job,” Dr. Jacobs said after she’d finished. “Can you describe what happens when you try to talk to your husband about your suspicions of his infidelity?”

“He just denies it,” my mother said. “I believe him, but then I have my doubts. I guess I just really want to believe him.”

“What makes you have these doubts?”

She shifted on the sofa. “I don’t know. It’s mostly just a gut feeling. When I ask questions about his work, he hardly tells me anything. And the girls from the club call the house a lot. I don’t like that. I know my husband’s a catch for any girl at that club, so they’re probably pursuing him. My mother and sister think he’s cheating, too. They say I should leave him.”

“So you’re quite close to your sister and mother?”

“Yes, we’re very close. I’m the youngest in the family, so they look after me.”

Dr. Jacobs nodded. “Birth order is very influential in how people function in a family. We should definitely explore this further.”

“I talk to my mother every day. And I see my parents weekly. My sister lives in Connecticut, and we talk at least two or three times a week by phone. Everyone has an opinion about my life. And with all the input, I sometimes get frustrated and confused. Then I scream and throw things. The last big argument, I threw a wine glass at Anthony.”

“You threw . . .”

“It missed him. It broke a window in the kitchen.”

Dr. Jacobs nodded again. “I think your opinion of Anthony is the only one that matters.”

“I guess so,” my mother said, though she only half-heartedly believed it.

“That last argument sounded very heated,” Dr. Jacobs said. “Does that happen a lot?”

“More than I would like.”

They went on to talk in more detail about my parents’ relationship and how different family members influenced my mother. Then after nearly an hour, Dr. Jacobs looked at a small white clock on his desk.

“Fran, I’m afraid we’re out of time today,” he said. “If you’d like to come back once a week for a few months, we could focus on developing better communications skills and how to assert yourself. I get a sense that expressing yourself and making decisions is difficult for you. I’d also like to meet with both you and your husband for at least one session, if that would be okay.”

“I’m not sure Anthony will come. But I’ll ask him.”

“Asking is a good first step,” he said with a smile.

My mother made a standing weekly appointment with Dr. Jacobs, then left the office. Later, on the EL train home, she realized that even though she had spilled her guts, she wasn’t feeling any better. She hadn’t expected to be fixed in one session but she’d hoped to feel at least a little relief. Still, she liked Dr. Jacobs and she believed her transformation back to a happy housewife would come in time.

*

“Dr. Jacobs is very smart,” my mother said to my father over an early lunch at our house. “He suggested I see him once a week, so I set up some regular appointments.”

“Good,” my father said. “I’m glad you went and that you liked him.”

“He also offered to see us both for a session. What do you think?”

“We could do that,” he said without hesitation. “So you think this guy knows what he’s doing?”

“It was just one session, but he seemed good.”

A few weeks later, my parents arrived together at Dr. Jacobs’s office. In the waiting room, my father was reading the Philadelphia Inquirer, and my mother was subconsciously fiddling with the handles of her handbag when Dr. Jacobs appeared.

Then a few moments later, my parents sat next to each other on the couch opposite Dr. Jacobs.

“Anthony, I’d like to take this opportunity to get to know you and to have Fran talk about how she feels things are going at home. She’s told me about your club and I understand that there’s a pending federal trial. I’m sure it’s all been very stressful.”

“Dr. Jacobs, um . . . I mean Mark . . . I know it hasn’t been easy for my wife. But she has been supportive. So I want to be supportive, too. That’s why I’m here. I hope these sessions help her.”

Dr. Jacobs smiled. “I’m so pleased to hear all that, Anthony. It’s very important that you’ve come in today. So, to get our conversation started, Anthony, I’ll ask you, how do you think things are going for Fran at home?

My father took a deep breath. “Well, as evident with us being here, I think it’s been hard for Frannie. She seems isolated and doesn’t have friends that live close by, and I’m not home as much as I’d like to be. She also has full responsibility of taking care of our daughter. Luckily, I’ve been doing okay financially.”

“Fran, do you want to describe what it’s been like for you?” Dr. Jacobs asked.

“Well . . . just like Anthony said, I just wish he was home more. But I know he has to work.”

“Please go on.”

My mother shook her head, looked off at the floor. “Mark, I don’t know what else to say.”

“You don’t seem to be vocalizing your feelings,” Dr. Jacobs said. “I think this could be making you feel more depressed. You’re in a safe environment here. You can say whatever’s on your mind.”

My mother’s eyes began to swell with tears.

“I just wish Anthony was around more,” she finally burst. “And . . . and . . . I feel so unimportant sometimes. The girls at the club get more attention than I do and I . . . I . . . I wonder if he’s having affairs with some of them.”

My father sighed. “But I’m not with any other women, Fran.”

“Anthony, why do you think your wife thinks this?” Dr. Jacobs asked.

“I just think she feels insecure about me being around strippers. And I can understand that.”

Through clenched teeth, my mother said, “I think something else is going on.”

“Frannie, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that that isn’t true.”

My father looked the picture of sanity, while my mother began to fall apart. He sat calmly with his hands folded in his lap, while my mother looked away from him, started to tremble, and dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“Anthony, Fran may be having these feelings, in part, because you’re both in an extraordinary circumstance. Your open communication will be the key to helping her get through this. I’d also suggest you both try spending some quality time together.”

My mother was in a daze. She’d expected Dr. Jacobs to take her side; instead, he remained neutral throughout the session. Again, my mother wondered if her suspicions about Anthony cheating were unfounded and if her psychological troubles were more about her deep-seated insecurities. She started to blame herself, yet again, for the state of their marriage, and she became resigned to the possibility that things may not get any better. As far as she could tell, therapy seemed to focus on how my mother coped with her current situation, not on the acknowledgment of how her circumstances may have caused her to feel depressed.

On the way home that day, my mother stared out the car window at the shops and tall buildings passing by. Her hands felt cold and numb, just like she felt on the inside. She rubbed them together, trying to create warmth.

“Thanks for taking me to the session,” she said in a monotone voice.

“You’re welcome,” my father said, smiling and hoping he’d never have to see Dr. Jacobs again.

*

A few weeks after that therapy session, my mother woke up at 5:00 a.m. and realized my father wasn’t home yet. Maybe he was just late. She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep but she just couldn’t shake her restlessness. Finally she rose, wrapped herself in a robe, and headed to the kitchen to make some tea. On the way, she peeked into my room to make sure I was still asleep.

She called the Golden 33, but the phone just rang and rang.

As she sat at the kitchen table, her hands gently cupping her mug, she stared at the ticking clock—5:30 a.m., 6:00 a.m., 6:30 a.m. Her thoughts raced. Maybe he’s been in a terrible car accident? Mugged? A bar fight? But, of course, the most pervasive image in her mind was that he was with another woman.

At about 7:00 a.m., my father finally came home.

He looked disheveled and bleary-eyed, and he seemed surprised to find her in the kitchen.

“Did you just wake up?” he said. He reeked of alcohol and his clothes were damp and sandy.

“Why are you home so late?” my mother asked harshly, looking at him up and down from head to toe. “You look like you’ve been rolling around in sand.”

“I gotta . . . get . . . some sleep. Goodnight, Fran.”

“Goodnight!?” my mother screamed. “Anthony, where have you been!? Anthony!” She followed him into the living room as he began climbing the stairs. She stood at the foot of the stairs and continued to yell after him.

“Anthony!”

My father didn’t respond.

*

After this incident, my parents didn’t speak for days. My mother contemplated getting another life, maybe even a job. But first she had to know what was happening; what her husband was up to. So, after breakfast one morning, about a week later when I was at school, she questioned him again.

“Anthony, why did you come home so late the other night?”

My father stared at his bacon and eggs, his fork now frozen in his hand. “I told you. I stayed to help Tommy do some restocking and to finish counting the night’s receipts. We stayed late and had a couple of drinks, too.”

“I called the club. There was no answer.”

“We must not have heard the phone, Frannie.”

“But why were you all sandy?”

“I wasn’t.”

She scowled at him while he continued to eat his breakfast.

Later that morning, she arrived home with her arms filled with grocery bags. She went to the kitchen to unpack them and was surprised to find my father.

“Anthony, I’ll ask one more time,” she said with determination as she set down the grocery bags. “Please tell me why you were home so late the other night.”

“Don’t start this again!” he snapped. “I’ve already answered your questions. I’m tired and I have a shitload of stuff to do today.”

“Who were you with?”

“I was with Tommy! Please stop. You sound crazy again.”

“I’m calling Dr. Jacobs. He should know about this,” my mother said, as she slammed her hand on the kitchen counter.

“That’s not a bad idea,” my father said. “I think you should call him.”

My mother went to the living room to find Dr. Jacobs’s card in her purse. When she returned to the kitchen, she picked up the wall phone and dialed.

“Hello, Mark. I’m so glad you answered. I have to talk to you. Anthony came home late the other night and . . . and . . . um . . . um . . . I just don’t think he’s being honest about where he was,” my mother rambled breathlessly.

“Fran, please try to calm down,” Dr. Jacobs said.

My mother described her recent confrontations with my father.

“Fran, it’s hard for me to say anything, not knowing the context of your interactions. You’re too emotional right now to make sense. Can we table this discussion until our next session?”

“Okay, I guess . . . but in the meantime, could you prescribe some sleeping pills? It might calm me down.”

She heard Dr. Jacobs sighing into the phone.

“What is it, Mark?” she asked.

“Fran, I’m concerned that you’re asking for pills. That isn’t a healthy way to deal with your feelings. I’m also afraid that, in your current mental state, pills might be more hazardous than helpful.”

“I just need to sleep,” she protested urgently. “Please. It is nothing more than that.”

“Fran, I’m a psychologist. Not a psychiatrist. I can’t prescribe pills. And even if I could, I don’t recommend it in your agitated state. I should tell you that I’ve been considering your case and I’ve come to the conclusion you may need more medical supervision. I’m going to refer you to a colleague, Dr. Ross. He’s a psychiatrist.”

My mother started to cry as she said, “I don’t want to see another doctor, Mark.”

“I don’t think my counseling will be enough to help you. We’ll talk about all this in our next session.”

“I thought things were going well,” she sobbed into the phone.

“I’m sorry, Fran, but for you to get better, I think seeing Dr. Ross might be necessary. Please take down his number and we’ll continue this conversation next week.”

My mother pretended to write down the number, then hung up the phone.

My father was standing in the doorway. He’d heard the entire conversation, and my mother now looked at him with bloodshot eyes. Her face was streaked with tears.

“I’m going to lie down now before I go to pick up Kristin from school,” she muttered. She left the kitchen and slowly climbed the stairs. There is no one who can help me now, she thought.

Later that afternoon, she called her physician, Dr. Romo, whom she had only seen once, and she easily got a thirty-day prescription for Nembutal.

*

My mother’s side of the family gathered at our house for dinner that Christmas—my grandparents, my mother’s siblings and their families. I got loads of presents, including a Barbie townhouse with an elevator, which my cousins wrecked after my father had stayed up all night assembling it.

My father loved Christmas. We always had a huge tree in the living room that touched the ceiling and holiday music was on most December evenings.

The holiday season provided my mother with a much-needed reprieve from the day-to-day arguments with my father. She busied herself pulling together a fabulous Christmas dinner that started with an antipasti of olives, provolone cheese, and soppressata, was followed by our traditional main meal of ravioli and gravy with meatballs and sausage, and ended with cannolis and Italian rum cake for dessert.

In the kitchen after dinner, Grandma Maria, Aunt Dolores, and Aunt Nancy helped serve dessert and wash dishes.

“Frannie, you’re looking too thin,” Aunt Dolores said, standing alongside her sister at the sink.

“Dolores, I’m fine,” my mother said with a weak smile. “It’s the colitis. I just can’t eat a lot.”

“I think with what’s going on with Anthony and this health issue are taking their toll,” said Aunt Dolores, referring to my mother’s hospitalization earlier that year for dehydration.

“Dolores, we can talk about this later,” my mother said, giving her sister a stern look.

My mother tried to act as if everything was okay, but Aunt Dolores sensed the truth. Since she lived in Connecticut, it had been frustrating for Aunt Dolores to try to decipher what was happening with Mom. But her conversations with Grandma Maria and my mother gave her enough of an idea. Aunt Dolores sighed and left the kitchen to serve a plate of fresh cannolis and rum cake with coffee. She realized she would not solve this big family problem today.

The evening ended with hugs and kisses and with the children high on sugar and excitement. As my mother closed the door after the last of the family members had departed, she realized that the same problems from before Christmas had not magically disappeared.

“I am going to get Kristin to bed,” she said in a whisper to my father. “Can you put some dishes away in the kitchen?”

“Sure. It was a nice holiday, wasn’t it Fran?”

“Yes, it was. I love the bracelet you gave me. But I think we went overboard on the presents for Kristin.”

Jewelry was my father’s way of making things better and it often temporarily stopped some arguments.

“I’m glad you liked the bracelet,” he said. “And maybe we did get too many presents for Kristin. But I don’t care. She’s our only daughter.”

My mother nodded but didn’t look him in the eye, then walked up the stairs without another word.

*

Two days after Christmas, my father was at the Golden 33 and my mother was sitting alone in our living room, crying. She’d held it together long enough to tuck me safely in bed but the rest of the night had seemed to go on forever with so many thoughts swirling through her head.

I can’t stand the other women.

I must be unworthy of love.

Why is the one person I love never here and chooses to spend time his free time working?

Anthony’s family hates me.

I want to stop feeling this pain.

Maybe everyone would be better off if I wasn’t here.

My life is a total failure.

I just don’t want to live anymore.

My mother went upstairs to the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Nembutal. Then she went back downstairs to sit on the living room couch, where she opened the bottle and counted the pills. There were thirty in all. Would that be enough? She had no idea. But she’d heard that taking pills in large quantities was like “falling asleep and never waking up.” It seemed easy. And thirty did seem like a lot of pills.

Maybe this would show Anthony how much pain she was in. Nothing else seemed to get through to him.

She struggled to gain the courage to swallow the pills and, for help, she pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey. She took big, throat-burning gulps of the liquor. Then she poured the pills into the palm of her hand and popped them to the back of her throat, five at a time, washing them down with more Wild Turkey. It took several gulps, but they were all down within sixty seconds.

Then the panic set in.

If I’m gone, who’s going raise Kristin?

My mother will be devastated.

I’m scared to die.

Will Anthony survive the trials without me?

My mother ran to the Yellow Pages and looked up the suicide prevention hotline she’d seen on TV. She found the number and quickly dialed, but the line was busy. She hung up, dialed again, but still the line was busy.

Time was running out.

Not knowing what else to do, she called Uncle Jerry’s house. Aunt Nancy, Uncle Jerry’s wife, answered and realized my mother was in deep distress and quickly went to wake Aunt Dolores, who was staying at her brother’s for the holidays, to take my mother’s call.

“Dolores, um, I did something bad . . . I need help,” my mother wept.

“What, Frannie? What’s going on?”

“I . . . . I . . . I took some pills.”

“Oh, my God, Frannie. I’m hanging up to call the police. Stay awake! I’ll call you right back!”

“Oh God, Dolores, what did I do?” sobbed my mother.

After she called the police, Aunt Dolores furiously searched for the number of the Golden 33. She found the number and called but no one at the club knew where my father was. Next, Aunt Dolores called my father’s brother Gabe.

“Gabe! Frannie has taken a bunch of pills! I called the police but I can’t find Anthony at the club. Someone’s got to get over there right away to stay with Kristin so Frannie can get to the hospital.”

Uncle Gabe bolted out the door to find my father.

At the same time, Uncle Jerry left immediately on his way to our house. He sped over the suburban streets with hazard lights on . . . he ran stoplights, all in the hopes of reaching my mother in time.

In the meantime, the police arrived at our house.

My mother was in a heap on the couch, fighting intense grogginess, when she heard knocking at the door.

“Upper Darby Police!”

She managed to stand and look through the peephole. Two uniformed officers were there. She decided that she wouldn’t leave me alone in the house. She didn’t want to leave with the police.

“Officers, what’s going on here?” my mother said rudely, like she’d just been awakened from sleep.

“Ma’am, we got a call that you were in distress and had taken some pills. We’re here for a wellness check. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you very much. I have no idea why you got that call.”

“Are you here alone, ma’am?” the other officer asked, trying to peer around my mother to see inside the house.

Again, my mother tried to feign frustration. “Officers, please. My daughter is sleeping upstairs. My husband works nights but he’s on his way home.”

“Okay, ma’am. Sorry to bother you,” the first one said. “If you need anything, please call us.”

My mother thanked them and quickly shut the door. The phone rang a few seconds later and she answered it.

“Frannie, why are you still there?” Aunt Dolores asked in horror.

“I don’t want to go with the police, Dolores,” Mom’s speech was starting to slur.

“Oh, my God, Frannie! Stay awake! Anthony and Gabe or Jerry should be there soon.”

Aunt Dolores stayed on the phone with my mother until the men arrived.

My father bolted through the back door into the kitchen with Uncle Gabe right behind him. He found my mother with the phone to her ear and her head face down on the kitchen table.

“Frannie! Frannie! Wake up!” My father grabbed the phone receiver. “Dolores? I’m here. Gabe will stay with Kristin. I’m taking Fran to the hospital.”

“Call me as soon as you get there. Jerry is on his way —”

But my father had already dropped the phone.

“Gabe, search the garbage cans for the pill bottle,” my father barked as he lifted my mother into a standing position and began walking her around like a ragdoll.

“You’re finnnally . . . heeere,” my mother stammered.

“We’re going to the hospital, Fran, right now! What did you take? What did you take?”

“Umm, some stuff there . . .”

Uncle Gabe overturned the garbage can onto the kitchen floor. “Here it is, Anthony!” he said, handing over the empty bottle of Nembutal.

My father carried my mother down the back steps toward his car, and Uncle Gabe helped him ease her into the front seat. Then my father ran around to the driver’s side, jumped in, and fired up the engine.

“Fran, why did you do this?! Why did you do this?!” my father yelled.

That was the last thing Mom heard before everything went black.